Reimagining home and responsibility: The case of queer Indonesian Muslims

Abstract

This article investigates the lived experiences of queer Indonesian Muslims by revealing how the intertwined concepts of tanggung jawab (responsibility) and home are navigated within the boundaries of national values, religious faith, and non-normative genders and sexualities. Through ethnographic research across Java, Indonesia, the analysis illustrates how tanggung jawab is enmeshed with societal and religious expectations that redefine the notion of home for queer Muslims. Home, in this context, transcends its meaning as a physical geography to represent an emotional and spiritual haven where family, faith, and queer identities intersect. The article further explores the relevance of biological and traditional family connections, presenting a contrast to the Western focus on queer chosen families. By exploring the symbiotic relationship between responsibility and home, this study contributes to a deeper understanding of queer Muslim subjectivities, exploring their unique strategies for forging identities and spaces of belonging within Indonesia’s heteronormative societal framework.

Introduction

The sun is shining in this part of Yogyakarta. Facing the rice paddies, the rays of light reflect against the water replicating the blue sky and the clouds forming in the horizon. The weather is beautiful today. After parking our motorbike, my friend Mazdah ¹ and I observe the germinating rice while speaking about Bilal. I can hear the cry of his sister in the distance, reminding us that we are not here to enjoy the scenic beauty. Following the Islamic funeral procedure, Bilal is going to be buried a day after his death. After we reach his family house, a group of waria ² arrive. They hug each other, some speak loudly attracting the attention of some of the other attendees. Bilal’s parents never knew he was gay. A year ago, as we sat together sipping coffee, he told me:

It is only one of my sisters who knows that I’m gay. Once, I heard her speaking with her boyfriend and she told him about it, asking for his opinion. She thought that it’s not okay to be gay, and her boyfriend told her that it’s fine, he was like, “it’s alright, don’t worry” [“udah ya, tidak apa apa”].

Growing up in what he defined as a ‘conservative’ family, he never felt ready to discuss his sexual orientation with his relatives. As he told me, ‘When I was a child, my family was liberal in terms of religion, but lately they have become more conservative, so I think that their views about LGBT issues are automatically worse… I would like to come out to them, but I don’t know… I’m very scared [sangat takut] in case they reject me’. Despite the connection between his family’s religious beliefs and their potential rejection of his homosexuality, Bilal’s identity as a Muslim man remained unaltered by this possibility. While many argue that being lesbian, gay, bisexual, or transgender (LGBT) and religious is incompatible, the case of Bilal, and of many of the queer ³ Muslims I met in Indonesia, reveal the reductionist nature of such statements. The interpretation of religious sources in discriminatory ways, leaving queer Muslims at the margins of mainstream religion, does not mean that spirituality and faith is necessarily at odds with non-normative gender identities and/or sexual orientations. As Bilal explained:

Islam is my religion, is my identity. It’s my way to connect with God, with Allah, to feel home through my spirituality by praying, by doing salat, ⁴ by inhabiting this world, enjoying the beauty of nature, just like that. That is all the creation of God, and I am also his creation, and it is okay.

Reminiscing the role of nature in Bilal’s spiritual practices, we are surrounded by the beauty of the landscape where he grew up. We think about how intolerance can lead to death when certain lives are privileged over others. His friends discuss that it might have been AIDS that took his life, not having tested himself perhaps because of shame. While some queer people are meant to reproduce life, others are left to die (Puar, 2018). Among those, only some queer deaths are constituted as grievable (Butler, 2004). This is how queer necropolitics works revealing ‘contemporary forms of subjugation of life to the power of death’ (Mbembe, 2006). In the wake of Bilal’s death, Human Rights Watch (2018) reported how Indonesian authorities had been complicit in perpetuating an HIV epidemic by fostering an environment of discrimination against LGBT + individuals. This has not only stigmatised those at risk of HIV but also deterred them from seeking prevention services. Consequently, a five-fold spike in HIV rates among men who have sex with men took place between 2007 and 2018, from a rate of 5% to 25% (ibid.). In this context, the state-sanctioned discrimination that Bilal faced extends beyond the realm of social prejudice to public health.

Indonesia, with the largest Muslim population in the world, is also the fourth-most populous country. Bilal’s life was one of many queer lives present in the archipelago and serves as an introduction into this article’s key themes. Firstly, the value of ‘tanggung jawab’ shapes how queer Muslims navigate their lives. Tanggung jawab is an Indonesian term that denotes a sense of duty, obligation, and accountability towards oneself, family, and community, encompassing personal and social responsibilities. Bilal’s hesitance to come out to his family echoes how responsibility can intersect with both religious doctrine and broader social expectations. This challenges neoliberal Western frameworks that often reduce queer liberation to individualistic goals, disregarding the collective processes that shape everyday lives. As Yip has noted, this discourse, based on the lived experiences of white individuals of Judeo-Christian heritage ‘with sexuality as “master status” of their identity’, is informed by the expressive individualism that is at the core of Western frameworks of sexual identity (2004a). Secondly, Bilal’s story helps us reflect on the notion of ‘home’, which is not merely an arena for conflict but also a complex geography where normativity and subversion can coexist, when he states that Islam is a channel ‘to feel home’. Here, the concept transcends the binary of rebellion and conformity common in academic discussions exploring the domestic lives of queer people, revealing a layered reality where familial ties, religious beliefs, cultural values, and personal emotions converge. This is reminiscent of Massey’s (2005) reflection on the dynamic character of space. By combining the political and the spatial, space ‘is always in the process of being made’, it is never finished; never closed’ (ibid).

The nexus between these themes emerges through the ways in which ‘tanggung jawab’ and the home shape each other. The responsibility felt towards family, cultural and religious values, and community dictates the way home is experienced, just as the dynamics within the home can redefine the expression of responsibility. The decision to bring these themes together is rooted in their shared relevance to understanding peripheral lives vis-à-vis the spheres of nationhood, faith, and family against which queer Indonesian Muslims engage in continuous negotiation. Both tanggung jawab and home represent dimensions through which one’s identity, religious beliefs, and familial expectations are navigated and expressed. This article clarifies their interplay, arguing that the dynamics of responsibility and the conceptualisation of alternative versions of the heteronormative and/or queer home are mutually constitutive, each giving meaning to the other in the lives of Indonesian queer Muslims.

Colonial legacies and heteronormativity in Indonesia

After being colonised by the Dutch from 1816 to 1941, followed by the Japanese occupation until 1945, Indonesia finally declared its independence on 17 August 1945. Through this, the archipelago witnessed a range of nation-building efforts including the formulation of the foundational national philosophy known as Pancasila, the introduction of Bahasa Indonesia as the national language, and the strengthening of cultural and social values to foster a national identity. Among these, the Indonesian state sanctions a ‘family principle’ (asas kekeluargaan), which frames heterosexuality as the standard of sexual citizenship through its regulatory powers reinforcing the Pancasila principle of ‘Persatuan Indonesia’ (‘The Unity of Indonesia’). In this unit, women are positioned as mothers for the making of the nation through what Suryakusuma (1988) calls ‘State Ibuism’ (literally translated as ‘state motherism’). The role of ‘heteronormative family ideals in the building of the post-colonial Indonesian state is confirmed by the ideological technology of the family principle’, which represents ‘a metaphor of the nation as a family led by a male figure’ (García Rodríguez, 2023). It was during Suharto’s New Order that Indonesia began to be represented as a familial state (negara kekeluargaan) through mechanisms including the public education curriculum to situate the family as the foundational unit of the nation (Boellstorff, 2005b).

The sanctity of the family, underpinned by fundamental heteronormative and heterosexist values, requires safeguarding it from perceived contaminations, with LGBT + people being categorised as a threat. This aversion carries colonialist undertones, often depicting it as an external influence to reinforce the narrative that these threats, particularly those seen as foreign and non-conformist, need eradication. In recent years, the landscape of Indonesia’s family values and moral citizenship has witnessed shifts influenced by religious values and neoliberal policies. The year 2016 marked an intensification of anti-LGBT + sentiments through moral panics shaped by government-led attacks. As discussed in my earlier research, this represented the beginning of an increasingly oppressive environment, highlighted by unprecedented public statements from government officials (García Rodríguez and Murtagh, 2022). Through the narratives of my interlocutors during this tumultuous period, it became evident that the family principle and the various legislative discussions, served both as tools for social regulation and sites of contestation of identity and belonging. Their lived experiences expand the boundaries of the asas kekeluargaan, revealing its complexity in a context where the regulation of morality and the construction of a national identity increasingly overlap with global discourses (around, for example, gay marriage) and the internal dynamics of religious and social conservatism. The RUU Ketahanan Keluarga (Family Resilience Bill), shaped by Islamic jurisprudence, marked a critical juncture in the evolution of the asas kekeluargaan. While the bill was eventually rejected in 2020, the debates surrounding it highlight an intensified effort to assert the heteronormative family as the upholder of national morality. Despite its rejection, ahead of Indonesia’s 2024 presidential election, Mustafa Kamala, a Prosperous Justice Party’s politician, stated that ‘Indonesia lacks the technical capabilities for state involvement in family guidance’, highlighting the importance of reintroducing the Family Resilience Bill as ‘proof of the state’s presence’ (Sucipto, 2023). He continued, ‘Should the family structure collapse, discussions on health, education, and other matters become irrelevant, as everything originates within the family’ (ibid.) This reveals a strategy that seeks to anchor the family unit within a framework that is responsive to contemporary moral panics. These shifts offer a lens through which to examine the interplay between state power, religious morality, and neoliberal governance in shaping the concept of moral citizenship. The ongoing discourse reflects a critical engagement with Indonesia’s foundational ideals, where the principles of unity and diversity are constantly reimagined in the face of evolving societal landscapes.

As Butler reminds us drawing upon the work of Foucault, ‘regulatory power not only acts upon a pre-existing subject but also shapes and forms that subject; moreover, every juridical form of power has its productive effect’ (2004). When this is transposed onto the Indonesian milieu, it becomes evident that the construct of the family principle not only solidifies a specific archetype of the heterosexual Indonesian family but also engenders national subjects that conform to this model. This has corollary impacts on marginalised communities, including LGBT + people. Applying Butler’s invocation of Foucault’s work into the productive and regulatory capacities of power, the family principle emerges as a form of bio-power that extends its tentacles into the intimate spheres of life. Within this framework, surveillance and control are inextricably linked in the management of the abnormal, the ‘contaminated’ and ‘contaminating’. The fear of contagion becomes meaningful among those with an official or self-assigned tanggung jawab to guard purity against the contaminating agent. This regulatory matrix prescribes what is considered ‘normal’ while generating the very subjects it aims to govern. The panoptic surveillance of the Indonesian state operates through prohibition, but also through the incitement of discourses that shape subjectivities. The Panopticon represents ‘at once surveillance and observation, security and knowledge, individualization and totalization, isolation and transparency’ (Foucault, 1977). The combination of the family principle with religious morality creates ‘guardians’ who have the responsibility in protecting the sanctity of the family as well as ‘disruptors’ of that sanctity whom the guardians have the responsibility to discipline and punish.

As Yip explains, one’s political membership or belonging to a nation-state demands ‘loyalty from the individual’ to, in exchange, receive protection from the state (2008). This is not just a matter of law enforcement but extends into the intimate spheres of family and personal relationships. Scholars have long articulated core principles regarding the policing of traditional and sexual citizenship to study the relationship between nation-states and sexual and gendered citizens (Plummer, 2002, 2013; Richardson, 2001, 2017). Established conceptions of ‘citizenship’ are both sexist and heterosexist, privileging heterosexual male experiences and engagement in the public sphere through the exercise of political, social, and civil rights (Richardson, 1998). Intimate citizenship (another term to speak about sexual citizenship) does not imply ‘one model, one pattern or one way’ emphasising the diversity of human experiences (Plummer, 1995). These discussions on sexual/intimate citizenship facilitate the de-heterosexualisation of the notion of citizenship, ‘emphasizing the rights of the non-heterosexual individual, and duties and obligations between her/him and the state’ (Yip, 2008). Just like the Panopticon, the family principle engages in ‘surveillance and observation, security and knowledge’ serving to individualise citizens within a heteronormative paradigm, while extending this at the level of national identity. This ideology isolates gender and sexual minorities by rendering them as deviant, while maintaining the illusion of a united-in-diversity society ⁵ in which everyone has a place.

Although there exists a rich body of research on the topics of gender and sexuality in Indonesia, as evidenced by existing academic work (Bennett and Davies, 2014; Boellstorff, 2003, 2004, 2005b, 2006; Davies, 2010; Hegarty, 2021; Murtagh, 2011, 2013, 2022; Platt et al., 2018; Wieringa, 2002, 2003, 2015; Wijaya, 2020, 2022), there remains a gap in the literature concerning the experiences of queer Indonesian Muslims. Limited research has been conducted, led by authors such as Thajib (2018, 2017), Boellstorff (2005a) and Garcia Rodriguez (2022, 2019, 2020). In recent times, the first book exploring the topic has been published (García Rodríguez, 2023). Despite these contributions, there is a need for more in-depth studies that focus on the intersectional experiences of queer Indonesian Muslims as discussions begin to gain traction. This is particularly pertinent to contest dominant normative discourses that preserve reductive understandings of gender, sexuality, and religion.

Methodology and terminology

To explore the themes described above, this article draws upon ethnographic research conducted between 2017 and 2018 in Indonesia as part of my doctoral studies. I mainly conducted fieldwork in Jakarta, Surabaya, and Yogyakarta, but travelled widely across Java. In total, I interviewed 61 individuals of diverse sexual orientations, gender identities, and expression who identified, to varying degrees, as Muslims. Participant observation served as a supplementary method following participants across events, Islamic schools, NGO offices, family homes and other locations I was invited to visit. This article focuses specifically on a selection of interviews, lasting between one and 3 hours, conducted with participants who were either Javanese or had moved to Java from other islands. An integral aspect of my research methodology involved a critical reflection on my own positionality as a white, middle-class bule (foreigner in Indonesian). Recognising the inherent power and privileges this identity afforded me in the field, I endeavoured to work in solidarity with local activists. This included writing grant proposals to aid local charities in fund acquisition, participating in fundraising initiatives, and contributing to local forums.

In this article, the differential use of tanggung jawab instead of ‘responsibility’ juxtaposed with the use of ‘home’ rather than the Indonesian rumah, is a deliberate choice aimed at capturing the cultural connotations embedded within the concept of responsibility in Indonesia. Tanggung jawab represents the complexity of societal, familial, and personal obligation and accountability that is tied to national and religious values, which the English term does not fully convey. Conversely, the decision to use ‘home’ in English is informed by the term’s broader capacity to encompass a wide array of meanings beyond the physical structure of a house (rumah). ‘Home’, in this paper, is used to represent not only a physical space but also an emotional and spiritual shelter where one’s identity, faith, and familial relationships can be expressed. By maintaining ‘home’ in English, I invite the reader to reflect on the concept’s elasticity and its capacity to create spaces of belonging in the face of heteronormativity.

After describing the context, methodology and terminology, the next section delves into the notion of tanggung jawab. Next, the analysis turns towards an examination of ‘home’, thereby contributing to discourses on queer domesticity that extend beyond an expectation for subversion. Lastly, the article concludes bringing together the themes explored.

Exploring tanggung jawab

Family principles and moral values do not exist in isolation but are reinforced through various technologies permeating Indonesia’s societal fabric. One of these manifestations is found in the value of responsibility that regulates gender and sexuality and perpetuates social hierarchies. The concept can be translated as ‘responsibility’ when using the term tanggung jawab, as ‘being responsible for’ when written as bertanggung jawab, and as ‘holding someone accountable for’ as mempertanggungjawabkannya (García Rodríguez, 2023). This principle transcends ordinary familial obligations to act as a central aspect of the institutional framework that reinforces heteronormativity, casting one’s commitment towards society as a moral and religious imperative. The intertwining of political and religious ideals extends its influence from public spaces into the home environment, as I explore later analysing the concept of ‘home’. Sohail, one of my interlocutors, opted for the term transboy over transman to describe himself, and invoked the concept of tanggung jawab to elucidate his own identity. As he shared with me:

I think that being a transboy means that I’m not restricted to do anything, it has to do with how I express myself. I feel that adult men [laki-laki dewasa] are expected to be tough, they should speak in a masculine way. It’s not like I’m being stupid [bodoh], there’s still responsibility [tanggung jawab], but I can be freer to express myself.

His narrative encapsulates the challenges to express himself while acknowledging societal expectations. Here, tanggung jawab is linked with his peripheral queer identity, living in the margins of both a patriarchal environment and rigid LGBT + identities, granting him a certain degree of freedom whilst maintaining a sense of responsibility. His narrative adds another layer of complexity to the discourse around tanggung jawab, particularly in how it intersects with notions of masculinity in Indonesia. When identifying as a transboy rather than a transman, Sohail’s decision offers a critique of normative understandings of manhood. His identification as a ‘boy’ denotes a stage of under-development and transition allowing him a flexibility not necessarily granted to those identifying, in his view, as ‘men’, a term that denotes a culturally sanctioned and fully-formed notion of masculinity. Interestingly, his words suggest a reconfiguration of masculinity that is at odds with the specific roles and behaviours that serve to maintain the nuclear family structure. While he embraces his peripheral identity, he does not entirely abandon the sense of communal duty encapsulated in tanggung jawab. In doing so, he adds nuance to the family-centric ethics that shape the asas kekeluargaan.

The notion of tanggung jawab extends beyond mere self-accountability. It involves a wider range of responsibilities that involve familial relationships, societal norms, spiritual commitments, and the citizens’ responsibility in upholding nationhood. A conversation with Leilah, a transgender Muslim woman, reveals a complementary perspective by narrating an episode involving her gay cousin. The two grew up together in a household managed by Leilah’s father, sharing a close bond from an early age. During their Senior High School years, her cousin shared his sexual orientation with her. This revelation led to a deeper conversation about how they each manage their desires and responsibilities. She advised her cousin to live his life as a gay man while seriously considering his tanggung jawab towards himself, Allah, and the broader society. This encapsulates the inherent complexity of the concept, which is not simply a personal moral framework but also a societal one, interlinked with spiritual and communal expectations. Here, moral frameworks extend beyond personal desires to consider the impact that one’s actions have on the overall society. This is reminiscent of Mahmood’s work (2005) on the notion of agency as a form of ethical self-formation shaped by social forces, which may involve the embracing of seemingly illiberal norms. For those navigating their faith, gender, and sexuality, this responsibility offers a means for bringing together personal desires with broader obligations demonstrating the transformative power of peripheral identities through self-reflection and responsible choices.

The case of Seyedeh, a lesbian Muslim woman, provides a critique of the burdens presented by the weight of tanggung jawab, particularly when it seems unreciprocated by one’s family. In her narrative, her queer identity is underscored by a societal expectation of familial responsibility, indicating the complex intersections of queerness, familial ties, and societal norms. As she explained to me, ‘What my parents did to me when I was growing up was really mean. They seized me. They didn’t give me my rights; they didn’t give me a proper education’. These difficult experiences related to both her gender identity, growing up as a woman, and sexual orientation, when she came out as a lesbian, which combined led to a lack of freedom to decide for herself. However, as the only daughter in the family, she is now expected to take care of her parents. As she wondered, ‘Why is it my responsibility?’ In her experience, the familial responsibility expected of her is unidirectional, highlighting an imbalance that complicates her navigation of her queer identity within the framework of both Islamic morality and the asas kekeluargaan. Resulting from this, communal and familial bonds are prioritised over her will. Her case reveals a tension that was not found in the previous examples: the social expectation that she, despite having been disadvantaged by her family, must still take on the responsibility of caring for them simply because of being the only daughter, which also relates to the family principle considering the caring role given to women. The family, operating as a site of social and moral control, mobilises the value of tanggung jawab as a tool to maintain a power dynamic that serves their interest, even as it marginalises their daughter. Her query – ‘Why is it my responsibility?’ – raises a powerful resistance against these norms, challenging hierarchical power structures and the gender norms they give rise to. By questioning the narrative of familial responsibility, she subverts the traditional pathways through which tanggung jawab is enforced. Thus, Seyedeh’s case exposes how the principle of tanggung jawab can be deployed to maintain and contest established power hierarchies within the family, which simultaneously perpetuate national ideals of man- and woman-hood. Her story reveals how these dynamics shape queer identities by turning her subjectivity into a carer figure leading to the removal of her capacity to express a lesbian subjectivity outside of her role as a daughter.

Lastly, Kudsia, a transgender Muslim woman, frames the notion of tanggung jawab within the context of familial acceptance. As she explained:

[When I came out] there were no expressions of shock, because we all grew up together, so my sisters and my parents knew me already because since I was a child I was like a woman, wearing skirts, playing feminine games, and dolls. The first time they saw me dressed as a woman, they were not shocked at all. I feel lucky to have a family who can accept me.

Nevertheless, in this welcoming atmosphere, Kudsia’s brother advised her to ‘be responsible [kamu bertanggung jawab] for the consequences of your actions’. Following this, her mother told her that, ‘it’s okay if you want to dress like this as long as you are not a thief’. Here, we observe a contrast between family acceptance and the concept of tanggung jawab to uphold the family’s reputation. The underlying sentiment is that one can be discreetly queer, provided the family’s good name remains untainted in the community. Her experience adds nuance to the traditional framework of asas kekeluargaan by revealing its contingent nature. Her family’s reaction reveals how one’s expected responsibilities can be tailored to validate peripheral identities, thus defying dominant heteronormative narratives. Simultaneously, the invocation of ‘responsibility’ signifies that she still operates within the bounds of certain normative expectations. Her mother’s specific guidance – of not becoming a ‘thief’ – implies that while her queer identity is accepted, it still must be policed to ensure it aligns with expected social behaviours, which relate to maintaining the family honour. Her admonition could be further analysed considering the broader context of Islamic morality and the societal valorisation of prestasi (achievements). Therefore, her caution against becoming a ‘thief’ also represents an invocation of religious moral frameworks. This aligns with Boellstorff’s (2004) analysis of how societal recognition in Indonesia is tied to individuals’ ability to contribute positively to the community, which includes adhering to legal and moral norms. The conditional acceptance highlighted by the mother’s statement suggests a complex negotiation between non-normative gender identities and societal expectations of morality. This reinforces the notion of conditional family bonds in queer settings and reflects a broader societal expectation where queer identities are tacitly accepted if they conform to prevailing norms. In fact, for many of my interlocutors, responsibility was linked to success, conceptualised through prestasi. Often, this referred to professional accomplishments revealing how economic productivity and one’s financial contribution within the family structure introduce another responsibility dimension. Their financial assistance affirms their responsibilities while acting as a currency for negotiating acceptance, revealing a transactional element in the approval of their non-normative identity within the family home. This delicate balance reflects broader narratives encountered among my Indonesian participants, who cited the imperative of safeguarding family dignity (martabat) and honour (harkat) by downplaying their sexual orientation or gender identity. This echoes findings in the context of British non-heterosexual Muslims, where the concealment of sexuality is a strategy employed to uphold family honour and avoid significant social repercussions (Yip, 2004). Similarly, Kong’s research (2021) in Hong Kong identifies responsibility and respectability as pivotal in the formation of Chinese masculinity. Responsibility involves fulfilling societal expectations as a dutiful son, devoted husband, or strict father, while respectability is concerned with maintaining a facade of social and moral decorum to prevent familial shame. This analysis suggests that the concept of responsibility in Indonesian culture can be both a mechanism for social control and a means of negotiating identity within the parameters of societal and familial expectations.

In transitioning from the value of tanggung jawab to the concept of home, we must consider how these dynamics influence perceptions of safety, belonging, and identity. The narratives described so far reveal an interplay between the roles ascribed by the expectation of responsibility, moral citizenship, asas kekeluargaan and the search for a shelter that affirms one’s queer identity. ‘Home’ thus becomes a contested space, where the burden of tanggung jawab intersects with the need for acceptance. For queer individuals navigating these tensions, the home can represent a liminal space where they must find a niche for themselves, a place where the personal and the familial, the individual and the communal, the queer and the Muslim, coexist. As I analyse the notion of ‘home’ in the next section, we must consider these streams of responsibility and resistance to understand the experiences of my interlocutors.

Home

Most literature exploring the notion of the ‘queer home’ has focussed on the Global North. The lack of research exploring Global South contexts contributes to the perpetuation of queer subjects as alien to such societies, which is reinforced by the fact that many scholars have explored such spaces only once queer people have left their countries of origin to start a new life in the North (Ricalde Perez, 2021; Fortier, 2020; Kuntsman, 2003). Most scholarship agrees on the notion that this type of space extends beyond the traditional understanding attached to the domestic space. For some, simply having lesbian and gay couples inhabit a space contributes to the creation of a queer home. As Barrett explains, the ‘day-to-day household activities’ of gay and lesbian couples ‘work to queer the home’, which she defines as resisting normativity and challenging ‘the hegemonic heterosexualization of home through their domestic practices’ (2015). This notion of the queer home is depicted in opposition to the traditional family home, where coming out to one’s parents and relatives may generate rejection, isolation, and anxiety, leading many to run away escaping from intolerant reactions (Valentine et al., 2003). Queering the (heteronormative) home, in this mainstream approach, represents a site of resistance, where queer subjects actively challenge conventional domestic spaces. The home, in this case, is a punitive space, which queer individuals must resist, leave or inhabit in secrecy as a recognition of its entrenched heteronormative nature. As both a physical (the space where one lives and sleeps, where physical comfort is found) and immaterial space (the emotional space where one’s wellbeing is protected and nurtured), the normative queer home provides a sanctuary where those living at the peripheries of heteronormativity can express themselves openly:

On the one hand, queering the home involves deconstructing home ideology as a set of particular, heteronormative social constructs that disallow wider conceptual possibilities for spaces and sexualities. On the other hand, [it] means guaranteeing that queers have access to real-world spaces of shelter and comfort. (Bryant, 2015)

Emphasising the need to deconstruct the ‘home ideology’ perpetuates the notion that the queer home exists exclusively in opposition to a range of ‘heteronormative social constructs’ while simultaneously leaving behind other assemblages involved in queer homemaking. While this can be useful to explore processes based on challenging normativity, I argue for the exploration of homes where queers live (rather than ‘queer homes’) as both physical and emotional spaces that do not always require active resistance. What some have defined as ‘the radically subversive space of the queer home’ (Kentlyn, 2008) is not always relevant nor does it work to think about what the ‘home’ represents outside the Global North. In recent times, Asian scholars have discussed the diverse ways in which homes are constructed outside Western narratives. Tan’s (2011) research in Singapore highlights a nuanced approach to familial relationships among gay men, who choose not to disclose their sexual orientation to their parents to prevent bringing shame upon their family. Instead, they navigate their identities within the existing familial framework, introducing their partners in terms that align with kinship, thereby integrating them into their family lives without directly confronting prevailing views on homosexuality. As he states, ‘Going home frames homosexuality in kinship terms of love and care that their parents can understand, and staves off the confrontational stress of coming out’ (ibid, 880). Similarly, Chou’s (2000) research in Hong Kong presents ‘going home’ as a strategic alternative to the ‘coming out’ narrative prevalent in Western contexts. This approach involves gay men bringing their partners into their family spaces under the guise of friendship. Through repeated visits, the family gradually acknowledges the nature of the relationship, allowing for acceptance without challenging societal beliefs about homosexuality. This body of work provides alternatives regarding how queer individuals navigate their homes in ways that balance personal identity with cultural and familial expectations, emphasising the importance of considering diverse cultural contexts in queer homemaking.

These practices involve not only embracing traditional domestic norms, but also emphasising the critical role of family members, friends, and other networks in one’s domestic life. For my interlocutors, the home was not necessarily a site of active resistance resulting from the normative expectation of queer transgression, but rather a place of mundane routine. Before considering the diverse experiences of my participants in constructing their sense of home, it is important to acknowledge their demographic makeup. My young cohort, whose ages ranged from 18 to 27 years old (sometimes representing a transitional phase of coming age), primarily from working-class and lower middle-class backgrounds, often exhibited a strong familial bond that shaped their conceptualisation of home. The challenges faced in envisioning and establishing their own homes, amidst prevailing heteronormative norms that emphasise the reproductive family, were multifaceted. For many, the aspiration to create a space that reflected their identity was at odds with the expectation to conform to traditional familial structures. Looking towards the future, they navigated the dual challenge of maintaining familial connections while seeking to create spaces that affirmed their identities. The exploration of these future-oriented homes highlights the strategies employed to create safe spaces of belonging and identity affirmation within a sociocultural landscape that often marginalises them. For older LGBT Indonesians, the concept of home might take on different dimensions. Many, having faced ostracization from their families, find solace in shared living arrangements such as boarding houses, vital for their self-preservation (Fadhlina, 2024; Tumpag, 2016). Unlike their younger counterparts, for whom family ties still offer a semblance of home, older LGBT individuals often find that ‘going back home’ is not a viable option, revealing the need for alternative forms of belonging. In any case, the concept evoked varying responses among my participants beyond the familial domestic space.

For many of my young interlocutors, home was built through the positive affirmation of relationships rather than mere active rebellion. For Jemimah, a lesbian Muslim woman, the mosque served as a symbolic haven. The sense of peace that the mosque offered her, as well as its role as a ‘home’ away from her everyday worries, highlights its significance:

For me, home is the mosque. When I go to the mosque, I forget all my problems. It takes me to a new place, a new atmosphere where all my problems fade away. It’s a safe space for me.

Having acknowledged the heteronormative nature of her (family) home, Jemima constructs an alternative space. What is it about the mosque milieu that makes her feel at home (i.e. safe, embraced, understood)? When considering the mosque as her unconventional home, it is key to explore the layers of meaning that contribute to this sentiment. The mosque is a communal space of worship, which offers Muslim communities a sense of collective identity. For Jemimah, the mosque provides a respite from the societal pressures of responsibility and normative citizenship, a place where material concerns give way to spiritual reflection. The feeling of safety Jemimah experiences could be rooted in the inclusive principles that many religious spaces strive to embody. Moreover, her spiritual connection to Allah might play a role in the emergence of feelings of comfort, which are cultivated in the mosque through prayer and reflection providing her with a sense of peace. Her construction of an alternative ‘home’ at the mosque also invites a re-evaluation of what constitutes a safe space for marginalised individuals outside the Global North. For those who continuously feel the pressure of being at the periphery of national ideals of citizenship and negotiate strategies to address tanggung jawab expectations, creating a sanctuary where they can fully embrace their identity is crucial. Thus, the questions raised by Jemimah’s experience are not just linked to the physical space of the mosque but also to social and spiritual dimensions. This example encourages further discussions on the intersectionality of queerness and faith, challenging homosecularism.

Lini, a lesbian Muslim woman, brought a cultural dimension into the concept. She associated it with the cultural values of the city of Yogyakarta, where she lives, and contrasted them with those of her hometown, Bangka Belitung, off the east coast of Sumatra:

Home is a place where you feel comfortable [nyaman]. Yogya is my home. I think that, if I’m honest, Bangka Belitung is my second home because here in Yogya I can be myself. There are things I can do here that I can’t do in Bangka. I like the Javanese traditions [adat Jawa], Sumatran traditions are hard [keras]. Here I am happy to be who I am, there are these traditions, this culture, this way of speaking… I fell in love with Java. I feel better here because in Bangka people don’t care about each other, but here people are good [orang baik], they care about you.

Yogyakarta, with its Javanese traditions and values, allows Lini the freedom to be herself in ways her hometown does not. In this case, the home extends beyond the walls of her house to encompass the socio-cultural landscape of the city. The sense of home is enriched by the traditions, language, and communal ethos of Java, all of which, she considers, afford her the liberty to express herself freely. The home thus becomes a multi-dimensional concept, deeply embedded in communal local practices, where Lini has found the emotional support required to navigate her identity as a lesbian Muslim woman. While her account provides an interesting narrative, it raises questions that add layers of complexity. One of the most immediate is the absence of her family in Yogyakarta. Would her perception of the city as a home change if her family were present? From another angle, her reflection on Javanese traditions does not consider that these are not static. The absence of an explicit mention of specific traditions makes it difficult to evaluate what she is referring to, but we should consider that the same practices she finds welcoming might also involve conservative elements that she has yet to encounter, which could impact her sense of belonging. While Lini finds the communal ethos in Yogyakarta to be supportive, one might wonder how deeply this support extends. Is it just surface-level tolerance or a profounder form of acceptance that would remain if her lesbian identity became disclosed?

For others, like Ario, Nino, and Nana below, ‘home’ is closely connected to their biological family. For many, the maternal figure emerges as a consistent defining aspect. This emphasis on familial ties contrasts with the struggles that others might face within their families:

Nino: Home is something that you always miss... The place where you always want to come back to. My home is still where my parents are, which is in Temanggung. When I go to another city for a long time, I start to think about how important family and home are. Home is the place where we can spend our lives with happiness with our family, the place where we preserve our family’s religion and tradition.

Ario: If I think about home, I think about my mum. I feel home anywhere where I am with my mum. A year ago, she broke her leg. We were going to the musholla ⁶ to pray and she was behind me, the floor was slippery. She was walking and then she fell. I felt guilty because I usually walk behind her and at that time, I was walking in front of her. I felt it was my fault and she couldn’t do anything without me, so I became closer to her. Before we’d argue about little things, but now we are closer. That’s why I feel that home is wherever she is.

Nana: Home is the place where there are people like my mum who makes me feel like I want to go back [pulang], where I am returning to a place where I feel comfortable [nyaman], where I am accepted.

These narratives reveal a range of multi-layered dimensions. While ‘queer home’ is often used to describe the subversion of heteronormative constructs, these accounts reflect the emergence of alternative spaces, inhabited by queer people, which are not based on resistance. Nino’s emphasis on family resonates with what one might expect from a conventional understanding of home. However, the underlying sentiment here is the yearning for a space where one can preserve ‘religion and tradition’, which contests secularist approaches to queer freedom. Ario’s story brings in the affective dimensions of home, tying it to his relationship with his mother. This is particularly insightful when analysed through a queer lens, considering discussions where the notion of ‘chosen family’ often supplants biological relatives as the core of one’s ‘queer home’ (Blair and Pukall, 2015; Eppley, 2022; Jackson Levin et al., 2020; Le Vay and Le Vay, 2019). Ario’s narrative challenges the emphasis on ‘chosen families’ underscoring the cultural specificities that make biological families more central in some contexts. Nana’s definition, focussing on comfort and acceptance, aligns with regular descriptions of what a home seeks to offer. We might wonder whether this sense of ‘home’ is contingent on a perpetual cycle of approval and acceptance. Does the notion of comfort risk entrenching individuals in safe but potentially limiting spaces? Whatever the answer is, each account emphasises different elements – be it family, emotional connection, or acceptance – that contribute to moulding the home for queer Indonesian Muslims.

Those who had lost their family members (and, often, specifically their mothers) described feeling lost and confused about what home meant to them. When asked about what home represented for her, Tiga, a lesbian Muslim woman, explained that ‘I’ve been trying to find an answer to that question since last year, but I think that I haven’t found it yet’. As she continued, ‘I cannot tell you what home is for me because I lost my home, home was not a building, I lost my mum, who was my home’. Satu, a gay Muslim man, explained how:

For the past two years I haven’t been able to define what my home is after my mum passed away. I’m still looking for the meaning... You know, I had conflicts with my mum, but a month before she died, she depended on me to do everything. When she was really sick, I was the only one taking care of her at the hospital. She was at the hospital for 9 days and then she started to feel better, but one day I went to see her, and she passed away when I arrived. I wondered if it was my fault.

What is it about the mother that is so central here, as a cornerstone of ‘home’? As I mentioned before, ‘State Ibuism’ derives from the term ‘ibu’ which means ‘mother’ in Indonesian and encapsulates the centrality of this figure in national culture. As the primary caregiver, nurturer, and emotional anchor for the family, the mother does not only constitute a biological relation but represents a symbol of support, emotional warmth, and sacrifice. Connecting this to the narratives of Tiga and Satu, it becomes clear why the loss of their mothers is equated to the loss of ‘home’. Where the mother is seen as the heart of the family, her absence creates a void that is both physical and deeply emotional. The loss of the mother complicates the journey of finding a space that feels authentically ‘home’, revealing the fragility and complexity of the concept vis-à-vis the relationships that help shape it.

The foundational role of kinship in shaping the home sphere for queer Indonesian Muslims adds a dimension that challenges the focus on ‘chosen family’ within Western queer narratives. This often ties to the rise of individualism, fuelled by neoliberal agendas that prioritise personal emancipation over communal bonds. Nonetheless, this stance is increasingly questioned, even within the Global North. Research from the UK by Pahl and Pevalin contests the narrative of relentless individualisation, suggesting instead that familial bonds may be strengthening (2005). The term ‘personal communities’ has been introduced to define ‘the set of active and significant ties which are most important to people’ (Pahl and Spencer, 2004) moving beyond the notion of ‘chosen family’ to acknowledge the deep-rooted interconnectedness of relationships across and within generations. This perspective aligns with the gotong royong principle, reflecting a collectivist spirit integral to Indonesian culture. In the lives of queer Indonesian Muslims, overlapping relational layers paint a complex picture of home, combining religiosity, nationhood, family structures, communal interdependence, and the individual’s search for a sense of belonging.

This section has revealed that ‘home’ is a fluid concept, shaped by the cultural nuances of its context. Homes for queer individuals can be seen not just as places of resistance to heteronormativity, but as settings where daily life is shaped by taken-on responsibilities, and where personal autonomy is manifested within, rather than against, prevailing norms and values.

Concluding remarks

This article has revealed the complex intersection between the concepts of tanggung jawab and the notion of home. These two elements are interlaced into queer Muslim subjectivities in Indonesia, reflecting the dynamics of negotiation, resistance, and acceptance that define their existence. This interconnection provides a unique lens through which to analyse the construction and expression of their identities, revealing the ways in which they navigate the societal, familial, national, and religious principles that shape their lives. As I have explained, the concept of tanggung jawab implies both a sense of duty and a broader commitment to oneself, one’s family, and the wider national and religious community. For my interlocutors, this involved a balancing act between adhering to national, religious, and familial expectations and embracing their selves. The home, as a physical and symbolic space, becomes a central site where this balance is negotiated. It is here that the tensions between personal identity and societal responsibility are felt, making it a key geography for the cultivation of their subjectivities as queer, Muslim, and Indonesian subjects. Complementing my study, the construction of alternative homes, whether through chosen families, spiritual spaces, or inclusive groups, revealed by other communities such as older waria Muslims, who have initiated Islamic boarding schools for themselves, highlights the creative strategies employed to forge spaces of belonging in Indonesia. These serve as geographies where wider societal norms can be reimagined, allowing for the expression of identities in ways that reveal a multifaceted relationship with nationhood, faith, and culture.

Bringing together tanggung jawab and home, it becomes clear that queer Muslim subjectivities are not static. Against the Western depiction of queer Muslims as victims of their own religion, the frictions and connections between these concepts demonstrate the diverse ways in which queer Muslims navigate their identities, offering insights into the resourcefulness that characterise their experiences. While considering this, it is important to emphasise that it is not only national principles such as the asas kekeluargaan, but also moral duties and filial piety that become central to their experiences. Scholars have suggested that ‘assuming responsibility for one’s actions precedes the freedom of choice and expression Muslims are afforded in the Quran’ (Hendricks, 2010), a view that resonates with the lived experiences of my interlocutors. The blending of spiritual duty, national citizenship, and personal identity challenges simplistic dichotomies between secular nationhood and religious morality, depicting a landscape where queer Muslims navigate their responsibilities towards themselves, their families, their society, and Allah. Nyhagen’s (2015) concept of lived religious citizenship provides a useful lens to assess these experiences in future studies, highlighting how queer Muslims embody their citizenship in ways that shape their religious beliefs with daily practices and interpersonal relationships. As Nyhagen notes, ‘a multifaceted approach is required which acknowledges that rights, status, identities, participation, belonging and care are important dimensions of religious citizenship as lived practice’ (ibid, p. 769). This is in line with the experiences of my participants, navigating spaces where sexual, gender, national, and religious identities coexist and where moral duty and filial piety serve as guiding principles for navigating life’s complexities. By embodying these principles, queer Muslims articulate visions that are inclusive of their identities, challenging the secular and religious narratives that seek to marginalise them.