The writer loosely dressed according to shariah law in front of
Baturrachman Mosque, Banda Aceh's main mosque, on Prophet
Muhammad's birthday.
Despite covering up, Courtney Trenwith finds herself the centre of
attention in Indonesia's only province that applies sharia
law.
An hour after arriving in the capital of Indonesia's only
non-secular province, I stepped out of a black SUV-style taxi at
the mouth of a sleepy little market. I was wearing a long grey
dress and cardigan, with a white pashmina draped over my head,
across my shoulders and neatly tucked under my chin. I felt
confident, impenetrable and, ironically, elegant.
“Psst, lady, lady,” Achenese men called from the back of tooting
motorcycles.
Were Muslim men seeking my attention?
I ignored the jeers and entered the market with my five Australian
female friends, who were similarly covered up. Men and women came
rushing from the rear of their stalls and emerged from side
streets. Many, mostly men, enthusiastically - desperately -
beckoned us into their tiny shops.
“Pretty. Beautiful,” they said.
The surprising sense of confidence I had felt since changing into
this unfamiliar attire during a stop-over at Kuala Lumpur airport,
quickly diminished.
It seemed my pale hands and face – the only bare parts of my body -
had revealed my true origins – a place somewhere far from the
inherently Muslim community of Banda Aceh, Indonesia.
Throughout Asia I have become accustomed to my light skin and
blonde hair causing much fuss among the locals. I've often
transformed from the tourist to the attraction, as men, women and
children whip out their mobile phones to snap the strange white
girl.
But I had expected to be shielded from gawkers while observing the
strict sharia law dress code, including a jilbab (the Indonesian
term used for a head scarf).
Furthermore, I thought being in a strict Islamic region where it is
even prohibited for single, unrelated men and women to stand close
together in public, would have ruled out verbal male attention.
The unexpected reaction confused and frustrated me. I had been
apprehensive about wearing a jilbab. Not because I felt it was my
right to decide (if given the choice I would not wear it) but
because I believed it was a religious garment that signified a
Muslim woman. As a non-Muslim wearing the head scarf, I felt like a
fake. However I had been warned it was risky not to follow
suit.
Based on the Quran and Islamic customs, sharia law penetrates
beyond the standard legal areas and into personal lives, dictating
rules in areas such as prayer, dress, hygiene and proximity to the
opposite sex. It is considered by Muslims to be the sacred law of
Islam.
Sharia law was introduced to Aceh in 2006 as part of negotiations
between the Central Government and the Free Aceh Movement to
provide special autonomy to the province. It was a deliberate
tactic by the Central Government to win over separatists and end
almost four decades of violent conflict.
Since a Memorandum of Understanding was signed, conflict has
simmered (although there remains a handful of hardliners who still
want to separate) and the leading provincial party, Partia Aceh,
insists it intends to strictly adhere to the MOU.
The catastrophic aftermath of the 2004 tsunami, which washed away
much of Banda Aceh and killed an estimated 60,000 people, also was
a significant factor in Achenese people accepting special
autonomy.
Aceh quickly introduced sharia law to cover gambling, drinking
alcohol and the law of close proximity, which prohibits people of
the opposite sex from being seen in public together.
However, it is yet to be fully implemented and there remains
controversy over the contentious punishment regime that could see
public whippings and stoning for “crimes” such as adultery. It is a
far cry from the strict sharia law that applies under other Muslim
regimes in the Middle East.
Despite Aceh's rebellious reputation and violent history, it is not
a place Westerners need to fear.
The terrifying sharia law punishment regime does not automatically
apply to non-Muslims. They can choose to be dealt with under the
national legal system.
I was also grateful to learn that I would not be publically whipped
if my head scarf happened to slip off. In fact, during three days
in Banda Aceh (I was prohibited by the government from leaving the
capital city), I was assured by several well-placed people in
various political parties and organisations that I would not be
punished for not wearing a head scarf.
However, I received mixed responses when I asked whether I should
bother wearing it at all. Some asked me why, as a non-Muslim, I was
wearing a jilbab – my exact argument before I landed there. Others
thanked me for showing respect by covering my hair; although they
would not call the police if I was bare-headed, they certainly
appreciated the gesture.
In the end, I decided it was better to be safe than sorry and to
wear the jilbab. While I'm sure I would be saved from any brutal
punishment if I revealed my hair, the respectful offering of
wearing a jilbab went a long way.
And for a blonde Aussie I certainly felt less inconspicuous with a
head scarf, although by the time I left Band Aceh it had become
less of a tightly wrapped jilbab and more of a loose head covering
that could have passed as an accessory to shield my pale Western
skin from the scorching Indonesian sun.