ASAA Women in Asia Series

FACE-VEILED WOMEN IN
CONTEMPORARY INDONESIA
Eva F. Nisa
Face-veiled Women in Contemporary
Indonesia

Face veiling is relatively new in Indonesia. It is often stereotyped as a sign of

extremism and the growing Arabisation of Indonesian Muslims. It is also perceived
as a symbol that demonstrates a lack of female agency. However, increasing
numbers of women are choosing to wear the cadar (the full face veil). This book
provides an ethnographic study of these women: why they choose to wear the
cadar, embody strict religious disciplinary practices and the consequences of that
choice. The women in this book belong to two Islamic revivalist movements:
various Salafi groups and the Tablīghī Jamāʿat. Indonesia has constantly witnessed
transformations in the meanings and practices of Islam, and this book demonstrates
that women are key actors in this process. Nisa demonstrates that contrary to
stereotypes, the women in this study have an agency which is expressed through
their chosen docility and obedience.

Eva F. Nisa is a Senior Lecturer in Anthropology in the College of Asia and the
Pacific at the Australian National University. She currently holds an Australian
Research Council Discovery Early Career Researcher Award.
ASIAN STUDIES ASSOCIATION OF AUSTRALIA
Women in Asia Series
Editor: Louise Edwards (University of New South Wales)

Editorial Board:
Hyaeweol Choi (University of Iowa)
Melissa Crouch (University of New South Wales)
Michele Ford (The University of Sydney)
Trude Jacobsen (Northern Illinois University)
Tanya Jakimow (University of New South Wales)
Lenore Lyons (Independent scholar)
Vera Mackie (University of Wollongong)
Anne McLaren (The University of Melbourne)
Mina Roces (University of New South Wales)
Dina Siddiqi (New York University)
Andrea Whittaker (The University of Queensland)
Founding Editors: Susan Blackburn and Lenore Manderson

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Heaven and Earth by Sara Niner 2016
47. Sex Trafficking in Southeast Asia: A History of Desire, Duty and Debt by
Trude Jacobsen 2016
48. Women, Work and Care in the Asia-Pacific edited by Marian Baird, Michele
Ford and Elizabeth Hill 2017
49. Marriage, Gender and Islam in Indonesia: Women Negotiating Informal
Marriage, Divorce and Desire by Maria Platt 2017
50. Comfort Women and Post-Occupation Corporate Japan by Caroline Norma
2018
51. Women’s Empowerment in Indonesia: A Poor Community in Jakarta by Sri
Wiyanti Eddyono 2018
52. Hong Kong Rural Women under Chinese Rule: Gender Politics,
Reunification and Globalization in Post-colonial Hong Kong by Isabella
NG 2019
53. Gender, Violence and Power in Indonesia: Across Time and Space
Edited by Katharine McGregor, Ana Dragojlovic and Hannah Loney 2020
54. Islam, Women’s Sexuality and Patriarchy in Indonesia: Silent Desire
Irma Riyani
55. Women, Media, and Power in Indonesia
Jane Ahlstrand
56. Face-veiled Women in Contemporary Indonesia
Eva F. Nisa
Face-veiled Women in
Contemporary Indonesia

Eva F. Nisa
First published 2023
by Routledge
4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN
and by Routledge
605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business
© 2023 Eva F. Nisa
The right of Eva F. Nisa to be identified as author of this work has been
asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or
utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now
known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in
any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing
from the publishers.
Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or
registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation
without intent to infringe.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Nisa, Eva F., author.
Title: Face-veiled women in contemporary Indonesia / Eva F. Nisa.
Description: New York, NY: Routledge, 2023. |
Series: ASAA women in asia series | Includes
bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2022012810 (print) | LCCN 2022012811 (ebook) |
ISBN 9781032159461 (hardback) | ISBN 9781032159478 (paperback) |
ISBN 9781003246442 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Headgear–Religious aspects–Indonesia. |
Veils–Religious aspects–Indonesia. | Muslim women–Clothing–Indonesia. |
Muslim women–Education–Indonesia. | Tablighi Jamaʻat. |
Clothing and dress–Religious aspects–Indonesia. |
Popular culture–Indonesia.
Classification: LCC GT2110 .N57 2023  (print) | LCC GT2110  (ebook) |
DDC 391.4/3–dc23/eng/20220603
LC record available at [Link]
LC ebook record available at [Link]
ISBN: 978-1-032-15946-1 (hbk)
ISBN: 978-1-032-15947-8 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-003-24644-2 (ebk)
DOI: 10.4324/9781003246442
Typeset in Times New Roman
by Deanta Global Publishing Services, Chennai, India
For Fedwa,

my mother Ustādha Hj Uun Maimunah and late father

H Amrullah, with love and gratitude





Contents

Series editor’s foreword viii

List of figures ix
Acknowledgements xii
Glossary xiv
Abbreviations xx
Transcription notes xxi

Introduction 1

1 The practice of face veiling in the archipelago 23

2 The production of Islamic knowledge and the introduction of

taat habitus 56

3 Media and cadari: From Ayat Ayat Cinta to the Niqab Squad 91

4 Cadari in Tablīghī Jamāʿat and Salafi educational institutions 127

5 Finding a niche: Face-veiled university students in Indonesia 158

6 Cadari as dedicated actors 186

7 Taat agency and the embodiment of true Islam 214

Index 229


Series Editor’s Foreword

The contributions of women to the social, political and economic transforma-

tions occurring in the Asian region are legion. Women have served as leaders
of nations, communities, workplaces, activist groups and families. Asian women
have joined with others to participate in fomenting change at micro- and macro-
levels. They have been both agents and targets of national and international inter-
ventions in social policy. In the performance of these myriad roles, women have
forged new and modern gendered identities that are recognisably global and local.
Their experiences are rich, diverse and instructive. The books in this series testify
to the central role women play in creating the new Asia and re-creating Asian
womanhood. Moreover, these books reveal the resilience and inventiveness of
women around the Asian region in the face of entrenched and evolving patriarchal
social norms.
Scholars publishing in this series demonstrate a commitment to promoting the pro-
ductive conversation between Gender Studies and Asian Studies. The need to understand
the diversity of experiences of femininity and womanhood around the world increases
inexorably as globalisation proceeds apace. Lessons from the experiences of Asian women
present us with fresh opportunities for building new possibilities for women’s progress the
world over.
The Asian Studies Association of Australia (ASAA) sponsors this publication series
as part of its ongoing commitment to promoting knowledge about women in Asia. In par-
ticular, the ASAA Women’s Forum provides the intellectual vigour and enthusiasm that
maintains the Women in Asia Series (WIAS). The aim of the series, since its inception in
1990, is to promote knowledge about women in Asia to both academic and general audi-
ences. To this end, WIAS books draw on a wide range of disciplines including anthropol-
ogy, sociology, political science, cultural studies, media studies, literature and history. The
series prides itself on being an outlet for cutting-edge research conducted by recent PhD
graduates and postdoctoral fellows from throughout the region.
The Series could not function without the generous professional advice provided
by many anonymous readers. Moreover, the wise counsel provided by Peter Sowden at
Routledge is invaluable. WIAS, its authors and the ASAA are very grateful to these people
for their expert work.
Louise Edwards (UNSW Australia)
Series Editor


Figures

I.1 Cadari in their black cadar at a Tablīghī pesantren in Tangerang.

Source. Courtesy of © Mala Hayati, 23 June 2008. Used with
permission. (Note: Mala Hayati is a professional photographer
who had a special exhibition about veil culture in Indonesia
featuring images of face-veiled students from my field site. I
helped Mala with this veil project and, with the permission of my
research subjects, invited her to the field site.) 6
I.2 Romaini at a special photoshoot with a friend. Source.
Photographed by Romaini’s friend, Jakarta, 2 April 2008. Used
with permission 7
I.3 A cadari cooking in her house—as part of her everyday activities.
Source. Photo credit, the author, 24 January 2010. Used with
permission of the subject 10
I.4 Some Salafi cadari waiting for their kajian or taʿlīm (Islamic
study gathering) to begin. Source. Photo credit, author, 29
October 2017. Used with permission of the subjects 16
1.1 A cadari with her black purdah and gloves. Source. Photo
credit, author, 30 January 2010. (Note: Some people differentiate
between cadar and purdah in which purdah refers to a cadar with
a screen that covers the eyes of the wearer.) 28
1.2 A Muslim model wearing a Muslim dress on the runway in
Jakarta. Source. Photo credit, © Jeny Tjahyawati, 24 December
2005. Used with permission. (Note: Jeny Tjahwayati is a well-
known Indonesian Muslim fashion designer. I have been friends
with her since 2005 when I conducted research on Muslim
fashion designers in Indonesia.) 34
1.3 Jeny Tjahyawati (centre) with her Muslim models at a fashion
show in Jakarta. Source. This photograph was provided by © Jeny
Tjahyawati, 27 May 2006. Used with permission 35
1.4 Women inspecting instant jilbab at the biggest textile market in
Southeast Asia, Tanah Abang. Source. Photo credit, author, 9
February 2008 36


x Figures
1.5 A Tablīghī cadari with her embroidered cadar in front of her
room in the pesantren. Source. Photo credit, author, 8 January 2008 37
2.1 Niqab Squad cadari attending a regular kajian (gathering for
Islamic study) in Jakarta at which Ustādh Oemar Mita was
teaching. Source. Photo credit, the author, 29 October 2017 58
2.2 A bright cadar in a jihadi Salafi book stall at an Islamic Book Fair
in Jakarta. Source. Photo credit, the author, 9 March 2008 69
2.3 Cadar active wear with loose-fitting (Athira) pants and flowing
outer top/cadar with arm holes. Source. Courtesy of © Nusseyba,
11 July 2021. Used with permission 78
3.1 A cadari before watching Ayat Ayat Cinta at the cinema in 21
Pondok Indah, Jakarta. Source: Photo credit, author, 28 March 2008 94
3.2 Image of cadar novel covers that accentuate women’s eyes, in a
Gramedia bookstore, Pondok Indah, Jakarta. Source: Photo credit,
author, 6 September 2008 95
3.3 Romaini sitting at her computer at work. Source: Photo credit,
author, 1 January 2009. Used with Romaini’s permission 102
3.4 Niqab Squad members in their black cadar practising archery.
Source: Courtesy of Indadari, 9 June 2021 112
3.5 A boutique for cadari in the Mosaicht Store with Niqab Squad
members inspecting the merchandise. Source: Photo credit,
author, 4 November 2017 113
3.6 Indadari, wearing her cadar with her signature polka-dotted
border, promoting her designs for Instagram stories, in Mosaicht.
Source: Photo credit, author, 4 November 2017 114
3.7 A cadari model with a tennis racquet, showing the activewear
line of one of Indadari’s circle. Source: Photo courtesy of ©
Nusseyba, 9 June 2021. Used with permission 120
4.1 A cadar-clad student in front of Sunanul Husna Al-Jaiyah’s
female wing. Source. Photo credit, author, 30 January 2010 134
4.2 A group of cadar-clad Sunanul Husna Al-Jaiyah students with
their ‘abāya or gamis in the classroom. Source. Photo credit, ©
Mala Hayati, 22 June 2008. Used with permission. (Note: Gamis
is a long, full body covering. In Indonesia ‘abāya and gamis are
often used interchangeably. Although some might emphasise that
‘abāya is looser than gamis.) 135
4.3 Students of Ma’had Ihya As-Sunnah wearing their cadar inside
their dormitory. Note the very small eye slits. Source. Photo
credit, author, 28 June 2008 146
4.4 Two students outside their pesantren wearing their optional
school uniform purdah. Source. Photo credit, author, 28 June 2008 147
5.1 A Salafi cadari in her black purdah entering al-Hasanah Mosque
(Yogyakarta) for her religious lesson. Source: Photo credit,
author, 22 March 2008. Used with subject’s permission 159
 Figures  xi
6.1 Panellists at a seminar on Muslim women in the era of
globalisation organised by a Salafi women’s wing, in Bekasi.
Note: Some Salafi women’s wing organisations often invited
female PKS politicians. They believe that although sometimes
their understandings of Islam are different from that of PKS, at
least some of them think that as an Islamist party, PKS is better
than other parties. Source: Photo credit, author, 5 July 2008 188
6.2 Nana chairing the seminar. Source: Photo credit, author, 5 July 2008 188
6.3 A tech savvy cadari using expensive-looking equipment to film
a video of the seminar. Note: Usually inside their event venues,
cadari take off their cadar because they are women-only events.
Source: Photo credit, author, 5 July 2008 189
6.4 In Makassar, WI cadari ride motorcycles to their religious lessons
in the mosque and park them outside. Source: Photo credit,
author, 18 November 2012 196
6.5 Curtain within a cadari house to facilitate male teachers
delivering their daily or weekly religious lessons to women.
Source: Photo credit, author, 22 March 2008 201
7.1 Rows of book covers showing hijrah hype in a Gramedia
bookstore, Pondok Indah, Jakarta. Source: Photo credit, author, 7
December 2019 216
Acknowledgements

This book took a long journey and during this journey I have accumulated many
debts. First, I would like to thank the many face-veiled women in Indonesia, too
numerous to name, who spoke with me, shared their joys and tears, and encour-
aged me in my work. Many of them subsequently became pals or even friends. I
owe these women my deepest gratitude for sharing their knowledge, their experi-
ences and their lives with me. I have written this book with deep respect for their
life experiences and bravery, and for their willingness to confide in me. I also
owe a special debt of gratitude to all wonderful people of the Salafi and Tablīghī
institutions and the Niqab Squad that welcomed me with warmth.
I am obliged to a large number of people without whose assistance and support
this book would not have been completed. My greatest debts are owed to my PhD
supervisor, Professor Kathryn Robinson, who over the years has listened to my
ideas and answered innumerable questions about a multitude of matters. The way
she encourages me to achieve what is best for me is amazing. I am really grateful,
humbled and honoured to have had her as my supervisor and beyond that as my
lifetime mentor. For me, what is best is that she has faith in me. I really appreci-
ate all the effort she made and how much time she has spent assisting me to build
my academic career. I am deeply and tremendously grateful to have received a
wealth of support from the wonderful Head of Anthropology, School of Culture,
History and Language (SCHL), Professor Assa Doron. Thank you very much for
your very careful reading, Assi. I have been extremely fortunate to have you as
my brilliant academic mentor. I also wish to thank my other amazing mentor and
best friend who is always there to support my academic career and share her great
knowledge, Associate Professor Rachel Rinaldo.
I am very grateful to Professor Andrew McWilliam who has contributed enor-
mously with his careful and critical reading of each of the pages of my chap-
ter. I am also indebted to Professor Greg Fealy and Associate Professors Matt
Tomlinson and Tanya Jakimow who helped me fine-tune my analysis. I wish to
thank Professors James Fox, Annelies Moors and Mirjam Künkler for their con-
tinuous guidance and mentorship.
I am also indebted to colleagues in SCHL, the Australian National University
(ANU), Professors Simon Haberle and I. Wayan Arka, Associate Professors Jane
Ferguson and Shameem Black and Pak Amrih Widodo for their great support


 Acknowledgements  xiii
throughout the completion of this book. This book was made possible with generous
financial contributions from an Australian Development Scholarship and SCHL.
Numerous scholars have helped me by providing constructive feedback
throughout the development of this book: Professors Monika Arnez, Carla Jones,
Susanne Schröter, Patricia Spyer, Associate Professor Linda Bennett and the
anonymous reviewers of this study. I am very grateful to Dr Carolyn Brewer,
Belinda Henwood and my dear friend Barbara Kristo for their valuable editorial
assistance. I extend my warmest thanks to all of you.
During this phase of the work, I received an ANU Travel Grant which funded
a short cross-institutional study at Leiden University. I benefited considerably
from access to Leiden University and KITLV’s library collection. I wish to thank
also all the scholars in the Netherlands who made my study there very fruitful:
Professors Henk Schulte Nordholt, Martin van Bruinessen, Léon Buskens, NJG
Nico Kaptein and the late Professor Nasr Hamid Abu Zayd.
My warmest thanks to all my friends and colleagues in Indonesia (especially
at Universitas Islam Negeri Syarif Hidayatullah), Canberra, Wellington and
beyond. I will not be able to mention you all, but I would like to thank, in par-
ticular, my friends and colleagues: Professor Evi Firiani, Ala’i Nadjib, Associate
Professor Minako Sakai, Professor Amelia Fauzia, Yuniyanti Chuzaifah, Dr
Nur Rofiah, Indadari, Annie Mercer, Dr Hamdani, Kana Taira, Ciciek Farha,
Isnaning Wahyuni, Mbak Icha and Bunda Rahmah. I am forever grateful espe-
cially to my Religious Studies family at the Victoria University of Wellington.
I spent three fantastic years with beautiful colleagues there: Associate Professor
Geoff Troughton, Dr Philip Fountain, Associate Professor Rick Weiss, Professors
Michael Radich, Paul Morris, Joseph Bulbulia, Dr Christopher Joll and Dr Hanlie
Booysen. I learned much from working with you all.
I owe my deepest gratitude to my parents—my beloved mother Ustādha Hj
Uun Maimunah and my late father H. Amrullah—and all my family in Jakarta and
Makassar for their endless support and prayers so that I could pursue my dream.
I extend my warmest thanks to my siblings, Kak Hj Laily Diana Fitri and family,
Dr Nurul Hakim and Kak Dahlia and family, Dr Muhammad Iqbal and Dr Citra
Mahardhika and family, Muhammad Ihsan and Rilwanu Lukman. Thank you
for your love and prayers. I would never have been able to pursue my academic
career without your loving support.
I will never forget this journey because of the company of the people that I love
the most, my little family. My family has lived with this book for a very long time.
I can only thank them for the years of patient and unquestioning support. There
are no words that can replace my enormous debt to my husband Farid F. Saenong
for his love and prayers, and especially my daughter Fedwa Faried for her beauti-
ful love, prayers and laughter. I hope Fedwa can enjoy reading this book as much
tomorrow as she did by scribbling on some of my papers. It has been like being on
a roller-coaster pursuing a PhD while parenting at the same time, but I have really
enjoyed the ride. It has taught me huge things and the time has made a tougher
me. The final stage of this writing is a cooperative work between me and Fedwa’s
love, patience, encouragement and endless support.
Glossary

ʿabāya, or abaya (Ind.)  head-to-toe wrap completely covering a woman’s body.

akhwāt (sing. ukht), or akhwat (Ind.)  lit. sisters.
al-akhlāq al-karīma  noble behaviour.
al-ḥayā’  shyness, shame or modesty
al-Jāmiʿa al-Islāmiyya bī-l-Madīna al-Munawwara  Islamic University in
Medina.
al-Lajna al-Dā’ima lī al-Buhūth al-ʿIlmiyya wa al-Iftā’  The Permanent
Committee for Scientific Research and Nonbinding Religious Ruling.
al-salaf al-ṣāliḥ  pious ancestors or predecessors. There is no consensus among
Sunni Muslims on the coverage of who the pious predecessors are. However,
most scholars include the first generation of the Prophet Muḥammad, and
others would stretch to include the three generations after the Prophet: the
first, the Prophet and his ṣahāba (companions); the second, the tābiʿīn (the
followers of the companions); and third, the tābiʿu al-tābiʿīn (the followers
of the followers of the companions).
al-walā’ wa-l-barā’  loyalty or fidelity to Islam and Muslims, dissociation from
all things non-Islamic and renunciation of unbelievers.
asātidh (sing. ustādh)  male religious teachers.
ʿawra  part of the body that must be covered with the connotation of vulnerable.
baju koko  one of the most common styles of Muslim dress for men in Indonesia.
baju kurung  a long-sleeved loose tunic usually worn over a sarung (sarong).
berguk or bergoek  a loan word from burqa. The use of this term to refer to face
veil can be traced from its presence in the official dictionary of the Indonesian
language, Kamus Besar Bahasa Indonesia (KBBI, The great dictionary of the
Indonesian language).
bidʿa  innovation, usually used to refer to that is forbidden in religion.
burqa  face veil. It has been deeply rooted in Afghan culture and predates the
rise of the Taliban.
burquʿ  face veil.
busana Muslim/Muslimah  varied types of dress worn by Muslims which the
wearers themselves believe is part of their religious teaching.
cadar  face veil. In KBBI, cadar also refers to a cloth that covers a table and
bed. The origin of this word can be traced to the Persian chādar referring to


 Glossary  xv
a tent, pavilion, a mantle, scarf or a veil. Cadar should not be confused with
the term chadar/chaddar/chādar in Hindi and Urdu which usually refers to
an enormous shawl or wrap that is also used to cover parts of women’s faces
and their bodies except their eyes.
cadari  face-veiled women. Cadari or perempuan bercadar refers to a woman
who wears two pieces of cloth; the big headscarf and detachable cadar. It can
also be a one piece of cloth if the big headscarf is stitched together with the
cadar. The headscarf that accompanies the cadar can be regarded as a quick
cover-up because it does not need any pins to wear it. The two pieces that
cover the entire upper body of cadari pair with a gamis or jubah (robe) that
covers the whole body.
celebgram  celebrities on Instagram.
chador  a large rectangular cloth that is worn on top of women’s clothes. The
Iranian cadhor (lit. tent) is a large cloth worn since the fifth century CE on top
of women’s clothes and covers the entire wearer’s body.
dāʿi  male preacher or male religious scholar.
dāʿiya (pl. dāʿiyāt)  female preacher or female religious scholar.
daʿwa proselytisation.
dawrah, dawra (Ar.)  (religious) training.
dhikr  lit. means remembrance of God, consisting of a litany formula.
faḍā’il  Islamic virtues.
Faḍā’il al-Aʿmāl  virtues of everyday actions.
farḍ al-ʿayn  obligatory for each individual Muslim which cannot be replaced by
a certain number of Muslims performing it.
Fatayat or Fatayat NU  the young women’s wing of Nahdlatul Ulama (NU).
fatwa, fatwā (Ar.) (pl. fatāwā)  nonbinding religious ruling or opinion from reli-
gious scholar/s on questions related to Islam and Muslims.
fikih, or fiqh (Ar.)  Islamic jurisprudence.
fitna  infatuation, riot, trial, scandal and disgrace. In the context of the link
between the outward appearance of women and fitna, it means that improper
female dressing can provoke sexual temptation which threatens order and
stability.
gamis  a long, full-body covering.
garis taqwa  a specific term used by the Tablīghī Jamāʿat in Indonesia. According
to them, garis taqwa refers to Islamic teachings written in religious texts
(al-Qurʾān and ḥadīth) that must be obeyed strictly as they are, without any
further interpretations.
ḥadīth (pl. aḥādīth)  the narration of words, deeds or approvals of the Prophet
Muḥammad.
ḥaḍramī  a person whose ancestry can be traced to Ḥaḍramawt in Yemen.
ḥabīb (pl. ḥabā’ib)  lit. ‘beloved.’ It refers to a descendant of the Prophet
Muḥammad.
ḥajj, haji (Ind.) pilgrimage.
halal, ḥalāl (Ar.) permissible.
halaqah  study circle or religious meeting.
xvi Glossary
haram, ḥarām (Ar.) impermissible.
hidāya, hidayah (Ind.)  guidance from God.
hijab, ḥijāb (Ar.)  lit. means ‘curtain,’ ‘partition’ or screen.’ It is also used to
refer to a woman’s headscarf.
hijrah, hijra (Ar.)  lit. means emigration. It refers to religious transformation to
be better Muslims.
ʿibāda (pl. ʿibādāt), ibadah (Ind.)  act of devotion, religious observance, reli-
gious rituals and duties.
ʿiffa  purity, chastity, virtue.
ikhtilāṭ  the mixing of the sexes.
īmān, iman (Ind.) faith.
instant jilbab  sometimes known as instant kerudung (kerudung instan). It is an
already shaped headpiece with elastic that can be directly put on without the
need for pins.
isbal, isbāl (Ar.)  wearing trousers below the ankles. Non-isbal trousers are also
known as celana cingkrang or celana ngatung.
Islamism  a political or social movement emphasising that Islam covers guid-
ance to all areas of life including private or individual and public or social
(politics).
istiqāma  committed or being consistent.
jāhiliyya  the times or condition of ignorance. It is often used to designate the
pre-Islamic period.
jama’ah/jamaah/jemaah, jamāʿat (Ar.) congregation.
jihad, jihād (Ar.)  struggle or religious war. Therefore, the struggle is both
against weaknesses in oneself (jihad al-nafs/self-improvement) or in the
larger society (lesser jihad/religious war).
jilbab  tight veil.
jodoh  a marriage partner.
jubah/jubbah  an ankle-length garment. This term in Indonesia is used to denote
both men and women’s outfits. Women’s jubah, however, usually refers to a
head-to-toe wrap.
kafā’a  the criteria for equality between spouses.
kaffah, kaffa (Ar.) total.
kain  unstitched length of fabric wrapped around the lower half of the wearer’s
body.
kajian  Islamic study lesson.
kampung village.
kebaya  bodice cut to follow the contours of the body.
keluarga sakinah  harmonious family.
kerudung  loose veil.
kesadaran awareness, menyadari means becoming aware.
ketaatan obedience.
khalwat  being alone with a male stranger or illicit close proximity between
genders.
khimār  veil that covers the head and extends over the torso.
 Glossary  xvii
khitba  the proposal of marriage.
khurūj, khuruj (Ind.)  for Tablīghī, khurūj refers to going out of one’s own
neighbourhood to proselytise. Among some Salafi groups, khurūj can refer to
rebellion against a legitimate ruler.
kitab kuning  yellow books refer to the classical Arabic texts.
kyai  head of the pesantren or classically educated Muslim scholar.
ladang pahala  field of reward.
liḥya  (long) beards.
ma’had, maʿhad (Ar.)  boarding school. In Indonesia, some pesantren prefer to
use the term ma’had rather than pesantren or pondok.
maʿṣiya  disobedience to God, including an immoral act.
madhhab (pl. madhāhib)  school of Islamic law.
maḥram  non-marriageable male kin. It refers to members of one’s close rela-
tives with whom marriage would be considered haram (impermissible) or a
state of consanguinity precluding marriage.
majelis taklim  a council or a meeting place for learning Islam of Islamic study
group. It is also spelled majelis ta’lim, majlis taklim and majlis ta’lim.
makrūh  reprehensible or not recommended.
malu  shy, shame or embarrassment.
manhaj  lit. a methodology that refers to the way of life of the early Muslims. It
also refers to guidance and path in religious life.
marhalah, marḥala (Ar.)  levels of apprenticeship.
al-maṣlaḥa al-ʿāmma  common good.
mastura, mastūra (Ar.)  lit. means something being covered. Among Tablīghīs,
mastura is generally a term referring to a woman. Some Tablīghī use it to
refer only to a woman who has performed khurūj.
mastura taʿlīm  religious study group for women within Tablīghī Jamāʿat.
mathnahan co-wife.
mudarris  male religious teacher.
mudarrisa (pl. mudarrisāt)  female religious teacher.
mufti  fatwā givers.
muhadarah, muḥāḍara (Ar.)  religious lectures.
muḥaddith al-ʿaṣr  the traditionalist of the era.
Muhammadiyah  an Indonesian modernist Islamic organisation.
mujāhid, mujahid (Ind.)  a man who performs jihad.
muslimah, muslima (Ar.) (pl. muslimāt)  a Muslim woman.
mustaḥab  also known as faḍīla, favoured.
murabbiyah mentor.
mutarabbiyah disciple.
muṭīʿa  a woman who is ṭāʿa (obedient).
nadwah, nadwa (Ar.) seminar.
naẓar  a meeting between a prospective bride and bridegroom to see each other’s
faces.
ngaji  to learn about Islam, including learn how to read the Qurʾān.
niqab, niqāb (Ar.)  face veil.
xviii Glossary
niṣāb  Tablīghī use it to refer to a time limit or a permanent demand for men (and
women) to perform khurūj.
nuṣra  local help or visiting a group of women who perform khurūj.
pengajian  religious study circle or group.
pesantren  Islamic boarding school, also known as pondok or ma’had.
purdah/purda/parda  a veil, curtain, tapestry. In Indonesia, it is used to refer to
a face veil that not only covers the face but also the eyes of the wearer with a
transparent, thin cloth. It also has its roots in the Persian term, parda.
qadarullāh  God has decided.
qasidah  a type of Indonesian music which originates from an ancient Arabic
word qaṣīda referring to religious poetry accompanied by chanting and
percussion.
rukhṣa  dispensation for leaving Islamic practices or an exception given by
Sharīʿa to Muslims in specific circumstances to remove hardship.
sabar, ṣabr (Ar.) patience.
saleh, ṣāliḥ (Ar.)  pious or a pious man. Kesalehan means piety.
salihah, ṣāliḥa (Ar.)  a pious woman. Anak salihah means a pious daughter.
ṣalāwāt  sending blessings to the Prophet.
santriwati  female students in pesantren.
santun politeness.
sarung (Ind.)  sarong. A stitched tubular garment which is often wrapped
around the waist.
sharaf honour.
sharīʿa  lit. the way of referring to the totality of God’s will. It is often used to
refer to Islamic law and the rituals Muslims practise every day.
sharīfāt (sing. sharīfa)  female descendants of the Prophet Muḥammad.
shuyūkh (sing. shaykh)  distinguished Muslim experts.
sorban  turban or headwear worn by men.
subḥānallāh  lit. God is pure from all faults/all glory be to God.
sufi  one who practises Islamic mysticism. Sufism refers to Islamic mysticism.
sunna  the exemplary ways of life of the Prophet Muḥammad deducted from
aḥādīth.
sunna  (in Islamic jurisprudence) favoured, recommended or virtuous action.
taat,or ṭāʿa (pl. ṭāʿāt) (Ar.) obedient.
ta’aruf, taʿāruf (Ar.)  getting to know each other before marriage without hav-
ing pre-marital relations or a passionate courtship.
taʿlīm  religious study circle.
tabarruj  illicit display or displaying one’s beauty.
tābiʿīn  followers of the Prophet’s companions.
tablīgh  synonymous with daʿwa which refers to spreading the call to Islam.
tajwīd  rules and the art of Qurʾānic recitation.
taqlīd  imitation of past interpretations of religious texts, particularly used in the
discussion of choosing madhhab.
taqwa or takwa, taqwā (Ar.) God-fearing.
tarbiyah, tarbiya (Ar.)  religious training.
 Glossary  xix
tarekat  lit. road or way. In mysticism it refers to a Sufi order.
taṣfiyya  purification.
tawḥīd, tawhid (Ind.)  doctrine that does not allow any associates of God;
monotheism.
ʿulamāʾ (sing. ʿālim), ulama (Ind.)  religious scholars or learned men and
women in religious knowledge.
ʿumra, umrah (Ind.)  minor pilgrimage.
ustādh (pl. asātidh), ustaz (Ind.)  male religious teacher.
ustādha (pl. ustādhāt), ustazah (Ind.)  female religious teacher.
wājib compulsory.
zina, zināʾ (Ar.)  adultery or fornication.
Abbreviations

DDII Dewan Dakwah Islamiyah Indonesia (Indonesian Council for

Islamic Propagation)
DI Darul Islam (Abode of Islam)
FKKA Forum Kegiatan Kemuslimahan Al-Atsari (The Forum of Al-Atsari
Muslim Women’s Activities)
FLP Forum Lingkar Pena (The Pen Circle Forum)
HTI Hizbut Tahrir Indonesia (Indonesian Liberation Party)
ICBB Islamic Centre Bin Baz
IMM Ikatan Mahasiswa Muhammadiyah (League of Muhammadiyah
Students)
JI Jemaah Islamiyah (Islamic Community)
KPPSI Komite Persiapan Penegakan Syari’at Islam (Committee for the
Preparation of Formalisation of Sharīʿa)
LBIA Lembaga Bimbingan Islam Al-Atsary (the Institution of Al-Atsary
Islamic Guidance)
LM Lembaga Muslimah (Women’s Institution)
LIPIA Lembaga Ilmu Pengetahuan Islam dan Bahasa Arab (Institute for
the Study of Islam and Arabic)
MUI Majelis Ulama Indonesia (The Council of Indonesian ʿUlamāʾ)
NGO Non-government organisation
NU Nahdlatul Ulama (The Revival of ʿUlamāʾ)
PK Partai Keadilan (Justice Party)
PKS Partai Keadilan Sejahtera (Prosperous Justice Party)
PM Pemuda Muhammadiyah (Muhammadiyah Youth Activists)
PP Pondok Pesantren (Islamic Boarding School)
SMAIT Sekolah Menengah Atas Islam Terpadu (Integrated Islamic Senior
High School)
UGM Universitas Gadjah Mada (Gadjah Mada University)
UIN Universitas Islam Negeri (State Islamic University)
UNY Universitas Negeri Yogyakarta (Yogyakarta State University)
WI Wahdah Islamiyah (The Unity of Islam)
YPIA Yayasan Pendidikan Islam Al-Atsari (The foundation of Al-Atsari
Islamic Education)


Transcription notes

I use the Macquarie Dictionary as the spelling reference, unless it is part of a

quote. I translate Indonesian and Arabic text except in a few cases where the
words appear frequently, such as cadar and daʿwa. For the words and phrases that
appear in Arabic, I have followed Brill transliteration style. All foreign languages
(Arabic, Indonesian, Persian and Hindi) are italicised, unless they are proper
names, therefore pesantren but Pesantren Sunanul Husna Al-Jaiyah.
The Indonesian spelling of Arabic words is used, especially where it is known
and used by research subjects in this study, such as Muslimah (sing. and pl.
Muslim women) instead of Muslima (sing.) or Muslimāt (pl.). However, when
there are options of spellings for Arabic terms—Indonesian and Arabic spellings
(with Arabic transliteration)—I use the spellings that refer to the way the princi-
pal subjects of this study pronounced the words, such as ʿabāya (Ar.) instead of
abaya (Ind.) and hijab (Ind.), instead of ḥijāb (Ar.).
All the names of the informants have been changed to preserve confidential-
ity, except where they wish to be mentioned and for well-known figures. The
titles that accompany the people’s names are not italicised, such as Ukht, Umm,
Ummu, Shaykh, Ustādh, Ustādha, Bunda, Abuya and Kyai. Indonesian names are
repeated using the most known name. Therefore, Ustādh Abdul Najib Al-Ayyuby
will be repeated as Ustādh Najib instead of Al-Ayyuby.


Introduction

Islam in Indonesia is often labelled as having a ‘smiling face’ with moderate char-
acteristics, yet has repeatedly demonstrated an unfriendly face to the presence of
face-veiled women (cadari). Battling against radicalism and conservatism, the
country has not been friendly towards the cadar (an Indonesian term for the face
veil) and cadari, who hold strict literalist understandings of Islam and are stereo-
typed as subjugated and powerless.
This book was driven by the quest to understand how cadari experience
the practice of covering their bodies, especially their faces, in the light of the
dominant view in popular discourse that deems them to be subservient to and
oppressed by their male relatives and Muslim community leaders. A similar view
circulates in mainstream media, alternative online posts and scholarly literature.
The dominant view is that full-face veiling indicates a lack of women’s agency
while it signals their subordination and oppression under the patriarchal reign of
Islam (Ali 2011; Cromer 1908). Veiled Muslim women are often seen as cyphers,
indexing stark opposition to their Western counterparts. Evelyn Baring (later the
Earl of Cromer), former British Controller-General and Consul-General in Egypt,
for example, highlights the binary oppositions between a veiled Muslim woman
living ‘a life of seclusion’ and the visibility of the face of the European woman in
public (1908, 155). Such binary oppositions rely on an essentialism that is familiar
to us from the orientalist discourse identified by Edward Said (1995) and as such
is not unique to Baring; indeed, it continues to be echoed in contemporary times.
Some popular discourses have retained negative stereotypes of Muslim women
wearing diverse forms of covering—ranging from head coverings and certain
types of modest dress deemed to be Sharīʿa-compliant1 to full coverings of the
body and face, as in this study—including the notion that they are backward,
oppressed and disempowered (Ahmed 1992, 152). Although in some Western
contexts today, the veil or headscarf issue has become part of the wider debate
about multiculturalism and Western ideals, such as secularism, democracy and
liberalism (Scott 2007), there has been a reduction of prejudice against Muslim
women covering their heads in some Muslim minority and Western countries.
This can be seen from the growing presence and acceptance of Muslim women
wearing headscarves. The stereotypes against face-covered women, however,

DOI: 10.4324/9781003246442-1
2  Introduction
remain the centre of attention not only in Western countries but also within
Muslim majority countries.
Similar stereotypes circulate in Indonesia, the largest Muslim country in the
world. This is primarily due to aspects attached to the cadar which do not sit
comfortably with Indonesian moderate Islam and the often-mentioned charac-
teristic of friendly Islam or Islam with a smiling face. Negative stereotypes of
cadari have worsened since the late Suharto years and the fall of the authoritarian
New Order regime in 1998, when the country battled to fight against radical-
ism. Unfortunately, in the public mind, prejudice about cadari is often linked to
various radical movements associated with terrorism. The reproduction of visual
images of face-veiled women by national and international media outlets when
reporting the trials of terrorist suspects has been prominent.
The stereotype was further cemented by the involvement of a cadari called
Putri Munawaroh who was active in protecting wanted terrorists in 2009. Besides
Munawaroh, the presence of several wives at the trials of terrorists or suspected
terrorists who wear the cadar has also justified the government’s surveillance
of cadari. In 2016, the prejudice against cadari and their perceived relationship
with terrorist cells was intensified, particularly due to the emergence of cadari in
terrorist acts in Indonesia. The latest controversy surrounding the cadar occurred
in 2019 and was related to a statement by the then newly appointed Minister of
Religious Affairs, General Fachrul Razi, who was a retired army general. In an
attempt to fight growing radicalism, President Jokowi, re-elected for a second
term, appointed Fachrul Razi. In relation to this, Fachrul Razi issued a contro-
versial statement regarding the discourse and recommendation of banning civil
servants from wearing the cadar and celana cingkrang or non-isbal (Ar. isbāl)
trousers (above ankle-length trousers worn mostly by conservative men) within
government compounds.
Facing growing radicalism in the country and the rise of radical political Islam,
domestic pressures led the government to expel any signs of extremism. The gov-
ernment, through police officers, stigmatised face-veil wearers and determined
that there were links between terrorism and wearing a cadar for women or wear-
ing Muslim dress for men—including non-isbal trousers and having long beards.
Following this development, a number of incidents occurred where both the police
and wider society mistakenly accused Muslim men and women who were wear-
ing clothing which ‘resembled’ terrorist dress (Kompas 23 August 2009). These
stereotypes have led face-veil wearers to be categorised by many Indonesians as
agents who pose a threat to social and national security.
What my research has found is that most of the face-veiled women experience
the practice of face veiling, not as a type of subordination or as part of terrorist
group affiliation, but as part of what they perceive to be an Islamic lifestyle and
within their understanding of what it means to be a true Muslim woman. Contrary
to popular opinion in Indonesia and elsewhere, many women who adopt the cadar
do so of their own volition and take pleasure in disciplining themselves. This book
deals with the disjunction between the sensibilities of the women who are my
research subjects and the views of people outside their social milieu.
 Introduction  3
The main objectives of the study are to understand the life experience of face-
veiled women. As a relational concept, face veiling plays an important role in
the construction of subjectivity. It is, therefore, a doing and a becoming activ-
ity. An individual becomes a subject through his or her experience of the world.
Therefore, subjectivity is continually being constructed through everyday experi-
ences. This can be seen from the way anthropologists have long discussed the
lived subjectivity of their research subjects by emphasising the fluidity, incon-
sistency and temporality of subjecthood, and the intersections between personal
subjectivities and social and cultural formations (Ewing 1990, 251; Moore 2007,
44; Ortner 2005, 31). By listening to the voices and perspectives of my research
subjects, this book analyses how these women articulate their religious obser-
vance and their everyday life. Following Pnina Werbner, the everyday here refers
to ‘a constantly changing way of being in the world’ (2018, 80). It is also a lens
through which we can better understand how the face-veiled women in this study
feel about the Indonesian majority that does not necessarily share their views. My
aim is to expand understandings of how the practice and embodiment of Islam in
Indonesia continue to shift over time, and how women are key actors in this pro-
cess. Finally, this book seeks to reveal how the wearers of the cadar are important
figures in the continuous process of remaking Indonesian Islam.
This book tries to make sense of the significance of being true Muslimah
(Ar. pl. Muslimāt or Muslim women) and being part of a religious group in the life
of face-veiled women.2 This is done by not only focusing on their religious activi-
ties but also on their daily life experiences, passions and emotions. The research
focuses on Muslim women with a very particular conception of what being a
true Muslimah entails in terms of embodied comportment and commitment. This
study does not limit me to solely focus on the ritual spheres of these women, I also
explore the social fields within their lives. It covers their everyday lives outside
their ritual spheres.
While I try to uncover what lies behind the face veil, as it were, I am also
cautious not to romanticise the Muslim women involved in this study, many of
whom face multiple challenges in their lives. Rather, the book seeks to present
the everyday lives of these women, with all their complexities. As such their
passions, needs and fears are entwined with their ability to negotiate with their
‘heavenly’ aspirations, to be true Muslimah blessed by God (yang Allah ridai).
Unsurprisingly perhaps, throughout the book, we witness the anxiety experienced
by some women in their struggles to express themselves in less religious tones.
This can be seen when some try to reconcile their interests in mundane aspects of
life, like fashion design and their religious sensibilities. Carla Jones captures this
dilemma in her writing on veiling in Indonesia. She observes, ‘Fashionably pious
women in Indonesia have become figures of concern, suspected of being more
invested in the material and hence superficial world than their virtuous appear-
ances suggest’ (2010, 617). Jones’s argument also reflects the opinion of some
face-veiled women who are opposed to the temptation to become fashionable.
They view ‘fashionable’ women as overly invested in their appearance, which, for
them, contradicts the ‘true’ essence of wearing the face veil.
4  Introduction
This book focuses particularly on face-veiled women who belong to two
Islamic revivalist movements, Tablīghī Jamāʿat and Salafism, that try to revive
the role of religion in one’s life and society and reaffirm Islamic heritage and
ethos. The women’s degrees of attachment to the two movements are varied, as
can be seen throughout the discussions in this book. While women who belong
to these conservative movements are relatively far from mainstream Islam in
Indonesia, they do offer key insights into debates around what constitutes Islam
and piety. Throughout this book, the expressions of Muslimness from face-veiled
women belonging to Tablīghī Jamāʿat and Salafism emphasise that there is no
single way of being a good Muslim woman. This aligns with the notion that Islam
is not monolithic. At the level of ʿaqīda (essentials of the faith), Muslims have
the same beliefs.

Contextualising Islamic revivalist movements in Indonesia

As the world’s largest Muslim majority country, Islam in Indonesia, which is
adhered to by more than 86 per cent of more than 276 million inhabitants, is often
regarded as a ‘friendly’ form of Islam: Islam with a smiling face (van Bruinessen
2011). The ‘smiling face’ can be seen in its characteristics: moderate, tolerant,
accommodative and able to maintain harmonious relations with non-Muslim
minorities; and its rejection of an Islamic state (Azra 2006; van Bruinessen 2011).
This feature of Islam is significantly different to that of Islam in the Middle
East, which is considered to be more rigid. This ‘benign’ or friendly form of
Islam is adhered to by Indonesian mainstream Muslims who are mostly affili-
ated with the two biggest mass organisations in Indonesia, Nahdlatul Ulama (NU)
and Muhammadiyah. NU is commonly categorised as ‘traditionalist’—that is, it
emphasises the importance of following venerated ʿulamāʾ (religious scholars)
in practising Islam. NU has long been known as more tolerant of cultural expres-
sions of Islam. By contrast, Muhammadiyah is seen as ‘modernist’ or ‘reformist’;
that is, it calls for purifying Islam and thus tends to be more scripturalist than
NU. However, throughout their development, both organisations accommodate a
range of views within their camps.
Since the end of the New Order (1966–98), some scholars have questioned
the ‘smiling face’ view of Islam (van Bruinessen 2011; 2013). This is in large
part due to the upsurge in inter-religious conflicts, such as those between
Christians and Muslims in the Moluccas in 1999; the violence against eth-
nic minorities and other violent activities, as in the case of the attacks against
Ahmadiyyah that have occurred since the 2000s. In addition, there has been
an evident increasing religio-political polarisation between the pluralist camp
and certain Islamist groups, especially since 2014, including the 2014 and 2019
presidential election campaigns (Mietzner 2020, 235). The conservative inter-
pretations of Islam from some mainstream Islamic quarters have also reached
new heights.3 This is evidenced in the controversial fatwa (Ar. fatwā or non-
binding religious ruling or opinion from religious scholar/s) released by Majelis
Ulama Indonesia (MUI, The Council of Indonesian ʿUlamāʾ) in 2005 opposing
 Introduction  5
religious pluralism, liberalism and secularism. The anti-Ahok Islamist mobili-
sations in 2016 and 2017 are also a manifestation of growing Islamist activism
in the country (Warburton and Aspinall 2019, 259). Together these phenomena
signal a conservative turn that is at odds with what many view as the friendly
face of Indonesian Islam.
It comes as no surprise that the country has continuously witnessed a grad-
ual increase in devoutness among everyday Muslims. Although the number of
Indonesian Muslims who join revivalist and conservative movements is small,
there is a climate of growing pietism in Indonesia which cannot simply be
understood as leading to a growing radicalisation in the country. This is illus-
trated from the increasing trend of hijrah (religious transformation to be better
Muslims), especially among young people trying to return to their religion (Nisa
2019, 445; 2021, 234). We see an increasing number of Muslim women wear-
ing the veil and adopting the latest trends in Muslim fashion; or young Muslims
who perform ʿumra (a lesser or minor pilgrimage), ḥajj (pilgrimage) and attend
Islamic study groups. These phenomena should be understood as an increase in
the varieties of expressions of Muslimness or Indonesian ‘Muslim publics,’ to
borrow Armando Salvatore and Dale Eickelman’s term (2004, xi), rather than a
growing radicalisation.
Martin van Bruinessen lists the various terms used to denote the currents of
Islam in Indonesia, such as ‘liberal,’ ‘progressive’ or ‘emancipatory Islam,’ ‘con-
servative,’ ‘fundamentalist’ and ‘Islamist’ (2011, 6–7). There is contestation and
tension between followers of these various factions. During my research with
university students, severe tension can be seen among followers of groups from
diverse currents, especially the Jama’ah Tarbiyah,4 Hizbut Tahrir Indonesia (HTI,
the Indonesian Party of Liberation)5 and Salafi groups.
Two movements, Tablīghī Jamāʿat and Salafism, are the main niches for
cadari and form small but visible segments of the Islamic revivalist movement
(see Figure I.1). Some new understandings of Islamic teachings, which are sig-
nificantly different to the model of Islam rooted in Indonesian history, have
been promoted by these two movements. Although the Tablīghī Jamāʿat and
Salafi movements are very different, they share some quintessential character-
istics. They can both be regarded as purist or revivalist movements,6 since they
strive to ‘purify’ Islam through an emphasis on returning to its pristine form as
practised by the Prophet and his companions. Both movements endeavour to
emulate al-salaf al-ṣāliḥ (the pious predecessors). It is noteworthy that the effort
to purify Islam is not new in the Indonesian context. This, for instance, can be
seen from the nineteenth-century Padri movement in West Sumatra. Tablīghī
Jamāʿat and Salafi movements emphasise the same fundamental elements of
belief, namely tawḥīd (the doctrine of the unification or indivisible oneness of
God). One of the main essential differences of Salafism compared to Tablīghī
Jamāʿat is that of intolerance (Esposito 2010, 77). Tablīghī Jamāʿat emphasises
tolerance and rejects the use of violence. The tension between these movements
is evidenced in some publications made by diverse Salafi ʿulamāʾ (Abdat 2007;
ʿAbdullāh 1997).
6  Introduction

Figure I.1  Cadari in their black cadar at a Tablīghī pesantren in Tangerang. Source.
Courtesy of © Mala Hayati, 23 June 2008. Used with permission. (Note: Mala
Hayati is a professional photographer who had a special exhibition about veil
culture in Indonesia featuring images of face-veiled students from my field site.
I helped Mala with this veil project and, with the permission of my research
subjects, invited her to the field site.)

Who are the cadari?

In contemporary Indonesia the practice of wearing the cadar is confined to women
(see Figure I.2), although there are occasions when men also cover their faces.
For example, in public demonstrations or in particular workplaces, a few men
may cover their faces with a turban or sorban (Ind. headwear worn by men) (see
Rasmussen’s study on Tuareg men 2003). Apart from being used occasionally by
men, the cadar is not used by women of other religions in Indonesia. In contrast,
in some parts of India, Hindu women also wear a face veil (Papanek 1973, 302).
The main subjects of this book are face-veiled women who are university stu-
dents and graduates, including cadari mostly in their forties and fifties, or students
at pesantren (Islamic boarding schools). The first group (university students and
graduates) were ardent wearers and staunch cadres within their movements. The
women who began to wear the cadar at university generally were committed to
having the cadar form part of their self-transformation. Throughout this book,
I use the term ‘passionate cadari’ for women who wear the cadar of their own
volition. This term distinguishes them from my other principal research subjects,
school-aged girls in pesantren where the cadar is the norm. The total number of
participants in this study was 179 cadari and non-cadari, including men within
and outside the cadari communities. While wearing of the cadar is a growing
phenomenon in Indonesia, it is not possible to estimate its frequency of use.
The Salafi and Tablīghī Jamāʿat movements do not keep official records of their
followers.
 Introduction  7

Figure I.2  Romaini at a special photoshoot with a friend. Source. Photographed by

Romaini’s friend, Jakarta, 2 April 2008. Used with permission.

Ways of being face-veiled Muslim women in Indonesia

Diverse theoretical concepts are brought together in this study to analyse
ways of being Muslim in Indonesia. The book focuses on the practice and
embodiment of Islam by face-veiled women, many of whom have been posi-
tioned by media and people outside their religious circles as ‘Other.’ Yet, as
I show, the ‘Othering’ of these women is hardly unified in either its form or
content. In fact, this is illustrated by the way ‘outsiders,’ including media
outlets, view face-veiled women by emphasising the aspects of difference in
their lives. For example, those wearing strange clothing (the face veil) are said
to belong to certain conservative and radical religious communities, featur-
ing different lifestyles from mainstream Muslims in Indonesia. This includes
strict gender segregation between men and women. When applying the lens
of Said’s Orientalism (1995), it becomes clear that the concept of ‘Other’ in
the lives of these face-veiled women arises from the reduction (by outsiders),
of their life experiences, needs and wants, to a flat representation devoid of
substance. The use of an orientalist framework seems particularly apt in the
case of face-veiled women, whose media representations cast them as ‘fanati-
cal’ or subject to a curious, even exotic gaze. Malek Alloula, in his critique of
French postcards featuring the image of Algerian face-veiled women, argues
that these postcards allow Western audiences to have access to the exotic
‘Other’—the victims of religious fanaticism—which serve as a justification of
colonial presence (1986, 10–11). In this book, we can see how this concept of
‘Other’ is particularly related to the way the image of the people being defined
is constructed by outsiders.
8  Introduction
In this study, some theoretical concepts used as important analytical tools
include agency and piety, and the techniques of the body and taat (Ar. ṭāʿa or
obedience).

Agency and piety

In the field of study on women and religion, especially women in revivalist and
fundamentalist movements, scholars have long focused on the why question
(Bracke 2003; Deeb 2006). Why do women get involved in religious movements
which sit uncomfortably with the secular liberal framework? Some scholars have
approached this complexity by studying the interplay between religion, piety and
women’s agency (Abu-Lughod 2002; Deeb 2006; Mahmood 2005). In following
this trajectory, I can unpack the complexity of understandings that have evolved
from the experiences of face-veiled women, their piety and their engagement in
diverse transnational revivalist movements in Indonesia. The debates about pious
female subjects in a range of religious traditions, including pious Muslim women
wearing diverse forms of coverings, veils or face veils, often suggest that they
are gripped by a ‘false consciousness’ of sorts (Bracke 2014, 36). Such lines of
arguments, rob women of their agency, as they imply that they are led by ideol-
ogy or controlled by other sources. In her study of the Western framing of saving
Muslim women, which particularly gained momentum in the post-9/11 era, Lila
Abu-Lughod observes,

Veiling must not be focused with, or made to stand for, lack of agency … As
I described in Veiled Sentiments, my first ethnography of a Bedouin commu-
nity in Egypt in the late 1970s and 1980s, for women I knew there, pulling the
black head cloth over the face in front of older, respected men was considered
a voluntary act.
(2013, 39)

The United States (US) government and media often represent Afghan women
wearing the burqa (face veil) as gendered slaves who need to be ‘saved’ by the
West. Alternatively, Kevin Ayotte and Mary Husain (2005) argue that the oppres-
sion of women cannot be measured exclusively by isolated signifiers such as the
burqa. Indeed, Afghan feminists also used the burqa as part of their political
strategy for women’s empowerment.
Likewise, Saba Mahmood, in her ground-breaking work Politics of Piety
(2005), associates agency with observance. Her study is about the urban wom-
en’s mosque movement in Cairo, Egypt, and is concerned with the cultivation of
ideal virtuous selves. Mahmood (2003; 2005) argues that the women’s mosque
movement is part of a larger progression within the Islamic revival tendency that
emerged approximately twenty-five years ago in Egypt, with the intention of pro-
ducing a devout Egyptian society. In her critique of Western liberal feminists,
Mahmood (2005) proposes that agency can be assessed outside the binary model
of resistance and subordination, emancipation and oppression.7 She points out
 Introduction  9
that agency can be understood: ‘(a) in terms of the capacities and skills required
to undertake particular kinds of moral actions; and (b) as ineluctably bound up
with the historically and culturally specific disciplines through which a subject is
formed’ (29).
Mahmood questions the poststructuralist feminist assumption that positions
agency within the concept of resistance to social norms.8 She argues that agency
should be understood, ‘not as a synonym for resistance to relations of domina-
tion, but as a capacity for action that historically specific relations of subordina-
tion enable and create’ (2001, 203). According to Mahmood, rather than casting
agency solely in the idiom of resistance, women’s acts can be understood in ‘the
multiple ways in which one inhabits norms [emphasis in original]’ (2005, 15).
Such consideration resonates with my study of face-veiled women in Indonesia.
Building on Mahmood’s Politics of Piety, Pnina Werbner introduces a missing
element in Mahmood’s discussion of personal piety. Through her reanalysis and
deconstruction of Mahmood’s thesis, Werbner contends that ‘women in the daʿwa
movement are also successfully challenging (“resisting”) the status quo of (male)
Islamic scholarship and authority’ (2018, 87). Werbner’s argument is imperative
in analysing the everyday life of face-veiled women in this study. Some face-
veiled women can be regarded as engaging in resistance, but not to the conserva-
tive religious structures which are often seen by feminist movements as the source
of women’s oppression or to ‘hegemonic male authoritative Islamic knowledge
and practice,’ as Werbner mentioned (2018, 84). Rather, they can be regarded
as engaging in resistance due to the persistent stereotypes and prejudices against
them, while at the same time they inhabit the religious norms seen by feminists as
dominating and controlling their lives. Thus, their resistance cannot be classified
as Kelsy Burke’s resistance agency signifying women’s efforts to challenge male-
dominated institutions (2012, 124).9
Orit Avishai’s work (2008) on the agency of Israeli Orthodox Jewish women
is interesting. Having been inspired by Mahmood’s argument that agency is also
present through docility, Avishai emphasises that agency for religious women
refers to their religious conduct or ‘doing’ of religion (2008). The agency of
face-veiled women can be regarded as the same type of agency demonstrated by
women in Avishai’s (2008) work, which is a compliant agency, following Burke’s
term (2012, 127–28). The compliant agency’s approach focuses on diverse ways
women choose to conform to religious teachings.
One important work on piety and agency in Indonesia is offered by cultural
sociologist Rachel Rinaldo. Extending from Mahmood’s work, Rinaldo argues
that ‘pious agency’ can take various forms. In her study of Muslim women activ-
ists in Indonesia, she mentioned two forms of pious agency: pious critical agency
referring to ‘the capacity to engage critically and publicly with interpretations of
religious texts,’ and pious activating agency which is ‘the capacity to use interpre-
tations of religious texts to mobilize in the public sphere’ (2013, 19). The agentive
capacity of face-veiled women in this study mirrors the second type of agency in
Rinaldo’s analysis because most of the cadari do not engage in the reinterpreta-
tion of religious texts.
10  Introduction
The agency of pious face-veiled women in this study, that I call taat (obedient)
agency, refers to the capacity of these women to take action and take pleasure in
becoming pious docile subjects. Face-veiled women in this study understand that
their submission to God and God’s path requires them to engage in certain tech-
niques of self, including docility. The embodiment of certain techniques of self
is necessary for these women to experience the world through the corridor of the
established religious teachings they uphold.
Besides taat agency, the notion of piety is also at the centre of this book. This
concept is capacious enough to accommodate multiple meanings. The common
understanding of piety refers to a virtue which usually relates to religiosity, reli-
gious devotion and spirituality. The most basic reference to piety for the major-
ity of Sunni Muslims in Indonesia is the observance of the five pillars of Islam
(arkān al-Islām), namely the profession of faith that there is no God but Allah
and Muḥammad is the messenger of God, prayer, almsgiving, the Ramadhan fast
and the pilgrimage to Mecca (ḥajj). Joy Tong and Bryan Turner define religion
as acts of piety (2008). In Indonesia, the Islamic reawakening since 1970 has
boosted diverse expressions of everyday pious conduct (Fealy and White 2008).
Therefore, what piety means in Indonesia can be diverse.
The notion of piety in this study is related to the focus of the everyday
life of these face-veiled women, namely the ‘Islam’ that they perceive as true
Islam (on their everyday activities, see Figure I.3).10 The focus on piety in this
context refers to the way in which Islam matters in the lives of face-veiled
women who come from different religious groups. It is also related to their
understanding of what it means to live as true Muslims who are committed
to the teachings of their religion. Piety in this regard refers to life guided by
belief. Therefore, their piety refers to both private and public piety. The com-
mitment of the face-veiled women in this study is analysed through the concept

Figure I.3  A cadari cooking in her house—as part of her everyday activities. Source.
Photo credit, the author, 24 January 2010. Used with permission of the subject.
 Introduction  11
of ‘public piety’ developed by Lara Deeb, which signifies the importance of
activities contributing to the ‘common good’ (2009a, 249; on ‘active piety’
see Bayat 2007). In her discussion of women’s public participation, Deeb also
warns against the danger of ‘over-privileging individualized practices of piety
and divorcing them from their social, economic and political contexts’ (2009b,
113–14). The activities of some face-veiled women in this study exhibit public
piety, in the sense that they demonstrate endless efforts to be true Muslimah.
This involves visible virtuous practices which can contribute to the common
good (al-maṣlaḥa al-ʿāmma), so that the women internalise ‘a total obedience’
(ketaatan yang kaffah) towards God.
It is noteworthy, however, that although outsiders might assess that the con-
cept of piety is at the heart of their lives, the majority of face-veiled women in
this study do not use the term piety, which is often translated in Indonesian as
kesalehan to designate their activities. Instead, they often refer to their activities
as part of their commitment to their religion. The concept that they often mention
is taat. Therefore, throughout the book, the concept of taat often appears in rela-
tion to the manifestation of piety. Although these face-veiled women interpret
their life experiences through the language of obedience, it does not mean that
their religious journeys have been smooth or linear. Samuli Schielke (2009, 7)
argues, ‘Piety does not proceed along a unilinear path. It is an ambivalent practice
that is often related to specific periods in life, especially those marked by crises.’
There are some consequences of their attempts to be true Muslimah. The process
of negotiating the transformation (hijrah) occurs in many places in their lives and
can be seen throughout this book. Transformation is related to the life crises with
which each woman is faced.

The techniques of the body and taat

The concept of the techniques of the body put forward by Marcel Mauss (1979)
is one of the important keys to understanding the life of the face-veiled women
in this study. Mauss’s concept is used to analyse and describe the ways in which
humans use and train their bodies to embody the values and norms they uphold.
The practices of women wearing proper Muslim dress can be considered to be
an example of ‘body techniques.’ Mauss’s definition of habitus emphasises the
important element of intelligence and learning processes, and for him it should
not be associated with simple behaviour. Mauss notes, ‘These “habits” do not
vary just with individuals and their imitations; they vary especially between soci-
eties, educations, proprieties and fashions, prestige. In them we should see the
techniques at work of collective and individual practical reason rather than, in the
ordinary way, merely the soul and its repetitive faculties’ (1979, 101). His defini-
tion also signifies the important position of Aristotle’s influence. Pierre Bourdieu
further developed Mauss’s concept of habitus. While Mauss focuses on the peda-
gogical aspects of habitus, Bourdieu argues that habitus is ‘embodied history,
internalized as a second nature and so forgotten as history.’ It is a ‘spontaneity
without consciousness or will’ (1990, 56).
12  Introduction
Mahmood (2005) also follows the Aristotelian formulation of habitus which
resonates with Mauss’s understanding rather than that of Bourdieu. The formula-
tion of Aristotelian habitus involves the active capacity of transforming oneself
through bodily practice. It is a ‘conscious training in the habituation of virtues’
(Mahmood 2005, 139). This understanding aligns with Mauss’s definition of
habitus that signifies the training of the body. Aristotle earlier also argued that
inward dispositions and moral cultivation are produced through deliberate human
practice and discipline (2000, 14).
For Bourdieu, the notion of habitus is ‘necessity internalized and converted
into a disposition that generates meaningful practices and meaning-given percep-
tions’ (1984, 170). A habitus is embodied in nature, whereby varied practices, or
forms of ‘embodied competence’ (Bourdieu 1977, 81), are at play, as in certain
modes of behaviour, manners, sets of acquired tastes, appearance and style—all
of which constitute social capital and render life meaningful. Bourdieu’s con-
cept of habitus is also embedded in social history, to the extent that the habitus
of some face-veiled women—much like those wearing traditional face veils in
Indonesia—is inherited history articulated through the interplay of wider struc-
tures and the individual.
The varied pious habitus in the country can be seen in adoptions of women’s
covering. This aligns with the way Muslims in Indonesia perceive what they con-
sider to be proper Muslim dress which is a dynamic arena of choice and fashion.
The meaning attached to diverse types of women’s head coverings has been a
contested and evolving issue. Initially, women wore the kerudung (loose veil),
which has been popular since the 1920s (White 2006, 327–29). In the 1970s and
1980s, a stricter version of head covering known as the jilbab (tight veil) started
to be worn by students at universities and became the most salient symbol of
their struggle to support an Islamic revival in Indonesia (Brenner 1996, 673; see
also Amrullah 2008, 22; Robinson 2009, 172). The terms jilbab and kerudung
are often used interchangeably, but kerudung usually refers to a long transparent
shawl which loosely covers a woman’s hair and jilbab is a larger cloth pinned
around the face and which may cover a woman’s upper body except for her face
and hands.
The techniques of the body and habitus are useful for unpacking the impor-
tance of the notion of taat. Taat or ketaatan is an Islamic concept that refers to an
act of obedience to God and the Prophet Muḥammad. The Qurʾān often uses the
verb aṭāʿa, which means ‘to obey,’ to refer to the characteristic of pious believ-
ers. The Qurʾān (Q.S.) āl ʿImrān [3]:132, for example, says, ‘And pay heed unto
God and the Apostle, so that you might be graced with mercy.’11 Taat is the key
concept in the life of passionate, face-veiled women, particularly in their distinc-
tive subcultures. They believe that wearing a face veil is part of the core tenet
of taat because it is mentioned in the Qurʾān. In the work of Mahmood (2005),
the mosques’ participants in Egypt used the term taqwā (Ind. taqwa) (fearful for
God), not taat, which she translated as piety referring to ‘inward orientation or
disposition and a manner of particular conduct’ (4 n. 7). Although in Indonesia the
 Introduction  13
term taqwa is also commonly used, in the context of obedience, devoutness and
faithful observance among face-veiled women in this study, the term taat is more
prevalent. Taat appears as the result of strong faith (īmān) in the true path of Islam
and of strong intention (niyya) to surrender to the rules of God in order to abandon
sin. It stems from the believer’s ḥubb (love) and khashya (fear with awe) towards
God, especially God’s retribution. Īmān (lit. faith or belief) is the main aspect
that distinguishes between a believer and a non-believer. The connection between
īmān and taat can be seen clearly in the Qurʾānic verses, including Q.S. An-Nisāʾ
[4]:59. This verse signifies that all believers (muʾminūn) must be obedient to God
and the Prophet Muḥammad. Therefore, the word taat encompasses dispositions
related to taqwa (devoutness, God-fearing) that for face-veiled women can lead
believers to embrace the true Islam.
One of the key insights in my study that can distinguish it from Mahmood’s work
is that Mahmood focuses on the way Egyptian women are pursuing pious lives while
face-veiled women in this study are pursuing obedient lives that are embedded in
the concept of taat. This concept suggests something slightly different to that of
Mahmood’s concept of piety. Piety, as in the work of Mahmood (2005) and Charles
Hirschkind (2001), is still a highly individuated, self-focused concept. In contrast,
obedience, in the life of the face-veiled women, refers to a focus on seeing oneself
through the gaze of an authority. Such gaze itself can be varied (as in the women
in this study), such as ustādh (pl. asātidh, male teachers) and ustādha (pl. ustādhāt,
female teachers), senior students, seniors and other cadres, or perhaps more accu-
rately for them, Allah (God). Therefore, the focus of these women is less on piety per
se than on correctness and obeying the rules of Islam as they understand them. This
is much more social, interactive and sometimes can be a less self-focused pursuit.

Engaging the field

It was early morning when I visited a cadari community around the Jamilurrahman
complex. This was one of the places that I chose to conduct fieldwork because of
the attachment of many cadari in Yogyakarta to Jamilurrahman’s institutions and
networks. As with other researchers embarking on the journey, I was quite nerv-
ous. It was pouring with rain. All I could see were hectares of rice fields with no
signs of housing. Adding to my nervousness, the taxi driver repeatedly asked
me whether I had the correct address. After travelling down a long and bumpy
road, we finally reached the housing complex. When I exited the taxi and waded
through shallow mud, I could faintly see people in a mosque—some men and
face-veiled toddlers. A young man wearing a jubah (an ankle-length garment)
approached me and kindly helped me meet a cadari.
I began my first day there by visiting Ummu Hanifah (pseudonym). When I
was in front of her house, I could see her husband had a guest. I said ‘As-salāmu
ʿalaykum’ [Islamic greeting, literally means ‘peace be upon you’] and her hus-
band called her. She came out from the back of her house and asked me to enter
from the rear. Her house was a typical village house, very simple with an earth
14  Introduction
floor in the kitchen. Ummu Hanifah was very warm. Since I had never met her
before she asked my permission to take off her cadar. She said, ‘But please do not
be surprised, okay Ukht [Sister]. If you see a very pretty face [while giggling].’
As she removed her cadar, her oval-shaped face and wide smile made me feel
welcome and comfortable, despite it being the first time that we had met. We both
talked and laughed. In the afternoon, I asked permission to talk to her husband.
She agreed, but she asked me if I was okay speaking to him from behind the cur-
tain. I then spoke to him with Ummu Hanifah sitting next to me. We talked for
nearly two hours and stopped when we heard the call for prayer from the mosque.
My first day at the field site in Yogyakarta gave me a glimpse of the pious or
taat habitus of the cadari and their community. This was quite different to various
other Islamic habitus in Indonesia, which place emphasis on accepting diverse
expressions of moderate, mostly lenient Islam borne from the spirit of acknowl-
edging diverse interpretations of Islamic texts.
This book is based on long-term fieldwork from 2008 to 2010, with additional
stints conducted from 2011 to 2019. This enabled me to maintain strong rela-
tionships with the field site and its people as well as enhance my understanding
of social and cultural values, including any changes in the political climate. I
focused my research on three urban areas: Jakarta, Makassar (South Sulawesi)
and Yogyakarta. However, during my fieldwork I found that it was difficult to
focus solely on these three sites, because the women have affiliations with insti-
tutions which are scattered all over Indonesia, such as Banten, Magetan (East
Java), Bekasi and Tasikmalaya (West Java), and Solo (Central Java). Regarding
urban fieldwork, Deeb points out that ‘one of the challenges is that the research
population is often defined in non-geographical and rather imprecise ways’ (2006,
7). Such was the case for my fieldwork, where it was hard to set firm boundaries
around my field sites. This is partly because the majority of my participants had
attachments to groups of like-minded faithful adherents which were more impor-
tant than being bound to a locality. Adapting the insight of Benedict Anderson
(1983), the imagined community shared by these women rested principally on
their attachment to a shared religious ideology.
The main reason to choose my study groups in large cities is that the majority
of the cadar constituency, especially the most ardent supporters of this form of
dress, are university students who live there. Furthermore, the activities of cadari
who attach themselves to the Tablīghī Jamāʿat and Salafi movements can be
accessed easily in these cities. Jakarta, in particular, was selected because it is the
location of the headquarters of Tablīghī Jamāʿat and Lembaga Ilmu Pengetahuan
Islam dan Bahasa Arab (Institute for the Study of Islam and Arabic, LIPIA (the
Saudi Arabian-funded university) where some cadari continue their higher
degrees.12 In addition, the headquarters of the Niqab Squad is also in Jakarta. The
decision to choose Yogyakarta was due to its reputation as the city of students
(kota pelajar) where, with the support of students, diverse Islamic groups have a
strong foothold. Similarly, Makassar was chosen due to the presence of the larg-
est Makassar-based Salafi mass organisation, Wahdah Islamiyah; the face veil is
widely adopted among its followers.
 Introduction  15
Building rapport within an exclusively face-veiled milieu
Conducting the research was quite demanding, especially because the cadari and
the movements to which they are attached are suspicious of outsiders. I was pre-
pared for this barrier as my previous research was conducted amongst face-veiled
women in the Netherlands. I found that face-veiled women were willing to talk
only to researchers whom they trusted. Conducting the research in Indonesia was
equally problematic, since I was attached to an overseas university, and could not
be trusted. Their first set of questions to me was: ‘What is this research for? Are
you working for a foreign government or the Indonesian government? Do you
have any attachments to NGOs (non-government organisations) or social move-
ments?’ Of course, such suspicion amongst marginalised people is familiar to
many researchers (see Abu-Lughod in her work with Bedouins, 1986). In my
case, the fact that media coverage in Indonesia often represented cadari as being
part of terrorist networks, while journalists are said to pressure some women to
obtain information on terrorist attacks in Indonesia, has also played a significant
role in creating hostile feelings towards outsiders.
While my interlocutors were initially suspicious, regarding my attachment
to an Australian university, such fears were soon eased. The fact that I am a
veiled Muslim who graduated from the world’s leading Sunni Islamic univer-
sity, Al-Azhar University, in Egypt gave me a degree of social capital. This was
the best antidote to overcome their suspicions. There were times that the women
coaxed me to ‘convert’ from wearing a veil to wearing a face veil. Those who
tried hard to ‘convert’ me were novices who had great enthusiasm in demonstrat-
ing their ‘active piety’ (Bayat 2007), rather than the cadres who had known me
and my background over many years. Throughout my fieldwork, I found myself
employing certain strategies to try and generate a comfortable environment and
explain my ‘native’ status as best I could (Narayan 1993). So, I often found myself
explaining that although I was Muslim, I had to hear and learn more from them
as the way I practised Islam was quite different from them. I tried to focus on
building good rapport by emphasising our shared concerns but was equally happy
discussing my own different background.
The above-mentioned situation was often encountered during my engagement
with Salafi women. In contrast, working with the Tablīghī Jamāʿat proved easier
because they are more tolerant towards Muslims from outside of their movement.
Some of them asked probing questions about my research, but as I explained the
reasons for my interests their suspicions were allayed, and they soon considered
me to be part of their wider family. For example, one day, a female Tablīghī,
daughter of the Chairman of the Indonesian Presidential Advisory Council, who
owned a luxurious house at which their weekly taʿlīm (religious study circles) was
hosted and who had just returned from conducting ʿumra, distributed gifts to those
she considered close contacts (on Salafi taʿlīm see Figure I.4). Unexpectedly, I
received a gift from her. She even asked me to choose a gift that I preferred.
In anthropological inquiry, such expressions of generosity and gift-giving are
often afforded to close kin, to demonstrate strong ties that connect and bind
16  Introduction

Figure I.4  Some Salafi cadari waiting for their kajian or taʿlīm (Islamic study gathering)
to begin. Source. Photo credit, author, 29 October 2017. Used with permission
of the subjects.

people together. Gift-giving is, thus, an important vehicle of social exchange that
strengthens social bonds (Malinowski 1984; Mauss 2016; Sahlins 1972). After
successfully building good rapport during my long-term research, I was fortunate
that some Salafi key research subjects also often gave gifts to me or my daughter
who sometimes accompanied me during my research.
Throughout my research, I employed qualitative methods of data gathering.
Participant observation—which has long been considered the method that distin-
guishes anthropological research from the research of other academic disciplines,
or those that simply rely on interviews and group discussions—was especially
important. The choice of this methodology is designed to enable women to speak
for themselves. I also understand that discussions during fieldwork are mediated
by researchers’ points of view, their presence and what they choose to highlight.
As the study was progressing, I had to employ a combination of offline and
online research techniques. One of the salient characteristics of Salafi women
that distinguishes them from the Tablīghī Jamāʿat is their prominent activity in
cyberspace. During offline interviews, they often asked me to visit their websites
to learn more about their groups and their communities. I then added computer-
mediated communication methods to my existing repertoire to provide a wider
qualitative research approach. Since 2011, after the continued development of
 Introduction  17
diverse social media platforms like Facebook and Instagram, and the birth of the
Niqab Squad (2017), many cadari have actively used these platforms for various
cyberactivist causes.

Outline
Chapters 1, 2 and 3 focus on the cadar as an item of dress with its own values
for wearers and non-wearers, revealing how the wearers, followers of relevant
conservative movements, and more generally people in Indonesia and the media,
understand the practice of wearing the cadar. The following chapters focus on the
life experiences of cadari in different settings: boarding schools, universities and
families, and daʿwa (Ind. dakwah) (proselytisation) activities.
In Chapter 1, I elucidate some practices of face veiling in the Indonesian
Archipelago from an historical perspective. The discussion shows how the prac-
tice of face veiling is rooted in certain parts of Indonesia through the existence of
local versions of face veiling since the period of the Islamic sultanates. The chap-
ter also examines the impact of growing transnational relations with countries
where face veiling has a much longer history, especially Saudi Arabia, Yemen and
Egypt. I also examine the Indonesian Muslims’ encounter with diverse revivalist
movements in neighbouring countries, especially Darul Arqam from Malaysia
and the Tablīghī Jamāʿat movement from India, Pakistan and Bangladesh. This
chapter, in turn, expands our understanding of how the practice and embodiment
of Islam in Indonesia continues to shift over time, and how women’s bodies are
always the main site of contestation in such discussions.
In Chapter 2, I discuss the arguments that women put forward in support of
wearing the cadar. In doing this, I shed light on the connection between their link
with the movement and their cadar adoption. Specifically, this chapter analyses
the arguments for wearing the cadar which originate in Islamic traditions—the
Qurʾān and ḥadīth (the narration of words, deeds or approvals of the Prophet
Muḥammad)—and which direct believers to embody their religion by disciplining
their bodies and by wearing the cadar. It discusses the notion of habitus in their
lives and considers the significance of notions of women’s religious purity and the
relevance of religious compatibility for cadari when choosing spouses to support
their becoming true Muslimah.
Chapter 3 looks at how the media represent and use the cadari and how the
cadari use the media. It concentrates on the representation of the cadar and cadari
in the media and the way Indonesian popular culture depicts cadari, especially
within literature and film. The chapter demonstrates the responses of cadari to
popular novels and a movie Ayat Ayat Cinta (Verses of love) featuring face-veiled
women. Their responses provide an important discussion of how they relate to
the politics of their own representation. This chapter also discusses how cadari
use the media, in particular the internet and social media platforms, in strate-
gic ways to complement their strict Islamic lifestyle, and to assist their daʿwa
activities. The chapter challenges assumptions about women’s passivity and their
confinement to the private sphere by investigating how they use the media in
18  Introduction
their everyday lives to pursue their religious goals, build networks, socialise, earn
money and have careers. This is a chapter that is successful in disrupting popular
notions of face-veiled women as ‘living in the dark ages’ or as somehow discon-
nected from modernity.
Chapter 4 focuses on face veiling within Islamic educational institutions.
It provides an overview of the everyday life of cadari in pesantren. Their
story is different from the majority of cadari (passionate cadari) with whom
I worked, because the cadar is mostly imposed on students in these pesant-
ren. The chapter portrays disciplinary techniques operating in the pesantren
aimed at producing good Muslim women. It engages with the concepts of tech-
niques of the body, subjectivity and total institutions. The condition of these
students might be glossed over easily as a sign of their docility and their lack of
agency. However, a different reading might also be possible: students who are
exposed to disciplinary techniques can be regarded as self-determining agents.
Therefore, this chapter is an important addition to the book because it highlights
how face veiling is experienced when ‘choice’ is nominal or restricted, which
is an important counterpoint to the ‘choices’ of passionate cadari discussed in
the following chapter.
Following the chapter in which wearing the cadar is highly supported in certain
institutions, Chapter 5 analyses the struggle of the main subjects of this research
(passionate cadari), face-veiled university students and graduates, to defend their
practice and to achieve their goal to be true Muslimah. It situates the exploration
of women who wear the cadar in the context of tertiary environments. It explores
women’s quest for belonging, and the discovery of authoritative religious knowl-
edge and ways of being. The chapter assesses their motivations not only in wear-
ing the cadar and bearing the larger obligations of adopting the practice but also
in being part of the movements that support the wearing of cadar. Their choice is
continually negotiated in daily life. Focusing on their adoption of the cadar and
their religious transformation, this chapter demonstrates the capacity of cadari in
exercising a specific type of religious or taat agency.
In Chapter 6, I focus on the daʿwa activities of cadari as part of the embodi-
ment of being true Muslimah. It shows that the experiences of cadari who belong
to revivalist movements do not conform to the stereotype that they are merely
objects of male oppression who do not have agency. This chapter inverts popu-
lar assumptions that women are passive followers of religion; indeed, it clearly
demonstrates how they are dedicated religious actors. Therefore, theoretically the
chapter extends and advances the claim on religious agency for cadari, discussing
public piety, subjectivity and extending the notion of religious habitus into the
public sphere. I conclude that the cultivation of the virtuous self and the aspira-
tion to be true Muslimah have led cadari to constantly engage in questioning their
commitment to their religion. Their active involvement underscores the impor-
tant, but often neglected, part that women play in supporting conservative groups.
I discuss ‘Othering’ and the positions cadari occupy in this process. This chapter
shows the growing visibility of the religious movements of these cadari and their
critical roles in this growth. The actions they perform within their movements are
 Introduction  19
forms of agency that allow them not only to make their own choices but also to
act in ways that directly affect the lives of others.
In Chapter 7, I present final discussions on the life of cadari in Indonesia,
including implications of the increasing presence of cadari in the landscape of
Indonesian Islam. The chapter also addresses the need to improve understandings
of the lives of women whose existence is often bound by prejudice.

Notes
1 The term ‘Sharīʿa-compliant’ is widely used today to refer to what is permissible under
Islamic law.
2 In Indonesia, the term Muslimah is used for both singular and plural forms. The term
true Muslimah in Indonesian refers to various terms, including Muslimah sejati,
Muslimah hakiki, Muslimah kaffah or Muslimah yang sebenarnya.
3 I follow van Bruinessen’s definition of ‘conservative’ as referring to, ‘the various cur-
rents that reject modernist, liberal or progressive re-interpretations of Islamic teachings
and adhere to established doctrines and social order. Conservatives notably object to
the idea of gender equality and challenges to established authority, as well as to modern
hermeneutical approaches to scripture’ (2013, 16).
4 Jama’ah Tarbiyah or Jemaah Tarbiyah (the Tarbiyah movement) is the main religious
community base of the Islamist political party, the Prosperous Justice Party (PKS,
Partai Keadilan Sejahtera), and it emerged in the 1970s (Fox 2004, 9). Al-Ikhwān
al-Muslimūn (the Muslim Brotherhood), founded by Ḥasan al-Bannāʾ (1906–49) in
Egypt in 1928, is the main inspiration for the Tarbiyah movement in Indonesia.
5 Hizbut Tahrir or Hizb ut-Tahrir is a transnational organisation that aims to restore a
caliphate for the whole Muslim world. It was founded by Palestinian judge Shaykh Taqī
al-Dīn al-Nabhānī (1909–77) in Jerusalem in the early 1950s. HTI is the Indonesian
chapter of Hizbut Tahrir which was banned in Indonesia in July 2017.
6 Farish Noor (2009, 197) argues that the establishment of Tablīghī Jamāʿat was
inspired by the Wahhabi (Salafi) movement in Saudi Arabia. However, apart from
this inspiration, Tablīghī Jamāʿat is often seen to have a special connection with
Sufism (Metcalf 2002) which the Salafi movement considers to be one of their
‘enemies.’
7 It is noteworthy that this is not a new kind of critique from scholars including feminist
anthropologists relating to the condition of women living outside the Western context
(Bangstad 2011; Mohanty 1986; Moore 1988).
8 See critiques of Mahmood’s explanation on her research subject, Abir—a 30-year-
old married woman with three children—and her concept of resistance (Werbner
2018, 83).
9 Four types of agencies are classified by Burke (2012): resistance, empowerment,
instrumental and compliant.
10 The true Islam is known in Indonesia by various terms, including Islam hakiki, Islam
sejati, Islam yang sebenarnya and Islam yang murni. For many cadari, it was impor-
tant to identify that the Islam to which they adhere is the true Islam. Therefore, it
is noteworthy that throughout the book, when I use the term true Islam and true
Muslimah, I am referring to the way the cadari identified themselves and their belong-
ing. However, I am not suggesting that the version of Islam that the cadari follow is
the true Islam, or that the various versions of Islam perceived by Muslims are not the
true Islam.
11 All the Qurʾānic translations in this book are taken from Muhammad Asad (1980).
12 It is noteworthy that not all female students in this university wear the face veil.
20  Introduction
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1 The practice of face veiling
in the archipelago

The practice of veiling, especially kerudung (loose veil) or jilbab (tight veil) in
Indonesia, has been studied by many scholars (Baulch and Pramiyanti 2018; Brenner
1996; Jones 2007; Smith-Hefner 2007). In 2012, the Directorate General of Small
Business Industry stated that the number of veiled (not face-veiled) Muslim women
in the country was approximately twenty million (Directorate General of Small
Business Industry 2012). In 2015, the Alvara Research Center conducted a study on
Muslim women’s dress and discovered that 79.4 per cent preferred to wear the regu-
lar veil or hijab1 (Ar. ḥijāb), 13.5 per cent chose to wear a longer and looser iteration
called the Sharīʿa-style hijab and merely 2 per cent preferred to wear the face veil
(Hawley 2017). Little, however, has been written on the histories of these types of
head covering, let alone the practice of face veiling across time in the archipelago.
The earliest that kerudung began to be mentioned in historical texts was in 1899 in
a fatwa (or nonbinding religious ruling or opinion from religious scholar/s on ques-
tions related to Islam and Muslims) issued by Sayyid ʿUthmān (1822–1914)—an
important Islamic scholar in the Netherlands East Indies—which said that women
had to wear kerudung when they left their houses (Kaptein 2009, 191). In contrast,
the history of wearing Arab dress, especially jubah (an ankle-length garment for
men), by male Muslims in the archipelago is easier to trace because, during the colo-
nial period, there were numerous reports on the practice (van Dijk 1997). Wearing
a turban or sorban (Ind.) (headwear worn by men) and jubah by Muslim men of the
archipelago can be seen in the seventeenth century when the Dutch allowed natives
who had performed the pilgrimage to wear this type of dress, while at the same time
the colonial administration ruled that colonial populations had to wear their ethnic
attire, which included Arabs and Chinese wearing their own distinctive dress styles.2
In the nineteenth century, the Dutch perceived aspects of the natives’ religion,
especially the increasing number of natives performing ḥajj (pilgrimage)—in par-
ticular after the opening of the Suez Canal in 1869—as part of what they believed
to be ‘Meccan- or Arab-inspired’ threats, to borrow Michael Laffan’s term (2002,
79, 82). Certain rules were issued by the Dutch government in fear of the Arabs
and their influence on the natives. In 1881, for example, an Honorary Adviser on
Native Affairs, Karel Frederik Holle, made a recommendation on dress ‘that male
and female hadjis [pilgrims] be prevented from wearing “particular types of Arab
or Turkish clothing”’ (cited in Laffan 2002, 97).

DOI: 10.4324/9781003246442-2
24  The practice of face veiling in the archipelago
Despite the fatwa issued by Sayyid ʿUthmān on kerudung, mentioned above,
the adoption of female Arab-style dress in the Netherlands East Indies became a
topic of debate in the 1930s (Kaptein 2009, 176). This indicates that the adoption
of foreign dress by women in the archipelago was rather slow. Some anthropolo-
gists who have focused their studies on the adoption of various clothing styles,
such as Karen Hansen, also emphasise that ‘men’s dress is changing more rap-
idly than women’s’ (2004, 374). In the early 1950s in Indonesia when European
dress became popular among young Javanese elites, it was recorded that women
were still committed to ethnic costumes, wearing kain (an unstitched length of
fabric wrapped around the lower half of the wearer’s body) and kebaya (a bodice
cut to follow the contours of the body) (van Dijk 2001, 64–65).3 Ali Tantowi
argues that in the early twentieth century in Java, the number of veil wearers was
insignificant and mainly consisted of women affiliated with two organisations:
Muhammadiyah and Persis (2010, 63–64).
This chapter provides an understanding of the practices of face veiling in
Indonesia across time despite resistance from many mainstream Muslims. It
also aims to trace the impact of contemporary transnational relations with
Islamic and Islamist movements in which wearing the cadar (face veil) has
become the accepted norm for women. This chapter does not intend to provide
genealogical and detailed historical trajectories of face veiling in the archi-
pelago, because it is not the focus of the book. Therefore, this chapter does not
demonstrate the general development of the practice of face veiling nor the
historical links between past and current practices. As a guide to the broader
discussion of the practice of face veiling in Indonesia, the first part of the
chapter analyses the extent of the role of Arabs. This is because the common
assumption in Indonesia is that the practice resulted from the adoption of Arab
dress styles. The following section discusses the existence of a local practice
of face veiling. It then explores the practice of face veiling by followers of
diverse revivalist movements in Indonesia. The chapter ends by observing one
of the current practices of face veiling by women who are graft suspects and/
or have been found guilty of graft scandals. Marcel Mauss’s techniques of the
body and Pierre Bourdieu’s habitus are important in unpacking the phenom-
enon. Understanding the relationship between body techniques and collective
knowledge is particularly helpful when analysing how the cadar is worn in the
archipelago across time and place by different generations of Muslims.
From the perspective of the wearers, as we will see, the face veil is not merely
a dress. For some, it is part of their embodiment of social normativity: the embodi-
ment of social knowledge and understanding. Some cadari (face-veiled women)
understand and embrace the social normativity around them through the way they
act and conform to the norms. Covering as part of the embodied practices for
women differ from one society to another, which mirrors Mauss’s (1979) point
on different types of embodied practices in different societies, such as eating with
a knife and fork. Mauss’s (1979) emphasis on the social aspects of body tech-
niques is also important in the study of the practice of face veiling. Although the
face veil is worn by different women from different generations and affiliations, a
 The practice of face veiling in the archipelago  25
common factor that unites them is that they wear the face veil because it is part of
the embodiment of their knowledge and the norms prevalent in their social sphere.
Bourdieu’s account on habitus can also help us understand the development of
the practice of face veiling in the archipelago, especially in his emphasis on the
aspect of its historicity. In explicating the dynamic nature of habitus, Bourdieu
argues that the concept consists of ‘systems of durable, transposable disposi-
tions, structured structures predisposed to function as structuring structures, that
is, as principles of the generation and structuring of practices and representations
[emphasis in original]’ (1977, 72). The formulation of habitus, as explained by
Bourdieu, necessitates human beings adjusting to the external world through
unconscious or less than conscious ways (Farnell 2000, 403; King 2000, 423; Lock
1993, 137). Bourdieu pointed out, in relation to this unconscious embodiment, that:

Each agent, wittingly or unwittingly, willy nilly, is a producer and repro-

ducer of objective meaning. Because his actions and works are the product
of a modus operandi of which he is not the producer and has no conscious
mastery, they contain an ‘objective intention,’ as the Scholastics put it, which
always outruns his conscious intentions.
(1977, 79)

It is ‘a self which embodies history; it is socially produced, but also generative

as it interacts with the social world’ (Rinaldo 2008, 29; 2013). Habitus is, thus,
‘malleable but persistent’ (Hurst 2013, 48). Bourdieu argues, ‘We learn bodily.
The social order inscribes itself in bodies through this permanent confrontation,
which may be more or less dramatic but is always largely marked by affectivity
and, more precisely, by affective transactions with the environment’ (2000, 141).
Habitus is subject to change although it might take a long time. This can be seen
from how gradually the traditional face veils, like rimpu mpida in the archipelago
have been abandoned by women.
The agency of women who wear the face veil as part of the embodiment of
collective norms aligns with Orit Avishai’s argument on the importance of norma-
tive expectations in understanding agency (2008, 413). In analysing the wearing
of the face veil by different women of different generations, times and places, this
chapter is also indebted to Avishai’s approach in ‘recognizing that religious con-
duct does not occur in a discursive vacuum.’ She emphasises the important role of
‘the structural and institutional contexts that shape conduct’ (2008, 413). Here in
this chapter, we can see there is a strong relationship between private and public
aspects of life when discussing subjectivity.

Early encounters with Arab people from

Yemen, Saudi Arabia and Egypt
This section critically assesses whether Arab influence is significant in the intro-
duction of the cadar to the archipelago, as this is a view commonly found in popu-
lar media and scholarship. Yemen, Saudi Arabia and Egypt are often mentioned
26  The practice of face veiling in the archipelago
as breeding places for the adoption of certain types of busana Muslim/Muslimah
(Muslim dress) in Indonesia, since busana Muslim/Muslimah is routinely worn,
especially by religious people, in these countries.
Nowadays, the most common assumption in popular discourse related to the
adoption of female Arab-style dress, especially a face veil, is that it reflects the
influence of Arab culture (Karim 1992, 175; Nagata 1984, 105; Goshal 2010, 73;
Syamwil 1996, 238). In addition, as stated in the previous chapter, a face veil is
often mentioned as the ‘uniform’ of fanatics, extremists or terrorists (Nagata 1984,
105; Woodward et al. 2011). Because of these assumptions, many Indonesians
have been reluctant to accept the cadar. The debates on cadar have been pre-
sent since the early nineteenth century at the time of the Padri War (1821–37).
The Padris who fought against unIslamic practices also focused on Muslim dress,
including the introduction of what they believed to be certain proper presenta-
tions for Muslims, such as men wearing a turban and women wearing a face veil
(Tantowi 2010, 63; International Crisis Group (ICG) 2004, 5).
Ruth Barnes and Joanne Eicher argue that dress as a cultural phenomenon
can be regarded as a ‘property of inclusion and exclusion’ (1997, 1). This is in
line with the responses towards cadari in Indonesia; those who oppose the cadar
exclude dress as an aspect of Islamic teachings. Instead, many associate it with the
Wahhabi movement in Saudi Arabia. ‘Wahhabi’ is a term with pejorative conno-
tations used in the archipelago to refer to extreme teachings of the reform move-
ment founded by Muḥammad b. ʿAbd al-Wahhāb (1703–1792) in Saudi Arabia in
the eighteenth century.4 Since the cadar is linked to Wahhabism in Saudi Arabia,
for opponents of Wahhabi influence it is regarded as part of an Arab tradition that
may be suitable for Arabs but not for Muslims in the archipelago. Also, opponents
of the cadar argue that women in Indonesia have long been accustomed to wear-
ing more ‘moderate’ Muslim dress, such as kerudung and baju kurung (a long-
sleeved loose tunic worn over a sarong or sarung [Ind.] or long skirt, also known
as baju melayu or Malay dress). The assumption of the link between the cadar
and Wahhabism strengthens the assumption that dress can carry public messages
where the outsiders may perceive it differently from the wearers’ perceptions, and
it can be seen as a visual boundary marker (Sweetinburgh 2004, 111).
It is a conundrum whether the presence of Arab people in present-day Indonesia
has played an important role in the introduction of Muslim dress, especially wom-
en’s style of dress. Azyumardi Azra points out that the ‘contacts and relations
between Malay-Indonesian Muslims and the Middle East began to gain momen-
tum with the flowering of Muslim kingdoms in the archipelago in the late six-
teenth century’ (2004, 9). Azra recorded that there were several important places
where the Islam of Indonesia originated, such as Arabia (Saudi Arabia, Egypt and
Hadhramaut or Ḥaḍramawt [Ar.] in Yemen) and India (Gujarat, Bengal, Malabar,
Coromandel) (2006, 10–19). However, according to Azra, the theory that Islam
in Indonesia came directly from Arabia, not India or China, since the first cen-
tury of Hijri or since the seventh and eighth centuries, is the most reliable (2006,
19). After that, Arab culture was introduced, and this accelerated after marriages
between Arabs and Indonesian women. However, to assume that the then Arab
 The practice of face veiling in the archipelago  27
women’s style of dress, such as full-body covering (abaya or ʿabāya) and face
veil (niqab or niqāb), was popular among Muslim women in the archipelago is
most likely misleading.
Among Arab countries that have had great influence in the archipelago, Yemen
was important in the history of the advent of Islam, particularly through the flow of
migration, which may have existed as early as the seventh century CE (Jacobsen
2009, 15; Mobini-Kesheh 1999, 21). From the latter half of the eighteenth cen-
tury, the first substantial flow of migration brought Yemeni, especially those from
Ḥaḍramawt, a province of the Republic of Yemen, to Southeast Asia including
present-day Indonesia (Mobini-Kesheh 1999, 21). The immigrants from Yemen
also married natives of the Dutch East Indies (Ho 2006, xxii; Jacobsen 2007, 474;
Mobini-Kesheh 1999, 23). This was related to their cultural taboo for women
undertaking long-distance travel (Mobini-Kesheh 1999, 22).
When Yemen immigrants brought their wives (Patji 1991, 139), the tradition of
face veiling was most likely not prevalent. One of my Ḥaḍramī (a person whose
ancestry can be traced to Ḥaḍramawt in Yemen) research subjects, Geisz Chalifah,
said ‘Almost all our grandmothers did not wear the cadar, not even jilbab. They only
wore typical Indonesian kerudung. This is because most of our enjid (grandfathers)
indeed wanted to assimilate into Indonesian culture.’5 Tantowi records, however, that
in the 1940s there was a campaign in Solo initiated by Idrus al-Masyhur and Ali
bin Yahya of the Arab community requesting ʿAlawiyyin, referring to the descend-
ants of the Prophet Muḥammad in the region, and particularly women, to wear a face
veil. This was borne from their concern about the moral decadence among women of
the ʿAlawiyyin background and ‘to differentiate between Arab women and Javanese
women’ (2010, 76, 87), There was a special gathering to discuss face veiling among
ʿAlawiyyin women in 1940 which was attended by sixty people (Tantowi 2010, 75).
The meeting produced an agreement stating:

The meeting which has been held in February 1940 in Salim bin Basrie’s
house concluded that berguk [face veil] is a religious obligation for women.
Another meeting held in the same house on March 3, 1940 decided that
‘every Alawiyyin man must oblige his wife and women under his control to
wear berguk; he who disobey this decision would be reminded three times
and if he still ignores, he will be excommunicated.’
(Cited in Tantowi 2010, 76)

This campaign was heavily rejected by the women and some Arab men and even
led to cases of divorce (Tantowi 2010, 76).
Nowadays some young generations of Yemeni descendants have increasingly
started to adopt the cadar or purdah (see Figure 1.1). The practice of face veiling
is especially common with female graduates from Dār al-Zahrā’—a female wing of
Dār al-Musṭafā, an educational institute for the study of traditional Islamic Sciences
founded in 1993 in Tarim (Ar. Tarīm), Ḥaḍramawt, Yemen—who then become female
preachers in Indonesia. This includes female religious authorities such as Ustādha
(Ind. Ustazah) Sharīfa Halimah Alaydrus and Ustādha Sharīfa Amirah Jindan (see
28  The practice of face veiling in the archipelago

Figure 1.1  A cadari with her black purdah and gloves. Source. Photo credit, author, 30 January
2010. (Note: Some people differentiate between cadar and purdah in which purdah
refers to a cadar with a screen that covers the eyes of the wearer.)

Nisa 2012). Today, although some young sharīfāt (female descendants of the Prophet
Muḥammad) have started to wear the cadar in Indonesia, they are not as evident in
everyday life as women of non-Yemeni descent as in this study. Al-Ḥabīb ʿUmar b.
Ḥafīẓ (the leader of the best-known Dār al-Musṭafā) noted during one of his visits
to Indonesia in January 2008: ‘Why do not the sharīfāt wear the cadar, while other
Muslim women [in Indonesia] do? We should be ashamed not covering our ʿawra
[part of the body that must be covered] properly compared to other lay women.’ This
comment was reported by one of my research subjects who decided to wear the cadar
after listening to his advice.
Besides Yemen, Saudi Arabia is very important with regard to the spread of
Islam in the archipelago, especially due to the existence of the two important holy
cities in the life of Muslims, Mecca and Medina (Ḥaramayn). Saudi Arabia is
not only the destination of pilgrimage (ḥajj) but also ‘the intellectual hub of the
Muslim world’ (Azra 2004, 8). The sixteenth and the seventeenth centuries were
a period of growth for the international networks of ʿulamāʾ (religious schol-
ars) in the Ḥaramayn, which included some students from the Indonesia–Malay
Archipelago (Azra 2004, 3, 9). The moment of pilgrimage provides an impetus for
many Muslims to wear busana Muslim/Muslimah (Brenner 1996, 674). However,
 The practice of face veiling in the archipelago  29
it is difficult to identify the exact date of the first Indonesian visitors to Mecca for
pilgrimage. What is obvious is that there was a large number of visitors from the
archipelago in the sixteenth century (Azra 2004). The moment of pilgrimage trans-
forms the appearance of ḥajja (a woman who has performed the pilgrimage) with
her adoption of more modest Muslim dress. This phenomenon can be encountered
in diverse parts of the Muslim world, for example, in Egypt (El Guindi 1999, 114).
As mentioned above, until the nineteenth century, Muslim men who returned from
the pilgrimage adopted Arab dress. However, many ḥajja at the time, especially
older ḥajja, adopted distinctly loose kerudung or other local styles to indicate their
status (Jones 2007, 217; Laffan 2002). For example, ḥajja in South Sulawesi wear
cipo’-cipo’ (a ḥajja head covering) upon returning from their pilgrimage. This
signifies ‘the product of the acculturation of Islamic values with local culture’
(Robinson 2012). This phenomenon is resonant with the common phenomenon
that women are often objectified as ‘the bearers of traditional culture and herit-
age’ (Huisman and Hondagneu-Sotelo 2005, 47). Therefore, changes in women’s
dress are relatively slower than changes in men’s dress. It has been noted in other
contexts that men who migrate to other countries often adopt the style of the host
country’s dress sooner than women (Huisman and Hondagneu-Sotelo 2005).
Following Saudi Arabia, particularly Mecca, Egypt (Cairo) became a new desti-
nation for Muslims from the Dutch East Indies to deepen their religious knowledge.
A strong presence of students from the Indies in Cairo could be seen, especially
during the 1920s and the 1930s (Eliraz 2004, 48). William Roff pointed out that
‘it was apparently not until 1922 that they became sufficiently numerous, or suf-
ficiently conscious of themselves as a group, to organise an association’ (1970,
73). Many Indonesians also claim, in relation to the adoption of Muslim dress, that
graduates from Cairo, especially al-Azhar University, had a significant influence
on the export of Muslim dress to Indonesia. Wearing the face veil in Egypt can be
seen as early as the dynastic rule of the Mamluk period (1250–1517 CE) (Winter
1992). At this time, town women wore diverse types of face veils: miqnaʿa (a veil
of black shroud covering the entire face), qinaʿ (covering a woman’s face and leav-
ing two holes for her eyes) and niqāb (a face veil [burquʿ] that covers the wearer’s
face up to her eyes) (Mayer 1952, 73). However, it is important to note that up
until the 1960s most female Indonesian students in Egypt did not cover their hair
completely. They wore only a typical Indonesian kerudung (Abaza 1994, 137).
It cannot be denied that Arabs had a significant role in the spread of Islamic
teachings in the archipelago (Mobini-Kesheh 1999, 23). Muslim scholars of
Ḥaḍramī origin have always been important in the dissemination of religious
teachings in Indonesia. Initially, Arab cultures might have been considered more
Islamic than local traditions (Mobini-Kesheh 1999, 24). However, the role of
natives in realising their Islamic understanding in practice should also be appre-
ciated. Martin van Bruinessen has argued, ‘The process of Islamization of the
archipelago over the past six centuries, and of Islamic reform over the past three,
has been powered less by foreign preachers and missionaries arriving from abroad
than by local people travelling to Arabia in search of knowledge and prestige’
(2011, 7). Therefore, the scholarship of Indonesians studying in Mecca, Medina,
30  The practice of face veiling in the archipelago
Cairo and Ḥaḍramawt who understand the nature of Islam in the archipelago can-
not be neglected. In addition to this, the role of local rulers who converted to Islam
should be acknowledged in the discussion of the adoption of Muslim dress. The
local variation of Muslim dress in the archipelago demonstrates that discussions
of politics and power cannot be separated from the whole discussion of dress.
Wearing diverse and distinctly local variations of face veiling which adapt prod-
ucts of local culture, for example, the sarung, indicates local efforts to understand
and implement Islamic teachings as well as to introduce the characteristics of their
regions. Throughout the history of present-day Indonesia, Islam has had an influ-
ence on clothing, but this is not uniform and depends on the mode of transmission
and the relevant historical period. Below I discuss what was happening at the time
of the Islamisation of Bima, where the practice of wearing the face veil became
syncretised with local custom, and Makassarese influence.

Rimpu mpida: A local type of face veiling

During my fieldwork, I did not expect to find local forms of face veiling. When I
analysed some Indonesian popular culture products, in particular in literary works
representing cadari, I found a distinctly Indonesian face veil worn by a female
character in one of the novels, Sebab Cinta tak Harus Berkata (Because love
doesn’t have to say) (2008) written by Akhi Dirman al-Amin. After reading the
novel, I contacted the writer and this communication led me to discover that in
Indonesia wearing the cadar has its own cultural roots.
The local style of face veil had been practised by women in diverse areas of the
archipelago as part of the implementation of religious teaching and the embodi-
ment of local wisdom. The characteristic of a distinctly local face veil can be seen
from the use of kain (fabric), namely sarung. The shapes and designs of this local
face veil are significantly different from those of the current cadar. For example,
in Bima (West Nusa Tenggara) some women wear a face veil called rimpu mpida.
Rimpu mpida is also known as a cadar version of Bima (cadar a la Bima) (Aulia
2012, 90). Similarly, in Donggala (Central Sulawesi), there is a recognised face
veiling garment known as a nutingka, worn especially by single women as their
daily dress. In Donggala, nutingka is considered to be a product of Islamic influ-
ence (Kartiwa 1983, 18–19). Elsewhere in Jambi, a face veil known as kuluk duo
kain is worn by women along the Batanghari River. Women who wear kuluk duo
kain cover their faces at night but can show their faces during the daytime.
It is generally the case that the advent of Islam led to changes in dress. Bare-
chested women and men began to wear a tunic above their sarung (Reid 1988,
89) and, in Makassar in the mid-seventeenth century, it is recorded that women
covered their entire bodies including their faces (de Rhodes 1966, 207; Reid 1988,
89). On 26 December 1925, the local newspaper Bintang-Hindia published a pic-
ture of the ‘real’ Malay woman (perempuan Melajoe toelen) wearing a face veil
that covered half of her face with a sarung.
In this section, I focus especially on the practice of wearing rimpu mpida
in Bima (Dana Mbojo/Tanah Bima), a municipality in West Nusa Tenggara.6
 The practice of face veiling in the archipelago  31
The kingdom of Bima was Islamised by Gowa in 1618–19 (Chambert-Loir and
Salahuddin 1999, xiv; Noorduyn 1987). After the formerly Hindu–Buddhist
kingdom embraced Islam in 1633 CE, the first Islamic sultan, Abdul Kahir
(the twenty-fifth king of Bima, who ruled from 1630 to 1635), issued a com-
mand to all sultanate staff and Bima society in general to obey Islamic law and
practise Islamic teachings (Salahuddin 1997, 6). The second sultan, Abil Khair
Sirajuddin, who ruled from 1640 to 1682, made the Malay language written in
Arabic script the formal script within the kingdom (Chambert-Loir 2004, 20;
Salahuddin 1997, 7). Michael Hitchcock (1996, 2) points out that Muslim culture
in Bima was brought by others, especially Malays and Makassars. The presence
of face veiling in Makassar in the mid-seventeenth century influenced Bima.
Influence from South Sulawesi can be seen in other traditional costumes, such as
the baju bodo (traditional short blouse) which is also worn by women in Bima.
Further, more people of Bima adjusted their local wisdom to be in line with
religious teachings. This can be seen from the practice of wearing the face
veil, rimpu mpida. It is important to note that although the rimpu is mentioned
as expressing the identity of Muslim women in Bima (Sundari 2010), it is sel-
dom mentioned in reports on Bima culture. For example, on Bima tradition in
1977/1978, Ahmad Amin and his research group, mentioned rimpu only briefly
(1997, 23, 105). Hitchcock also mentioned the rimpu7 only in passing, in refer-
ence to rural women’s dress that was worn to market (1996, 52–53). According to
local history, the rimpu has been worn since the implementation of Sharīʿa law by
the second Bima sultan (Chambert-Loir and Shalahuddin 1999, 607). It was man-
datory for a girl who had commenced menstruation to wear it (for Saudi Arabia,
see Altorki 1986, 36; for Oman, see Chatty 1997, 128). Therefore, wearing the
rimpu can be regarded as part of the product of the acculturation of Islamic values
with local culture as in the above-mentioned phenomenon of cipo’-cipo’.
Although the shape of the rimpu, especially rimpu mpida, is not exactly the
same as the face veil worn in Arab countries, its function to cover women’s faces
and bodies is the same. The Arabs in Bima are mostly of Ḥaḍramī background
(Hitchcock 1995, 241), whose ancestry can be traced to present-day Yemen. The
role of Arabs in maintaining the use of the rimpu cannot be neglected. This holds
true because, as well as trading, the Arabs also played a religious role (Aulia
2012, 83; Chambert-Loir 1993, 82). This does not mean that the practice of rimpu
mpida in Bima was popularised by Arab women, because, as mentioned above, at
the time men of Arab descent often married local women (Hitchcock 1995, 253;
Jacobsen 2009, 23). In addition, the local rulers of Bima were eager to encour-
age the wearing of rimpu, including rimpu mpida, as the proper dress for Muslim
women in the region. Therefore, it is not surprising if, for example, Hitchcock
mentions that rimpu indicates ‘a Muslim and Bimanese identity’ (1995, 244).
In Kamus Bima-Indonesia, rimpu is explained as a verb meaning to cover a
woman’s head and face with a sarung so that only the eyes can be seen (the tra-
ditional Bimanese women’s dress); and as a noun which refers to a veil that is
shaped from a sarung. Douma rimpu refers to the person who veils herself with a
sarung (Ismail et al. 1985, 128). Rimpu is especially worn by women when they
32  The practice of face veiling in the archipelago
go out of their houses, especially for certain formal occasions (Aulia 2012). They
differentiate between two types of rimpu: rimpu mpida and rimpu colo. ‘Mpida’
literally means soft and very small (Ismail et al. 1985, 92). Rimpu mpida is worn
by young, single, adult females. This is the rimpu that covers the entire woman’s
body except her eyes. The cloth that is used for rimpu (headcloth) is called tembe
or tembe paleka (Hamzah 2004, 255), which is a sarung (Ismail et al. 1985, 154).
They wear two sarung to totally cover all parts of their bodies, upper and lower.
In my interview with a prominent Bima scholar, Hamid Syukrie, he pointed
out that the rimpu initially reflected the pride of the wearers, because they weave
the sarung for their own rimpu, and it functioned as a supportive element to find-
ing a marriage partner (jodoh), because a man usually identified the girl that he
liked from the sarung that she wore. The second type of rimpu, rimpu colo, is
worn by married women. Rimpu colo is different from rimpu mpida in that it cov-
ers the head and body but not the woman’s face.8
This distinction strengthens the aspect of local wisdom that unmarried women
should be able to conceal their bodies more thoroughly than married women to
avoid the male gaze. This extra emphasis on unmarried women completely cover-
ing their bodies by wearing the face veil can also be found in other countries, like
Saudi Arabia. The reason for such emphasis is the same: unmarried women are
expected to guard the purity of the family which is linked to the pride of their male
protectors (Altorki 1986, 39; Papanek 1973, 317). Here we see how wearing the
rimpu is part of the historical variability of body techniques to cover one’s body
properly based on the social norms prevalent in Bima. During the same time, when
rimpu remained popular in Bima, Muslim women from other parts of the archipel-
ago covered their bodies differently. This technique of the body emerged within the
collective life of Muslims in Bima. The phenomenon is resonant with Mauss’s case
study in which he analysed different kinds of marching and digging techniques by
French and English soldiers (1979; Crossley 2007, 85). They are different because
the techniques that they used emerged from different collective understandings.
Rimpu for Bima society serves as a social boundary that marks their commit-
ment to Islam from other religions. Mary Douglas’s (1966) account on the link
between social boundaries and purity is relevant in understanding the use of rimpu
during the sultanate period in Bima. Douglas argued that boundary maintenance
and purity are especially important for a type of society that has strong group
orientation (1970). We can see the adoption of rimpu, at the time of the promulga-
tion of Islamic law, as a collective commitment of the sultan’s subjects to Islam.
For them, rimpu was a sign that the wearer was a decent pious Muslim woman.
Women who wore the rimpu were expected to maintain their purity by avoid-
ing anything that could violate their image as honourable Bima women. This is
resonant with Santi Rozario’s study of gender divisions in Bangladesh in which
she elaborates on the importance of controlling female sexuality in maintaining
group boundaries and social hierarchy (1991, 15). The failure to control one’s
purity can impact on family and community honour. In Bima, the assimilation
of understanding between Islamic law (hukum Islam) and customary law (hukum
adat) has been well recorded in a pledge, which says: Mori ro made na dou Mboje
 The practice of face veiling in the archipelago  33
ede kai hukum Islam-ku (both life and death in Bima society must be in line with
Islamic Sharīʿa). Indeed, the practice of covering women’s faces was in line with
a strong tradition of malu (shame or embarrassment) among women in Bima.
Rozario argues that ‘to have shame’ means ‘to be sensitive to public opinion’
(1991, 16). Bima women were also expected to embody this sensitivity, to guard
their malu and to feel malu if they could not meet the norm of their communities
(Sundari 2010). The general philosophy of the Bima people is related to malu.
This philosophy, which had been known since the period of the Bima kingdom, is
maja labo dahu meaning malu dan takut (shamefulness and fear) (Syukrie 2009).
Maja labo dahu is a cultural concept and the main element of Bima culture which
was used as a warning for Bima people to stay away from behaviour that could
induce shame in themselves and their families.
In Bima, as elsewhere (see Rozario on Bangladesh 1991), the tradition of malu
was strictly preserved for single women. In the marriage proposal process, a bride
was usually reticent to meet the groom who had proposed to her. The groom
usually knew about the physical appearance of the girl only from his family. The
preservation of this concept of shame and modesty was inculcated at an early age.
Therefore, throughout the history of the wearing of rimpu mpida, many Bima par-
ents were reluctant to enrol their daughters in Dutch schools because female stu-
dents in these schools did not wear the rimpu. Malu is not independent of Islam,
but it is a core element of the faith. However, the standard coverage of malu and
modesty (kesopanan) are different across time and place. It depends on how the
society involved understands the terms. Those who did not wear the rimpu, espe-
cially during the sultanate period, were not punished. However, it was considered
that they were breaking moral, social and modesty norms (Aulia 2012, 87–88).
This clearly and sensitively captures just how much subjectivity is a social phe-
nomenon and how much the agency of rimpu wearers is related to their efforts to
embody the collective norms in their society.
When the sultanate period ended with the discontinuation of the royal lines,
after the death of the last sultan, Muḥammad Salahuddin (1915–51), the practice
of wearing the rimpu mpida for Muslim girls decreased.9 One of the main reasons
was that when they attended school, they had to wear a uniform that required
them to uncover their faces. This phenomenon demonstrates shifting dress con-
ventions in different periods. Kimberly Huisman and Pierrette Hondagneu-Sotelo
point out that ‘dress conventions are not static … Changes in dress do not occur in
a vacuum; rather, changes are negotiated within specific temporal and structural-
historical contexts’ (2005, 46, 51). Nowadays the intention to wear rimpu is more
related to a desire to preserve local traditions than to an intention to maintain
religious belief (Sundari 2010). Lately, there have been efforts to revive local
wisdom, evident from cultural parades featuring rimpu wearers at certain festi-
val occasions, including the celebration of the anniversary of Bima.10 The local
government is especially eager to preserve this local heritage by organising the
rimpu parade during celebrations. In 2018, the national rimpu festival was held
for the first time in the National Monument of Indonesia or Monas (Jakarta). In
2019, the Museum Rekor Dunia Indonesia (MURI, the Indonesian World Records
34  The practice of face veiling in the archipelago
Museum) rewarded the Bima Government with an award for setting a world record
by gathering 20,165 rimpu wearers ­during the rimpu festival.11 Such successful
events, however, have not translated into the everyday wearing of rimpu. Some
Bima women nowadays feel that the rimpu is out of date or old-fashioned (Yulius
2001, 78). Younger generations of Bima, to borrow Bourdieu’s term (1990, 52),
no longer ‘feel for the game’ if they have to wear rimpu. It does not feel natural for
them. Some of the younger generation of women feel that wearing the rimpu pre-
vents them from embracing their youth culture. Syamsiyah, a 21-year-old jilbab
wearer originating from Bima, gives her opinion on rimpu: ‘Although I respect
those who still wear it, I myself do not wear it because for me it is so out of date,
especially its design. Besides the design, wearing rimpu is what old ladies do.’
The growth of the Muslim fashion industry has impacted the practice of wearing
rimpu. For some people, wearing jilbab nowadays is more than a religious state-
ment but it is also a fashion statement (Jones 2007; Hamdani 2007) (Figures 1.2
and 1.3). This has been boosted by the growing presence of young fashion design-
ers, such as Dian Pelangi, Jenahara, Ria Miranda and Ghaida Tsuraya with their
new, young fashion styles, which gave birth to the Hijabers Community (HC) in

Figure 1.2  A Muslim model wearing a Muslim dress on the runway in Jakarta. Source.
Photo credit, © Jeny Tjahyawati, 24 December 2005. Used with permission.
(Note: Jeny Tjahwayati is a well-known Indonesian Muslim fashion designer.
I have been friends with her since 2005 when I conducted research on Muslim
fashion designers in Indonesia.)
 The practice of face veiling in the archipelago  35

Figure 1.3  Jeny Tjahyawati (centre) with her Muslim models at a fashion show in Jakarta.
Source. This photograph was provided by © Jeny Tjahyawati, 27 May 2006.
Used with permission.

2010 (Baulch and Pramiyanti 2018, 2; Beta 2014). The Muslim fashion i­ndustry
in Indonesia has offered more practical and simple ways of covering parts of the
body that must be concealed (ʿawra), such as through the invention of the ‘instant’
jilbab (jilbab instan),12 because, for many young Bima women, wearing the rimpu
is very complicated (Figure 1.4).
Many of them also consider that what is offered by Muslim fashion industries
is sufficient to cover women’s ʿawra. Therefore, most young women in Bima
today do not wear rimpu mpida, but they have replaced it with jilbab and not
cadar. Nowadays, those who wear cadar (not rimpu mpida) in Bima are mostly
young well-educated Muslim women who associate themselves with purist move-
ments that indeed oppose any Islamic practices that have been mixed with local
cultural practices.

The present-day cadar: Encounters with

Islamic revivalist movements
This section focuses on analysing the practice of the present-day cadar and
the role played by revivalist or purist movements in the introduction of the
type of cadar and purdah currently being worn. These cadar and purdah are
clearly different from the local forms noted previously. The shapes and styles
36  The practice of face veiling in the archipelago

Figure 1.4  Women inspecting instant jilbab at the biggest textile market in Southeast
Asia, Tanah Abang. Source. Photo credit, author, 9 February 2008

of present-day cadar and purdah are almost the same as the ones that can be
found in other countries, especially in the Arab Gulf. However, the ‘Indonesian
touch’ can be found in designs of the cadar, especially those worn by the fol-
lowers of the Tablīghī Jamāʿat and Niqab Squad (Figure 1.5). The cadar style
is usually worn by female followers of revivalist movements that seek to purify
Islam by offering what they perceive as purer, more authentic versions of Islam
as practised by pious predecessors (al-salaf al-ṣāliḥ).13 It is noteworthy that the
close connection between wearing the present-day cadar and the existence of
conservative and revivalist movements in Indonesia, including transnational
ones, demonstrates that wearing the cadar is emblematic of the body techniques
prevalent in such groups.
Using Mauss’s embodied practice, in which he argues that it is specific to
certain societies (1979), this section shows how the diverse religious revivalist
movements which exist in Indonesia set their specific embodied practices to differ
significantly from those of other Islamic and Islamist groups, especially main-
stream Islamic groups in the country. Mauss also emphasises the importance of
collective knowledge in his explication of habitus (1979, 101). Nick Crossley
explains Mauss’s account of the knowledge involved in body techniques arguing
that ‘the mindful aspect of body techniques consists in the fact that they are not
mere movements; that they embody knowledge and understanding’ (2007, 86). It
 The practice of face veiling in the archipelago  37

Figure 1.5  A Tablīghī cadari with her embroidered cadar in front of her room in the
pesantren. Source. Photo credit, author, 8 January 2008.

is in this context we see the close link between the presence of cadari and their
direct and indirect affiliation with the Tablīghī and varied Salafi factions, as well
as other Islamist movements.
This phenomenon also indicates that the subjectivity of the wearers is part of
the product of social phenomenon. Since women who wear cadar continue to
see themselves through the eyes of authoritative figures in their groups or at least
through the interpretation of Islam produced by these figures, it also indicates that
besides self-focused pursuit, this practice of obedience is a social and interactive
activity.
Besides the concept of body techniques, the concept of subculture is also rel-
evant in the study of the distinctive lifestyle of cadari who associate themselves
with diverse revivalist movements. Subculture may be identified by the ‘norms
that set a group apart from, not those that integrate a group with, the total society’
(Yinger 1960, 628). My approach takes its inspiration from the insights of cultural
sociologist Sarah Thornton (1997). She points out that ‘the defining attribute of
“subculture,” then, lies with the way the accent is put on the distinction between
a particular cultural/social group and the larger culture/society’ (5). In this case,
the concept of subculture relates to norms, values and beliefs that differ from
those of the majority of Muslims in Indonesia. Nowadays, cadari also strive to
38  The practice of face veiling in the archipelago
distinguish their presence from other mainstream Muslim groups in Indonesia
by establishing what they believe to be a more authentic Islam. Qualities of the
lifestyle of cadari, such as their opposition towards the behaviour of mainstream
Muslim women in Indonesia, including the outward appearance of these women,
mark their conscious subcultural orientation. The majority of cadari with whom I
worked mentioned that one driver compelling them to be part of a certain revival-
ist movement is their opposition to the Islam practised by their parents and by the
majority of Muslims in Indonesia. For them, this Islam is inauthentic, corrupted.
By being part of this subculture, they strive to detach themselves from their past
and from their parents’ lack of understanding of what they perceived to be true
Islam. This association then becomes the main aspect that produces resistance
from many Indonesians.
The practice of wearing the cadar by women attaching themselves to revival-
ist groups can also be regarded as ‘doing religion,’ to borrow Avishai’s concept
(2008). Doing religion refers to ‘a mode of conduct and being, a performance of
identity’ and when it is viewed as a strategic action, for her, ‘doing religion’ means
‘religion may be done in the pursuit of religious goals’ (413). For women in these
groups, wearing the cadar is part of their aspiration to become true Muslimah
(Muslim women).
Saba Mahmood’s (2005) intellectual contribution to the study of virtuous sub-
jects in Egypt is especially important to this study. There are some differences
between Mahmood’s research and the focus of this book. For example, regarding
the main research subjects, Mahmood conflates diverse religious or daʿwa move-
ments in Egypt into one single ‘mosque movement’ (2005, 180–185; Bangstad
2011, 30; Gauvain 2013, 13, 274 n. 57). In this book, I carefully analyse the
affiliations of face-veiled women. In every chapter, the affiliation of the cadari is
explored to better understand their world view. I think this is important because
ideological tendency is one of the key points for understanding the ways in which
cadari struggle to be true Muslimah and how they experience their religious jour-
ney. In addition, Mahmood’s focus on the lives of members of the women’s
mosque movement mainly concentrates on their experiences within the domain
of the mosque. Therefore, there are many aspects of the lives of her women sub-
jects that are unknown to the reader, in particular their life beyond the mosque.
Peter van der Veer points out that Mahmood’s ‘focus on the micro-practices
inside the mosque seems to prevent her from looking at the micro-practices out-
side the mosque’ (2008, 812; see also Soares and Osella 2009). This book pre-
sents the voices of face-veiled women as research subjects in diverse spheres of
their lives. Furthermore, it engages with and comments on their everyday life
experiences.

Darul Arqam
Darul Arqam, Jama’ah Rufaqa’, or Global Ikhwan14 is a Malaysian Islamic
movement with its ‘Sufi-millenarian ideals’ and aspirations to build a halal (Ar.
ḥalāl or what is permissible according to Islamic law) lifestyle. The term Darul
 The practice of face veiling in the archipelago  39
Arqam (The House of Arqam) refers to the name of one of the Prophet’s com-
panions called Arqam b. Abī Al-Arqam or ʿAbdul Manāf b. Asad b. Makhzūm.
His name was very popular at the advent of Islam in Mecca, mainly because
his house was used as the propagation centre by the Prophet Muḥammad.
Darul Arqam was founded in 1968 in Kampung Keramat by Shaykhul Arqam
Ustādh Ashaari Muḥammad at-Tamimi (1938–2010), known by his follow-
ers as Abuya, who then became leader until the movement was banned by the
Malaysian Government in August 1994 for being deviant (Meuleman 1996, 48;
Nagata 2004, 111). The ban was issued as a decree of the Islamic Division of
the Prime Minister’s Department (Bahagian Hal Ehwal Islam, Jabatan Perdana
Menteri) on 14 March 1992, stating that some of Al-Arqam’s teachings could be
regarded as major deviations in Islam. In Darul Arqam’s ‘sacred book,’ Awrad
Muhammadiyah,15 it is written that its compiler Shaykh Suhaimi (d. 1925) is
Imām Mahdī, who will rise at the end of time, and Ashaari, the leader, is the
khalīfa or vice regent of Imām Mahdī.
There were diverse responses to the early presence of Darul Arqam in
Indonesia. Although there were some groups that opposed Darul Arqam, such as
the modernist organisation, Muhammadiyah; the other large Muslim mass organi-
sation, Nahdlatul Ulama (NU), responded positively.16 In contrast to Malaysia,
the Indonesian Government did not take any serious action against the growth
of Darul Arqam (Azra 2005, 17). It was banned only in some districts. The first
region to ban the activities of Darul Arqam was North Sumatra (19 August 1994),
followed by West Sumatra, Aceh, Riau, West Java, DKI, Central Java, East Java
and West Nusa Tenggara (Dasuki 1994, 288).
The presence of Darul Arqam can be regarded as the most important moment
in the history of cadar in Indonesia. Wearing it is part of the body techniques
introduced by Darul Arqam which also means it is one of the most important ele-
ments of their subculture. The term often used in Malaysia to identify the cadar
is purdah. Based on my fieldwork most cadari and non-cadari mentioned that
it was Darul Arqam women who had pioneered the practice of wearing the pre-
sent form of the cadar in Indonesia in the 1960s. It is noteworthy that many of
the cadar constituencies are not aware of the presence of distinctly local face
veils, like rimpu mpida. While a small number of them do know about this dis-
tinctly Indonesian face veil, they argue that the current cadar is different from
the Indonesian face veil. Umm Yusuf, 42 years old, who originally came from
Bima and currently lives in Yogyakarta, says: ‘I know that in Bima there is also
an Indonesian face veil, rimpu mpida. It is, however, different from the cadar that
I am wearing now. The cadar is more Islamic than rimpu mpida. As you know
Ukht [Sister] … rimpu mpida is very colourful, therefore, it does not fulfil the
characteristic of proper dress for Muslim women.’
Tablīghī Jamāʿat women who have worn the cadar since the 1980s also admit-
ted that when they started to wear the cadar, Darul Arqam women had already
set the trend. One of the first Tablīghī Jamāʿat women to wear the cadar, Umm
Zaynab, 61 years old, said: ‘When the number of women joining Tablīghī was
still very few and the number of women wearing the cadar and purdah among us
40  The practice of face veiling in the archipelago
also still very few, I remembered cadar and purdah were already popular among
Darul Arqam women, not Salafi women like nowadays.’
In my conversation with Ibu Sakinah Rahmanudin, the third wife of Ustādh
Niezamuddin, one of Darul Arqam founder’s sons, she said that since the 1960s
Abuya has never issued a religious legal decree (fatwa) stating that wearing the
cadar or the purdah is obligatory. Nevertheless, he emphasised that Muslim
women have to love their God, and if the person loves her or his God then every-
thing that comes from God should be obeyed, including wearing proper Muslim
dress. In this regard, covering women’s bodies properly should be observed
without question. It is recorded in one of Darul Arqam’s early publications, An
Nasihah, that from the early 1990s there were some Darul Arqam women in
Indonesia who not only wore the cadar but were also actively propagating Darul
Arqam’s teachings.17 Ibu Sakinah herself, who is from Indonesia, had worn the
cadar since 1989, before she finally gave it up.
Darul Arqam women can be regarded as the first cadari to face obstacles from
fellow Indonesians who opposed their ‘strange’ dress and the norms within their
subculture. In 1991, for example, the cadari of Darul Arqam were threatened in
Indonesia by young people armed with sticks. They accused them of being harm-
ful women. This incident was part of the impact of a late 1980s rumour that women
with this kind of dress spread poison on fruit and vegetables in some Indonesian
traditional markets (Abd Rahma 1991, 9). In Malaysia, the resistance towards
purdah was also strong. In 1984, three students at University Sains Malaysia who
were wearing the purdah were labelled ‘freakish’ (aneh/sudah menyeleweng) by
non-wearers. Following a government ruling on banning the movement, the uni-
versity then banned wearing the purdah in February 1985 (Karim 1992, 215 n. 9).
The resistance towards the purdah illustrates other characteristics of subcultures:
that it could possibly ‘bring a little disorder to the security of neighbourhood’
(Thornton 1997, 2).
After the Malaysian Government decreed Darul Arqam to be deviant, it strove
to prevent the rebirth of the movement. It is recorded that in April 1996, eighteen
members of Darul Arqam or Al-Arqam were detained under the Internal Security
Act (ISA). For the Malaysian Government, the followers of Darul Arqam’s way
of life who rejected any attachment outside their group and who preferred to
live in seclusion were viewed as a potential security risk (Horstmann 2006, 74).
The government then took further action to remove and forbid any images and
any Darul Arqam signifiers such as purdah for women and jubah as well as
sorban for male followers. After the condemnation of Darul Arqam as a deviant
Islamic group, Abuya asked his female followers to give up their purdah. In Ibu
Sakinah’s words:

What we wanted and certainly what Abuya wanted was that every Muslim
woman dress in the most proper and perfect way. However, if the situation
was not conducive and if wearing the cadar or the purdah even had invited
some fitna [provocation leading to disorder or chaos], negative impacts, then
there is a rukhṣa [dispensation of leaving the teaching] in this situation.
 The practice of face veiling in the archipelago  41
The first woman who took off the cadar was Abuya’s first wife. She then appeared
in public to help Darul Arqam women understand the reason for giving up their
purdah, especially in relation to the political situation in Malaysia. She explained
the reason for giving up their purdah was because it was God’s decision, as they
had previously adopted it. This phenomenon of giving up the cadar by followers
of Darul Arqam demonstrates that the lifeworld of these women cannot be sepa-
rated from diverse aspects of cultural and political circumstances. Their lifeworld
is always bound up with the public sphere and public discourse. In the process
of adopting certain proper Muslim dress, both public and private aspects of their
lifeworld are intermingled.
The ‘uniform’ of Darul Arqam women in Indonesia and Malaysia, in gen-
eral, had changed several times; from an all-in-black (purdah) to a colourful,
or white purdah, in the early 1990s. They then adopted tudung labuh/jilbab
besar (a headscarf that covers the entire upper part of women’s bodies except
their face) until the 2000s.18 The current ‘uniform’ is a colourful loose-fitting
Muslim dress with tudung (a smaller headscarf which is more relaxed than
tudung labuh) known in Indonesia as jilbab. During my fieldwork, some of the
female followers of Jama’ah Rufaqa’ or Global Ikhwan wore diverse types of
veils, such as jilbab and instant jilbab.
The importance of Darul Arqam in popularising the practice of cadar wearing
among Muslims, especially in Southeast Asia, was also felt in other countries like
Egypt. This is mainly due to the presence of the cadari of Darul Arqam in some
countries where they enthusiastically performed their missionary activities. In the
late 1980s and early 1990s female students of Darul Arqam, who were sent to
Egypt for Arabic and Islamic studies, wore the cadar (Shafie 1990, 24).

Tablīghī Jamāʿat
Tablīghī Jamāʿat or Jama’ah Tabligh or JT (Je-Te), as often used in Indonesia, is
a transnational Islamic reform movement founded in the 1920s in India. The fol-
lowers prefer the term ‘Muslims’ for people active in this group. For their activi-
ties, they use terms that refer directly to the activities. Thus, the terms often used
are kerja dakwah or usaha dakwah (the work of daʿwa or proselytisation), rom-
bongan dakwah (daʿwa group), jama’ah dakwah (daʿwa congregation) or rom-
bongan silaturahmi (bonding and close ties group). The focus of Tablīghī Jamāʿat
teachings is to reform and purify the lives of its followers. The initial struggle of
the founder, Mawlānā Muḥammad Ilyās (1885–1944), was to establish a move-
ment that could purify the practice of Islam in the South Asian subcontinent—and
an Islam which had been mixed with Hindu mores.
Tablīghī Jamāʿat, as one of the two main movements in this study besides
Salafism, has had a vital position in disseminating the practice of wearing the
cadar in Indonesia, especially after Darul Arqam women started to relinquish
it in 1994. It was under the second amīr (leader) of Tablīghī Jamāʿat, Mawlānā
Muḥammad Yūsuf Kandhalawi (1917–65), the only son of Mawlānā Muḥammad
Ilyās, that Tablīghī Jamāʿat expanded its influence outside South Asia, including
42  The practice of face veiling in the archipelago
into Southeast Asia (Masud 2000). Upon strengthening their influence in other
Southeast Asian countries, Tablīghī Jamāʿat arrived in Indonesia in 1952 (Razak
2008).19 The first group from India was led by Miaji Isa (Razak 2008). In
1972, foreign Tablīghī Jamāʿat groups started strengthening their influence on
Indonesian Muslims by way of a group from Pakistan. Tablīghī Jamāʿat began
to become more popular in Indonesia from 1974 (Aziz 2004). That year is often
mentioned as an important moment for Tablīghī Jamāʿat in Indonesia. Tablīghī
Jamāʿat started to attract some ardent followers, including the head of the Kebon
Jeruk mosque in Jakarta, H. Zulfakar, who was appointed as the first leader of the
Indonesian congregation, and Kebon Jeruk mosque was officially chosen as the
Indonesian headquarters of Tablīghī Jamāʿat.
Mawlānā Muḥammad Ilyās set certain embodied practices, including the
building of a halal lifestyle within his subculture and that all Tablīghī people
must follow the examples set by the Prophet, his family and his male and female
pious companions in every area of their lives, from dressing, eating and sleeping,
to the way of seeing the world. For Tablīghī women, the lifestyle of the Prophet’s
wives and his pious female companions became role models.
Purdah, not cadar, among Tablīghī women can be regarded as their ‘uniform’
to perform their daʿwa (Ind. dakwah) (proselytisation). Tablīghī communities are
very strict in differentiating between purdah and cadar. This is because one of
the main rules for female followers (mastura)20 when they perform khurūj (go out
for daʿwa) is that they must wear purdah—a face veil that covers the woman’s
entire body including her eyes, not just the cadar, which covers women’s faces
but not their eyes. Therefore, for them wearing the face veil is not merely a body
technique. It is a body technique that is intertwined with the notion of perfection
in performing religious duty.
The first group of female Tablīghī came to Indonesia in 1985 from Pakistan.
Their initial destinations were important centres of Tablīghī Jamāʿat, namely
Jakarta, East Java (Temboro, Magetan) and South Sulawesi (Makassar). After
their visit to Indonesia, nine couples (husbands and wives) of Indonesian
Tablīghī went to Pakistan. These nine couples, particularly the women, were
expected to learn how to correctly perform khurūj or mastura khurūj, because
they were required to transfer their knowledge to other prospective Tablīghī
women in Indonesia. Indeed, the focus of this khurūj was on women’s par-
ticipation because this was the first time Indonesian Tablīghī women had per-
formed khurūj. The following year (1986), for the first time, women could
attend the Tablīghī Jamāʿat’s national gathering (zur) in Ancol, Jakarta. After
the establishment of the first group of female Indonesian Tablīghī, the number
of women performing khurūj with their non-marriageable male kin (maḥram)
started to grow, which means that the number of women wearing the cadar
or purdah among Tablīghī followers has also been increasing. Ibu Umamah
(pseudonym), one of the women who performed the first mastura khurūj, said
that she had worn the cadar consistently since 1987. She has focused on dis-
seminating the practice of wearing the cadar since she opened her first shop
in 1991. Located near the main headquarters of Tablīghī in Indonesia, her
 The practice of face veiling in the archipelago  43
shop sells diverse female needs ranging from Tablīghī women’s dress such as
ʿabāya, cadar and purdah to eyeliner (kuhl/kohl).

The Salafi movement

Salafi movement was founded in the eighteenth century on the Arabian Peninsula.
It is a movement that calls for a return to the foundational texts of Islam. Salafi,
then, refers to those who have a strong commitment to purify their religion
(taṣfiyya) and to return to the basics of Islam as they believe it was practised by
the Prophet Muḥammad and his companions (the salaf as opposed to those of the
khalaf or the later generations). According to Salafi, the Islamic principles upheld
by salaf are the only correct understanding of Islam.
The Salafi movement in this study differs from the nineteenth- and twentieth-
century modernist reform movement led by Muḥammad ʿAbduh (1849–1905)
and the Muslim Brotherhood of Ḥasan al-Bannāʾ (1906–49), who also often use
the term Salafi. The term Salafi/Salafism, as used in this study, describes a group
or set of practices known by many lay Indonesians as Wahhabi. Wahhabism is
a sub-variant or part of a larger Salafism; however, the common use of the term
Salafism did not occur until the late-nineteenth century (Niblock 2006, 23). In the
period of the Prophet Muḥammad, this term was never used. Therefore, the use
of the term itself is a subject of contestation, including in Indonesia. The global
Salafi movement is large and there are many factions. Scholars have introduced
typologies and varied terms to signify the diversity. R. Hrair Dekmejian’s work
(1985) was one of the early attempts at classifying factions within varied Islamist
groups, including ‘gradualist-pragmatic,’ ‘revolutionary’ and ‘messianic puri-
tanical.’ Quintan Wiktorowicz introduced three major factions: purist, politico
and jihadi (2006). Some scholars try to modify these typologies or criticise them
(Hegghammer 2009, 257). The tension among the Salafi groups mostly originates
from the way they contextualise their interpretations of Islam. In general, these
groups have similar and even overlapping agendas. Despite their claims of dif-
ference, one common feature is their attention to the outward appearance of their
followers. Men and women should present themselves as guardians of morality.
Therefore, male followers ideally wear liḥya (long beards), jubah and avoid isbal
(Ar. isbāl) (below ankle-length trousers). Female followers should wear Muslim
dress, of which the cadar forms a crucial element.
The presence of the Salafi movement with its diverse factions in Indonesia can
be further regarded as the most prominent element in the increasing popularity
of the current practice of wearing the cadar and the purdah. Wearing the cadar,
in the life of Salafi women, has long been part of their body techniques which
are also part of the collective understanding of religious scholars within diverse
Salafi circles that true Muslimah should embody this kind of practice. This prac-
tice is intertwined with the wearers’ quest to be true Muslimah following what
they believe are the teachings of true Islam. Therefore, the practice of face veil-
ing is not merely about women’s covering, it is also a reflection of the embodied
knowledge and understanding of the wearers.
44  The practice of face veiling in the archipelago
The significant influence of the Salafi movement in Indonesia can be seen
through the establishment of the Dewan Dakwah Islamiyah Indonesia/Indonesian
Council for Islamic Propagation (DDII) by the former leader of Masyumi,
Muhammad Natsir (1908–93), in 1967. DDII developed a good relationship
with a Saudi Arabian organisation established in 1962 which was responsible for
spreading Salafi Islam, the Rābiṭa al-ʿĀlam al-Islāmiy (Islamic World League).
In 1973, DDII was appointed as the representative of the Rābiṭa in Indonesia
(Hasan 2002, 151–52). In 1980, the establishment of a Saudi-funded university
in Indonesia, Lembaga Ilmu Pengetahuan Islam dan Bahasa Arab (Institute for
the Study of Islam and Arabic, LIPIA), has further strengthened the influence of
Saudi-Salafi Islam in Indonesia. Diverse Salafi groups in Indonesia have devel-
oped significantly since the 1990s on some campuses (van Bruinessen 2002, 134).
This development was particularly due to Indonesian students returning from
studies in Saudi Arabia, Yemen, Egypt and other centres of Islamic learning in
the Middle East.
Nowadays, Salafism in Arab countries—such as Saudi Arabia, Yemen and
Kuwait—can be regarded as the main references for the diverse Salafi factions in
Indonesia. There have also been some changes in the styles of Muslim women’s
dress in these countries. For example, in Saudi Arabia, prior to the unification of
the kingdom in 1932, Hejazi women still wore a pale coloured veil. Following
unification, the black veil became the norm (Yamani 1997, 59). During the 1980s,
the same time as people in Indonesia witnessed the expansion of the Salafi move-
ment, Hejazi women became stricter in the practice of veiling. In Yemen, since its
unification in 1990, most women have worn a head covering in accordance with
the growing religious conservatism (Adra 2006, 47–48).
Women in Salafi groups are not only very strict in practising the cadar but
are also very active in disseminating the norms within their subcultures. Among
many diverse Salafi factions, cadar is regarded as the ideal Muslim dress (except
for the jihadi Salafi faction). One of the Salafi jihadi teachers (asātidh), Abu Jibril,
mentioned that it was an Australian Salafi woman called Rabiah Hutchinson who
popularised the wearing of a certain modest Muslim dress, particularly the ʿabāya,
to her Indonesian Muslim sisters (Neighbour 2009, 114). This is most likely true
within Salafi jihadi circles, because Rabiah had started to wear the ʿabāya in the
early 1980s. However, to assume that it was Rabiah who introduced ʿabāya is
misleading because earlier Darul Arqam women had worn not only ʿabāya but
also cadar. Rabiah, had worn a triangular jilbab in the 1980s and began to wear
the cadar in the early 1990s when she was in Afghanistan (Neighbour 2009, 175).
The mainstream cadar constituencies these days come from non-violent factions.
However, media attention has focused on those associating themselves with ter-
rorist cells in Indonesia.

Cadar as a ‘shelter’
Since 2011, Indonesia has begun to witness the phenomenon of the cadar as a
‘shelter’ for women who have had to face the Lady of Justice. This book, however,
 The practice of face veiling in the archipelago  45
does not focus on this type of wearer because their numbers are still relatively
small, and the women involved mostly wear it only temporarily. However, I need
to mention the practice here briefly because their initial appearance of these women
has shocked many Indonesians. This started when four women received extensive
media coverage on their sudden use of the cadar: Dharnawati, a businesswoman
who was found guilty of bribing two officials at the Manpower and Transmigration
Ministry, and who started to wear the cadar in public in September 2011; the two
witnesses of the bribery case of the athletes’ village construction project for the
Southeast Asian Games, Yulianis and Oktarina Furi, who appeared in court wearing
cadar in January 2012; and finally, Neneng Sri Wahyuni, a businesswoman who
was sentenced to six years gaol and was convicted of corruption relating to a solar
power project.21 Wahyuni first appeared in public wearing a cadar in June 2012.
Some journalists and scholars consider this phenomenon to be a new trend of
female defendants turning to religious symbols. It is not only the cadar which has
been worn by these ‘delinquent’ women, but also different types of veils, espe-
cially kerudung and jilbab. The presence of veiled women when on trial is not a
striking phenomenon, because it has been common to see men wearing religious
outfits when facing legal matters. Nevertheless, the presence of the cadar in court
was initially common in the trials of the wives of terrorists. The Indonesian public
was surprised to see women who had previously not worn the veil in their daily
lives, suddenly adopting the strictest type of woman’s covering, the cadar. News
on this issue was splashed across the headlines of Indonesian media. Republika, a
well-known Indonesian daily newspaper, had this issue as their headline for two
days in a row.22
The motives of delinquent women for wearing the cadar are different to those
of the main research subjects of this book. They wore it not for religious ends,
but for the purpose of ‘shelter’ in the hope it could save them from bad luck dur-
ing their law cases. For example, Yulianis admitted this by saying that ‘cadar
hanya kami [Oktarina Furi and I] pakai di persidangan’ (we only wear the cadar
during the trial) (detikNews 28 January 2012). Other than Yulianis and Oktarina
Furi, Dharnawati also stated that her motive for wearing the cadar was mainly for
safety reasons. The women understood that their lives might be in danger because
of the legal cases. Therefore, their reasons for wearing the cadar were far from
gaining advantage in their religious lives.
Many outsiders, however, see it differently, namely that the cadar was worn
by the women not only because of fear of exposure but also to draw the sympathy
of the judge and the public (Djani 2012). Therefore, some might assume that they
wore it at the suggestion of their lawyers as part of an ‘innocent’ image-building
strategy. This kind of assumption led many people, including religious scholars of
the two main movements in this study, to see the women’s adoption of the cadar
as an insult towards Islam.
Henk Schulte Nordholt’s (1997) argument on the importance of clothes in
the social context is especially helpful in helping us to analyse this current trend.
Nordholt beautifully explains the role of dress in the social context (1997). He points
out the importance of clothes and the connection to one’s identity: ‘Clothes are, in
46  The practice of face veiling in the archipelago
other words, our social and cultural skin’ (1997, 1). Since clothes are our social and
cultural skin, they convey meaning to outsiders. Therefore, the plurality of meaning
related to clothes cannot be neglected. This is illustrated in the perceptions held by
outsiders to cadar-wearing women in the courts and the wearers themselves which
might be different. Nordholt says, ‘It is, moreover, very likely that there is a differ-
ence between intention and perception, between the motivation for wearing certain
clothes and the various ways this is interpreted by others’ (1997, 2).
Those who oppose the use of the cadar by female defendants might see them
as ‘manipulating’ the concept of piety or taat (obedience) attached to the cadar,
especially because they wore it only during their appearances in court. However,
the effort of these women to adopt the cadar also demonstrates the ways in which
they have internalised the social expectations of the image of the good woman.
Their choice of wearing the cadar indicates their knowledge of certain body tech-
niques that stem from collective understandings.
Referring to the motives of these women defendants, their agency cannot be
classified as a compliant form of agency or a ‘doing religion’ type of agency, to
borrow Avishai’s term (2008). Rather, it is more suitably analysed as part of the
instrumental agency that focuses on non-religious outcomes. Those who exercise
this kind of agency are mainly concerned with the non-religious outcomes of their
religious practice (Burke 2012, 124). Kelsy Burke argues that this instrumental
agency ‘emphasises external advantages (either material or relational) that may
result from religious participation’ (2012, 127). The female defendants do not have
certain religious affiliations. However, they use religion by adopting certain reli-
gious symbols and the external advantage they gain is more relational. They believe
that the cadar can save them from bad luck, impressions and intentions. It allows
them to feel comfortable, safe and secure facing a turbulent time in their lives.
The practice of face veiling across time demonstrates that for many women,
social scripts (including religious ones) and expectations are important for the
wearer’s sense of being a ‘“who” and a “what”’ (George 2010, 13). Therefore,
the women’s subjectivity is also part of the production of the way they negoti-
ate their private existence and public expectations. This can be clearly seen, for
example, from the motives behind the decision of women to wear the face veil,
such as the Bimanese women with their rimpu, women of diverse religious move-
ments and the female graft defendants with their cadar. This phenomenon also
accords well with Avishai’s argument that agency does not occur in a discursive
vacuum. One element that has united the practice of face veiling from time to
time, including the adoption of rimpu mpida, is that this practice can be analysed
as a body technique derived from collective knowledge—except in the case of
the face-veiled graft suspects. Wearing the cadar, therefore, is regarded as the
embodiment of what the wearers believe to be the true knowledge prevalent in
certain localities.
This chapter has argued that the local practice of face veiling in the archi-
pelago is not exclusively of modern provenance, but rather has a historical
tradition in various local cultures and that the face veil was worn well before
the modern Islamic revival in Indonesia. The case of Bima has been treated in
 The practice of face veiling in the archipelago  47
more depth, without the intention of making generalisations about other local
practices of face veiling in the archipelago, but on the basis of the existence of
the practice by very few Bimanese women to date. Rimpu mpida reflects the
religious and ethnic identity of the people of Bima. This hybrid combination of
what is perceived as Muslim dress with the spirit of local wisdom can be seen
from the ruling that accompanies the adoption of different styles of veiling in
the archipelago.
The dominant view of the practice of face veiling is that it is part of the
Arabisation agenda of Islam in the archipelago. However, this chapter has dem-
onstrated that despite the important role of Arabs in the advent of Islam and in the
transmission of religious knowledge, the contribution of present-day Indonesian
ʿulamāʾ during the Islamisation process of the archipelago is significant, includ-
ing those who have successfully built transnational scholarly networks with
ʿulamāʾ in the Middle East, Africa and Asia. In addition to this, the percep-
tion that the present-day practice of wearing the cadar in Indonesia is a mere
by-product of Arab culture ignores other influences, especially revivalist move-
ments originating from other countries, in particular Malaysia, India, Pakistan
and Bangladesh. Indeed, interactions with neighbouring countries—especially
Malaysia through Darul Arqam and India, Pakistan and Bangladesh through
Tablīghī Jamāʿat—brought the current practice of face veiling to contemporary
Muslims in Indonesia. Although Darul Arqam women contributed to the grow-
ing popularity of the cadar and purdah in Indonesia, they no longer preserve the
cadar and purdah after the ‘tiring’ journey of confrontation with the Malaysian
Government, except for small numbers of the older generation who have become
used to the cadar. Similarly, rimpu is now mostly worn by the older generation.
Currently, staunch supporters of the cadar and the purdah are Tablīghī and Salafi
women. Therefore, throughout this book, I focus on cadari who have an attach-
ment—directly and indirectly—to these movements. Salafi women are indeed
the most active and strict wearers. The adoption of the cadar and the purdah
among the younger generations has a strong connection with the subculture to
which they belong.
The present-day practice of face veiling demonstrates the agency of these reli-
gious women. The agency that the cadari exercise is mainly related to religious
goals. The latter part of the chapter has demonstrated a different kind of trend
in which the agency of face-veiled women who have to face legal cases can be
regarded as an instrumental agency, as they wear the cadar for non-religious ends.
These women wear the cadar for their own benefit, which has nothing to do with
religion. This is not the type of mainstream agency that can be seen in the lives of
face-veiled women, especially the research subjects of this book.

Notes
1 Nowadays, the term hijab has become increasingly popular to refer to a veil besides keru-
dung and jilbab. The Arabic term ḥijāb has a broader coverage, including diverse forms
of covering. Many people in Indonesia often use these three terms interchangeably.
48  The practice of face veiling in the archipelago
2 This regulation was issued in some parts of present-day Indonesia, such as in the ­capital
Batavia (van Dijk 1997, 45). The rationale behind the rule was the preservation of
public order. Perpetrators could be easily identified through their outward appearance
(Kaptein 2009, 177). In other parts of the archipelago some Muslims started to adopt
Arab dress as a symbol of their religiosity and as a ‘battledress’ against non-Muslims
and half-hearted Muslims (van Dijk 1997, 55). For example, Muslims who participated
in the anti-Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie (VOC) propaganda in Banten in the
1670s and joined Prince Dipanagara (Diponegoro) during the Java War (1825–30)
reportedly preferred wearing Arab dress instead of Javanese costume. The regulations
lasted up to the end of the nineteenth century (van Dijk 2001, 54–55). By the early
twentieth century, the authorities could not maintain the regulation due to the increas-
ing adoption of ‘western’ dress (van Dijk 2001, 58).
3 The concern about covering bodies in the archipelago was the result of Islamic and
European influences (Nordholt 1997, 11).
4 It is noteworthy that the followers of Muḥammad b. ʿAbd al-Wahhāb refused to
be called ‘Wahhabi,’ a designation created by outsiders. They prefer to be labelled
‘al-muwaḥḥidūn’ (Unitarians), ‘salafi’ (followers of pious predecessors) or ‘ahl
al-tawḥīd’ (the people of Divine unity). For a sympathetic study of Wahhabism, see
Natana DeLong-Bas (2004), and for a more critical study of Wahhabism, see David
Commins (2006).
5 In Yemen when it was two separate countries (North Yemen and South Yemen), women
wore diverse types of dress; some covered their faces with lithma—a face veil which
consists of ‘a long piece of black cloth tightly wrapped around both the upper and lower
part of the face’ (Moors 2007, 335)—such as women in Sanaa (North Yemen). Some
women in South Yemen wore a scarf tied under their chin without covering their faces
and some even rejected the practice of covering the hair (Makhlouf 1979, 30–34; see
also Moors 2007).
6 It is important to note that Bima is chosen not because the practice of face veiling in
this region can lay a historical context for later discussion in this study of cadari in
Indonesia. It is chosen because the local practice of face veiling exists to date, even
though the number of wearers has decreased significantly. This phenomenon is missing
in the main field sites of this study, Jakarta, Yogyakarta and Makassar.
7 It is noteworthy that Hitchcock does not actually mention the word rimpu but instead
he uses rimpi to refer to women’s headcover.
8 Therefore, the two different types of rimpu also provide a marker of a woman’s
marital status. According to its history, a woman could be identified either as single
or married through their adoption of rimpu mpida or rimpu colo. This kind of rule
regarding the clothes that symbolise the marital status of the wearers was common
in other parts of the archipelago, such as in South Sulawesi where unmarried women
wore red (blood red and clear red) and married women wore deeper red (Robinson
1998, 284).
9 Today, women who wear rimpu can be found especially in rural areas including some
parts of Bima, such as in the sub-districts Wawo, Sape, Lambitu, Sanggar, Tambora,
Palibelo, Belo, Woha and Monta (Sundari 2010).
10 It is also worn as a costume during the pawai (parade) on Indonesian Independence
Day, 17 August.
11 See Kota Bima Pecahkan Rekor MURI Pakaian Adat Rimpu Terbanyak, n.d., avail-
able 18 March 2021 at: [Link]
e08b​44d8​bf0c0e546​_Kota​%20Bima​%20Pecahkan​%20Rekor​%20MURI​%20Pakaian​
%20Adat​%20Rimpu​%20Terbanyak​.pdf.
12 Instant jilbab, sometimes known as instant kerudung (kerudung instan), emerged in
Indonesia as early as the 1980s. It is an already shaped headpiece with elastic that can be
directly put on without the need for pins. In my interview with a prominent Indonesian
 The practice of face veiling in the archipelago  49
designer specialising in Muslim dress, Ida Royani pointed out that since the 1980s the
shape of this instant kerudung has evolved and its use has gained momentum. Instant
kerudung, which are mostly made of Lycra fabrics, is a response to the difficulties faced
by Muslim women who want to wear the veil. By wearing instant kerudung, Muslim
women do not have to allocate much time or provide many accessories to wear head
coverings; no pins and no bandana are needed (Amrullah 2008, 23). With the emergence
of instant kerudung, many Muslim women feel that their daily lives have become easier.
13 In addition, some women followers of other Islamic groups and organisations in
Indonesia, such as those of Jama’ah An Nazir and a few Nahdlatul Ulama (NU) women
also wear the cadar.
14 Global Ikhwan can be regarded as the new face of Al-Arqam (Neo-Arqam Movement)
or Darul Arqam, as it is better known in Indonesia. It is the last known name of Darul
Arqam in Indonesia. Before Global Ikhwan (since 2008), it was also known as Jama’ah
Rufaqa’ (1997–2008). In its country of origin, Malaysia, Rufaqa’ was registered as
a business corporation known as Syarikat Rufaqa’ Corporation Sdn Bhd founded by
the same leader of Darul Arqam Ashaari in April 1997, Rawang, Selangor. In 2006,
Rufaqa’ was accused several times of trying to revive the Darul Arqam movement and
violating the fatwa on its banning.
15 Awrad Muhammadiyah is a dhikr (litany formula) compilation by Shaykh Suhaimi and
is read regularly by followers after each prayer time.
16 This can be understood because, to a certain extent, some of the NU traditions are
quite close to those of Darul Arqam. In terms of religious activities, for example, Darul
Arqam reads Mawlid al-Barzanjī and Mawlid al-Dībaʿī to commemorate the birth of
the Prophet (Dasuki 1994, 287).
17 In 1990, for example, some Darul Arqam women were already active in performing
their daʿwa in Samosir Island, North Sumatra (Jah 1990, 5).
18 Malaysian terms are often used by Darul Arqam in Indonesia, such as the use of tudung
and tudung labuh.
19 Some studies, such as Nasrullah (2005), mentioned that it was in the period of Mawlānā
Inʿamul Ḥasan (1918–95), the successor of Mawlānā Yūsuf or the third amīr of Tablīghī
Jamāʿat, that Tablīghī Jamāʿat came to Indonesia.
20 Mastura (Ar. mastūra) in Arabic literally means ‘something being covered.’ Among
Tablīghī, mastura is generally a term referring to a woman, or a woman who has per-
formed khurūj (to go out of one’s own neighbourhood to proselytise). Matters relating
to women always use the term mastura, so the term is used to define women’s khurūj is
mastura khurūj or in Indonesia it is sometimes called masturahan, and women’s taʿlīm
(religious study group) is mastura taʿlīm.
21 She is also the wife of Muhammad Nazaruddin, the former treasurer of Indonesian’s
Democratic Party, who was convicted of corruption in connection with tenders for the
Southeast Asian games.
22 The first headline titled ‘Mendadak Beratribut Agama’ (Suddenly adopting reli-
gious symbol) (20 June 2012) and the second headline was ‘Sandiwara Penampilan’
(Hypocritical performance) (21 June 2012).

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2 The production of Islamic knowledge
and the introduction of taat habitus

The voices of women who enjoy living strict lifestyles are often neglected in
scholarly works on the lives of Muslim women, including Indonesian Muslim
women. This chapter investigates one of the motives behind the decisions of
cadari (face-veiled women) to wear the cadar (face veil) and embody their taat
(Ar. ṭāʿa or obedient) habitus, namely to follow particular authoritative voices.
In addition, it strives to unpack the doctrines they uphold related to conventional
ideas associated with femininity and marital life. Femininity in this context is
expressed in the ways cadari structure their lifestyles and desires to adjust to the
proper appearance of a true Muslim woman (Muslimah). Their taat habitus has
introduced them to the importance of religious homogamy in marriage to ensure
that they achieve their aspiration to be true Muslimah by marrying husbands who
have the same understanding of Islamic doctrines.
Adapting the insights of Saba Mahmood (2005), I wish to employ the
Aristotelian concept of habitus to the life of cadari, including their marital life.
This emphasises the role of ethical pedagogy or ‘conscious training in the habitu-
ation of virtues’ (Mahmood 2005, 139). My aim is to understand cadari’s choices
in terms of self-consciously constructing a virtuous or taat habitus. How cadari
live their lives and how they constantly discipline their bodies are consistent with
those who speak for Islam and its doctrines within their communities. As men-
tioned in the introduction, this point highlights the difference between the focus of
Mahmood’s study and that of this book. Piety for the women in Mahmood’s study
is highly individuated. The cadari in this study and their concern with perform-
ing taat or ketaatan (obedience) signify a slightly different goal than that of the
women observed by Mahmood, in that they judge their performance of ketaatan
through the eyes and voices of authority figures.
Following Michel Foucault, who was influenced by Aristotle and is central to
Mahmood’s conceptualisation of agency, this chapter begins by unpacking the
‘moral code’ that surrounds cadari lives. Foucault defines ‘moral code’ as ‘A
set of values and rules of action that are recommended to individuals through
the intermediary of various prescriptive agencies such as the family (in one of its
roles), educational institutions, churches and so forth’ (1990, 25). This chapter
brings us to understand the moral code introduced through the voices of authority
figures in the lives of cadari. Following from this, the subsequent chapters focus

DOI: 10.4324/9781003246442-3
 Introduction of taat habitus  57
more on Foucault’s other dimension of morality, namely ‘ethical conduct’ which
refers to ‘the manner in which one ought to form oneself as an ethical subject act-
ing in reference to the prescriptive elements that make up the code’ (1990, 26). It
should be noted that in the context of modes of subjectivation, Foucault empha-
sises that there are many different ways to form a relationship with a moral code
or ‘to “conduct oneself” morally’ (1990, 26–28). By unpacking the moral code,
this book is able to focus on the ethical conduct of cadari illustrated from the
disciplinary exercises they employ to achieve happiness by being true Muslimah.
The agency of women who strive to understand their religion accords well with
Orit Avishai’s concept of ‘doing religion’ (2008). Their quest for an authentic
Islam and their religious practices resonates with the logic of what they perceive
to be the true Islam. Their agency mirrors religious conduct or the ‘doing of their
religion.’ The main research subjects in this study do not use religion for non-
religious ends. Their agency is not an instrumental agency in the sense used by
Kelsy Burke (2012), but it is a compliant form of agency that they utilise as they
are ‘doing religion’ (Avishai 2008).
A key focus of this chapter involves understanding the authoritative sources
in the life of cadari—sources that influence their choices and introduce them to
a purification agenda, especially those virtuous practices related to the construc-
tion of a taat habitus. As cadari in Indonesia are mostly affiliated with the Salafi
and Tablīghī Jamāʿat movements, this chapter focuses principally on doctrines
introduced by their ʿulamā’ (religious scholars) concerning women within both
movements. This aligns with Peter Mandaville’s argument on the globalisation of
religious knowledge (2007b). Globalisation (in the sense of the transmission of
religious ideas and religious awakening across national borders) and its apparatus
have enabled these cadari to not only find new forms of Islam but new versions
of their lives that lead them to achieve their aspiration to be true Muslimah. This
chapter highlights the competing voices pertaining to what a taat habitus and a
true Muslim woman’s life entail.
This chapter also aligns closely with scholars working on the anthropology of
religion highlighting the importance of taking God seriously (Moll 2018, 258).
Scholars of the anthropology of Islam or those conducting ethnography among
Muslims have long discussed the position of (Islamic) texts, including the very
word of God, in their work (Varisco 2005; Schielke 2019). Ronald Lukens-Bull
asks, ‘The anthropological study of Islam is one that has been plagued by prob-
lems of definition. What exactly are we studying? Local practices, universal texts
and standards of practice, or something else entirely’ (1999). This question is
not easy to answer. The cadari in this study who always feel thirsty for reli-
gious knowledge and instructions have led me to take God seriously. Talal Asad’s
discursive tradition emphasises that Islam ‘consists essentially of discourses that
seek to instruct practitioners regarding the correct form and purpose of a given
practice that, precisely because it is established, has a history’ (1986, 14). This
chapter demonstrates the varied aspects used to instruct cadari on how to act
in particular ways to be true Muslimah. Yasmin Moll argues, ‘One way to take
God seriously anthropologically … is to pay attention to how religious subjects
58  Introduction of taat habitus

Figure 2.1  Niqab Squad cadari attending a regular kajian (gathering for Islamic study) in
Jakarta at which Ustādh Oemar Mita was teaching. Source. Photo credit, the
author, 29 October 2017.

themselves do so, to trace ethnographically the social life of theology as a space

of critical contestation’ (2018, 258). Through this chapter, we can see how cadari
understand God’s desires through the voices of the influential religious authority
figures in their lives (Figure 2.1). Although this chapter takes seriously talk about
God, I am not involved in theological debates beyond what I have learnt from the
voices of my research subjects.

Globalisation that brings sound

authoritative religious knowledge
The globalisation of religious knowledge is important in understanding how
Tablīghī and Salafism exist as prevalent doctrines in the life of cadari in Indonesia.
The pluralisation of Islamic knowledge and authority becomes more salient now-
adays, particularly due to the impact of globalisation. Mandaville (2007b, 102)
has pointed out that

globalization does not in and of itself instantiate a pluralisation of Islamic

authority insofar as there has never existed a situated, singular source of
authentic Muslim knowledge. Rather, globalisation can be seen to represent
 Introduction of taat habitus  59
a further shift in the extent and intensity of debate about the meaning and
nature of the authoritative in Islam.

Global transnational religious knowledge networks can be seen in the life of

cadari evident from global networks built by ʿulamā’ within their movements.
For example, Tablīghī elites have obtained religious education in South Asia.
Salafi asātidh (male religious scholars) from diverse groups in Indonesia have
made strong links to distinguished Muslim experts (pl. shuyūkh, sing. shaykh)
in many Arab countries. Elites in diverse Salafi factions often sit in the same
study circles and have the same teacher (Wiktorowicz 2006, 213). For example,
Shaykh Muḥammad Nāṣir al-Dīn al-Albānī, a well-known Salafi ḥadīth (the
narration of words, deeds or approvals of the Prophet Muḥammad) scholar, who
is also known as the traditionalist of the era (muḥaddith al-ʿaṣr) and one of
the most important influences on modern Salafism, had students and followers
ranging from non-violent Salafi to radicals (Meijer 2009, 9; Wiktorowicz 2006,
213). In Indonesia, the opinion of al-Albānī on matters relating to women is
upheld by different groups—groups which often have friction on a daily basis
on other matters.
What is important for Tablīghī and Salafi women is religious knowledge pro-
duced beyond the confines of nation states. Therefore, fatwa (Ar. fatāwā, sing.
fatwā referring to nonbinding religious rulings or opinions from religious schol-
ars on questions related to Islam and Muslims) issued by fatwa givers (mufti)
from other Muslim countries belonging to the same Islamic tradition can become
authoritative. Diverse Salafi groups in Indonesia follow different religious author-
ities, though many follow fatwa given by mufti from the Permanent Committee
for Scientific Research and Nonbinding Religious Ruling (al-Lajna al-Dā’ima
lil-Buhūth al-ʿIlmiyya wa-l-Iftā’) in Saudi Arabia. Mostly, they share identical
characteristics of Salafi manhaj (lit. a methodology that refers to the way of life
of the early Muslims). They reject the blind following of certain religious schol-
ars (taqlīd)1 and support the use of individual interpretations of basic sources of
Islam, the Qurʾān and ḥadīth. At the same time, they reject the use of human
reason and logic to understand these sources.
Tension among Salafi groups usually originates from the way the interpreta-
tion of Islam is contextualised and how they apply their understanding of Islam
to contemporary issues. The tension can also be seen in the opinions of Salafi
ʿulamā’ on matters related to women, including the cadar which will be discussed
in this chapter.
All the contemporary Salafi currents (purist, political and jihadi or other clas-
sifications) follow the basic doctrines of the purification of classical references,
such as their rejection of bidʿa (innovation which is forbidden in religion) and their
condemnation of the veneration of the tombs of saints. The classical references or
important figures in the formation of Salafi doctrines in Indonesia are Aḥmad b.
Ḥanbal (780–855), the founder of Ḥanbalism or one of Sunni law schools; Taqiy
al-Dīn Aḥmad b. Taymiyya (1263–1328), the follower of Aḥmad b. Ḥanbal and
the main inspiration for Muḥammad b. ʿAbd al-Wahhāb in his effort to purify
60  Introduction of taat habitus
Islam; Muḥammad b. Qayyīm al-Jawziyya (1292–1350), the main disciple of Ibn
Taymiyya; and Muḥammad b. ʿAbd al-Wahhāb (1703–1792), the founder of a
reformist movement in Saudi Arabia in the eighteenth century.
Further in its development, although varied Salafi factions have their own
main figures who have authoritative voices with regard to their opinions on
contemporary affairs, in terms of their common religious creed (such as their
understanding of tawhīd or a doctrine that does not allow any associates of God,
practising the Sharīʿa and avoiding bidʿa), they mostly follow purist scholars.
Senior purist scholars are well known for their great and deep religious knowl-
edge in comparison to those of the haraki (activist) or politico2 and jihadi3 fac-
tions whose authority lies in their political analysis (Wiktorowicz 2006, 224–25;
see also Pall 2012). Among well-known senior purist scholars are ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz
b. Bāz (1912–99), Muḥammad Nāṣir al-Dīn al-Albānī (1914–99), Muḥammad b.
Ṣāliḥ al-Uthaymīn (1928–2001) and Ṣāliḥ b. Fawzān al-Fawzān (b. 1933). They
are those whose religious opinions are most often cited among diverse Salafi fac-
tions even though different opinions on Islamic teachings can be found among
these senior purist scholars.
The tension within Salafi factions mirrors ‘a generational struggle over
sacred authority—the right to interpret Islam on behalf of the Muslim com-
munity’ (Wiktorowicz 2006, 221). In Indonesia, diverse Salafi factions can be
seen as a result of constant disputes linked to the ways these groups contextu-
alise their Salafi ideology; some groups are perceived as too accommodative
and others as too rigid (ICG 2004a, 12). The same terms, purists, haraki,4
and jihadi, are often used (Wahid 2014, 372). For example, Abu Nida’s circle
and Wahdah Islamiyah are often labelled as being part of haraki Salafi (Iqbal
2017, 73; Wahid 2012, 252). Other terms are also used in Indonesia, such as
Yemeni Salafi, which refers to a purist faction affiliated with a leading pur-
ist Salafi figure in Yemen, Shaykh Muqbil b. Hādī al-Wādiʿī (the founder of
Salafism in Yemen). The competition for Arabian funding (from Saudi Arabia,
Kuwait and other Gulf countries) that has flowed into Indonesia to support
the expression of preferred forms of Islamic practice is also a major source of
friction (ICG 2004, 12).

Media and transnational religious networks

The proliferation of Islamic presses and diverse forms of media in Indonesia has
played a significant role in the transmission of Islamic doctrines of moral purifica-
tion from other parts of the Muslim world. Most of the cadari with whom I worked
argued that Islamic knowledge brought by diverse forms of media, including the
internet and various social media platforms, has enabled them to cultivate virtu-
ous conduct. Ummu Mu’az, a 33-year-old cadre from one of the Salafi groups in
Yogyakarta, says:

I always asked other sisters to be active to generate Islamic knowledge not

only from attending the taʿlīm [religious study circle] but also from listening
 Introduction of taat habitus  61
to our radio, buying good books from well-known Middle Eastern shaykh,
and accessing Salafi websites. All these elements should be used not only as
references but also as a reminder for them to cultivate good habits, especially
ketaatan to God and the Prophet. I also said to them, if we want to be good
and true Muslimah then we have to be proactive.

Like Ummu Mu’az, many cadari whom I interviewed mentioned that all the
entailments of being a true Muslimah and the introduction to virtuous practices as
well as how to discipline their lifestyle can be found in booklets of fatwa trans-
lated from Middle Eastern mufti or from their community bulletins, websites,
social media accounts, magazines and journals sold at booksellers’ stalls, usually
set up outside or in the corner of every female taʿlīm.
In addition to the circulation of printed materials, two media have played an
increasingly important role in facilitating global networks of religious knowledge
and authority. The first involves the growth of community radio (radio komunitas)
in Indonesia. One of the best managed is Radio Rodja, which was aired on the
FM band in 2005 and expanded its coverage by opening an AM band (756AM) in
May 2007 to cover Jabodetabek (Jakarta, Bogor, Depok, Tangerang and Bekasi).
Radio Rodja has a special program of lectures from well-known and distinguished
Middle Eastern Muslim experts with direct translation from Indonesian students
studying in Saudi Arabia. For example, the station broadcasts lectures given by
Shaykh ʿAbd al-Razzāq b. ʿAbd al-Muhsin al-Badr, a professor in the Department
of Theology at the Islamic University in Medina.
The second important modern technology tool is the internet. Cadari deepen
their religious knowledge by accessing lawful or halal (Ar. ḥalāl) websites,
where they can see videos or hear recordings of distinguished Muslim experts
delivering sermons on religious affairs. They can also read articles from reli-
gious scholars approved by the authorities of their communities. Cadari who
are staunch supporters of Salafi groups usually have been informed by reli-
gious teachers in their communities about the relevant halal websites. The
most reliable among the large number of websites on Islam are identified by
reference to the name of their shaykh and ustādh (religious scholar). These
community websites usually list some worldwide Muslim websites which have
the same understanding of Islam as their groups. In addition, there have been
efforts to overcome the possibility of Islamic religious seekers going astray.
A group of Salafi followers have established their own version of Google
search, called Yufid, that generates ‘safe’ articles from qualified Islamic schol-
ars which have the same understandings of Islam as their group. Lately, the
growth of tech-savvy Salafi preachers from varied groups has been significant.
Many of these preachers, such as Khalid Basalamah, Syafiq Riza Basalamah
and Adi Hidayat, have successfully generated income from the popularity of
their YouTube accounts.
For my research subjects, the technological dimension of globalisation is
important to facilitating their efforts towards self-disciplining, which they view as
an essential quality defining the true Muslimah. Ummu Mu’az says:
62  Introduction of taat habitus
You know Mbak [Sister], the essence to be true Muslimah is to teach us to
embody pure Islam, not Islam that we know from our parents. We will not
know this from them, of course, but from our own effort to generate this new
knowledge. We can use high technology [like the internet] for our purpose,
for accessing knowledge from shaykh living far away from us.

Ummu Mu’az’s statement demonstrates that the notion of self-purification is a

key expression of the learnt habitus that they have constructed through their asso-
ciations with their various movements.

The position of cadari in the production of religious knowledge

It is noticeable that cadari follow religious knowledge produced by global and
local ʿulamā’ within their own groups. So, what is their position in relation to
the production of religious knowledge? Are they mere followers? It should be
noted that in contrast to women from other Muslim organisations in Indonesia,
especially the two largest Muslim organisations (Nahdlatul Ulama or NU and
Muhammadiyah), the women in this study are less concerned with engaging in
intellectual discourse and in challenging the patriarchal interpretation of Islamic
teachings than those who support a progressive understanding of Islam (Nisa
2019; Rinaldo 2008). However, they are certainly active agents in searching for
religious knowledge and, in particular, their version of the true Islam. Although
they oppose the blind following of certain religious scholars (taqlīd), most of these
women still believe that they are not worthy to make individual interpretations of
the basic sources of Islam; this is still the prerogative of qualified religious experts.
This does not mean that none of the cadari is able to showcase their Islamic
view. Some of them are active in writing online articles for Salafi Muslim wom-
en’s websites and bulletins, as will be explained in Chapter 6. Their writing, how-
ever, can be regarded as an ‘amplifier’ of ʿulamā’—local and global—in their
movements. One example of this is an article titled ‘Al Wala’ Wal Baro’: Kunci
Sempurnanya Tauhid’ (Fidelity to Islam and Muslims and dissociation from all
things non-Islamic: The key to perfect monotheism) by Ummu ʿAbdirrahman on
a Salafi Muslimah website (Muslimah​.or​​.id n.d.). She explained the importance
of the doctrine of al-walā’ wa-l-barā’ and its connection to ketaatan. Her marājiʿ
(references) here are to the voices of local and global ʿulamā’, Syakh Ṣāliḥ b.
Fawzān al-Fawzān and Ustādh (Ind. Ustaz) Afifi Abdul Wadud. By referring to
the voices of these ʿulamā, Ummu ʿAbdirrahman explained that al-walā’ wa-l-
barā’ requires all Muslims, including women, to prove their love for ‘God by lov-
ing what God loves and hating what God hates’ (n.d.). She explained some points
pertaining to al-barā’ (dissociation from all things non-Islamic and the renuncia-
tion of unbelievers) including ‘Do not imitate them [unbelievers] in things that are
their characteristics and habits both related to worldly [conduct] (such as how to
dress, how to eat) or religion (such as celebrating their religious festivals).’
The women I interviewed mostly felt they were still improving their capacity
to be able to understand the true teaching of Islam and enhance their ability to
 Introduction of taat habitus  63
speak and understand the Arabic language. Acquiring Arabic in the process of
knowledge production is important since most of the references that they need to
become familiar with are in Arabic. One popular institution often mentioned as
useful by my Salafi research subjects for Arabic and Islamic studies is the Medina
International University or MEDIU.5 It was established in Medina in 2004 as a dis-
tance learning higher education institution with a branch in Malaysia founded in
June 2006. In Indonesia, it began operating in 2008 in Makassar and Yogyakarta.
Their aim is to provide training for male and female students to become religious
scholars who can be the agents of change in their community. MEDIU provides
a way to satisfy the female constituent’s eagerness to learn Islam directly from
distinguished Muslim experts living in other Muslim countries, in particular Saudi
Arabia, because women are trapped in their own strict interpretations of Islam
which do not allow them to leave their countries without their non-marriageable
male kin (maḥram). The Saudi Arabian Board of Religious Decrees, al-Lajna
al-Dā’ima lī al-Buhūth al-ʿIlmiyya wa al-Iftā’, for example, argues that it is for-
bidden for a woman to go out without their maḥram (al-Juraysī 2008). In support
of this, the ʿulamā’ quote a ḥadīth narrated by Ibn ʿUmar that the Messenger of
Allah (the Prophet Muḥammad) said: A woman must not travel for three days
except with a maḥram (al-Juraysī 2008, 1927).
One of the primary motivations for cadari to deepen their religious knowl-
edge is because of their commitment and full responsibility towards daʿwa (Ind.
dakwah) (proselytisation) and their object of daʿwa. When cadres from various
Salafi factions become aware of their commitment, they begin to strive to develop
their ability in the learning of religious knowledge. Being knowledgeable, for
these cadari, is part of the process of becoming taat.

Embodying taat habitus

Becoming obedient or taat by following the religious teachings introduced by
religious authorities within their religious movements is part of these cadari’s
habitus. The lives of cadari in self-disciplining themselves to be true Muslimah
can be explained through the Aristotelian formulation of habitus. Aristotle illus-
trates: ‘Men [sic] will be good or bad builders as a result of building well or badly.
For if this were not so, there would have been no need of a teacher.… This, then,
is the case with the virtues also; by doing the acts that we do in our transactions
with other men we become just or unjust’ (2000, Book 2, 15). He emphasises that
people are rational beings who can make decisions and choices to take particular
actions to attain happiness. Rational beings must constantly refine themselves to
attain happiness (Book 2, 14). The passionate cadari, who decide to wear the
cadar and explore what is best for them by becoming taat to all religious rulings,
are also rational creatures. They understand their bodily acts including face veil-
ing as means of becoming a better true Muslimah. This aligns with Aristotle’s
(2000) emphasis on habitus as ethical pedagogy and that an ethical subject is an
active practitioner. Becoming taat is their effort to refine themselves by combin-
ing action with virtue. They hope to achieve happiness through this effort.
64  Introduction of taat habitus
This consciously cultivated form of habitus can be seen clearly in their eve-
ryday lives. The taat habitus that they have actively learnt and embodied has led
them to adjust their whole lifestyle to correspond to what they perceive to be good
moral characters. I use the term taat habitus to distinguish it from the habitus they
experienced before their self-transformation in their journey to find true Islam.

Islamic teachings on women: The cadar and

masalah wanita (women’s issues)
Masalah wanita (women’s issues) is the term often used by both movements
to refer to the discussion of teaching on women in Islam. Masalah wanita indi-
cates that women can cause alarm if they behave improperly. ʿUlamā’ within
both movements emphasise that women’s religious observance is the key to the
establishment of true Islamic societies and to prevent social discord. This is espe-
cially linked to their belief in the capacity of every woman to provoke disorder or
chaos (fitna) in society. Fitna literally means infatuation, riot, trial, scandal and
disgrace (Elias 1960, 492). Margot Badran records, ‘Women were held to possess
a more powerful sexual drive than men, posing a threat to society because of the
chaos or fitna they could unleash’ (1995, 5). When women are regarded as the
greatest fitna, they are perceived to be dressed improperly or provocatively which
can arouse sexual temptation (in men) which threatens social order and stability
(Frembgen 2004, 56). Indeed, this understanding can be found in other religious
traditions, especially in the discussion of modesty in dress, in which the focus is
mostly on women’s dress. Ronit Irshai, in her study on Jewish law (Halakhah),
states:

As opposed to men, to whom some restrictions apply but who are primarily
required to cover themselves only in the presence of God, women must cover
themselves in the presence of men and also accept a degree of responsibility
for the prospect that they may make men sin by provoking sexual arousal.
The major stipulations of the laws of modesty require that married women
cover their heads; forbid women to sing in the presence of men; and mandate
the wearing of non-revealing clothing.
(2014, 6)

Fitna in the discussion of Muslim women’s bodies is considered to be the gate-

way to the doors of adultery and fornication (zina). Fatima Mernissi pointed out
that fitna refers to a beautiful woman (1975, 4). Zaynab al-Ghazali (1917–2005),
a prominent female figure of the Muslim Brotherhood (Al-Ikhwān al-Muslimūn),
emphasised that a very beautiful woman should cover her face to avoid fitna (cited
in Zuhur 1992, 90–91).
To prevent this fitna, women have to maintain their purity (ʿiffa), which refers
to their commitment to follow the true or pure Islam as understood by religious
elites within their communities. Wearing proper Muslim dress is often empha-
sised by ʿulamā’ as the most important disciplinary practice that prevents women
from becoming the source of fitna, and the key practice that can lead them to
 Introduction of taat habitus  65
becoming respected Muslim women. The most proper Muslim dress for women,
according to the majority of elites within both movements, is the cadar, as the
gaze of both men and women is one of the most dangerous sources of fitna. These
elites often refer to Q.S. An-Nūr [24]:30–31 to support their position:

Tell the believing men to lower their gaze and to be mindful of their chastity:
this will be most conducive to their purity – [and,] verily, God is aware of all
that they do (30). And tell the believing women to lower their gaze and to be
mindful of their chastity, and not to display their charms [in public] beyond
what may [decently] be apparent thereof; hence, let them draw their head-
coverings over their bosoms. And let them not display [more of] their charms
to any but their husbands, or their fathers, or their husbands’ fathers, or their
sons … and let them not swing their legs [in walking] so as to draw attention
to their hidden charms … (31).

Lowering one’s gaze is important to guard one’s purity and modesty. It is

­noteworthy that the Qurʾān also enjoins men to lower their gaze and many Islamic
feminists focus their discussions on men’s gaze. Qāsim Amīn (1863–1908), who
is famous for his symbolic reform of the abolition of the veil in Egypt and popular
among Indonesian progressive ʿulamā’, has questioned the relationship between
fitna and the requirement to wear the cadar. He argues: ‘The burquʿ [face veil]
and the niqāb [gauze face-cover] actually increase the risk of temptation. The
thin, white niqāb reveals the good features and hides the blemishes … These
two coverings are in reality part of the ornaments worn by women that incite an
onlooker’s desires’ (2012, 43). Amīn’s assessment on the attractiveness of the
image of face-veiled women is validated by the current practice of many publish-
ers that use the image of cadari on the covers of novels, as will be discussed in
Chapter 3.
Amīn also questioned men’s ability to fight temptation in his discussion of
seclusion (2012). Amīn, whose books are considered to be ‘the founding fem-
inist texts in Egypt’ (Badran 1995, 19)—Taḥrīr al-Mar’a (The liberation of
women) and al-Mar’a al-Jadīda (The new woman)—also emphasised that the
practice of face covering should cease (see also Ahmed 1992). In his Taḥrīr
al-Mar’a, Amīn criticises the traditional exegetes who link the concept of fitna
to women:

This fear of fitna [temptation] which we see emerging in almost every line
written on the topic, it is a matter connected with the hearts of fearful men
… whoever fears of fitna, whether man or woman, should avert his or her
glance. The commands in the noble verse direct both groups to avert their
gaze equally. In this we have clear evidence that it is no more appropriate for
a woman to cover her face than for a man!
(2012, 43)

What is interesting in this regard is how much the wearers assume that wearing
the cadar can prevent fitna. However, outsiders might have different assumptions.
66  Introduction of taat habitus
The common assumption from some outsiders towards cadari can be seen from
the comments of Raudha, a 22-year-old university student, who says: ‘For them,
wearing the cadar might function as the way they cover themselves from others.
And the way they prevent fitna. But for others, I think it is the opposite. It might
generate fitna, because people want to know more about this person.’ Raudha’s
statement resonates powerfully with the statement of one of my research sub-
jects, Ummu Falah, a cadari with one child, who says: ‘It is true that indeed
many people become more curious of us when we started to wear the cadar.
When I wore the veil no one stared at me, but now they are eager to know about
my life. After I started to wear the cadar, my life has always been a magnet for
many people.’
In one of the focus groups, we discussed a ḥadīth stating ‘An-nisā’u nāqiṣātu
ʿaqlin wa dīnin’ (women are deficient in intelligence and religion). Many people
understand this ḥadīth as a hegemonic concept that frames men as rational and
women as passionate. Many cadari, however, understood this slightly differently:
for them this ḥadīth is not generalisable and does not indicate that they should
be inferior to men in everything. Ukht Fadhilah, a 36-year-old religious teacher,
says:

What I know Mbak from the explanation of Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz b. Bāz, as
cited in Majalah Asy-Syariah [one of the Indonesian Salafi magazines] if I am
not mistaken, is that this is partial deficiency. We have to understand this rule
also as God’s leniency and easiness for us because we do not have to pray
and fast during the menstruation and post-partum bleeding. We are not infe-
rior to men in everything. There is no difference between men and women in
the eyes of God. Look at now, Mbak, how many of us can even practice our
religion better than men. I think there are many women who are more capable
of controlling their deeds, such as wearing this cadar which actually can be
regarded as ‘saving’ men from imagining sexual things on women.

She mentions the word ‘saving’ in reference to the cadar that can protect not only
women from men but also men from imagining women’s sexuality.
Raudha, who sat next to Ukht Fadhilah during the focus group discussion,
added:

I think we cannot deny Mbak that women are always vulnerable to male gaze
and male lust. Actually, our presence in Indonesia is good to balance the
presence of women who wear sexy dress. It is so funny, because many times
when we have to sit next to these sexy women, they are the ones who feel
uncomfortable. They try to pull down their miniskirts every few second so
that people cannot see their thighs.

Ukht Fadhilah and Raudha’s comments on feminine sexual vulnerability help us

to understand layers of meaning that cadari generate from their religious conduct.
 Introduction of taat habitus  67
They also articulate their motivation to wear the cadar as part of their active piety,
doing religion or their responsibility as Muslim women.

Authoritative voices: Is cadar obligatory?

Wearing the cadar for cadari is part of their responsibility as believers. They
oppose the opinion that wearing the cadar is part of an imported Arab tradition
despite the fact that this type of covering is often referred to popularly as a sign of
the Arabisation of Indonesia. Cadari emphasise the Islamic aspect of the cadar,
not its Arab links.
Many progressive Muslim scholars, such as Muḥammad Saʿīd al-Ashmāwī
(2002), an Egyptian scholar, and Muḥammad Shahrūr (2000), a Syrian Muslim
thinker, do not consider wearing certain coverings to be part of Islamic teachings.
Besides, a number of scholars such as Amīn (2012), Nikki Keddie (2007) and
Fadwa El Guindi (1999) have pointed out that veiling was present in the pre-
Islamic Middle East. That said, proponents of wearing the cadar argued that it is
part of pure Islam. Here, they refer to the fact that rules concerning the cadar are
stated in the Qurʾān, Q.S. al-Aḥzāb [33]:53, 59 and Q.S. An-Nūr [24]:31, and that
the rules also appear in some prophetic traditions. According to religious teachers
from both Salafi and Tablīghī movements whom I interviewed, the easiest way to
understand that the cadar is proper Muslim dress is by the fact that the wives of
the Prophet and his companions reportedly wore the veil.

Salafi scholars
Saudi-Salafi scholars from different groups have a variety of opinions concerning
the legal basis for the practice of wearing the face veil. Some of them, like Shaykh
Muḥammad b. Ṣāliḥ al-Uthaymīn and Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz b. Bāz, argue that it
is obligatory (wājib);6 for each individual Muslim and it cannot be fulfilled only
by certain numbers of Muslims performing it (farḍ al-ʿayn). Al-Uthaymīn argued
that women’s faces are part of their bodies that are likely to cause the above-men-
tioned fitna (2001, 9; see also al-Tuwayjirī 1974). He also linked covering the face
to the expression of one’s malu (shyness), which is one of the main ingredients
of faith (īmān) (Al-Uthaymīn 2001, 9). Shaykh b. Bāz emphasised that covering
the face is part of an act of devotion (ʿibāda) and uncovering the face is part of an
illicit display (tabarruj) (1989, 225). Other Salafi scholars, in particular Shaykh
Muḥammad Nāṣir al-Dīn al-Albānī (2002a; 2002b),7 argue that wearing the cadar
is recommended (mustaḥab).
Those who support and those who oppose the wearing of the cadar use the
same sources, the Qurʾān and ḥadīth. The discussion runs especially around Q.S.
An-Nūr [24]:31; Q.S. al-Aḥzāb [33]:53,8 59;9 and some often-heard ḥadīth. In the
discussion of Q.S. An-Nūr [24]:31 that orders women not to show their adorn-
ment and fineries except only that which is apparent (illā mā ẓahara minhā), and
to draw their veils all over juyūb (their bosom), Shaykh Muḥammad b. Ṣāliḥ
al-Uthaymīn (1928–2001), one of the most well-known senior purist scholars,
68  Introduction of taat habitus
says that if a woman is commanded to cover her breasts, she is also automatically
obliged to cover her face (2001, 13–14; see also al-Tuwayjirī 1974, 57–59). Many
cadari and elites in their movements also often quote al-Uthaymīn’s explanation.
The face, adds al-Uthaymīn, is the centre of beauty or the best part of the human
body, as well as being the source of fitna (2001, 13–14). Al-Uthaymīn, has issued
the fatwa, that after the revelation of veil (ḥijāb) verse, which is in the sixth of
Hijra, all the wives of the Prophet started to wear the face veil with the excep-
tion of one eye, and that the face veil is an obligation for all Muslim women (see
al-Juraysī 2008). A Salafi ustādh (religious teacher), in a religious lesson that I
attended for cadari at the State Islamic University (UIN) Alauddin Makassar, said
that Islam memuliakan perempuan (Islam honours women) through the cadar and
he then quoted this ḥadīth ‘woman is an ʿawra [part of the body that must be cov-
ered] that must be covered.’ Those who oppose the obligation to wear the cadar
and have different interpretations of the sources mentioned include progressive
Muslims and Muslim feminists10 as well as some Salafi purist ʿulamā’, such
as Muḥammad Nāṣir al-Dīn al-Albānī. Regarding the content of Q.S. An-Nūr
[24]:31, al-Albānī interprets the phrase in this verse, which is also the main source
of controversies, ‘illā mā ẓahara minhā’ (except that which is apparent) as face
and palms (2002a, 118), meaning that both of them can be displayed in pub-
lic. Therefore, he argues that wearing the cadar is only favoured, not obligatory.
Ummu Najah, a 45-year-old follower of a Salafi faction in Yogyakarta, says, ‘I
wear this cadar because according to ʿulamā’ like Syakh al-Albānī although it is
not obligatory, it is lebih mulia [nobler].’ Similar to Ummu Najah, many of my
research subjects follow Al-Albānī’s view.
There is also no homogeneity in the opinions of Indonesian Salafi ʿulamā’
about the cadar; some of them argue that it is compulsory and some think that
it is favoured. There is a general view among them that wearing the cadar for
a Muslim woman is best (al-Jibrin 2007). Some Indonesian Salafi scholars also
emphasise the importance of wearing the cadar within the Indonesian context
where they see the emergence of what they perceive as moral decadence. They
connect the loss of morality, especially among Muslim women in Indonesia, with
the loss of shame which is linked to the loss of faith and the neglect of religious
teachings.
Some ʿulamā’ from both Tablīghī and Salafi movements who support the
cadar point out its connection to the embodiment of malu. According to them,
when a woman knows the concept of ketaatan and strives to discipline herself
to obey the standards of good deeds in Islam, then she will be malu if she fails
to discipline her lifestyle. A Salafi ustādh who preached in front of his female
congregants in a mosque in Jakarta said, ‘When a woman has al-ḥayā’ [shyness],
she will definitely choose to wear the cadar.’ Mahmood also pointed out that
al-ḥayā’ is the most feminine of all Islamic virtues (2005, 155). Malu, in the
Indonesian vernacular, is linked to the expectations of the social milieu where one
lives (Geertz 1973; Lindquist 2004). One who fails to live up to the standards of
society should feel malu. The essence of malu, as in the vernacular, is similar to
what has been argued by authoritative voices in the life of cadari—that women
 Introduction of taat habitus  69
should be concerned with malu and should respect the norms within their own
communities. The main difference between malu in the vernacular and the reli-
gious concept is that cultivated malu as a religious concept is related to other sets
of Islamic doctrines that have to be expressed in practice to achieve the goal of
being better Muslim men and women.
It is noteworthy that some Indonesian elites of the jihadi Salafi groups do not
support those who argue that the cadar is obligatory and recommended.11 This
opinion can be found in their publications. For example, in Risalah Mujahidin,
which was the bulletin of the Majelis Mujahidin Indonesia (Indonesian Holy
Warrior Assembly), one of the jihadi Salafi organisations banned in the country,
it is said that the cadar is permissible (mubāḥ) for those who want to wear it
(2008, 97–99). But some argue that it is a redundant practice (ghuluw) (Risalah
Mujahidin 2008, 97). This more relaxed position is evident in the style of the
cadar worn by women belonging to some of these groups which is more colourful
and shorter than the style worn by those of non-jihadi Salafi groups (Figure 2.2).

Tablīghī scholars
Many Tablīghī Jamāʿat elites know that there are diverse opinions on the basic
rule of the cadar, however, they adhere to the views of religious scholars in
the movement who are well known as the followers of Deobandi ʿulamā’.12
The founder of the movement, Mawlānā Muḥammad Ilyās (1885–1944) stud-
ied in a Deobandi school in India (Sikand 1999, 42). Religious teachings taught
in Deobandi educational institutions resemble those of Muḥammad b. ʿAbd
al-Wahhāb (1703–1792) (Mandaville 2007a, 228). In contrast to Salafi women,
Indonesian Tablīghī women rarely mentioned any religious scholars from their

Figure 2.2  A bright cadar in a jihadi Salafi book stall at an Islamic Book Fair in Jakarta.
Source. Photo credit, the author, 9 March 2008.
70  Introduction of taat habitus
circle. Indeed, Barbara Metcalf emphasised that in comparison to other Islamist
movements in South Asia, Tablīghī are not known for producing literature related
to women (1998, 117).
The teachings of Tablīghī Jamāʿat about women, in general, focus on main-
taining strict sexual segregation (pardah/purdah/parda). Writing about Muslim
women in Bangladesh, Santi Rozario pointed out, ‘The ideology of parda implies
that women should remain within the private sphere as far as possible’ (2006,
370). Wearing the face veil is an important part of observing parda (Jeffery 1979,
3). Since parda is a social system on this continent, the justification for wearing
the face veil not only lies in its ideological basis but in social rationales, such
as women should observe parda because their chastity is part of family honour
(White 1975, 25).
For many Tablīghī elites, wearing the face veil is obligatory for Muslim women
in relation to their presence in an age of disorder (Metcalf 1998, 113; Sikand 1999,
51). Some elite Tablīghī in Indonesia, however, argue that it is not obligatory but
highly recommended. Therefore, there are still a few Tablīghī women who do not
wear the cadar daily. Nevertheless, regarding their ‘uniform’ for venturing out to
proselytise (mastura khurūj), all Tablīghī scholars agree that it is obligatory for
them to wear purdah (a face veil that not only covers the face but also the eyes
of the wearer with a transparent, thin cloth) and not the cadar. According to the
basic norm of Tablīghī Jamāʿat, there is no excuse for disregarding any norms set
when one performs the duty of proselytisation.13 During this special activity, the
wearing of socks and gloves is mandatory.

When Muslim women’s activists and feminist activists talk

Muslim women’s activists and feminist activists have long highlighted face veil-
ing as a barrier to women’s liberation and as an important gender issue, along
with other issues such as gender segregation and domestic seclusion. In Egypt,
for example, Badran argued, ‘Early Egyptian feminists were well aware that face
veiling was a powerful symbolic affirmation of fundamental sexual difference’
(1995, 67). This section will especially focus on the influence of women’s activ-
ists, feminists and progressive Muslim scholars in Egypt.14 Within Muslim women
feminist circles, Muslim women’s organisations, progressive Muslim thinkers in
Indonesia, Egyptian feminist activists and Muslim reformists have become their
important points of reference (Nisa 2021).
During the early battle to remove the face veil, two well-known early Egyptian
feminist activists, Malak Ḥifnī Nāṣif (1886–1918) and Hudā Shaʿrāwī (1879–
1947), did not remove their face coverings because they believed that ‘society was
not ready for it’ (Badran 1995, 23). Until she died, Nāṣif never unveiled herself,
while Shaʿrāwī began unveiling in 1923, after her husband’s death (Badran 1995,
23). Shaʿrāwī removed her veil with another Egyptian feminist and nationalist,
Saiza or Ceza Nabrawi (1897–1985), after attending a conference in Europe. It
was another feminist, Nabawiyya Mūsā (1886–1951), known also as the pio-
neer of women’s education, who first began to uncover her face in 1909, while
 Introduction of taat habitus  71
emphasising that it is not an Islamic prescription (Badran 1995, 23). ʿĀʾisha ʿAbd
al-Raḥmān (1913–1998), known for her penname, Bint al-Shāṭiʾ (Daughter of the
Shore), mentioned that she was part of a generation that ‘entered into three dif-
ferent but interconnected battles: to discard the veil, to be educated, and to go to
work’ (cited in Calderbank 1999, 194).
Scholars recorded face veiling as a practice followed by elite, rich and/or city
women, who did not need to be economically active to support their families and
less secluded lower-class women (Badran 1995, 22; Fay 2012, 35).15 Indeed, from
the historical point of view in Middle Assyrian Law within Assyrian society, long
before the advent of Islam, Gerda Lerner recorded:

The law … specifies that a slave girl must not veil herself … Domestic
women, sexually serving one man and under his protection, are … designated
as ‘respectable’ by being veiled; women not under one man’s protection and
sexual control are designated as public women, hence unveiled.
(1986, 134)

Mary Fay records that peasant women and lower-class urban women did not
cover their faces ‘because their labour in the fields and in shops and workshops
are necessary to the family’s survival’ (2012, 35).
It is important to mention Naẓīra Zayn al-Dīn (1908–1976), a female progres-
sive scholar of Beirut and the first Arab woman to publish an in-depth discus-
sion of veiling, argues that the source of face-covering practices and other unjust
understandings and practices for women’s inequality are not from the Qurʾān
but from the interpretation of ʿulamā’ (Zayn al-Dīn 1928, 227; see also Cooke
2010). Zayn al-Dīn is one of the women who took part in the issue of female
emancipation following the steps of other Muslim reformists (Abū Zayd 2006,
90). In 1928, Zayn al-Dīn wrote Al-Sufūr wa al-Ḥijāb: Muḥāḍarāt wa Naẓārāt
(Unveiling and veiling: Lectures and points of view) in which she focuses on
face veiling. She argued that Muslim women have the right to shed their face
veils yet remain within the faith. Zayn al-Dīn wrote on how ‘the niqāb [face
veil] is an insult to men and women’ (1928, 139). In her explanation in which
she also quoted Amīn, she mentions, ‘It does not work for men and women, if
men should only support women physically and financially’ while at the same
time they always mistrust their ‘mothers, daughters, wives, and sisters’ by sus-
piciously accusing them of bad morals and locking them up in their niqāb (Zayn
al-Dīn 1928, 139). At the end of her book, she argued: ‘How is it that we are not
allowed to unveil the face when God forbids us to cover it or cover some of it
during iḥrām [a sacred state] in ḥajj [pilgrimage] and ʿumra [the minor pilgrim-
age] when women are surrounded by tens of thousands of men?’ (Zayn al-Dīn
1928, 438).
Following the agenda of early Muslim women activists and feminist activists,
feminist and women activists of the late-twentieth and early-twenty-first centuries
have focused on women’s bodies where face veiling has been opposed. Nawāl
al-Saʿdāwī or El Saadawi who, in 1982, founded the Arab Women’s Solidarity
72  Introduction of taat habitus
Association, is known for the term ‘veiling the brain’ referring to her belief
that face coverings not only veil women’s bodies but also lead to the veiling of
the brain; the veiling of intellectual capacity (1988). In dealing with sources of
Islamic teachings, El Saadawi emphasised the absence of reference in the Qurʾān
to the imposition of the veil.
In the discussion of the cadar, Indonesian women activists and Islamic fem-
inists do not only refer to these Middle Eastern thinkers—especially Egyptian
progressive Muslims, women activists and Islamic feminists—but also to the
country’s context. One of the most prominent progressive Muslim scholars in
Indonesia, Siti Musdah Mulia, highlights her rejection of the cadar through her
own reading of the Indonesian context. She has been a vocal critic of the cadar.
In an interview, Musdah stated that she was uncomfortable seeing her students
with the cadar because she could not see their facial expressions; thus, she rejects
the right of a cadari student to attend her class (Media Indonesia 6 March 2018;
Pulham Media 27 February 2020). Musdah’s position in this context is rather
ambiguous, especially because she has been widely known as a women’s rights
activist and part of Muslim women’s activist groups which have an agenda to
prove that Islam is not a religion of discrimination. This implies that people
should respect any expressions of religious practice, especially in the world’s
largest Muslim-majority country, Indonesia.
The cadar has also attracted young contemporary Indonesian women activ-
ists and Islamic feminists. In 2018, responding to the growing presence of
cadari in the Indonesian public sphere and the popularity of the Niqab Squad,
progressive Muslims, Muslim feminists, women activists and their organisa-
tions, including the Wahid Foundation, specifically discussed the cadar in their
Bahtsul Masa’il meeting. Bahtsul Masa’il is a fatwa forum founded as a plat-
form whereby NU ʿulamā’ (men and women) can issue a fatwa to respond to
contemporary issues. In the forum, ‘Halaqah Perempuan untuk Perdamaian’
(Women’s Religious Meeting for Peace), the cadar was discussed under its spe-
cific division called the Halaqah Komisi Cadar (Religious Meeting for Cadar
Commission). I was delighted to attend this meeting. It was interesting to see
how progressive Muslims with their strong Islamic studies and NU-pesantren
(Islamic boarding school) backgrounds demonstrated their careful assessment
of the phenomenon. NU Bahtsul Masail had issued a fatwa on the cadar in 1933
emphasising that ʿulamā’ of the four major Sunni madhhab—Ḥanafī, Shāfiʿī,
Mālikī and Ḥanbalī—had varied opinions. Thus, NU tried to accommodate them
and highlighted that Muslims can follow the opinions of ʿulamā’ who say it is
both obligatory and non-obligatory.16 Decades later, the 2018 Bahtsul Masa’il
forum initiated by progressive Muslims issued their religious position and view
on the cadar. Like the position of the 1933 NU fatwa that acknowledged the
varied opinions pertaining to the cadar, this 2018 Bahtsul Masa’il emphasised
the Indonesian context. It states:

This Bahtsul Masa’il forum has the view that the use of Muslim clothing
should be harmonized with the Indonesian context and traditions. The use
 Introduction of taat habitus  73
of clothes which might be considered as creating social segregation and
reduced social interaction should be avoided. This is in line with the view
of the Mālikī madhhab which states that the law of using the veil is makrūh
[disliked] because it is considered excessive (ghuluw) for people where the
veil is not part of their culture.

Trying to accommodate those who have different opinions, the forum also called
for respect for those who believe that the cadar is obligatory and disrespect for
those who stigmatise the cadar as synonymous with violence and extremism.
However, the forum admitted that the biggest challenge is posed by Muslims
including cadari who believe that their Islamic understandings are correct and
that others are incorrect—and thus they try to persuade other Muslims to wear the
cadar. The forum consisting mostly of female ʿulamā’ demonstrated their pious
critical agency that highlighted their capacity to read not only religious texts but
also the Indonesian context.

Everyday life of cadari: More than layers of protection

The discussion of the importance of the cadar in the life of its wearers might
guide us to question how much the articulation of a broad desire to become true
Muslimah and obey a true Islam comes down to one issue: contact and visibil-
ity between the sexes and especially the management of this through clothing.
Why does covering one’s face and policing one’s appearance for the opposite sex
become important in achieving aspirations and submitting to God’s will? These
questions come up when one tries to understand the everyday life of cadari.
Policing one’s contact with the opposite sex, for my cadari research subjects,
is one of the most important aspects that can help them achieve God’s will. The
management of contact and visibility between the sexes through clothing, espe-
cially women’s clothing, can be seen from another comment of Ukht Fadhilah:

Mbak Eva, a woman is a beauty. So, we have to make sure that our beauty
is not a cheap beauty, but a precious beauty. To make this beauty precious
we have to work extra carefully. Thus, we do not wear something because
we want to wear it, but we want to wear it because we know that it can help
us in our becoming true Muslim women. Therefore, when Muslim women
want to have a contact with their God, they have to wear a mukena [praying
costume]. We wear it not only because we have to, but we need it to help us
reach khushūʿ [concentration and humility] in our prayer. Just imagine Mbak,
if we prayed in a mini skirt!

Ukht Fadhilah’s statement generates some points. First, when she mentions ‘a
woman is a beauty,’ not as a seductive being, it accords well with her earlier
statement that women are indeed stronger than men in terms of their ability to
save men and make the world more Islamic by presenting themselves in a man-
ner that hinders men from committing sin. This point has been neglected by
74  Introduction of taat habitus
many discussions of sexuality and impurity in Islam. Second, her argument on
the importance of wearing a certain dress, mukena, that covers her ʿawra during
prayer, demonstrates that which cannot be denied in Islamic teaching. To ‘com-
municate’ properly with God, Muslim men and women have to present them-
selves in a decent way. For cadari, whose worldview is embedded in aspirations
to be true Muslimah so that they can achieve closeness with God, it can be under-
stood that wearing proper Muslim dress is important as they prepare themselves
to achieve this goal. It is not only related to their self-focused eagerness to pur-
sue pious lives but also, as mentioned above, it is part of their responsibility as
Muslims who have been appointed as God’s vicegerents with the duty to fulfil the
will of God. Many cadari argue that as human beings they are God’s vicegerents,
and their duty is to make earth a patch on which to collect God’s rewards and
blessings. Ukht Fadhilah, says:

We are God’s vicegerents Mbak. Therefore, our duty is to make the world
as a place for us and others to perform ʿibāda [acts of devotion]. We do not
interpret ʿibāda in a narrow sense Mbak, as only prayer. All our activities
in this world should be labelled as ʿibāda. Therefore, we have to always
make sure that whatever we do, be that in our office, house, neighbourhood,
mosque, etc., should be always for the sake of performing our duty as God’s
vicegerents.

For Ukht Fadhilah, wearing the cadar should not be understood only as a self-
focused pursuit but as a social pursuit. Her understanding of human beings as
vicegerents on earth is shared by other cadari I met. They often reference this
kind of view to Q.S. al-Baqarah [2]:30:

And Lo! Thy Sustainer said unto the angels: ‘Behold, I am about to establish
upon earth one who shall inherit it.’ They said: ‘Wilt Thou place on it such
as will spread corruption thereon and shed blood – whereas it is we who
extol Thy limitless glory, and praise Thee, and hallow Thy name?’ [God]
answered: ‘Verily, I know that which you do not know.’

Wearing the cadar is certainly not the only way to be a true Muslimah and to be
taat to God. However, in the life of cadari, the adoption of the cadar has had
a great impact on them embracing the importance of being responsible Muslim
women. Being responsible in this regard refers to their ability to live their lives
within a true Islamic path—a halal lifestyle. No one wants to be committed to
wearing a cadar for non-religious ends. The few who have such intentions mostly
do not wear it properly; they wear it only at certain times when they think that the
cadar can help them to fulfil non-religious ends like in the case of those wearing it
as a ‘shelter’ when appearing in court. Those who become passionate cadari, who
adopt the cadar of their own volition and take pleasure in disciplining themselves,
know the consequences of wearing the cadar. They know that all ‘eyes will be on
them.’ They also understand that wearing the cadar is not the only way to achieve
 Introduction of taat habitus  75
God’s will, but it is the most important aspect in helping them to perform other
religious acts.
Their active listening to the authoritative voices in their religious community
on proper ketaatan to God and the Prophet Muḥammad and to be true and ideal
Muslim women aligns with Mahmood’s emphasis on the possibility of associat-
ing agency with observance and docility. The agency of cadari is resonant with
Rachel Rinaldo’s view that ‘women may be agentive in ways that do not align
with feminist expectations—such as choosing not to resist unequal social arrange-
ments; embracing the family, nation, or other social structure that feminists see as
a location of oppression; or even contributing to the subjugation of others’ (2014,
826). While Mahmood focuses on the agency of the women’s mosque movement
and the centrality of their religiosity, many scholars have expanded her focus to
cover the varied expression of women’s everyday lives beyond the ‘mosque,’
religiosity or piety. These scholars focus on ‘ordinariness, daily pleasure, and eve-
ryday life’ (Sehlikoglu 2018, 83; see also Schielke 2010; Schielke and Debevec
2012; Soares and Osella 2009). Samuli Schielke argues, ‘There is a certain ten-
dency to project Islam as a perfectionist ethical project of self-discipline, at the
cost of the majority of Muslims who—like most of humankind—are sometimes
but not always pious and who follow various moral aims and at times immoral
ones’ (2010, 2). This book also unpacks the everyday life of cadari. The eve-
ryday life of passionate cadari, however, revolves around their standard of ket-
aatan. When they have decided to perform hijrah (to transform into better Muslim
women), they strive to centralise ketaatan and piety in their everyday lives. This
can even be seen in their decision to choose certain sports—swimming, archery
and horse riding—over others, mainly because these are the sports mentioned in
a ḥadīth. A comment of Ummu Azkiya, a 35-year-old religious mentor of young
cadari, is interesting in this regard. She says:

When we wear the cadar, we know that we do it because we want to be close

to God. We want to focus our lives just on being taat [obedient] towards
God’s command. It is only, maaf [I am sorry], a stupid woman who wants
to play with their cadar, because everybody knows how hard it is to wear
something like this.

Wearing the cadar is not only about women’s sexuality and their ability to control
it. It is more than that. For them, it is the dress that can make them closer to God.
Ummu Azkiya explains it:

When I wear the cadar, I feel close to God. Wearing the cadar does not mean
we want to hide ourselves from men who are incapable of controlling them-
selves. It is about pleasing God. It is about ketaatan, doing what God and His
messenger loves. When we wear the cadar we try to adjust what we do and
what we think only to please God. However, Eva, it is not a guarantee that
all cadari are very careful in fulfilling God’s command. We are not angels
anyway. We made mistakes.
76  Introduction of taat habitus
Ummu Azkiya’s comments on the ability to control oneself resonates with
Suzanne Brenner’s (1998) argument that ‘while both men and women are subject
to the sometimes overwhelming influence of their own desires, it is women, not
men, who are believed to have more ability to control themselves [emphasis in
original]’ (149). Ummu Azkiya’s last comment is also important. Many cadari
often share their concerns about the mistakes that they have made. This resonates
with what Schielke (2010) argued above, that the majority of Muslims, even the
cadari in this study, are human beings who are not always pious.

Only cadar?
Wearing the cadar is not the only important element in the construction of their
new taat habitus. Cadari have to diligently perform the Muslim duties stated in
the five pillars of Islam,17 such as praying five times a day and fasting during the
month of Ramadan. Performing basic Islamic duties is unquestioned. The majority
feel great pleasure when they can fulfil not only their obligations as Muslims but
also all the Islamic virtues (faḍā’il) which are not obligatory: these usually refer
to virtuous practices in which the Prophet, his family and his companions become
perfect role models. Wearing the cadar is important because cadari believe that
it can be regarded as the major discipline that can assist them in the formation of
moral virtues. Ummu Sofyan, a 31-year-old Tablīghī woman, said:

Wearing the cadar trains us to be always close to God. When we wear the
cadar we feel that all we have to do in this world is just to be taat [obe-
dient] towards God’s rules. Wearing cadar also can make us more taqwa
[God-fearing] and more sabar [patient]. We become taat, taqwa, and sabar
because if we are unable to cultivate all these moral virtues it means that we
fail to understand the essence of wearing the cadar. When we wear cadar we
also cultivate malu [shame] in ourselves when we are unable to conform to
other rules of God.

A virtuous practice that can assist cadari to embody purity in relation to their out-
ward appearance is to avoid tabarruj. Tabarruj refers to the display of the female
body and its charms, including any efforts by women to attract male counterparts,
such as wearing heavy make-up. Tabarruj is illustrated as one of the character-
istics of pre-Islamic society, namely exhibitionist behaviour. It is mentioned in
the Qurʾān, Q.S. al-Aḥzāb [33]:33: ‘And abide quietly in your homes, and do not
flaunt your charms as they used to flaunt them in the old days of pagan ignorance.’
Based on their understanding of this verse, most of the cadari argued that those
who are able to embody their taat habitus and purify their belief means that they
have successfully distanced themselves from the lifestyle of people living in the
times of ignorance (jāhiliyya).18
Maintaining strict segregation between men and women is the other most
important element of the cadari lifestyle. They adopt strict habits which can pre-
vent them from creating any fitna. For example, they avoid the mixing of the
 Introduction of taat habitus  77
sexes (ikhtilāṭ) in all spaces (public and private); they are reluctant to go out with-
out the company of their non-marriageable male kin (maḥram); they avoid being
alone with a male stranger (khalwat) (Smith-Hefner 2019, 37); and they do not
shake hands with the opposite sex. Maulana Ashiq Elahi Bulandshahri, a leading
Indian Tablīghī scholar, argued that women should be hidden ‘even more care-
fully than silver, gold and precious stones.’ He argued that women going out can
lead to fitna (cited in Sikand 1999, 46–47). Both the Tablīghī and the Salafi move-
ments believe that these rules and practices are based on the model set by al-salaf
al-ṣāliḥ (pious predecessors).
Besides the stigma outsiders associate with cadari, another common assump-
tion by outsiders is that those who wear the cadar have religious qualities above
the average standard of other Muslims. Many cadari have also felt this assump-
tion. Umm Faiha, a 24-year-old university student, for example, says: ‘When a
man sees a woman wear the cadar then our cadar is like an alarm sign for them
that they should treat us like a respected woman. They will not shake our hands.’
The majority of cadari have experienced the impact of wearing the cadar so they
self-discipline their lifestyle to be in line with the purity and ketaatan spirit of the
cadar. For example, the most committed cadari will not wear make-up or per-
fume and they will not wear a colourful and fully adorned dress that may attract
men’s attention. They do not want others to think they are committing tabarruj.
Returning to the idea of everyday life, the following section focuses on how
some cadari demonstrate everyday pleasure through fashioning their cadar.
Sertaç Sehlikoglu argues, ‘One of the most well-known attempts to move away
from centralising the religiosity of Muslim women is the body of work that shifts
the scholarly gaze to fashion as an attempt to bring out joys and pleasures of
Muslim women’ (2018, 82). The cadari, as we will see, also experience joy in
fashioning their attire. However, they insist that this is also part of ketaatan.

Fashioning cadar
It is noteworthy that although cadari strive to return to pure Islam and try to purify
Islam from any syncretism and to distance themselves from ‘Indonesianised forms
of Islam’ (Fealy and White 2008, 1), they are still Indonesian women who love
to pay significant attention to their presentation of self, including the way they
fashion their cadar. Here, we can see that there is variation among these women
in terms of the way they negotiate this aspect of their everyday lives.
During my fieldwork, I tried to respect cadari and one of their community’s
norms by wearing what they perceive to be proper Muslim dress. Every time I
wore my ʿabāya (Ind. abaya or head-to-toe wrap completely covering a woman’s
body), they always asked me where I bought it; how much the price was; could
they borrow mine to copy the design. Before they asked this type of question, I did
not really pay great attention to their fashion style and taste. It is also noteworthy
that fashion should not be reduced to simply trends dictated by external factors,
like magazines and other media outlets. Rather fashion should be considered in a
more expansive sense that covers one’s dress choices. Drawing on my fieldwork
78  Introduction of taat habitus
data, many outsiders think that cadari do not care about what they wear as long as
the cloth used is thick and black or other plain colours then their mission to present
themselves as true Muslimah has been accomplished. Meyna, a 23-year-old univer-
sity student, said: ‘I do not think that these women care about what they wear. It is
so boring. I think what they have in their wardrobes are just very plain dark colour
of ʿabāya without any ornaments.’ Meyna’s assumption can be understood since
that is the most visible impression given by cadari that she meets on the streets.
Looking closely at their lives, however, it is not uncommon to see cadari wear-
ing diverse styles of cadar and ʿabāya. They are creative in making a distinctive
Indonesian cadari look. This especially can be seen with Tablīghī cadari who are
more relaxed in adopting diverse styles of cadar, while Salafi cadari are mostly
stricter in choosing the kind of cadar and ʿabāya they should wear. Nowadays
with the birth of the Niqab Squad and cadari celebgram (celebrity on Instagram),
the country has witnessed the growth of trendy cadar, including cadar sport outfits
(Figure 2.3).
According to some women from diverse Salafi groups, the outlook of the
Tablīghī women cannot be regarded as fulfilling Islamic teachings on how to
dress. Alternatively, Tablīghī women feel that the style of their ʿabāya and cadar

Figure 2.3  Cadar active wear with loose-fitting (Athira) pants and flowing outer top/cadar
with arm holes. Source. Courtesy of © Nusseyba, 11 July 2021. Used with
permission.
 Introduction of taat habitus  79
is indeed based on Islamic teachings. A Tablīghī follower, Tahnia, a 19-year-old
university student, says:

We know that many Salafi women are opposed to the way we dress, because
we have embroidery and beadwork on our ʿabāya and cadar. We believe that
Allah loves something beautiful and our ʿabāya and cadar are beautiful, so
[there is] nothing wrong with it. People from other countries, such as Pakistan
and Bangladesh even often praised our ʿabāya and cadar. When they visited
our pesantren, they told us that they loved Indonesian embroidery.

This demonstrates that besides their passion to be part of the global Tablīghī
movement, they are also eager and proud to adopt stylish dress which incorporates
Indonesian materials.
Decorating one’s dress on the basis that God appreciates beauty has been
widely discussed in the broader Islamic fashion world in Indonesia (Jones 2010),
where this phenomenon has happened with the jilbab (tight veil). Its commodifi-
cation has produced anxieties about hypocrisy and insincerity. This is evident by
the criticism that has been levelled at the jilbab gaul (trendy veil) and the Hijabers
Community that was founded by four young Indonesian Muslim fashion design-
ers (Baulch and Pramiyanti 2018, 2).
In Indonesia, as well as in other countries, the fashionably veiled women,
such as hijabista (hijab and fashionista) and hijabster (hijab and hipster), have
been widely criticised (Kavakci and Kraeplin 2017; see also the edited collection
by Tarlo and Moors 2013). Banu Gökariksel and Anna Secor, for example, con-
tend that in Turkey ‘the idea of “veiling-fashion” continues to be controversial,
drawing criticism from secular and devout Muslim segments of society alike’
(2009, 6). The cadar phenomenon is poised to repeat the early path of the jilbab,
including its commodified fashionability especially after the birth of the Niqab
Squad in 2017.
Salafi cadari usually focus their attention on fashionable dress that they wear
within their houses. For married cadari, this effort is aimed to please their hus-
bands. Ummu Khalidah, a 28-year-old woman with one child, says: ‘I am a wife.
I always want to look attractive only in front of my husband. Therefore, at home
I am wearing make-up, perfume, trendy dress sometimes even sexy dress [she
recounted this while laughing].’ The efforts of Ummu Khalidah and cadari who
take similar steps can be regarded as a strategy to discipline themselves while
upholding true Islamic teachings, and at the same time trying to negotiate their
outfit with their passion to be attractive in their own most secure space. For the
passionate cadari of some Salafi groups, it is often regarded as taboo to wear an
embroidered cadar in public.
Nowadays, since the number of cadari in Indonesia is growing, the Muslim
fashion business has begun to cater for the demand of cadari so they can find a
complete outfit. Indeed, with the growth of e-commerce, some cadari own cadar
fashion businesses.19 Jilbab Zahrah can be regarded as one of the earliest play-
ers in the cadar industry that is managed professionally. The cadar designed by
80  Introduction of taat habitus
Jilbab Zahrah is colourful and the fabric is stretchy. Therefore, many cadari are
interested in wearing this kind of cadar which is suitable for Indonesia’s humid-
ity. Those who do not approve of wearing colourful cadar, usually buy it for daily
use at home. Many such women pursue employment through selling clothing
online to fellow cadari. For many of them becoming designers of Muslim dress is
one of the few career paths open that allows them to help other women find proper
Muslim dress and that does not risk them coming into contact with unrelated men.

Marriage and divorce for the sake of

religion: The marital life of cadari
In 2017, I returned to my field site in Yogyakarta and was excited to have the
opportunity to visit my key research subjects. It was insisted that I visit the
Jamilurrahman complex early in the morning to attend the wedding of my key
research subject’s close friend, which would be held later in the afternoon. The
wedding would be in the mosque of Jamilurrahman. After spending a day with the
middle-aged Jamilurrahman cadari, I attended the wedding.
After afternoon prayer, I arrived at the wedding with my research subjects.
All of the women attending the wedding arrived wearing a cadar. However, once
inside, the women removed their cadar because the mosque was segregated, and
men could not see inside the women’s area. As we were about to sit, my key
research subject informed me the wedding was polygamous and that the woman
in her mid-thirties who had greeted us at the mosque’s entrance was the first wife.
I was admittedly shocked, because the woman who had greeted us had shown
warmth in the typical manner of a wedding host, with no sign of sadness on her
beautiful oval face.
When the ceremony was about to begin, the first wife sat next to the new bride
(the second wife). Throughout the wedding procession she was very calm with no
sign of tears. I observed quietly, attempting to digest the whole atmosphere, which
was quite dramatic. My key research subject saw my puzzled and teary expression
and whispered to me, ‘You know Mbak Eva? The first wife was the one who chose
the co-wife.’ Although I knew that it was common practice among conservative
groups in Indonesia, for wives in polygamous marriages to choose a co-wife, it
was not easy to witness two beautiful young women agree to share a husband. The
practice of allowing a woman to choose her co-wives is indeed common through-
out the history of Southeast Asia to ensure ‘an amicable atmosphere’ (Andaya
2006, 189). Men in Salafi movements usually allow their wives to choose their co-
wives so that the wives can work together to build a healthy Salafi family. When
the ceremony had finished, all women congratulated both wives. I observed that
some women were unable to hold back tears when congratulating the first wife.
In order to understand this scene which is increasingly part of the everyday
life of cadari outside their religious taʿlīm (lesson) and the logic behind their
emphasis on ketaatan, the last section of this chapter discusses the ways in which
they seek to maintain the purity of their marital life. The practice of religious
homogamy is part of their taat habitus. Religious homogamy as defined by Tim
 Introduction of taat habitus  81
Heaton (1984) can cover several distinct dimensions: denominational homogamy
(­marrying someone from the same religious denomination), theological homog-
amy (shared interpretations of scriptures) and attendance homogamy (frequency
of attending a place of worship) (see also Chinitz and Brown 2001, 729). In the
marital life of cadari, theological homogamy and attendance homogamy are the
most important considerations for finding a proper husband. Theological homog-
amy is significant because these women argue that to be in the same religion,
Islam, is not enough; their prospective husbands should adhere to the same theo-
logical interpretation of Islam. The way they conceptualise religious endogamy
is related to their preference for marrying someone coming from the same group
who has the same understandings of the religious texts. In Islam, this concept of
religious homogamy in marriage can be related to the concept of equality between
spouses (Ar. kafā’a) or (Ind. kufu’).
One key implication of their self-conscious commitment to a taat habitus is
the concept of kafā’a, which refers to the suitability and compatibility of mar-
riage partners. Among my research subjects this is interpreted further to mean
not only shared religion, but also having a common vision and commitment to
the observation of the religious tenets. However, the concept of kafā’a is under-
stood differently by different Muslim groups. Some emphasise the equality of
the lineage, profession and property and some even ignore this concept of kafā’a
altogether (Schacht et al. 2021). In pre-Islamic Arabia, kafā’a was emphasised
in regard to one’s social status, with reference to one’s racial and tribal affilia-
tion (de Bellefonds 2021). This practice is still prevalent in certain communities.
Hence, the Saudi Arabian board of religious decree, the Permanent Committee
for Scholarly Research and Ifta (al-Lajna al-Dā’ima lī al-Buhūth al-ʿIlmiyya wa
al-Iftā’), issued a fatwa that kafā’a in marriage should be in relation to one’s
religion not in relation to one’s lineage (ʿal-kafā’a fī al-dīn lā fī al-nasab’)
(al-Juraysī 2008, 1345–46). They argued that this is in line with the passage of
Q.S. Al-Hujurāt [49]:13, ‘Verily, the noblest of you in the sight of God is the one
who is most deeply conscious of Him. Behold, God is all-knowing, all-aware’
(al-Juraysī 2008, 1345–46). Therefore, a majority of Muslim scholars agree that
what counts for kafā’a is the quality of one’s religious observance. One of the
most prominent Salafi scholars in Indonesia, Ustādh Abdul Hakim bin Amir
Abdat, explains that having the same kufu’ (se-kufu’) means that both husband
and wife are equal in terms of their nobility and their obedience towards God,
towards religious teachings and in good behaviour (Abdat 2008, 109). Ukht
Jamilah (pseudonym), a 22-year-old university student who is one of the stu-
dents of Ustādh Abdul Hakim, said: ‘It is important to find a husband who is
se-kufu’ to make sure that we can work together as a team to create a keluarga
sakinah [harmonious family] and to raise good Muslim children.’ Umm Ibrahim,
a 20-year-old university student of the Pharmacy Faculty, also said:

I believe that Islam has outlined that good believers, men and women, are a
perfect match for one another. Therefore, my duty is to strive to be a good
believer and pray to Allah to give me jodoh [a marriage partner] who is a
82  Introduction of taat habitus
good believer who can guide my life and who can make me even stronger
while defending my cadar from those who oppose it.

Therefore, following the concept of kafā’a, the communities cadari belong to

believe that a healthy marriage can only be achieved when religious inclinations
and religious backgrounds are shared by both spouses. Cadari, like Umm Ibrahim,
also believe that as long as they try to strictly adhere to their religion, they can find
a match who is similarly committed.

Ummu Mujahid: My manhaj is my life20

The importance of ideology can also be seen from the most common story that
accompanies the divorce of cadari that I have heard during my fieldwork, which
is that there are differences in manhaj between husband and wife.21 A married
woman whose husband does not approve of her sudden decision to embody a new
taat habitus and become much more religious might ask his wife to give up this
transformation. If a wife is unsuccessful in persuading her husband to follow in
her religious footsteps, she will, in many cases, ask for a divorce. This is not new.
There were some divorce cases within the Arab community in the archipelago due
to the wife’s rejection of her husband’s requirement that she wear the face veil.
Divorce is permissible in Islam. However, it is morally and socially difficult.
The often-mentioned reference for this is a ḥadīth reported by Ibn ʿUmar say-
ing ‘the most hated of permissible things to Allah is divorce.’ Cadari who were
divorced, however, argued that they did so for the sake of their love for God; they
could not live with a husband who did not love God and did not have a strong
commitment to Islam.
To further illustrate the nature of this issue, I would like to take a closer look
at the life experience of the late Ummu Mujahid, formerly known as Soraya
Abdullah—an Indonesian model, TV presenter and actress—who became a fol-
lower of one of the Salafi jihadi groups in Indonesia. Within her Salafi jihadi cir-
cle, Ummu Mujahid was among one of the first women to wear the cadar. Ummu
Mujahid had been married several times.22 The first marriage lasted for two and a
half years. The main motive behind its dissolution was because she felt that there
were many differences between her and her husband in dealing with life issues.
Following this, she became more religious and began to wear jilbab and remarried
in 2006. She was then active in joining different Islamic groups until she met Abu
Jibril—one of the radical preachers and the former leader of Majelis Mujahidin
Indonesia (Bubalo, Phillips and Yasmeen 2011, 28–29)—and committed to fol-
low his teaching. She adopted the cadar in 2007 and got divorced for a second
time in 2008.
After her second divorce, Ummu Mujahid seemed reluctant to seek another
husband and had no intention of looking. She admitted that the pressure and
stigma around divorcees was strong in her new religious community. Divorcees
are subject to gossip. However, being financially affluent and having her own
business, she admitted that her two children needed a father figure. In her words:
 Introduction of taat habitus  83
Being a divorcee can create a big fitna. Surprisingly, the fitna is mainly cre-
ated from my other cadari sisters who are afraid that their husbands will
take the initiative to ‘save’ me and make me their mathnahan [co-wife].
Therefore, when I divorced for the second time, I was reluctant to tell women
in my community.

The pressure that Ummu Mujahid encountered is understandable, particularly

because her background can be easily traced. Although she had adopted the
cadar, many men in her new religious community know that she was a model;
she appeared in a number of soap operas that can be seen and downloaded from
the internet. Because of embodying new forms of taat habitus, she realised that
finding a new proper husband was going to be difficult. Therefore, she was willing
to be a second wife if she found a proper man. She said: ‘Ana ikhlas untuk dimadu
nantinya’ (In the future, I am willing to be taken as co-wife if it is needed). If this
is the price that she had to pay to have an Islamic family and remain committed to
her taat habitus, she told me, she was ready to do whatever it took.
Ummu Mujahid felt that after the failure of her first marriage, she had made
a mistake by marrying a man who was not from the same manhaj. She empha-
sised: ‘In the future, if qadarullāh [God has decided] that I have the chance to
remarry, I hope that my husband is a mujāhid [a man who has performed jihad]
or at least wants to become a mujāhid.’23 Her wish to find a mujāhid is influenced
by the image of a proper Muslim man set by the group that she belongs to, jihadi
Salafism. She also wished that her only son might one day become a mujāhid.
Thus, her nama kunyah (teknonym) is Ummu Mujahid (Mother of a mujāhid). In
2011, she contacted me to tell that she had remarried a mujāhid who was at that
time still in jail and the marriage ceremony (nikah) took place in jail in May 2011.
The other example that illustrates the importance of manhaj in the life of
Ummu Mujahid’s cadari sisters can be seen in the different religious practices
between the followers of the Tablīghī Jamāʿat and Salafi factions. These differ-
ences can become a source of tension in marital life. For example, for Tablīghī
followers, the required regular period (niṣāb) for men to leave home for propaga-
tion of the faith (khurūj) can be a source of tension between couples who do not
have the same ideology. The niṣāb for khurūj in Indonesia for male Tablīghī is
three days in a month, forty days in a year, two to four months in their lifetime.
Religious scholars are expected to perform khurūj for one year in their lifetime.
It is extremely difficult for ardent followers of the Tablīghī to maintain their
religious practice without the support of women who understand and accept the
Tablīghī doctrines. Female Tablīghī are also required to perform daʿwa actively
with their maḥram (Amrullah 2011). This means that the devoted female Tablīghī
must find a husband who can also accept the Tablīghī teachings. During my field-
work, I found some Salafi households where women had initiated divorce because
their husbands were Tablīghī. This is because the Salafi movement considers the
style of Tablīghī daʿwa as innovative which is forbidden in their religion (bidʿa)
and regards the teachings as deviant. Examples of this tension are not only found
between members of the Tablīghī Jamāʿat and the Salafi movements. Even among
84  Introduction of taat habitus
the Salafi factions themselves the tension can be quite severe, as they regularly
engage in doctrinal disputes and often compete with each other for authority,
legitimacy, followership and strategic links.
This chapter demonstrates that the subjectivity of cadari is a social phenom-
enon in which their religious affiliations and elites within their communities play
significant roles in shaping their worldviews and conduct. This in turn brings us
to understand that ketaatan in the life of cadari is social and interactive and not
just a self-focused pursuit. The agency of these women that can be seen from their
practice of religion also highlights the importance of structural affiliations that
contribute to the shaping of their conduct.
They express their agency through their efforts to equip themselves with global
Islamic knowledge, particularly by utilising modern technologies that give them
access to Middle Eastern scholars. Their agency should not be equated with resist-
ance which in this regard is related to resistance to male authority. For cadari,
following religious authorities within their milieu and committing to authorita-
tive knowledge purify their Muslim faith, which can lead them to become true
Muslimah. Acquiring such knowledge is an important source of subcultural capi-
tal that can prepare them to be active in daʿwa activities.
Following their hijrah or self-transformation from being lax Muslims to
Muslims who adopt strict literalist understandings of Islam, cadari actively and
deliberately engage in transforming their pre-existing religious habitus. The new
taat habitus they embrace shapes all aspects of their lives, including the way they
discipline their everyday lives. Ketaatan becomes the main reference for all mat-
ters related to the way these cadari restructure their everyday lives, including the
way they adopt certain styles of dress and arrange their family life. These behav-
iours must be explained in the light of the ideological framework that guides them.
For example, concealing their charms in front of people beyond their maḥram
cannot be seen as a restriction or seclusion imposed through men’s control of
women’s bodies: for them it is an embodiment of religious virtue.

Notes
1 This term is particularly used in discussions about the choice of madhhab (the school of
Islamic law). In practice, however, some Salafi groups follow closely (not blindly) one
of the law schools, Ḥanbalism, which is the popular madhhab in Saudi Arabia (DeLong-
Bas 2004, 110). Aḥmad b. Ḥanbal as the founder of Ḥanbalism was himself one of the
important figures in the formation of the doctrine of Salafism (Meijer 2009, 4).
2 The term ‘politico’ was coined by Wiktorowicz (2006) to refer to the faction that
espouses the blend of Salafi doctrines and Muslim Brotherhood approach intro-
duced by Sayyid Qutb (1906–1966)—who was also influenced by Ibn Taymiyya and
Muḥammad b. ʿAbd al-Wahhāb. This politically minded Salafi strove to implement the
Salafi creed into the political arena (Wiktorowicz 2006, 208).
3 This faction regards jihad (Ar. jihād) as its way to reach its goal (Hegghammer and
Lacroix 2007, 118; Wiktorowicz 2006, 225).
4 Another term is Sururi Salafi, a label used by opponents to refer to the sympathisers
of Muḥammad b. Surūr al-Nayef Zayn al-ʿĀbidīn (1938–2016), a figure who opposed
senior purist ʿulamā’, especially in their decision to support the Saudi Government for
 Introduction of taat habitus  85
permitting American troops in Saudi Arabia during the Gulf War in 1990 (Hasan 2009;
Wiktorowicz 2006).
5 Cadari from Tablīghī Jamāʿat prefer pesantren-based residential educational institutions.
6 Obligatory (wājib) is one of the five religious qualifications known in Islamic law;
obligatory (wājib), recommended (mustaḥab or mandūb), permissible (mubāḥ), repre-
hensible (makrūh) and forbidden (ḥarām).
7 He was also one of the most prominent figures of the Salafi movement in Indonesia. He
is even considered by many Salafi all over the world as the third main contemporary
reference, after Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz b. Bāz and Muḥammad b. Ṣāliḥ al-Uthaymīn
(Lacroix 2008, 6).
8 Q.S. al-Aḥzāb [33]:53, ‘O You who have attained to faith! Do not enter the Prophet’s
dwellings unless you are given leave; [and when invited] to a meal, do not come [so
early as] to wait for it to be readied: but whenever you are invited, enter [at the proper
time]; and when you have partaken of the meal, disperse without lingering for the sake
of mere talk … And [as for the Prophet’s wives,] whenever you ask them for anything
that you need, ask them from behind a screen: this will but deepen the purity of your
hearts and theirs.’
9 Q.S. al-Aḥzāb [33]: 59, ‘O Prophet! Tell thy wives and thy daughters, as well as all
[other] believing women, that they should draw over themselves some of their outer
garments [when in public]: this will be more conducive to their being recognized [as
decent women] and not annoyed. But [withal], God is indeed much-forgiving, a dis-
penser of grace.’
10 Some scholars (both proponents and opponents of veiling) have discussed the heated
controversies over the interpretation of verses mentioned above (see Shaheed 1994;
Sherif 1987; Siddiqi 1983). However, these controversies mostly focus on whether it
is obligatory for Muslim women to wear the veil (not the face veil). The discussion
in this section focuses only on those who use the same Islamic sources for diverse
interpretations in relation to the obligatory of wearing the face veil (not the veil in
general).
11 The followers of jihadi Salafism, who believe that it is obligatory, quoted the opin-
ion of one of the leading elites within the movement, ʿAbdullah ʿAzzam (1941–1989)
who argues that wearing the cadar is obligatory (2008). In justifying his argument, he
quoted the purist scholar, Muḥammad b. Ṣāliḥ al-Uthaymīn.
12 Deobandi ʿulamā’ is named after a seminary established in Deoband India in 1867
(Metcalf 2002, 1).
13 The teaching related to this strict rule is known among Tablīghī as garis taqwa (the
line of taqwa), which is a term only used by the Tablihi Jamāʿat. According to them,
garis taqwa refers to Islamic teachings written in religious texts (al-Qurʾān and ḥadīth)
which have to be obeyed strictly as they are, without any further interpretations.
14 Veiling and unveiling, or covering and uncovering, in some Middle Eastern countries
are also a nationalist issue. The issue is at the heart of political and social debates in
the making of modern states like Egypt (Elsadda 2001, 40). In Egypt in 1915–16, a
magazine called Sufūr (Unveiling) advocated for liberal thought in the country.
15 This practice could be found not only among Muslims but also among Jews and
Christians (Badran 1995, 5). Mernissi argued that the veil was introduced to Muslim
women only in the fifth year of Islam, before that, other civilisations had already
adopted it (1991, 95).
16 Muhammadiyah, as the second largest Muslim mass organisation in the country, also
issued a fatwa on cadar in 2009 by analysing the two verses Q.S. al-Aḥzāb [33]:59 and
an-Nūr [24]:31, stating clearly that there is no specific dalīl (indicant) to support the
ruling whether the cadar is obligatory or recommended in Islam (Tim Majelis Tarjih
dan Tajdid 2013, 238–39).
17 The five pillars of Islam consist of: the profession of faith, prayer, fasting in Ramadan,
almsgiving and pilgrimage.
86  Introduction of taat habitus
18 Scholars have debated the term jāhiliyya referring to either the age or condition of
ignorance or barbarism (Goldziher 1967; Rosenthal 1970).
19 I will discuss this further in Chapter 3.
20 Part of this section was published as Eva F. Nisa, 2011, Marriage and divorce for the
sake of religion: The marital life of cadari in Indonesia. Asian Journal of Social Science
39(6): 797–820, doi: 10.1163/156853111X619238.
21 Manhaj, in this context, refers to the Islamic path based on the ways of life of the early
Muslims.
22 When I met her, she admitted she had been married three times. After that there were
many rumours that she had been married several times. However, what was certain was
that before she passed away she had been married to a new husband.
23 The term mujāhid is commonly used among cadari of the jihadi Salafi group. Mujāhid,
for these women, is an ideal type of husband (Az-Zahra 2008).

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3 Media and cadari
From Ayat Ayat Cinta to the Niqab Squad

The image of cadari (face-veiled women) as part of Indonesian popular cul-

ture contrasts with their image within national and international news media.
Indonesian movies and novels often construct cadari as ideal Muslim women.
National and international media outlets tend to publish news on cadari in relation
to accusations of their connections to terrorist networks. On 16 June 2011, during
the announcement of the verdict in the trial of one of the well-known figures of
the jihadi Salafi group on terrorism charges, Abu Bakar Ba’asyir, cadari among
his supporters gathered outside the court and gained significant media coverage.
The news focused on the policewomen who were screening the cadari before they
were allowed to attend the trial (VIVAnews 2011). In fact, the staunch supporters
of wearing the cadar are those who belong to non-violent Salafi groups.
The visibility of cadari in media stories related to terrorist networks strength-
ens the stereotype of them as sympathisers of terrorist organisations which are
the major threat to Indonesia’s security. Jihadi groups do strive to strategise by
wearing certain outfits when conducting their acts of terror. Frances Hasso stud-
ied four militant Palestinian women who were not wearing face veils when they
killed themselves in 2002 in coordinated suicide bombing attacks. Only the fifth
Palestinian woman bomber, Heba Daraghmeh, wore a face veil on a daily basis,
but when she pursued her violent act, she did not wear it. This was a strategy so
that she could enter Jewish communities and be seen as non-threatening to Jewish
people (2005, 24, 26). During my interview with Nasir Abas, a Malaysian national
who was a senior Jemaah Islamiyah (JI) member and was head of JI’s territorial
subdivision Mantiqi III,1 he pointed out the importance of being in tune with the
accepted norms relating to the outward appearances of people in their targeted
areas to guarantee that their presence did not create suspicion. He said that when
he was in charge in the southern Philippines, he asked male JI members to wear
jeans, because jeans were popular among the Filipino community at that time.
Unfortunately, jihadi women donning the cadar and becoming more involved
in frontline terrorist positions by perpetrating attacks have become more preva-
lent. There have been many offline and online campaigns to emphasise that the
cadar is not a terrorist symbol. A fact they have to face is that a few cadari—
mainly attached to the local Islamic State of Iraq and Syria (ISIS)-linked Jamaah

DOI: 10.4324/9781003246442-4
92  Media and cadari
Ansharut Daulah terrorist network—have been active in local and global t­ errorist
networks. This can be seen in some cadari who have been willing to conduct
amaliyah (sacrifice or suicide attack). This includes 20-year-old Fitri Diana who
was involved in an attack on the then Indonesian security minister, Wiranto,
and who stabbed the local police chief in 2019. More recently, in March 2021,
two cadari died: one (21-year-old Yogi Sahfitri Fortuna) by suicide bombing in
Makassar and the other (25-year-old Zakiah Aini) was shot dead after attacking
the national police headquarters in Jakarta. The increasing number of Indonesian
jihadi women involved in frontline positions is part of a global trend. Amanda
Spencer argues this became evident after the ‘U.S. withdrawal from Iraq in 2006’
(2016, 77). Jihadi cadari are not solely responsible for providing moral and logis-
tic support as per al-Qaida and Hamas, but women are now active in the front-
line conducting amaliyah, as has been seen in ISIS and local-based homegrown
terror groups affiliated with ISIS (Nisa and Saenong 2018). The face veil has
been known as the uniform of ISIS women. Al-Khansaa, an ISIS female brigade
founded in 2014, was in charge of ‘policing public morality of women’ in Raqqa
(Syria) in late 2015 (Spencer 2016, 83). Spencer notes, ‘ISIS has imposed a dress
code demanding all women from puberty upwards wear two gowns to conceal
their body shape, black hand gloves and dark layers of two face veils year-round.
No makeup is allowed’ (2016, 84). The ISIS guideline for women, Women of the
Islamic State: A Manifesto on Women by the al Khansaa Brigade, published in
2015 mentions that women should wear face coverings (Ali 2015, 13). Thus, it
is not surprising to see ISIS women with face coverings and carrying weapons.
It is little wonder then, that information that circulates about cadari is linked
with widely circulated news in the media on the involvement of a very few of
them in terrorist activities. This also emphasises their oppression and subordina-
tion, and a presumed Islamic suppression of women’s freedom. Pekka Rantanen,
in his study of non-documentary pictures, such as drawings and pictures of the
burqa (face veil) on the internet, argues that the representation of women under
their burqa maintained ‘stereotypical cultural conceptions’ (2005, 331; see also
Fahmy 2004).
While the presence of cadari within mainstream media has been linked to
terrorism, this chapter focuses on cadari and popular culture—including liter-
ary works and movies—and how cadari use mainstream and alternative media,
including the internet and various social media platforms, in their everyday life.
The influence of the Niqab Squad and cosmopolitan cadari public figures, like
Indadari, will be the principal theme of the last section of this chapter. Their
presence aligns with the growing trend of hijrah (religious transformation to be
better Muslims) spirit among young Muslims and signifies one of the most cur-
rent images of Indonesian Muslim publics, to borrow Armando Salvatore and
Dale Eickelman’s term (2004), born from a resurgence of piety. In the early
1970s and 1980s, many countries, including non-Muslim countries, witnessed
a rise of piety across religious traditions, including Indonesia. Robert Hefner
contends, ‘The resurgence defies a century of forecasts by secularization and
modernization theorists of religion’s imminent privatization and decline’ (2010,
 Media and cadari  93
1031). This resurgence has taken diverse forms. The new wave of hijrah in
Indonesia is one of the latest forms and can be regarded as a glocalised trend and
a form of globally hybrid piety.
There have been some studies on the image of veiled and face-veiled women
in literary works, such as Gillian Whitlock (2005) and Clare Bradford (2007);
however, the focus is on women in countries where the practice of veiling has
become the norm. For instance, Whitlock suggests that the images of Muslim
women with veils or face veils on the covers of literary works, such as Latifa’s
My Forbidden Face (2002), Jean Sasson’s Mayada, Daughter of Iraq (2003),
and Azar Nafisi’s Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books (2003), have
successfully attracted their most targeted market, that is, liberal Western consum-
ers (Whitlock 2005, 54–55, see also El-Saadawi 2010). Whitlock points out that
the representation of women under their burqa espouses stereotypes about them
as oppressed agents who need to be liberated (unveiled). She criticises this kind
of representation, especially the idea of the burqa as oppressive, and unveiling
the wearers as an act of liberation. This is an oversimplification of the meaning
of burqa for the wearers themselves. It does however strengthen the stereotypes
that the wearers are weak and need to be saved by others. The production of
cadar novels in Indonesia, where the practice of face veiling is foreign to most
Muslims even though it has a long history in the archipelago, is a relatively recent
development.
A different story emerges from the presence of cadari in Indonesian popular
culture, where there have been positive representations of cadari—especially in
novels and movies—such as a cadari representing the image of an ideal Muslim
woman. This has provided cadar-wearers with a different way of seeing their
existence. Representation in this regard refers to ‘an essential part of the process
by which meaning is produced and exchanged between members of a culture. It
does involve the use of language, of signs and images which stand for or represent
things [emphasis in original]’ (Hall 1997, 15). Since the 2000s, some Indonesian
novels have used the image of the cadari and offered alternative representations,
which seem to have eased the stereotype that cadari are agents of terror. One
example is a 2008 movie Ayat Ayat Cinta (Verses of love) or AAC. AAC is based
on the novel of the same title. One of the main characters is a beautiful, pious and
fashionable face-veiled woman—a positive representation of cadari. However,
since novels might be understood by the readers or audiences differently, new rep-
resentations of the image of cadari in these novels may generate different mean-
ings for different readers.

Ayat Ayat Cinta and the emergence of ‘cadar novels’

One sunny day, after attending a bayan mastura (a religious speech known among
the Tablīghī Jamāʿat and targeted at female Tablīghī), a group of five upper-­
middle-class Tablīghī women mentioned AAC. I was not aware that there was a
face-veiled woman character in AAC. Three of the women tried to convince their
other two friends to watch the movie in a cinema. One of them said: ‘Many people
94  Media and cadari

Figure 3.1  A cadari before watching Ayat Ayat Cinta at the cinema in 21 Pondok Indah,
Jakarta. Source: Photo credit, author, 28 March 2008.

told me that there were many veiled women watching this movie in the cinema
and it is okay because it is a daʿwa [Ind. dakwah or proselytisation] movie. Let’s
go!’ Finally, all five agreed to watch the movie and they asked me to join. At that
time, I was unable to accompany them. However, I did watch the movie with
another Tablīghī woman at a different time and was surprised to see some cadari
in the audience (Figure 3.1). What is AAC? What is its significance in the life of
Indonesian cadari?
Ayat Ayat Cinta by Habiburrahman El Shirazy (affectionately known as ‘Kang
Abik’) was first published in December 2004 and, by March 2008, it had been
reprinted forty-one times (excluding its pirated versions). After the overwhelming
success of AAC, the image of the cadari has become more familiar to Indonesians,
especially following the 2008 release of the movie based on the novel.2 This piece
of fiction is a classic melodramatic romance novel about a male Muslim protago-
nist, Fahri, and four beautiful women.
The story begins by portraying the everyday life of Fahri bin Abdullah Shiddiq,
a poor Indonesian student at Al-Azhar University in Cairo, who has won a schol-
arship to complete his graduate studies. The novel is the love story of Fahri and a
cadari named Aisha. Fahri meets Aisha in the metro during a dramatic incident.
Aisha offers her seat to an elderly American woman who is very tired; the other
passengers, mostly Egyptians, are offended by her friendly gesture. They purpose-
fully refuse to let the American woman have a seat, as they regard all Americans
 Media and cadari  95
to be the common enemy of Muslims because of the US actions in Afghanistan,
Iraq and Palestine. Some Egyptians began to verbally abuse Aisha, accusing her of
being a bad Muslim. Finally, Fahri intervenes to defend her and calm the situation.
This is the part of the plot most often referred to by the director of the movie in
interviews, as it stresses the fact that not all Muslims have a blind fanaticism for
their religion. Many Muslims practise tolerance, as exemplified by Aisha and Fahri.
It has been claimed that AAC portrays the moderate, pluralist face of Islam
(Santikajaya 2008, 4). However, the image of a cadari and Fahri’s polygamy3 seem
to contradict this assertion (Brenner 2011). In the story, Fahri asks Aisha to remove
her cadar once they have arrived in Indonesia, as it is not in accord with local cus-
tom (El Shirazy 2008, 218). Still, the image of Aisha with her cadar is omnipresent
throughout the novel and the film. In the aftermath of the success of AAC, there has
been a significant increase in the number of cadar novels (Figure 3.2).
The publication of AAC can be regarded as the starting point of the growing
popularity of cadar novels in Indonesia. Although some authors in this genre,
such as Geidurrahman Elmishry, seem averse to being associated with Kang Abik
because they rate his literary style as poor, they do admit that the success of AAC
has benefited those who write religious novels, and helped their work win the
same acclaim and popularity as AAC. When AAC became a bestseller, many of
my non-cadari research subjects yearned to read more such inspiring novels. At

Figure 3.2  Image of cadar novel covers that accentuate women’s eyes, in a Gramedia
bookstore, Pondok Indah, Jakarta. Source: Photo credit, author, 6 September
2008.
96  Media and cadari
that time, many people felt disheartened because of the critical condition of the
country, particularly the economic and political crises that hit Indonesia in 1997.
Apart from fiksi Islami (Islamic fiction) or sastra Islami (Islamic literature), which
became increasingly popular after the breakdown of the New Order regime and
is exemplified by AAC, since the late 1990s another genre has emerged within
the literary community: sastra wangi (fragrant literature) (Watson 2005, 67–69).
Sastra wangi is a secular prose that frequently uses sexual issues to highlight
inequality between the sexes. Sastra wangi was pioneered by the publication of
Saman—Ayu Utami’s first book—in April 1998, one month before the break-
down of the New Order regime. This genre has successfully set a new trend in
Indonesia’s literary world (Allen 2007, 25; Bodden and Hellwig 2007, 1).
The fictional character of Aisha in AAC, wearing the cadar and submitting to
strict religious doctrines such as ta’aruf (Ar. taʿāruf or getting to know each other
before marriage without having pre-marital relations or a passionate courtship)4
and polygamy, can be regarded as counter constructions to women portrayed in
sastra wangi, which often emphasise women’s sexuality, female desire, women’s
liberation and social injustice (Arnez 2005, 2009). Also, AAC was published at a
time advantageous for certain Islamist communities that used it to broach the sub-
ject of morality and pornography, a controversial issue advanced by conservative
Muslims. In July 2003, for instance, women members of the Indonesian Islamist
party Partai Keadilan Sejahtera or PKS (Prosperous Justice Party) held a semi-
nar on pornography titled ‘Pornografi dan komitment menjaga moralitas bangsa’
(Pornography and the commitment to guard the morality of the nation) (Rinaldo
2008, 23–24; see also van Wichelen 2010).

Constructing an image of Muslimah (Muslim women)

To analyse how the image of an ideal Muslimah is being constructed in cadar
novels, I will focus on two fictional works on face-veiled women, AAC and Laila
Cinta Sang Hafizah (Laila: The love of a female memoriser of the Qurʾān) (Aisyah
2008). The latter was written by Ninik Peni Sulistiyowati, a Muslim woman also
known as Ummu Aisyah. She graduated from the Faculty of Law at Jember State
University. Her own life as a ḥāfiẓa (memoriser of the Qurʾān) strongly inspired
her to create the fictional character of Laila who is also a ḥāfiẓa. Moreover, Ummu
Aisyah’s affiliation with the Tablīghī Jamāʿat community stimulated her to recount
the way of life of a Tablīghī family.5 Kang Abik, author of AAC, graduated from
Al-Azhar University in Egypt and was initially well known not only as a member
of Forum Lingkar Pena (FLP, the Pen Circle Forum) (Arnez 2009, 46) but also
as the founder of the FLP branch in Egypt. FLP is an organisation for writers and
potential writers which aims to propagate Islamic values. It has a special informal
relationship with the Indonesian Islamist Jama’ah Tarbiyah. The FLP founders
are activists of the Jama’ah Tarbiyah (Arnez 2009; Arnez and Nisa 2016).
In all cadar novels, the image of the heroine is pious and physically flaw-
less; she is the promoter of the ideal Muslimah. Kang Abik includes face-veiled,
angel-like characters in several of his novels. Aisha in AAC, Afirah in Di atas
 Media and cadari  97
Sajadah Cinta (On the prayer rug of love) (El Shirazy 2005) and Masyithah in
Ketika Cinta Bertasbih (When love extols God) (El Shirazy 2007) are presented
as the most beautiful women in the stories. Aisha in AAC is described as follows:
‘Subḥānallāh (Praise be to God). The woman in front of me is an angel or a human
being. Praise be to God who has created that beautiful face’ (El Shirazy 2008,
214). Laila in Laila Cinta Sang Hafizah is also described as an extremely beautiful
woman. When Yusuf, the main male character in the novel, sees Laila for the first
time, he is impressed by her beauty: ‘Any normal man will be impressed when he
sees such a beautiful woman. Such was also the case with Yusuf (when he saw
Laila), for him it was like seeing an angel descended to earth’ (Aisyah 2008, 24).
The question is: what exactly makes these women beautiful? They are described
literally as having beautiful eyes and a flawless face (El Shirazy 2008, 236). This
physical beauty is accompanied by their flawless religious aura.
In general, the word salihah (Ar. ṣāliḥa or pious woman), which implies
these women’s ketaatan (obedience) towards God’s commands, is often used to
describe the piety of the face-veiled women. In El Shirazy’s AAC, for example,
Aisha is described as follows: ‘Perform the prayer for guidance. This salihah
woman is truly salihah. She is looking for a saleh [Ar. ṣāliḥ or pious] man, not a
rich man’ (2008, 202). In contrast to the stereotype of cadari representing Islamic
extremism, it is remarkable that such beautiful women are represented as being
superior to other Muslim women.

Between propagation and commodification

Kang Abik and Ummu Aisyah have stated that through their works they contrib-
ute to daʿwa (El Shirazy 2006). Post-AAC, many novelists strove to produce this
kind of daʿwa novel because the image of Aisha in her cadar in AAC won the
hearts of many Indonesian readers. The image of cadari has become a highly mar-
ketable icon promising large profits. Some publishers have exploited the cadari
image for book covers, even though such a character may not necessarily appear
in the story. Diva Press is a publishing company which often uses images of
cadari for their Islamic novels. However, only one of their nine novels with ‘face-
veil covers’ actually features such a woman, namely Al-Krienciehie’s Berselimut
Surban Cinta (Wrapped in love’s turban) (2008)—and the cadari is not a main
character.
What exactly is being offered by this image? The main reason for the use of
the image of cadari on the covers of these novels is commercial. It aims to reach a
large readership. The marketable seductive image of cadari can be regarded as an
extension of an orientalist representation of ‘the Oriental woman.’ The way peo-
ple in the publishing business use the image of cadari is identical to the colonial
fantasy of women in the Arab world, albeit a better representation and for differ-
ent purposes. The most famous collection of postcards of Algerian women pro-
duced by the French in Algeria discussed in Malek Alloula’s The Colonial Harem
(1986) depicted representations of semi-nude Algerian women. Alloula collected
these pictures to indicate the ‘Western vision of the Orient,’ as mentioned by
98  Media and cadari
Barbara Harlow in the introduction to The Colonial Harem (xi). From the coloni-
alist point of view, a full face-veiled woman was seen to be destabilising colonial
superiority by making herself inaccessible. Jasmin Zine depicts this colonial fan-
tasy as follows: ‘How could one be superior to, or establish authority over, crea-
tures that could not be known since they could not be seen or grasped as a picture
… the act of seeing was a symbolic act of possession’ (2002, 9–10). Referring
back to people in the cadar novel business, although they did not produce semi-
nude representations, they have successfully reproduced new ways of represent-
ing the image of the mysterious and exotic face-veiled women. The startling
aspect here is that the book covers are depicting ‘oriental’ to the ‘orient’—not a
western audience.6 The other similarity between the production of these images
of colonial fantasy and people in the cadar novel business is that they are mostly
the product of the male gaze. The gaze of people in the face-veil novel industry
is like the gaze of the coloniser (the French) upon colonised subjects (Algerian)
in Alloula’s study.
This commercial agenda also becomes apparent in a statement made by
one of the most successful Diva Press authors, Taufiqurrahman Al-Azizy, who
admitted that he did not really know about the process of ‘packaging’ his work,
as he entrusted the publisher and illustrator with all such affairs. Initially, he
was not aware that most of his works had the image of cadari on their covers.
When I interviewed him, he remarks: ‘I only received the novel to be launched
on the market without really paying great detail to its cover. There was no shar-
ing of ideas in the process of packaging, including the decision to choose the
proper cover for my work. Since I already trust them, I am happy with whatever
they do.’
Al-Azizy’s works (2006; 2007a; 2007b; 2007c) and other products of Diva
Press imply that the publisher’s marketing strategy emphasises the illustrations,
not the content. This is to a certain degree comparable to what Kamilla Elliot
refers to as ‘the Book Beautiful,’ where the most important element of the book
is its appearance. Elliot goes further to argue that ‘here, pictures appeared for
picture’s sake, not for words’ sake’ (2003, 48). The appearance of face-veiled
women as part of the promotion of books resembles the strategy of many other
advertisements exploiting women as objects. This phenomenon shows that wom-
en’s bodies are being objectified in multiple ways: not only can slim Barbie-like
women with sexy dresses magnetically attract the attention of fiction readers
(Macdonald 1995, 11–12), but fully body-covered women can be the source of
attraction, mystery, allure and seductive eyes. Attention is immediately drawn to
the eyes and brows of these women. Figure 3.2 suggests that cover illustrators
exploit the mysterious and alluring gaze of face-veiled women.

Responses to cadar novels

During fieldwork, the phenomenon of cadar novels encouraged me to unpack
various versions of cadari representation in this genre. Analysis of cadar novels
as texts lead me to deal with the way the text is activated by diverse readers.
 Media and cadari  99
Anne Cranny-Francis and colleagues define a text as ‘a sign-based communica-
tive practice that involves readers or viewers activating signs to generate mean-
ings.’ Therefore, text in this regard is not confined to literature. It covers ‘cultural
production and communication in all media and genres—including everyday con-
versation, service encounters, terms of personal address, bureaucratic exchanges,
legal documents, historical manuscripts, novels, plays, films, television pro-
grammes and so on’ (Cranny-Francis et al. 2003, 89, 136). In responding to cadar
novels, readers are not passive recipients. There are two types of reading in this
context: ‘mainstream or compliant’ and ‘resistant.’ Mainstream readers, who are
represented mostly by non-cadari, produce a reading that complies with ‘the read-
ing expected from a literate member of the reader’s society’ (Cranny-Francis et
al. 2003, 115). Resistant readers who are the cadari themselves produce a reading
which rejects the mainstream reading.
Mainstream readers of this genre admitted that the presence of Aisha in AAC
has given them some insight into the life of face-veiled Muslim women. Many of
my male non-Salafi and non-Tablīghī research subjects commented that the cadar
worn by Aisha is very attractive. One reason why cadar novels have become so
popular for mainstream readers is that they hope to find something that will help
them return to the religion. The production of cadar novels and their ‘consump-
tion’ can be seen as one of the varied expressions of ‘public religion’ (Meyer and
Moors 2006). Dania (31 years old), a consultant in one of Indonesia’s law firms,
shared with me her experience of reading AAC:

I learn a lot from reading religious novels, especially AAC. I was amazed
with the way Fahri and Aisha conduct their lives. Reading this kind of novel
is like a reminder for me. It reminds me about my religion, my sins, and
about many things that I do not know about my religion. I did not know about
ta’aruf before. Reading this novel is like joining a religious journey and like
returning ‘home.’

Dania is one of many typical readers who want to return to Islam through reading
religious novels. Indeed, Kang Abik told me how he was surprised with the suc-
cess of AAC and since then more people have invited him to deliver Islamic ser-
mons. He said, ‘Since AAC, so many people have invited me to deliver sermons,
including Ramadan sermons. Unfortunately, many times I have had to decline the
invitations, because there are too many.’ AAC was seen by many of its readers not
only as a novel but as a way of understanding their Muslim identity.
The act of reading produces diverse meanings, given the different knowledge
readers have. Below I analyse responses from cadari and their communities in
Indonesia, who can be regarded as producing resistant reading to the representa-
tion of cadari in novels and other popular culture products.
The popularity of AAC has prompted Salafi communities to drag the issue
into the public eye, that is, into discourse about basic religious legal doctrine
(ḥukm) regarding the reading of fiction by Muslims. Nikah, a Salafi-based
community magazine, dedicated a special issue to AAC and Islamic views on
100  Media and cadari
the legality of reading fiction. Nikah quoted a fatwa (Ar. fatwā or non-binding
religious ruling or opinion from religious scholar/s on questions related to
Islam and Muslims) by Shaykh Ṣāliḥ b. Fawzān al-Fawzān, one of the best-
known Saudi Salafi ʿulamā’ (Muslim scholars) in Indonesia, on this topic.
According to him, if the activity of reading or writing fiction is prone to make
people forget or neglect some mandatory religious activities, it is forbidden
(haram or ḥarām [Ar.]) (al-Fawzān 2008, 56–57).
AAC has also inspired Salafi groups to release books to counter the novel and
movie (Heryanto 2011, 63–64). One well-known book published by a Salafi group
in this context is Tafsir Cinta Ayat Ayat Cinta; Sebuah Tafsir Penuntun Jiwa (A
commentary of love on the verses of love: An interpretation by a soul guide) by
Zaenal Syamsudin (2008). Syamsudin (2008) stated that he did not want to buy
the book. Instead, he borrowed it from a person who he claimed was a ‘victim’ of
the novel so that he could criticise it. Muslims affiliated with this group are urged
not to buy or even have a look at AAC. This is also the main reason some of my
cadari research subjects, especially those of the passionate group, were reluctant
to admit that they had read it.
The responses from the cadari reveal a dilemma. Some of my face-veiled
research subjects stated that Indonesians have begun to get to know more about
the practice of face veiling through AAC. They feel that a positive change has
occurred in the manner in which they are perceived in public. This is also illus-
trated by a joke among face-veiled university students in Yogyakarta: ‘Nowadays,
after the appearance of Aisha in AAC, especially its movie version, our image
has greatly improved, from being a ninja to being a beautiful woman like Aisha.’
Many of them also asserted that in the wake of the ‘AAC fever’ people—for
example, their neighbours—began to treat them more warmly. Ummu Raihani, a
20-year-old student at a Saudi-funded university in Indonesia, says: ‘After AAC,
kids in my neighbourhood call me “Aisha.” Their mothers start to talk to me and
to some of my friends. They have started asking various funny questions such as,
“Don’t you feel hot under your cadar?”’
In my interviews, I found that a number of cadari are resistant readers who
are unwilling to accept a mainstream reading of the text. They feel disappointed
with the emergence of Aisha and their reading explicitly challenges the text and
the responses of the mainstream readers. While it is primarily women without
a cadar who consider Aisha a flawless and pious Muslim woman, some face-
veiled women perceive Aisha and her image in AAC as a ‘virus,’ a travesty of
their belief system. Therefore, ironically the popularity of cadari in literature is
rejected by some cadari themselves. As Ummu Hasna (23 years old), a student at
a state university, put it:

I and most of my friends are really sad about the popularity of Aisha’s cadar.
Suddenly our sacred dress is tainted by the emergence of Aisha. We treat our
cadar as something pure and sacred, and something that can move us closer
to God—unlike other Muslim women who suddenly play with the cadar,
making it part of their ‘new style.’
 Media and cadari  101
According to them, the visualisation of cadari with a stylish and sometimes trans-
parent cadar and seductive eyes cannot be regarded as being in accord with reli-
gious observance.
Another reason why cadari communities reject the commercialisation of the
image of cadari is that some media have responded to the novel with parodies
of the face-veiled Aisha. One example is Extravaganza, a former biweekly TV
comedy show. Modifying the storyline of AAC in one of its episodes, the program
shows Aisha when she finally takes off her cadar after her marriage to Fahri,
exposing enormous protruding upper front teeth. Moreover, the community of
cadari feels offended by celebrities like Dewi Persik, an Indonesian dangdut (an
Indonesian music genre) singer, who on one occasion wore a face veil on a TV
show. Ummu Khonsa (24 years old), a face-veiled university student, commented:

We felt so sad when some of our friends said that Dewi Persik wore the
cadar in a TV program. What was her point? What did she want to tell us by
wearing the cadar? While the day after wearing it, she appeared again in her
sexy dress, almost in the nude. Following the growing popularity of AAC,
Indonesians have become more comfortable playing around with our dress.

For cadar-wearers themselves, like Ummu Khonsa, the conception of cadari as

ideal women offered by the novels unfortunately contradicts the way the enter-
tainment business uses the image of cadari. Therefore, many of them regard the
production of cadar novels as incompatible with the ideology that they uphold.

Cadari engaging with media

The previous section focused on how cadari were represented by the media and
in popular culture. This section focuses on how cadari self-present themselves;
how they use the media, especially the alternative media—the internet and social
media platforms—in their everyday lives. The previous section has demonstrated
that many have been disappointed with the representation of cadari initiated by
people in the print industry. It is in this section that we can see the agentive capac-
ity of these women in sharing their life experiences. This section investigates
the online activities of cadari. The internet has enabled cadari to exercise their
agency and embrace their subcultures and to embody diverse experiences compat-
ible with their subcultures.7
Suggesting that cadari belong to a subculture is invited by the way they dis-
tance themselves from Indonesia’s mainstream culture. As the varied stories of the
cadari in this book demonstrate, they distinguish themselves from the practices of
Islam performed by their parents and the majority of Muslims in Indonesia. Their
subcultures are reflected in the way they embody their new taat (Ar. ṭāʿa or obe-
dient) habitus. Their obsession with maintaining ideological boundaries can be
seen in the way they use the internet and social media platforms that are regarded
as being characteristic of modern subcultures. The presence of the media as an
integral aspect of a subculture has been emphasised by Sarah Thornton (1997) and
102  Media and cadari
scholars who support the concept of post-subcultures (Kahn and Kellner 2003).
These scholars point out the importance of media in the formation, propagation
and circulation of ideas and ideologies of subcultures (Kahn and Kellner 2003;
Thornton 1995). This section on alternative media initially focuses on the internet
and then on social media platforms in which the presence of the Niqab Squad has
become a game changer in the discussion of cadari and media.

Cadari and their internet subculture8

The bulk of the literature about Indonesian Islam and the internet demonstrates
how the use of technology by cadari has been neglected. Taking advantage of
the freedom of speech emerging in post-New Order Indonesia, cadari have used
media strategically for their own purposes, revealing a usage that contrasts, in
important respects, with that of mainstream Muslims in Indonesia. This section
demonstrates that free speech has benefited all Indonesians, including cadari, a
group of citizens who to a certain extent remain invisible (see the Niqab Squad
below) yet nevertheless ‘threatening’ (Figure 3.3). It focuses on how they create
and maintain their own subcultures through the internet.
While there is a tendency by some scholars to emphasise the internet’s func-
tionality in the creation of ‘civil society’ (Anderson 1999; Castells 2000; 2005;
Hill 2003; Hill and Sen 2005), the internet in the life of cadari reveals different
trajectories which are compatible with their subcultures, but which register lightly
or not at all under the civil society paradigm. The functions of the internet in the
life of cadari do not resemble a liberalising path. Instead, they use the internet
as part of their project of resistance against the way many Muslim women have

Figure 3.3  Romaini sitting at her computer at work. Source: Photo credit, author, 1 January
2009. Used with Romaini’s permission.
 Media and cadari  103
started to engage with global flows of Islamic knowledge in diverse media—
messages that cadari regard as promoting a ‘liberal’ interpretation of Islam (on
agency and resistance see Mahmood 2005).
The way they engage with the internet is by creating their own secluded virtual
public sphere. They regard this as part of the embodiment of their new taat habi-
tus to be true Muslimah. At the same time, the online activities of these women
go against the stereotypes attached to their cadar status, especially the symbolic
interpretation of cadari as a marker of women’s oppression and subordination,
and the subsequent negative evaluations of these women’s capacity for agency
(Macdonald 2003; Rantanen 2005; Shirazi and Mishra 2010; Wikan 1982).
Since the aspiration of becoming a true Muslimah is the everyday concern
of cadari, all their life experiences need to be adjusted to this aspiration. Their
agency needs to be associated with religious ends evident from their everyday use
of social media platforms which is tied to the Islamic rules they uphold. For them,
engaging with the media is not just a matter of passing time; it is approached as a
virtuous act. Kamaludeen Nasir, Alexius Pereira and Bryan Turner propose that
the concept ‘degree of pietization’ be used in analysing pious acts. This ‘degree
of pietization’ is especially important regarding the current revival of religion
among Muslims in certain communities. The ‘degree of pietization’ refers to ‘the
reform of daily practices that give otherwise secular activities (eating, sleeping,
dressing and so forth) a religious significance’ (2010, 10). I also argue that engag-
ing with the internet is part of the quest to be good Muslimah. The cadari make
decisions about which media they should engage with, and which internet sites
should be visited. Becoming and being good Muslimah for them means paying
significant attention not only to their bodies but to the activities in their everyday
life as a whole.
The internet as a cultural technology for communication has created possibili-
ties for cadari to create and maintain their own subcultures within their own ‘safe’
public space. Most cadari with whom I worked commit to using the internet in
harmony with their understandings of Islam. Ummu Sarah, a 36-year-old young
mother, says:

I think the presence of the internet is very helpful for all akhwat [sisters or
cadari in this context], especially for sharing religious knowledge. Usually
if I go online then I will visit my friends or ʿulamā’’s blog to get some inspi-
ration how to practise Islam. However, I still have to be very careful while
using the internet to make sure that I do not violate the rule related to ikhtilāṭ
[the mixing of sexes] and khalwat [illicit close proximity between genders].

Many cadari implement strategies to preserve their religious worldview, even

in ‘private’ internet usage. They do not consider the virtual world to be a space
where associations and socialisations which are not permitted in the real world
become permissible. They strive, for example, to sterilise their virtual world
from men. Some also maintain their virtual public appearance carefully when
using friendship networks, such as Facebook and Instagram, particularly by not
104  Media and cadari
attaching their real pictures. Instead of uploading pictures of themselves, they
upload other pictures such as those of flowers and images of nature.

Cadari and their internet practice

Many Salafi groups in Indonesia, ranging from jihadi, such as Laskar Jihad
(Bräuchler 2003), to non-jihadi groups, use the internet for disseminating their
teachings. However, among them, debate about whether the internet is halal (Ar.
ḥalāl or permissible) or haram is ongoing. Gary Bunt discusses how the presence
of women on the internet invites critique from some clerics who are doubtful
about the real benefits for women being publicly, albeit virtually, present there
(2009, 25). Some clerics argue that women’s online presence may contravene
Salafi adherence to gender segregation; a view prompted by the assumption that
many young Muslims are tempted to go online by virtue of the transgressive pos-
sibilities the internet offers (Slama 2010).
With social media platforms mushrooming via the increasing presence of
Facebook (2004), Twitter (2006), WhatsApp (2009), Instagram (2010) and TikTok
(2017), some ʿulamā’, including those of the Tablīghī and Salafi groups in Indonesia,
have progressively upheld negative views towards this communication technology.
This includes a discussion about using Face App (As Sidawi 2019). Indonesia’s
highest Islamic clerical body, the Council of Indonesian ʿUlamāʾ(MUI), has
issued some fatwa (Ar. pl. fatāwā) on the use of social media platforms. In 2017,
MUI issued fatwa no. 24 to regulate the use of a platform known as ‘Muamalah
medsosiah’ (Behaving on social media). By exploring the uses of social media in
the country, especially when used to spread hoaxes, hate speech,9 pornographic
materials and other maʿṣiya (sinful behaviour), the MUI issued this fatwa to guide
Muslims on how they could safely use social media (see also Campbell 2011 on
conservatism and technology). Negative views of the internet and social media,
however, do not prevent some cadari in Indonesia from using varied social media
platforms for their agenda, which demonstrates the way they exercise agency.
A Q&A section on an Indonesian Salafi female website (akhwat​.web​​.id)
includes an answer to a question on how to engage with the internet by a Medina-
born Salafi scholar, Shaykh ʿUbayd al-Jābirī (2009). The Q&A was uploaded
from Salafitalk​.n​et (n.d.) which, according to Thomas Maguire (2005, 122), is a
pro-Saudi traditionalist site that remains loyal to the Saudi Government. Al-Jābirī
emphasises that all Muslims, including Muslim women, should ideally limit their
online presence to searching for religious knowledge. Driven by their eagerness to
be true Muslimah, many Salafi women limit their online activities to the purpose
of daʿwa, while at the same time striving to uphold their subcultural ideology.
Here, I will focus on two early forms of cadari’s online activities, mailing list
As-Salafiyyat and the online business of Bunda Alifa.

Mailing list: As-Salafiyyat

As-Salafiyyat is a mailing list for Salafi women. This group was founded by and
for Muslim women. It is one of the best examples of how cadari are active in
 Media and cadari  105
creating their own virtual subcultures. They strive to build a niche that supports
their interest in maintaining their new taat habitus, a ‘healthy’ halal lifestyle, and
that maintains a distance from mainstream, Indonesian lifestyles, perceived as
non-Islamic. The aim of As-Salafiyyat is to learn, communicate and share reli-
gious knowledge based on the Salafi ideology.
Women regard participation in this discussion forum as part of their daʿwa.
Such participation creates subcultural capital, a term coined by Thornton (1995),
inspired by Pierre Bourdieu’s (1984) concept of cultural capital. The list excludes
participants from outside the group. Although new members of the group do not
have to be members of a pre-existing Salafi group, they are expected to share the
group’s concern for avoiding communication across gender lines, thereby com-
mitting resistance towards one of the most accepted norms of the mainstream
virtual world (lack of gender segregation). Prior to being approved, members are
screened by way of online interviews, in which they are asked questions such as:

1. Do you want to know Salafiyyah daʿwa? (In this context the Salafi teachings)
2. Is there a Salafi Ahlus Sunnah wal Jama’ah ta’līm (Salafi study circle) in your
place? Do you attend it? Who is the teacher?

In all, thirteen screening questions must be answered by prospective members

before the moderator approves their application to join the forum. In the inter-
ests of upholding gender segregation, only women are allowed to join. Men are
forbidden to join As-Salafiyyat. There is a strict warning for men who use false
gender identities in order to take part in the group. The rule states: ‘As-Salafiyyat
does not allow men to be part of the group. Be afraid of Allah The All-Seeing and
All-knowing.’ The online world for members of As-Salafiyyat is the expansion
of their everyday offline life. Some members demonstrated that it was through
the online world that they finally found not only the real Islam but also their real
sisters.

Bunda Alifa
Doing online business or, to borrow Emma Tarlo’s term, ‘cyber-Islamic com-
merce’ (2010), has enabled some cadari to be active in another form of daʿwa.
For them, business can be part of daʿwa, as well as ʿibāda (an act of devotion), if
it results in bolstering an Islamic lifestyle within their communities. The experi-
ence of Bunda Alifa, the owner of the Rumah Bunda website, provides an early
example of how cadari have successfully shaped and maintained their subcul-
tures through business. Bunda Alifa is renowned among other cadari followers
of a Salafi group in Yogyakarta as something of a ‘web geek.’ She has been an
active web user since the early establishment of warnet (warung internet or inter-
net café) in Yogyakarta in 1996, and has been blogging since 2005, long before
the presence of the cosmopolitan tech-savvy cadari public figures or the Niqab
Squad. In the early days of the internet in Indonesia, she revealed to me, she
was the only cadari who went back and forth to warnet every day. Nowadays,
106  Media and cadari
however, people can go online from their mobile phone directly and Bunda Alifa
can go online every day from her home.
In conducting her online business, Bunda Alifa strives to ensure that her activi-
ties are in line with Salafi ideology. For marketing purposes, for example, she uses
mannequins without heads. In addition, she also sells alcohol-free, halal beauty
and health products. The range includes Breast Care Spa, V Whitening Lotion,
V-spa and Beauty Buster, and there is even a product for men, called Natural
Oil Enlargement. The reason for choosing all these products originates from her
eagerness to help women to be attractive to their husbands by using halal prod-
ucts which she says have been ignored by many Muslims in Indonesia. When I
asked Bunda Alifa why she chose these kinds of beauty products, she laughed
while saying: ‘Hahaha … it must be like that sister, because I want my husband’s
eyes only on me.’ She wanted other Muslim women to have the same experience.
Thus, cadari are not immune to the demands of the beauty culture, but they try
to adjust these demands to suit their Salafi ideology by using halal products. The
intention of the usage should also be in line with Islamic teaching, namely to
please husbands’ eyes. Through her online businesses, Bunda Alifa can navigate
her (online) public presence from her private realm.

Hijrah hype: From public figuring cadar to

online and offline Niqab Squad fever
This last section specifically portrays the latest development in the interplay
between cadari, the internet and social media and agency. It will begin by ana-
lysing the emergence of cosmopolitan Indonesian public figures who wear the
cadar in the name of hijrah, especially since 2017. The way cadari respond to
the rapid growth of advanced technology, especially to social media platforms,
and adjust not only to their private but also public and communal piety will be
foregrounded. The birth of the online–offline cadari community Niqab Squad in
2017, which attracted national and international media attention, will specifically
be at the core of this discussion. The use of the internet and social media platforms
by the Niqab Squad has added to the dynamic presence of cadari in Indonesia.
Through the presence of the Niqab Squad, we can see clearer the influence of
advanced technology in the lives of cadari, beyond the use of closed mailing lists
like As-Salafiyyat.10
Evidenced here from cadari’s use of various social media platforms is not
only their taat agency but also their everyday agentive joy. Scholars focusing
their work on Muslims have often focused on piety and others have concentrated
on everyday Muslim life beyond religiosity (Deeb and Harb 2013; Schielke and
Debevec 2012; Soares and Osella 2009). These scholars mention ambivalence,
incoherence and the coexistence of religious and nonreligious sensibilities of
Muslims’ everyday lives (Schielke 2010). Nadia Fadil and Mayanthi Fernando
point out that some scholars were preoccupied with the binary of the opposition
between piety and the everyday (2015, 63). Following this, scholars have been
 Media and cadari  107
debating how to understand everyday life or ‘the everyday’ in relation to Islam
(Deeb 2015, 94; see also Fadil and Fernando 2015; Schielke 2019).
In line with scholars who turn to everyday Islam, the everyday Islam and agen-
tive joy of cadari can be clearly seen in those who are attached to the Niqab
Squad. Their everyday life, however, cannot be separated from their religiosity.
The Niqab Squad’s everyday activities and agentive capacities should not be read
as totally opposed to their religiosity or taat agency. Lara Deeb, in her response
to Fadil and Fernando who discussed the binary, also argues that both piety and
the everyday should not be read as ‘diametrically opposed to one another’ (2015,
59). Deeb argues that

viewing the everyday in opposition to piety also risks reinscribing the norma-
tive as static and homogenous. … One way to move in new directions might
be to think about how moral norms and everyday practices are coconstituted
in relation to one another, which means that the coproduction works in both
directions [emphasis in original].
(2015, 96)

This chapter aligns with Deeb’s argument that everyday practices are inseparable
from piety.

Public figuring cadar and hijrah

In recent times, Indonesia’s public sphere has witnessed the growth of a new
wave of Muslim eagerness to become better Muslims by performing hijrah, espe-
cially among cosmopolitan young people. Hijrah in this context refers to religious
transformation to become a better Muslim and the journey that is involved in
becoming a more pious Muslim (Nisa 2019a, 445). The Qurʾān uses the term
hijrah to refer to migration or withdrawal, in particular the Prophet Muḥammad’s
migration which occurred in 622 CE from Mecca to Medina. The new hijrah
wave that is celebrated by young Muslims demonstrates a rise of piety but also
a global hybridity of piety, termed glocal piety. There is an encounter between
global Islamic resurgence, the influence of transnational revivalist movements,
modern consumption—including media consumption—and local expressions of
becoming religious, or more religious than the ‘newborn’ Muslims of the early
1970s and 1980s. The presence of the hijrah wave and the Niqab Squad signify
two of the many faces of Indonesian Muslim publics. Salvatore and Eickelman
argue that Muslim publics are born from articulations on Islam in public spheres
which encompass varied initiatives and ‘are grounded in practices that emerge
through the complex process of [the] ingraining of Muslim traditions into modern
social life’ (2004, 24; see also Tayob 2012, 142). Within Muslim publics, new
media platforms play a crucial role.
The phenomenon of hijrah was especially popularised when public figures
started to join the movement and adopted veils and face veils. In November 2018,
a number of public figures initiated ‘Hijrah Fest 2018.’ The event was targeted
108  Media and cadari
at Muslim youth. The organisers wanted to make it the ‘Biggest Hijrah Event of
the Year’ and planned it as an annual festival. These public figures were mostly
well-known Indonesian actors who had just experienced hijrah. For example, Arie
Kuncoro Untung, a 46-year-old former MTV Indonesia VJ, actor and TV presenter,
conducted hijrah in 2016. It is noteworthy that the phenomenon of hijrah does not
specifically and directly attach to certain Islamist and conservative movements. The
reference is often related to Muslims, especially young people, who want to be more
religious. They usually do this by attaching themselves to various Islamist and other
conservative groups, and their appearance becomes the symbol of this transforma-
tion. Women usually adopt a veil or a cadar and men usually grow a beard and
wear non-isbal (Ar. isbāl) trousers which should fall above the ankles. During the
Hijrah Fest, for example, the organisers usually invite clerics of the various Islamist
and conservative movements, including various Salafi factions and the currently
banned Hizbut Tahrir Indonesia (HTI) to deliver Islamic sermons. Muslims who
undertake hijrah are the same as those who become part of Islamist and conserva-
tive movements as mentioned in the previous chapters. They do not have strong
understandings of Islam from their past. Therefore, young students at pesantren
(Islamic boarding school) of moderate Muslim organisations like Nahdlatul Ulama
and Muhammadiyah, who have worn veils since attending primary school or
pesantren, are usually not considered to be undertaking hijrah. Even so, although
the phenomenon of hijrah is gaining popularity, especially among young people,
their number is very small compared to mainstream Muslims in Indonesia.
When analysing closely the notion of hijrah as propagated by its current sup-
porters, many outsiders feel that hijrah is Arabising Indonesian Islam. Alima, a
45-year-old Muslim woman, shared her thoughts on the phenomenon of hijrah:

I do not mind seeing some people, including my close friends suddenly men-
tion that they have conducted hijrah. I do not mind seeing her with a veil, but
I do not like it when suddenly everything should be Arabised. They criticise
me when I said ‘makasih’ [thank you], they said I should say ‘jazākillah
khayran kathīran’ or ‘shukran.’ They are all Arabic. It does not mean I do
not like Arabic. I am learning Arabic, I want to understand the Qurʾān, but I
do not want to talk in Arabic in Indonesia. I am a proud Indonesian Muslim I
want to talk in Bahasa [the Indonesian language].

Alima’s position was echoed by Malika, a 39-year-old veiled Muslim woman,

sitting next to her:

Yes, I have the same feeling too. Why suddenly it is wrong to write ‘insya
Allah’ or ‘insyaallah.’ They said, ‘It’s a wrong spelling. You should write it
in sha Allah [Ar. in shā’allāh].’ Please I know how to write and pronounce
it perfectly in Arabic. I wrote it in Indonesian spelling. What’s wrong with
Indonesian Muslims. We are living in Indonesia!

Alima’s and Malika’s concerns should be understood as the voices of Indonesian

Muslims who are disturbed by the Arabisation of their Indonesian culture. This
 Media and cadari  109
language Arabisation has been embraced by the Niqab Squad through their popu-
larisation of the Arabic term niqab, instead of cadar. While many Indonesians
still use the term cadar, the current face-veiled women, especially those belong-
ing to the Niqab Squad caravan are more comfortable using the term niqab. Since
2017, after the birth of the Niqab Squad, the use of the term niqab has become
more popular.
In late 2017 and early 2018, Indonesia witnessed the emergence of female
public figures who started adopting the cadar to accompany their hijrah. Prior to
2018, there were a handful of female public figures or wives of Indonesian pub-
lic figures who began to adopt the cadar, the most famous of whom was Soraya
Abdullah (Ummu Mujahid), a female actor who decided to wear the cadar in
2007 after facing turbulence in her marriage and becoming a member of a Salafi
jihadi movement. In late 2017 and early 2018, more public female figures started
to adopt the cadar, such as Pipik Dian Irawati (a former model, female actor and
a wife of the late famous preacher, Jeffry al-Bukhori, best known as Uje), Peggy
Melati Sukma (a female actor, businesswoman and philanthropist), Nuri Maulida
(a female soap opera actor), Tiara Dewi (a singer and female soap opera actor)
and Inara Rusli (a former member of girl band, Bexxa). In addition to these public
female figures who have shown a commitment with the cadar, others have shown
interest in wearing the cadar occasionally, such as Kartika Putri and Bebi Silvana.
Their transformation is often labelled hijrah and indeed many of them began
their journey with a cadar when the phenomenon of hijrah was emerging. There
are many motives behind their decisions to wear the cadar. Living in the spot-
light as public figures in the entertainment industry, with its lifestyle of a preva-
lence of promiscuity, drugs, piercings and tattoos, there is tough competition for
short contracts. This brings extensive stress for some. As public figures, marriage
failure, including widowhood, can greatly impact on the lives of women. Some
may decide to find refuge in religion by conducting hijrah, including hijrah from
wearing revealing clothing and by covering their bodies with cadar and joining
Tablīghī or Salafi movements.
Peggy Melati Sukma, who changed her name to Khadijah, is one of the impor-
tant public figures who decided to conduct hijrah and adopt cadar. The 45-year-
old Peggy rose to fame in the mid-1990s and 2000s as female actor, television
host, businesswoman, and now philanthropist, motivator and writer (Nisa 2019b).
During her time of jāhiliyya (ignorance), the term she used to depict her past,
Peggy was enrolled in a beer brewing school in Manchester and was named one
of their best graduates. Peggy had faced some turbulence in her life, including
divorce from businessman Wisnu Tjandra in 2011. Peggy told me, ‘Between 2010
to 2012, I experienced a difficult period and began to find refuge. By mid-2012, I
decided to begin my hijrah journey.’ Peggy began wearing a veil and since then,
she has embarked on a daʿwa journey through humanitarian activities to help
Muslims in Indonesia and beyond (Nisa 2019b). Peggy’s journey to become a
better Muslim woman led her to commit to wearing the cadar in late 2017. Peggy
however does not consider her hijrah journey to be because of the failure of her
marriage, rather she believes that hijrah is God’s call.
110  Media and cadari
The presence of cadari public figures is considered a fresh breeze for other
cadari or prospective cadar-wearers. These public figures have been vocal in try-
ing to convince the Indonesian public that wearing the cadar does not mean they
are terrorists. The image of cadari has never been so colourful, in particular, with-
out the presence of the Niqab Squad.

The Niqab Squad

In 2017, Indonesia witnessed the birth of the first cosmopolitan cadari network,
named the Niqab Squad. The plan of this establishment can be traced back to
2016. Its birth happened while Indonesia was witnessing the emergence of female
public figures who began to adopt the cadar. The Niqab Squad was founded by
Indadari Mindrayanti, known as Indadari, with the assistance of her face-veiled
network, Diana Nurliana (a fashion designer), Dian P.S. (wife of pop preacher
Kasif Heer) and Dian Rositaningrum (a fashion designer and former wife of musi-
cian Opick). The Niqab Squad is the first cadari movement initiated by cosmo-
politan cadari themselves. The establishment of the Niqab Squad was aimed at
providing a forum of ukhuwah Islamiyah or Islamic sisterhood to unite not only
cadari but also those who have shown interest in the cadar, in addition to support-
ing those who wear the cadar to maintain their commitment. This is reflected in
their tagline ‘to embrace Muslim women so that they do not feel alone in their hij-
rah and in wearing the face veils.’ In addition, the Niqab Squad has the objective
of improving the religious knowledge and other life skills of face-veiled women
and countering the rooted negative stigma pertaining to them, including stereo-
types that assume they are associated with terrorist networks, oppressed, passive
and backward.
Fighting prejudice against face-veiled women who are often seen as oppressed
and backward Muslim women, terrorists and extremists, Indadari came up with
the name the Niqab Squad. She admitted that the name was inspired by the 2016
American superhero film Suicide Squad. She chose the term niqab instead of the
Indonesian term cadar as she considered the term niqab was catchier. The com-
bination of niqab and squad offered a modern twist, she explains, ‘It’s kind of
cool and doesn’t feel extreme. From this kind of ear-catching name, it’s easier
to attract lay people’s attention.’ Indadari’s prediction was indeed right. Amrita,
a 53-year-old lawyer, shared her thoughts: ‘First when I heard this term Niqab
Squad, I didn’t understand what niqab was. So, now, I understand niqab is cadar.
I myself won’t wear it, it’s not the way I understand Islam. That kind of outfit is
more appropriate in Arab countries, but I also admit the squad [Niqab Squad] is
kinda cool.’ This cool name has also encouraged many local and international
journalists to learn more about them. Journalists from the New York Times, Sydney
Morning Herald, New Strait Times and Deutsche Welle have provided coverage
on the Niqab Squad. The presence of the Niqab Squad has also brought cadari
into the spotlight with headlines in local newspapers and magazines.
Indadari argues that the Niqab Squad does not have structural and special affilia-
tions with any Islamic or Islamist movements. A close analysis of the organisation,
 Media and cadari  111
however, demonstrates that it has been loosely affiliated with diverse Salafi preach-
ers, especially those associated with Indadari Salafi’s circle, such as Ustādh (Ind.
Ustaz) Syafiq Riza Basalamah, Ustādh Khalid Basalamah, Ustādh Oemar Mita and
Ustādh Aan Chandra Thalib. Indadari says: ‘I intentionally gather my friends from
various religious movements. I ask them, “let’s join Niqab Squad,” but if there are
some things that they do which I believe are not in accordance with the Qurʾān and
the Prophet’s traditions, then I will correct them.’ Although Indadari’s intentions
are to welcome face-veiled women from various Islamic movements to the Niqab
Squad, her statement ‘I will correct them’ refers to her Salafi understandings of
Islam. Therefore, it is not surprising if, according to the current head of the Niqab
Squad, Tri Ningtyas Anggraeni, known as Tyas, the majority of Niqab Squad fol-
lowers attach themselves to Salafi, especially those of Indadari Salafi’s circle.
The Niqab Squad has used social media extensively in its everyday life. It
is through the Niqab Squad that we can see clearly how media, both conven-
tional and non-conventional (social media), have made cadari more present to the
Indonesian public and beyond. The Niqab Squad was not specifically born from
social media platforms but was launched and popularised through social media.
The iconic hat design mentioning Niqab Squad was first uploaded to Instagram
by Indadari and Asti Pratiwi. The post received a massive response from netizens
(internet users), which inspired them to create Niqab Squad Indonesia in February
2017. Not long after, in April 2017, branches of the Niqab Squad in Indonesia and
abroad were established, such as Niqab Squad Jogja and Niqab Squad Bandung.
To date, the Niqab Squad has more than 4000 members dispersed in various
branches throughout Indonesia and abroad (Malaysia, Singapore and Taiwan). In
Malaysia, the Niqab Squad is led by Malaysian cadari, and in Singapore and Taiwan,
it is managed by Indonesians who work there. Big cities like Jakarta and Makassar
have more than 500 members. Members’ ages range from sixteen to women in their
forties and fifties. Most members, however, are university students or women in
their twenties and thirties. Tyas, says: ‘After they graduate from high school, usu-
ally they begin to question their identity. University students usually have more free
time in Indonesia. They can also freely choose their own friends. Therefore, many
of them just follow some of their friends who already joined the Niqab Squad.’
Sul, a 29-year-old university student majoring in computer science from Borobudur
University, said: ‘At my university, wearing the face veil is not a problem. Mostly
the stories of my friends who then decide to wear the face veil is because we attend
the same activities.’ Yuli, a high school student, shares her journey:

I started wearing the face veil just lately, but I am still not a fully committed
wearer, because I am still in high school. I usually wear a face mask [surgical
masks] if I do not wear a face veil, because at school it is still not common.
I know Niqab Squad from Mbak Putri, who is my neighbour. I am inspired
by her.

Putri, sitting next to Yuli, who is also a high school student, says: ‘Before joining
Niqab Squad I already wore the face veil, but my environment did not support it,
112  Media and cadari
so I decided to take it off. But now, I have started my hijrah slowly [with the help
of Niqab Squad]. Yuli and I now have begun to wear the face veil which is great.’
Surgical masks, as Yuli mentioned, have been used by many cadari as a strat-
egy to negotiate being present with their cadar in hostile environments that do not
accept the cadar. This is because wearing surgical masks in large Indonesian cities
like Jakarta is an increasingly common sight due to air pollution and COVID-19,
especially by motorcyclists. Niqab Squad elites also support this kind of strategy,
so that women can still cover their faces with surgical masks if wearing the cadar
is impossible. Indeed, the trajectories of Sul, Yuli, Putri and other Niqab Squad
cadari mirror similar approaches taken by most of my other cadari research sub-
jects. Peer support is important for new wearers. The problems faced by Yuli and
Putri in finding support for wearing the cadar is exactly the gap that the Niqab
Squad aims to fill—to provide a support system for other cadari.
Daily interactions of the Niqab Squad are maintained through WhatsApp
groups, while the wider public can consume their daʿwa through other social
media platforms, especially Instagram, Facebook and YouTube. Through
WhatsApp groups, Niqab Squad members share daily religious messages and
varied information with their community. This includes sharing the schedule of
obligatory prayers. The most followed platform is Instagram. Niqab Squad had
60,000 followers on 14 August 2021, a significant increase from 36,000 followers
on 9 June 2019 (Figure 3.4).
The activities of the Niqab Squad are not only about piety. Indeed, as many
scholars like Deeb argue, we cannot create opposition between piety and the eve-
ryday. Their activities help us to understand how their everyday lives are shaped
by certain understandings of piety (2015, 96). Besides religious activities, like
routine monthly Islamic study circles and sending online religious messages, they

Figure 3.4  Niqab Squad members in their black cadar practising archery. Source: Courtesy
of Indadari, 9 June 2021.
 Media and cadari  113

Figure 3.5  A boutique for cadari in the Mosaicht Store with Niqab Squad members
inspecting the merchandise. Source: Photo credit, author, 4 November 2017.

also organise workshops to benefit the daily life of cadari, such as workshops on
how to make healthy bento (Japanese-style decorated packed lunch), archery and
horse riding. In addition, some members are also passionate fashion designers.
As a fashion designer with strong links to Indonesian businesswomen, the leader,
Indadari, has collaborated with one of the major Muslim fashion boutiques in
Indonesia, Mosaicht, to open a special boutique in a Mosaicht store for selling
cadar-related fashion (Figure 3.5).
When I visited the store in 2017, I was surprised to see a cadar corner—a fea-
ture that had not existed when I visited Mosaicht for my work in Muslim fashion
in 2006. The presence of cadar fashion allowed me to realise how the Niqab
Squad was influencing the general public about cadari as well as their pres-
ence in the Indonesian Muslim fashion scene. Indadari gathered a wide range
of Niqab Squad cadari who had fashion lines or were excited about fashion
design to join her in developing cadar boutiques in Mosaicht. One of Niqab
Squad’s elites, Diana Nurliana, who began wearing cadar in 2015, started show-
casing her cadar designs in two significant fashion events in Indonesia: Jakarta
Fashion Week (since 2016) and Indonesia Fashion Week. In analysing these
activities, it became clear that piety and the everyday cannot be read as diametri-
cally opposed.
114  Media and cadari
Indadari: Bringing the cadar to the public
Discussion of the Niqab Squad and their media presence cannot be separated from
Indadari, one of the founders of cadari and an icon of the Niqab Squad. She is
known as a Muslim fashion designer, writer, motivator, philanthropist and busi-
nesswoman. She rose to fame not only due to her work, but also because of her
connection to other Indonesian public figures and her first and second marriages
to Indonesian public figures. Her first husband was an actor and was a mem-
ber of the Indonesian House of Representatives and her second husband was a
comedian. Indadari is known as a humble and bubbly public figure. Her polka
dot trademark for her Muslim fashion line, including her cadar and ʿabāya (Ind.
abaya or head-to-toe wrap completely covering a woman’s body) designs inform
her personality (Figure 3.6).
With an undergraduate degree in communication obtained in 2012, Indadari
has written six books to date, especially on Muslim fashion and what motivates
Muslim women. Whenever we met, she emphasised the importance of hijrah.
True hijrah for her means the adoption of cadar. Indadari frames her cadar jour-
ney as one of salvation:

The Prophet [Muḥammad] and his wives are the best exemplars for Muslims.
They are guaranteed to go to heaven. I really want to enter God’s paradise.
So, I think I have to have an idol to follow. All the wives of the Prophet wore
the face veil. If I imitate women other than them, it is not guaranteed they can
go to heaven. I want to emulate those who are definitely guaranteed, includ-
ing through their practice of wearing the face veil.

Figure 3.6  Indadari, wearing her cadar with her signature polka-dotted border, promoting
her designs for Instagram stories, in Mosaicht. Source: Photo credit, author, 4
November 2017.
 Media and cadari  115
Although wearing the face veil is an important part of her effort to emulate the
lifestyle of the Prophet’s wives, Indadari believes that wearing the face veil is
not obligatory—it is only sunna or recommended, referring to an activity that
deserves a reward in the hereafter. Indadari contends: ‘So, I think by wearing a
face veil I can gain an additional reward. I cannot guarantee that every day I will
be free from any sins, but at least by wearing the face veil I know that at least as
long as I wear it the reward will continue.’
Indadari’s journey with her cadar began when she attended a kajian (Islamic
study gathering). She attended many kajian by various Muslim preachers from
different Muslim groups in Indonesia, but she often attended that of Ustādh Syafiq
Riza Basalamah. Syafiq Riza is part of the Salafi preacher network of Ustādh Yazid
bin Abdul Qadir Jawas, Ustādh Abu Yahya Badrusalam, and their institutions such
as Yayasan Cahaya Sunnah and Radio Rodja (Radio Dakwah Ahlussunnah wal
Jamaah). Indadari says: ‘When I attended Ustādh Syafiq Riza Basalamah’s kajian
on hijrah, I saw many women with the cadar, so I began to be interested … And
when I attended the kajian, I received a cadar souvenir, so I tried it out directly.’
Indadari said that she felt she was in limbo at the time, because of the personal
problems she had to face. She believed that during the kajian she received signals
of what she calls jalan hidayah (the path of God’s guidance).
Adjusting to her hijrah and jalan hidayah journey, Indadari focused her activi-
ties on fighting prejudice against cadari. She began designing Muslim fashion to
cater to the needs of cadari, by designing a cadar, ʿabāya, long khimār (veil) and
gloves. This was to respond to those who believe that cadari are backward and
do not understand fashion. Her boutique made it easy for cadari to find what they
need to cover themselves. The cadar has been a big hit in Indadari’s boutiques.
She admitted that she wanted to be the pioneer in selling fashionable cadar. Many
young urban cadari that I met after Indadari launched her cadar products stated
that they bought their cadar from Indadari’s boutiques.
As a public figure, Indadari is also active in voicing her concerns relating to
stereotypes and prejudices against cadari on national media, especially televi-
sion, and through social media platforms. Her appearances on national television
have gained significant interest because prior to her frequent appearance with
her cadar it was uncommon to see vocal cadari. Indadari blurred the public–pri-
vate presence of cadari, which invited various perceptions not only from other
cadari but also from the Indonesian public. In contrast to many other cadari,
she always accepts invitations to be on television, even for gossip and celeb-
rity news programs. Her presence in gossip and celebrity news programs has dis-
concerted some other cadari whose religious understandings restrict them from
watching TV. Many Salafi ʿulamā’ have expressed their rejection of television.
Ustādh Muhammad Abduh Tuasikal, for example, says: ‘The badness and dam-
age inflicted by TV at the moment are more than its benefits. Therefore, it is better
not to have TV present in a Muslim family’ (2009). Indadari, however, believes
that her presence on TV is important as part of her daʿwa to make cadar more
accepted by the Indonesian public and to fight against the stereotype that cadari
are terrorists and oppressed subjects. Indadari says:
116  Media and cadari
It is a rubbish TV program [a celebrity gossip and entertainment news pro-
gram]. There is a risk here. But, if I do not appear on this kind of program,
then people are not used to seeing the cadar. This is a chance for me to do
daʿwa. Not bad, if I am on TV for 30 minutes, and everyone sees me, it means
that they will see cadar non-stop for 30 minutes. This is part of my daʿwa and
when they interview me, I quote religious texts too.

Indadari also admits that there are many who oppose her decision to appear on
TV, especially on gossipy celebrity TV programs. She believes that this is her
way of strategising daʿwa in a smooth way.

Instagramming and YouTubing: Be yourself cadari

Indadari has tried to instil the culture of ‘be yourself’ among cadari of the Niqab
Squad. She often mentions that cadari should confidently express themselves, and
to style as they wish. As the trendsetter of Niqab Squad followers, Indadari says:
‘I try to emphasise that they need to embrace the notion of “be yourself” as long as
it does not violate the rules [Islamic teaching on dress]. If you want to wear a hat if
you are hot, then just wear it.’ Indadari’s statement reminds us of the difficulties of
seeing ‘piety’ and ‘the everyday’ as diametrically opposed, as many scholars like
Deeb (2015) have argued. Indadari argues that after hijrah, many Muslim women
feel that they are confined. They feel they cannot be themselves. She believes that
this is the main reason why many Muslims feel it is hard to be istiqāma (commit-
ted) to their hijrah path. She created the Niqab Squad to teach her followers that
hijrah should not be restricted, should not only be about religious lessons but also
about being expressive human beings.
One of the often-mentioned everyday activities of Niqab Squad followers is
taking selfies and posting the photographs to social media platforms, in particular,
Instagram. Therefore, the Niqab Squad has been identic with the selfie culture.
Some cadari from various Salafi groups criticise the Niqab Squad and their self-
ies, especially cadari who have become celebgram (celebrities on Instagram).
Natasya (2019) writes on one of the online news platforms belonging to a Salafi
jihadi group, Voice of al-Islam (Voa-Islam): ‘The purpose of face veiling is to
protect us from evil spies. But the reality is in this epoch there are many face-
veiled sisters who ignore the purpose of what they wear. Especially now there
are many celebgrams wearing face veils with thousands of followers. Can you
imagine how many spies enjoy the beauty of the face-veiled women?’ Since most
Niqab Squad followers are urban middle-class tech-savvy young women who
want to return to their religion, it is not surprising if some of them are active on
Instagram as influencers or celebrities of Instagram. Indeed, according to Tyas,
most of those who are interested in the Niqab Squad and want to become members
know it from their cyber activism.
The presence of these cadari on Instagram has unsettled other cadari, espe-
cially long-time wearers of the garment. Umm Hasanah, a 53-year-old housewife
who has worn the cadar since 1995, says: ‘We are not Niqab Squad! My friends
 Media and cadari  117
and I do not agree with the way they [Niqab Squad] appear in the public and on
Instagram. But at least I know that none of them is part of ISIS or any terrorist
movements.’ Those who hold the belief that women’s voices are ʿawra (part of
the body that must be covered) that need to be covered, find that the diverse plat-
forms of social media provide a venue for women to exercise their agency and
be active on social media through their writings, without ‘showing’ their voices.
Those who are active in conducting daʿwa, can conduct daʿwa through religious
messages that they write and post on social media platforms or what I call daʿwa
by keyboard (Nisa 2019c, 12).
Media privacy has become an important issue for women who uphold strictly
conservative understandings of Islam (for Arab countries, see Abokhodair,
Hodges and Vieweg 2017). Indadari and her circles, however, are different. They
proudly upload their pictures on their social media platforms. Indadari posts pho-
tos and videos of her activities and her views on various issues including photo-
graphs of her giving charity to a man in the Indonesian public sphere. This might
be seen by some conservative cadari as violating the public/private segregation
and boundaries between genders.
The use of the internet and its varied platforms such as blogs, social media
networking sites and content-sharing sites (Facebook, Twitter, Weibo, Instagram,
YouTube, TikTok) has blurred the boundaries between public and private. Zizi
Papacharissi argues, ‘Cyberspace is public and private space. It is because of
these qualities that it appeals to those who want to reinvent their private and pub-
lic lives’ (2002, 20). Indadari and other cadari celebgrams have enjoyed blurring
the public/private spaces. With a growing number of cadari, like Indadari, active
in social media, especially Instagram and YouTube, Indonesians not only hear the
voices of cadari in the public space, but they also see diverse everyday expres-
sions of cadari more easily.
As a philanthropist, Indadari has influenced her followers in the Niqab Squad
to be active in philanthropy for the common good (al-maṣlaḥa al-ʿāmma). One
of Niqab Squad’s main projects, initiated by Indadari, is Project Akhirat (The
hereafter project) which focuses on philanthropy. Project Akhirat offers a free
ambulance service, free workshops on how to prepare Muslim funeral services,
donations for students who memorise the Qurʾān, donations for Muslims in
Syria and Palestine, and donations to respond to natural and humanitarian cri-
ses, including earthquakes and floods. The Niqab Squad has also collaborated
with one of the largest Indonesian humanitarian institutions, Aksi Cepat Tanggap
(ACT, Quick Response Action), which has reached more than sixty countries to
channel their aid. Project Akhirat has its own social media platform and website
to share its activities and recruit prospective donors. Tech-savvy Niqab Squad
has successfully recruited a significant number of donors through their social
media posts.
Indadari and Niqab Squad’s presence in Indonesia’s public sphere and social
media through Project Akhirat have also had a significant impact on public recep-
tion. Saminah, a 60-year-old widow, who received a donation from Niqab Squad
shares her impression: ‘I was a little bit afraid when they approached me because I
118  Media and cadari
thought you know, they are terrorists. They said they want to give charity because
I am a poor widow. … Now, I know they are not terrorists. They are different.’
Through their social welfare activities, the Indonesian public has become
accustomed to seeing cadari. Aldi, a 37-year-old professional, shares his impres-
sion: ‘I begin to see women wearing face veils now in public. I know there is this
Niqab Squad. I think they are active in giving charity which is good. Perhaps,
people might not see them all as terrorists now. I think the Niqab Squad are dif-
ferent from cadar teroris [face-veiled women who are terrorists].’ Aldi’s impres-
sion is shared by others who witnessed Niqab Squad charity activities during the
floods in Jakarta. Defina, a 45-year-old Christian businesswoman, says: ‘I know
Niqab Squad from television, of course. I saw on social media too that they are
active helping the flood victims. I think it’s good. This might change people’s
impression towards them, but you know I’m Christian, so I do not know much
about them.’
Indadari and her Niqab Squad have fostered a non-frightening cadari subcul-
ture. Although many Indonesians do not approve of the practice of face veil-
ing, they are becoming more familiar with the presence of cadari, online and
offline. Indonesian internet users, for example, have become more comfortable
openly discussing cadari. This aligns with Papacharissi’s argument about the dif-
ference between the public space and the public sphere in her discussion of politi-
cal activities and the internet. She argues, ‘As public space the internet provides
yet another forum for political deliberation. As public sphere, the internet could
facilitate discussion that promotes democratic exchange of ideas and opinions. A
virtual space enhances discussion; a virtual sphere enhances democracy’ (2002,
11). The internet has provided a new stage for the voices and experiences of
young cadari celebgrams, who have recently gained significant online and offline
popularity.
The current most popular cadari celebgrams are: Wardah Maulina, Uni
Alfi, Sonia Ristanti, Wafiq Malik, Intan Surullah and Sarah Gumelar. Wardah
Maulina married a young celebgram and singer Natta Reza and, in 2018, fea-
tured as a videoclip model in her husband’s song Kekasih Impian (Dream lover),
which was inspired by their love story. To date, the viewers have reached more
than 14 million and some of the comments demonstrate how they have been
inspired by Wardah. Wardah can be regarded as one of the most famous cadari
celebgrams who has 2.1 million followers.11 On her Instagram, she is active
in presenting and endorsing various products for different brands ranging from
skincare to cadar outfits.
Intan Surullah is known as a YouTuber, singer and celebgram like Wardah.
She has 382,000 Instagram followers and 781,000 YouTube subscribers. She
uploaded a video to her YouTube channel, showing her singing with her cadar.12
She also shared her daily activities, such as stories about when she met her hus-
band, eating with her friends and grocery shopping. Uni Alfi is another cadari
celebgram who has 1.1 million Instagram followers.13 As a celebgram, Uni Alfi is
often asked to endorse various cadar clothing products. Uni Alfi is also known as
 Media and cadari  119
a motivator for other cadari. She uploads videos and pictures encouraging them
to be confident and committed to their cadar.
These women’s cyber activities, through Instagram and YouTube, which craft
their online identities, can be approached through Erving Goffman’s ‘presenta-
tion of self’ theory in which he highlights how people are performers when they
express their identity verbally or non-verbally. In social interaction, Goffman
mentions the role of the ‘stages’—’front stage’ or ‘backstage,’ using the metaphor
of theatrical performance, to signify how people actively choose to play vari-
ous roles depending on the ‘stages.’ He elaborates, ‘when one’s activity occurs
in the presence of other persons, some aspects of the activity are expressively
accentuated and other aspects, which might discredit the fostered impression, are
suppressed … there may be another region—a back region or backstage—where
the suppressed facts make an appearance’ (Goffman 1956, 69). This aligns with
the way celebgram and YouTuber cadari use visual social media sites to com-
municate their various identities. Aligned with this, Sherry Turkle highlights how
self-fashioning operates virtually. She contends,

Now, in postmodern times, multiple identities are no longer so much at the

margins of things. Many more people experience identity as a set of roles that
can be mixed and matched, whose diverse demands need to be negotiated.
… The Internet has become a significant social laboratory for experimenting
with the constructions and reconstructions of self that characterize postmod-
ern life. In its virtual reality, we self-fashion and self-create.
(1995, 180)

The birth of these cadari celebgrams and YouTubers has also helped cadari’s
outfit businesses to grow significantly to cater to the needs of young urban cadari
to self-fashion and self-create themselves (Figure 3.7).
This chapter began by unpacking the ways that the image of the cadari was
used by the media in two ways: as a negative stereotype and as an ideal image of
Muslim women. Within the literary genre, the image of the cadar has been intro-
duced as a symbol of flawlessness. Those who have been active in the production
of novels within this genre can be regarded as trying to promote particular ways
of seeing cadari, which suggests they are exotic and full of mystery. They can be
regarded as an extension of orientalist representations depicting exotic cadari,
mainly for a non-western audience. Cadar novels have influenced their reader-
ship in many different ways. For some readers, the wish to become more pious
and to deepen their understanding of Islam is an incentive to buy the books. In this
context, fictional texts have provided a successful religious framework that helps
readers make sense of their world.
However, cadar novels are strongly debated by cadari themselves and their
communities. Many Salafi, for instance, claim that the texts have tainted the
sacredness of modesty in Islam and have damaged the dignity of the practice
of face veiling. Such groups oppose the reading of fiction, especially when it
distorts the image of cadari, whom they sincerely respect. Some novelists have
120  Media and cadari

Figure 3.7  A cadari model with a tennis racquet, showing the activewear line of one of
Indadari’s circle. Source: Photo courtesy of © Nusseyba, 9 June 2021. Used
with permission.

been accused of disrespecting their cadari sisters’ dignity because they ‘stole’
their images.
Some face-veiled women dislike the image of the cadari on book jackets,
though for different reasons. They actively respond to the misuse of represen-
tations of their dress, pointing out that Indonesians have misused the cadar by
popularising it through the female characters in these novels, especially Aisha
in AAC. They feel that the presence of the cadari in the Indonesian entertain-
ment industry has disgraced their ‘sacred uniform,’ which they have adopted in
an effort to embody the true Islam.
The second section of this chapter has illustrated how the cadari themselves
use the media, in particular the internet and social media platforms, for their own
religious aspirations. The internet and social media platforms play an important
role in shaping and being shaped by the cadari. They are also crucial in sustaining
the subcultures of the cadari, whose mobility is limited, and who are dedicated
to embodying the true Islam. The cadari’s web engagement enables them to pre-
sent themselves and engage publicly, while embodying their version of Islam.
The case studies discussed above demonstrate cadari’s responses to mainstream
 Media and cadari  121
social stereotypes. For young Indonesians, one of the common ways they use the
internet and social media is linked to its ability to mediate social relations across
gender lines. For cadari, however, the internet and social media platforms have
offered them different functions. Various social media platforms facilitate their
struggles to exercise their specific taat agency.
The presence of the Niqab Squad provides a fresh breeze for cadari in
Indonesia. Although the terrorist image is difficult to counter, especially due to
the more visible appearance of cadari terrorists conducting amaliyah, the Niqab
Squad and Indadari have striven to use mainstream media and social media plat-
forms strategically so as to familiarise the Indonesian public with the presence
of cadari non-terrorists. Their posts on various social media platforms signify
the blurry boundaries between private and public spaces. Their everyday online
activities cannot be glossed over as a manifestation of their taat agency because
the posts range from religious activities to fashion statements, business activities,
hobbies (including singing and playing sports) and more intimate lives with fami-
lies. All these activities should be understood as everyday agentive joy rooted in
their strict understanding of Islam. These religious and everyday activities are not
binaries. They cannot be seen as opposing each other.

Notes
1 Jemaah Islamiyah was Southeast Asia’s largest terrorist organisation (see Jones 2005).
2 The movie, which was released on 28 February 2008, was not only popular and well
received in Indonesia but also in some neighbouring countries. Singapore Airlines
played the film on its flights. In Indonesia, even the president watched it with his cabi-
net ministers (Haryadi 2008, 6; van Heeren 2008, 20).
3 The term ‘polygamy’ is used in Indonesia to refer to the practice of polygyny (one man
marrying many wives).
4 Ta’aruf usually begins by exchanging biographical data. Following this, a meeting
between the future bridal pair is arranged through mediation. The prospective bride
and bridegroom are allowed to see each other’s faces (naẓar) before the proposal of
marriage (khitba) in the presence of their mediators.
5 Some Tablīghī teachings such as khurūj (venturing out to proselytise), tablīgh (propaga-
tion activities) or taʿlīm (religious study circle) are also broached in the novel (Aisyah
2008, 70, 106). Readers unfamiliar with the lifestyle of the Tablīghī community may
thus have some difficulty understanding the plot. Tablīghī readers will identify with the
world view presented in the text and feel part of the audience the novel addresses.
6 I am grateful to Carolyn Brewer for pointing this out.
7 The concept of subculture refers to an alternative social grouping for those who do not
belong to the mainstream or dominant culture of the status quo (Kahn and Kellner 2003,
299; Williams 2011, 8). Some scholars have proposed a shift in the theoretical framing
of subcultures since the groundbreaking works of the Centre for Contemporary Cultural
Studies (CCCS), University of Birmingham, England in the 1970s (Thornton 1995,
8). CCCS focused on the working-class youth subcultures that strove to distinguish
themselves from their parents’ working-class heritage and the dominant bourgeoisie
culture (Williams 2011, 28). CCCS emphasised the importance of class-based issues
in its discussion of subculture (Muggleton 2000, 20–22). Today, some scholars have
proposed more diverse approaches to reading subcultures. Some, for example, propose
a postmodern concept of ‘post-subculturalist,’ emphasising postmodern characteristics
122  Media and cadari
such as weak boundary maintenance and a low degree of commitment (Muggleton
2000, 52; Weinzierl and Muggleton 2003; see also McRobbie 2000 on girl subcultures).
8 Part of this section was published as Eva F. Nisa. 2013. The internet subculture of
Indonesian face-veiled women. International Journal of Cultural Studies 16(3): 241–
55, doi: 10.1177/1367877912474534.
9 The process of the issuance of this fatwa was during the 2017 Jakarta gubernatorial
election which created a rift on social media due to the blasphemy accusation faced by
Chinese and Christian governor Basuki Tjahaja Purnama known as Ahok.
10 Recently, scholars have begun focusing on the expressions of face-veiled women on
diverse online platforms (on British face-veiled women, see Piela 2017; 2013; 2021).
11 As on 14 August 2021 at 9:36 p.m.
12 As on 14 August 2021 at 9:37 p.m.
13 As on 14 August 2021 at 9:38 p.m.

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4 Cadari in Tablīghī Jamāʿat and
Salafi educational institutions

This chapter focuses on the practice of wearing a cadar (face veil) in Islamic
educational institutions called pesantren (Islamic boarding schools), which have
special relationships with the Tablīghī Jamāʿat and Salafi movements. Pesantren
is an Indonesian educational institution that has existed since the sixteenth cen-
tury, and it is particularly prevalent on the island of Java (Azra and Afrianty 2005;
van Bruinessen 1994). Girls began to have access to pesantren between 1910 and
1930, before which it was available only to boys (Srimulyani 2008, 120). This
chapter analyses the life experiences of girls and young women who wear the
cadar because it is the norm within their educational institution. Therefore, I
emphasise that their subjectivity is intertwined with social and ideological forces.
In analysing the agency of santriwati (female students of pesantren), I use a
Foucauldian lens to aid in understanding the operations of power within pesant-
ren. By emphasising that the power embodied by those in authority is ‘produc-
tive,’ it can be shown that young cadari (face-veiled women) act in certain ways
based on their desire.
Studies on pesantren often emphasise their role in the development of Islam
and civil society in Indonesia, especially when pesantren teachers attempt to
modernise their curricula (Lukens-Bull 2001; Pohl 2009; Sirry 2010). Pesantren
are often affiliated with religious organisations or movements, and thus they also
represent the diverse tendencies of Islam in Indonesia, from more traditionalist
pesantren to Salafist and Islamist pesantren that, in some cases, have links to
extremist movements. Studies have mostly focused on the ‘traditionalist’ pesant-
ren that have links to Nahdlatul Ulama (NU). The majority of pesantren are asso-
ciated with Islamic traditionalism (Kull 2009, 25; Rabasa 2006, 101). After the
9/11 attacks in the United States and bombings in Indonesia, international media
tends to link Islamic institutions across the globe with terrorism. This includes
pesantren in Indonesia (Nilan 2009; Noor 2007; Rabasa 2006; Tan 2011). Studies
of pesantren attached to purist groups which are accused of providing sanctuary to
radicals remain neglected. Notable exceptions to this are Noorhaidi Hasan (2010),
Martin van Bruinessen (2008) and Din Wahid (2012a; 2014) who have written on
Salafi madrasah (Islamic schools)1 and Islamist pesantren in Indonesia, and some
other studies on Pondok Pesantren (PP) Islam al-Mukmin in Ngruki, Surakarta
(Central Java), which is famous for its association with the radical spiritual leader

DOI: 10.4324/9781003246442-5
128  Cadari in educational institutions
Ustādh (Ind. Ustaz) Abu Bakar Ba’asyir (Noor 2007; Tan 2011). There has been a
plethora of literature on women within traditional pesantren (Kholifah 2005; Kull
2009; Srimulyani 2008; on traditionalist and modernist pesantren, see Hefner
2019); however, less has been written about women in revivalist pesantren.2
Studies of girls and young women in pesantren that have set the cadar as a uni-
form will help us understand how their specific ethical subject formation works
when the practice of face veiling is not the norm in the country.
Pesantren rules, norms and codes play important roles in the effort to pro-
duce taat (Ar. ṭāʿa or obedient) or pious children. These rules, norms and codes
might be significantly different from those the children encountered before they
attended the pesantren. For example, every pesantren has its own uniform and
the most standard for santriwati is that they have to cover their hair by wearing
veils (mostly jilbab). Male students (santriwan) follow a uniform code. Usually,
they have to wear long pants, not jeans or short pants. It is important to note that
wearing the cadar can be regarded as a special case that is found only in a small
number of pesantren in Indonesia which are mostly affiliated with the Tablīghī
Jamāʿat and Salafi movements.3
It is noteworthy that not all pesantren associated with Salafi groups make
wearing the cadar obligatory. For example, PP Islam Al-Mukmin in Ngruki
regards that the wearing of cadar is up to individual students. Since the number of
pesantren associated with both the Tablīghī and Salafi movements consider wear-
ing the cadar as obligatory, this chapter focuses mainly on this type of pesant-
ren. However, I argue that although wearing the cadar is adopted as a norm of
the pesantren subculture, many students find pleasure in wearing it. During my
fieldwork, a handful of students who were not happy with their cadar asked their
parents to move them to a different school. The norm within the pesantren shapes
the experiences of the students.
Many scholars who focus their work on the body have emphasised how it
meets with and is mediated by culture. Mary Douglas focuses on the body as a
symbol. She introduces ‘two bodies’: ‘The social body constrains the way the
physical body is perceived. The physical experience of the body, always modi-
fied by the social categories through which it is known, sustains a particular view
of society. There is a continual exchange of meanings between the two kinds of
bodily experience so that each reinforces the categories of the other’ (1970, 69).
Douglas also mentions the importance of Marcel Mauss’s ‘culturally learnt con-
trol of the body’ (Douglas 1970, 70). Linking body, nature and culture, sociologist
Bryan Turner also argues, ‘One thing that distinguishes humans from animals is
human modesty; humans need to cover nature (genitals, hair or the face) with cul-
ture (the loin cloth, the head scarf or the veil)’ (2008, 5). Mauss, as mentioned in
previous chapters, is famous for his work on body techniques in which training is
important for the human body to do basic activities, including walking and danc-
ing which are performed so the actor is accepted into society. He defines body
techniques as ‘ways in which from society to society men [sic] know how to use
their bodies’ (1979, 97). Although Mauss does not specifically focus on dress, his
concept is important in the context of how the human body is shaped by culture.
 Cadari in educational institutions  129
Wearing the cadar in the life of santriwati can be regarded as part of their desire
to shape and train their bodies to follow the ideology upheld by the pesantren sub-
culture. Mauss points out that biological and physiological skills, including bodily
technique, are the result of a learning process (1979, 120). This includes the way
people try to control their bodies to fit certain accepted norms. Mauss (1979, 100)
provides some examples of how this works:

There are polite and impolite positions for the hands at rest. Thus you can
be certain that if a child at table keeps his elbows in when he is not eating,
he is English. A young Frenchman has no idea how to sit up straight; his
elbows stick out sideways; he puts them on the table, and so on [emphasis in
original].

For santriwati, controlling their bodies by wearing the cadar is an aspect of

the learnt bodily technique associated with being pious girls or women. This is
taught and emphasised in the pesantren about which I am writing. Therefore,
the taat agency of santriwati cannot be separated from their desire to practise
their religion in ways that meet normative expectations within the pesantren.
In order to ‘do’ religion within the pesantren, santriwati must understand that
this mode of conduct is for religious reasons: namely the creation of pious
girls or young women. Santriwati need to show their ketaatan (obedience)
by obeying their pesantren’s rules and regulations. In this kind of institution,
ketaatan refers not to directly obeying Islamic teachings but to obeying the
‘rules of the game’ which are based on the interpretations of Islam upheld by
the leaders in the pesantren.

The subculture of pesantren

The subculture of pesantren demands that santriwati embody a specific ideal of
femininity, which is different from that demonstrated by mainstream society. For
example, in this study, wearing the cadar within a small number of pesantren
associated with Salafism and Tablīghī Jamāʿat is regarded as an important aspect
of ideal Islamic femininity, while for most Indonesians the cadar itself is regarded
as a strange dress.
There are diverse modes of ideal femininity in Indonesia linked especially with
changing historical contexts. During the Suharto regime, for example, the state
engaged in determining modes of femininity which were adjusted to the ‘nature’
of women, as carers and educators of the young generation (Blackburn 2004;
Rinaldo 2013; Robinson 2006; Suryakusuma 1996). The ideal of femininity at
that time was reflected in the ability of women to manage their domestic sphere
properly (Brenner 1998; Jones 2010) which would support New Order devel-
opmentalist projects. Nowadays, ideal femininity is more diverse. While some
women seek professional success and leadership roles, others take pleasure in
being stay-at-home mothers. Even so, there is continued social pressure to uphold
certain feminine ideals. Linda Bennett, for example, details ‘polite, moderate
130  Cadari in educational institutions
and modest’ as being key aspects of Indonesian femininity (2005, 37). These are
linked to the ability of women to maintain what are considered to be traditional
Indonesian values. For the majority of Indonesians, wearing the cadar is regarded
as a sign of fanaticism, so it is noticeable that the modes of femininity operat-
ing within the pesantren under discussion are different from those in the larger
Indonesian context.
Abdurrahman Wahid points out that pesantren can be regarded as a sub-
culture in which there are specific life patterns, internal authority, ways of life
and mores that should be followed by the people involved (1988, 94–95). The
words pesantren and pondok can be used interchangeably. They mostly consist
of student residences, a mosque, a kitab (Ar. kitāb) or classical Islamic texts,
the santri (students) and the kyai (head of the pesantren) (Dhofier 1980, xxvii).
Besides equipping students with Islamic knowledge, cultivating noble behaviour
(al-akhlāq al-karīma)—which includes adopting the norms related to dress and
personal interactions—is an important teaching concern.
For pesantren associated with Salafism and Tablīghī Jamāʿat, wearing
cadar as an element of their subculture has been standardised by the people
in authority to produce pious girls or young women. In addition, the norms
within the pesantren subculture are aimed at inculcating collective identity to
strengthen the bond among people in both movements. At the same time, this
collective identity works as a boundary marker that distinguishes the commit-
ment to religion of pesantren communities from that of outsiders. For both
movements, the establishment of pesantren is a major agenda in their effort
to maintain group cohesion. Followers are expected to send their children to
pesantren associated with their manhaj or Islamic path to prepare them to be
pious Muslims. The pesantren are also expected to serve the movements they
follow by producing a future generation that will support the development of
the movements.
The subculture of pesantren is also reflected in their curricula, especially reli-
gious subjects. Since the 1930s, many pesantren have begun to incorporate the
madrasah system. Madrasah is a new educational institution that was launched
in the twentieth century in order to respond to a Dutch schooling system (Azra
and Afrianty 2005, 2). The curricula introduced by madrasah included a combi-
nation of religious subjects (30 per cent) and non-religious or general subjects
(70 per cent). Religious subjects offered by the madrasah system are combined
with religious subjects chosen by pesantren. Some religious subjects offered by
the madrasah system are al-Qur’an hadis (the Qur’ān and ḥādith), akidah akhlak
(faith and behaviour), fikih (Islamic jurisprudence) and sejarah Islam (Islamic
history). Pesantren religious subjects might consist of specific books which are
in line with their specific Islamic ideology. For example, the Islamic Centre Bin
Baz, a pesantren that affiliates with one of the Salafi groups in Yogyakarta, has
special religious subjects, such as manhaj (a methodology that refers to the way
of life of the early Muslims) and tawḥīd (a doctrine that asserts the absolute one-
ness of God). Thus, the subculture of the pesantren can be seen clearly from the
religious subjects taught.
 Cadari in educational institutions  131
Living in a total institution
As a typical segregated institution, a pesantren can be understood as an exemplar
of what Erving Goffman calls a ‘total institution’ defined as follows: ‘A total insti-
tution may be defined as a place of residence and work where a large number of
like-situated individuals, cut-off from the wider society for an appreciable period
of time, together lead an enclosed, formally administered round of life’ (1984,
11). Goffman argues that within diverse types of total institutions—such as pris-
ons, military barracks, mental hospitals, monasteries and convents and boarding
schools—we can see how people are transformed into particular kinds of subjects.
Goffman’s total institution does not focus solely on control but also on com-
plete resocialisation that aims to remake the self in isolation from the broader
public. This is the case with the pesantren. Through resocialisation, students learn
new norms and values, especially those pertaining to the ideal image of a face-
veiled Muslimah (Muslim woman). All aspects of the daily routines of the resi-
dents adjusted to pesantren discourses which are aimed at producing a salihah
(Ar. ṣāliḥa or pious) generation (see below). The presence of students in a total
institution can be regarded as a refashioning of self and, hence, of their communi-
ties—as expected by their parents who initially play an important role in choosing
a ‘proper’ place for this process of refashioning. The pesantren is an important
locus of resocialisation for the students’ changing lifeworld, as they move from
childhood in their hometowns to their becoming as Muslim women.
Within the total institution of the pesantren, those in authority engage in the
process of the resocialisation of students. This involves introducing new norms,
values and practices, such as asking them to wear the cadar and introducing the
pesantren’s version of ideal femininity and a salihah generation. This is resonant
with Goffman’s goal of a total institution in which, as Ashley Crossman argues,
there is ‘resocialization to completely alter an individual and/or group of people’s
way of living and being’ (Crossman 2020). As a total institution, pesantren can
be seen as places that involve an initial curtailment of self. This process happens
alongside a more Foucauldian productive process of individuation.
Michel Foucault’s earlier work on discipline and punishment and the panop-
ticon provides insights into analysing the characteristics of pesantren in the con-
text of the discipline of the body. Although he does not specifically focus on
dress, his work helps us understand the importance of specific regimes in manag-
ing the human body. In Discipline and Punish (1977), Foucault emphasises the
importance of the total institution which is linked to embodied practices. The
architectural design of the pesantren can be regarded as one of these disciplinary
technologies. Some of the characteristics of the pesantren fit Foucault’s descrip-
tion of the disciplinary panopticon and how it produces ‘docile bodies.’
The concept of taat and face-veiled students’ efforts to discipline their bodies
aligns with Foucault’s analysis of the panopticon (1977), or the prison architec-
ture of Jeremy Bentham (1748–1832) (see Bentham 1995), which he develops as
a model of modern reflections of governance. Foucault developed this theory of
surveillance in analysing modern society and how docile bodies are produced. He
132  Cadari in educational institutions
argues, ‘One can speak of the formation of a disciplinary society … that stretches
from the enclosed disciplines, a sort of social “quarantine,” to an indefinitely gen-
eralizable mechanism of “panopticism”’ (1977, 216). Foucault defines this form
of power as panoptic, referring to ‘a state of conscious and permanent visibility
that assures the automatic functioning of power’ (1977; 2010). It is through this
model of the watchful gaze which might be developed in diverse institutions—
hospitals, workshops, schools, prisons—that docile bodies are produced. Foucault
argues that this mode of punishment was understood to be more enlightened
than the older tradition of physical violence against criminals. The panopticon
can rehabilitate and induce compliance through surveillance rather than physical
punishment. The bodies of young women in those pesantren that compel their
students to wear face veils are disciplined by the regulatory practices within the
pesantren society. They are supervised by the head of the pesantren, teachers
and senior students and their daily lives strictly adhere to the rules, in ways that
align with Foucault’s ideas of the panopticon where the prisoner is subjected to
constant surveillance. It is easy to see mirrored aspects of panoptic surveillance in
the pesantren’s infrastructure. The feeling of living under surveillance, however,
is experienced beyond its walls.
The panopticon is the architectural innovation in prison design recommended
by Bentham: ‘an annular building’ with a central tower that can make the prison-
ers feel that they are being watched all the time (Foucault 1977, 200). The funda-
mental nature of the panopticon is constant surveillance. Bentham contends that
the capacity for watching from the guard’s central control tower is the ‘apparent
omnipresence of the inspector’ (1995, 45). The idea is that prisoners modify their
behaviours because of the expectation that they are being watched, rather than
because of physical punishment. Foucault argues that the design of the building
was ‘to arrange things [so] that the surveillance is permanent in its effects’ (1977,
201). These aspects and characteristics can be found in pesantren, in which the
students feel that they are being controlled via the gaze of those in authority.
The main difference, however, is that while the prisoners in the panopticon can
be seen by a centrally located guard, he himself is unseen to them. The atmos-
phere of pesantren is slightly different. The head of the pesantren, teachers and
senior students who are in charge of supervising students are present around the
pesantren. This surveillance operates in a way similar to that of the panopticon,
in which inmates feel they are being watched constantly. Students of a pesant-
ren feel they are continually being observed when they are in the pesantren and
when they are outside. Azizah, a 15-year-old student from Lampung, recounts
her experience when I asked her whether she wears the cadar at home during the
pesantren break. Her home is a distance away from the pesantren. She said: ‘I
always wear the cadar at home during the pesantren break, because I am afraid
I might accidently meet ustādhāt [female teachers, sing. ustādha (Ind. ustazah)]
or kakak pengurus [seniors]. I do not feel good if they see me without the cadar.’
Azizah’s experience illustrates how the nature of constant surveillance has been
embodied in the life of students. She always feels that she is under the eye of
 Cadari in educational institutions  133
people in authority. This implies that the authority of the pesantren goes beyond
its physical perimeter.

Pesantren Sunanul Husna Al-Jaiyah4

This section focuses on the life of cadari in one of the pesantren that has a spe-
cial relationship with Tablīghī Jamāʿat, Pesantren Sunanul Husna Al-Jaiyah. The
aim is to shed some light on how life in the pesantren works, as wearing the
cadar is crucial to maintaining its ideology and the norms related to the image of
ideal Muslim women. Pesantren Sunanul Husna Al-Jaiyah is in South Tangerang
(Banten) (on women at the Pesantren Sunanul Husna, see Amrullah 2011; Nisa
2014b). It was established on 15 November 1982 by Ustādh Abdul Najib Al
Ayyuby, known as Ustādh Najib, the son-in-law of one of the owners of the land,
H Sinen. Ustādh Najib was a graduate from Universitas Islam Negeri/UIN (State
Islamic University) Syarif Hidayatullah. He then became leader of the pesantren
until he passed away. Most outsiders may assume that this pesantren belongs to the
Tablīghī Jamāʿat due to the affiliation of people in the pesantren with the move-
ment. However, the linkage is informal (on the relationship between Madrasatul
Niswan and the Tablīghī Jamāʿat see Winkelmann 2005, 55). Historically the
pesantren did not have any connection with Tablīghī Jamāʿat.
As recounted by the late Ustādh Najib, the story behind the attachment of this
pesantren to Tablīghī Jamāʿat is as follows: around late 1982–early 1983, Pondok
Ranji, where the pesantren lies was visited by Tablīghī from countries such as
Pakistan, Jordan and India. They were welcomed by Ustādh Najib, as the head
of the pesantren, and invited to use the institution as a base in which to per-
form their daʿwa (Ind. dakwah) (proselytisation). After this visit, Ustādh Najib
became interested in their method of daʿwa, which led him to join the Tablīghī
Jamāʿat. After his involvement, he became very active in calling his students, and
the population around the pesantren, to follow the path of Islam introduced by the
Tablīghī Jamāʿat. Although initially there were some Muslims who lived nearby
who opposed this movement, gradually Ustādh Najib successfully recruited some
of the Muslims who lived around the pesantren.
When I first visited, I was struck by the poor and shabby condition of this
pesantren, especially in comparison with others nearby. It is difficult for out-
siders to see the female dormitories and classrooms because they are blocked
by a big green gate (Figure 4.1). In the centre of the female wing lies a small
prayer room, muṣalla, in poor condition, which is also used as a gathering place
for female students’ activities, excluding formal school activities. For these they
have their own classrooms located next to the muṣalla. Although the classrooms
have their own chairs and blackboard, the condition is also below that of the
standard classrooms in other pesantren and in general schools that can be found
within the area (Figure 4.2). For example, there is no glass in the windows and
some of the walls are covered with thin plywood. During its early establish-
ment, the family owning the land played a major role in supporting the pesantren.
134  Cadari in educational institutions

Figure 4.1  A cadar-clad student in front of Sunanul Husna Al-Jaiyah’s female wing.
Source. Photo credit, author, 30 January 2010.

Besides the family’s assistance, the pesantren also received some financial sup-
port from donors, some of which is ongoing. The donors are mostly from the
congregation of Ustādh Najib’s majelis taklim (religious gathering for learning
Islam). Besides his role as the head of the pesantren, Ustādh Najib was also
well known as a dāʿi (religious preacher), especially among Tablīghī followers.
According to the female head of the pesantren, who is the daughter of Ustādh
Najib, Ustādha Siti Rahmah Azizah and who is known as Bunda (mother), the
pesantren cannot depend on tuition fees from the students, because many of them
come from lower-class family backgrounds. This made Ustādh Najib strive to
fulfil the needs of the pesantren.5 According to Bunda, the students are offered
only two meals a day, not three times a day as in other places. She recounts, ‘We
just decided to give them two meals per day, because everything becomes so
difficult lately, especially post 9/11. We cannot afford to provide a meal three
times a day.’ The impact of 9/11 for this pesantren was a loss of trust by some
donors due to the widespread stigma about the link between pesantren and ter-
rorist activities (Winkelmann 2005, 39). Prior to this, they had received funding
from a US humanitarian institution which supplied them with cooking oil and
rice. This funding stopped post 9/11.
 Cadari in educational institutions  135

Figure 4.2  A group of cadar-clad Sunanul Husna Al-Jaiyah students with their ‘abāya or
gamis in the classroom. Source. Photo credit, © Mala Hayati, 22 June 2008.
Used with permission. (Note: Gamis is a long, full body covering. In Indonesia
‘abāya and gamis are often used interchangeably. Although some might
emphasise that ‘abāya is looser than gamis.)

Sunanul Husna Al-Jaiyah has been influenced by the most well-known

pesantren among Indonesian Tablīghī, PP Al-Fatah in Temboro (Magetan,
East Java). Due to its important position among people of Sunanul Husna
Al-Jaiyah, I also visited PP Al-Fatah. PP Al-Fatah was founded in 1912 by K.H.
Shiddiq. Like Sunanul Husna Al-Jaiyah, PP Al-Fatah initially did not have any
attachment to Tablīghī Jamāʿat. Instead, it originally had a strong connection
to Tarekat Naqshbandiyya Khalidiyya, one of the major Sufi orders (ṭarīqa),
and to NU. The attachment of the PP Al-Fatah to the Tablīghī Jamāʿat began
during the period of K.H. Mahmud (1934–96), the son of the founder, K.H.
Shiddiq. In 1983 K.H. Mahmud was visited by Abdussobur, a Tablīghī follower
from Pakistan. The aim of Abdussobur’s visit was to perform daʿwa and to
establish a good relationship (silaturahmi) with the population of the village.
Abdussobur was polite, modest, decent and always committed to practising
sunna (the exemplary ways of life of the Prophet Muḥammad). Abdussobur’s
personality attracted K.H. Mahmud to learn more about Tablīghī Jamāʿat. In
1988, Kyai Mahmud and his son Kyai Uzairon, who by then had become head
of the pesantren, decided to visit India to see the Tablīghī Jamāʿat movement
at its headquarters. Upon returning from India, they started to call Muslims in
Temboro to follow the Tablīghī Jamāʿat movement. Al-Fatah has always been
136  Cadari in educational institutions
the main destination of many Indonesian Tablīghī who wish to become profi-
cient in Islamic knowledge.
Most teachers in Sunanul Husna Al-Jaiyah are graduates of Al-Fatah, or at
least they have had some experience studying in Al-Fatah. The children of Ustādh
Najib are also graduates of Al-Fatah, including Bunda and her husband. When
the head of the pesantren began to be active in the Tablīghī Jamāʿat movement,
the relationship between Sunanul Husna Al-Jaiyah and the movement became
stronger. The popularity of Al-Fatah among Indonesian Tablīghī can be seen from
its status as one of the biggest pesantren in East Java. In 2020, the number of stu-
dents in this pesantren was 22,467, not only from Indonesia but also from twelve
other countries, including Malaysia, the Philippines, Singapore and Thailand.
Sunanul Husna Al-Jaiyah has adopted the madrasah system, which means that
general as well as Islamic subjects are taught in this pesantren.6 Therefore, gradu-
ates can continue their studies in any Indonesian higher educational institution.
One of the female graduates was successfully admitted to a well-known univer-
sity in Indonesia through a highly competitive program called Penelusuran Minat
dan Kemampuan (PMDK; talent scouting for admission to the state university
system), a special program dedicated to assisting bright and talented students.
The formal madrasah programs offered in Sunanul Husna Al-Jaiyah are: tsan-
awiyah (junior high school) and aliyah (senior high school). In addition to these
formal programs, the pesantren has its own programs divided into four levels:
i’dadiyah, in which the students have to learn the basics of reading the Qur’ān;
diniyah 1, which is dedicated to students who have just started reading some clas-
sical books, often known as kitab kuning;7 and diniyah 2 and 3, whereby stu-
dents are expected to understand more advanced classical books, such as Bulūgh
al-Marām (Attainment of the objective) and Kifāyat al-Akhyār (The sufficiency
of the selected ones).
The books used in this pesantren are similar to those in many other pesant-
ren in Indonesia, especially traditionalist pesantren. The main difference is the
use of some core Tablīghī books, especially Faḍā’il al-Aʿmāl (Virtues of eve-
ryday actions) by Mawlānā Muḥammad Zakariyya Kandhalawi, the nephew of
Mawlānā Muḥammad Ilyās. Reading Faḍā’il al-Aʿmāl every day is a charac-
teristic of every pesantren which has an informal relationship with the move-
ment, including Madrasatul Niswan in India (Winkelmann 2005, 53). This can
be regarded as an important element of the subculture of Tablīghī pesantren. All
knowledge and religious activities based on Tablīghī Jamāʿat teachings originated
from the teachings in Faḍā’il al-Aʿmāl, which consists of teachings related to the
virtues of prayer, dhikr (lit. means remembrance of God, consisting of a litany for-
mula), the Qur’ān, tablīgh (preaching Islam), the month of Ramadhan and stories
of the Prophet’s companions.
Besides Faḍā’il al-Aʿmāl, the students also do mudhākara (memorisation) of
the six sifat (the six principles of the basic tenets of the movement) and read other
collections of Tablīghī books, namely Faḍā’il aṣ-Ṣadaqāt (Virtues of charity) by
Mawlānā Muḥammad Zakariyya Kandhalawi and Muntakhab Aḥādīth (A collec-
tion of ḥadīth) by Mawlānā Muḥammad Yūsuf Kandhalawi. They read all these
 Cadari in educational institutions  137
books for thirty minutes after Ẓuhr prayer (noon prayer). In addition to these books,
some Tablīghī pesantren, such as PP Al-Fatah, might read another book known
as part of the Tablīghī curriculum, namely Ḥayātu aṣ-Ṣaḥāba (Lives of the com-
panions of the Prophet Muḥammad) by Mawlānā Muḥammad Yūsuf Kandhalawi.
Since this pesantren has a special attachment to the movement, it is not sur-
prising that many parents also have a special attachment to Tablīghī Jamāʿat. As
in the case of Madrasatul Niswan in Delhi (Winkelmann 2005, 47), information
relating to the enrolment of the students is promoted by word of mouth among
followers of Tablīghī Jamāʿat. Many of the students are recruited through their
parents’ Tablīghī daʿwa. Annisa, an 18-year-old student from Central Jakarta,
said: ‘When I finished my primary school, my father was a bit confused about
choosing a junior high school for me. Then, when he returned from khurūj, he told
me and my mother that he already found a good school for me. His friend from
khurūj informed him about this pesantren.’
For parents who attach themselves to this transnational missionary movement,
choosing an educational institution is very important because it is an indispensable
part of guiding their children to the true Islam and preserving their collective iden-
tity. This pesantren’s close connection to the Tablīghī Jamāʿat means that it appeals
mainly to followers of Tablīghī, so it has grown slowly in comparison with other
nearby pesantren. In 1982, there were only three students. In the 2008–2009 school
year, the number was 350, and the number of female students was greater than their
male counterparts. However, the place where this boarding school is located can be
regarded as one of the most committed Tablīghī communities in Indonesia, espe-
cially in Banten and Jakarta. The number of Tablīghī followers residing there has
increased greatly since the establishment of the pesantren, which means that it is
common to see women with the cadar and even young children with jilbab nearby.

Ideals of Islamic womanhood

The link between the Tablīghī Jamāʿat and this pesantren can be seen from the
concept of the ideal Islamic womanhood promoted within the pesantren milieu.
This concept is instilled through the introduction of Islamic teachings related
to women’s bodies in which wearing the cadar is central. After Ustādh Najib’s
early encounter with the Tablīghī Jamāʿat, he introduced what he considered to be
proper Muslim dress, based on the examples set by the Prophet and his family as
well as his male and female companions. For male students, this consists of jubah
(an ankle-length garment) and baju koko (a shirt that is one of the most common
styles of Muslim dress for men in Indonesia). During the school hours, they have
to wear a long white jubah not baju koko. For female students, the uniform con-
sists of gamis or looser ʿabāya (Ind. abaya) and jilbab. In 2001, Bunda began to
introduce the cadar to replace the jilbab as the proper Muslim dress for women.
She says:

I explained that the cadar is an important part of Islamic teaching. Therefore,

the use of the cadar is imperative in this pesantren. Unfortunately, it did not
138  Cadari in educational institutions
work properly. I believed it was because at that time the students did not
understand the importance of wearing the cadar in the formation of anak
salihah [Ar. ṣāliḥa or pious children]. In addition, they had not prepared yet
for such a change.

From 2002, however, the use of the cadar has intensified. While previously peo-
ple in authority accepted the use of jilbab, they finally formalised the wearing of
the cadar. In 2004, they even formalised the wearing of black cadar instead of
white and colourful cadar. The formalisation of wearing the cadar has had to be
taken gradually, because, according to Bunda, mainstream Muslims in Indonesia
do not wear it. These gradual steps were also intended to lessen the pressure of
change that the cadar could bring to the life of the students.
The norms that are prevalent in the pesantren are linked to the commitment
of people in authority to introduce moral order to produce ideal Muslim women.
Ustādh Najib pointed out the reason behind this formalisation:

The students should train themselves to always have commitment to their

religion. It is true that there are some different opinions among ʿulamāʾ
[Ind. ulama or religious scholars] concerning the wearing of the face veil.
However, we want to provide some understanding that it is an important
norm in this pesantren, because we believe that wearing the face veil is better
than not wearing it, as the Prophet’s wives had set the example of wearing it.

There are other norms related to the techniques of the body. It is forbidden for the
students to wear short veils, such as bergo (bergo is a type of veil which can be
worn instantly without any pins). Students have to wear gamis (a long, full body
covering) and veils to communal toilets in pesantren which are located outside
their rooms. Every time they go out of their room, they have to wear gamis not
skirts or pants. Following Mauss’s (1979) concept that every human being must
know and learn how to contextualise her or his body, the way these students dis-
cipline their bodies is also part of their effort to contextualise their knowledge.
Although most of the students try to self-regulate to conform to the pesantren
norms, this does not mean that there has not been resistance. The pesantren is also
aware of this possibility. They have created certain punishments for those who
do not wear the cadar, especially when they go out of the pesantren and when
they are being taught by male teachers. Those who violate the norms receive a
punishment in the form of wearing a colourful cadar which they call alma mater,
ranging from a green, yellow, orange to red cadar. This alma mater must be worn
for a certain number of days depending on the violation. Some of the students
argued that the hardest thing is not the wearing of the alma mater but the shaming
attached to wearing it.
The standardisation of wearing the cadar has been supported by the charac-
teristics of Tablīghī Jamāʿat pesantren that fit Foucault’s panoptical model of
surveillance as aspects of a disciplinary regime. All activities are centred in the
pesantren and the classrooms (for formal madrasah activities). The shop that
 Cadari in educational institutions  139
caters for their needs, a public phone and prayer place are inside the pesantren.
They do not have to wear the cadar if there are no men wandering around the
female wing. The female wing is demarcated from the male wing and is protected
from the view of outsiders. However, most of the time students wear the cadar
inside the pesantren, even in the female wing.
Besides wearing the cadar, the subculture of the pesantren and its efforts
to instil Islamic womanhood can be seen through the extracurricular activities
that are perceived as suitable for women. These include sewing every Friday
afternoon, making handicrafts like bags, arranging flowers and cooking when-
ever they have free time, qasidah (a type of Indonesian music which originates
from an ancient Arabic word qaṣīda referring to religious poetry accompanied
by chanting and percussion) every Sunday, ṣalāwāt (sending blessings to the
Prophet) every Friday morning and muhāḍara (learning how to deliver a speech)
every Thursday night.
There are also specific programs adopted from Tablīghī Jamāʿat’s teachings,
namely khurūj (to go out for daʿwa) or mastura khurūj, a term used to iden-
tify khurūj for women. Performing mastura khurūj within the pesantren neigh-
bourhood is a practice unique to this group. In Madrasatul Niswan, for example,
there is no such activity (Winkelmann 2005). The head and staff of the pesantren
pointed out that not all students have a Tablīghī background, but according to
Bunda, since the formalisation of wearing the cadar none of them has objected.
Indeed no one has come to the head of the pesantren or any staff of the pesantren
to oppose this norm and in fact any other norms in the pesantren.8 Bunda recounts
the key success of the formalisation of these norms:

What I told them with regard to all these norms is that since these students
are still very young and they stay in one supportive place in this pesantren,
they can train themselves to be taat and more committed to their religion.
In addition, being in the pesantren means that obstacles to staying close to
religion are relatively minor even non-existent in contrast to staying outside
the pesantren where they can encounter diverse interpretations of religion. I
always tell them that we can take a benefit from our existence here, just focus
ourselves on religion.

Her statement implies that the condition and power relations operating within the
pesantren are suitable for producing students who have the desire to practise their
religion totally.

Salafi educational institutions

During my fieldwork, I went to several Salafi pesantren.9 To get a better under-
standing of their networks, I had to go outside my original fieldwork sites (Jakarta,
Yogyakarta and Makassar). The diverse factions of Salafism in Indonesia are
reflected in the existence of different types of pesantren claiming to be Salafi. For
example, Ma’had Syaikh Jamilurrahman As-Salafy located in Bantul, Yogyakarta
140  Cadari in educational institutions
(founded in 1995), is attached to one of the most well-known Salafi groups in
Indonesia. Ma’had Syaikh Jamilurrahman As-Salafy is an educational institution
under a Salafi foundation called Yayasan Majelis At-Turots Al-Islamy (Reviving
of the Islamic Heritage Foundation) named after its main donor the Jamʿiyya Iḥyāʾ
at-Turāth al-Islāmī (the Revival of Islamic Heritage Society, RIHS), a Kuwaiti
Salafi organisation founded in 1981 (Hasan 2006, 55; Pall 2014, 3). The establish-
ment of the Yayasan Majelis At-Turots Al-Islamy in 1986 was initiated by Ustādh
Chomsaha Sofwan (known as Abu Nida), a graduate of Imam Mohammad Ibn
Saud Islamic University in Saudi Arabia, with the aim of spreading Salafi teach-
ings, especially among students at two well-known universities in Yogyakarta,
Universitas Gadjah Mada (UGM) (Gadjah Mada University) and Universitas
Negeri Yogyakarta (UNY) (Yogyakarta State University). Abu Nida is regarded
as an important figure in the development of Salafi daʿwa, especially for the group
known as haraki Salafi, in Indonesia (Wahid 2012b, 252).
Besides Ma’had Syaikh Jamilurrahman As-Salafy, the other important insti-
tution under the banner of Yayasan Majelis At-Turots Al-Islamy is the Islamic
Centre Bin Baz (ICBB), located in Bantul, Yogyakarta. ICBB is especially dedi-
cated to Nine Years of Compulsory Basic Education (Wajib Belajar 9 Tahun)
which makes it slightly different from Ma’had Syaikh Jamilurrahman As-Salafy
which focuses mainly on producing cadres who can understand their religion
properly and who can dedicate their life for the sake of daʿwa. The other pesant-
ren which also has a relationship with Yayasan Majelis At-Turots Al-Islamy is
Ma’had Ihya As-Sunnah in Tasikmalaya (West Java), established by Ustādh Abu
Qatadah, one of the Indonesian students sent by Ja’far Umar Thalib to study with
Shaykh Muqbil b. Hādī al-Wādiʿī in Yemen. The relationship can be seen, for
example, in Ustādh Abu Qatadah’s involvement in daʿwa activities upheld by this
Yayasan (Foundation).
There are some Salafi pesantren that have a special attachment to jihadi
groups, which are different from those attached to the Yayasan Majelis At-Turots
Al-Islamy. Two of these pesantren are PP Islam Al-Mukmin in Ngruki and
Ma’had al-Mar’atush Sholihah in Bekasi (West Java). It is noteworthy that the
number of pesantren which uphold a militant ideology is very low in contrast to
the majority of pesantren in Indonesia (Hasan 2010, 678; van Bruinessen 2008,
217). PP Islam Al-Mukmin was founded by Ustādh Abdullah Sungkar and Ustādh
Abu Bakar Ba’asyir in 1972. This pesantren has been widely known for its radical
reputation, especially regarding those people in the pesantren who are accused of
having strong links with the terrorist organisation Jemaah Islamiyah or JI (van
Bruinessen 2008, 232–33; Hasan 2010, 685).
Ma’had al-Mar’atush Sholihah which was founded in 2002 by a medical doc-
tor, Dr Yusuf Irianto, also has a special link with this Salafi faction, especially with
Ustādh Abu Bakar Ba’asyir. Ba’asyir visited the pesantren several times to deliver
religious lessons. According to the principal of SMAIT (Sekolah Menengah Atas
Islam Terpadu/Integrated Islamic Senior High School), al-Mar’atush Sholihah,
every visit Ba’asyir made to the pesantren was monitored closely by the police.
Their link to Ba’asyir can also be seen from the fact that some female religious
 Cadari in educational institutions  141
teachers at this pesantren are graduates from PP Islam al-Mukmin. These include
the principal of the SMAIT and the head of the residential facility. Besides
Ba’asyir, Ma’had al-Mar’atush Sholihah also has a good relationship with other
male religious scholars from the same ideology, such as Ustādh Abu Jibril.
Some of these Salafi pesantren have chosen to establish sekolah Islam ter-
padu (an integrated Islamic school) that incorporates the national curriculum,
additional religious subjects and Islamic moral education (Hasan 2009). This
brings them under the authority of the Ministry of Education, Culture, Research
and Technology instead of the Ministry of Religious Affairs. The main difference
between madrasah and sekolah Islam terpadu is that madrasah is managed under
the auspices of the Ministry of Religious Affairs (Azra et al. 2007) while the latter
is under the Ministry of Education Culture, Research and Technology. Tablīghī
pesantren have mostly chosen this madrasah system. In contrast, some Salafi edu-
cational institutions have adopted integrated Islamic schools instead of madrasah
(Hasan 2009, 7). This model of integrated Islamic schools was pioneered by the
activists of Jama’ah Tarbiyah and people within its political vehicle PKS (Partai
Keadilan Sejahtera or Prosperous Justice Party) with the inspiration taken from
the concept of Islamic education developed by Ḥasan al-Bannāʾ (1906–1949) in
Egypt (Hasan 2009, ii). Although some Salafi factions severely oppose the ideol-
ogy of PKS, it does not prevent them from following the PKS model of education.
According to some principals of the Salafi pesantren that I visited, this sekolah
Islam terpadu system is proving to be more effective than the madrasah system,
not only in producing bright and skilled alumni but also in instilling proper moral
guidance and character development. In addition, they argued that the curricu-
lum offered by the Ministry of Education, Culture, Research and Technology has
given them more freedom in creating their own pesantren curriculum. One of the
main figures of Ma’had al-Mar’atush Sholihah states:

It is easier for us to follow the Ministry of National Education’s10 curriculum

when we want to combine it with our own religious curriculum. The Ministry
of Religious Affairs has its own religious curriculum which is different from
ours. In order to stick to our own manhaj and pesantren curriculum we prefer
to attach to the Ministry of National Education.

The link between Salafi pesantren and Salafi factions in Indonesia is very promi-
nent. By establishing the pesantren, Salafi groups attempt not only to maintain
the purity of their Islamic belief but also to strengthen the collective bonding
among the followers and to expand their influence among Muslims in Indonesia.
These pesantren are an important strategy for the dissemination of Salafi teach-
ings to younger generations and to prepare future generations to understand Islam
based on their manhaj. Therefore, the terms salaf and salafus shalih (Ar. al-salaf
al-ṣāliḥ or pious predecessors) often accompany the words stating the aims of
these pesantren. For example, Ma’had Syaikh Jamilurrahman As-Salafy aims at:
‘producing dāʿi [male preacher] and dāʿiya [female preacher] and mudarris [male
religious teachers] and mudarrisāt [female religious teachers] who uphold Salafi
142  Cadari in educational institutions
manhaj and are able to be involved in the daʿwa arena and teach religious knowl-
edge and Arabic.’ Ma’had Ihya As-Sunnah states that it attempts to ‘mengemba-
likan manusia kepada pemahaman salafush-sholih’ (bring back human beings to
[Islam] as understood by al-salaf al-ṣāliḥ). The principle of the pesantren also
states that it is based on Islam as understood by al-salaf al-ṣāliḥ. Therefore, all
accepted norms within the pesantren are aligned with the norms acknowledged
within their groups, including norms related to the ideal of femininity.

Building a cadari family around pesantren

One of the significant characteristics around the Salafi pesantren (and Tablīghī as
mentioned above) is the growing presence of housing belonging not only to the
families of the pesantren leaders but also followers of the Salafi (and Tablīghī)
movements. Housing complexes of Ma’had Syaikh Jamilurrahman As-Salafy or
Jamilurrahman’s community are an example. Jamilurrahman’s community could
initially have been regarded as a small and ‘different’ Muslim community in com-
parison to those of the nearby pesantren (Hasan 2006, 55). This is in reference to
their lifestyle, which is significantly different from the rest of the inhabitants in
the village. For example, the women wear cadar and the men have long beards
and wear trousers which are not isbal (Ar. isbāl or below the ankles). In late 2008
and early 2009, many of my research subjects mentioned that outsiders tend to
regard them as belonging to radical groups due to the resemblance of their out-
fits with clothing of women belonging to radical groups mentioned in diverse
media outlets. In addition, the location of Jamilurrahman is in the middle of a
rice field—separated from general housing areas around the village, which adds
an impression of exclusivity. Ibu Asmarini, a 48-year-old villager, explained, ‘I
think we are a bit different from them Dik [Sister or lit. younger sister]. People
of the Jamilurrahman complex usually do not mix with us. It is also difficult to
get along with them because the women are face veiled.’ Indeed, Ibu Asmarini’s
impression is echoed by others in the village.
When I returned to Jamilurrahman’s community in 2017, the atmosphere was
significantly different to the previous visit. I was surprised by the presence of
permanent housing complexes and growing businesses around the Jamilurrahman
pesantren. They have also increasingly influenced the broader community around
the village through their various community engagement programs. In my earlier
fieldwork, there were a few houses and small stall-type shops; however, the struc-
tures seemed poorly built. When I arrived the second time, there were a number
of new houses under construction. Jamilurrahman had undergone so much change
that I found myself at the front entrance asking my research subjects whether this
was the same complex as the one which I had previously visited. Cadari are an
important part of this modern ‘Salafi village.’
Jamilurrahman’s housing complex is now a vibrant place to stay. Two of
my cadari research subjects said enthusiastically: ‘See Umm (lit. Mother),11
Jamilurrahman is now different. You can find everything here. Come, move
here with us!’ The women’s enthusiasm in inviting me reveals the success of
 Cadari in educational institutions  143
Jamilurrahman in building this Salafi village. Hasan mentions that Abu Nida’s
intention to establish an Islamic village was ‘to imitate the first model Islamic vil-
lage established by Ashari Muhammad, the leader of the Darul Arqam, in Sungai
Penchala’ (2006, 55).
Jamilurrahman networks established an educational institution for children
from early childhood and the cadar became the norm in both formal and informal
education in this Salafi village and its networks. Besides being popular among
young Muslim women aiming to prepare themselves to be future educators and
proficient in Salafi manhaj, the institution is also well known among parents,
especially middle-aged women, who want their children and grandchildren to
know about the true Islam based on Salafi manhaj. Scholars have pointed out that
the enthusiasm of Salafi followers will relapse as they become older. Anabel Inge
(2016, 230) argues,

The zealous young people who became Salafis in the early to mid-1990s are
now middle-aged, and even many of those who embraced Salafism in the
2000s are now faced with parental responsibilities. This raises the related
issue of successfully transmitting Salafism to the first generation of ‘born-
Salafis’, which began to emerge in the early 2000s.

Within Jamilurrahman’s complex, however, we can see the growing enthusiasm

of middle-aged women, between the ages of 40 and 60 years, who have contrib-
uted to the development of the pesantren and the growth of their Salafi village.
These middle-aged cadari have become important role models for many young
cadari within Jamilurrahman’s educational institutions, including their teenage
cadari daughters. Many have continuously equipped themselves with new knowl-
edge and are active in business, which has inspired young cadari from the same
Salafi group to follow their lead. Indeed, passionate university cadari attaching to
the Jamilurahman group often mention that having a house around Jamilurrahman
pesantren complex is one of their main goals as they work towards their goal of
building a conducive Salafi family.
Ummu Muhammad—a middle-aged woman from the first generation of Salafi
living within the Jamilurrahman pesantren complex—has been a strong figure
among Salafi women belonging to the network of Jamilurrahman. She is known as
an influential figure who has a great passion for educating others. She established
Sekolah Ibu (the School for Mother) in 2015, as an informal educational institu-
tion within the Jamilurrahman pesantren complex for those who wanted to learn
how to be good mothers and wives. In 2017, Sekolah Ibu had ninety students.
The majority are cadari mothers with children, with a smaller number of partici-
pants from the younger generation wanting to prepare themselves to become good
Salafi wives and mothers. Sekolah Ibu is designed as a quasi-school, with mixed
religious and non-religious subject curriculum. Therefore, it is not only about the
discussion of creed (see Inge 2016, 3), especially tawḥīd—as many study circles
of young Salafi often focus on—rather it is aimed at educating mothers and pro-
spective mothers in effective parenting strategies to produce zealous-born Salafi.
144  Cadari in educational institutions
The older generation of Salafi women, or middle-aged women, do not face
the same problems as young Salafi. They do not have to deal with some rules
and restrictions regarding their outfits, especially face veils, as often faced by
university students. Nevertheless, their role in the development of Salafism is
also important because they carry the responsibility of educating the first genera-
tion of born-Salafi. Coping with the teen dating of their high-school-age children
has been one of the common issues that these older generations of Salafi women
have faced. Initially, before understanding child development, the women were
panicked and shocked by the knowledge that their boys and cadari teenagers
were dating. When I asked these middle-aged women how this works because
the boys cannot see the face of cadari teenagers, the women laughed. Ummu
Unais explained: ‘There are so many ways the boys can recognise the girls’ faces.
One of them is through their younger sisters or brothers. The little ones are the
brokers who can show pictures of their older sisters without the cadar.’ Ummu
Muhammad adds: ‘They can also secretly make an appointment to meet in a for-
est close from here. They meet there, and the girls will open their cadar. They
can also borrow their parents’ mobile phone, without their knowledge, and take
a picture of themselves without the cadar and send it to their friends.’ Through
Sekolah Ibu, the middle-aged Salafi learn how to manage their fears when their
children start dating. They become more open-minded and recognise that their
teenage cadari studying in the pesantren are not immune from showing interest
in their counterparts.
Ummu Muhammad’s Sekolah Ibu also offers extracurricular activities for mid-
dle-aged cadari, namely archery and swimming, which they consider as sunna
sport (sport practised by the Prophet Muḥammad including his companions). These
two sports are learnt due to their belief that the Prophet Muḥammad emphasised
the importance of archery and swimming during his lifetime. Almost all of these
women learnt how to swim at Sekolah Ibu. Ummu Ubaid says, ‘People probably
think that, as women who wear the cadar, we cannot move.’ Ummu Ubaid’s state-
ment is indeed shared by outsiders when they see cadari. Ummu Adam, a student
of Sekolah Ibu, organises the teaching of Kegel exercises (pelvic floor exercises)
for women. Kegel exercises aim to strengthen pelvic floor muscles which are
believed to provide positive benefits for sexual relationships. Ummu Adam, who
is responsible for teaching this body exercise, says ‘This is a secret ingredient for
a harmonious life with our husbands [while giggling].’ Besides these sports, what
is striking about the everyday life of Sekolah Ibu women is their business activity.
Many have successful clothing businesses. Ummu Muhammad and Ummu Adam
have a thriving clothing business and have received orders from many parts of
Indonesia. Others have businesses in catering, baking, beauty salons and wed-
ding dress hire. Ummu Atiyah said, ‘Our village is now like a satellite village.
You can find everything and cadari are very active in business.’ These women
see that their businesses not only generate income for their families, but they are
a means of self-fulfilment. Ummu Muhammad says, ‘My husband doesn’t want
any money from me at all. For me, it doesn’t matter if he does not give me money
because I already have money.’ Ummu Adam adds, ‘It’s really nice Mbak [Sister]
 Cadari in educational institutions  145
to have our own money. The important thing is that my husband knows that I do
not go out everywhere to sell the clothes. I am sitting at home and my employees
walk to sell the clothes.’ The growth of Salafi complexes around a pesantren that
has been successfully coloured by the presence of middle-aged cadari women has
become an important element of the pesantren subculture and growth of passion-
ate cadari.

The concept of ideal femininity within the Salafi pesantren

The concept of ideal femininity operating within these pesantren is related to the
effort of authoritative voices in the pesantren to encourage their students to prac-
tise Islam totally (kaffah). With regard to female students, maintaining the purity of
their bodies forms a crucial element for this practice of Islam totally—in Tablīghī
terms, according to garis taqwa—without leaving any room for exception.
The notion of purity that the students uphold is linked to the concept of chastity
or purity (ʿiffa) in Islam. The norms are resonant with Douglas’s notion of purity
(1966). She points out that the concept of purity/the purity rules and the ideas of
pollution are part of a symbolic classification. This symbolic classification is then
adjusted to establish patterns of meaning related to individual and collective expe-
rience. People can assess which attitudes fit into the patterns and which do not.
For example, Douglas defines dirt in any given society as ‘matter out of place.’
She points out:

Dirt then, is never a unique, isolated event. Where there is dirt there is a
system. Dirt is the by-product of a systematic ordering and classification of
matter, in so far as ordering involves rejecting inappropriate elements. This
idea of dirt takes us straight into the field of symbolism and promises a link-
up with more obviously symbolic systems of purity.
(1966, 35)

In the context of pesantren if a person is unable to conform to the norms in a given

pesantren context, this is interpreted as an inability to guard purity. The pesantren
usually introduces the accepted norms related to the concept of ideal femininity as
early as the first day of a prospective student’s visit to the pesantren for enrolment
at which time all female students should be accompanied by their maḥram (non-
marriageable male kin), especially their fathers.
It is noteworthy that the rulings related to the wearing of the cadar in these
Salafi pesantren vary. Although almost all pesantren attached to Salafi factions
consider wearing the cadar as the most proper Muslim dress, some of them do
not make it mandatory. In contrast to the popular assumption that wearing the
cadar is a sign that the wearers are part of a militant group, during my fieldwork I
found that staunch supporters of the cadar were indeed students in pesantren that
have no special connection to the jihadi faction. Wearing the cadar in the most
famous pesantren claimed as the hub of Jemaah Islamiyah, PP Islam al-Mukmin
(Hasan 2010, 678), is not obligatory. In fact, the number of students who wore the
146  Cadari in educational institutions
cadar in this pesantren was very low, at least during my fieldwork observations.
However, those who wore the cadar were often regarded as students who were,
quoting the director’s opinion, ‘strictly careful’ (ashaddu iḥtiyāṭan) with their
attitude. Therefore, pesantren leaders had significant respect for a wearer’s deci-
sion to wear the cadar, particularly because it was not compulsory. The PP Islam
al-Mukmin director explained:

We feel more secure with the students who wear the cadar. We do not need
to keep our eye on them because we believe that they already know how to
behave properly and how to take care of themselves. Some students who
wear the jilbab can be predicted that they wear it only because of the pesant-
ren ruling, not because they are really willing to do so. While those who wear
the cadar mostly base their decision on their understandings of Islam and a
strong desire to be anak salihah.

The other noticeable difference is that students from pesantren of the non-jihadi
factions wear diverse types of face covering. Students in Ma’had Ihya As-Sunnah,
for example, not only wear the cadar but also the purdah, which covers their
eyes. If they happen to wear the cadar and not the purdah, then the norm related
to wearing the cadar in this pesantren is that the upper part of the eye hole should
not exceed beyond the wearers’ eyebrows and the lower part of the hole has to
be located right below their eyes not in the middle of their noses (Figure 4.3).
According to the wife of the head of the pesantren, wearing the purdah (Figure 4.4)
in this pesantren should be based on the students’ understanding of what it means
to practise Islam totally and to be taat. She says:

Figure 4.3  Students of Ma’had Ihya As-Sunnah wearing their cadar inside their dormitory.
Note the very small eye slits. Source. Photo credit, author, 28 June 2008.
 Cadari in educational institutions  147

Figure 4.4  Two students outside their pesantren wearing their optional school uniform
purdah. Source. Photo credit, author, 28 June 2008.

We do not want them to wear the purdah because of us, but because of their
ketaatan. Therefore, we give them a thorough understanding about the pur-
dah and women’s ʿawra [part of the body that must be covered] hoping that
the decision to wear the purdah comes from their desire to practise religion
properly, not because of their pesantren, their teachers, their friends or their
parents. If the reason to wear the purdah is because of us, only because of
their ketaatan to the pesantren rules and norms but not to Islamic teachings,
then they will wear it in front of us and will take it off behind us. If it is
because of their responsibility towards their religion, I believe that wherever
they go they will wear it and they will be very strong in tackling all difficul-
ties while facing those who oppose their purdah.

In this pesantren there is strong belief that those who wear the cadar and the purdah
are regarded as students who are more capable of maintaining their purity and can be
regarded as those who have successfully embraced the concept of ideal femininity.

Producing a salihah and taat generation

The terms salihah (f)/saleh (m) and taat have salience for students in pesantren.
These terms can often be found in the vision of the pesantren in my study. For
148  Cadari in educational institutions
example, Ma’had Ihya As-Sunnah uses these terms in its vision statement, namely
‘mendidik anak menjadi anak sholih/sholihah’ (to educate students to be saleh
[Ar. ṣāliḥ] and salihah [Ar. ṣāliḥa]).12 Ma’had al-Mar’atus Sholihah, also uses the
term salihah in their mission statement, ‘To educate students to become salihah
who are taat towards God and His Prophet.’ It is a term that refers to the aspiration
of people in authority to produce pious and taat children.
Scholars have pointed out the dedication of pesantren to produce ʿulamāʾ
(Dhofier 1980; van Bruinessen 1990), future generations and leaders who become
proficient in scientific disciplines while at the same time being devout Muslims
(Lukens-Bull 2001, 369; Zuhdi 2006, 424). However, for most parents who send
their daughters to the pesantren, there is another important expectation, namely
that this educational institution will be like a sanctuary that can safeguard their
girls from the dangerous moral decay that is being spread around the country with
the impact of modernisation and globalisation (Lukens-Bull 2001, 351). In addi-
tion, some parents also believe that graduates from pesantren are more desirable
for marriage because of the common assumption in Indonesia that they are good
young women. Sending their daughters to a pesantren is especially important in
relation to preserving the honour (sharaf) of the family. When girls engage in bad
behaviour, such as committing fornication or adultery, free sex and the inability to
internalise the concept of malu (shame), then this will threaten the honour of the
father who is supposed to protect his family’s honour (Abu-Lughod 1986). The
barometer of women’s honour is how they can preserve their purity (ʿiffa). By
purity in this context, I mean the concept that relates to how a woman preserves
her morality and guards her body to avoid shame and embarrassment which can
put her father and herself at risk, which in turn can also jeopardise the ‘face’ of the
whole family. Therefore, for parents who are strongly concerned about such risks
to family honour, sending young girls to pesantren which uphold strict religious
values, especially the values that they believe can safeguard their children, is the
main option for the whole future of their family.
For outsiders, especially pesantren staff and parents, wearing any kind of
Muslim dress, not only the cadar but also the jilbab, in the context of the pesant-
ren, is considered a symbol of a wearer’s religious identity (Smith-Hefner 2007,
402). Ibu Aminah, a 41-year-old wife with three children who sends her daughter
Fauziyah (14 years old) to the pesantren, says:

I am very proud of my daughter, because when I sent her to this pesantren,

she did not object to it. All students in this pesantren in shā’allāh [God will-
ing] are anak salihah. We can see from their cadar Mbak, not many pesant-
ren in Indonesia can ask their students to wear the cadar. It all depends on
whether the pesantren upholds the correct manhaj.

Ibu Aminah in this regard emphasises that wearing the cadar is a mirror of her
daughter’s religious identity. It implies for many outsiders like Ibu Aminah that
the clothes say something about the wearer. The other example of how wearing
the cadar is regarded by some pesantren staff as a mirror of the identity of pious
 Cadari in educational institutions  149
children can be seen in the pesantren where wearing the cadar has not been for-
malised, such as in the case of PP Islam al-Mukmin mentioned above. Joanne
Entwistle reminds us that ‘we need to continue to question the close associa-
tions of fashion/dress with identities’ (2015, 17). Indeed, some young students
in this type of pesantren who wear the cadar are wearing it mainly to be taat to
the pesantren norms. Entwistle discusses the interconnectedness between body,
identity and Foucault’s influence on the body, ‘We are no longer content to see
the body as finished, but actively intervene to change its shape, alter its weight
and contours. The body has become part of a project to be worked at, a project
increasingly linked to a person’s identity of self’ (2015, 40–41). This is in line
with the position of parents when they decide to send their children to pesantren.
For outsiders like parents and elites of pesantren, the trajectory of students from
non-cadar wearers to cadar wearers is part of the process of building a taat or
pious identity.
Although wearing the cadar is part of the discipline operating within pesantren
associated with the Tablīghī Jamāʿat and Salafi movements, most santriwati have
also internalised the connection between wearing the cadar and becoming anak
salihah. Awliya, a 14-year-old student from Aceh, says, ‘My aspiration to study
in this pesantren is to make my parents happy and to become a pious child who
is obedient to God.’ Indeed, most of these students voice aspirations similar to
those of their parents. Awliya’s intention to make her journey in the pesantren as
part of her effort to make her parents happy demonstrates that family, especially
parents, have an important role in determining the choice of school for daughters
who have internalised an understanding that making their parents happy is one of
the greatest acts of devotion (ʿibāda). Based on my interviews with some heads of
pesantren, pesantren teachers and parents themselves, the ideological inclination
of parents and family is the main consideration for choice of school. Although not
all students within the Tablīghī Jamāʿat or Salafi pesantren have parents associ-
ated with a Tablīghī Jamāʿat or Salafi background, the majority of them belong to
these groups or at least have become sympathisers of the groups.
For the staunch cadres of each movement, choosing appropriate schools for
their children is equal to choosing the true Islam. It is noteworthy that, accord-
ing to many students in Pesantren Sunanul Husna Al-Jaiyah, the mother’s role
is greater in deciding the choice of school. Umm Wahid, a 36-year-old woman
belonging to one of the Salafi groups in Yogyakarta, says:

I do not want to send my daughter to a random school. I want to make sure

that the school does not teach my daughter how to sing, draw and dance. I
want my daughter to learn how to read the Qur’ān and memorise it. I want
her to wear cadar and ʿabāya not a white and blue uniform [an Indonesian
junior high school uniform].

Umm Wahid’s expectation stems from her understanding of true Islam according
to her version. For example, within Salafi schools, parents do not expect their
150  Cadari in educational institutions
children to learn how to sing and dance because these activities are considered
unIslamic.
It is noteworthy that I found the term salihah is often used by cadari within
the pesantren but not by cadari at university level. The term salihah is related
to their belief that the norms in the pesantren are the key to guiding them to
achieve this goal. Therefore, ketaatan to pesantren norms is linked to their ket-
aatan to God. They believe that all the techniques of the body they learn from
living in the pesantren are the techniques needed for them to become pious chil-
dren. Therefore, when I asked students in Pesantren Sunanul Husna Al-Jaiyah
whether they intended to continue wearing the cadar upon their graduation from
the pesantren, many of them responded positively. Annisa, who will graduate
soon, said: ‘Of course, Kak [Sister] Eva, I will keep wearing my cadar. I know
it will be very hard wearing the cadar outside the pesantren. Anak salihah wears
the cadar, therefore, I will try to always wear it. I am also already used to it Kak.
It feels strange when I do not wear it.’ Annisa’s experience signifies how she
embodies her taat habitus.

Understanding the life and aspirations of santriwati

The implication for those living in a place of residence that fits Foucault’s model
of the panopticon is that they are often regarded as being under the control of the
institution, and thus agents who have a lack of choice and autonomy (Scott 2010).
Living in a total institution or a panopticon implies that there is an element of
coercion, and it is an indication that the residents are powerless. Foucault himself
admitted that his earlier work did not say much about agency. In his later work,
Foucault incorporates agency linked to subject formation as his focus—a focus
that refers to self-regulation (Foucault 1990). His arguments on subjectivity are
useful for analysing the power relations that operate in the lives of students in
pesantren. The subject, according to Foucault, is produced through such relations.
He argues that power ‘is everywhere; not because it embraces everything, but
because it comes from everywhere’ (1980a, 93).
Power in this sense also operates in the micro-politics of everyday life.
This power operates through the production of knowledge and desire. Foucault
emphasises:

Power would be a fragile thing, if its only function were to repress, if it

worked only through the mode of censorship, exclusion, blockage and repres-
sion, in the manner of a great Superego, exercising itself only in a negative
way. If, on the contrary, power is strong this is because, as we are beginning
to realise, it produces effects at the level of desire—and also at the level of
knowledge. Far from preventing knowledge, power produces it.
(1980b, 59)

Foucault’s argument moves away from looking at the power that is embodied by
those in authority, which makes it merely repressive, to that which can be seen
 Cadari in educational institutions  151
as productive. In this sense, power does not simply prevent people from acting in
certain ways, but it also encourages them to act in certain ways.
Using a Foucauldian lens, then, we can understand how, despite the existence
of rigid disciplinary rules and harsh living conditions, most of the santriwati do
not experience operations of power within the pesantren as coercive (Nilan 2009,
226). Instead, they feel the pleasure of being on the right track of Islam in order
to be pious children as expected by their parents. Suci, a 16-year-old student of
Pesantren Sunanul Husna Al-Jaiyah from Jepara (Central Java), recounts her
experience with the cadar as follows: ‘Initially it was very difficult [wearing the
cadar], stuffy because it was hard for me to breathe, but after a while I began to
enjoy it. In shā’allāh I will continue wearing the cadar to be a pious child and to
make my parents happy.’ Suci’s story is a typical statement of those uttered by
her friends in this pesantren. Her words resonate with Foucault’s argument about
some aspects that make power acceptable:

If power were never anything but repressive, if it never did anything but to
say no, do you really think one would be brought to obey it? What makes
power hold good, what makes it accepted, is simply the fact that it doesn’t
only weigh on us as a force that says no, but that it traverses and produces
things, it induces pleasure, forms knowledge, produces discourse.
(1980a, 119)

One important thing that should be underlined is that for Foucault power is exer-
cised through the production of discourses. Discourses are part of how people
experience themselves. They also determine the way people think and speak, as
well as act (Cranny-Francis et al. 2003, 93). For most santriwati, pesantren dis-
courses about the ideal image of pious children, who are the source of parents’
happiness, has brought them to find pleasure in embodying the norms. Moreover,
because of the nature of the pesantren’s milieu which relatively isolates them
from broader society, they are not exposed to a counter discourse.
The other important insight from Foucault which is relevant to analysing the
life of santriwati is the paradox of subjectivation. He argues that the processes
and conditions that subordinate the subject are also the means by which the sub-
ject becomes a self-conscious agent (1982). Adapting the insights of Foucault,
Saba Mahmood elaborates on how agency can be explained within this condition:
‘Such an understanding of power and subject formation encourages us to concep-
tualize agency not simply as a synonym for resistance to relations of domination,
but as a capacity for action that specific relations of subordination create and
enable [emphasis in original]’ (2005, 17–18).
Mahmood explains this paradox of subjectivation, as follows:

We might consider the example of a virtuoso pianist who submits herself to

the often painful regime of disciplinary practice, as well as to the hierarchi-
cal structures of apprenticeship, in order to acquire the ability—the requi-
site agency—to play the instrument with mastery. Importantly, her agency
152  Cadari in educational institutions
is predicated upon her ability to be taught, a condition classically referred to
as ‘docility.’
(29)

Mahmood focuses on how pious subjectivity can be both agentive and docile.
Cadari in these pesantren are also agentive and docile. However, their obedi-
ence in striving for their aspiration to be pious children involves them seeing
themselves through the eyes of authority figures in their pesantren and also their
parents. Therefore, their taat agency which is embedded in their obedience is not
entirely individuated and self-focused. It is noteworthy that since some of these
students are still very young, between 11 and 18 years of age, I also encountered
a few who do not really understand the essence of wearing the cadar. They just
follow the ‘rules of the game’ to avoid punishment and other consequences within
the pesantren without any intention of further understanding the implications of
such a practice.
This chapter has demonstrated how wearing the cadar has become the
accepted norm in some pesantren that have special attachments to the Tablīghī
Jamāʿat and Salafi movements in Indonesia. Wearing the cadar is related to the
discourse of ideal Islamic femininity. The process of making the cadar a norm
within these pesantren signifies the importance of the body as a powerful sym-
bolic form. For the Tablīghī Jamāʿat and Salafi movements, wearing the cadar
is a powerful symbol of the wearer’s commitment to meticulously follow Islam
as practised by al-salaf al-ṣāliḥ. For pesantren staff and parents, it is also part
of the most important symbolic solidarity and boundary maintenance that can
distinguish between their students/daughters who adhere strictly to the notion
of ideal femininity and others who they perceive to be failing to conform to the
norms of true Islam. This phenomenon is resonant with Nilüfer Göle’s argu-
ment, in her study of veiling in Turkey, that the practice can be regarded as ‘a
source of collective empowerment and horizontal bondage among those who
distinguish themselves as Muslims’ (2003, 817). Disciplining the body in this
context is not only a cultural statement but it is also an ideological statement.
The belief is that Muslim women who have a strong zeal to follow true Islam
should understand that wearing the cadar, which is perceived to be associated
with ideal feminine virtues, is an important element to guard their purity. They
believe that preserving female purity is one crucial and endless effort to practise
Islam totally.
The significant presence of the cadari in Indonesia can be seen from the exist-
ence of cadari students within the pesantren under study and the growing pres-
ence of middle-aged cadari within pesantren complexes. Outsiders who are not
familiar with the presence of these pesantren might assume that there are hardly
any cadari in Indonesia. However, once they enter the pesantren complexes they
will see that the Salafi village (or Tablīghī village) has successfully maintained its
specific everyday lifestyle. The fact is that these pesantren are not only successful
in producing cadari but some of them have also been successful in influencing the
way people in their neighbourhood dress.
 Cadari in educational institutions  153
Pesantren for the Tablīghī Jamāʿat and Salafi movements can be regarded as
the most important sites for producing ‘real’ ideal Islamic womanhood. People
within the movements assume that sending their girls to pesantren is the best
choice to provide a sanctuary for girls living in a country where moral decline
is pervasive. For purist movements, women are always considered the reposito-
ries of religious values, therefore norms related to women’s bodies prevalent in
pesantren are perceived as important elements which can maintain the boundaries
of their collective identity. Hence, in their view, these boundaries mark a high
commitment to religion compared with other Muslim groups in Indonesia. These
pesantren are creating subcultural communities of Muslims who share deeply
conservative gender norms and literalist understandings of Islamic scripture.
This kind of pesantren, unfortunately, has contributed significantly to the already
well-rooted patriarchal understandings of Islam in many pesantren in the country,
including those with attachments to the two biggest Muslim mass organisations,
NU and Muhammadiyah.
In contrast to the current staunch supporters of wearing the cadar in Indonesia,
that is, university students who must struggle to defend their cadar including
against opponents within their educational institutions, adopting the cadar for
students in the pesantren is supported by the living conditions in the pesantren,
including the presence of Islamic villages, and the power relations operating
within this type of institution. Power within the pesantren has successfully pro-
duced discourses related to an ideal femininity, namely becoming salihah, which
in turn has led students to embody pleasure in conforming to pesantren norms.
Conformity to the norms of students in the pesantren in wearing the cadar is not a
sign of lack of agency, but rather an indication of their self-conscious capacity to
act, especially in the context where it is not enjoined as a rule. Therefore, adapt-
ing the insight of Foucault (1980a; 1980b; 1990), power that operates within the
pesantren operates as a productive force that introduces discourses and forms of
knowledge and also pleasure.
Referring to the discussion of ketaatan which is at the heart of this book, this
chapter has shown that the obedience of pesantren students is social and interac-
tive. They are performing their obedience by striving to see themselves through
the eyes of the authority figures of their current lives in pesantren. Based on their
understanding that respecting parents is also part of an act of devotion, they prac-
tice their religion to conform with their parents’ desire for their children to be
pious. Therefore, conforming with the discipline of pious religious practice can
be seen as the goal of the docile agency they exercise.

Notes
1 In Indonesia, the spelling used for madrasa is madrasah. I use the Indonesian spelling
(madrasah), except when I refer to other scholars who use the first spelling.
2 It is important to mention one interesting study on girls’ madrasa which has special
connection to the Tablīghī Jamāʿat movement (Winkelmann 2005), although her area
of study is India, not Indonesia.
154  Cadari in educational institutions
3 There are also some pesantren with strong ties to NU which requests that their santriwati
wear a cadar, such as Pesantren Darullughah Wadda’wah in Bangil, East Java, Pesantren
Miftahul Huda al-Musri in Cianjur, West Java and Pesantren Mambaus Sholihin in
Gresik, East Java. This is mainly done to maintain social ethics between male and female
students within the pesantren. The elites of these pesantren believe that when the stu-
dents are in the pesantren, they are their responsibility. Therefore, as these students’
‘foster parents’ they have to be extra careful. They believe that by asking them to wear
the cadar they can save their students from immoral behaviour. Some of these pesantren
do not oblige their students to wear the cadar when they are outside the pesantren.
4 Part of this section was published as Eva F. Nisa. 2014. Insights into the lives of
Indonesian female Tablīghī Jamāʿat. Modern Asian Studies 48(2): 468–91, doi:
10.1017/S0026749X13000681.
5 There are different types of monthly tuition fees. Those who are able pay full tui-
tion fees which, during my fieldwork, were Rp200,000 (AUD19.19); those who cannot
afford the full tuition fee can pay as much as they are able and there is no limitation on
this; for orphans, who also cannot afford it, the tuition fee is waived. In comparison,
some well-managed pondok pesantren may cost more than AUD100.
6 This is different from the subjects taught in Madrasatul Niswan in Delhi which are only
religious lessons (Winkelmann 2005, 47).
7 Kitab kuning (yellow books) refer to classical Arabic texts. For a very important study
on kitab kuning see van Bruinessen (1990).
8 Some other norms of the pesantren are that it is forbidden to watch TV, listen to music,
read newspapers, novels or magazines, and many more. For the students whose fami-
lies are familiar with the Tablīghī Jamāʿat’s teachings, all the norms in this pesantren
are not big burdens, because they are used to this situation. Some of the students, for
example, admitted that they do not watch TV in their homes, because their parents
forbid it.
9 In Indonesia, there is also a term pesantren Salafiyah (Salafiya pesantren). These two
terms have caused confusion. Salafiya pesantren has been well known as the pesantren
that maintains the ‘traditional’ curriculum. It is also known as NU pesantren. In East
Java, for example, some pesantren use the term Salafiyah as their name. In this study,
however, Salafi pesantren belong to diverse Salafi factions, or those that strictly main-
tain the ideology of the Salafi movements.
10 During my fieldwork, the now Ministry of Education, Culture, Research and Technology
was called the Ministry of National Education.
11 The term umm is like other terms, such as ukht, kak and mbak. They are often used by
my research subjects to address me during the research. These are terms of respect,
instead of using one’s name directly.
12 Many Indonesians use varied non-standard spellings for this term. The official diction-
ary of the Indonesian language uses salihah for girls and women, saleh for boys and
men. It also lists some non-standard spellings for salihah, including sholeha, sholehah,
soleha and solehah.

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5 Finding a niche
Face-veiled university students in Indonesia

In the previous chapter, we saw how wearing the cadar (face veil) has been nor-
malised as part of the culture of those pesantren (Islamic boarding schools) that
have a special association with either the Tablīghī Jamāʿat or Salafi movements.
Thus, outsiders may see the practice of wearing the cadar by santriwati (female
students at pesantren) merely as part of the wearers’ efforts to conform to the rules
within the pesantren, not as a sign of the self-transformation of themselves. The
characteristics of the pesantren, with its discipline and ordered living arrange-
ments that typify Erving Goffman’s total institution (1984), have made wearing
the cadar within the pesantren less challenging than wearing it in other public
spaces. In addition, despite the intention of the santriwati to commit to their cadar,
some older passionate cadari (face-veiled women) questioned the young cadari’s
commitment to continue wearing the cadar after they had graduated from the
pesantren. This scepticism is because some cadari do give up their cadar after
graduation. Almira (pseudonym), a 24-year-old university student of the Saudi
Arabia-funded university, Lembaga Ilmu Pengetahuan Islam dan Bahasa Arab
(Institute for the Study of Islam and Arabic, LIPIA), recounts her life and her
experience with the cadar:

My father is an ustādh [religious teacher]. You can say our family is a very
typical Salafi family. My mother also wears the cadar. When I was ten years
old my parents sent me to a Salafi pesantren in Yogyakarta [Ma’had Syaikh
Jamilurrahman As-Salafy]. During my first days in this pesantren, I asked my
mother to send me a cadar, because I saw all my seniors wore it and I wanted
to copy them. At that time, the cadar was not mandatory for me, because I
was still very young. Following this, my parents sent me to another Salafi
pesantren in Solo [Imam Bukhari] for my high school education. In this
pesantren I had to wear the cadar. It was mandatory for all female students.

Almira has given up her cadar since graduation. She said that she had learnt so
much that now she realises that the cadar is not obligatory in Islam. Besides
Almira, Romaini or Roma is my other research subject who wears the cadar casu-
ally. Roma, who began wearing the cadar in 2005, is a university student major-
ing in theatre studies at the Institut Kesenian Jakarta (IKJ) (Jakarta Institute for

DOI: 10.4324/9781003246442-6
 Finding a niche  159
the Arts). Her parents were initially against her decision but then they accepted it.
Roma recounted, ‘Thankfully, they finally agreed with my decision to wear this
[touching her cadar]. Since the booming of Ayat Ayat Cinta [the movie], people
have often called me Aisha [the cadari character in the movie]. However, I am
different from other face-veiled women, I am a very relaxed person. My cadar
is very colourful and sometimes even transparent.’ Roma also auditioned for the
Ayat Ayat Cinta movie, but unfortunately, she did not get a role.
In contrast to Almira’s and Roma’s stories, wearing the cadar by passionate
wearers who are university students demonstrates a different scenario, especially
as they must wear it in unsupportive environments, and they are committed to
wearing and defending it. This chapter focuses on the life experiences of these
committed face-veiled university students (see Figure 5.1), I call them passion-
ate cadari, who associate with some Salafi groups, but not Tablīghī Jamāʿat.
This is because in Indonesia Salafi groups are more popular than Tablīghī
Jamāʿat among university students. As Ummu ʿAbdullah, a 21-year-old univer-
sity student, says: ‘Tablīghī women are rarely seen at universities, especially
among female students. Tablīghī Jamāʿat is not as popular as other groups.
Its appeal is defeated in the “harsh competition” between Salafism, Jama’ah
Tarbiyah, and HTI [Hizbut Tahrir Indonesia or Indonesian Liberation Party].’1

Figure 5.1  A Salafi cadari in her black purdah entering al-Hasanah Mosque (Yogyakarta)
for her religious lesson. Source: Photo credit, author, 22 March 2008. Used
with subject’s permission.
160  Finding a niche
This phenomenon is different from other countries, such as Bangladesh, where
the presence of Tablīghī Jamāʿat is salient within university campuses (Rozario
2006, 371). During my fieldwork, I also noticed that Tablīghī Jamāʿat is more
appealing to those who have already graduated from university, or among those
who did not attend university. Its female constituents are mostly married women
and their daughters who are enrolled in pesantren with a special connection
to the Tablīghī Jamāʿat. As mentioned in previous chapters, the appeal of the
Salafi movements for Indonesian university students from the mid-1980s has
become stronger, especially since the 1990s. The visibility of the involvement of
female university students in diverse factions of the Salafi movements, however,
became more salient only after 2000.
In this chapter, I pursue the idea that the embodiment of a virtuous taat (obedi-
ent) habitus shapes the formation of good and true Muslimah (Muslim women). It
clearly reveals that the objective of fulfilling religious obligations or taat towards
God is the main priority of these women. Indeed, for many Indonesian women, the
issue of veiling and face veiling has always been pivotal in relation to their inten-
tion of becoming more religious. For example, Suzanne Brenner (1996) pointed
out, in the late 1970s–early 1980s, the importance of the jilbab (tight veil) as
proper Muslim dress for those who support Islamic and Islamist movements. With
the growing popularity of Salafi groups in some parts of Indonesia nowadays, the
cadar can be regarded as another type of ‘Muslim women’s uniform.’ The major-
ity of women in these communities argued that the jilbab could no longer be con-
sidered proper Muslim dress. For many cadari, the development of fashionable
styles of jilbab has made the jilbab lose much of its meaning as a modest form of
dress (Jones 2010c). This chapter emphasises that the agency of cadari that can
be seen from their everyday life experiences is not for extra-religious ends. These
passionate cadari’s life experiences and the process of negotiating and renegotiat-
ing the cadar show their long struggle to reconstruct a virtuous habitus and their
capacity to exercise a specific form of the taat agency.
These well-educated women are eager to strengthen their commitment to their
religion by engaging in a typical movement that is widely considered by schol-
ars and the public alike to be subordinate and oppressive towards women. This
oppression is thought to be related to constraints on women’s autonomy and the
choices that women have, including the choice to adopt certain styles of dress
(Abu-Lughod 2002, 785–86; Winter 2001). As mentioned in previous chapters,
these arguments are based on the assumption that those who wear such clothing
do not have the freedom to participate in normal social life. Another common
public assumption about this type of movement is that women adherents wear the
cadar because it is enforced by men. Scholars have also argued that men in these
communities usually have privilege and dominant positions (Hasan 2006, 180;
Knutilla 2004)—and with some justification, given that most authority figures
are indeed men. Those who have been active in issuing fatwa (Ar. fatwā) or non-
binding legal opinions on women are also men. Indeed, the authoritative voices
in such movements become the main references for the ways in which women
adherents exercise their agency.
 Finding a niche  161
Adopting the insights of scholars who emphasise that agency can be present
alongside docility (Avishai 2008; 2016; Deeb 2006; Mahmood 2005; Rinaldo
2014; Werbner 2018), this chapter also highlights the relevance of agency in
deciphering the life choices of these women. Saba Mahmood’s work focusing
on the ways in which pious subjectivity can be both docile and agentive is espe-
cially influential. The cadari do indeed submit themselves to the path of religion
in which the authoritative voices are mostly from male religious scholars. Lyn
Parker in her study of the wearing of the veil in Indonesia also highlights that
‘agency can derive from many sources, but usually is deployed using the cultural
resources at hand—in this case, the authoritative Islamic discourses that advocate
modesty of dress and the wearing of the jilbab’ (2008, n.p.).
Many anthropological studies have taken various approaches in understanding
subjectivity, including through individual and cultural approaches (on cultural
approaches see Geertz 1973). João Biehl, Byron Good and Arthur Kleinman,
for example, recorded that ‘in the nineteenth century, subjectivity referred to an
essential individuality, the consciousness of one’s perceived states [emphasis in
original] (2007, 5). Some anthropologists have emphasised ‘the importance of
subjectivity in social life, these anthropologists have rethought culture, seeing it
as emerging from institutional and intersubjective interactions and as an evolv-
ing phenomenon, constantly remade through social encounters, ethical delibera-
tions, political processes’ (Biehl, Good and Kleinman 2007, 7). In her definition
of subjectivity, Sherry Ortner also emphasises the intersections between ‘cultural
formations and the inner states of acting subjects’ stressing that ‘by subjectivity I
will always mean a specifically cultural and historical consciousness’ (2005, 31,
34). Ortner highlights the importance of cultural and social formation in shaping
individual subjectivity including feelings, desires and intentions. In analysing the
passionate cadari, the intersubjective interactions, social encounters, culture and
the inner state of acting subjects—to borrow Ortner’s terms—are all intertwined.
Mahmood points out the importance of understanding agency not only in the
forms of resistance but also ‘in the multiple ways in which one inhabits norms
[emphasis in original]’ (2005, 15). Therefore, it is important to understand the
desire and pleasure of the person concerned. In the case of the passionate cadari,
their capacity for agency can be seen from their desire to return to the true Islam
by associating themselves with Salafi movements and by embodying virtuous
practices including wearing the cadar. The pleasure that they feel is related to
their achievement in cultivating virtuous selves. However, as mentioned in the
previous chapters, the agency of cadari also involves a specific kind of resistance,
especially given how rare cadari are. The taat agency of cadari demonstrates
areas in which they must challenge everyday cultural and social formations that
do not accept their presence. This is part of their commitment to uphold their
Salafi doctrine of al-walā’ wa-l-barā’ (loyalty to Islam and Muslims and dis-
sociation from all things non-Islamic and the renunciation of unbelievers). This
doctrine requires them to be taat (al-walā’) and to resist what they believe as un-
Islamic influences (al-bara’) and to avoid tashabbuh (imitating) those they con-
sider to be unbelievers in all aspects of their lifestyle, including in how they dress.
162  Finding a niche
Their resistance, however, does not involve resisting their movement’s religious
doctrine and practices. The Salafi women in Indonesia do not resist Salafi under-
standings of the position of women, but they do resist the religious understandings
and practices upheld by others.

The story of Khaula and Maryam2

Here, I introduce one of my research subjects, Khaula (pseudonym). She comes
from one of the most well-established Salafi groups in Yogyakarta, affiliated with
Yayasan Majelis At-Turots Al-Islamy. Khaula is a 21-year-old mathematics and
natural sciences student at one of the most prestigious universities in Indonesia,
Universitas Gadjah Mada (UGM) (Gadjah Mada University). Borrowing Clifford
Geertz’s typology (1964), she was brought up in a typical abangan family.3 She
did not have a strong religious upbringing or education. Her parents always sent
her to non-Islamic schools, although they did send her to non-formal Qur’ānic
reading lessons. Here she learnt how to read Arabic letters and how to recite the
Qur’ān, without grasping its content. Therefore, she knew very little about Islam
when she was a teenager. Khaula compared her first encounter with the Salafi
community to a drop of water from heaven falling in the middle of the desert. She
recounts her story as follows:

When I enrolled in this university, I did not have any friends. I felt that the
university environment was very strange. In addition, as you know, I stayed
in a rented house with other students who I honestly did not have anything
in common with. After returning from classes, I felt that I had plenty of time
but did not know exactly how to spend it. Suddenly, when I was in this big
confusion, my eyes went to one of my friends who had worn the cadar. Every
time I saw her, I knew that she was happy although she did not interact much
with other students. One day, I decided to follow her steps secretly, again
subḥānallāh [lit. God is pure from all faults/all glory be to God] … I was
amazed, I thought her day was dense with meaningful religious activities.

For Khaula, who comes from a rural area in Yogyakarta, campus life brought
about a feeling of alienation and disconnection from others. She tried to fight this
disorientation by asserting her religiosity.
Khaula’s curiosity about the life of cadari is almost identical to the other life
stories I heard in Makassar. I began my Makassar fieldwork by visiting a campus
mosque at Universitas Hasanuddin (UNHAS) (Hasanuddin University). Here, I
hoped to meet cadari activists who, based on my initial fieldwork in Yogyakarta,
often gather in the mosque during their free time on campus. In the mosque, I
talked as much as possible to the students and finally met an inspirational face-
veiled woman called Maryam (pseudonym).
Maryam is a 23-year-old university student studying dentistry. She is from the
Gowa regency in South Sulawesi and was brought up in a religious family. Her
father and mother are of a strong Muhammadiyah background. Maryam admits
 Finding a niche  163
that since primary school she had always been one of the brightest students in
school. She has a significant passion to do everything properly. Therefore, when
she started to understand that Salafi teachings were correct and the cadar was the
proper dress for true Muslimah, she found pleasure in learning more about them.
She became interested in joining the Salafi group when she was a new student at
the university. Maryam is not attached to the same Salafi group as Khaula, but
rather to the largest Salafi mass organisation in Makassar, Wahdah Islamiyah.
Maryam recounts her interest:

When I was a new student at this university, I was struck by the appearance
of some of my seniors with their cadar. I thought this dress carried a different
positive aura. One day, I was informed by one of my friends who was also
interested in this group that they were organising a workshop on religious
issues. After the workshop two of them approached us, Rahma, my friend,
and I, and they started to talk about the importance of these kinds of religious
activities. Eventually, they invited us to join their religious activities.

Maryam’s story emphasises the appeal of the presentation of self of cadari. The
discussion of aesthetics regarding the choice of veiling in Indonesia often relates
to its connection with fashionable Muslim dress (Amrullah 2008; Jones 2007;
2010a; 2010b). Nevertheless, the aesthetic aura of inward peace and tranquillity
of the wearer felt by outsiders who are drawn to the beauty of becoming closer to
religion is often overlooked.
Like many other supporters of Islamic revivalist and conservative movements
(Chandrakirana and Chuzaifah 2005, 56; Smith-Hefner 2007, 390), many of these
cadari study secular science-based subjects4 at well-known state universities but
not Islamic state universities (Sakai and Fauzia 2014, 44). In Yogyakarta, many
of Khaula’s face-veiled friends come from UGM, while Maryam’s friends in
Makassar mostly attend UNHAS. In late 2008, in Yogyakarta, only two students
at Universitas Islam Negeri (UIN) (State Islamic University) Sunan Kalijaga wore
the cadar.5 At the same time, at UIN Syarif Hidayatullah Jakarta, there were only
three students who wore the cadar; two of them were Malaysians. This num-
ber is different from the cadari at Universitas Indonesia (UI) (the University of
Indonesia). In 2008, there were fifty UI students who wore the cadar. This trend
strengthens the argument that practising strict Islam appeals more to students
who do not have strong religious backgrounds than to those who are attached to
Islamic universities. The faculties which can be regarded as the ‘base camp’ of
these face-veiled students both in Yogyakarta and Makassar are the Faculties of
Mathematics and Natural Sciences, Pharmacy, Medicine, Biology and Dentistry,
and at UGM, the Faculties of Forestry, Agriculture and Agricultural Technology.
Some cadari from state non-Islamic universities criticise UIN students. In a
focus group discussion, one of Khaula’s friends explained: ‘Students at UIN are
usually not interested in joining our taʿlīm [religious study circle] Ukht [Sister],
because they feel that they are smarter than us in terms of their mastery of religious
knowledge.’ Some cadari also have certain opinions concerning the UIN students’
164  Finding a niche
appearance. Khaula says: ‘Among ourselves we usually already ­understand why
there are only a few UIN students who wear the cadar. This is primarily because
their religious knowledge is restricted to the realm of mere knowledge. They do
not transform it into concrete practice.’ These cadari’s expectation is that female
UIN students who most likely have deeper Islamic knowledge than themselves
can also practise their religion better. They evaluate the appearance of female
UIN students with their ‘inappropriate’ jilbab as a sign that they would not be
good Muslim women. This is because, for them, being a true Muslimah means not
only mastering Islamic knowledge but also publicly embodying the belief through
correct behaviour.

The cadar and the quest for becoming true Muslimah

It is noteworthy that the way Khaula, Maryam and other cadari perceive what
constitutes a good Muslimah is not only the adoption of the cadar but also the
strict following of all Islamic disciplines. Thus, being a true and good Muslimah,
according to passionate cadari like Khaula and Maryam, means fashioning one’s
everyday commitment. Here in this context, it becomes problematic to find non-
pious dimensions of their everyday lives, even when we go beyond their religious
circle activities.
As I pointed out in previous chapters, anthropologists and scholars from other
disciplines have tried to unpack the notions of ‘everyday Muslims,’ ‘everyday
Islam,’ ‘everyday religiosity,’ or Filippo Osella and Benjamin Soares’s ‘Islam
mondain,’ in order to balance or counter some studies that focus heavily on piety
and neglect other important aspects of religious subjects such as ‘political, eco-
nomic, and other structures mediating Muslim life’ (Fadil and Fernando 2015a,
60; see also Osella and Soares 2010). The debate among Lara Deeb (2015),
Samuli Schielke (2015), Nadia Fadil and Mayanthi Fernando (2015a; 2015b) are
examples on how everyday and pious activities have been discussed in the anthro-
pology of Islam. In responding to Fadil and Fednando’s assessment of scholars
working on everyday Islam, Deeb, for example, suggests that ‘a problem emerges
if what is understood as nonnormative ways of being are taken up as the only
form of the everyday [emphasis in original]’ (2015, 94). Ammara Maqsood con-
tends that ‘the distinction between the “pious” and “everyday,” implicitly made
in the anthropology of Islam, is not always clear in lived experience’ (2017, 151).
Passionate cadari who decided to take the hijrah (religious transformation to be
better Muslim women) path in my study indeed do not espouse the separation
between the ‘pious’ and ‘everyday.’ Here, I adopt Deeb’s definition of everyday
Islam that refers ‘attention to the ways in which people draw on ideas that they
understand to be rooted to varying extents in Islam in order to figure out how
to handle everything from handshaking to prayer, from dress to which cafes to
hang out in and what social invitations to accept.’ The everyday of the passionate
cadari is also aligned with Deeb’s position that normative should not be seen as
‘static and homogenous’ (2015, 94, 95). Talal Asad, in his explanation of religion
and Islamic corporal discipline, argues one needs ‘to abandon the idea of religion
 Finding a niche  165
as always and essentially the same, and as dependent of faith that is independent
of practical traditions because and to the extent that it is transcendental’ (2001,
220). Here in this context, Asad emphasises the ‘mutual dependence and ten-
sion between “religion” and “secularism” as modern constructions’ (2001, 217).
Secularism, according to Asad, in this context should be understood ‘not merely
as a political ideology that structures the modern liberal state but as an untidy
historical complex that includes behavior, knowledge, and sensibility in the flow
of everyday life’ (2001, 206). Thus, religious and secular experiences cannot be
easily separated in everyday life. This can be seen clearly in my ethnographic
study of the cadari.
The key concept of their everyday lifestyle is taat (Ar. ṭāʿa). Ṭāʿa is contrasted
with maʿṣiya (disobedience to God) which is linked to sin (Gimaret 2011). When
a woman is taat (muṭīʿa), it means that she understands her obligations as God’s
creation and God’s agent on earth. Also, as part of her taat she has a desire to be
committed to her religious duty. A good cadari is often known by others, espe-
cially her friends who know her lifestyle as perempuan yang taat, perempuan
salihah or muṭīʿa (a woman who is taat). Regarding the use of the term salihah
(Ar. ṣāliḥa) (pious), the passionate cadari with whom I worked seemed some-
times relatively reluctant to use the term. For them, being salihah is an ultimate
achievement of those who can practise Islam flawlessly, while they feel that they
have not reached this level. They feel they are still struggling to be taat. Here,
their position resonates with Mahmood’s account of the women in the mosque
movement in Egypt, which focuses more on ‘what they do’ not ‘what they mean’
(2005). Outsiders may regard the cadar as an expression of the wearers’ identity
that indicates the desire to be Muslimah. In regard to dress worn by pious Shi’i
Muslim women, Deeb argues that dress is part of the expression of the visibility of
personal levels of piety (2006, 36). For the passionate wearers, however, wearing
the cadar is not in itself an expression of piety but a way to realise piety or, using
their concept, to achieve their aspiration to be true Muslimah.
The concept of taqwa (Ar. taqwā), which is linked to ketaatan (obedience),
is also important in the everyday life of cadari. Mahmood (2005) applies the
concept of taqwa in her study of women in the mosque movement in Egypt to
analyse the notion of piety and its connection to the fear of God that can keep
the believer abstaining from sin (see also Izutsu 2006, 92–93). Cadari’s faithful
observance, fear of God and their abstinence from everything which can distance
them from God can be summarised as their taqwa. Maryam explained the con-
nection between taqwa, taat (taqwa and taat in Indonesia are sometimes used
interchangeably) and cadar as follows: ‘Taqwa is taat towards God. Wearing
the cadar is part of taqwa and the implementation of taat.’ Most cadari I worked
with believed that they should adjust their lifestyle to be in line with the spirit of
taat attached to their cadar. They argued that there is an element of taat not only
towards God but also towards the Prophet in their cadar because it is part of the
Islamic creed mentioned in the Qur’ān, ḥadīth (the narration of words, deeds or
approvals of the Prophet Muḥammad) and sunna (the exemplary ways of life of
the Prophet Muḥammad). They believe that while wearing the cadar they should
166  Finding a niche
reflect noble behaviour (al-akhlāq al-karīma). For example, most ­committed
cadari will not wear make-up and perfume, or colourful dresses because they
consider these will attract men’s attention and lead to fitna or sexual temptation
in this context.
A common assumption that appears in interpreting this phenomenon is that
these women’s cadar represent their resistance towards western culture and west-
ern materialism. However, although this is one aspect supporting the decision to
wear the cadar, most of the women prefer to describe their adoption of the cadar
as part of their desire to embody their taat habitus. This is resonant with Webb
Keane’s work on agency that emphasises the importance of the social world in
which subjectivity emerges (2007). Therefore, in analysing agency there should
be careful consideration of the historical context of practices. The agency of these
passionate cadari manifested in their practice of religion is also part of their
responsibility as God’s vicegerents and Muslim women who are eager to purify
their religion. Their notion of responsibility resonates with the opinion of some
Salafi scholars who mention the importance of wearing the cadar in countries such
as Indonesia where moral decadence has allegedly emerged. The cadari frame
their everyday lifestyle in resistance to the secular and immoral society. In addi-
tion to this, Salafi scholars and the passionate cadari often identify a moral crisis
in the country resulting from the loss of a budaya malu (shame culture), especially
among women (Collins and Bahar 2000). Malu is indeed a core element of both
Islamic teachings and local wisdom. For passionate cadari, malu (Ar. al-ḥayā’),
which refers to shyness and modesty, is an Islamic virtue and noble behaviour
which should be cultivated (Frembgen 2004, 55; Mahmood 2005, 156). Maryam
elaborates on shyness and modesty (al-ḥayā’) as follows:

The most important thing that should be ‘owned’ by all Muslim women is the
virtue of al-ḥayā’ [she uses the Arabic word]. We have to struggle hard to
have al-ḥayā’ because it is the key to God’s blessings. It is the key to being
a good Muslim woman. For example, if we do not have al-ḥayā’, especially
towards God, then we will feel good when we uncover our ʿawra [part of
the body that must be covered]. But when we have al-ḥayā’, we will not feel
good when we do not cover our ʿawra properly.6

The cultivated malu (al-ḥayā’), as understood by passionate cadari, that can bring
them to being true Muslimah, can be different from the view of their parents,
especially if they are not part of the same religious movement. In contrast to their
daughters’ understandings of the cultivated malu, parents who do not approve of
the religious transformation feel that their daughters have brought malu (shame)
to the family because of their behaviour—wearing the strange dress cadar—
which is against mainstream norms. Santi Rozario’s (1991, 16) account of two
different connotations of shame is a useful tool with which to analyse this issue.
Rozario suggests that the two connotations of ‘shame’ are positive virtues and
negative qualities. To have shame is a good quality referring to someone’s sen-
sitivity towards the social norm. That said, shame can be regarded as a negative
 Finding a niche  167
quality when it refers to someone who brings shame to herself and loss of status
to her lineage. It is worth noting that for the passionate cadari to have shame
does not refer to their sensitivity towards mainstream social norms but to their
sensitivity towards God’s rules. Returning to the true path of Islam by following
God’s rules and embodying virtuous dispositions including cultivated malu are
significant in teaching the cadari to be true Muslimah.
Scholars who have studied the practice of wearing the jilbab in Indonesia have
pointed out the significance of the notion of ‘awareness’ (kesadaran) or ‘becom-
ing aware’ (menyadari) as the most important motive for the jilbab-wearer’s reli-
gious transformation (Brenner 1996, 683; Lindquist 2004, 493; Parker 2008, 15;
Smith-Hefner 2007, 398). This is different from the cadari in this study. Mostly
they did not index their transformation to wear the cadar as an aspect of their
awareness, but rather as hidāya (guidance from God) to embody ketaatan. For the
cadari, the main difference between hidāya to be taat and awareness lies in the
fact that people can be aware of their responsibilities as Muslims, but this aware-
ness cannot guarantee that it will lead them to follow true paths to God. That said,
they believe that hidāya comes from God which means those who have received
and achieved hidāya will practice Islam totally (kaffah, Ar. kaffa). Hidāya signi-
fies their taat agency because hidāya requires a believer to actively seek it. The
cadari believe that those who are granted hidāya will feel that God will help them
offer their kaffah ketaatan. The cadari strive to discipline themselves to enforce
virtuous acts on a daily basis. They avoid ikhtilāṭ (the mixing of the sexes) in all
spaces, khalwat (being alone with a male stranger), shaking men’s hands and
other practices that they believe can lead them to sin. They reject diverse forms of
worldly activities, such as watching TV and going to entertainment venues (cafés,
bars, nightclubs), which can distract their attention from ketaatan and prevent
them from performing al-akhlāq al-karīma. For the cadari, obedience towards
these rules is part of their pleasure. Here lies the difficulty I mentioned above—the
difficulty in seeing pious and everyday activities as diametrically opposed in the
everyday life of the cadari.

‘Salafi Islam is more authentic’

Salafi doctrine all over the world increasingly draws young Muslim followers,
including in France (Adraoui 2009), Tunisia (Kolman 2017), Britain (Hamid
2009; Inge 2016) and the Netherlands (de Koning 2009). The question that often
comes up regarding face-veiled students’ involvement in Salafi groups is: why do
women join a group that supports a rigid and literalist understanding of Islam?
Orit Avishai mentioned that the phenomenon of women participants in conserva-
tive religious movements from varied religious traditions has led scholars to study
it since the 1980s and 1990s (2016, 266).
There are many things that make the passionate cadari ‘fall in love’ with Salafi
Islam. As they told me, in the first instance, Salafi Islam is considered by them to
be a more authentic version of Islam, especially in comparison with other versions
of Islam in Indonesia that have been introduced by varied religious movements
168  Finding a niche
and organisations, such as Nahdlatul Ulama (NU), Muhammadiyah, HTI and
Jama’ah Tarbiyah. Salafi scholars in Indonesia have successfully convinced most
of these students, whose religious knowledge is still limited, that they offer a supe-
rior understanding of Islam. All religious knowledge that is delivered is based on
reliable Islamic sources—the Qur’ān and ḥadīth—which have been interpreted
by reliable scholars, especially scholars from the Middle East, whose mastery of
Islamic knowledge is, for them, unquestionable. For the passionate cadari, Salafi
Islam is the most original and the purest version of Islam compared, commonly,
with the Islam practised by their parents.
In addition, the Arab aspect of Salafi teachings is an important source of this
appeal. Sadaf Ahmad, in her study of Pakistani Muslim women who actively
turn towards Islam, also emphasises the importance of Arab elements as the
main attraction for women in their alteration of ideology and behaviour (2008,
74; 2009). Passionate cadari in this study see their parents’ religion and practice
as ‘too cultural’ because it contains traditional elements such as cultural norms
and values found in Java and Makassar versions of Islam. Their assessment of
their new understanding of Islam and their effort to disassociate themselves from
their past and local practice of Islam are parallel to that of the Javanese women
in Brenner’s (1996) study, although it happens in a different sociohistorical and
political circumstance (1996, 673; in Turkey see Göle 1996).
Some scholars have pointed out that this phenomenon is part of women’s effort
to embrace modernity with Islamic values while rejecting western versions of
modernity (Brenner 1996; Göle 1996; Rinaldo 2010; Smith-Hefner 2007). Nancy
Smith-Hefner, for instance, argues that veiling is ‘a symbol of engagement in a
modern, albeit deeply Islamic, world’ (2007, 395). The modern character of the
life of the cadari can also be seen from their use of advanced communication
technologies in the process of achieving their aspiration to be true Muslimah. In
addition, those who are associated with Salafi piety can be regarded as modern
subjects because Salafi piety itself is the product of Islamic modernity (Meijer
2009, 16–17; Bangstad 2011, 39). The eagerness of pious Salafi women to dis-
tance themselves from their ‘past’ Islam demonstrates their effort to embrace the
‘new era’ of their religious belonging. Therefore, their attachment to Salafism
can be regarded as ‘one among several competing visions of modernity’ (Keane
2007, 201).
Second, for students familiar with a more rational, precise and logical way of
thinking, Salafi Islam offers a more convincing and straightforward understanding
of Islam. Khaula for example says:

By attending Salafi taʿlīm I am not confused any more about my religion.

This is because nowadays in Indonesia there are many asātidh [male reli-
gious scholars] who give opinions on religious matters that often confuse
me. When I attended a taʿlīm at UIN [Sunan Kalijaga in Yogyakarta], for
example, there was one religious scholar who mentioned some opinions
concerning the jilbab. Unfortunately, he did not really say which one is
the most correct one. After listening to his speech, I became even more
 Finding a niche  169
confused. I want more instant, direct, and precise answers to my religious
queries.7

This view is quintessentially the critique of face-veiled students towards reli-

gious scholars outside their Salafi communities. Khaula’s narrative reflects a typi-
cal perspective that the students are seeking certainty and more straightforward
guidelines in practising their religion. Since they do not have a strong religious
background before joining a Salafi group, they prefer certainty, and do not want
to get involved in assessing and evaluating any debates on religious discourse.
Third, the other attraction of Salafi Islam for these face-veiled students is
their observation of the ‘performance’ of people within the communities. Most
of my research subjects argued that initially they were interested in joining a
group because they were attracted to the distinct appearance and dress code of
the women followers. The stories of Khaula and Maryam, mentioned earlier,
support this point. For them, the Salafi look is more ‘Islamic’ than that of other
Indonesian Muslims, which for some Indonesian Muslims means that it actually
appears more Arabic.
Last, newly enrolled university students coming from relatively rural areas
find it difficult to fit into the diverse and ‘hip’ campus lifestyle. Those who fail
to adapt then focus on the wrongs they see in campus dynamics. Alienation and
disconnection lead them to turn their attention to diverse religious groups inside
the campus. Joining certain religious communities, such as Salafi groups, which
emphasise strong solidarity among their followers, means finding a niche with
their new sisters in Islam.
Based on the narratives of Maryam and Khaula and their face-veiled sisters,
involvement in the Salafi movements can be regarded as part of their ‘becoming
true Muslim women.’ As Khaula says: ‘My religious journey to find this com-
fortable attire [cadar] and to find my Salafi group is like the end of my religious
exploration. I will not change my belief to anything else, because nothing is big-
ger than the cadar and nothing better than Salafi manhaj [path].’ There are two
things which can be taken from Khaula’s statement. First, she thinks that her
religious journey to find the cadar and the Salafi movement is part of her religious
exploration, which has played a significant role in the process of her religious
transformation and the construction of her new taat habitus. Second, in order to
reach this final destination, of becoming a good Muslimah, Khaula had encoun-
tered other Islamic groups. For most of these searching female youth, religious
knowledge has only recently deepened and become important to them. When they
were younger, they just followed what their parents told them concerning reli-
gious practice. The religious journey of these students to choose and find true
religious knowledge is vivid evidence of their capacity for agency.

Negotiating and renegotiating the wearing of the cadar

Many passionate cadari admitted that they become stronger persons after fac-
ing resistance towards their lifestyle. It is in this context that we can see how the
170  Finding a niche
agency of passionate cadari in this study also involves resistance (on agency and
resistance see Mahmood 2005; Werbner 2018). The taat agency of the passionate
cadari involves resistance against the norms prevalent in Indonesia, including
cultural and religious norms. They engage in challenging some religious beliefs
and practices upheld by many Muslims in Indonesia which they perceive as not
being aligned with the true path of Islam.
Some cadari encounter crises, which appear especially after they create a dis-
tance from their impious past to adopt the cadar. The choice of Salafi Islam as
their guidance does not significantly impact on their relationships with others. It
is when they first wear the cadar that their situation becomes totally different.
Maryam, Khaula and their friends admit that the most difficult thing to deal with
is objection from their own families. From the perspective of many parents, a
daughter’s decision to wear the cadar is like a slap in the face. This is similar to
the responses of parents whose daughters adopted the jilbab in the 1980s (Brenner
1996)8 and includes their assumption that wearing the cadar may hinder their
daughter’s future career and marriage prospects.
One important difference from previous objections to wearing the jilbab is the
issue of terrorism. This is linked to the stigma around the cadari (not the jilbab-
wearers) in Indonesia who, commonly, are considered potential terrorists or asso-
ciated with terrorist networks. Therefore, to prevent such rumours parents usually
ask their daughters to abstain from wearing the cadar when they return home to
the kampung (village). The most difficult moment for many parents is when their
daughter asks their permission to quit university because the faculty does not
accept the cadar. One of the parents said:

I am just too tired and too old to argue with my daughter. Her father, broth-
ers and sister have advised her not to wear the cadar, but without result.
Suddenly, a few months ago, she came home and asked our permission to
quit university because one of her lecturers did not allow her to wear the
cadar inside the laboratory. I was shocked to hear this. I could not breathe. I
cried and cried. I did not know what had happened to my daughter, why she
changed so fast and drastically. I felt I did not know her. I could not argue
any more with her and it was like the end of my life. My husband has spent
much money on her. We sold one of our rice fields just to support her educa-
tion. But what did we get in return … [she was crying and could not continue
her story].

It should be noted that from the parents’ perspective, their responses to their
daughters’ transformation or rebellion depend on how the cadari approaches
them. According to many cadres in varied Salafi groups, the tension occurs when
the cadari fail to approach their parents politely (dengan santun). The concept of
politeness (santun) is the main instrument the female cadres within various Salafi
groups teach their juniors for negotiating and achieving parental approval. Those
who often fail in this are zealous novices who seek a quick ‘transformation.’ For
instance, they wear the cadar without informing their parents.
 Finding a niche  171
Those who have been successful in convincing their families are mostly cadari
or akhwat (Ar. akhawāt) (lit. sisters), as they call each other, who approached
their parents gradually. Before adopting the cadar, they informed their parents
about their involvement in Salafi activities including attendance at the weekly
taʿlīm. Along the way, they strove to maintain a better relationship with their par-
ents than they had before their involvement in the Salafi groups. Following this
involvement, they become more polite and more respectful towards their parents.
This is also part of their daʿwa (Ind. dakwah or proselytisation) towards their
parents about the beauty of the teachings that they have received from their new
communities. When they think that parents are ready to see more changes, only
then do they inform them about their intention to wear the cadar. After this grad-
ual approach, parents usually are not shocked at their daughters’ transformation.
Even with this slow introduction, some parents do not readily give their blessings
for the whole transformation. The tension leads many cadari to find a new ‘niche’
that can support their struggle to be true Muslimah, especially by marrying some-
one within their group.
Since 2010 there have been changes evident in parents’ views on the cadar
and the Salafi movements. There has been a steady growth of parents becoming
personally interested in attending Salafi taʿlīm. This is partly because of their
daughters’ successful daʿwa to them and the increasing popularity of some Salafi
preachers using varied avenues, including social media platforms, in their daʿwa.
The result of this development is that some parents currently do not have a phobia
about the cadar. Their daughters’ gradual approach and positive transformations
have led this small number of parents to understand the essence of wearing the
cadar and the understanding that this is not necessarily connected with deviant
teachings. It is noteworthy that disagreement about religious belief, attitudes and
outlook on life including lifestyle choices, such as dress, is often found between
parents and children as part of the generational gap (Hopkins 2006; Lubell 1968).
Therefore, generational differences can be seen in relation to the adoption of the
Salafi lifestyle, even for those parents who are interested in following in the foot-
steps of their daughters. It is still difficult for them to adopt the cadar. This can
be seen clearly from their taʿlīm, in which most older generations leave their
faces uncovered. Currently, the emergence of the Niqab Squad cadari celebgram
(celebrity on Instagram) and the growth of various Salafi movements—because
of their use of varied social media platforms in their daʿwa—have led to a steady
increase in followers of the older generations who accept the presence of cadari
in public. However, when the cadar is worn by daughters, some mothers are still
not ready. Ibu Saniya (53 years of age), who just joined a Salafi group in Jakarta,
shares her view:

I began attending Ustādh [Ind. Ustaz] Khalid Basalamah’s religious lessons

in 2018. I have gradually learnt how to become a good Muslim woman. My
19-year-old daughter also likes the Salafi manhaj. She even wants to wear a
cadar, but I asked her not to start too early because she might not be ready to
handle the pressure of wearing the cadar in Indonesia.
172  Finding a niche
Navigating university regulations and expectations
The other battle faced by these face-veiled university students is in relation to
university regulations. Some universities in Indonesia, especially those that have
larger numbers of face-veiled students, have rules on the practice of face veiling to
regulate the behaviour of students. For example, the Faculty of Pharmacy at UGM
mentions the cadar in its rules concerning professional academic behaviour:

During the lectures, examinations, and fieldwork, as well as any academic

activities, students have to wear neat and modest attire (female: modest attire
with face visible, no wearing of the cadar or any other type of face veiling;
male: modest attire with tie or batik [traditional Indonesian cloth] shirt). The
lecturer has the right to deny students who do not follow these instructions.

At UNHAS in Makassar, the faculties which have written rules on the cadar are
those that have activities in laboratories and clinics. The regulation in the Faculty
of Medicine states: ‘Each student has to prove her (or his) identity during the
internship (wearing a face veil is forbidden).’ In addition to issues of dress code
and identity, unwritten ethical issues are a major concern among university admin-
istrations. One important figure from the Faculty of Dentistry shares her thoughts:

Although there are no written rules on the practice of face veiling in this
faculty, there is an unwritten rule that wearing the cadar is forbidden, in par-
ticular, in the clinic during internship. This is an ethical matter, because when
a patient comes to their dentist it means that they trust their dentist, whereas
when the dentistry student wears the cadar, it means that she does not trust
her patient. What is more, in the clinic these students certainly have to inter-
act and communicate with their patients. Therefore, facial expressions are
essential, especially when there is communication between the two. Again,
patients will lose trust in their dentists if they cannot catch the words of the
dentist properly if the dentist covers her face.

Communication problems are also the main reason why some universities over-
seas forbid the practice of face veiling in the learning process. Following this
argument, the importance of facial and interactive communication, for the oppo-
nents of face veiling, means that the face covering may hinder the success of this
learning process.
The face veil and the boundaries of liberal education are topics of ongoing
debate in western nations, such as in the case of two undergraduate students of
Moroccan origin at Leiden University (LU), a state university in the Netherlands
(Herrera and Moors 2003). On 29 August 2003, a decision from the University
Board banned face coverings and any sort of attributes that can cause problems
in communication and identification when taking exams. The opponents of the
practice based their arguments on the grounds that facial communication is ‘a
central value of liberal education,’ thus the face veil is ‘incompatible with princi-
ples and practices of liberal education’ (Herrera and Moors 2003, 16–17). When
 Finding a niche  173
the French government banned the wearing of ‘conspicuous signs’ of religious
affiliation in public schools on 15 March 2004, targeting primarily the foulard
(veil)—which is often used as the parameter for dealing with the face veil—the
proponents supported their position by arguing that they wanted to maintain the
very nature of secular and neutral public schools (Bowen 2006; Fernando 2010;
Scott 2007). Joan Scott contends that ‘banning the headscarf or veil is a symbolic
gesture; for some European nations it is a way of taking a stand against Islam,
declaring entire Muslim populations to be a threat to national integrity and har-
mony.’ She suggests the proponents see the headscarf as ‘an emblem of radical
Islamist politics’ and ‘the oppression of women’ (2007, 3, 4). Fernando, in her
analysis of headscarf banning, critically examines the nature of French secularism
and the headscarf wearers’ agency arguing that ‘the simultaneous goals of per-
sonal autonomy and submission to God, considered contradictory by normative
secular French standards, are reconciled by Muslim citizens for whom religious
authority does not exist in opposition to one’s “true” or inner self but, instead,
is conceived of precisely as the means to the self’s cultivation and realization’
(2010, 20).
The debate around wearing the face veil in the educational sphere has also
occurred in countries where Muslims are in the majority, such as Egypt (Herrera
2000; 2001; Herrera and Moors 2003). The American University in Cairo (AUC),
a private university in Egypt, officially banned the face veil in 2001 after an under-
graduate student appeared in lectures wearing the face veil.9 The ban at AUC was
made on the same dual grounds as at Leiden University—security reasons and
their commitment to the principles of liberal education (Herrera 2001, 19; Herrera
and Moors 2003). Although there are some differences in the national, political
and legal contexts of the countries mentioned above, bans on wearing the face veil
in Indonesian universities exist on more or less the same grounds, which mostly
can be attributed to institutional uneasiness about certain expressions of Islam,
specifically Islam which is different from mainstream Islam.
The responses of face-veiled students to such rules are diverse. Many strongly
defend their right to wear the cadar. Their main reason can be seen in the follow-
ing statement by one of Maryam’s friends from the Faculty of Dentistry:

I do not want to sacrifice something significant like my cadar which is part

of my religion, for something small like attending university. I do not know
what I will do with my degree later as there are many dentists who are not
able to get work in hospitals or health clinics. As for my religion, I know
what I will do for it. I know the future of my religion, the future of my cadar.

This phenomenon can be regarded by outsiders as part of cadari’s sacrifice in

their search to be true Muslimah. The above quotation from Maryam’s friend,
however, demonstrates that they regard the demand to abandon religious obliga-
tions as a sacrifice. As many of them are not from wealthy backgrounds, failing
to complete university is a very serious matter for their families. However, some
passionate cadari do not feel this significance. They even argue that dealing with
174  Finding a niche
their parents’ objection to their cadar is more serious than dealing with queries
about finishing their studies. It is noteworthy that the number of cadari who quit
their study is very small, particularly because only a few faculties have strict rules
on the cadar. Some of the cadari who are attached to strict faculties try to negoti-
ate between the rules and their religious beliefs by taking off the cadar inside the
laboratory and classroom. When the rules on the cadar are enforced on campus
(and the cadar must be removed), some young women cover their faces with a
small handkerchief, a book, a face mask or a piece of paper. As Maryam said: ‘I
always have a small handkerchief in my bag. For me the handkerchief is like a
weapon to face the faculty’s rule on the cadar. This is because when I cover my
face with it, the lecturer thinks that I am sick. Some did not even really realise that
I did it on purpose.’ Khaula has a different approach to on-campus rules against
the cadar. As she said, although there are no written rules on face veiling in her
faculty, some lecturers strictly oppose the wearing of cadar inside the lecture
theatres, labs and so forth. She recounts: ‘Since there are no written rules it means
that I formally do not violate anything. Therefore, I do not really care about some
lecturers’ opinions. Although the result is that I often do not get a good grade from
these lecturers … for me that is totally fine, since I do not need a good grade to
enter heaven.’
Since the birth of the Niqab Squad, the presence of cadari public figures and
cadari celebgram the debate about the cadar has become more intensified on uni-
versity campuses. In 2018, some Indonesian universities issued a ban on the use
of the cadar on campus. The current debates about the cadar, however, slightly
differ to those of previous years. Besides the ongoing prejudice attached to the
cadar, as the ‘outfit’ of terrorists and oppressed Muslim women, today the issue
has expanded into politics of discomfort, to borrow Annelies Moors’s concept.
Moors in her study of the face veil in the Netherlands argues that face veiling
causes discomfort, anxiety and resentment. She contends:

The fact that face veiling produces such feelings is again linked to Islam, as
the repeated references to radical and violent Islam indicate. Still, the main
reason for a sense of discomfort becomes clear … At the very moment that
Muslims are increasingly pressed to prove their belonging to the nation, a
very small number of Muslim women appear in public covering their faces.
The very same women who are defined as oppressed by their own men,
actively challenge Dutch normativities about gender and sociality. The fact
that the face veil itself enables them to see without being seen makes this
point in a different, visual and corporeal, register. Presenting such an embod-
ied challenge, these women then do not simply evoke feelings of dislike and
discomfort, but also feelings of resentment and anger.
(2009, 407)

Although the Indonesian public has shown the same feelings of discomfort, anxi-
ety and resentment as those in the Netherlands, the reasons for these feelings are
slightly different. As a Muslim majority country, Indonesia is home to various
 Finding a niche  175
expressions of Muslimness. Despite witnessing a resurgence of conservativ-
ism, Indonesia has long been known as a moderate Muslim country. Therefore,
opponents of the cadar have often used the notion of preserving ‘moderate’
Indonesian public Islam. A common scene in Indonesian public Islam has been
the presence of Muslim women without a veil entirely or merely covering their
hair, but not wearing a cadar. Before the presence of the Niqab Squad, cadari
public figures and cadari celebgram a sense of anxiety around the cadar had
been prevalent due to the stereotype attached to the cadar as a sign of radical
Muslim exponents. This feeling is now combined with a feeling of discomfort
seeing cadari in Indonesian Muslim publics, to borrow Armando Salvatore and
Dale Eickelman’s concept (2004), or among mainstream moderate Indonesian
Muslims. Additionally, political discomfort and dislike also refers to public oppo-
sition of the image behind the cadari subculture which signposts Arab culture
and the non-egalitarian lifestyle which they uphold. Throughout Indonesian his-
tory and the history of the region in general, egalitarianism, gender complemen-
tarity and female autonomy have been one of the common features of Indonesian
culture and Southeast Asian culture in general (Andaya 2006; Robinson 2009).
Although the emphasis on gender equality and complementarity in the insular
Southeast Asia including Indonesia should not be presumed and needs to be care-
fully analysed (Errington 1990, 1–5), throughout the country’s history women’s
organisations have actively fought against inequality. Thus, many believe that the
cadar is not compatible with moderate Indonesian public Islam which supports
egalitarianism.
An issue which emerged after the birth of the Niqab Squad and the increasing
presence of cadari public figures and cadari celebgram was the opposition to the
use of the cadar in some Indonesian state Islamic universities. For instance, in
February 2018, the cadar was in the spotlight and became a national issue due to
an effort to regulate the use of the cadar in UIN Sunan Kalijaga in Yogyakarta.
The university’s rector issued a letter stating counselling program directive aimed
at cadar-wearers at the university, which had fourty-two cadari at the time. This
letter was mistakenly understood by the public as a cadar ban. Although the let-
ter does not mention banning, it stipulates that the university needs to record the
number of cadar-wearers on campus and they need to be offered a counselling
program. The then rector, Yudian Wahyudi, emphasised that the counselling pro-
gram was aimed at encouraging a dress code in line with the spirit of moderate
Indonesian Islam. During a press conference, the rector highlighted the notion of
moderate Islam to support the university’s position on the cadar. In addition to
this, Yudian also mentioned that the cadar is part of Arab culture, which is not
appropriate for Indonesian culture. He also raised his concern about the radicali-
sation of students by groups supporting this kind of outfit. An important point that
he mentioned regarding the presence of cadari in the classroom also echoed what
has often been underlined by other academic institutions, namely security and
identification problems. The issue swiftly became a national issue. After receiving
pressure from opponents of the letter, especially from conservative groups that
use human rights rhetoric, the rector halted the plan on 10 March 2018. Yudian
176  Finding a niche
issued another letter mentioning the reason behind revoking the decree was to
maintain ‘a conducive academic climate.’
Bannings in academic institutions signify that passionate cadari university
students are confronted daily with a range of obstacles and problems because of
their choices. As noted above, outside observers tend to assume that adopting the
cadar is an index of their lack of agency. But the young women students whom I
interviewed demonstrate diverse ways of exercising agency, even relating to their
resistance.

Capacity for Muslim female agency

Holding to the Prophet’s tradition is like having a live coal in our hands,
the tighter we hold, the hotter we will feel. Therefore, we should be sabar
[Ar. ṣabr or patient] because when we try so hard to be consistent with the
Prophet’s tradition, we will feel even hotter and hotter and we will face more
obstacles.

This statement, inspired by a ḥadīth on the struggle to uphold the Prophet’s tradi-
tion, is typical of the explanations offered by Maryam and her friends to encap-
sulate the essence of their choice. Having to confront obstacles to their religious
practice makes them more resolute in their defence of their religious position.
They believe that to be true Muslimah they must cultivate a virtue of patience
(Mahmood 2001). This is another form of resistance, or I call it ‘quiet resist-
ance,’ that they exercise. Being patient does not mean that they must be passive.
In contrast, it empowers them to enhance their religious zeal based on the belief
that being sabar to face obstacles in practising religion is the characteristic of
those who have a strong commitment to Islam. These young cadari are conscious
of their choices. They know what they are doing and understand the implica-
tions of their actions. As mentioned throughout this book, face-veiled women are
frequently defined as women who are oppressed and, generally, have little capac-
ity for agency (Meer, Dwyer and Modood 2010, 102–4).10 With regard to this,
Charles Hirschkind and Saba Mahmood have also argued that western common-
sense understandings of the Muslim woman emphasise that ‘a Muslim woman can
only be one of two things, either uncovered, and therefore liberated, or veiled and
thus still to some degree, subordinate’ (2002, 353). Adding to this, in Indonesia,
women in such groups have often been regarded as victims of patriarchal norms
and the Arabisation of Indonesian society (Woodward et al. 2011, 9; see also
Wieringa 2009).
It is often difficult for observers, including family and friends, to understand the
choice of well-educated young women to become involved in religious revivalist
movements which sustain literal interpretations of Islamic sources—interpreta-
tions usually proposed by male Muslim scholars. Many studies have mentioned
the presence of multiple forms of agency related to different kinds of social struc-
tures (Avishai 2008; Burke 2012; Keane 2007; Mahmood 2005; Parker 2005),
and agency can also involve inhabiting norms rather than simply resisting or being
 Finding a niche  177
subordinated. The work of Rachel Rinaldo (2008) has ­demonstrated how Muslim
women within Islamic and Islamist groups, such as Fatayat NU and PKS (Partai
Keadilan Sejahtera or Prosperous Justice Party), enjoy forms of virtuous agency.
Rinaldo rightly says that Fatayat NU exercised pious critical agency due to their
efforts to critically engage in rereading religious texts (2014, 824). Agency in
the life of cadari is one very specific type of virtuous agency. Within the Salafi
groups, cadari are not at all critical of the religious understandings produced by
men in the groups. This differs from women in Fatayat NU who are active in
spreading new progressive interpretations of Islamic texts which emphasise gen-
der equality. The Fatayat NU women do this as a response to conservative under-
standings or mis(interpretations) of Islamic texts.
Cadari’s capacity for agency can be seen through the ways in which they deal
with other choices pertaining to their taat habitus, besides the cadar. Take the issue
of working: for cadari, the intention of working should be for the sake of daʿwa
and their contribution to the economy of their family, which all can be regarded
as part of their ʿibādāt (Ind. ibadah; acts of devotion or pious practices).11 Most
of them choose ‘safe’ jobs that can prevent them from ikhtilāṭ. Avoiding ikhtilāṭ
is one of the entailments of being a good Muslim woman. The most common jobs
among cadari include being: teachers for children or female students (in kinder-
gartens, pesantren and Arabic language centres); activists in their communities’
female organisations; designers of Muslim dress and clothing entrepreneurs; and
food catering entrepreneurs. Most of these jobs provide service to others. Around
the early 2000s, within varied Salafi and Tablīghī cadari communities, becoming
a teacher in kindergarten or pesantren was one of the most popular occupations.
This is partly related to cadari’s belief that the main responsibility of Muslim
women is the religious education of the younger generation, in particular their
own children. In short, the type of agency that they have is specifically related
to their passion to be true Muslimah. For outsiders, it might seem that they have
given up on the agency commonly associated with other types of mobility, jobs
or educational paths. For some of them, the new religious mindset has awakened
the idea that all the above-mentioned choices are no longer their priority. Instead,
they feel restricted when they cannot fulfil religious demands.

The journey of passionate cadari

It is obvious that the characteristics of passionate cadari are usually young, con-
fused and idealistic. They are looking for certainties in life that can give them
clear directions and assurances. The following question in this discussion is how
their commitment to Salafi rigid disciplines plays out over the longer term. How
is the life of the cadari after their initial religious self-transformation—joining
the Salafi movement and their adoption of the cadar? According to most of my
research subjects, the most challenging moment was when they began to search
and to be part of the true Islam. Khaula recounts her story: ‘If we can pass the
initial challenges of our early days, becoming part of this true Islamic community
and maintaining our commitment to wear the cadar, then the life after all these
178  Finding a niche
challenges will be a lot smoother. It will be easier, especially when we can have a
husband who also supports us.’ Ummu Khalid (pseudonym), a 35-year-old cadre
of one of the Salafi groups in Yogyakarta, who sat next to Ukth Khaula during our
conversation, adds: ‘It has been always the case with every akhwat [sister] that
her first days of hijrah [transformation] to be a true Muslimah were like ‘hell.’
However, after a while, everything will be better. She will become a stronger
person and can be a cadre.’
Khaula and Ummu Khalid’s statements resonate with the experience of other
young cadari that their commitment becomes stronger when they pass difficult
moments during their early transformation. Having religious homogamy by mar-
rying a man within the same group is important to sustain their commitment.
Therefore, the majority of married cadari with whom I worked have sought reli-
gious homogamy. Having religious homogamy is part of the embodiment of their
taat habitus.
The story behind the transformation of these passionate cadari does not begin
from their husband’s volition, as assumed by others. Their religious journey to be
true Muslimah began from within themselves. However, it is true that their com-
mitment became stronger when they were able to marry someone with the same
ideology. Together with their husbands, they can maintain their commitment even
when they are unable to live within their community cluster. In one of the educa-
tional institutions associated with Yayasan Majelis At-Turots Al-Islamy, there is
a rumour among the women that I interviewed that it is forbidden for men outside
the community circle to marry sisters living in the Ma’had Syaikh Jamilurrahman
As-Salafy. One of the reasons for this is to produce strong male and female cad-
res within the community who have the same goal for the development of the
community.
Many cadari who are still studying at universities are married. As Khaula said,
they believe their lives will be easier when they have someone with whom to
share their problems. They feel safe in the company of their husband. Ummu
Khalid says: ‘Many akhwat decide to marry when they are still studying at uni-
versity because their husband can help them to ease the tension of holding strictly
to the true Islamic teachings amid the criticism of people around them. They also
can fulfil their parents’ wish to finish study.’
In one of the classrooms at LIPIA in 2009 and 2010, there were ten students
out of thirty-five who wore the cadar and five of these were married. Although
some parents may not agree with their daughters’ marriage choice, in the end
parents usually accept it. Ummu Ayman, a 20-year-old LIPIA student, explained:
‘Parents, especially mothers, usually do not agree with their daughters’ choice.
However, they cannot say much on this. They finally allow us to marry our
choices. Their blessing will be apparent as long as we know how to respect them
and maintain good relations with them.’
Many elite figures of the women’s wing in Wahdah Islamiyah are married
women and this is the case in most of the groups that I studied. Mostly those
who are married and have passed the ‘beginner’ stage focus not only on self-
transformation but the development of the movement. Their sense of belonging
 Finding a niche  179
to the community grows stronger when they have succeeded and passed this early
phase of religious development.
The possibility of giving up everything—the cadar and withdrawal from the
group—is very low, especially after the Salafi teachings have become popular.
According to the senior cadre, Ummu Ahmad (pseudonym) (46 years old) of
Wahdah Islamiyah women’s wing: ‘Nowadays, the challenges that have to be
faced by the cadari are less strong than in my early days. In this city [Makassar], for
example, many people have become used to the presence of the cadari. When the
number is growing means it will be less pressure for our younger sisters to defend
their beliefs.’ The growing number of cadari in some universities in Indonesia
and the growing number of cadari in their own communities are also indicators of
their success in sustaining their belief. Khadijah, a 28-year-old UNHAS student,
who I met several times says: ‘You still remember right Ukht, when you were here
in 2008 and 2009 the number of cadari was growing significantly. Alḥamdulillāh
[Praise be to God] our number is now getting bigger and bigger.’ The establish-
ment of Salafi communities around their educational institutions has also success-
fully boosted the number of women who become committed to their group, such
as women living within Ma’had Syaikh Jamilurrahman As-Salafy.
This chapter has demonstrated that youth typically have a great motivation
to bring about changes in their lives. They are not afraid of the consequences
and cost that this transformation will entail. Their choices are often viewed by
others as temporary transformations characteristic of youth—youthful ‘slip-ups’
and ‘experimentation.’ This can be seen from the way parents of face-veiled uni-
versity students perceive and evaluate their daughter’s new appearance with the
cadar. To be sure, in some cases and to a certain degree, some changes adopted
by cadari are simply part of their performance of ‘youthfulness’ (Inge 2016).
However, many face-veiled university students who decide to adopt this attire and
commit themselves to the Salafi movement, continue to wear it and hold Salafi
Islam as their religious orientation, even after they graduate and marry.
The passionate cadari struggle to find their place in campus dynamics and this
has taught them strategies with which to search for what they perceive to be their
true self and for what they really want in life. The passionate cadari are mostly
those who have found their way to the true Islam. They feel it is obligatory for
them to leave all other former Islamic practices which they see are mixed with
bidʿa (innovation which is forbidden in religion). According to cadari, the true
Islam which can guide their life is different from that of their parents’ generation.
Therefore, they choose not to be ‘in tune with’ the values by which they were
raised. In this context, we can see that their taat agency also involves resistance.
They need to mount challenges on many fronts, including their parents, university
regulations and Indonesian mainstream Islam which does not support their deci-
sions. They often refer to their religious transformation as the ultimate achieve-
ment in their lifetime. The cadari argue that they have experienced religious
transformation, while people around them—particularly their parents—think that
they are still struggling to find a ‘comfort zone’ in their new social and cultural
milieu.
180  Finding a niche
Face-veiled students’ attachment and activities in Salafism and their willing-
ness to defend the use of the cadar cannot be valued merely as serving inter-
ests of the Salafi movements. Instead, they are expressing their own interest in
developing themselves and achieving their passion to be true Muslimah who are
ready to support their Salafi community. The way to understand the eagerness of
these Muslimah to return to the strict practice of Islam is by analysing the Islamic
concepts that have guided them, of which taat is crucial. The cadar is one of the
ways they transcribe taat into bodily practices. For committed wearers, this phe-
nomenon demonstrates the embodied nature of the cadar as part of becoming a
true Muslimah. The cadar also has an important role in introducing other Islamic
disciplines, such as maintaining al-akhlāq al-karīma which should be in line with
the spirit of taat attached to their cadar.
The point that is often neglected by those who study veiling is the life that is
lived after the choice has been made. This chapter had shown how wearing the
cadar becomes fundamental to how these young women negotiate their positions
as Muslims who are striving to live Islamic lives in a non-Islamic state. Do they
feel oppressed? They do not, because they have worked to achieve this kind of
life. In contrast, cadari argue that the truly oppressed are those who have been
indoctrinated into believing that what the cadari are doing is a failure of women
to exercise their agency.

Notes
1 The interview was conducted before the banning of HTI by the government in July 2017.
2 Part of this section was published as Eva F. Nisa. 2012. Embodied faith: Agency and
obedience among face-veiled university students in Indonesia. The Asia Pacific Journal
of Anthropology 13(4): 366–81, doi: 10.1080/14442213.2012.697187.
3 Abangan was used as one of typologies of Javanese Muslims by Geertz in the early
1960s. Geertz used the term abangan to distinguish between the devout (santri) and
ordinary Muslims who were much more syncretistic (abangan). Some aspects of
Geertz’s typologies have also been criticised (Ricklefs 2006, 35).
4 This trend is indeed not unique to Indonesia but is present elsewhere such as in Malaysia
(Anwar 1987; Frisk 2009; Nagata 1995; Ong 1990) and in Egypt (Macleod 1991; 1992;
Mahmood 2005).
5 Currently, the trend in Makassar is quite different; the number of face-veiled students at
Universitas Islam Negeri (UIN) Alauddin has grown. Among the main factors that have
contributed to this trend are: first, the transformation of Institut Agama Islam Negeri
(IAIN) (State Institute for Islamic Studies) to UIN on 10 October 2005, together with
the establishment of its two new faculties, the Faculty of Science and Technology and
the Faculty of Health Science; and second, the popularity of the Salafi movement in
Makassar, in particular the transformation of Wahdah Islamiyah from a religious foun-
dation to a Salafi religious mass organisation.
6 When she explained ʿawra, she pointed to her face which indicated that for her face is
also part of woman’s body that should be covered.
7 Most newcomers to the Salafi movement with its diverse factions give the same reason
for joining this movement. However, after becoming staunch supporters and mastering
religious knowledge and Arabic language, many of them are confident enough to say
that they get their knowledge of Islam not only from their asātidh but also through their
direct reading of Islamic sources.
 Finding a niche  181
8 However, nowadays the response of parents to the jilbab has changed (Smith-Hefner
2007).
9 The trend of the presence of university students who adopt stricter forms of what
they perceive as Muslim dress is, indeed, in contrast to the existence of another trend,
namely ‘downveiling,’ to borrow Linda Herrera’s term (2000; 2001). Herrera argues
that there is a current tendency of ‘downveiling’ among Egyptian urban women which
refers to ‘a subtle and seemingly growing tendency among certain circles of urban
Egyptian women toward less concealing and less conservative forms of Islamic dress’
(Herrera 2001, 16).
10 Nilüfer Göle in her work, which mainly focuses on Islam in Turkey and Iran, points
out how even women with an Islamic headscarf (veil, not face veil) are regarded as
‘manipulated agents’ (2003, 816).
11 ʿIbādāt is also often used as a synonym of ṭāʿa (Bousquet 2011).

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6 Cadari as dedicated actors

This chapter examines the role of passionate cadari (face-veiled women) in some
Salafi groups in Indonesia. The focus is mainly on Salafi rather than Tablīghī
women. Salafi women from diverse factions are not only ardent supporters of cadar
(face veil) wearing in Indonesia but also the most visible and energetic agents
in the development of their movement. Salafi factions allow women to establish
their own daʿwa (Ind. dakwah or proselytisation) spaces. This is evident from the
presence of Salafi female wings. Tablīghī women are also active in the develop-
ment of their movement, especially those from well-to-do urban backgrounds who
have economic capital and access to mobility for their daʿwa (Amrullah 2011).
For example, the well-to-do female follower can be active in attending weekly
Tablīghī taʿlīm (religious study circle) because she has transport and can take her
whole family to the event. However, those who come from less privileged families
cannot afford the cost of long-distance visits. Public transport can be problematic
for many Tablīghī cadari because of the mixing of male and female passengers.
Furthermore, many women join Tablīghī after they get married, while passionate
cadari begin attaching themselves to Salafism when they study at universities.
The struggle of Salafi women from diverse economic backgrounds to dedicate
their lives to their groups is more salient than that of Tablīghī women. All Salafi
factions emphasise that a woman who wants to be a female religious scholar or
preacher (dāʿiya) needs to understand Islamic teachings. This signifies the pres-
ence of an intellectual hierarchy. In contrast, Tablīghī emphasise that there is
no intellectual hierarchy (Metcalf 1998, 110; Nisa 2014a; 2014b). As a result,
each female follower has the same chance to become a dāʿiya among women—
with one important note, that she should not speak ‘in an authoritative tone as
if she is delivering a lecture’ (Sikand 1999, 44). If a woman is familiar with the
books used in their taʿlīm, especially the Faḍā’il al-Aʿmāl (Virtues of everyday
actions) and can read and understand the six principles of the basic tenets of the
movement,1 then she can lead the taʿlīm. Therefore, Salafi women often criticise
Tablīghī women as ‘being immature dāʿiyāt’ (pl. form of dāʿiya or female preach-
ers) (Amrullah 2011, 151).
By contrast, cadari from diverse Salafi factions have to make an extra effort to
become cadres. Following their individual self-transformation, they pay increased
attention to both becoming true Muslimah (Muslim women) as well as to the

DOI: 10.4324/9781003246442-7
 Cadari as dedicated actors  187
future of their Islamic communities and Islam in general. This challenges the ste-
reotype of cadari as secluded and oppressed women who cannot exercise agency.
Their capacity for agency can be seen in the way they support their movement
and the way they enjoy performing religious acts. This chapter focuses on the
activities of women in two Salafi groups, Lembaga Muslimah (LM, Women’s
Institution) of Wahdah Islamiyah (WI) and Yayasan Pendidikan Islam Al-Atsari
(the Foundation of Al-Atsari Islamic Education), in sustaining the future of the
movements and Niqab Squad activism. While my discussion of LM focuses on the
general activities of its young female cadres, the discussion of cadari in Yayasan
Pendidikan Islam Al-Atsari focuses more especially on an important cadre called
Ummu Yazid and her Salafi group in Yogyakarta. The last section on the Niqab
Squad analyses the activism and voices of cadari at the national level.
The younger generations in Indonesia are open to a wide variety of ideas
about Islam brought by varied Islamic and Islamist movements (Hefner 2000;
van Bruinessen 2002). This phenomenon is boosted by the assistance of media,
especially Islamic publishing houses, and nowadays by the internet and social
media (Nisa 2018a; 2018b; 2019). Martin van Bruinessen argues, ‘Students and
the gradually emerging Muslim middle class showed a great eagerness for Islamic
reading, numerous discussion circles were formed where books were critically
discussed’ (2002, 126). Events in other Muslim countries, especially in the late
1970s and early 1980s, have inspired younger generations to be associated with
Islamic movements, such as the Iranian Revolution. Female Muslim students are
not immune from this development. Indeed, many female university students
can be regarded as the backbone of some Islamic and Islamist groups includ-
ing Islamist parties in Indonesia, especially Jama’ah Tarbiyah, Partai Keadilan
Sejahtera (PKS, Prosperous Justice Party), Hizbut Tahrir Indonesia (HTI) and
diverse factions of Salafism.
The activities of the cadari within their groups are resonant of other scholars’
accounts regarding the ability of women to take advantage of their association with
Islamic movements for the sake of their own empowerment, such as education and
career opportunities (Brenner 2005; MacLeod 1991; van Doorn-Harder 2006).
Their agency is evident in their activities within the movements (Figures 6.1,
6.2 and 6.3). The most obvious agency that these Salafi women exercise is com-
pliance, evident from their participation in daʿwa activities within their groups.
They exercise compliant agency because they attempt to comply with religious
teachings in their lives.2 Orit Avishai (2008) argues that women who exercise this
kind of agency, ‘May participate in conservative religions in a quest for religious
ends or that “compliance” is not strategic at all, but rather a mode of conduct and
being [emphasis in original]’ (2008, 412). This is because they gloss all their
activities under the notion of acts of devotion (ʿibādāt), which are important in
aiding them to reach their aspirations to be true Muslimah. Avishai’s (2008) argu-
ment, which is inspired by Saba Mahmood (2005), details compliant agency: ‘To
see agency, one does not need to identify empowerment, subversion, or rational
strategizing. It suffices to note how members of conservative religions “do”—
observe, perform—religion, wherever that might lead’ (Avishai 2008, 429).
188  Cadari as dedicated actors

Figure 6.1  Panellists at a seminar on Muslim women in the era of globalisation organised
by a Salafi women’s wing, in Bekasi. Note: Some Salafi women’s wing
organisations often invited female PKS politicians. They believe that although
sometimes their understandings of Islam are different from that of PKS, at least
some of them think that as an Islamist party, PKS is better than other parties.
Source: Photo credit, author, 5 July 2008.

Figure 6.2  Nana chairing the seminar. Source: Photo credit, author, 5 July 2008.
 Cadari as dedicated actors  189

Figure 6.3  A tech savvy cadari using expensive-looking equipment to film a video of the
seminar. Note: Usually inside their event venues, cadari take off their cadar
because they are women-only events. Source: Photo credit, author, 5 July 2008.

Michel Foucault’s theory of the technologies of the self can explain the trajec-
tory of these Salafi women in achieving happiness by being active in the move-
ment and gaining influence through their daʿwa among other Muslim women.
Foucault argues that technologies of the self ‘permit individuals to effect by their
own means or with the help of others a certain number of operations on their own
bodies and souls, thoughts, conduct, and way of being, so as to transform them-
selves in order to attain a certain state of happiness, purity, wisdom, perfection,
or immortality’ (1997, 225). Becoming a true Muslimah demands certain modes
of self-discipline and modification including bodily practices, like face veiling.
Certain skills can also be acquired through these technologies. This chapter dem-
onstrates how modes of training embodied by cadari have led many of them to
gain power and influence in daʿwa spheres.
Studies on Muslim women in Indonesia have often focused on how moderate
and liberal Muslim women as well as Muslim and Islamic feminists have criti-
cised patriarchal interpretations of Islamic texts upheld by conservative groups
(Schröter 2013, 48). These women exercise ‘resistance agency’ or, to borrow
Rachel Rinaldo’s concept, ‘pious critical agency’ (2013; 2014). It is also note-
worthy that despite multiple studies of Salafism and radical Muslim organisations
which draw attention to the harsh treatment of women, there has been little to
say about women inside these movements, that is, with the exception of women
within Salafi jihadism and the increased threat that they have posed to the coun-
try (Blackburn 2008; Nasir 2019; Nuraniyah 2018; Rahmah 2020). This chapter
fills this void in affording importance to the voices of women of varied Salafi
190  Cadari as dedicated actors
movements of non-jihadism, especially those of the cadari, whose mobility is not
easily seen by most Indonesians and who are often dismissed as terrorists and fol-
lowers of a radical or deviant Islam.
Passionate cadari in contemporary Salafi groups are not kept in the back-
ground. They are active in the development of the movement, especially in
the recruitment of newcomers, exemplifying what Asef Bayat terms ‘active
piety’ (2007). They are not only actively practising their faith, but also expe-
riencing pleasure in inviting other sisters to follow their path. Their pleasure
can be seen as a sign of their achievement in embodying their virtuous habitus
(Aristotle 2000).
This pleasure is expressed through their self-transformation and other virtu-
ous practices within their new Islamic communities. For the Salafi women, being
active in the recruitment process gave them a strong sense of worth and self-sat-
isfaction. Here, we can see the degree of their empowerment agency. In addition,
they are also active in engaging with diverse issues related to broader Islamic dis-
courses, such as women and globalisation, terrorism, politics, women and repro-
ductive health, and gender issues. They are not only busy with their movements’
domestic issues, such as arranging religious study groups, but their involvement
in global discussion is evident from the themes they deal with in their seminars
and in articles on their websites.
Salafi women’s active involvement in the movements underscores the impor-
tant but often neglected part that women play in supporting revivalist and conserv-
ative groups. A core element of this chapter involves exploring the commitment
of cadari to their movements, which is embedded in their performance of ‘public
piety,’ a concept developed by Lara Deeb (2006) to refer to the expression of reli-
gious commitment which relies on visibility. The roles that have been played by
these women in their movements demonstrate how ‘invisible’ women have been
made visible, albeit in a gendered space.

Lembaga Muslimah: Women of Wahdah Islamiyah3

During my research in Makassar, South Sulawesi, I was amazed by the strong and
positive spirit of Muslim women who were followers of religious revivalist move-
ments, in particular the Tablīghī Jamāʿat and Salafi movements. Support for the
latter by the younger generation is particularly interesting. Thousands of young
Muslim women from a variety of backgrounds have been attracted to the ideology
of Wahdah Islamiyah (WI) (The Unity of Islam), a Makassar-based Salafi move-
ment. WI is more than a Salafi institution with various educational levels; it is also
a big ‘company’ which gradually and intensely has coloured Islam in Indonesia—
particularly in South Sulawesi—with its Salafi ideology.4
On 21 June 2008, in Makassar, I attended a WI event—a combined Islamic study
circle (tarbiyah gabungan, often abbreviated to targab). Targab is a religious study
among followers from different levels of apprenticeship (marhalah, Ar. marḥala).
The program, attended by 1,256 WI women, consisted of a series of speeches. One
of these, on women and crime, was delivered by Ustādh (Ind. Ustaz) Muhammad
 Cadari as dedicated actors  191
Zaitun Rasmin, who is also known as Ustādh Zaitun, the leader of WI. Ustādh
Zaitun asked his female followers to strengthen their solidarity to combat all types
of crime. He referred to an incident (4 May 2008) in which a man wore the cadar
to disguise his identity and then tried to break into female student accommodation
around Universitas Hasanuddin (UNHAS) (Hasanuddin University) whose occu-
pants mostly wear the cadar. Not long after the targab, on 29 June 2008, WI held
another event, religious lectures (muhadarah, Ar. muḥāḍara) which attracted more
than 2000 Muslim women. When I attended WI women’s activities, which included
targab, taʿlīm and dawrah (Ar. dawra or training), as well as larger events such as
nadwah (Ar. nadwa or seminars), I realised that WI pays significant attention to
its female followers and that the female followers in turn have been very active in
maintaining support for WI. This support is especially evident in the activities of the
women’s wing, known as Lembaga Muslimah (LM).
LM was officially established based on a decree (Surat Keputusan) from
the WI central board in 2005. Its headquarters are in Makassar, but branches
have been established elsewhere in Indonesia. The purpose of the central LM
was to assist its branches and affiliates by providing supervision, consultation
and coordination. It has the authority to activate LM branch committees. By
2009, WI had thirty-five branches and forty-three affiliates in eleven provinces
in Indonesia. Central LM plays an important role as a motivator, a creator of
the daʿwa concept and a manager of all activities including sending experts
to run activities in its branches (Wahdah Islamiyah 2006). In 2006, one year
after its official establishment, LM had 6729 cadres from twenty-one branches
across Indonesia (Wahdah Islamiyah n.d.). Mostly they are young university
students from well-known state universities, and this is especially noticeable
in Makassar.

WI in Indonesia
WI was established on 18 June 1988 under the name Yayasan Fathul Muin (YFM)
(Fathul Muin Foundation). The name was taken from K.H. Fathul Mu’in Daeng
Mangading, a charismatic religious scholar in Ujung Pandang (now Makassar)
who was also the leader of Ta’mirul Mu’minin, the Makassar centre of activi-
ties of the Islamic organisation Muhammadiyah (Juhannis 2006, 153). On 19
February 1998, the name of the movement was changed to Yayasan Wahdah
Islamiyah (YWI) (Wahdah Islamiyah Foundation), and to provide an umbrella
for their higher education institution, Sekolah Tinggi Ilmu Islam dan Bahasa
Arab (STIBA) (College of Islamic Studies and Arabic Language), YWI became
Yayasan Pesantren Wahdah Islamiyah (YPWI) (Wahdah Islamiyah Islamic
Boarding School Foundation) on 25 May 2000. Another transformation occurred
on 14 April 2002 when WI became an ormas/organisasi massa (mass organisa-
tion). The main goal for this transformation is to fulfil the need to spread and
develop their daʿwa not only in South Sulawesi but throughout the Indonesian
Archipelago. It was also part of their strategy to establish WI branches all over
Indonesia by 2015.
192  Cadari as dedicated actors
WI can be regarded as a splinter group of Muhammadiyah (Chaplin 2018a,
213). The founding fathers of WI, Ustādh Zaitun, Ustādh Muhammad Qasim
Saguni and Ustādh Haris Abdurrahman, were all members of one of the
Muhammadiyah youth organisations called Ikatan Pelajar Muhammadiyah (IPM)
(Muhammadiyah Student Association) whose membership encompasses youth
between the ages of 15 and 23 years. At that time, K.H. Fathul Mu’in, as the
charismatic leader of Muhammadiyah in Ujung Pandang, was the mentor for WI’s
founding fathers and other members of Muhammadiyah youth organisations,
such as Ikatan Mahasiswa Muhammadiyah (IMM) (League of Muhammadiyah
University Students, whose members were aged between 18 and 30) and Pemuda
Muhammadiyah (PM) (Muhammadiyah Youth Activists, aged from 30 to 40).
Through the figure of K.H. Fathul Mu’in, WI had a close ideological relation-
ship with the Darul Islam (DI) (Abode of Islam) movement (Aldjufri 2010, 142;
Juhannis 2006, 15). The main reason that WI’s founding fathers withdrew from
Muhammadiyah was because of their opposition to a New Order directive that all
organisations use the asas tunggal (sole foundation) of state ideology, Pancasila
as their guiding ideology.5
In 1995, after four years of study at the Islamic University in Medina (al-Jāmiʿa
al-Islāmiyya bī-l-Madīna al-Munawwara), Ustādh Zaitun strengthened WI’s com-
mitment to purify Islamic teachings by following the steps of al-salaf al-ṣāliḥ
(pious predecessors). This included opposition to Sufism (Aldjufri 2010, 167).
Some Middle Eastern charity organisations, such as al-Muʾassasa al-Ḥaramayn
al-Khayriyya, Jamʿiyya Ihyāʾ al-Turāth and Jamʿiyya Dār al-Bir, assisted him
in establishing WI. Besides this financial assistance, Syarifuddin Jurdi, a scholar
whose research focus includes WI, has pointed out the ability of the WI founding
fathers to use the political situation in post-authoritarian Indonesia to introduce
WI and to strengthen its influence (2007, 131).
International Crisis group (ICG) reports have connected the history of WI with
the terrorist organisation Jemaah Islamiyah or the JI network. One of the reports
argues that there are ‘personal, historical, ideological and religious bonds linking
Wahdah to JI but it is a separate organisation’ (2003, 13). According to ICG, one
of the most important moments in the history of WI was the conflict in Ambon
in January 1999. WI elites split into two groups, one led by Ustādh Zaitun and
the other by Agus Dwikarna. The latter group felt obliged to help their Muslim
brothers in Ambon and then established Laskar Jundullah, a regional militia in
South Sulawesi which was formerly the paramilitary wing of Komite Persiapan
Penegakan Syari’at Islam (KPPSI, Preparatory Committee for the Implementation
of Islamic Law)6 (ICG 2003, 13; Hasan 2006, 21). Agus Dwikarna was arrested
in the Philippines in March 2002 for illegal possession of explosives. During my
interview with his wife, she explained that she was very active in WI. She said: ‘I
was active in WI since the 1980s. I was even the leader of the women’s wing until
1998. The name of this women’s wing was Majelis Musyawarah Akhwat (M2M)
not LM. Since 1999, I stopped being active in WI.’ Throughout its development,
WI has struggled to emphasise that it is not a terrorist group and has no affiliation
with any terrorist networks (Aldjufri 2010).
 Cadari as dedicated actors  193
The cadari and their cadar in LM
The participation of women in LM differs from that in other Muslim organisations
in Indonesia, such as Nahdlatul Ulama (NU), Muhammadiyah and PKS/Jama’ah
Tarbiyah. The primary and most obvious difference can be seen in the presence
of the cadar. As discussed in previous chapters, cadari are often stigmatised as
fanatical women who are oppressed and invisible, hidden within their community.
However, cadari of LM are visible. Not only are they visible, but they are active
agents in the organisation. WI elites believe that wearing the cadar is part of
Muslim women’s effort to revive sunna (the exemplary ways of life of the Prophet
Muḥammad).
For WI women, like other cadari from other Salafi groups and Tablīghī
Jamāʿat, wearing the cadar is their effort to be taat (Ar. ṭāʿa or obedient), which in
turn can lead them to be true Muslimah. Wearing the cadar is part of their ‘ethical
path,’ to borrow Kenneth George’s (2010) term. In his discussion about a painting
by Abdul Djalil Pirous, George explains the ‘ethical path’ as: ‘a means through
which someone becomes a who and a what, finding relationships with oneself
and others … It is a way of deciphering and achieving a way of being, though not
without risk or vulnerability’ (2010, 38). The way a cadari sees the cadar is part
of her ethical path that has brought her to become a ‘who’ and a ‘what.’ Wearing
the cadar is part of her progression towards achieving her aspirational way of
being. Wearing the cadar also relates to cadari’s efforts to embody taqwa (Ar.
taqwā or God-fearing), which in this context refers to righteousness or obedience
to Allah, which leads towards them owning the field of reward (ladang pahala).
By wearing the cadar they feel responsible for keeping their public surroundings
more Islamic by presenting themselves as respectable women.
The cadar can be regarded as the WI female cadres’ ‘uniform.’ Therefore,
every LM event is flooded by cadari. But WI men are also subject to strictures
on outward appearance, as indicated in a running text on Lembaga Muslimah/
Wahdah Islamiyah’s website. It said:

Ketahuilah! Jenggot, cadar, celana ngatung adalah ajaran Islam, aja-

ran Rosulullah dan para sahabatnya, bukan ciri-ciri teroris!!! Tidak layak
seorang muslim mengolok-oloknya. (Bear in mind! Beard, cadar, men’s
trousers above the ankles, are Islamic teachings, the teaching of the Prophet
Muḥammad and his companions, not the characteristics of terrorists!!! It is
inappropriate for Muslims to disgrace these outward appearances).

All LM cadres are considered dāʿiyāt (Hadiati 2009, 118). Therefore, they must make
a commitment to train themselves to be good dāʿiyāt. Although LM women are very
active in daʿwa, they never get the opportunity to gain a position in the highest level
of the WI structure, Dewan Syuro. One of the characteristics of LM which also can
be seen in other Salafi groups, and which distinguishes it from other conservative and
Islamist movements in Indonesia—like PKS/Jama’ah Tarbiyah—is that they always
strive to strictly avoid any mixing of the sexes (ikhtilāṭ). Therefore, LM cadres isolate
194  Cadari as dedicated actors
all their activities from the presence of men. According to Umm Rahmah (pseudo-
nym), 47 years old: ‘This kind of very strict attitude was actually upheld by many
conservative organisations in their early existence. For example, this situation could
be felt within the PKS milieu. However, nowadays PKS women seem slightly more
relaxed about preventing any ikhtilāṭ in their activities.’
LM cadres are active in public works, especially for their communities’ com-
mon good. However, their public activities do not fit into western liberal con-
cepts of the distinction between public and private spheres.7 The cadari do take
part in public work, but their activities are mostly conducted in private spaces or
public segregated spaces. Deeb (2006) and Stacey Yadav (2010), who worked
with Muslim women, have discussed this issue. Deeb’s concept of ‘public piety’
resonates with the activities of the passionate cadari in this study. Deeb defines
public piety as the expressions of religious commitment in the public sphere ‘con-
tributing to the common good’ (2009a, 249). The activities of LM cadres are also
consistent with Deeb’s argument about public piety, in the sense that they demon-
strate endless efforts to be true Muslimah. This involves visible virtuous practices
to internalise ‘a total obedience’ (ketaatan yang kaffah) towards God. For LM
cadres, to be true Muslimah means to be able to practise Islam totally (kaffah),
and this includes their ability to make their commitment to Islam visible in public.
There is difference between the public visibility of the Lebanese Shiʿi women
in Deeb’s account and that of cadari in this study. Deeb emphasises that her
Lebanese research subjects feel that ‘public piety’ provides an opening that
allows women to participate more in public life. The WI cadari’s public piety
refers to their efforts to create a more public version of Salafi practices or Islamic
practices based on their Salafi manhaj (lit. a methodology that refers to the way
of life of the early Muslims). A public version of Salafi manhaj means that the
presence of women should be in a strictly gendered public space and there should
be no violation of the teachings relating to women’s dignity in Islam.
Cadari activities in public spaces challenge assumptions about the visibility
of ‘invisible’ women. What I mean by ‘invisible’ is that their bodies are cov-
ered with the cadar. Noorhaidi Hasan, in his study of Salafism, points out how
‘the public sphere belongs only to men’ (2006, 180). The association of ‘public’
with ‘visibility’ is widespread (Deeb 2006, 34–45). Pekka Rantanen (2005) has
also pointed out how the visibility and invisibility of women’s bodies ‘are central
aspects in making the burqa a symbol of oppression vis-à-vis liberation’ (336).
Although the visibility of cadari from LM does not refer to the visibility of their
bodies or their faces, their public presence challenges the Indonesian public.

LM daʿwa and the embodiment of public piety

Following Deeb’s (2006) argument, this section analyses how the public version
of Salafism is embodied by LM cadres in their participation in WI daʿwa activi-
ties at both personal and communal levels. In employing Deeb’s concept of pub-
lic piety, I do not mean to say that the visible virtuous activities of these cadari
are their expression of piety—understood by most Indonesians as kesalehan,
 Cadari as dedicated actors  195
which refers to the highest standard of one’s spiritual state. For them, the effort
to create a more public version of Salafi practices or Salafi piety is part of their
effort to embody ketaatan (obedience) and commitment to God and the Prophet
Muḥammad. In their understanding, kesalehan is difficult to attain, and it should
start from ketaatan. Their creation of a public version of Salafi piety relates to
the way they embody their duty to perform daʿwa. Daʿwa literally means a call
or invitation, although it has a wide range of meanings. In the context of LM
activities, daʿwa refers to the commitment of women followers to invite others
to understand and adhere to the true Islam as practised by al-salaf al-ṣāliḥ.
At the personal level, the public piety of LM cadres is especially manifested in
their commitment to be role models for other Muslim women, particularly those
to whom their daʿwa is directed. Wearing the cadar is one of the most impor-
tant aspects of their bodily practice and is part of the technologies of the self in
daʿwa, because one of the criteria for being dāʿiya is to follow the exemplary
ways of life of the Prophet Muḥammad (sunna) and his wives, which includes
wearing the cadar. At the personal level, their daʿwa is also resonant with Charles
Hirschkind’s insight into how daʿwa can be described as ‘a particular way of
linking public activism with moral reform’ (2006a, 32; 2006b). For LM women,
wearing the cadar makes their virtuous practice visible and is part of the embodi-
ment of their taat habitus. It is also part of their true commitment to religion
and their community. For example, the WI branch in Bulukumba sets additional
requirements for women to pass from one level to the next of religious train-
ing (tarbiyah, Ar. tarbiya) by wearing proper Muslim dress (Hadiati 2009, 127).
This means that they cannot advance unless they adopt the WI ‘dress code.’ The
training levels discussed below do not always incorporate formal requirements
for dress style. However, there is a consensus among followers that most higher-
level followers are stricter about wearing Muslim dress. They wear a longer cadar
than novices. Milah, a 19-year-old university student who has participated in WI
religious activities for eight months, says: ‘Those akhwāt [sisters] [while point-
ing at them] are the murabbiyah [mentors], Ukht [Sister]. We can tell from the
very long cadar they wear. They are already istiqāma [consistent in wearing it].’
Continuing, Milah explains to me that someone like her, who is still new to WI, is
considered to be building istiqāma.
At the communal level, public piety is brought about by cadari embracing their
responsibility to educate Muslim women who seek Islamic knowledge and who
have the eagerness to return to the true Islam. This visibility can be seen through
their tarbiyah activities (as mentor or murabbiyah and disciple or mutarabbiyah)
and taʿlīm, which is open to all Muslims. Today, in almost all universities in
Makassar we can find LM activities in nearby mosques or rented houses.

‘Advancing your Islamic knowledge!’

What is unique about WI in comparison to other Salafi groups is that they have
a special method of attaining Islamic knowledge, namely through the creation
of levels of apprenticeship (marhalah). Other Salafi groups in Makassar often
196  Cadari as dedicated actors
consider WI’s method of learning as an innovation which is forbidden in religion
(bidʿa). WI’s response to this accusation is explained by one of the LM cadres,
Umm Yunus (pseudonym), 49 years old:

Why do we need marhalah? This is because in every type of learning we

need a specific tool and a method. This is done to assist the students and the
teachers in organising the most suitable learning environment. This is just a
method of daʿwa. Like a baby. A baby cannot eat rice directly. It takes time
and practice, until she/he can eat by her/himself.

Through this method of learning, all WI followers are classified into three lev-
els (marhalah): ta’rifiyah (beginner), takwiniyah (intermediate) and tanfidziyah
(advanced). Each level has a female mentor who is responsible for not only teach-
ing Islamic knowledge but also making sure that the disciples can live accord-
ing to the proper Islamic way of life. To pass from one level to another is quite
demanding. Ukht Faizah (pseudonym), a 22-year-old university student, says: ‘I
am still in ta’rifiyah marhalah. Actually, I have been in this marhalah for quite a
while. My murabbiyah has asked me to repeat this marhalah, because I was often
absent. She said that I have missed out so many lessons.’ Discipline is important
in this training. Regular attendance, memorisation of passages in the Qur’ān and
hadīth, and their notes are strictly controlled not only by their mentor but also
by the staff of Departemen Dakwah dan Kaderisasi (Department of Daʿwa and
Caderisation) once every three months (Figure 6.4).

Figure 6.4  In Makassar, WI cadari ride motorcycles to their religious lessons in the mosque
and park them outside. Source: Photo credit, author, 18 November 2012.
 Cadari as dedicated actors  197
Besides being successful in the final written and oral tests, and receiving a rec-
ommendation from their mentor, their excellent performance in tarbiyah is also
used as an indicator to let them pass from a lower to a higher level of expertise.
These assessments are aimed at monitoring and evaluating the progress of disci-
ples and their understanding of Islam. During my research among these women,
they confessed that joining the tarbiyah is demanding, but they enjoy it because it
is part of their struggle to be good Muslimah and to be truly committed to Islam.
Umm Radiya (pseudonym), a 35-year-old woman, says: ‘If what it takes to be a
good Muslimah means to obey all these rules and to master Islamic knowledge, I
am happy to do them. It is hard, but there is no success without hardship.’ Umm
Radiya’s statement is shared by many cadari who attach themselves to WI. This
signifies a degree of empowerment agency. Kelsy Burke mentions that scholars
who focus their work on empowerment agency highlight ‘how women use reli-
gion to empower themselves in their daily lives, focusing mostly on affect, or
how religion makes women feel’ (2012, 126; MacLeod 1991). Umm Radiya’s
experience with WI’s strict rules also demonstrates her feelings, the pleasure
she achieves by becoming proficient in Islamic knowledge and her ability to live
according to WI norms.
LM is also active in organising special neighbourhood events that help follow-
ers strengthen their influence among Muslim women. Their activities directed to
outsiders for the purpose of recruitment can be regarded as the most visible aspect
of their agency as well as their public piety. They are involved in organising daw-
rah and workshops on varied topics, including journalism, Arabic, babysitting
and learning rules about reading the Qur’ān (tajwīd). Besides these training activi-
ties, LM has started to focus their recruitment on older women who are active in
majelis taklim (a religious gathering for learning Islam).
When the number of the female cadres in WI had increased greatly, cadari tried
to reach out to older women, not attached to universities, to attend their majelis
taklim. LM also founded a Korps Muballighot (Corps of Female Preachers) who
are responsible for supervising and educating these older women in majelis taklim
in their own neighbourhoods. In 2007, they successfully supervised forty majelis
taklim in Makassar, and some of the women who have been educated by LM have
established new majelis taklim (Rasmin 2007). One of the strategies related to
bringing new recruits closer to LM and WI is to invite them to major events. In
2008, at an event called Tabligh Akbar Muslimah (Mass Prayer Event for Muslim
Women), they successfully attracted women from nineteen majelis taklim who
subsequently asked LM to teach them Islam more intensively.
LM impressed these women through its unique approach. One such approach
was to legitimise LM’s teachings as belonging to the true Islam originating
from its main source. This position was reinforced through their efforts to invite
female Muslim scholars from Saudi Arabia. In 2008, they invited Dr Muna Fahed
Alnasser, a lecturer in Arabic Language at the College of Arts for Girls in King
Faisal University in Dammam, Saudi Arabia. In July 2010, they invited Ustādha
(Ind. Ustazah) Hannan Saad Ad Dautsariy, a Saudi Arabian preacher. For many
lay Muslim women in Indonesia, the presence of female scholars from Saudi
198  Cadari as dedicated actors
Arabia, who justify what they bring as true Islam, is a sign that WI is propagating
truth. Ibu Ardani, a 51-year-old woman, says: ‘The Islamic knowledge that I gain
from WI is the true one. This is because they received it directly from ʿulamāʾ
[religious scholars] from Arab countries. I am very glad to have the opportunity
to listen to the [translated] speech from Arab female scholars. It is a rare chance
in Indonesia.’ Positive responses from the broader community in Makassar have
made LM confident in organising their major Muslim events in main community-
gathering places, even in luxury venues. In July 2010, an event called Semarak
al-Qur’ān (The Majesty of the Qur’ān) was held in the Celebes Convention Centre
(CCC) (Sulawesi) and was attended by 6,500 Muslim women. The event was
organised and managed purely by women, especially cadari. Although activities
in LM are gender segregated, the women involved enjoy great freedom to exercise
their agency, to do what they think is best for their lives and communities.
For prospective new recruits, another important appeal of WI women’s daʿwa
is their generous charity to the poor. This is one of WI’s special recruitment
methods. The WI strong commitment to community service and public welfare is
similar to that of Lebanese Shiʿi who were studied by Deeb (2005). WI has spe-
cial sections and programs for its social activities, such as Tim Penanggulangan
Musibah (Disaster Recovery Team), Program Dana Bantuan Kesehatan (Health
Funding Assistance Program), and Program Sumbangan Beras dan Sembako
(Food Staples and Rice Donation Program).
These programs are created to support daʿwa needs, such as scholarships for
the poor, donations for male and female preachers and the memorisers of the
Qur’ān, natural disaster victims, free medical treatment, expectant mothers from
deprived family backgrounds and women’s programs. The programs have been
successful in sustaining WI development, because charity is always an important
aspect of Muslim life. Indeed, Indonesia has been named several times as the most
generous country in the world according to the World Giving Index (Filantropi
Indonesia 2021). Whenever there is a call to spend money in the path of God,
Muslims, especially those who have internalised deep affection for any gestures
in the name of God, will compete to give whatever they have without considering
whether they come from the same religious ideology. One of the interesting meth-
ods of WI’s donation gathering is to announce the names of sedekah (Ar. ṣadaqa
or voluntary charity) givers during their big events. In such special events, the
attendees are not just WI cadres and followers but also non-WI Muslims from the
neighbourhood. One of my research subjects, a young mother with two children,
who knew of WI because she visited a WI-affiliated pharmacy the day before she
joined a WI special event, says: ‘I do not feel good if I do not chip in. When they
started to announce the donors’ names, female attendees also became busy taking
out money from their purses. Although I am not really sure about this group, if the
donation is for the sake of Islam, then I think I should participate in it.’
Based on the amount of donations received during many WI events, women
are very active in donating their money. For example, in December 2007 when
WI elites wanted to pay for the land they bought for the Centre of Educational
Daʿwa (Pusat Dakwah Pendidikan), they were able to collect 27.5 million rupiah
 Cadari as dedicated actors  199
(AUD2639.07) from the male congregation and 37.5 million rupiah (AUD3598.73)
from the female congregation. In addition to this, most of the female members of
the congregation were more willing to donate valuable goods. For example, in this
event, WI received sixty-two gold rings, fifty-four gold earrings, two gold brace-
lets and thirty-two wristwatches (Wahdah Islamiyah 2007). Despite their strict
outward appearance with the cadar and ʿabāya (Ind. Abaya or head-to-toe wrap
completely covering a woman’s body) and their secretiveness, LM tries to show
most Muslims in Makassar that they are not a terrorist group (Wahdah Islamiyah
2010). They are part of a daʿwa group that is active in social work and charities
aiming for the al-maṣlaḥa al-ʿāmma (common good) to help their communities.
In conducting their public service, the passionate cadari of LM create their own
public version of Salafi piety by carefully maintaining their public presence in a
way that does not violate their strict understanding of Islam—the cadar should be
worn at all times and men should be absent from their public activities.
It is in this context that we can see WI cadari exercising compliant agency or
‘doing religion,’ to borrow Avishai’s approach. Avishai argues that this doing
religion approach ‘avoids the false dichotomy that pits compliance and agency’
(Avishai 2008, 413, 429). In contrast to Mahmood, who focuses more on personal
ethics, the lives of the cadari of WI suggest that it is problematic to focus solely
on individualised piety. They are striving for Muslim women’s public participa-
tion to support WI programs and to challenge and reform Islamic practices in the
country, which are deemed by them to be impure. Pnina Werbner contends, ‘the
expansion of religious literacy is beginning to challenge the exclusive authority
of a caste of male priests and religious experts, and has led to the global spread of
women preachers in reformist and fundamentalist movements [emphasis in origi-
nal]’ (2018, 88). This resonates with what I saw in WI. The religious literacy of
staunch WI female cadres combined with their successful ethical self-making has
enabled them to hold their position as new actors of religious authority and gain a
reputation as exemplary Muslim women, at least in front of their female disciples.

The daʿwa life of Ummu Yazid

This section focuses on the life of Ummu Yazid (pseudonym) and her Salafi
group in Yogyakarta. Ummu Yazid is a university student in her twenties from
the Faculty of Agricultural Technology, Universitas Gadjah Mada (UGM)
(Gadjah Mada University), Yogyakarta. She was born in Makassar, South
Sulawesi, and became active in one of the Salafi groups in Yogyakarta when she
was a new student at UGM. Her parents’ religious affiliation is Muhammadiyah.
She went to high school in Makassar and had worn the jilbab (tight veil) before
she finally adopted the cadar. She was one of the main contributors to the most
well-known female Salafi website, muslimah​.or​.​id. In 2009, she was active in
maintaining the then new Salafi web-search engine called Yufid (on Yufid see
Chaplin 2018b, 12).
I first met Ummu Yazid in her boarding house (wisma), where she was one of
the main figures. The history before her self-transformation is almost the same as
200  Cadari as dedicated actors
Ukht Maryam and Ukht Khaula whom I discussed in Chapter 5. Ummu Yazid’s
association with one of the Salafi groups introduced her to a new taat habitus.
Before she became committed to one of the Salafi groups, she had had some
experiences wandering around diverse Salafi factions in Yogyakarta in search
of what she believed to be the truth. She finally associated herself with Yayasan
Pendidikan Islam Al-Atsari (YPIA), a Salafi institution formally registered in
2007 in Yogyakarta for university students, especially those at non-Islamic uni-
versities who did not have a thorough understanding of their religion. The root
of the establishment of this institution dated back to 2000 from the initiative of
UGM students and alumni who wanted to learn about Islam (ngaji), and male
religious teachers who were eager to produce staunch cadres. The initiative was
born at a time when the country faced the growth of political Islam, demonstrated
by the popularity of Islamic organisations including the university-based KAMMI
(Kesatuan Aksi Mahasiswa Muslim Indonesia, the United Action of Indonesian
Muslim Students) founded in 1998 (Nisa 2018c, 33), communal and sectarian-
based conflicts in the country, including in Maluku, Poso and Kalimantan and the
conditions brought about in 2001 by 9/11 (Chaplin 2018b, 9).
YPIA has a special affiliation with one of the Salafi groups in Yogyakarta,
Yayasan Majelis At-Turots Al-Islamy. The headquarters of YPIA, which was ini-
tially known as Lembaga Bimbingan Islam Al-Atsary (LBIA) (the Institution of
Al-Atsary Islamic Guidance), is in Sleman, Yogyakarta. The founding fathers
of this foundation had studied in different places, not only in the Middle Eastern
countries but also at UGM.8 Ummu Yazid was active in Ma’had al-’Ilmi which
became the site for creating cadres for daʿwa within YPIA. Ma’had al-’Ilmi is
managed under the education section of YPIA. YPIA has four major areas of
focus: education, daʿwa, public relations and Kemuslimahan (Muslim women’s
affairs). In Ma’had al-’Ilmi, the university students were trained to become profi-
cient in Islamic teachings even though they were not enrolled in an Islamic uni-
versity and did not have a strong Islamic educational background.
Ummu Yazid argues that the program offered by Ma’had al-’Ilmi is suitable
for university students, especially those who want to learn about Islam from the
basics and want to learn it meticulously and systematically. She said:

I’m a kind of person who loves to know everything. I told my seniors that
I wanted to ngaji [learn Islam] with the same system as that of university.
I want to attend ngaji which has a discipline and has tests like university.
Eventually, I found this foundation [YPIA]. When I started to join their pen-
gajian [religious study group], I realised that the discipline in this pengajian
is tighter, and it is more difficult, but this is what I am looking for.

For many educated passionate cadari like Ummu Yazid, facing greater challenges
to achieve greater impact is a pleasure. Indeed, even the process of enrolment in
Ma’had al-’Ilmi is systematic. There are written and oral tests. The course runs
five times a week, with each year divided into two semesters. Ma’had al-’Ilmi
teaches participants to be committed to embodying public piety through their
 Cadari as dedicated actors  201

Figure 6.5  Curtain within a cadari house to facilitate male teachers delivering their daily
or weekly religious lessons to women. Source: Photo credit, author, 22 March
2008.

religious performances and also to pay attention to active piety by guiding others
to follow the Salafi pathway (manhaj) (Figure 6.5).
Cadres in Ma’had al-’Ilmi teach participants that they are expected to behave
as the embodiment of their taat habitus and that the teachings are an important
part of the formation of comprehensive Muslim women who have a dedication to
the development of their religion. Thus, to be true Muslimah means that they have
to pay significant attention to the collective aspiration of their groups. The self-
transformation experienced by cadari, such as Ummu Yazid and her friends, is
part of their role in daʿwa. Thus, the way they exercise their agency should not be
seen as completely personal (for example, by wearing the cadar). Rather, it forms
part of their public participation, evident from their efforts to equip themselves to
perform daʿwa among women. The activities of Ma’had al-’Ilmi are concentrated
in their female wisma (accommodation)9 (Raudhatul ‘Ilmi 1 and 2, Hilyah and
Zahiroh), and especially in the headquarters, wisma Raudhatul ‘Ilmi. The role of
wisma is important not only in strengthening the commitment of residents to fol-
low the true Islam but also to breed the spirit of daʿwa among them.
When I first visited Ummu Yazid and her friends during one of their Islamic
study circles in her wisma, I was surprised to find that all elements in the wisma
are labelled with Arabic terms. This signifies their great passion about equipping
themselves to be authoritative voices in daʿwa, in which the Arabic language is
202  Cadari as dedicated actors
a key element in understanding religious texts. Thus, these wisma are set up as
‘nests’ for producing dāʿiyāt. Here, the cadari are trained to embody their virtu-
ous practices which differ from their past activities. For example, they are not
allowed to watch TV or listen to music. All activities should be acts of devotion
(ʿibādāt) and in the spirit of taat towards God and the Prophet Muḥammad. Those
who want to live in these wisma must go through a screening process. Some of
the requirements include:

· Memiliki keinginan untuk ikut mengikuti pengajian (have the eagerness to

attend the [Salafi based] religious study group)
· Tidak membawa TV (do not bring a TV)
· Tidak menyukai musik (do not like [or play] music)

The active piety of Ummu Yazid and her friends can be seen from their own
agenda of daʿwa towards outsiders. Ummu Yazid really enjoyed active involve-
ment within her group. She said: ‘I am a typical person who loves to participate in
an organisation. My association with YPIA, especially Ma’had al-’Ilmi, has ena-
bled me to fulfil my passion to be active in the organisation. In Ma’had al-’Ilmi,
we set up our curriculum, we struggle to fund our organisation, we create our own
publication, and so forth.’ Although not all students of Ma’had al-’Ilmi and the
residents of the YPIA wisma initially had the same passion as Ummu Yazid, once
they committed to the movement their sense of belonging grew.

The Forum of Al-Atsari Muslim Women’s Activities

In addition to Ma’had al-’Ilmi and wisma, YPIA also has an organisation which
especially handles the daʿwa activities of its female cadres, Forum Kegiatan
Kemuslimahan Al-Atsari (FKKA) (The Forum of Al-Atsari Muslim Women’s
Activities). This is organised under the Kemuslimahan (Muslim Women’s
Affairs) section in YPIA. As with Ma’had al-’Ilmi and wisma, FKKA cadres are
mostly university students in Yogyakarta. It has three divisions: daʿwa, bulle-
tin and library. The schedules of Ummu Yazid and her friends are very tight,
especially because the activities are in addition to their university commitments.
However, they felt much pleasure in being involved in programs related to divi-
sion activities and public piety.
The division of daʿwa that focuses on organising workshops for Muslim
women usually meets once a month. The speakers of the workshops are religious
teachers from Ma’had Syaikh Jamilurrahman As-Salafy, Islamic Centre Bin Baz
and alumni of Ma’had al-’Ilmi. The division also organises teacher training within
TPA (Taman Pendidikan Al-Qur’an/Qur’ānic kindergartens) to prepare the next
Salafi generation to be able to spread the true Islam. This training has proven
helpful for the cadres in preparing themselves to perform daʿwa after their gradu-
ation from universities. Many of them are interested in being teachers, especially
in kindergartens.
 Cadari as dedicated actors  203
As part of their daʿwa activities and recruitment process, FKKA cadres publish
their own bulletin for Muslim women called Zuhairoh. It is published by the bul-
letin section every fortnight and distributed around the UGM campus. On special
occasions, such as at the beginning of the new school year, Zuhairoh publishes
special issues to introduce their agenda to the new students and to recruit them.
Zuhairoh is also aimed at training the cadres to be good writers and to recruit new
writers. The most important objective is to introduce Salafi manhaj, including its
doctrine principles. In one edition, the bulletin reminds Muslim women about the
connection between the Salafi doctrine of al-walā’ wa-l-barā’ (loyalty or fidelity to
Islam and Muslims, dissociation from all things non-Islamic and the renunciation
of unbelievers) and kebahagiaan hakiki (true happiness) by loving God. The article
says, ‘O my sister, know that a Muslim woman who loves God is required to prove
her love for God by loving what Allah [God] loves.’ It then emphasises that what
God loves is ketaatan towards God’s command (al-walā’). Here we can see how the
notion of ketaatan is vital to the attainment of true happiness. The article also rec-
ommends that women perform hijrah (a transformation into better Muslim women)
to demonstrate their ketaatan. It emphasises that as part of the al-barā’ (disavowal
of anything deemed unIslamic) doctrine, this hijrah needs to involve moving from
maʿṣiya (disobedience to God) to the environment of taat people. Through this kind
of article, potential recruits are called to follow their Salafi pathway.
In general, all programs set up by YPIA for women through its FKKA are
aimed at preparing cadres to embody active and public piety even after their
graduation from university. When they graduate from university, some will
look for jobs in educational institutions which often have the same affiliation as
their Salafi group, namely those that associate with Yayasan Majelis At-Turots
Al-Islamy. Following their graduation from the university, some prefer to deepen
their Islamic knowledge by joining pesantren which have a special affiliation to
their group, especially Ma’had Syaikh Jamilurrahman As-Salafy. Alternatively,
they enrol in Islamic higher education, such as MEDIU online (Al-Madinah
International University), and Ma’had Aly (Chaplin 2014, 225). The MEDIU
online delivery system, for many of these cadari, is considered a good way to
study Islam with Salafi manhaj, because they do not have to think about their
maḥram (non-marriageable male kin) who would have to accompany them if
they studied in Medina in person.
Despite efforts made by cadari of LM (WI) and FKKA to make their daʿwa
more accessible to wider audiences, the majority of outsiders continued to per-
ceive them as agents who maintain their own strict territory and their exclusiv-
ity (Hasan 2006, 179). Rasya, a 25-year-old university student, told me: ‘I think
these face-veiled women are too exclusive. Although I often see some of them
on my campus, I never talked to them. How can I talk to them when they already
“declare” themselves that they are “untouchable” by wearing this Arab dress?’
Amar, a 26-year-old male university student, said:

In my classroom there are four face-veiled women. For me, I already get used
to them, so I do not care. What I noticed is that I knew one of them before she
204  Cadari as dedicated actors
wore the face veil, she was easy going, I used to talk to her as well, but since
she began wearing it, she maintains her distance from social interaction with
men. After all, I understand that it is her decision. I just respect it. It is a life
choice.

Rasya and Amar’s statements on their face-veiled friends are typical responses of
university students. Some of them might produce a statement like that of Rasya
which can be regarded as part of the process of ‘Othering.’
This process of ‘Othering’ resonates with what Edward Said explains in his
landmark book Orientalism. Said exemplifies how the western world constructs
an image of the Orient based on the privilege of western beliefs and practices.
Through this process of Othering, Said points out how the Occident is enabled to
orientalise the Orient (1995, 3). The process of ‘Othering’ is also evident from the
way orientalists—including scholars, novelists and travellers—present oriental
women. The story of Gustave Flaubert, a French novelist, and Kuchuk Hanem,
an Egyptian dancer, is one of them. Here, Kuchuk Hanem is depicted as a sensual
and sexual object by Flaubert (Said 1995, 6, 187–88). Said argues:

Flaubert’s encounter with an Egyptian courtesan produced a widely influen-

tial model of the Oriental woman; she never spoke of herself, she never rep-
resented her emotions, presence, or history. He spoke for and represented her.
He was foreign, comparatively wealthy, male and these were historical facts
of domination that allowed him not only to possess Kuchuk Hanem physi-
cally but to speak for her and tell his readers in what way she was ‘typically
Oriental’ [emphasis in original].
(1995, 6)

He suggests that this kind of viewpoint represents a western mode of colonial

discourse. The process of ‘Othering,’ which usually involves two different cat-
egories of people, fits Rasya’s assessment of how she represents the cadari as
‘the Other’ based on their different appearance. This process of ‘Othering’ has led
her to assume that ‘they are untouchable.’ The position of most of the male and
female university students whom I interviewed, however, tend to be more like
that of Amar. They are more relaxed in accepting different expressions of religios-
ity. Therefore, many cadari feel that despite some critique from university staff
they are more comfortable wearing the cadar within the university environment
because university students tend to be more open-minded.
Some harsh critiques on the presence of the cadari usually come from people
outside the campus milieu. Ibu Dayu, a 41-year-old woman, for example, shares
her feelings on the cadari: ‘Every time I met this perempuan cadaran [face-veiled
women], it feels weird. They are too exclusive. They do not want to know their
neighbour. They just befriend people in their group. They do not socialise with
others.’ According to most cadari, Ibu Dayu’s comment is very typical. Many
of them assumed that this perception might be true but could not be generalised.
Ummu Fadilah, a 32-year-old cadre, says:
 Cadari as dedicated actors  205
We are aware of these kinds of comments. Therefore, we always ask our sis-
ters to mingle well with the people around them, including their neighbours.
Many of them felt frustrated with their efforts to mingle, because mostly the
people they encountered already had their own preliminary prejudice against
them. As you know Eva, the stereotype about us is very heavy. I can under-
stand their feeling. I always ask them to smile first or to greet them first
before they throw an ‘unhappy’ face to us, but many sisters said ‘we always
smiled at them, but the problem is that they cannot see our smile. We also
greeted them first, but the problem is that they also could not hear our voice
properly.’ Sometimes, I think it is so funny [she laughed when telling me this
story]. Life is a struggle, Eva. Therefore, I told them that if you want to be
successful in this life and the life after then be strong.
During my fieldwork, I often heard the same concern shared by other cadari.
The usual strategies undertaken by cadari to overcome this problem of sociali-
sation are: first, they prefer to live within their community’s cluster, such as living
around the pesantren attached to their group like Ma’had Syaikh Jamilurrahman
As-Salafy mentioned above. The second strategy is that they prefer to live around
university campuses in which they assume that people living in this context are
more open-minded and more ready to accept differences. Ummu Fadilah adds:
Only a very few of us who can be very proactive tend to be very flexible.
However, it depends on their personal characteristics. What I notice is that
usually many akhwāt [sisters] are very shy. I think it is just a matter of time.
When they can see many people like them then they will be more confident.
Nowadays, we can see our number is growing everywhere, so I think for the
long run many sisters will be more relaxed mingling with other students who
do not wear the cadar or who do not belong to their group.
Ummu Fadilah’s statement is related to the last strategy, namely being more
proactive in approaching and mingling with non-cadari without making bounda-
ries. However, according to many cadari, the ability to be more flexible usually
depends on the personality of the person.

Niqab Squad: Responding to the ‘Othering’ process

The voices and activities of two main cases above on LM and Ummu Yazid’s
YPIA are especially important in their localities. This last section focuses on how
cadari of the Niqab Squad fight against the process of ‘Othering’ at the national
level. In 2019 when the newly elected Minister of Religious Affairs General
Fachrul Razi issued a statement banning civil servants from wearing the cadar
and celana cingkrang or non-isbal trousers (trousers below men’s ankles), the
Niqab Squad, which is not officially affiliated with either LM (WI) or YPIA,
were active in voicing their opposition to such an initiative. Fachrul Razi based
his statement on security reasons, in particular after the stabbing incident of the
Indonesian Coordinating Political, Legal and Security Affairs Minister Wiranto
206  Cadari as dedicated actors
by a couple from the ISIS-linked homegrown extremist group, Jamaah Ansharut
Daulah. Based on information from the National Intelligence Agency (BIN), the
couple, especially the husband, Syahrial Alamsyah alias Abu Rara, was already
on the intelligence radar for links to Islamic State. The face-veiled wife, Fitri
Andriana, who also held a knife, stabbed a local police chief during the incident.
Those who opposed Fachrul Razi’s ban—not only conservatives and cadari but
also human rights activists and some moderate Muslims—argued that the govern-
ment should refrain from regulating what people wear. They emphasised that the
ban signifies a violation of human rights. Fachrul Razi went on to emphasise that
wearing a cadar does not reflect the quality of the wearer’s faith. According to
him, the banning initiative aligned with general security procedures for everyone
entering government premises,10 such as the removal of motorcycle helmets and
the opening of car windows to show the drivers’ and passengers’ faces.
This case brought the Niqab Squad into the national spotlight when they were
invited as part of the panel for a special discussion organised by the TV program
Indonesia Lawyers Club (ILC) on TvOne, 5 November 2019, titled Apa dan Siapa
yang Radikal (What and who is radical). Among the panellists was WI’s current
leader Ustādh Zaitun. In its tweet, the ILC uploaded a flyer with a cadari and
a man with celana cingkrang. The caption said: ‘RADICAL STAMPS are get-
ting wilder, targeting those with celana cingkrang and wearing a cadar.’ Two
days before the show, Indadari—the founder of Niqab Squad—was contacted by
the ILC team. They asked the Niqab Squad to be the representative of cadari.
Indadari said:

This is great because here in Niqab Squad we also have civil servants [the
main target of the recommendation] and they wanted us to choose our mem-
bers from different backgrounds … we did not bring any [ideological] flags at
that time, because the five of us [present during the show] came from various
ideological backgrounds … For example, Diana from Tablīghī Jamāʿat and
Dr Sally from Salafi.

While LM and FKKA are part of well-established Salafi movements, the Niqab
Squad does not have a direct structural link to any Islamist or Salafi movements.
However, as mentioned in Chapter 3, they do have strong affiliations with some
(young) Salafi preacher networks. Indadari, as the founder and leader of Niqab
Squad, is also aware that friction among Salafi groups is severe. She says: ‘Ustādh
Oemar Mita is blacklisted from the Rodja Group of Ustādh Abdul Qadir Jawas.’
The presence of friction between Salafi groups has led Indadari to choose preacher
affiliation rather than organisational affiliation.
Indadari strategically chose four Niqab Squad members from various back-
grounds and professions to accompany her to enlighten viewers about the diver-
sity of cadari: Diana Nurliana, a fashion designer who had showcased her designs
in Chicago; Astri, a travelling photographer and videographer; Dr Sally or Ummi
Amizah, a medical doctor who also has a cosmetic brand Dr Ummi Amizah
Skincare; Taekwondo athlete Arlyna; and Rachmadian, a school principal.
 Cadari as dedicated actors  207
Before the existence of the Niqab Squad and celebgram (celebrity on Instagram),
Indonesia witnessed the presence of more lower-middle-class and middle-class
cadari. Nowadays, however, their increasing presence in Indonesian public Islam
reveals that some higher-class Muslim women have decided to wear the cadar.
Indadari says, ‘Now, in urban areas like Jakarta, I would say that the number of
higher-class cadari is more significant than those of the lower class. Some of them
are medical doctors, lawyers, etc. Thus, cadari now are different from before who
mostly were backward, smelly, tacky, and shabby.’
During a special discussion on the banning of the cadar and radicalism on
TvOne, Indadari and the Niqab Squad shared their views and received significant
support from other panellists and the audience. A politician from the national-
ist party, Nasdem (National Democrats), Irma Suryani Chaniago who opposed
the full banning of the cadar in Indonesia, expressed her view about a specific
rule relating to civil servants: ‘When for example the government stipulates that
a civil servant must not wear the cadar, then that is an option. Just resign from
being a civil servant [if you choose the cadar]. Choose other jobs that can indeed
allow you to wear the cadar.’ Furthermore, the majority of panellists emphasised
that their non-oppositional position is bound by one requirement, namely that
cadari are committed to preserving the four pillars of nationhood: Pancasila as the
state ideology; Bhinneka Tunggal Ika as Indonesia’s unity in diversity principle;
Negara Kesatuan Republik Indonesia (NKRI) as the unitary state of Indonesia;
and the Indonesian constitution UUD 1945. Responding to this anxiety during the
show, one of the cadari, school principal Rachmadian, shared her story:

They often assume that the cadari do not want to participate in the Indonesian
flag raising ceremony and singing the Indonesian national anthem. My friends
were shocked when I joined the ceremony and stood at the front and sang the
national anthem … this is our field of daʿwa that with our cadar, we also still
love NKRI. Pancasila is in our hearts.

Ustādh Zaitun also echoed and strengthened Rachmadian’s position. He stated:

Many of our members [in WI] wear the cadar. Even though we do not make
it compulsory … at Wahdah the cadar is sunna [recommended]. But none of
them is extreme. We sing Indonesia Raya [the Indonesian National Anthem],
we are very sociable … In Indonesia, with the development of the cadar, it
will not change that the majority will wear the cadar. This is the same as the
jilbab [veil, not face veil]. Until now, it still can be said that those who wear
and do not wear the jilbab is 50–50.

After Niqab Squad’s over three-hour appearance on national television, many

cadari felt grateful and ‘saved,’ including those of some WI and YPIA cadari
and some who had previously opposed Indadari and Niqab Squad’s presence
on Indonesian media. Indadari believed that this appearance was part of Niqab
Squad’s daʿwa and said: ‘Many of them, including those of Salafi groups, thanked
208  Cadari as dedicated actors
us for being their representative voices.’ Amira [pseudonym], a 33-year-old of the
WI, shared her view:

To be honest, I initially did not like Niqab Squad because they tampil [appear
in public including media] a lot. However, after I heard about the debate on
the ILC [the television program] and listening to their views, I realised that
we need a group like them that is vocal so they can explain to the public that
we are not terrorists. We just want to be better Muslim women.

Nana, whose husband is affiliated with Salafi jihadism and was jailed due to
his involvement in terror acts, said: ‘Here is the way I see it: First, yes, it [their
appearance] was great so that people understand the essence of cadar. We are not
terrorists. Although my husband was in jail because of his jihad involvement, I am
not a terrorist. I am different to him.’
Niqab Squad’s appearance on ILC, however, has not been immune from criti-
cism from other cadari. Some cadari of various Salafi backgrounds including WI
and YPIA criticised Indadari and the Niqab Squad by pointing to the ikhtilāt (the
social mixing between men and women) during the ILC because the panellists
were women and men. Indadari shared her view on this: ‘[giggling] … It is funny
to hear that they mentioned ikhtilāt. What happens when they are on an airplane?
They have to be mixed with male and female passengers too, right?’ The voices of
cadari who respond to the process of ‘Othering’ and fight for their rights to wear
the cadar clearly indicate a way that they exercise agency. From the Niqab Squad,
we can see resistance against those who oppose them.
Muslim women’s visibility in public life in Indonesia is not something new;
women in Indonesian Muslim mass organisations, such as NU and Muhammadiyah,
have been active in public life (Robinson 2009). Indeed, scholars have emphasised
that female autonomy and women’s activities in the public sphere, including in
trade and politics, are features common throughout the history of Southeast Asia,
including Indonesia (Andaya 2006; Errington 1990; Reid 1988). In the early devel-
opment of the factions within the Salafi movement (especially in the 1970s and
1980s), this phenomenon was barely evident, especially among women who wore
the cadar. Salafi cadari are becoming more visible, particularly since the number
of the wearers has been increasing from the 2000s onwards, and the establishment
of women’s institutions within their Salafi groups has been growing since 2005.
The game changer was Niqab Squad cadari and the increasing presence of face-
veiled public figures who are vocal on mainstream and alternative media, includ-
ing social media. These cadari’s visibility can be seen through their embodiment
of active and public piety which is manifested in daʿwa activities at both per-
sonal, communal and national levels (daʿwa for themselves and daʿwa for others).
Despite the stigma attached to their appearance and chosen lifestyle, the constant
effort of the cadari to make themselves visible in public through displays of public
religious activity has contributed to growing positive perceptions of them.
The virtuous activities of LM and YPIA cadari in daʿwa, especially for the
development of their own institutions, give women pleasure. This phenomenon
 Cadari as dedicated actors  209
demonstrates the agency of cadari. Being active in daʿwa for others is also related
to self-satisfaction because it embodies their taat habitus and maintains commit-
ment to their religion. To understand the agency of these women, their beliefs
and practices should be taken into consideration. It is only by understanding their
belief, practices and aspirations can outsiders appreciate their agency.
LM and YPIA women are the most prominent exemplars of the proposi-
tion that membership in Salafi movements that emphasise sex segregation and
strict religious dress does not hinder women from performing religious activi-
ties outside their domestic domain. Although LM and YPIA have brought these
women into public spaces, their activities still occur in separate gendered spheres.
Nevertheless, the public visibility of these women is in conformity with the ideal
of Salafi teachings and so does not conform to western liberal notions of ‘public.’
The main rule they are expected to uphold is that their public activities must be
associated with their commitment to live as true Muslimah and to their dedica-
tion to preserve the dignity of their groups. The cadari themselves are active in
creating their own public versions of Salafi piety which do not violate the Salafi
teachings that they uphold. The Niqab Squad have moved a step further by mak-
ing themselves available to the media in the hope that they can make the voices
of cadari heard. However, although some other cadari might think that they have
violated some Islamic teachings like ikhtilāt, the Niqab Squad still see their pres-
ence in the media within the corridor of Islam because they do not remove their
cadar. LM, YPIA and Niqab Squad cadari’s presence in public means that they
can create their various versions of public ‘secure’ spaces.

Notes
1 The movement focuses on asking its followers to perform its basic tenets which con-
sist of six principles: kalima or the article of faith that Muslims should really under-
stand in regard to content and meaning: The declaration says ‘that there is no God
but Allah and Muḥammad is His Messenger’; prayer (ṣalāt al-khushūʿ wa al-khuḍūʿ)
that every Muslim should realise the importance of ṣalāt; knowledge (ʿilm) and dhikr
(remembrance of God, consisting of a litany formula), which means that every Muslim
should possess knowledge about the basic Islamic teachings and should also occupy
their daily life by praising God (dhikr); respecting other fellow Muslims (ikrām
al-muslimīn), in understanding the importance of Islamic brotherhood and sisterhood;
declaration of intention and sincerity that everything is done because of Allah (taṣḥīḥu
an-niyya), which refers to the importance of directing any activities with the main
intention of pleasing God; daʿwa wa at-tablīgh or tafrīq al-waqt (sparing time), which
pertains to the formation of groups of Muslims to perform daʿwa tours (Haq 1972).
This sixth principle is the defining feature of the Tablīghī Jamāʿat movement.
2 On the shortcoming of this kind of agency, see Burke (2012, 128–30).
3 Part of this section was previously published as Eva F. Nisa. 2012. Cadari of Wahdah
Islamiyah: Women as dedicated actors of ultra-conservatism. Intersections: Gender
and Sexuality in Asia and the Pacific 30, available 18 August 2021 at: [Link]
tions​.anu​.edu​.au​/issue30​/nisa​.htm.
4 Some of WI’s businesses include maternal care and health clinics, pharmacies, book-
shops, chocolate and clove plantations and a gold mine.
210  Cadari as dedicated actors
5 Asas tungal was the Suharto policy on the ideological basis of political parties and civil
society organisations. Islamic organisations that wanted to be active in politics had to
formally adopt Pancasila, the state ideology, and they could not use religion as their
ideological foundation. This was part of Suharto’s policy to depoliticise Islam, which
heightened in the mid-1980s (van Bruinessen 2002, 132). Muhammadiyah accepted
asas tunggal and declared so at Muhammadiyah’s Forty-first National Congress in
Surakarta, 7–11 December 1985.
6 KPPSI is an umbrella organisation which proposes the holistic implementation of Sharīʿa.
7 This is especially related to criticisms of Jürgen Habermas’s (1990) concept of the
public sphere which is problematic and too limited to be used in understanding Muslim
majority societies because it mainly relies on secular rationality (Deeb 2005; Eickelman
and Anderson 1999; Meyer and Moors 2006: Salvatore and LeVine 2005).
8 Ustādh Abu Saʿad Muhammad Nurhuda (an alumnus of Darul Ulum, Pakistan, who is
also head of the education section in Yayasan Majelis At-Turots Al-Islamy), Ustādh Afifi
Abdul Wadud (enrolled in the Faculty of Dentistry at UGM, but did not finish it, and an
alumnus of Al-Madinah International University), Ustādh Kholid Syamhudi (an alumnus
of the Islamic University in Medina, al-Jāmiʿa al-Islāmiyya bī-l-Madīna al-Munawwara),
Ustādh Noor Akhmad Setiawan (a UGM lecturer from the Information Technology
and Electrical Engineering Department), Ustādh Fauzan bin Abdillah (an alumnus of
Chemical Engineering UGM who continued his study in Medina) and so forth.
9 The establishment of female wisma is part of YPIA’s program on education.
10 Some in this largest Muslim majority county were also uncomfortable with the vis-
ibility of veiled (not face-veiled) policewomen, evident from the decree issued in 2005
requiring the use of standard uniforms (without veils), except in the province of Aceh.
This decree was revised in 2015 (Davies 2018, 77).

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7 Taat agency and the
embodiment of true Islam

The growing presence of cadari (face-veil wearers) in Indonesia is often linked

to the resurgence of jihadi extremism. People see the practice of face veiling as
the growing Arabisation of Indonesian Muslims; one of the signs of growing con-
servatism and the epitome of the wearers’ repression and absence of agency. The
presence of cadari is seen as something negative that has happened to the ‘smiling
face’ of Islam in Indonesia. I have highlighted in this book that the adoption of the
cadar (face veil) in Indonesia must be seen as an interactive process and a prod-
uct of the wearers’ deliberate adoption and reproduction of beliefs and practices
deemed by them to be more Islamic than other practices associated with women’s
covering.
Cadari are important figures in the contestations around ideas as to how Islam
should be practised in Indonesia. Through this book, I have demonstrated how
Indonesia has constantly witnessed transformation and continuity in the mean-
ings and practices of Islam. The growing presence of cadari in pesantren (Islamic
boarding schools) and passionate cadari signifies that Indonesian Muslim ‘pub-
lics’ are in the constant process of being shaped and reshaped and are always open
to varied expressions of Muslimness. Armando Salvatore and Dale Eickelman
argue that Muslim publics are born from articulations on Islam in public spheres,
which encompass varied initiatives (2004, xi). My study of the cadar and cadari
in Indonesia has revealed a complex arena of contemporary politics, history, cul-
ture, economy, the contestation of religious voices, media and representation,
education and an understanding of power relations. The way the wearers inter-
nalise particular Islamic discourses, beliefs and practices offers insight into the
plurality of ideologies and the ideological contestation in Indonesian Islam. What
one wears carries public messages and for many the face veil is an external signi-
fier of the wearers’ internal ideological worldview. This phenomenon expands our
understanding of how women are key actors in the process of the embodiment of
Islam, a practice that shifts over time.
The cadar might be seen as a reflection on the changes, expansion and pro-
cesses of contestation in Indonesian Muslim ‘publics.’ Hence, women’s agency is
often reduced to whether they follow these changes. Through my study of cadari,
I have shown that women’s dress is not only a reflection, but indeed it is a very
active intervention in the remaking of Indonesian Islam. This is illustrated by the

DOI: 10.4324/9781003246442-8
 Taat agency and the embodiment of true Islam  215
way they exercise taat (Ar. ṭāʿa or obedient) agency focusing more on al-maṣlaḥa
al-ʿāmma (the common good), not on their own self-focused pursuit per se.
The wearing of a cadar is an issue that has come to the fore whenever terror-
ist attacks occur in Indonesia. It has been particularly prevalent from the 2000s
onwards, after events such as the bombings of the Jakarta Stock Exchange build-
ing (BEJ) in 2000, and Bali Bombings 1 and 2 in 2002 and 2005. It cannot be
denied that many wives of accused terrorists wear the cadar and lately some
cadari of jihadi Salafism have been frontline in terror attacks. Therefore, there is
a persistent stereotype in both public opinion and scholarship that cadari and the
wearing of the full-face veil signals membership of a terrorist network. Through
this book, I have challenged this stereotype. Indeed, this study shows that the
majority of cadari in the large cities of Indonesia do not belong to violent groups
or jihadi Salafism. They mostly belong to either Tablīghī Jamāʿat or various Salafi
groups which oppose jihadi Salafi factions.
My latest journey into the existence of the cadar and cadari in Indonesia has
allowed me to witness the growing presence of urban cosmopolitan cadari—
Niqab Squad cadari, public figures and cadari celebgram—who have more viv-
idly coloured Indonesian Muslim publics. Salvatore and Eickelman emphasise the
importance of the emergence of new media in the materialising of public Islam
initiated by varied actors who ‘want a say in political and religious issues’ (2004,
xi). The increasing voices of cosmopolitan cadari in Indonesian public Islam—
women who are fighting against the stereotypes attached to cadari as terrorists
and against the victimisation of cadari, especially from 2017 onwards—are evi-
dent in mainstream and alternative media, including various social media plat-
forms. They are part of the broader hijrah (religious transformation to be better
Muslims) movement in Indonesia, initiated by young Muslims attaching closely
and loosely to varied Islamic and Islamist, including Salafi, movements in the
country (Nisa 2019; 2020) (Figure 7.1).
Female Indonesian actors who have adopted the cadar, the increasing number
of middle- to upper-middle-class face-veiled women, the birth of the Niqab Squad,
the growth of conservative movements and the use of social media platforms that
often feature face-veiled women have led the Indonesian public to become used to
the increasing presence of cadari. Unfortunately, this visibility does not mean that
society has become more approving of the cadar. For example, seeing face-veiled
women spending time in cafés, like Starbucks and The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf,
is no longer taboo in Jakarta. A decade prior to the establishment of the Niqab
Squad, I would not have dared to invite cadari to meet with me in an American
coffee chain café. Since 2017, many urban cosmopolitan cadari have suggested
that we meet to chat in these cafés and Jakartans have not seemed bothered when
seeing cadari in public spaces. However, whether they support and approve of the
wearing of the cadar is another story.
Varied perspectives and approaches—including those of Aristotle, Marcel
Mauss and Pierre Bourdieu—have been used in examining the taat habitus of
cadari from various backgrounds. Wearing a face veil in Indonesia has its own
internal history and contemporary dynamic, which cannot be reduced to the
216  Taat agency and the embodiment of true Islam

Figure 7.1  Rows of book covers showing hijrah hype in a Gramedia bookstore, Pondok
Indah, Jakarta. Source: Photo credit, author, 7 December 2019.

product of extremist culture. It is part of the habitus involving collective knowl-

edge and body techniques. Mauss’s (1979) habitus that emphasises the training
of the body can be seen especially in the everyday lives of cadari students. The
struggle of passionate cadari to defend their cadari subculture aligns with an
Aristotelian habitus, emphasising the capacity for virtuous activity and a capac-
ity to overcome challenges in cultivating virtuous dispositions. Aristotle argues,
‘virtue … is concerned with pleasures and pains’ (2000, 17). Bourdieu’s (1990)
emphasis on social history in habitus can be seen when the face veil becomes the
norm in one’s locality which is evident from the wearing of the face veil in the
archipelago.
This book is the first on the cadari in Indonesia and the first in-depth study
to focus on the Indonesian face-veiled women’s involvement with two Muslim
transnational revivalist movements, Tablīghī Jamāʿat and Salafism. The voices
and stories of these women are generally absent from discussions of Islam and the
role of women within Indonesian Islam. Studies on women and various Islamist
and Islamic conservative movements in Indonesia mostly focus on women who
belong to Islamist movements, like Jama’ah Tarbiyah and its political vehicle,
PKS (Partai Keadilan Sejahtera or Prosperous Justice Party) and HTI (Hizbut
Tahrir Indonesia). These women mostly wear long thick veils (jilbab) but do not
cover their faces. Therefore, this study is designed to enhance our understanding
of Muslim women (Muslimah) (Ar. Muslima) in Indonesia living within strict
 Taat agency and the embodiment of true Islam  217
religious communities, with rigorous rules regarding religious attire and specific
understandings of femininity.
Working closely with women in Tablīghī Jamāʿat and Salafism (two move-
ments which often oppose each other) creates challenges that have required me
to be meticulous in defining the differences between the two. Based on my close
‘reading’ of the everyday life of women in Salafi factions and the Tablīghī Jamāʿat
movement, the cadari from the Salafi factions are more militant in embodying
their new religious habitus than their Tablīghī counterparts. This can be under-
stood in terms of the nature of the movements. The practice of Salafi factions
claiming a monopoly over the one true Islam is a source of appeal to young and
passionate followers. Tablīghī Jamāʿat, however, tends to be more tolerant and
accepting of a plurality of voices in the context of Indonesian Islam. Another
important aspect is the generational difference between the movements: the most
passionate cadari within Salafi factions are university students, recent graduates
and urban cosmopolitan middle- and upper-middle-class women (Niqab Squad).
These women find pleasure in their strong desire to create ‘new’ selves and they
are more ready to take risks in defining and defending their new virtuous or taat
habitus, the embodiment of their true Islam. Their youthful spirit can be seen
from the modern characteristics of their association with various Salafi factions,
especially in the use of modern communication technologies, such as the internet
and varied social media platforms, to strengthen their commitment to religion.
The attachment of passionate cadari to various factions within global Salafism,
including its glocal version or Makassar-based Salafism (Wahdah Islamiyah), and
their adoption of the cadar help them navigate the rapidly changing modern world
in which they live, and resist western versions of modernity by introducing and
adopting what they perceive to be their alternative Salafi expressions of moder-
nity. This is in particular done as part of their upholding of the Salafi doctrine of
al-walā’ wa-l-barā’ (loyalty or fidelity to Islam and Muslims, dissociation from
all things non-Islamic and renunciation of unbelievers).

The embodiment of true Islam

Following a wide range of studies on religion and gender, female piety and reli-
gious agency, in this book I have unpacked the complexity of the everyday life
experienced by cadari as they negotiate the interplay between piety, agency and
the rise of revivalist movements. The point of departure for this study has been
Saba Mahmood’s (2005) concept of agency which has been particularly influen-
tial in the study of religion (Islam), gender and anthropology. Christine Jacobsen
calls the awkward interplay between these three elements a ‘troublesome three-
some’ (2011, 66). Mahmood’s approach—inspired by Aristotle and the later
work of Michel Foucault on techniques of self-cultivation—in understanding the
agency of docile agents or pious Muslim women and their support for Islamic
movements has helped many scholars to understand pious women’s capacity to
act. Following Mahmood’s steps, anthropologists working in various localities,
like Maimuna Huq (2008) and Mayanthi Fernando (2010), have demonstrated
218  Taat agency and the embodiment of true Islam
how women discipline themselves to be better Muslims by submitting to certain
religious authorities or authoritative voices which they consider to be the means
to their self-cultivation (Fernando 2010, 20; Huq 2008, 487).
Developing the insights of Mahmood (2005) in her study of female mosque
participants in Egypt, I found that passionate cadari regard their cadar as impor-
tant to their bodily comportment and the main ‘ingredient’ and discipline for the
embodiment of true Islam. Despite the presence of different opinions related to the
wearing of the cadar, most cadari with whom I worked perceived it as an act of
devotion (ʿibāda) which is an important element in the process of the embodiment
of their true Muslimness. Wearing the cadar, for these women, can be regarded
as an important part of their habitus linked to the embodiment of moral virtues.
Therefore, while wearing the cadar is not the ultimate achievement of their piety,
it is an important element of their everyday life that contributes to the making of
a true Muslimah. It is noteworthy that this concept of the true Muslimah can be
understood differently within different religious or even cadari groups.
There are key differences between the mosque participant case that Mahmood
(2005) discusses and that of my contemporary cadari interlocutors, especially in
the way that they understand their religious transformation and how they frame
their aspirations to be true Muslimah. In Mahmood’s (2005, 126) study, the terms
‘pious’ and ‘piety’ are regarded as the ultimate goals of those who struggle to
cultivate religious virtues. Most Indonesian passionate cadari, who adjusted
their lifestyles to fit with their commitment to the true Islam, are quite reluctant
to use the terms pious and piety, popularly translated as saleh and kesalehan in
Indonesia. Instead, they prefer to designate their religious conduct as an aspect of
ketaatan (obedience). The ultimate goal of all their efforts to embody the religious
disciplinary practices is associated with being true Muslimah.
Those who use the term ‘pious Muslimah’ are outsiders to the subcultures
under discussion. The preference for using the term ‘true Muslimah’ instead of
‘pious Muslimah’ for passionate cadari is due to their efforts to practise Islam
comprehensively and not as a ‘ticket’ or a pass to making them pious Muslim
women. The religious transformation or hijrah that they experience, including
the embodiment of strict religious disciplinary practices, is part of their duty as
Muslims, to be true Muslim women and to be God’s vicegerents. Among passion-
ate wearers, there was a tendency to regard the terms pious and piety as significant
concepts that are difficult and even impossible to achieve. Therefore, the most
rational standard for these women, who feel that their commitment to religion
is always inadequate, is to lower their sights and expectations of piety in order
to become true Muslimah who can guard their dignity. Among these passionate
wearers, there is also an impression that those who tend to use the terms pious and
piety, such as female students at pesantren, are still in the early stage of learning
Islam.
Many of the Egyptian mosque participants in Mahmood’s study emphasised
the notions of shyness (al-ḥayā’) and patience (ṣabr) as important Islamic virtues
if they want to achieve their aspiration to be pious Muslim women (2005, 155).
These two religious virtues are also important in the life of cadari in Indonesia.
 Taat agency and the embodiment of true Islam  219
However, the most important virtue for them, which can be regarded as the key to
their becoming true Muslim women, is ketaatan. Ketaatan as a moral virtue can
be acquired by actively seeking God’s hidāya (guidance) and embodying Islam
correctly. By wearing the cadar, their virtuous habitus guides them to feel uncom-
fortable when they fail to observe in detail the teachings of Islam. They believe
that this ketaatan can lead them to become Muslim women who can preserve
their own ʿiffa (purity). This is another important moral virtue which should be
cultivated by female believers who want to be true Muslimah. Cadari who are
pursuing obedient lives to maintain their ʿiffa pay incredible attention to norms
and rules and are anxious about doing things right in their lifeworld—doing things
right according to the perspectives of authority figures ranging from senior stu-
dents, religious teachers, friends and God.
Living obedient lives is not merely a self-focused pursuit but it is also more
social and interactive than the pious lives led by women in Mahmood’s study.
This ‘focus’ influences the mode of agency that the women exercise. For the
cadari in my study, it is both collective and individual agency. They feel that it is
not enough to become self-conscious agents for their own sake. A good Muslim
woman, for many of them, means being an agent of their community as well.
Their obedience should not stop at daʿwa (Ind. dakwah or proselytisation) to
themselves, but it should also involve public and active piety or daʿwa towards
others. This is the manifestation of their responsibility to God and their duty as
God’s vicegerents.

Sketching the agency of obedient women

This book has responded to the broad questions of the formation of virtuous sub-
jectivities and the effort of research subjects to embody a religious disposition as
a specific kind of agency. Agency in this regard refers to the ‘capacity for action’
(Mahmood 2001). Outsiders may see belonging to these movements and doing
virtuous deeds as reflections of a false consciousness of cadari and an indication
of their lack of agency in determining their life course (Grewal and Kaplan 1994).
However, for the cadari themselves, belonging to Tablīghī Jamāʿat and Salafi
movements and the embodiment of a virtuous taat habitus that is supported and
promoted by a movement is reflective of their capacity to exercise agency in order
to achieve their aspiration to become true Muslimah.
Agency is important especially because of the stigma attached to the life of
cadari. Talal Asad, in his discussion about agency and its connection to human-
ity, said, ‘The doctrine of action has become essential to our recognition of other
people’s humanity’ (1996, 272). I have shared the voices and stories of cadari
and analysed the terms in which their agency can be understood to recognise
their humanity. This book has introduced the notion of taat agency to capture the
many ways in which cadari from various backgrounds live their everyday lives in
accordance with what they believe as the most proper understandings of Islam. As
the term suggests, the ‘taat’ agency is the manifestation of their ultimate obedi-
ence towards God. Taat agency is not only about self-cultivation. It goes beyond
220  Taat agency and the embodiment of true Islam
self-focused obedient lives. The social aspect of taat agency is evident from the
way they conduct public and active piety in their daʿwa for al-maṣlaḥa al-ʿāmma.
The interactive aspect of their taat agency can be seen from the way cadari have
responded to the layers of obedience introduced by male authority figures in their
lives. These authority figures have different ideas and values from one conserva-
tive movement to the other.
Passionate cadari actively resist those who see them as belonging to terrorist
or militant groups and those who see them as oppressed women. Mahmood in her
discussion of agency emphasised that agency should not be simply ‘a synonym
for resistance to social norms but as modality of action’ (2005, 157). I agree with
Mahmood that agency cannot be analysed mainly in terms of resistance. It is
noteworthy that deep-rooted stereotypes about the cadari in Indonesia have led
them to be active in challenging the prejudices against them. This is evident from
their engagement in everyday resistance and in their daʿwa that takes place in
varied avenues, including social media platforms like YouTube and Instagram.
Their resistance should not be classified as resistance agency (Avishai 2008;
Burke 2012; ‘pious critical agency’ in Rinaldo 2013) which implies that these
women offer new interpretations of Islamic teachings that differ from those of
their religious communities. Cadari barely resist male religious authority, espe-
cially within their movements.
What might be seen as an antithesis of their agency is their docility in the con-
text of submission to religious disciplinary practices. But as Mahmood argues,
docility is different from passivity (2001). It is true that cadari become compliant,
even docile, agents when they prepare themselves to embody their strict and literal
understandings of Islam. However, most of them, particularly passionate cadari,
perform all of these acts because of their own aspirations to be true Muslimah.
This aligns with Aristotle’s argument that happiness can be acquired habitually
through actions. He states that ‘virtue is concerned with passions and actions …
happiness is activity in accordance with virtue’ (2000, 19, 129). The cadari also
strive to submit to their religious disciplinary regime with pleasure.
Some scholars have warned that those focusing their work on agency or prov-
ing the agency of religious women may neglect those things that the women can-
not do (Burke 2012, 129; Winter 2001, 16–17). This book has unpacked what
cadari can and cannot do in relation to their religious understandings. In the
context of the pesantren subculture in Chapter 4, for instance, their taat agency
is linked to their pesantren’s patriarchal understandings of gender and literalist
understandings of Islamic texts. This kind of position has been criticised widely
by Islamic feminists, women activists and progressive Muslims who focus their
work on introducing a gender-just perspective to Indonesian pesantren.
The ways that young teenagers in pesantren adopt the cadar could be regarded
as docile because they are complying with rules. In analysing the characteris-
tics of pesantren cadari, Foucault’s earlier work (1977) on panopticon and dis-
ciplinary technologies and Erving Goffman’s (1984) resocialisation as the goal
of a total institution are especially important. Following Mahmood, I have used
Aristotle—who influenced Foucault’s later work on ethics and technologies of
 Taat agency and the embodiment of true Islam  221
the self (1997)—in reading the moral codes and ethical conduct within the eve-
ryday life of the cadari, in particular the passionate cadari. Pesantren cadari
strive to change their behaviour, their ways of living and being, through the way
the pesantren introduces them to new norms, values and practices as well as to
surveillance. However, this docility is not linked to the abandonment of agency,
because most students are fully aware that the norms in the pesantren are designed
to produce better Muslimah. Foucault’s later work (1997) on how one interprets
moral codes and adopts them to shape moral conduct and become ethical subjects
is especially pertinent in analysing the everyday life of cadari.
In my discussion of the agency of cadari, the structural and cultural constraints
that surround them are important, even though most do not try to challenge these
restrictions. Indeed, their lifeworld and subjectivity are manifestations of their
dialogue with their socio-historical context. Cadari involve themselves in soci-
etal interventions through processes of self-making. Subjectivity in this context is
then seen as the heart of broader social change. Cadari admit that the process of
becoming a better Muslimah does not occur in a ‘discursive vacuum.’ The agency
of cadari in the pesantren exists within the structural limitations that surround
them and can be seen from their subjectivity which has been influenced by their
efforts to follow the norms prevailing in the pesantren circle. Their cadar is like
a painting in the life of Pirous as studied by Kenneth George. It is their ethical
path or means through which they become a ‘who’ and a ‘what’ (2010, 58) and
through which their subjectivity is formed. The cadar is not the only thing that
matters in their lives, but it is the most important means by which they achieve a
particular way of being.
Outsiders who fail to understand the life experiences of cadari will portray them
as oppressed agents whose lives are totally determined by men and who need to be
saved. Literature and media reports on the veil (and face veil) and women belonging
to diverse currents of Islamic conservative movements often construct veils and the
women who wear them as victims of patriarchal power and oppression (Munir 2003;
see also Abu-Lughod 2002; Shirazi and Mishra 2010; Zine 2002). This reminds
us of Lila Abu-Lughod’s work, as I touched upon in the Introduction, that criti-
cises western representations of Muslim women and calls on feminists and human
rights activists to stop imposing their agenda on Muslim women (2002; 2013). Abu-
Lughod is against the idea of generalising cultures to appreciate ‘people’s experi-
ences’ (2013, 6). Following Abu-Lughod (2002; 2013), in the context of cadari in
my study the question of whether they really need to be saved is indeed irrelevant
for them. People, who have negative judgements, fail to comprehend that religious
goals and commitments may be equally as worthy, or even more worthy, than other
life goals or commitments. Finding an excuse to prove that one lifeworld is better
than another with a different ideological inclination cannot be achieved by defin-
ing the ‘Others’ as victims. Therefore, to understand the lifeworld of cadari in this
book, we cannot escape from discussing the importance of religion in the reshaping
of their experiences in the world. What should be acknowledged here is that there is
a critical disconnect between ways of living that privilege the sacred above all else
and ways of living that favour external goals such as education, economic, social
222  Taat agency and the embodiment of true Islam
and material gain. It is also important to note that for cadari all these external goals
are good when the intention to gain them is for devotional acts (ʿibādāt). Therefore,
if material gain through e-commerce is performed using Islamic principles and the
result enables the believer to perform their duty as a good Muslim, such as helping
the poor, then this mundane worldly activity is categorised as a religious observance
(ʿibāda). For cadari, nothing can be classified as bad when the process of gaining it
and the intention of having it are for the sake of religious observance.

The everyday turn

Anthropological studies on Muslims, including Muslim women, have especially
witnessed the ‘piety turn’ and ‘everyday Islam turn.’ The ‘piety turn’ focuses
more on piety, including pious subjectivities (Soares and Osella 2009, 11). The
‘everyday Islam turn’ aims to move beyond piety and pious self-cultivation.
Mahmood’s work is especially important in the domain of the ‘piety turn.’ Those
emphasising varied aspects of everyday Islam highlight that the potential ambiva-
lence and internal struggles of believers’ lives might not fit into certain Islamic
norms (Moll 2018; Schielke 2010; Soares and Osella 2009). Nadia Fadil and
Fernando critically analyse ‘everyday Islam’ and highlight the risk posed by those
who are invested in ‘everyday Islam.’ They contend that ‘the concept of everyday
Islam emphasizes one side of these paradigmatic debates, highlighting the uni-
versality of humans and emphasizing opposition to norms’ (2015a, 59; 2015b).
Responding to Fadil and Fernando, Lara Deeb suggests that both piety and the
everyday should not be seen as diametrically opposite each other (2015). The life
experiences of cadari align with Deeb’s argument that the everyday practices and
piety of Salafi and Tablīghī women are not diametrically opposed to each other.
Indadari and her circle, as I discussed in Chapter 3, believe that appearing on tel-
evision for gossip and celebrity news programs is part of their daʿwa.
In Chapter 2 of this book, I discussed theological issues or moral codes that were
mentioned during my fieldwork as being the reference points relating to cadari’s
everyday lives. In this anthropological study of cadari, my engagement with their
discussion of theology (when they make reference to it) is not aimed at analysing
or judging what is wrong and right in Islam as mentioned in Islamic texts. Rather,
I am covering the theological issue mainly due to the nature of the hijrah or the
transformation of cadari into better Muslimah that often entails justification from
theological references. Anthropologists have dealt with this issue (Lukens-Bull
1999; Schielke 2019). Yasmin Moll argues that anthropologists of religion need to
talk about God seriously, but they are not supposed to be involved in theological
debates (2018, 258). In this book, I have also unpacked how cadari engage with
the founding texts in interaction with layered aspects of their everyday lives.

The cadari and their movements

I have demonstrated the zeal of women to be part of transnational Tablīghī and
Salafi movements. This is another important difference between Mahmood’s
 Taat agency and the embodiment of true Islam  223
study on the mosque movement and this book. Mahmood unites various Islamist
and Islamic movements, including Salafism and the Muslim Brotherhood, under
the umbrella of one piety movement (2005, 180–85). I carefully discuss cadari
and their movements to unpack different and often contesting norms and col-
lective rules in both movements and to capture the nuances of transformations
involved in their journey towards becoming Salafi or Tablīghī cadari. The par-
ticipation of cadari in these movements indicates the appeal of currents of reli-
gious resurgence among Muslim women. Scholars have noticed the heightened
participation of highly educated women in the upsurge of religious movements
elsewhere in the Muslim world (see Charrad on the Middle East 2011; Deeb on
Lebanon 2006; Jamal on Pakistan 2009; Mahmood on Egypt 2005). In the public
sphere, the visibility of passionate cadari within these movements occurs in the
context of their commitment towards directing their daʿwa activities to others,
for the development of Islam. Performing daʿwa empowers them, as they feel
their lives are meaningful when they do something for the sake of the preserva-
tion of al-maṣlaḥa al-ʿāmma. Cadari’s dedication to their relatively small com-
munities has led them to be as active or even more active than other followers
of more well-established Islamic movements in Indonesia, such as Nahdlatul
Ulama (NU) and Muhammadiyah. In contrast to NU and Muhammadiyah
women, who are not usually highly motivated to ‘convert’ others to follow their
chosen religious paths, many passionate cadari zealously engage in public piety
by inviting other Muslim women to follow their taat pathways. However, the
increased presence of face-veiled women in public does not fit with the west-
ern liberal concept of the distinction between public and private. Except for the
Niqab Squad, cadari usually inhabit separate public spheres from their male
counterparts. Even so, the contribution of cadari within their movements is not
trivial. It is the backbone of the growth of these communities which is evident
from their public and active piety.
Their active and public piety can also be seen in the way they express their
ketaatan through the use of mainstream and alternative media, such as the inter-
net, social media platforms and other modern forms of communication. They use
diverse forms of media to further their religious agenda and build ‘cultural capi-
tal.’ Many young cadari with adequate digital literacy are active in performing not
only on the front stage of their identities, to borrow Goffman’s (1956) concept, but
their backstage identities are also evident, from the growing presence of cadari
YouTubers, as discussed in Chapter 3. The birth of cadari YouTubers and celeb-
grams engaging in their everyday version of ketaatan performance demonstrates
their daily agentic capacity and at the same time deconstructs the orientalist image
of face-veiled women. The presence of cadari YouTubers and celebgrams also
signifies the various identities that are being communicated, ranging from their
ketaatan identity to the everyday pleasure of showcasing their fashionable style
of being modern independent cadari.
In Arab countries, the study of full-face veiling or the life of face-veiled
women is part of the established body of studies on women, Islam and the wom-
en’s liberation and Salafi movements (Kolman 2017; Tønnessen 2016). In the
224  Taat agency and the embodiment of true Islam
western context, studies of face veiling are an aspect of the current appeal of
global Islamic and Islamist movements to women who are longing to find the true
Islam and how they negotiate between their chosen identity and a western lifestyle
(Brems 2014; de Koning 2009; Inge 2016). In Indonesia, which has the biggest
Muslim population in the world (with the characteristics of moderate Islam), this
study has engaged with the current phenomenon of some Muslims striving to
distance themselves from perceived ‘impure’ practices of Islam. It is noteworthy
that cadari are not only seeking to be part of a true global Islam, but they also feel
the need to transform other Muslims in the country to be part of their true Islam.
Discussion of face veiling and face-veiled women, thus, needs to be understood
within social, political, economic and cultural contexts.
This book has dealt with the life experiences of cadari residing within the areas
of my fieldwork, so it is not possible to generalise about all cadari in Indonesia.
However, the number of sites does allow for comparisons and hence some broad
understanding of this growing phenomenon which goes beyond specific case
studies. The question that remains is the future position of women within and
outside these groups. The establishment of higher education institutions dedicated
to female cadres as well as the growth of other businesses (fashion, housing com-
plexes, hospitals, pharmacies, shops) are cases in point. Salafi groups have started
to build housing around their educational institutions for followers and other
Muslims who are longing to have a true Islamic environment for their families.
Building Salafi or Tablīghī housing will assist the development of the movements
and support the commitment of their cadres to embody a virtuous taat habitus in
more conducive surroundings.
It is understandable that, at the time of writing, the zeal of female cadres is high
because they are aware of their responsibility to expand their small communities.
An important question is whether female cadres will be involved in the future
in the same ways as today. This book is an important benchmark study on this
emerging phenomenon which is significant for understanding Indonesian Islam,
in particular the emerging subcultures and the lives of women within them. It is in
the nature of this study that it will need to be built on in future research to develop
an understanding of face veiling in other places in Indonesia, the future develop-
ment of the role of women within these organisations and the wider social impli-
cations. There are questions for the future that I have not been able to address in
this book. With the increasing numbers of young women interested in joining
Salafi movements and being educated in Salafi-based higher education institu-
tions, including Lembaga Ilmu Pengetahuan Islam dan Bahasa Arab (LIPIA,
Institute for the Study of Islam and Arabic [the Saudi Arabian-funded university])
and MEDIU online (Al-Madinah International University), it remains to be seen
whether Indonesia will witness an increasing presence of cadari speaking from
a position of religious authority. The country has witnessed an expanding diver-
gence of women’s movements, and various social media platforms play an impor-
tant role in polarising these women. Therefore, analysing the position of cadari
with digital creativity who speak from a position of religious authority would
be another interesting area for future investigation. Another direction for future
 Taat agency and the embodiment of true Islam  225
research would focus on covering richer ethnographies of women belonging to
various Islamic and Islamist movements in Indonesia. This would contribute to
broader discussions in the anthropology of Islam. Amid growing anthropologi-
cal inquiries into Muslim women joining conservative movements in the Middle
East and Europe, there is a dearth of anthropological studies on Muslim women
belonging to conservative or even ultra-conservative movements in contemporary
Indonesia.

The cadar and cadari amid discussions

of women and Islamic morality
The cadar, for its wearers, is a statement about how they understand Islamic eth-
ics and morality. This kind of understanding can be different from women belong-
ing to other conservative and Islamist movements in Indonesia, including Jama’ah
Tarbiyah and HTI. Although there is a small number of the cadari belonging to
Islamist movements, like Jama’ah Tarbiyah and HTI, and even moderate Muslim
groups, many passionate Salafi cadari often oppose other Islamist and Islamic
movements. This can be seen from their opposition to the morality of PKS cad-
res that, according to the passionate cadari, have ‘violated’ the true understand-
ing of Islam. Some passionate cadari have argued that initially women in Partai
Keadilan (PK, Justice Party, PKS’s name before its transformation into PKS in
2002) were strict: they wore thick and sombre jilbab. However, nowadays, many
cadari see PKS women who are wearing shorter and thinner jilbab as being ‘care-
less’ in practising Islam. This view adds to long-standing debates between vari-
ous Islamic and Islamist movements on gender, sexuality and Islamic morality in
Indonesia. Each group or movement has claimed that they have more authority to
speak for Indonesian Muslims. In addition, they have used the atmosphere condu-
cive to democratisation in the post-authoritarian era to promote their agenda and
claim that they are the only ones who can speak about the true Islam.
Indonesian feminists and women activists often discuss women’s morality
and women’s membership of conservative Muslim groups in the context of their
opposition to the agenda of conservative Muslims—who uphold a misogynist
interpretation of Sharīʿa focusing especially on regulating women’s bodies. Many
are worried that this might undermine their struggle to prove that Islam is not a
religion of oppression and discrimination towards women. It is then understand-
able if many of them see cadari as lacking agency. Indeed, some are reluctant to
acknowledge that cadari have agency and choose to live and to enjoy embodying
taat habitus. Some Indonesian Islamic and Muslim feminists struggle to appreci-
ate the different phenomena which are prevalent in the Indonesian context and
which, at a glance, may be counterproductive to their agenda of liberating women
from strict literalist understandings of Islam. Some grapple with why cadari adopt
strict patriarchal interpretations of Islam—teachings that Indonesian Islamic and
Muslim feminists believe are oppressive.
The current trend and ongoing debates about cadari demonstrate the persistent
widespread stereotypes that accompany their presence. Although their number
226  Taat agency and the embodiment of true Islam
is growing, the Indonesian sociocultural conditions are not yet ready to warmly
and fully welcome them. However, amid this ongoing rejection cadari feel that
they have become stronger. In the 1980s, Indonesia witnessed strong mainstream
resistance to the jilbab, which has increasingly disappeared through time. This
indicates that there can be a gradual acceptance of change, even in relation to
previously taboo matters. Although more positive acceptance of cadari and their
cadar might take longer than acceptance of the jilbab, in the long run there is a
possibility for change. In understanding the everyday life of cadari, we need to
consider that they each have layers of motives. Therefore, the taat agency of the
cadari has to be situated within historical, political and sociocultural contexts.
Reading the agency of cadari should not only focus on their piety and resist-
ance, but more importantly on their active social intervention through the pro-
cesses of self-making that they experience. Through this book, I have analysed
how the individual decisions around dress (cadar) can shape broader public dis-
course around Islam in Indonesia. The growth of tech-savvy cadari celebrates
their intervention in the shaping, reshaping and expansion of Indonesian Muslim
publics through digital technologies. Therefore, the attachment of cadari to var-
ied conservative movements, their desires, pleasures and everyday life experi-
ences should be understood in contextualised terms to avoid essentialising them
as being powerless, oppressed and lacking agency.

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Index

Definitions of commonly used Arabic terms can be found in the Glossary on pages
xiv–xix

‘abāya 27, 43–44, 77–79, 114–15, 137, Brenner, Suzanne 12, 28, 76, 95, 129, 160,
149, 199 167–68, 170, 187
‘Abd al-’Azīz b. Bāz 60, 66–67, 85n7 Bunda Alifa 104–6
‘Abd al-Wahhāb, Muḥammad b. 26, 48n4, burqa 8, 92–93, 194; burqu’ 29, 65
59–60, 69, 84n2 busana Muslim/Muslimah 26, 28
Abu-Lughod, Lila 8, 15, 148, 160, 221
agency 1, 8–10, 19, 25, 33, 46–47, 56–57, celebgram 116, 118–19, 207, 223; cadari
73, 75, 84, 101, 103–4, 117, 127, 129, celegram 78, 117–19, 171, 174–75, 215
150–53, 166–67, 169–70, 173, 176–77,
180, 187, 189–90, 197–99, 201, 206, dā’iya 141, 186, 195; dā’iyāt 186, 193, 202
208–9; taat agency 10, 18, 106–7, Darul Arqam 17, 38–41, 44, 47, 49n14,
121, 129, 152, 160–61, 167, 170, 179, 49nn16–18, 143; Global Ikhwan 38, 41,
214–26 49n14; Jama’ah Rufaqa’ 38, 41, 49n14
Ahmed, Leila 1, 65 da’wa or dakwah 38, 41, 42, 49n17, 63, 94,
akhwāt or akhwat 103–4, 171, 178, 195, 205 97, 104–5, 109, 112, 115–17, 133, 135,
al-Albānī, Muḥammad Nāṣir al-Dīn 59–60, 139, 142, 171, 177, 186–87, 189, 191,
67–68 193, 207–9, 219–20, 222–23; see also
‘Alawiyyin 27 proselytisation; LM da’wa 194–99; Salafi
Amīn, Qāsim 65, 67, 71 da’wa 140; Tablīghī da’wa 83–84, 137;
Aristotle 11–12, 56, 63, 190, 215–17, 220 YPIA and da’wa 199–203
Asad, Talal 57, 164–65, 219 Deeb, Lara 8, 107, 161, 198, 210n7,
As-Salafiyyat 104–6 223; everyday Islam 106–7, 112, 116,
‘awra 28, 35, 68, 74, 117, 147, 166, 180n6 164–65, 222; public piety 11, 190, 194
Ayat Ayat Cinta or AAC 17, 91, 93–97, Douglas, Mary 32, 128, 145
99–101, 120, 159
Egypt 1, 15, 17, 25–26, 29, 41, 44, 141,
Badran, Margot 64–65, 70–71, 85n15 165, 173, 180n4, 181n9; Al-Azhar
al-Bannā’, Ḥasan 19n4, 43, 141 University 15, 29, 94, 96; Egyptian
Bayat, Asef 11, 15, 190 feminist 70; Egyptian mosque
Bentham, Jeremy 131–32 participants 12–13, 218, 223; the
berguk 27 Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt 19; veil
bid’a 59–60, 83, 179, 196 in Egypt 65, 85n14; women’s mosque
Bima 30–35, 39, 46–47, 48n6, 48n9, movement 8, 38
48n11 El Guindi, Fadwa 29, 67
Bourdieu, Pierre 11–12, 24–25, 34, 105, El-Saadawi, Nawal 93
215–16 ethics 154n3, 199, 220; Islamic ethics 225
230 Index
Faḍā’il al-A’māl 136, 186 Instagram 17, 78, 103–4, 111–12, 114,
fashion 3, 11–12, 77, 149, 224; designer 116–19, 171, 207, 220
34, 79, 110, 113–14, 206; fashion instant jilbab 35, 36, 41, 48n12
statement 121; Muslim fashion 5, internet 17, 60–62, 83, 92, 101–6, 111,
34–35, 115 117–21, 122n8, 187, 217, 223
Fatayat or Fatayat NU 177 isbal or isbāl 43, 142; non-isbal 2, 108, 205
fatwa, fatwā, or fatāwā 4, 23–24, 40, Islamic law 19, 31–32, 38, 85n6, 192;
49n14, 59, 61, 68, 72, 81, 85n16, 100, see also madhhab
104, 122n9, 160 Islamist movement 24, 37, 70, 110, 160,
al-Fawzān, Ṣāliḥ b. Fawzān 60, 62, 100 187, 193, 216, 224–25
film 17, 95, 99, 110, 121n2, 189
fitna 40, 64–68, 76–77, 83, 166 jāhiliyya 76, 86n18, 109
Foucault, Michel 56–57, 131–32, 138, Jama’ah Tarbiyah or Jemaah Tarbiyah
149–51, 153, 189, 217, 220–21 5, 19n4, 96, 159, 168, 225; PKS and
Jama’ah Tarbiyah 141, 187, 193, 216
Geertz, Clifford 68, 161–62, 180n3 Jamilurrahman or Ma’had Syaikh
gender 32, 70, 105, 153, 174, 190, 217, Jamilurrahman As-Salafy 13, 80,
220, 225; gender complementarity 139–43, 158, 178–79, 202–3, 205
175; gender equality 19n3, 177; gender Jam’iyya Ihyā’ al-Turāth 192
segregation 7, 103–5, 117, 121, 198 jihad 83, 84n3, 208; Laskar Jihad 104
Goffman, Erving 119, 131, 158, 220, 223 jilbab 12, 23, 27, 34–35, 36, 41, 44–45,
47n1, 79, 82, 128, 137–38, 146, 148,
habitus 11–12, 17–18, 36, 190, 216–19; 160–61, 164, 167–68, 170, 181n8, 199,
Pierre Bourdieu’s habitus 24–25; taat 207, 216, 225–26
habitus 14, 56–84, 101, 103, 105, 150, jubah 13, 23, 40, 43, 137
160, 166, 169, 177–78, 195, 200–1, 209,
215, 224–25 kafā’a 81
ḥadīth 17, 59, 63, 66–68, 75, 82, 85n13, kaffah 11, 145, 167, 194; Muslimah
130, 165, 168, 176, 196 kaffah 19n2
Ḥaḍramī 27, 29, 31 kajian 16, 58, 115
ḥajj or haji 5, 10, 23, 28, 71; ḥajja 29 kerudung 12, 23–24, 26–27, 29, 45, 47n1,
halal or ḥalāl 38, 42, 61, 74, 104–6 48–49n12
Ḥanafī 72 khalīfa 39
Ḥanbali or Ḥanbalism 59, 72, 84n1 khalwat 77, 103, 167
haram or harām 85n6, 100, 104 Khaula 162–64, 168–70, 174, 177–78, 200
al-ḥayā’ 68, 166, 218; see also modesty; khimār 115
malu khurūj 42, 49n20, 83, 121n5, 137; mastura
headscarf 23, 41, 173, 181n10 khurūj 70, 139
Hefner, Robert W. 92, 187 kyai 130, 135
hijab or ḥijāb 23, 47n1, 68; Hijabers
Community 34, 79 Lembaga Ilmu Pengetahuan Islam dan
hijrah or hijra 5, 11, 75, 84, 92–93, 164, Bahasa Arab or LIPIA 14, 44, 158,
178, 203, 215–16, 218, 222; hijrah hype 178, 224
106–10, 112, 114–16 Lembaga Muslimah or LM 187, 191–99,
Hizbut Tahrir Indonesia or HTI 5, 19n5, 203, 205–6, 209
108, 159, 168, 180n1, 187, 216, 225 liḥya 43

‘ibāda, ‘ibādāt or ibadah 67, 74, 105, 149, madhhab 72–73, 84n1; see also Islamic law
181n11, 187, 202, 218, 222 madrasah 127, 130, 136, 138, 141, 153n1
‘iffa 64, 145, 148, 219 Ma’had al-’Ilmi 200–2
ikhtilāṭ 77, 103, 167, 177, 193–94, 208–9 Ma’had Ihya As-Sunnah 140, 142, 146, 148
īmān or iman 13, 67 Mahmood, Saba 8–9, 12–13, 38, 56, 68,
Indadari or Indadari Mindrayanti 92, 75, 103, 151–52, 161, 165–66, 170, 176,
110–18, 121, 206–8, 222 180n4, 187, 199, 218–20, 223
 Index  231
maḥram 42, 63, 77, 83–84, 145, 203 Muslim Brotherhood or Al-Ikhwān
majelis taklim 134, 197 al-Muslimūn 19n4, 43, 64, 84n2, 223
Majelis Ulama Indonesia or MUI 4, 104 mustaḥab 67, 85n6
makrūh 73, 85n6
Malaysia 17, 40–41, 47, 49n14, 63, 111, Nahdlatul Ulama 4, 39, 49n13, 62, 108,
136, 180n4; Malaysian 38–39, 49n18, 127, 168, 193, 223
91, 163 Nāṣif, Malak Ḥifnī 70
Mālikī 72–73 naẓar 121n4
malu 33, 67–69, 76, 148, 166–67; see also ngaji 200; pengajian 202
al-ḥayā’; modesty niqab or niqāb 27, 29, 65, 71, 109–10, 208
mandūb 85n6 Niqab Squad 14, 17, 36, 58, 72, 78–79,
manhaj 59, 82–83, 86n21, 130, 141–43, 91–92, 102, 105–7, 110–14, 116–18, 121,
148, 169, 171, 194, 201, 203 171, 174–75, 187, 205–9, 215, 217, 223
marhalah 190, 195–96 niṣāb 83
marriage 26, 32–33, 56, 80–83, 86n20, 96, novel 17, 30, 65, 91, 93–101, 119–20,
101, 109, 114, 121n4, 148, 170, 178; 121n5, 154n8
divorce 27, 80, 82–83, 86n20, 109 An-Nūr 65, 67–68, 85n16
Maryam 162–66, 169–70, 173–74, 176, 200
ma’ṣiya 104, 165, 203 Othering 7, 18, 204–5, 208
al-maṣlaḥa al-’amma 11, 117, 199, 215,
220, 223 pesantren 6, 18, 37, 72, 79, 85n5, 108,
mastura or mastūra 42, 49n20; bayan 127–53, 154n3, 154n5, 154nn8–9, 158,
mastura 93; mastura khurūj 70, 139; 160, 177, 203, 205, 214, 218, 220
mastura ta’līm 49n20 piety 4, 8–13, 46, 56, 75, 92, 97, 106–7,
Mauss, Marcel 11–12, 16, 24, 32, 36, 112–13, 165, 168, 194–95, 199, 209,
128–29, 138, 215–16 217–20, 226; active piety 11, 15, 67,
MEDIU 63, 203, 224 190, 201–2, 219, 223; piety turn 222;
Mernissi, Fatima 64, 85n15 public piety 10–11, 18, 190, 194–95,
Metcalf, Barbara 70, 85n12, 186, 19n6 197, 200, 202–3, 208, 223
Middle East 4, 26, 44, 47, 67, 168, 223, politics 17, 30, 173–74, 190, 208, 210n5, 214
225; Middle Eastern 61, 72, 84–85n14, popular culture 17, 30, 91–93, 99, 101
192, 200 prayer 10, 14, 49n15, 73–74, 80, 85n17, 97,
modesty 33, 64–65, 119, 128, 161, 166; 112, 133, 136–37, 139, 164, 197, 209n1
see also al-ḥayā’; malu Prophet 5, 12–13, 17, 27–28, 39, 42–43,
Moors, Annelies 48n5, 79, 99, 172–74, 49n16, 59, 61, 63, 67–68, 75–76, 85n8–9,
210n7 107, 111–15, 136–39, 144, 148, 165, 176,
moral 9, 33, 60, 64, 71, 75–76, 107, 138, 193, 195, 202; see also Muḥammad
141, 195, 218–19, 221–22; moral code proselytisation 17, 41–42, 63, 70, 94,
56–57, 221–22; moral cultivation 12; 133, 171, 186, 219; see also da’wa or
moral decadence 27, 68, 166; moral dakwah
decline 153; morality 43, 57, 92, 96, purdah 27, 28, 35–36, 39–43, 47, 70,
148, 225 146–47, 159
Muḥammad 10, 12–13, 17, 27–28, 39, 43,
59, 63, 75, 107, 114, 135, 137, 144, 165, Qur’ān 12, 17, 19n11, 59, 65, 67, 71–72,
193, 195, 202, 209n1; see also Prophet 76, 85n13, 96, 107–8, 111, 117
Muhammadiyah 4, 24, 39, 62, 85n16,
108, 153, 162, 168, 191–93, 199, 208, resistance 8–9, 19n8, 24, 38, 40, 84, 102–
210n5, 223 3, 105, 138, 151, 161–62, 166, 169–70,
Mūsā, Nabawīyah 70 176, 179, 189, 208, 220, 226
Muslimah 11, 17–18, 19n2, 19n10, 38, 43, revivalist movement 4–5, 8, 17, 18, 24,
56–57, 61–63, 73–74, 78, 84, 96, 103–4, 35–38, 47, 107, 176, 190, 216–17
131, 160, 163–69, 171, 173, 176–78, rimpu mpida 25, 30–33, 35, 39, 46–47, 48n8
180, 186–87, 189, 193–94, 197, 201, Robinson, Kathryn 12, 29, 48n8, 129,
209, 216, 218, 222 175, 208
232 Index
ṣabr 176, 218 Taymiyya, Taqiy al-Dīn Aḥmad b. or Ibn
al-Sa’dāwī or El Saadawi, Nawāl 71 Taymiyya 59–60, 84n2
al-salaf al-ṣāliḥ 5, 36, 77, 141–42, 152, techniques of the body 8, 11–12, 18, 24,
192, 195 138, 150
salihah 97, 131, 138, 146–50, 153,
154n12, 165 ‘ulamā’ 4–5, 28, 47, 138, 148, 198
santriwati 127–29, 149–51, 154n3, 158 Ummu Mujahid 82–83, 109
Saudi Arabia 14, 17, 19n6, 25–26, 28–29, Ummu Yazid 187, 199–202, 205
31–32, 44, 59–61, 63, 81, 84n1, 85n4, Universitas Gadjah Mada or UGM 140,
140, 158, 197, 224 162–63, 172, 199–200, 203, 210n8
Sekolah Ibu 143–44 Universitas Hasanuddin or UNHAS 162,
Shāfi’i 72 172, 179, 191
Sha’rāwī, Hudā 70 Universitas Islam Negeri or UIN; Alauddin
Sharī’a 23, 31, 33, 60, 210n6, 225 68, 180n5; Sunan Kalijaga 163, 168,
Shi’i 194, 198 175; Syarif Hidayatullah 133, 163
social media 17, 60–61, 92, 101, 103–4, Universitas Negeri Yogyakarta or UNY 140
106, 111–12, 115–21, 122n9, 208, 215, Al-Uthaymīn, Muḥammad b. Ṣāliḥ 60,
217, 220, 223–24 67–68, 85n7, 85n11
sorban 6, 23, 40
subjectivity 3, 18, 25, 33, 37, 46, 84, 127, van Bruinessen, Martin 4–5, 19n3, 29, 44,
150, 152, 161, 166, 221 127, 140, 148, 154n7, 187, 210n5
Sufi 38, 135; Sufism 19n6, 192 virtue 10, 12, 56, 63, 68, 76, 84, 104, 136,
sultanate 17, 31–33 152, 166, 176, 186, 216, 218–20
Sunanul Husna Al-Jaiyah or Pesantren
Sunanul Husna Al-Jaiyah 133–37, Wahdah Islamiyah 14, 60, 163, 178–79,
149–51 180n5, 187, 190–91, 199, 209n3, 217
sunna 115, 135, 144, 165, 193, 195, 207 wājib 67, 85n6
Sunni 10, 15, 59, 72 al-walā’ wa-l-barā’ 62, 161, 203, 217
Werbner, Pnina 3, 9, 19n8, 161, 170, 199
ta’aruf 96, 99, 121n4 worship 81
tabarruj 67, 76–77
ta’līm 15, 16, 49n20, 60–61, 80, 121n5, Yemen 17, 25–28, 31, 44, 48n5, 60, 140
163, 168, 171, 186, 191, 195 YouTube 61, 112–20, 223
taqlīd 59, 62
taqwa 12–13, 76, 85n13, 145, 165, 193 Zayn al-Dīn, Naẓīra 71
tarbiyah 190, 195, 197 zina 64
tawḥīd 5, 60, 130, 143 Zuhur, Sherif 64