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Pengurus

14:30 – Nabillah Saputri
June 14, 2021

Thank God It’s Friday, 3 Agustus 2018

Kumulai goresan pena ini dari kisah cintaku bersama seseorang. Ia bernama Rifqi, seorang mahasiswa, berpunya, gigih meneliti sehingga berkesempatan untuk menjadi asisten dosen di kampusnya. Kala itu, kami bertemu di sebuah workshop yang menyatukan mahasiswa-mahasiswa di Bogor pada November 2015. Kami berbincang mengenai global warming dan pentingnya lingkungan kala itu. Sembari itu, aku melirik mata jernihnya, bibirnya yang tebal hitam, rambutnya yang pendek berundak, dan pundaknya yang bidang, membuatku ingin memilikinya. Pada saat makan siang, ia pun menghampiriku dan mengatakan bahwa ia tertarik kepadaku. Seminggu setelah acara, aku menemuinya di Alun-Alun Bogor, di tengah keramaian orang-orang berjalan-jalan, bermain skateboard, dan melukis mural. Ia mengenakan baju kemeja flanel kotak-kotak. Tangannya, yang sepertiga lebih besar dari tanganku, menggandeng tanganku. Hal itu membuatku terpana. Aku pun akhirnya membeli kemeja yang sama agar terus mengingatnya. 

Awal 2016, ia mengajakku untuk tinggal bersama. Ia menggenggam erat tanganku dan keluar dari rumah orangtuanya di Bandung. Saat itu kami masih kuliah, dengan uang tiga ratus ribu di tangan. Kami memilih tinggal di Bogor—biaya di sana masih sangat murah, hanya dua ratus lima puluh ribu sudah bisa menyewa kos. Aku merasa ia orang yang tepat untuk bersamaku. Dan aku tak peduli walau tiap hari kami hanya makan mi instan.

Ia orang pertama yang menganggapku perempuan seutuhnya. Ketika petugas kereta memanggilku “tuan”, justru ia yang marah kepada petugas itu. Ia tak masalah meskipun rambutku bondol saat itu, ia terus menggandeng tanganku. 

Karena itu aku selalu menerimanya—tiap kali ia mabuk dan tertangkap basah dengan perempuan lain, atau ketika candunya membuatnya menginap di RS selama sebulan. Semua kuanggap tidak pernah terjadi. Namun, dua tahun seperti itu membuatku jenuh. Aku pun mencari seorang teman di media sosial. Kami bercakap-cakap dengan intens, dan itu membuat Rifqi cemburu. 

“Gak akan ada cowok sebaik gue! Semua yang gue kasih sama lu gak akan lu dapatkan di mana pun, bahkan dari cowok baru lu!” Kata-kata terakhirnya yang diutarakan kepadaku. Rencana esok hari di TMII merayakan ulang tahunku pun tidak tercapai. 14.30 menjadi kenangan terakhir, dan kado awal ulang tahun terburuk.

Oktober-Desember 

Aku bertemu seseorang bernama Ichal melalui Facebook. Aku membiarkannya menggantikan Rifqi. Kata temanku, cowok-cowok berseragam, seperti polisi, tentara, pelaut, akan menjadi pasangan idaman—dan Ichal seorang pelaut. 

Setiap Senin, 14:30, aku menjemputnya di dekat pelabuhan yang penuh dengan truk-truk besar, dua kali lipat tinggi badanku, dikepung aroma laut yang asin dan angin yang panas. Dengan motor yang kucicil dengan penghasilanku sebagai tukang ojek online, aku berangkat dari kos di daerah Serpong, menembus polusi dan debu buangan kendaraan berat yang melaju ke pelabuhan, hingga ke pusat perbelanjaan di Koja, utara Jakarta, tempat yang luas dan berisik. Aku menunggu di pinggir jalan bersama ibu-ibu yang sedang menyiapkan tenda makanan untuk berjualan di trotoar. Itu tak diperbolehkan, aku tahu sekali, tapi ia berusaha untuk bertahan hidup. Sama sepertiku, berusaha untuk mempertahankan hubunganku. Dulu, justru aku yang duduk manis di boncengan motor, memeluk Rifqi dan bersandar ke pundaknya yang bidang. Ia selalu menjemputku menggunakan motor bebek rongsoknya, dari kampus kami di Ciputat menuju kos kami di Bogor. Kini, tiap dua minggu sekali aku ke sini. Ichal naik ke boncengan dan aku mengangkat kopernya yang dipakai berlayar, lalu menyetir motor ke kosku di Serpong. Jauh dalam lubuk hatiku, aku merasa upayaku tak sebanding dengan apa yang aku dapat darinya. Ia tinggal bersamaku di kos, tapi tak pernah membantu membayar sewa kos atau memberiku uang sepeser pun. Aku juga mulai curiga aku cuma objek seksual untuknya. Memang salahku, meminggirkan hati hanya demi mengganti Rifqi. 

Desember tiba. Aku tak tahan lagi. Aku sadar, Ichal takkan pernah dapat menggantikan Rifqi. Lebih baik putus saja. 14:30, aku memilih untuk pergi. Aku blokir nomornya dan hatinya dari kehidupanku.

Aku tinggal sendiri, dan berpikir aku tidak akan hidup jika tanpa laki-laki. Pada akhir tahun ini aku bingung, kehidupanku terasa berantakan. Aku hilang arah.

1 Januari 2019

Aku pulang ke rumah keluarga pada 25 Desember yang lalu. Kontrak kosku sudah habis dan aku tak ada uang untuk melanjutkannya. Aku kembali berpura-pura menjadi orang lain: seorang ‘laki-laki’ dengan ekspresi yang dikungkung erat. Dengan beban untuk membangun rumah tangga. Aku berusaha semampuku agar dapat hidup di bawah penghasilan kakakku yang bekerja sebagai PNS, walau ia sebenarnya sudah berkeluarga. Penghasilanku sebagai seorang tukang ojek online tidak cukup untuk menutup kebutuhan sehari-hari sepenuhnya. 

Pada hari tahun baru, 14:30, tak sengaja aku menemukan sebuah mukena di lemariku. Mukena almarhum ibuku, yang disimpan oleh kakakku. Saat tidak ada orang di rumah, aku mencoba memakainya. Kamarku berada di bagian depan rumah, seharusnya menjadi garasi mobil. Tetapi karena keluargaku ada lima anggota, dan jumlah kamar di rumah kami tidak mencukupi, ruang garasi pun menjadi kamarku, dan teras yang menjadi ruang untuk parkir motor. Kamar-garasi ini menjadi salah satu tempat yang aman bagiku untuk menjadi diri sendiri. Ketika pintu garasi kututup, tak seorang pun bisa melihatku, walau aku juga harus waspada karena lorong penghubung antara garasi dan ruang tamu tak berpintu. 

Aku mengambil wudu dan mengenakan mukena itu. Hatiku langsung trenyuh, merasa indah dan cocok memakainya. Aku pun menyempurnakan gerakan salatku sesuai aturan untuk perempuan. Takbir dengan mendekatkan telapak tangan ke telinga dan merapatkan kaki.

Februari

14:30. Aku membeli kerudung sebelum berangkat ke sebuah acara di LBH Jakarta. Itu kerudung pertama yang aku beli—berwarna hitam, berbahan paris yang tipis dan adem dibanding kain-kain lainnya, dan bermodel simpel. Aku sengaja memilih kerudung itu agar cocok dipakai dengan baju apa pun. Aku memakainya di pinggir jalan yang sepi, sambil membangkitkan keberanianku. 

Sesampainya di LBH, aku tak lagi merasa khawatir menggunakan hijab di muka publik, karena teman-temanku di sana sudah ramah gender. Banyak kelompok yang didampingi LBH Jakarta datang pada acara itu. Ruang aula yang biasanya hanya muat untuk lima puluh orang disekat-sekat hingga cukup menampung lebih dari seratus orang. Aku langsung menghampiri teman-temanku, mereka memanggilku cantik. Hal yang tak pernah aku dengar ketika aku tak berkerudung. Aku sangat senang. Sama sekali tak kegerahan, bahkan ketika salat ditumpuk dengan mukena sekalipun. Aku merasa kain yang menempel di kepalaku sudah ditakdirkan untukku.

Maret 

Aku membantu mengurus acara ulang tahun sebuah LSM di Pasar Minggu, 14:30. Lembaga ini bergerak untuk keadilan gender, dan dinaungi perempuan—orang-orang di sana tak melihatku sebagai seseorang yang bukan perempuan. Semua memanggilku cantik. Teman-teman laki-lakiku juga tak memandangku sebagai sesama laki-laki. Bahkan satu teman lelakiku menyalamiku tanpa sentuhan, bak bukan muhrimnya. 

Tapi seorang temanku bertanya, apakah aku memakai jilbab untuk mendapat pengakuan sebagai perempuan? Ia menganggap aku konservatif, ia bilang aku mengalami kemunduran karena membatasi ekspresiku dengan kerudung. Ia tanya apakah aku jatuh ke dalam konstruksi perempuan yang diharuskan melindungi dirinya, termasuk melindungi tubuhnya dengan hijab. 

Euforiaku dibilang cantik pun menjadi luntur. Aku jadi bertanya-tanya lagi, ingin apa aku ini.

Juni 

Pukul 14.30 menjelang Asar, aku pergi untuk salat di barak umum Monas. Aku dan teman-temanku berada di sana untuk mengikuti Aksi Kamisan di Taman Aspirasi, tepat di luar pagar kawasan Monas dan terletak hanya seratus meter dari Istana Presiden. Pada saat itu, barak tersebut sedang ramai dipakai oleh polisi yang berjaga. 

Salah satu polisi itu mengenaliku. Ia menghampiriku dan menegurku. Aku hanya terdiam, dan berbalik arah kembali ke teman-temanku yang menunggu di luar lapangan Monas. Terlalu jauh untuk lolos dari polisi tersebut. Ia memaksaku untuk membuka jilbab. Ia dan beberapa rekannya mengelilingiku sampai aku terpaksa melepaskan hijabku. Mereka merekam semuanya. Saat perhatian mereka lengah ketika berusaha memposting video itu, serta-merta aku kabur dalam keadaan jilbab masih terlepas. Aku menangis, dan terus menangis bahkan setelah teman-temanku memelukku. Kejadian itu membuat diriku goyah.

14:30 

Adalah waktu terburuk untuk ada. Entah karena shio, zodiak, hoki, takdir, atau hal mistis lainnya.

Aku putus dari seorang laki-laki dan memutuskan seorang laki-laki lain pada 14:30.

Aku menemukan mukena, membeli kerudung, dibilang cantik dan dipertanyakan juga pada jam yang sama.

Hingga akhirnya jilbabku direnggut paksa.

Keesokan harinya aku membeli jilbab baru dan memakainya lagi. 

Aku tahu menjadi seorang yang dianggap berbeda di negeri ini pasti akan tercerabut dari setiap lingkup kehidupan. Akan banyak orang yang menganggap rendah diriku. Namun, aku tidak akan menyerah. Aku tidak akan diam menghadapi segala perkataan mereka tentang diriku—bahwa aku akan mendapatkan neraka VIP atau yang mengharamkan diriku. 

Setelah aku memakai hijab, aku justru bersemangat untuk beribadah. Setiap pagi aku bangun dan salat subuh menggunakan mukena di kamarku. Aku pun selalu membawa mukena tiap pergi ngojek. Aku jadi lebih sering ke masjid untuk salat. Masjid yang kutuju selalu berbeda, tergantung tujuan orderan ojek. Aku lebih menemukan semangat hidup. 

Seperti 14:30, mungkin hijab adalah takdirku. Ia juga pilihanku. Seperti menjadi perempuan adalah takdir dan juga pilihanku. 

Aku merasa terlahir untuk berhijab. Tuhan sendiri yang mengetuk hatiku untuk terus berekspresi seperti diriku sekarang. Aku yakin, aku seorang muslimah di mata Tuhan. Jika saja aku salah, bisa saja Tuhan mencabut nyawaku sekarang. 

Tak ada yang bisa mengubah keteguhanku untuk berhijab. Jilbabku bukan kemunduran. Aku berdaulat atas jilbabku.

Aku percaya Tuhanku Maha Mengerti dalam menimbang dosa dan pahala seseorang. Berbuat baiklah, itu terpenting.

© Nabillah Saputri



2:30 PM

Nabillah Saputri

English translation by Ruby Astari

Thank God It’s Friday

August 3, 2018

My story begins with a romantic relationship. His name was Rifqi—a university student, wealthy, and so determined when it came to his research that he earned the opportunity to become an assistant lecturer in his faculty. At that time, in November 2015, we met at a workshop for university students in Bogor. We discussed global warming and the importance of the environment. While chatting, I gazed at his clear, bright eyes, his thick, full lips, his short spiky hair, and his broad shoulders. I’d wanted to have him. During lunch, he approached me and admitted his attraction to me. A week after the event, I met up with him at Bogor Town Square amid lots of people walking, skateboarding, and mural-painting. He was wearing a checkered flannel shirt. His hand, larger by a third, held mine. I found myself smitten. I eventually bought the same shirt, so that I would always think of him.

At the beginning of 2016, he asked me to move in with him. Holding my hand tightly, he left his parents’ house in Bandung. We were still in college, with only three hundred thousand rupiah in hand. We chose to live in Bogor. The rent was still very cheap—only two hundred and fifty  thousand rupiah, and you could rent a room. I felt that he was the right one for me. And I didn’t care that we could only afford to eat instant noodles every day.

He was the first man who saw me as a true woman. When the train conductor addressed me as “sir”, he would get angry. He had no issues, despite my super short hair back then, and would still hold my hand.

That was why I always put up with him—every time he got drunk and got caught with another woman, or when his addiction put him in hospital for a month. I acted like nothing had happened. However, two years of all that had finally taken its toll on me. I began searching for another friend on social media. We began chatting intensely and it made Rifqi jealous.

“There’ll never be another guy as good as I am! All that I gave you, you’ll never get from anywhere else—not even from your new boyfriend!” Those were his last harsh words to me. The plan to celebrate my birthday at the TMII theme park the next day was ruined. 2:30 pm marked the last memory of us together—and the worst early birthday present.

October to December 

I met somebody named Ichal through Facebook. I allowed him to replace Rifqi. My friend said that men in uniform, like police officers, soldiers, and sailors, would make desirable partners, and Ichal was a seaman.

Every Monday at 2:30 pm, I’d pick him up by the port full of large trucks twice my height, the air filled with the aroma of the salty ocean water and hot wind. On the motorcycle that I was paying for in installments from my income as an online ojek driver, I would ride from my boarding house in Serpong, passing through pollution and exhaust fumes from the heavy vehicles heading to the port, all the way to the market centre in Koja, North Jakarta—a spacious but noisy area. I would wait by the roadside with women preparing their tents to sell food by the curbside. That wasn’t allowed, I knew, but they were trying to make a living—just like me, trying to keep my relationship with Ichal alive. Before this, I’d been the one sitting on the passenger’s seat, with my arms around Rifqi’s waist and my head on his broad shoulder. He’d always pick me up with his old, wretched scooter from our campus in Ciputat and drive us to our boarding house in Bogor. Now, once every two weeks, I would come here instead. Ichal would hop on the passenger’s seat and I would lift the suitcase he’d taken to sea with him onto the scooter, then drive us all the way back to my boarding house in Serpong. Deep down, I felt that my effort was not compatible with what I received from him. He lived with me at the boarding house, but never helped to pay the rent or give me money—not even a little. I started to suspect that he only saw me as his sexual object. It was my fault all along, ignoring my heart just to fill the void left by Rifqi.

December came. I couldn’t take it anymore. I realized that Ichal could never replace Rifqi. Breaking up with him was better. At 2:30 pm, I decided to leave. I blocked his number and his heart from my life.

I lived alone and thought I couldn’t live without a man. By the end of the year, I was distraught. My whole life had fallen apart. I’d lost my way.

January 1, 2019

I returned home on December 25th last year. The lease agreement on my boarding house room had run out and I had no money to have it renewed. I went back to pretending to be someone else: a ‘man,’ with my family limiting my freedom of expression. A ‘man’ burdened with the expectation that I would start my own family. I tried my hardest not to put a strain on my older sister’s civil servant income, especially since she was already married. My own income as an ojek driver was not enough for me to make daily ends meet.

On New Year’s Day, at 2:30 pm, I came across a mukena in my closet. It was the one my late mother had worn during prayers, and my sister had stored it there. When no one else was home, I tried it on. My bedroom was in the front part of the house, which was originally a car garage. But since my family consisted of five people and there weren’t enough bedrooms, the garage had become my room and the terrace was used for motorcycle parking. This garage-bedroom had become one of the safest places for me to be myself. When I closed the garage door, no one could see me, even though I had to remain cautious since the connecting tunnel between the garage and the living room had no doors.

I performed an ablution and donned the mukena. My heart warmed. I felt beautiful and at home wearing it. Then I perfected my salat rituals—the ones prescribed for women. I performed the takbir by drawing my palms close to my ears and standing with my legs together.

February

At 2:30 pm, I bought a headscarf before attending an event at LBH Jakarta (Legal Aid Jakarta). It was the first headscarf I’d ever bought—black, made from thin material, cool compared to other kinds of cloth, and simple in style. I picked this headscarf specifically so that I could match it with any outfit. There, on the quiet roadside, I put it on, working up my courage.

By the time I got to LBH, I was no longer worried about wearing my hijab in public, since my friends there were already gender-friendly. Many groups aided by LBH Jakarta turned up at the event. The hall, which normally accommodated 50 people, had been partitioned so that over a hundred people would fit in. I went straight to my friends, who called me beautiful. I’d never heard this when I wasn’t wearing a headscarf. I was so happy. It didn’t feel hot, not even when I prayed with my mukena on over it. I really felt that a garment covering my head was meant for me.

March 

I was helping to arrange a birthday event for an NGO in Pasar Minggu at 2:30 pm. This foundation run by women was campaigning for gender-based justice. People there didn’t see me as someone who was not a woman. Everyone called me beautiful. My male friends also didn’t see me as a fellow man. One male friend even greeted me without shaking hands, the way non-muhrims—those of the opposite sex who are not blood-related nor related by marriage—greet one another. 

But one of my friends asked if I was wearing a hijab to gain recognition as a woman. They considered me conservative. They said that I was heading backward, limiting my freedom of expression. They wondered if I’d somehow fallen into a socially constructed norm where women were required to cover themselves, including their bodies, with a hijab.

My euphoria at being called beautiful soon ebbed away. I started wondering again about what I really wanted.

June 

At 2:30 pm, close to Ashar—the time for late afternoon prayers—I went to perform salat in a public barrack at the Monas. My friends and I were there to participate in the Thursday Protests at Taman Aspirasi, right outside the Monas gates and just one hundred meters from the Presidential Palace. At the time, the barrack was being used by the police officers keeping watch.

One of the police officers recognized me. He approached and called me over. I stood in silence and turned to return to my friends waiting outside the square. They were too far for me to get away from him. He forced me to remove my hijab. He gathered all his personnel around me, so I had no choice but to take off my headscarf. They were recording the whole thing. When they got distracted because they were posting the video online, I quickly ran away with my headscarf still off. I was crying and crying, even after all my friends hugged me. The incident had left me terribly shaken.

2:30 pm 

Has always been the worst time ever. Maybe it was shio, the zodiac, fortune, fate, or some other mystical thing—who knows?

I broke up with a guy and did the same to another at 2:30 pm. I found a mukena, bought a headscarf, got called beautiful, and was also questioned at the same time.

Until my hijab was ripped away.

The next day, I bought a new headscarf and started wearing it again.

I know that by becoming someone who is considered different in this country, I will always be uprooted, in every aspect of life. There will be many people who look down on me. However, I will never give up. I will not stay silent about all they say about me—that I shall be granted a VIP pass to hell, or that I’m haram.

Ever since I started wearing a hijab, I’ve become more keen on praying. Every morning, I wake up and perform the subuh prayer with my mukena on in my room. I always carry one whenever I work as an ojek driver. Now, I frequently go to mosque to perform salat. The mosque that I go to is always different, depending on the route orders I take as an ojek driver. I’ve discovered that I have more zest for life.

Like 2:30 pm, perhaps the hijab is my fate. It is also my choice. Just like becoming a woman is also both my fate and my choice.

I feel that I was born to wear a hijab. God is The One knocking on the door to my heart, for me to continue expressing myself the way I do now. I believe that I am a muslimah—a Muslim woman—in the eyes of God. If I am wrong, then God can just take my life now.

There’s nothing that can shake my determination to wear a hijab. My hijab is not a setback. Wearing a hijab is now my bodily autonomy.

I believe God is The Most Understanding when it comes to weighing one’s sins and rewards. Doing good—that is the most important thing.

© Nabillah Saputri

English translation © Ruby Astari


Nabillah Saputri is an A-pink fangirl and a Leo girl. Her hobbies include writing for her blog and dancing. She is always open to new and interesting things. Nabillah wants to tell the story of a trans woman who chooses to wear the hijab for her personal and spiritual expression. She hopes her story will make people see her as a humanist and someone who is full of faith and wants only to do good.

Ruby Astari was born in Jakarta, in November 1981. She writes fiction and non-fiction in addition to translating texts from Indonesian to English and vice-versa. A number of her works have appeared in kaWanku, SPICE!, and Story Magazine, and online in Jendela360.com, Magdalene.co, Lakilakibaru.or.id, Konde.co, Empuan.id, and Voxpop.id. A freelance writer for Kontenesia.com, she has written a YA thriller novel called Reva’s Tale (published by Ice Cube, Gramedia). Her English-language poetry collection, A Phoenix Speaks, is in the process of being published.

Cindy Saja is a freelance graphic designer and illustrator. Her works are mostly about social issues in Indonesian society. She has been drawing since childhood, and after completing her fine arts degree in 2011 she started working as an illustrator. She has collaborated with writers and artists such as Gouri Mirpuri, Butet Manurung, Erikar Lebang, Rene Suhardono, Rani Pramesti, and many more. Currently, Cindy is freelancing at the book publisher Kompas, and is preparing a personal project.


Story-writing mentor: Eliza Vitri Handayani

Karya ini merupakan bagian dari CERITRANS: Cerita Transpuan Lintas Batas (2021)

This work is part of CERITRANS: Trans Stories Transcending Borders (2021)

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