Suara semesta akhir malam sebelum pagi begitu khas, mengubah bising kendara para pencari nafkah menjadi merdu kicau burung pengucap selamat terbit matahari. Mataku bugar membuka, mengalirkan semangat bangkitnya tubuh dari selimut rasa malas.
Berbekal dukungan orangtua, aku bergegas melangkahkan kaki penuh cinta menuju Pengadilan Tinggi Jakarta Pusat, sesuai alamat di KTP-ku sekarang. Aku hendak mengajukan sidang untuk mengesahkan nama sosial yang telah lama aku gunakan sedari aku berdamai dengan takdir identitas genderku. Inginku sudah teramat penuh, aku membutuhkan nama lahirku berubah di mata administrasi hukum Indonesia.
Aku sengaja tidak melibatkan jejaring kerjaku dalam bidang advokasi keberagaman dan kesetaraan gender untuk urusan bersejarah dalam hidupku ini. Aku adalah penikmat eksperimen sosial—karena itu aku ingin menguji kemampuanku dan menikmati respons orang-orang yang akan aku hadapi nanti, tanpa embel-embel latar belakangku sebagai seorang aktivis.
Langkahku elegan menapaki gedung pengadilan yang megah, seperti putri yang hendak memasuki kerajaan. Petugas penjaga pintu utama mengarahkanku ke lantai divisi perdata. Petugas meja depan menyambut dokumen pengajuanku yang berisi surat permohonan bermeterai, KTP, Kartu Keluarga, akta kelahiran, serta ijazah terakhirku sewaktu SMK. Aku diminta menduduki kursi tunggu sejenak. Sepi, seperti antrian konsultasi dokter mahal. Optimisme menyelimutiku, getarannya mempercantik wajahku hingga disapa ramah oleh seorang bapak yang ingin mengurus masalah perdata lainnya dengan wajah bersinar.
“Mau ngurus sidang perceraian ya, Mbak?”
Aku tertawa kecil dalam hati, tapi berat untuk mengeluarkan jawaban. Aku hanya memberi senyum manisku seolah memintanya mengganti strategi basa-basinya.
Petugas tadi memanggilku kembali dengan nama yang sudah kutitipkan, “IBU ANGGUN!” Aku digiring ke suatu ruangan wawancara. Dia meninggalkanku berdua saja dengan seorang bapak berjas rapi warna hitam yang bertindak sebagai pewawancaraku terkait dokumen permohonan sidangku.
“Boleh tahu apa alasan ingin mengganti nama?” tanya Si Bapak.
Aku menjelaskan sedikit panjang lebar, mengulang apa yang kutuangkan dalam surat permohonan personal bermeterai yang sudah dipegang oleh Si Bapak. Kujelaskan bahwa aku sudah belasan tahun menyatu dengan nama sosialku, sehingga menyebabkan rasa tidak nyaman saat nama lahirku digaungkan di muka umum. Ketika mengantri mengurus administrasi perbankan, asuransi, akses layanan kesehatan, dll., seringkali nama lahirku—yang dianggap maskulin oleh masyarakat itu—mengundang tatapan-tatapan aneh ke arahku.
Si Bapak mengeluarkan aura penasaran. Dia banyak bertanya tentang kehidupan pribadiku, “Waria itu dapat uangnya dari mana? Bekerja di mana? Bagaimana cara berhubungan seksualnya?”
Aku menjawabnya secara detail satu per satu tanpa ada rasa kesal, meskipun aku tahu itu tak seharusnya. Aku tidak mau kehilangan energi positifku dalam proses ini, maka aku kerahkan pikiran bahwa dia semata ingin kenal dan menumbuhkan rasa sayang antar sesama manusia. Kujadikan hari ini hari keberuntungannya, karena tidak semua orang punya kesempatan emas bertemu waria sepertiku, yang penyabar lagi cantik. Si Bapak tampak terpuaskan, seperti baru menuntaskan hajat dengan jasa prostitusi terbaik sedunia. Gurat garis wajahnya terlihat manis, menunjukkan sisa-sisa kegantengan masa berondongnya. Ruang interogasi sempit seolah melebar luas dan menjelma hijau taman-taman. Menyulut gugupku menjadi semangat.
Aku mengeluarkan lima lembar uang seratus ribu rupiah kepada kasir pengadilan. Diinformasikan bahwa aku harus menunggu panggilan via surat ke alamat sesuai KTP maksimal empat belas hari. Alangkah lamanya! Aku melapor kembali ke petugas meja depan, dia lebih ramah daripada sebelumnya, wajahnya sumringah teduh dan seketika aku memiliki firasat aneh.
“Mbak, saya kan nanti ini berkoordinasi dengan yang terkait menuju persidangan Mbak. Yah, saya butuh lah buat transport atau pulsa, juga fotokopi,” pintanya.
Aku sempat ingin memperingatkan dia secara halus bahwa tindakan tersebut sudah tidak lagi diperbolehkan, tapi mulutku terkunci, susah menyuarakan penolakan. Aku khawatir berkasku dipersulit olehnya, ataupun dia mungkin melakukan hal-hal lain karena kesal tidak kuberi tip. Aku sungguh tak habis pikir, dia sama sekali tidak ada rasa takut untuk memungut tip, meskipun sebelumnya aku sudah terangkan pekerjaanku aktivis dan LBH mana saja yang menjadi jejaring kerjaku.
“Berapa, Mas?” Akhirnya aku mengalah.
“Seratus ribu aja, Mbak.”
Tak banyak ternyata, gumamku dalam hati menggerutu. Kutujukan uang yang sudah kugumpal ke telapak tangannya.
Sepuluh hari bergulir begitu pelannya, hatiku seperti gadis dahulu kala menanti Pak Pos membawa surat cinta dari kekasih yang beda benua. Akhirnya petugas pengadilan mengantarkan surat resmi terkait jadwal sidangku. Bibirku langsung menyunggingkan senyum termanisku sepanjang masa.
Namun, senyumku tenggelam seiring terbitnya sebuah pertanyaan baru, Bagaimana jika hakim dan paniteranya benci kepada orang-orang trans sehingga menggagalkan permohonanku?
Langit kencing membasahi bumi Otista pada malam sebelum tanggal sidangku. Esok paginya sisa lembabnya masih kurasakan hingga ke hati. Pesan dukungan dari Kekasih mengembalikanku pada getaran positif dan rasa percaya diri yang sama saat pengajuan permohonan silam. Dress merah yang kukenakan adalah gambaran semangat cerahku hari itu. Kali ini aku tidak bisa sendirian, aku harus membawa saksi minimal dua orang sesuai komunikasiku via telepon dengan panitera yang bertugas menemani hakim hari itu. Aku membawa tiga orang: teman-temanku Upi, Lini, dan Vinaa. Impian menghadirkan orangtuaku kandas karena kendala menerbangkan mereka dari Jambi, kota kelahiranku, yang membutuhkan biaya besar.
Ketiga saksi yang kubawa mengenakan pakaian rapi. Vinaa kupinjamkan dress batik kuning kesayanganku, Lini mengenakan hijab titipanku, dan Upi memakai kemeja batik kasual. Kami menunggu di ruang yang luas tapi gerah, kursi-kursinya dipenuhi manusia yang sedang menanti penghakiman.
Setelah dua jam kami menanti, muncullah paniteraku, laki-laki paruh baya yang tinggi besar dan tegap. Suara beratnya menuntun kami menuju ruang persidangan. Ruang penghakiman berpintu besar kayu mengilap, di dalamnya tersedia banyak baris kursi di hadapan Hakim. Ruangan sebesar itu hanya akan terisi oleh tubuh kami berenam.
Hakim memunculkan tubuhnya dari pintu khusus tepat di belakang singgasana meja hijaunya. Dia tampak lebih banyak mengenyam masa hidup ketimbang Panitera. Wibawanya kuendus sehingga sedikit menggoyahkan keseimbangan posisi postur dudukku yang sudah kuatur dengan sempurna.
“Apa benar sehari-harinya si pemohon berpenampilan feminin seperti ini?” tanya Hakim kepada saksi untuk memastikan bahwa aku bukan bidadari palsu. Lini mengiyakan sembari menceritakan awal mula pertemuan kami. Upi dan Vinaa melengkapi ceritanya untuk memperkuat keyakinan Hakim.
Mata hakim beranjak tepat ke bola mataku, pertanda akan dimulainya interogasi. Dia mengamati berkas permohonan yang sudah kutambahkan dengan semua sertifikatku yang tertulis dengan nama sosial yang ingin kusahkan.
“Bagaimana jika orangtuamu nanti mempermasalahkan permohonanmu ini? Kamu sudah meminta izin?” tanyanya.
“Orangtua saya membantu melengkapi berkas untuk bukti persidangan ini—” Aku bingung mesti menggunakan kata ganti apa untuk Hakim, kemudian aku teringat yang sering digunakan di media massa. “—Yang Mulia. Itu pertanda mereka sudah mengizinkan.”
“Anda punya surat persetujuannya?”
“Tidak ada, Pak. Setahu saya sebagai WNI yang sudah dewasa, saya sebetulnya punya hak bebas tanpa perlu izin dari siapa pun, termasuk orangtua. Namun, jika Bapak membutuhkannya, saya siap melengkapi.” Aku tidak boleh terkesan melawan, kubiarkan Hakim berkuasa atas tindak-tanduknya. Aku pun lantas sadar telah tak konsisten memanggil Hakim, tadi dengan Yang Mulia, sekarang dengan Bapak.
Hakim membiarkan waktu hening sekitar semenit. “Kamu kan belum operasi kelamin, lalu kenapa mau mengganti nama jadi nama perempuan?”
“Iya, Pak, makanya saya belum mengajukan permohonan ganti jenis kelamin, hanya ganti nama. Seperti yang Bapak lihat dan sudah pastikan dengan teman-teman saya, saya sangat feminin, sehingga saya merasa perlu mengganti nama menjadi yang terdengar tidak maskulin.”
Aku berusaha menjawab diplomatis, padahal andaipun aku berpenampilan maskulin, jika ingin mengubah nama menjadi Anggun tentu tidak ada salahnya. Aku lekat-lekat menggunakan topeng di hadapan Hakim, tak bisa ceplas-ceplos seperti biasanya. Apalagi, Hakim penikmat etiket. Terasa jelas saat dia meminta Vinaa mengubah cara duduknya yang bersilang kaki tepat di hadapannya.
“Penismu mati atau masih bisa bangun? Ukurannya kecil ya? Tidak bisa ereksi?” Hakim rupanya menderita minim informasi tentang sistem reproduksi transpuan, terjangkit prasangka basi bahwa penis transpuan itu tak berfungsi.
“Penis saya masih berfungsi dengan baik, dan ukurannya lebih kurang sama mungilnya dengan penis jenderal yang divisum dari Lubang Buaya pada tahun ‘65 silam. Tentunya tidak seragam dengan ukuran penis teman-teman transpuan lainnya, ada yang besar dan ada yang sedang-sedang saja.”
Kali ini aku khawatir jawabanku akan memberatkan pertimbangan Hakim. Namun, aku juga tidak nyaman jika berbohong.
Hakim membolak-balik kertas dokumenku sembari berbisik pelan ke Panitera di sampingnya. Aku menahan agar deg-degan tak muncul secara fisik. “Baik, Anggun, kami masih membutuhkan fotokopi semua berkas ini yang dilegalisir kantor pos sebagai standar bukti pengadilan,” kata Hakim.
Aku bingung, kenapa mesti dilegalisir kantor pos? Dan kenapa aku tidak diberitahu sejak awal? Sekarang aku terpaksa menjalani sidang kedua dan harus menunggu hingga tujuh hari ke depan!
Menyebalkan, seperti menunggu gebetan PHP yang janji datang pagi tapi baru muncul petang!
Sidang Putusan jatuh pada bulan kasih sayang, 24 Februari 2016, dalam ruang persidangan yang sama. Aku hadir seorang diri, kukerahkan energi kemeja kuning terang yang bagiku memakmurkan harapan. Panitera mengecek kembali bukti-bukti yang diminta.
Ruangan terasa makin luas dan sepi. Wajah Hakim datar, dan aku seperti manusia yang sedang menantikan penghakiman dosa. Hakim membacakan halaman demi halaman narasi singkat proses permohonanku dari dalam map. Dia seperti sedang menguji kesabaranku dengan bacaan yang sangat panjang itu. Yang ingin kudengar hanya kesimpulan dari proses ini semua: sesimpel kata Ya atau Tidak, bukan basa-basi birokrasi.
“…Mengingat pasal 52 UU No. 23 tahun 2006 tentang Administrasi Kependudukan serta Undang-undang lain yang bersangkutan dengan perkara permohonan ini… Menetapkan… Mengabulkan permohonan pemohon, memberi izin mengganti nama menjadi ANGGUN PRADESHA…”
Sungguh aku berteriak dalam hati! Guyuran angin sepoi mengitari tubuhku. Terharu sekaligus lega ternyata prosesku yang berulang-ulang ini membuahkan hasil sesuai yang kuimpikan. Tak lupa kuhaturkan terima kasih kepada Hakim dan Panitera. Alangkah berharganya hari itu bagiku!
Tujuh hari kemudian, aku datang kembali untuk mengambil salinan Surat Putusan. Panitera memegang surat berharga itu, bersampul hijau seperti rerumputan surga yang menenangkan. Bahasa tubuh Panitera sangat sungkan, tapi seperti ada dorongan untuk tetap lancar mengatakan sesuatu.
“Ada pesan dari Hakim, katanya ada titipan apa dari Mbak untuk beliau?” kata Panitera.
Aku sudah menduga ini akan terjadi. Dan aku tidak sepenuhnya yakin kalau itu benar permintaan Hakim.
“Ah, Mas, hakim kan sekarang gajinya udah naik, gede. Paling saya kasih uang jajan buat Mas saja ya!” Aku melirik cemas ke salinan surat putusan yang masih digenggamnya.
“Berapa?”
“Ya, saya gak bisa kasih banyak-banyak, Mas. Dua ratus ribu aja buat jajan.”
“Yah, segitu mah buat jajan anak saya aja gak cukup, Mbak!”
Dia memperlihatkan wajah lemas. Namun, aku tahu dia tidak akan berani memeras, dia tahu aku seorang aktivis dan dapat mengancam posisinya pada era kepemimpinan Ahok saat itu. Sayangnya, pelanggengan kultur yang salah dalam diriku membuatku memberikan uang yang tak seharusnya kuberikan. Sesuatu yang tidak layak ditiru.
Kusambut uluran surat perjuanganku tersebut dengan tangan berbinar. Dengan ini aku memiliki kekuatan untuk menoreh semua dokumen administrasiku dengan nama sejatiku—sesuatu yang sudah sangat lama kuperjuangkan, sedari kelar SMK.
Di Bandung—kota yang sempat memecahkan kepalaku hingga ditambal delapan belas jahitan, ketika aku menjajakan seks di jalanan dingin dekat Taman Lalu Lintas—kini aku merayakan kemenangan dengan menikmati arak Bali bersama kekasih hati.
Kemudian, aku pun pulang ke Jambi, kota kelahiranku dulu, sebagai orang yang terlahir baru. Aku hendak mengurus pembaharuan akta kelahiranku di Kantor Disdukcapil, sekaligus melepas rindu pada kampung halaman.
Emak membuatkanku bubur merah putih yang kusantap bersama Bapak dan adik-adik di rumah panggung peninggalan mendiang nenekku, yang begitu bebas dimasuki semilir angin. Keluarga besarku membawa masakan dapur masing-masing untuk dimakan bersama di rumahku. Hidangan membentang bebas di lantai ruang tengah rumahku, riuh canda tawa sanak-saudara mengitariku. Aku menyimpan haru dalam hati yang kuyakini bisa dirasakan oleh semua orang yang berada di dekatku. Kudapati tatapan-tatapan mereka yang penuh kasih ketulusan.
Meskipun untuk menyelesaikan proses perubahan segala dokumen administrasi—seperti paspor, BPJS, buku rekening bank—bisa habis waktu hingga tiga bulan, aku tetap bersukacita. Seperti saat Kekasih berhasil mencapai puncak gunung yang didakinya.
Bab baru dalam kitab suci hidupku telah dimulai. Kini, dalam segala kebutuhan administratif, namaku akan ditulis dan dipanggil “Ibu Anggun Pradesha”. Itulah tujuan utamaku, di samping pembuktian bahwa aku mampu mengadvokasi diriku sendiri dan menjadi inspirasi bagi kawan trans lainnya yang merasa berkebutuhan sepertiku.
Narasi hidupku terus bergulir, halaman demi halaman dari kitab yang sangat tebal. Barisan bukit-bukit kisah melintasi selat antarpulau. Kabar kesuksesan penghakiman namaku menyebar hangat dari mulut ke mulut dalam komunitasku. Beberapa orang menanyakan kiat-kiat suksesku. Senang selalu menderaku saat mereka pun berhasil mengesahkan nama, meskipun prosesnya tak semulus wajahku seusai ber-make-up tebal. Tidak ada standar perlakuan, masing-masing persidangan tampaknya punya aturan main sendiri—ada yang lancar tanpa aneh-aneh dan ada pula yang berujung diceramahi. Namun, semua drama itu tetap berakhir dengan pengabulan, karena ganti nama memang hak setiap orang dengan alasan apa pun, dan hukum Indonesia telah lama mengakomodasinya.
Mengganti nama bukanlah suatu keharusan bagi transpuan. Kebutuhan dan putusan hidup masing-masing transpuan sangat beragam. Nama tak berjenis kelamin. Anggun tetaplah Anggun meskipun nama lahirnya dikategorikan oleh masyarakat sebagai nama laki-laki. Mengganti nama adalah keinginan pribadiku, bagian dari fondasi penerimaan diriku yang kuat. Sejak itu hari-hariku seperti langit cerah berwarna putih biru merah jambu, biar matahari menghantam dunia dengan perkasa, biar sabda-sabda orang-orang sok suci menerobos, nama dan senyum melengkung menjadi perisaiku. Secawan besar percaya kuteguk, selama kumenerima diriku dengan baik, aku akan kuat menaklukkan segala drama kehidupan.
© Anggun Pradesha
TO JUDGE A NAME
Anggun Pradesha
English translation by Sebastian Partogi
The sound of the universe as the night draws to an end just before dawn can be very distinctive. It marks the transition from the frantic din of the vehicles taken by people returning from work into the very soft sound of birds chirping, greeting the newly risen sun. With energy, I open my eyes wide, sensing my body electrified awake, shaking off the blanket of lethargy.
With the blessing of my parents, I march passionately toward the Central Jakarta High Court. I am a Central Jakarta resident, as stated in my current ID card. I am about to request a hearing to validate a new name.
This name is not new, exactly: people in my social circles have long known me by it. I have always used this name, ever since I made peace with my gender identity. I am overflowing with so much desire to finally have this name legally and administratively affirmed under Indonesian law.
It is my conscious decision not to involve my professional network—meaning gender diversity and equality activists—in this particularly monumental event in my life. I am a sucker for social experiments; I’d like to put myself to the test and take pleasure in the responses I elicit from people I will be facing in court without needing to use my ‘activist’ status.
I take graceful steps as I walk into the court building in all its grandeur, making me feel like a princess about to enter her kingdom. The officer guarding the main entrance directs me upstairs to the office of private legal affairs. Then, inside that office, yet another officer greets me from behind a counter, scanning through all the required documents I’ve brought with me, including: a name change request application letter bearing an official revenue stamp on it, my identification card, my birth certificate, as well as a Vocational School Diploma—my highest educational attainment so far. I take a seat, as advised. The office is so quiet, it reminds me of the waiting room of a very expensive doctor’s office. A surge of optimism takes over my body. Its vibrations enhance my beauty, so no wonder somebody greets me in a warm, friendly voice—a man with a radiant face, who is also about to take care of some kind of private legal affair.
“You’re here for some kind of divorce trial, aren’t you, Mbak?”
I laugh a little in the quietness of my own mind, yet I find it very hard to respond to him. I merely smile, sending a signal to use a different kind of small talk with me.
Then, the same officer calls me back again by the name I have entrusted to him: “IBU ANGGUN!” I am ushered into an interview room. The officer leaves me alone with a man wearing a very neat black suit, who will act as my interviewer regarding my request documents.
“May I know why you’d like to change your name?” asks the Man.
I give him a bit of a long-winded explanation, repeating what I have stated in my plea affixed with a revenue stamp, which the Man is holding in his hand. I explain that I have spent more than a decade of my life being known socially by this name; I feel uncomfortable using my legal name—which is printed on my birth certificate—in public spaces. Whenever I stand in line to handle various administrative needs in the offices of local banks, insurance, or healthcare service providers, oftentimes my birth name—which sounds very masculine in our society—causes people to give me funny looks.
The Man seems curious. He asks me lots of deeply personal questions. “How does a waria earn a living, anyway? Where do you work? How do you engage in sexual intercourse?”
I answer the Man’s questions one by one in a highly detailed manner, without a trace of offense in my voice, although I know that he’s behaving inappropriately. I don’t want to lose my positive attitude during this process, so I just assume that he simply wants to get to know me and grow in his compassion toward me as a fellow human being. I turn this into his lucky day, because not everyone has the good fortune to meet a waria like me, who’s not only patient but beautiful as well. The Man looks satisfied, as if he has just reached an orgasm with the best prostitute in the world. The lines on his face look cute—the remnants of good looks from his stag days. The interrogation room seems to have turned into a very green garden, turning my nervousness into an electrifying source of enthusiasm.
I pull out five one-hundred-thousand rupiah bills and hand them over to the cashier. I have been informed that I should wait for a summons letter, which will be mailed straight to my address as written on my ID card. I can expect to receive the summons within 14 working days. It seems ages away! Anyway, I report back to the front-desk officer, who now looks friendlier than he was before. His smiling face looks welcoming, and all of a sudden I get a strange premonition.
He makes his request. “Mbak, I’m actually the one who will oversee all the administrative requirements regarding your trial. So… I need something to cover my transport fees, to top up my phone credit, and also to photocopy some documents.”
It occurs to me to remind him gently that such an act of bribery is no longer permitted, but I shut my lips tightly and I find it difficult to say no. I’m anxious that rejecting his request will mean that he’ll make it difficult for me to process my documents during the trial. He might also do some other nasty things to vent his anger for not getting a “tip” from me. I can’t begin to understand. How come he’s so brazen in his request for a “tip,” considering I’ve previously told him that I’m an activist, while dropping the names of the legal aid foundations that are part of my professional network?
Finally, I bow to his wishes. “How much, Mas?”
“Just one hundred thousand, Mbak.”
Oh, that’s quite small, I mutter in my mind. I hand over the bill, which I’ve crumpled, straight into the palm of his hand.
Ten days pass so slowly. In my heart, I feel like a young girl anxiously waiting for the postman to bring a love letter from a lover on a different continent. Finally, the court official delivers an authorized letter informing me of when my hearing will take place. My lips stretch into a smile—the sweetest smile I’ve ever smiled in my lifetime.
Yet, a new question comes into my mind, quickly eclipsing my smile: what if the judge and the registrar hate trans people and turn my application down?
The sky is pissing down on the earth in Otista on the night before my hearing. The moisture lasts through the night, so I feel it soaking into my heart the morning after. I receive a message of encouragement from my lover on my smartphone, reminding me of the same positive vibrations and sense of self-confidence I felt when I first submitted the application. The red dress I’m wearing reflects my bright spirits that day. This time, I can’t go there alone. I have to bring at least two witnesses, as instructed by the registrar over the phone. The same registrar will accompany the judge today. I bring three witnesses: my friends Upi, Lini, and Vinaa. My dream of bringing my parents in from Jambi has just been crushed by the expensive airfare, which I would need to cover in order to fly them from my hometown to Jakarta.
The three witnesses I’ve brought with me are all well-dressed. I lent Vinaa my favorite yellow batik dress and Lini the hijab, while Upi wears a casual batik shirt. We are waiting in a spacious but hot room, as the seats inside are fully occupied by people who are waiting for various trials to start.
After two hours of waiting for the hearing to begin, my registrar appears: a very tall and sturdy middle-aged man. His hoarse voice leads us all into the courtroom, which has a large, shiny wooden door, and rows of seats facing the judge. The large room is occupied by just the six of us.
The judge appears from a designated gate located directly behind his throne, which is a green desk. He appears to have more life experience than the registrar. I can smell his authority, which intimidates me enough to knock me off balance from my seat, ruining my perfect poise.
“Is it true that, everyday, the plaintiff dresses in this feminine manner?” the judge asks the witnesses, to ensure that I’m no fake angel. Lini affirms this fact while telling the judge the story of our first encounter. Upi and Vinaa add details to her story to deepen the judge’s conviction.
The judge’s eyes meet mine, sending a clear signal that the interrogation will commence soon. He studies the plea document, to which I have added all the certificates I have, emblazoned with my new name, which I’d like to make legally official today.
“What if your parents disagree with your decision? Have you asked them for their approval?” he asks.
“My parents helped me provide the supporting documents for this trial…” My mind goes blank, trying to find the title used to address the judge. Then I remember the title often used in mass media: “…Your Honor. That means they approve of my decision to change my name.”
“You have a letter stating their approval?”
“None, sir. As far as I know, as an adult Indonesian citizen, I have the right to make decisions of my own free will, without having to seek the approval of anyone, even my own parents. But if you need such a document, I can get one.” I am not allowed to show defiance, so I allow the judge to act and feel like he’s in charge. Then, it occurs to me that I’ve been addressing the judge inconsistently, sometimes calling him Your Honor, sometimes sir.
The judge allows a minute of silence to pass. “You haven’t had surgery on your private parts, so how come you want to change your name into a woman’s name?”
“Yes, sir. That’s why I’m not applying to change my gender, I only wish to change my name. As you have seen with your own eyes, verified by my friends, I am very feminine, so I feel it necessary to change my name so it won’t sound masculine.”
I do my best to answer him tactfully. In fact, there’s nothing wrong about changing my name to Anggun, even if I did look very masculine. I obviously wear a mask in front of the judge. I cannot just speak straightforwardly like I’m used to. After all, judges usually enjoy being deferred to. A clear manifestation of this is when he asks Vinaa to uncross her legs when sitting in front of him.
“Is your cock dead or can it still rise? Your cock is small, isn’t it? It can’t stand erect?” The judge apparently suffers from lack of information about a trans woman’s reproductive system, in addition to being infected with the false notion that a trans woman’s penis is always dysfunctional.
“My penis still works wonderfully and is just as small as the penises of the generals whose dead bodies were found in the Lubang Buaya well in 1965. Of course, my penis size will differ from that of other trans women: some have a big penis and some have it small.”
Now, I’m truly anxious that my sarcastic response to the judge’s question will prompt him to reject my application. Yet it also doesn’t feel right for me to lie.
The judge is flipping back and forth through my documents while whispering to the registrar sitting beside him. I try to control my nerves so they won’t show.
“All right, Anggun, we still need copies of all the documents to be notarized by the post office to fulfill court evidence standard requirements,” the judge says.
I’m confused. How come we still need the post office to notarize these documents? And if so, how come they didn’t let me know about this from the beginning? Now, I’ll have no other choice but to attend a second court hearing, and will have to wait 7 days longer to have my new name legally approved!
This is really annoying, just like having a date promising he’ll come in the morning, but instead showing up at dusk!
Finally, the verdict hearing takes place in the month of love, on February 24, 2016, in the same courtroom. I show up by myself and I channel all the positive energy from my bright yellow shirt, which I believe nurtures my hope for good things. Once again, the registrar is browsing through all the evidence requested.
The room feels even bigger and quieter that day. The judge puts on a poker face while I feel as if I’m about to be judged for my sins. He reads a summary of my request, page by page, from the folder. Because of his long narration, it is as if he’s trying my patience. I don’t care about the summary; I only care about the final verdict, as simple as a Yes or a No, not about bureaucratic rigmaroles.
“As stipulated by Article 52 Law No. 23/2006 on population administration and other laws relevant to this request… this court decides… and grants the plaintiff’s request, legally allowing her to change her name into ANGGUN PRADESHA…”
Inside, I’m screaming with joy! A cool breeze wraps itself around my body. I am moved, as well as relieved, by the fact that, finally, the exhausting legal procedures have given me the results I’ve always dreamed of. I obviously remember to thank the judge and the registrar. Today feels so precious to me!
Seven days later, I come back to collect a copy of the verdict letter. The registrar is there, holding the precious letter, which is wrapped in a green jacket, reminding me of a calming hue, like what grass in heaven probably looks like.
I can tell from the registrar’s body language that he’s about to hesitantly ask for something. Like he feels some urge to speak his request out loud.
“There is a message from the judge. He asks whether you have any “gifts” for him?” the registrar asks.
I saw this coming. Yet I’m not sure that it’s the judge who’s making the request.
“Oh, Mas, I’m sure that nowadays judges have bigger salaries. At the most, I have some pocket money for you!” I anxiously look at the verdict letter, which he is still holding in his hands.
“How much?”
“I don’t have too much money on me now. Just two hundred thousand rupiah for you to buy some treats.”
“Even for my kid, that wouldn’t be enough!”
He gives me an exhausted look. Yet, I know he wouldn’t dare extort me. He knows I’m an activist and I can threaten his position if I report him, considering we have Ahok, someone with strong anti-corruption policies, as our current governor. Unfortunately, our enduring culture of corruption has given me no choice but to hand him money that he’s not entitled to. Nobody should ever emulate this.
Nonetheless, after handing the money over to him, I enthusiastically take the document in hand. With this, I have by now gained the legal power to sign all my administrative documents with my authentic name. I have long been fighting for this right, ever since I graduated from the Vocational School.
In Bandung—a city where I once had my skull cracked open and had to get eighteen stitches back when I was still a prostitute offering sex to potential clients on a cold stretch of road near the Lalu Lintas Garden—I’m now celebrating my victory, drinking Balinese liquor with my lover.
Afterward, I return home to Jambi, a city where I was born many years ago, now born again with my new name. I want to renew my birth certificate at the Population and Civil Registry Office, while enjoying the vibes of my hometown.
Mom makes me porridge with a combination of white and red rice, which I’m eating with relish, along with my father and younger siblings in a traditional house left by my late grandmother. The open circulation of the traditional house allows a fresh breeze to come in and out of the house.
My extended family members bring home-cooked food for us to enjoy in my parents’ house. The floor of the family room is covered in tasty dishes, and I’m surrounded by laughter and jokes.
I feel a kind of joyful melancholy hitting me, which I believe everyone around me also senses. I see in their eyes a genuine look of compassion. Although finalizing the changes to all the administrative documents—such as my passport, social security ID, and bank account book—could take three months in total, I’m still overjoyed. It’s like the joy my lover felt the time he climbed all the way to the top of a mountain.
A new chapter in the holy book of my life has just begun. Now, in all my administrative affairs, people will call me “Ibu Anggun Pradesha”. That’s my primary goal, besides proving that I can advocate for myself and serve as an inspiration for other trans friends who feel they need to change their names.
The story of my life keeps on unfolding, page after page, making a very thick bible.The rolling hills of my story cascade on to other islands over the ocean. Word of mouth regarding my successful legal plea to change my name has spread in my community. Some people ask me to give them tips on how to be successful in similar cases. I’m always happy to hear that they’ve successfully changed their name, although the process may not necessarily have been as smooth as my face after putting on thick makeup. There’s no clear standard operating procedure by which one can change one’s name legally; each hearing seems to play by its own rules. Some go smoothly while others even see the plaintiffs getting preached at for their application. Yet, all the drama ends happily when the court finally grants the plaintiff’s request to change their name, which is everyone’s birthright, no matter the reason. Indonesia’s legal system has accommodated it for some time now.
Of course, not all trans women must change their names, as each trans woman has different needs and decisions to make. A name has no sex. An Anggun is still an Anggun, even if she was given a birth name categorized as a male name by society. It’s my own private decision to change my name, part of my strong foundation of self-acceptance. Ever since, my days have become bright skies tinged white, blue, and pink. Never mind the sun assailing the earth with its light. Never mind the judgment of holier-than-thou people piercing through. My name, Anggun, and my smile have been my shields. I drink from a big bowl of confidence; as long as I can accept myself, I will be strong enough to overcome all life’s dramas.
© Anggun Pradesha
English translation © Sebastian Partogi
Anggun Pradesha is a documentary filmmaker of Emak di Jambi, Emak Menolak, and Saatnya Orang Muda. She is currently completing her fourth film. Anggun was also runner-up for Miss Transchool 2011 and a member of Sanggar Swara’s governing body 2013-2018. She worked as finance officer for the central Indonesian Planned Parenthood Association (PKBI) in 2018-2021. She hopes CERITRANS will produce works that will reach a much broader audience.
Sebastian Partogi is a journalist, copywriter, and literary translator based in Ubud, Bali. He has translated the works of Ratih Kumala, Djenar Maesa Ayu, Sindhunata, and Feby Indirani into English. He is handling a number of vanity projects on the side.
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
