Kak Bule.

By Julia Skrovan ‘15, Syiah Kuala University (2016-2018)

“Dari mana? (Where are you from?)” The shopkeeper asked…

It was my time to shine. Freshly arrived in Banda Aceh from my language training in Yogya, I was eager to participate in what I considered safe, predictable introductions.

As I began to respond, the woman’s previously relaxed, hanging arm began to form an angle at the elbow as she raised it from her side. At a slow but steady pace, her hand started making headway, rising faster than the rest of her arm. Still cautious of yet-unlearned cultural norms, I kept my observation peripheral as I continued to answer her questions, jerkily explaining that I would soon start teaching at one of the public universities.

Meanwhile, her hand breached eye level, finally making it to its apparent destination. Taking forefinger and thumb, she placed her hand on her face. My words continued to flow despite my bewilderment at the motive of her hand, her wide, sparkling eyes fixed to mine suggested something more than just a regular nose scratch. Her forefinger settled delicately between her eyes while her thumb rested just above her upper lip. Her other three fingers formed an elegant, upright fan to give uninterrupted space to the two active digits. At this point, I was certain that she was no longer paying attention to the practiced words issuing from my now slowing mouth. In the final act, she proceeded to slip forefinger and thumb in unison towards each other until, finally, they met at the tip of her nose. With fingers poised at the terminus, a steadily widening smile accompanied her shining eyes. 

It was in that moment, to be reiterated to me time and time again since my arrival here, that I was given my first lesson in Indonesian hand signals: The motion that alerts the subject and/or others of the existence and intensity of a pointy nose.

I can say that I have never reflected on my nose—its form, edges, the two mysterious and yet oh so familiar crevasses-- but that would not be entirely true. However, it is fair to say that beyond the basic image I have stored of its profile and the occasional examination of its pores, I am lucky in that it has never prompted much deliberation on my part. While Indonesia has led me to the discovery of my comparatively pointy nose, I must admit that it was not exactly the type of lesson I was expecting to bring home from my first year here.

I had a disappointing realization that, deep down, I imagined living abroad and being gifted, on occasion, romanticized pearls of wisdom by the people around me.

My disappointment grew when I discovered I had internalized that expectation. After being in Indonesia for several months already, I found myself wondering if my experience was less significant compared to others because I had yet to receive the first of what I shamefully assumed to be an entire collection of symbolic, glowing pearls.*

*Here I must take a moment to acknowledge the prevalence of pearls, albeit pearls of a cheesier, less intimate variety that I have encountered in Indonesia. These pearls result from Indonesians’ quite conspicuous affinity for cute sayings like  ~~live laugh love~~, ~~stay wild and free~~ and, ~~every moment matters~~ that flood Instagram captions and coffeeshop murals.

  ~~we’re strongest when we’re together~~

 I could tell you of the tragic and beautiful juxtaposition of my Muslim students comforting me as I explained how my country had just elected a president whose campaign and politics spouted and fueled Islamophobia. How he has encouraged the strengthening of a close mindedness that has the potential to hurt people more than me, more than an American living across the world, and most definitely to many Americans who share part of their identity with my students here. Perhaps it is partly through a dense history of corruption and occupation that I continued to receive upsetting but touching assertions from the Indonesians around me that surely he would get better. Perhaps it’s the fact that, despite how much we try, the U.S. is not the center of everyone’s universe. The outrage I longed for was absent but when I felt helplessness, hopelessness, and guilt to be standing before my students, they gave me back comfort, hope, and assurance.

~~i like to be alone, but i would rather be alone with you~~

I consider getting gas for my motorbike a solo-friendly activity. However, I was promptly assured otherwise when a gas attendant asked “Sendiri? (Alone?)” and “Di mana ada temanmu? (Where are your friends)?” I can explain the beauty of when those often frustrating questions took on new meanings. The attendant’s inquiries turned out to be apt in that moment. It was my first day back in Aceh after a long break, my house was empty, and I was feeling alone and disconnected. Was it possible that he could see right through me? Perhaps this particular gas attendant did have some kind of magical insight but more likely he was extending a gesture of welcome and comfort that so often before felt like an accusation. As a foreigner in a place with few foreigners, I am frequently commented upon. And yet, while discovering and announcing my foreignness, people around me often tell me that I should not feel alone here, should not be left out here. Relationships, community, and togetherness, as much as that last word makes me grit my teeth, are extremely relevant to cultures in Aceh and Indonesia. Though these questions are pebbles in the shoes of introverts, I’ve come to understand them (on my good days) as a testament to the value people here give to being together and checking in with each other.

~~friends are like stars, you don’t always see them but they’re always there~~

I could try to explain all the times my Indonesian friends and strangers stopped what they were doing to help me solve a problem-- whether that be my midday hunger, running a simple errand, or to plead to take me to the hospital even though I tried to assure them that the food poisoning was over and really I was just fine… I can try to explain how I let myself learn to be okay with walking into my class and all my now concerned students having been briefed (without my knowledge) on the fact that my absence the day before was due to said food poisoning.

~~if it comes, let it. if it goes, let it~~

 I can tell you how I’ve learned to find greater value in slowing down, in the frequent suggestion or announcement of “Istirahat dulu (Break first).” Perhaps the heat and my tendency to lay back have eased this acclimation but I have been surprised at how often I need to be reminded to let go of certain expectations of efficiency in myself and others, because things will turn out fine.

 ~~love yourself first~~

I can explain my somewhat tumultuous relationship with the cultural acceptability of talking openly about appearances. How comments on my acne or my humidity-sculpted hair have turned from insults into plain observation. While there is still part of me that desperately wants to assure my Indonesian friends and strangers that, really--no really-- I have inspected myself more thoroughly than you ever could, the attitude about appearance has turned out to be grounding. My skin, my hair, my body, they all change and as much as I want to preserve a specific image in my head of what I do and what I want to look like, being here has in some ways freed myself of that. I don’t need to pretend that I can stop someone from seeing a part of me that I don’t like. It’s there, it exists, they see it, I know it. That’s it.

~~she is clothed in strength and dignity~~

I can try to convince some of you that a conservative Muslim community does not equate to the oppression of women. I can encourage you to believe in the immense respect that exists here for many female-only spaces and for the energy and freedom of those spaces and the women within them. I’ve witnessed the metaphor of my experience in action while immersed in one of these spaces. The tall, lanky, conspicuous woman at the back of the zumba class whose efforts are visible but whose execution is always a little off, always a few moves behind. Self conscious but safe surrounded by fierce women stripped of any insecurities and adorned in confidence, skimpy metallic skirts, and flashy bras. Women whose dance moves become more and more passionate with every added drop to the puddles of sweat they dance across.

It has taken me some time to understand that rather than sparkling pearls glinting with the wisdom of a place far from home, the lessons I’ve learned, cultural norms that I have begun to practice as my own, are so fundamental, sometimes so understated and intuitive, that their beauty and my acceptance of them were maybe just not always so obvious. As hard as I try here, I cannot simply collect these often abstract ideas and sometimes complex experiences and string them together as a souvenir of the life lessons I have learned abroad. What I’ve gained so far is much more elusive and ingrained than a wondrous but oversimplified string of pearls.

Riding on my motorbike one day, amidst the stares and shouts of “Hello mister!” came the assertive shout of a little boy.

“Kak bule!”

Whether a greeting or an announcement, it was possibly the most accurate and flattering of labels I’ve received so far. The word kakak (or kak) means older sister in Acehnese. The word bule is used for foreigners, particularly white foreigners. The combination of the two cuts to the core of what I represent and the space I take up here. I am simultaneously becoming part of the community--kak--while my experience will remain so wholly defined as an outsider--bule.

As I reflect on my experience, I try to understand the definite but somewhat elastic boundary between kak and bule. On one hand is flattery and excitement from people in Aceh that, as one of the few foreigners here, I have chosen to join their home. But on the other hand, I must confront the fact that the comments on my pointy nose themselves, while comical at the surface, tell the story of beauty ideals introduced by European colonialists and maintained by western pop culture. I have to step beyond myself to appreciate what it meant to overhear a man tell my Acehnese housemates to keep their faith strong, a warning about their vulnerability to corruption by an American woman. I need to face the fact that when I ask about the accuracy of my Indonesian accent, I am regularly given positive responses, not only because people are polite and rarely because it actually sounds right, but also because it sounds American. And that accent in Indonesian speakers can be a sign of status, mobility, and cultural knowledge.

However I approach understanding my experience and what I represent, I will always find that tangled up in the analysis is the fact that I have a lot of privilege here. As much as I can complain about my sometimes uncomfortable visibility as kak bule, I get to see a great deal of good, of excitement, of flexibility. I’m sensitive to the fact that much of the U.S. has a limited understanding of Indonesia, let alone Aceh. But as much as part of me wants to, I will not idealize an entire nation or religion. Not only because nothing is perfect, not only because my privileged, outsider point of view only tells a particular story, but because I do see flaws in my own desire to see the good. I see flaws because I see frustration. My own and others. I see glimpses of the difficulties of the ethnic Chinese community here and the burdens they have to keep their community strong and respected while simultaneously fighting to be acknowledged as the Indonesians they are. I hear of gay couples being ousted by the Sharia police. I meet women who feel confined by public life in the city and the expectations of their community. I encounter tourists who choose to enjoy Aceh’s offerings while condemning so much of what they do not try to understand.

One thing that I can do is recognize this place as much more than the stereotype that much of Indonesia tells about Aceh and the little of what the western world seems to know about this province. This place has an identity heavily embedded in these things but it is more than just a tsunami, more than just a symbol of Islamic practice integrated into law, more than just a vacation or surf spot, more than a place where the pointy western nose is given accolades, and of course more than anything I could write here or anywhere.

I asked my students and friends if any of them were interested in sharing a message, especially to people in the U.S. Here is what they say:

To share my frustrations

Would mean possibly putting my community at risk.

To hold them back

Would be dishonest...

Dear people,

Stop asking when and why.

Everything will eventually happen

At the right time and place.

Although it’s a hard time for Muslims in America,

I believe there are many kind-hearted Americans.

Hold on.

It may feel hard. But keep on trying.

Keep on praying. Keep on believing.

Tomorrow, the sun will shine brighter.

I hope America can be a Muslim-friendly country soon

So that many Acehnese students can go study there

Without fear.

You are afraid of other countries.

You are afraid of immigrants.

You want to “make America great again.”

America, you act so insecure.

Do you not understand the power you have?

We should meet each other heart to heart, not religion to religion.

Assalamu'alaikum wr wb

Hi Muslim Americans, I'm from Indonesia especially Aceh where tsunami happen 12 years ago.

How do you do there?

It should be exciting because we will face ramadhan, 

How do you face ramadhan there? What traditions are American Muslims doing there?

I had a dream one day I could be there and break fasting together after the Shaum (fasting) during ramadhan.

And one of my other dreams is I want to perform azan in a masjid in every continent and absolutely countries.

Wa'alaikum salam wr wb

Aceh is a beautiful place to live in, except for one thing;

the common belief that a higher education is not necessary for women.

In my community, some people still make fun of women who attend a higher education institution by saying

“even if you go to university, you are going to be in the kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom anyway.”

There are people who have not finished high school and get married at a young age with few economic resources.

This cycle has prevented families from rising out of poverty.

I hope this condition will change in the future.

We are more than what the media told you.

Come to Aceh, don’t be afraid of syaria law,

I’ll treat you to a coffee.

Sunset at Lampuuk Beach

Hiking to a secret beach

My Advanced Speaking class