Chinese and Indonesian

The Jakarta Post   |  Wed, 01/23/2008 10:25 AM  |  Life

Vivi Anggrainy returned to Indonesia from studying in Australia in 2007. She now helps with her family business and keeps a blog of her experiences.

I call myself an ordinary Indonesian. I speak fluent Indonesian as well as a local dialect, eat Indonesian food (that includes being a very good chili eater) and have an Indonesian passport.

But when I walk on the street, I sometimes hear people calling me “Cina” (Chinese). When I first heard the term as a child, I was confused and went to my father. “It’s because we are of Chinese descent,” he told me.

I was seven, and I did not feel any different from my friends who had darker skins. My parents tried to explain that each human is made differently by God.

As I grew older, I started to better understand what the term “Chinese” really means. It sometimes feels like I am being differentiated from the rest of the Indonesian population simply because of the way I look. Despite the many ethnic groups in this country, I think at times that my ethnic heritage puts me at a disadvantage.

I remember when I was in elementary school and my parents complained about an increase in school fees. Apparently, each student’s fees were determined based on his or her family’s neighborhood and ethnic group. Those classified as Chinese paid higher school fees because they were considered wealthier than their non-Chinese counterparts.

I was reminded once again of my “identity” when I was in 6^th grade and had to fill out a form to continue on to high school. There were three options: Indonesian citizens (WNI), Indonesian citizens of a different heritage (WNI keturunan) and foreigners (WNA).

My mother told me to tick the second option. I asked why and she said, “Because that is us.”

Finally, exams were over and I received my score. I had a school which I wanted to go to but apparently my mark was 0.02 lower than the required entry score for my ethnic category. If I were an Indonesian citizen, I would have gotten in because the entry score was 2 points lower.

I started to feel it was unfair. I hated that I was born with small eyes and had to deal with men calling me “Cina” or “Amoy”. There was a man in my neighborhood who would touch me whenever I walked past, muttering “Cina, Cina.” He didn’t do it to any other girls. “If I wasn’t born Chinese, I wouldn’t have to deal with creepy men touching me,” I thought.

I still don’t understand why I am classified as Chinese when I was born and raised in Indonesia.

When, by God’s grace, I was able to further my studies in Australia, some people asked me where I was from. When I told them that I was from Indonesia, some of them remarked that I looked Chinese and asked me if I spoke Chinese.

I would answer no and they would say, “But I thought you were Chinese.”

The funny thing is that the mainland Chinese do not consider us Chinese because we were born outside China. We are called overseas Chinese.

It is as though because I am of Chinese descent, I am expected to know everything about a heritage that my family left behind many years ago.

“It is actually good if you know and study your own language and culture,” a friend, who happens to be an Indonesian Muslim, told me in a well-meaning way.

“One should never forget one’s roots.”

“Absolutely,” I replied. “But when Mandarin-speaking schools, Chinese names and Chinese celebrations were forbidden for years, can you really expect those roots to continue to grow? Even now, some people still mock those who speak Chinese in public.

I am glad that people are more open now because otherwise, it is too stupid to pretend that it didn’t happen.”
“That’s true. That’s a pity and I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, and I know she meant it.
Although it is still a little hard to blend in sometimes, I am happy that I have many friends, non-Chinese included, who accept me for who I am and look beyond superficial appearances.

While others, due to insecurity, fear and ignorance, choose to focus on differences, my friends and I seek instead to focus on brotherly love, equality, acceptance and understanding.

Our diversity is what makes Indonesia unique and culturally rich. We sometimes forget that we live in a very blessed country, but it is up to us what we do with the blessings bestowed on us.

‘We are accepted by our deeds’

Lie Hua is a seventh-generation Chinese-Indonesian who works as a translator in Jakarta.

Given the periodic flare-ups of anti-Chinese sentiment in Indonesia, it might be assumed that it was a painful experience growing up as an ethnic Chinese in this country. But there are two sides, ups and downs, in any relationship.

I was born on April 23, 1951, a seventh generation Chinese-Indonesian (my ancestors arrived in this country in the mid-1700s). I was raised in a Chinese neighborhood in West Jakarta, but I cannot speak any Chinese dialect. In fact, we spoke the Betawi dialect. I got on with indigenous Indonesian kids but of course there were also some cultural differences between us.

I went to a government elementary school where most of the students were of ethnic Chinese descent. Some of our teachers were native Indonesians but we were never discriminated against. My best friend was Endang, the son of a Sundanese butcher in our local market. We walked to school together and would watch movies during our free time. Endang was the minority in our school, but he got on well with the rest of us.

I continued my studies at Tjandra Naja Junior High School on Jl. Gadjah Mada. Again, most of the students and teachers were of Chinese origin.  I spent three and a half years here because of the abortive coup blamed on the Indonesian Communist Party. The school term, which should have ended in July 1965, was extended to December 1966 due to the emergency situation.

The upheaval, which led to Soeharto’s  rise to power, ushered in a very dark chapter for Chinese-Indonesians. The witch-hunt for members and sympathizers of the Indonesian Communist Party, which the government closely linked with the People’s Republic of China, led to an intensified anti-Chinese campaign in virtually all aspects of life.

The government issued a regulation that Chinese names must be changed into Indonesian names. Chinese characters were forbidden in public places.  Even public celebrations of Chinese rites were prohibited. Chinese-Indonesians, for their own safety, converted to Christianity and some to Islam, and tried to shed their Chineseness.

But I kept my Chinese name. My father, who taught Indonesian in a Chinese school in Jakarta, always believed that we would be accepted in Indonesian society because of our deeds, not because of our names or other attributes. That is why he sent me and my younger brother and sisters to an Indonesian school, not to a Chinese school where tuition would have been free for us.

My family also continued to observe Chinese rites, but this time we did it more quietly, without attracting attention.

Despite my distinct Chinese name, wherever I went I never felt discriminated against. Looking back, I think the reason is that I never had any ill feeling towards native Indonesians. Some of my teachers and my friends were indigenous Indonesians and they were all kind to me.

In contrast, I felt – and still feel – alienated in the presence of Chinese-speaking Chinese, especially Chinese-Indonesians who have been here for a generation or two. If I am greeted in Chinese, I will just stare, unable to answer in kind, and an inevitable feeling of awkwardness and distance arises between us. In their view, I am not one of them because of my inability to speak Chinese.

That’s why when I go to Jakarta’s Chinatown, Glodok, I always feel uneasy. The moment you show that you cannot speak Chinese, these people seem to be saying: “You look Chinese but cannot speak Chinese, so you are not one of us.”               

After completing my senior high school when the anti-Chinese feeling was at its height, I continued my studies at a foreign language academy and then in 1973-1975 I studied English literature at the Nasional University, where 99 percent of the students were Muslims and native Indonesians.

I was well accepted there although many of my friends found it strange that I could not speak Chinese. They assumed that I spoke Chinese at home just like they spoke Javanese, Sundanese or whatever their regional dialect was. I enjoyed my studies at this university even though anti-Chinese sentiment was still prevalent.

To put it succinctly, I grew up in a non-Chinese-speaking Chinese community, befriending many native Indonesians but having few friends in the Chinese-speaking Chinese community. And I still have my Chinese name. That is who I am.

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