Mornings in South Jakarta are never quiet. Clacks of heels, honks of horns, or MRT announcements reminding each worker commuting with it, that their busy day will begin shortly. But the only sound Ade focused on was the clicks of her keyboard. She continues her calculation, her movement swift and precise. As a finance officer, it’s her heartbeat. A rhythm she knows well. But her hand hesitated when a coworker nudged her and asked “why do you always have your hair short? It’s like you’re trying so hard to be like a man.” Her heart spiked. Her face tensed for a second, barely noticeable, before she let out a quiet laugh. “Just easier to maintain,” she said, keeping her voice light. Safer this way.
Ade has learned that in a workplace filled with polite greetings, team lunches, and harmless banter, certain questions carry heavier weight. She keeps conversations about her personal life vague, sidestepping the curious “Have you got a boyfriend?” or the occasional “I think you’ll look prettier with long hair” because the moment she answers, it’s no longer just about spreadsheets, deadlines, or policy memos; it becomes about her appearance, her choices, her place in the room. In an office that welcomes her as long as she doesn’t say too much, the one thing she guards most carefully is her mouth.
Across Indonesia, butch and masculine-presenting queer women navigate their daily life with a silent fear. Unlike their more feminine-presenting counterparts, their masculinity makes them visible. But, how does this visibility shape their daily lives? And how does it affect their career, and sense of belonging?
With #LBQinAsia, we hold space for these narratives. Simply to show that we are here, and we have always been. The quiet, and often complicated stories of LBQ people in Asia which are carried in subtle gestures, sidelong glances, and the practiced smile that follows a loaded question. Stories of LBQ people across Asia who move through worlds that weren’t built with them in mind. Who are heard, but not always understood. In this first installment of #LBQinAsia, through data, personal stories, and observation, we’d love to tell the story: the silent struggles of being a masculine-presenting LBQ woman in a society that expects all women to fit in one mold.
Indonesia is home to more than 207 million Muslims, with Islamic values deeply embedded in many aspects of social life and local governance. While not all regions enforce religious-based regulations, provinces like Aceh and West Sumatra, especially Padang, have openly declared bans on LGBT individuals which incite resentment and fear. But even outside these provinces, hostility remains widespread. A 2016 survey by the Wahid Institute and SMRC revealed that 26.1% of Indonesians viewed LGBT issues as the most disliked topic, and by 2017, 88% saw the community as a threat.
This widespread intolerance is often seen as rooted in religion or tradition, but it is equally a legacy of colonialism. The criminalization of same-sex acts in Indonesia, through Pasal 292 of the Criminal Code, originated from Dutch colonial law, introduced via Staatsblad No. 130 in 1911. While such laws were rarely enforced in early years, they redefined queerness as deviant and foreign. Before colonization, diverse gender identities and sexual practices were integral to many Indonesian cultures. The Bugis people recognized five genders for centuries, with bissu holding sacred spiritual roles. In Ponorogo, same-sex relationships were ritualized through the warok-gemblak tradition in Reog performances. These expressions were rather important in everyday and ceremonial life.
Colonial rule disrupted these practices by imposing European morality and criminalizing indigenous sexual and gender diversity. Under what scholars call “settler sexuality,” queerness was erased from public life and rebranded as immoral. Post-independence nation-building reinforced these norms, framing LGBTQ+ identities as threats to national and religious identity. The hate toward LGBTQ+ individuals, which many believe was a Western influence is, ironically, a colonial export. Queerness is not foreign to Indonesia, it has always been part of their culture and everyday life. What is foreign is the fear of it.
Even though the growing resentment affects the whole community, the effect is not uniform. Within the queer community, butches, referred to as buci in local slang, are forced to walk a tightrope between self expression and professionalism, constantly balancing authenticity with the need for safety. According to a study in 2017 by Dhesi Ari Astuti et al. titled Accessibility to Media and Its Relation to Stigmatization Toward Lesbian-Gay-Bisexual and Transgender (LGBT) Individuals, respondents showed almost equal levels of support and opposition regarding LGBT rights in professional settings. 41% believed that LGBT individuals deserve to be treated equally whilst 40% disagreed. This narrow gap reflects the broader societal tension surrounding LGBTQ acceptance in the workplace.
Ade, a masculine-presenting lesbian working as a finance officer, shared that her appearance often stands in the way long before she has the chance to prove her skills. During job interviews, she’s been passed over without clear explanation, but she suspects the silence speaks for itself. “They didn’t say anything offensive,” she recalled. “They just didn’t call back.” Her choice of clothing; loose shirts, tailored pants, clean sneakers, is not flamboyant, just practical. But still, it’s enough to draw suspicion, enough to make her feel like she doesn’t quite belong. Though she has since found a workplace where she feels relatively safe, the tension doesn’t disappear. In office restrooms, she earns sharp glances. On the street or public transport, whispers trail behind her. Not because of anything she says or does, but because her masculinity speaks louder than she’s allowed to.
For masculine-presenting women, visibility can be both a form of power and a point of vulnerability. Unlike those whose voice, dress, or mannerisms help them slip past scrutiny, Ade is reminded daily that her presence alone is often enough to be seen as a problem.
A similar thing happened to Luce. The heat accompanied her that day, sitting across from the owner of the tutoring centre she applied for whilst the man skimmed through her CV with a few nods until he stopped and looked up at her. Underneath his thumb, a photo of Luce from a year ago, her hair was long, neatly styled. Time passed and there she sat, with her hair freshly cropped, the sharp lines of her undercut visible beneath the light. “You changed a bit. Would you consider wearing a hijab?” the words uttered so carelessly, like it is just a part of the hiring process. Before she could react the owner continued, almost reassuring. “ We just want to set a good example for the students.” Luce smiled awkwardly, suddenly aware of the way she sits, how she presented. The implication is clear. Her presence, as she is, to him is a risk. She knows right then, the job was never hers to begin with.
Despite society’s unfavourable views towards the community, a study by Panut in 2019 found that Indonesian lesbians find joy in showcasing their identity and relationship without external pressure on social media such as Instagram and Tiktok. Ade’s girlfriend is one of them. She loves documenting her relationship, date nights, and silly soft moments with Ade. Ade doesn’t mind this. She loves seeing the joy these videos and photos bring to her girlfriend. But behind her steady presence, there is worry that never fully fades away. Ade is more cautious, her private accounts filled with queer followers feels like a safe space. But that is not the case with the public account her girlfriend has. One of the videos her girlfriend posted landed on the explore page. “ I can’t lie and say that it doesn’t scare me,” Ade said. Once, she browsed through the comments on one of the videos and found some hateful comments. She brushed it off that time. “If it is bothering me too much, or I think it is harmful I will tell my girlfriend to take it down.”
Luce, another masculine-presenting lesbian, echoed this unease. “When people talk about masculinity, yes, it’s already judged,” she said. “But it gets worse because society is fed misleading stories. Like those news articles about masculine lesbians pretending to be men just to marry women. That really damages our image.” Such sensational headlines have lasting effects. “Now, when people see a masculine woman, they immediately label and assume she must be a lesbian,” Luce added.
People’s opinions, especially the ones spewed online, don’t just stay on the surface. They shape the stereotypes that many masculine-presenting lesbians end up carrying into their relationships, often without realizing it.
Kay, described entering a relationship as akin to starting a new job she loved. New responsibilities, a few distinct expectations yet always within the same line of work. For Kay, that “work” is the unspoken role of provider, the steady, self-sufficient figure, the one people expect to lead. These expectations, she noted, are not necessarily chosen, but rather assigned, a direct consequence of presenting more masculine than her partner. The pressure is not loud, it lingers in the quiet moments, in the hesitation before an expense, in clearing her throat when sadness creeps in. She becomes consumed by numbers; in her bank account, in her bills, and unread messages from how busy she gets. But still, she swallows her worries, tucks away her softer edge and keeps her composed exterior. Vulnerability, she has learned, is reserved for her femme counterparts. She has already let her parents down by being both masculine-presenting and a lesbian, she cannot bear the thought of failing anyone else. And so, she holds herself to an unspoken standard, reinforced by the butches around her, each one embodied masculinity so unwavering that any hint of softness push her to shame. Of course Kay’s experience cannot be a reflection of all butches in Indonesia, however for so many who are represented, the unspoken rules is a clear, invisible thread. Woven into the way they love, lead, and see themselves.
When talking about relationships, many like Kay have internalized the familiar idea that masculinity must always pair with femininity, never otherwise. The idea of a butch loving another masculine-presenting woman often feels out of place, some even would say unnatural. Viv admitted that she once thought the same. But as she spent more time with queer communities from different cultural backgrounds all across Indonesia, she realised that masculinity and femininity were never fixed roles assigned in love. Butch-for-butch and femme-for-femme have always existed around her. It was simply about loving who you love.
Kay never had to be told that she was a disappointment, some things were simply understood. When guests came over, her mother would sometimes ask her to stay in her room, too exhausted to deflect any questions and judgement that followed her. Every time she would trim her already short hair, the same words follow, “grow it out,” or “don’t be like a boy.” However, she was never fully pushed away, never banned from family functions. Yet she also never enters a room without being reminded of what she is not. Sometimes it goes beyond sighs and sarcastic remarks, but rather a quiet sit-down, a lecture about God’s intent, the weight of faith pressed against her identity. And so, she began to pull away before anyone else could.
Yet, in the midst of it all, there was her aunt. A little tomboyish herself, married to a man yet somehow touched by similar scrutiny. She embraced Kay as she is, offering encouragement, and even helped her refine her style, picking out clothes that made her feel more like herself. In those moments, acceptance feels easy, effortless even. But she can’t help but wonder if the same warmth could ever come from her mother.
Though their experiences seem to be distinct, it is often laced with the same fear. In relationships, they are cast into roles they never agreed to, told what it means to love and be loved. At work, their masculinity forces them to walk on eggshells. At home, the distance grows in glances and silences, in love that feels just out of reach. And yet, they endure, they carve out space in a world that often asks them to shrink, they find warmth in those who see them in their moments of resistance, where they refuse to be anything but themselves. They hold onto hope of not just survival but for something more. “I hope in the future butchphobia ceases to exist in the queer community especially in Indonesia,” Ade shared. “A lot of people still think butches are supposed to act like men or always take charge in a relationship. I just hope more people take the time to understand their identity and queer history, so we stop turning that misunderstanding into judgement, especially within our own community.”
Maybe one day, masculine-presenting women in Indonesia won’t have to prove their love, their worth, and their right to exist as they are. Maybe masculinity in a woman won’t be a battle to fight, but rather just seen as another way to be. Maybe one day they won’t have to choose between being seen and being accepted. Maybe one day, butches and masculine-presenting LBQ women in Asia can just simply be.
