Intersections: Head covering to Live By: Cipo'-Cipo', Shari’ah and Women’s Experience of Clothing in South Sulawesi

Intersections: Gender and Sexuality in Asia and the Pacific
Issue 30, November 2012

Head covering to Live By:
Cipo'-Cipo', Shari’ah and Women’s Experience of Clothing
in South Sulawesi^[1]

Moh Yasir Alimi

Introduction

Negotiating through forms of head covering is a feature of the lives of many Muslim women.[2] In South Sulawesi, female hajis use their specific form of hajj head covering, known as cipo'-cipo', to display their social status. Not only is cipo'-cipo' the 'crown' of a haji and a badge of social status; it is also an organising symbol of culture through which Muslim women of South Sulawesi represent a world view and their place within it. There, most female haji use cipo'-cipo' to navigate two powerful tides that shape South Sulawesi and also many parts in the Islamic world nowadays: 'shari'ahisation' and 'fashionisation'. Whereas shari'ahisation here refers to the tides for the formalisation of normative religious laws within politics, fashionisation refers to the commodification of Islamic clothing marked by the emergence of various styles of head scarves and dresses, which have marked simultaneously heightened awareness about Islamic identity and life style.
The goal of this article is to discuss this unique practice of hajj head covering to illuminate women's experience of clothing and their strategies for negotiating their position before the arrival of the shari'ahisation tide that will directly affect their life. How does this form of clothing enable women to transform their lives, social relationships and the public spheres in which they live? This question prompts further questions. What are the characteristics of cipo'-cipo' as opposed to other forms of head covering? What is the importance of pilgrimage in South Sulawesi that makes cipo'-cipo' exceptional at the local level? How does shari'ahisation on the one hand and the fashionisation of the jilbab on the other have an effect on cipo'-cipo'? How do cipo'-cipo' and the other forms of head covering inform the indigenous semiotics of clothing? How do religious discourses, fashionisation and local practices of clothing—three important forces in contemporary Muslim women's life—inform women's strategy to engage Shari'ah (Islamic Law) in the public sphere?
To answer these questions, I explore the life story of Haji Sanirah (age 62), a clove farmer, housewife, ritual expert and haji in the village of Garuntungan, Bulukumba district on the southern coast of South Sulawesi. She is a passionate 'hajja' and an 'archetypal' Muslim woman of South Sulawesi. As for most Muslims of South Sulawesi, the life of Haji Sanirah is defined by the centrality of Islam, the ubiquity of rituals, the importance of hierarchy and the prestige of pilgrimage. She has strong devotion to Islam, structures her life within the rhythm of rituals, and is empowered by her experience of pilgrimage. I also introduce other women—her mother, neighbours, children and also a friend of her children—to help us understand the local semiotics of clothing. These semiotic practices are discussed in the recent context of shari'ahisation in the Bulukumba district. The decentralised district has adopted some components of shari'ah in its by-laws in order to become an Islamic district. Within the shari'ah by-laws, the district government imposed jilbab (tight veil covering neck and ears), a national form of head covering conceived to be more authentic because it is thought to be closer to the universalised model of Islamic clothing, resulting in a downplaying of the cipo'-cipo' as a local practice of Islamic clothing.
This article focuses our attention on the diversity of Islamic head covering in the lives of ordinary Muslim women and to the materiality of Islamic clothing, to complement the existing studies which have emphasised the discursive aspect of Islam in struggling with women's rights.[3] Kathryn Robinson, for example, contends that 'Islam furnished a public discourse for articulating and contesting idealised masculinities and femininities, and appropriate gender roles, which encompasses women organising in public life.'[4] Similarly, John Bowen describes the attempts of Indonesian Muslim scholars, in the public sphere, to build gender-sensitive interpretations of Islam by drawing from the perspectives of scriptural argumentation,[5] and their discursive strategies to reconcile diverse forms of ideas.[6] This wealth of discourses and commentaries shapes what Robinson calls 'a basis for an uniquely Indonesian brand of feminism,'[7] a brand which draws very much from discursive Islam. Talal Asad has explained what Islam as a 'discursive tradition' means and its importance to the Muslim world. It is,
Haji Sanirah's clothing draws attention to the importance of material objects, that is cloth and clothing, rather than discourse, as a medium through which Muslim women, in everyday life, reconcile scripture, local cultural concerns and the aesthetics of fashion. Through the materiality of her hajj head covering, Haji Sanirah creates both recognition and misrecognition with the shari'ah discourse occurring in the macro sphere, embodied in jilbab regulations. She recognises the importance of Islamic clothing for women, but she challenges certain models of Islamic clothing imposed by the male, urban district administration. This emphasis upon materiality is not to refute the importance of religious discourses in a Muslim's life, as has been argued by many scholars. Rather, this is to illustrate how the materiality of clothing enables Haji Sanirah to defend her position while drawing at the same time on arguments from Islamic discourses.
I have structured the discussion into five parts: 1) a brief life history of Haji Sanirah and the importance of pilgrimage in South South Sulawesi; 2) the characteristics of cipo'-cipo' as opposed to other forms of head covering and the indigenous semiotics of clothing; 3) the 'fashionisation' of the jilbab and its effects on cipo'-cipo'; 4) the rise of shari'ah regulation and particular motives that moved the district chief to issue a jilbab regulation; and 5) Haji Sanirah's non-discursive strategies to respond to shari'ahisation within the public sphere.

Haji Sanirah and pilgrimage in South Sulawesi
The importance of cipo'-cipo' in South Sulawesi could not be separated from the symbolic importance of pilgrimage in South Sulawesi. The experience of going to tanah suci (the holy land of Mecca and Medina, Saudi Arabia), elevates social status, is a symbol of piety and marks a rebirth of personhood. Pilgrimage is, therefore, the dream of every Bugis Makassar Muslim, and particularly for women. There is no other ritual which has such a life-changing effect on women and that is as powerful as pilgrimage: a returned pilgrim has a new title, a highly visible crown and increased social status. Women experience a kind of rebirth with profound changes in the way they see themselves and their social relationships after experiencing the pilgrimage. They will become more confident, and are trusted with new responsibilities. This transformation is clearly reflected in the life history of Haji Sanirah.
Haji Sanirah lives in Bulukumba, which is around four hours by car from the provincial capital, Makassar. In everyday life, she speaks Konjo. A branch of Bahasa Makassar (Makassarese language), Konjo is spoken by thousands of people inhabiting the sub-districts of the eastern part of Bulukumba: Kindang, Gantaran, Kajang, Bontotiro, Bontobahari and Herlang. People inhabiting the western part of Bulukumba largely speak Bugis (see Figure 1). Haji Sanirah identifies herself as Makassarese, and the wearing of the cipo'-cipo' and the importance of pilgrimage is shared by other Muslims of Sulawesi such as the Bugis and Mandar.[9]

Figure 1. Map of Bulukumba, South Sulawesi. Map production by Eduation and Multimedia Services, College of Asia and the Pacific, the Australian National University.
As a form of respect and recognition of her hajj status, everyone in her village calls her haji. Even her husband and her children call her haji instead of mace, the local term for mother. Half jokingly, a friend of mine told me that after a woman becomes a haji, children and husbands in South Sulawesi lose their mothers and wives respectively. The South Sulawesi term haji is less explicitly gendered than the equivalent term in other parts of Indonesia where the common form of address for hajj women is Hajjah. In South Sulawesi, this term of address means Haji Sanirah is a person of high social status who should be respected and placed in a priority location during public festivities. During wedding festivities for example, Haji Sanirah will be invited to sit in the front rows along with other Hajis and people of high social standing such as the village administration, adat (customary) functionaries, noblemen and clerics. Cipo'-cipo' is the emblem by which she identifies herself and is recognised as a haji. Because of this badge of piety, honour and power, new people who meet her for the first time know how to address and treat her.

Pilgrimage, a path to another journey
Haji Sanirah undertook the pilgrimage to Mecca in 1978, the year in which aeroplanes were introduced for the first time as a means of transportation for Indonesian pilgrims from South Sulawesi. BEing one of the first people to fly to the pilgrimage gave Haji Sanirah special pride, and she often talked about it to new people she met. Her travel to the Middle East associated her with Syaikh Yusuf (1626–1699), a celebrated figure believed to be the first haji from South Sulawesi. Besides a rite de passage to revitalise piety, pilgrimage for Haji Sanirah was the path to another pilgrimage—to follow in the footsteps, to remember and celebrate the journey of Syaikh Yusuf to study religion. Furthermore, the plane travel changed the life of Haji Sanirah. Travelling by ship in the past had been difficult for pilgrims in Makassar. A report by the Dutch Consulate in 1886 for example reported that twenty-eight pilgrims from Makassar who travelled to Mecca via Bombay arrived late in Bombay so they were left behind by the ship that was transporting pilgrims to Jeddah. Consequently, they arrived in Jeddah late—at the end of November and far after the pilgrimage season. Therefore they had to wait until the next season of pilgrimage in Mecca.[10] Abdullah bin Abdulkadir Munsyi's travel notes, dated 1854, reveal the difficulties of reaching Mecca via boat,
The introduction of air transportation has lifted all those difficulties. That is why, Haji Sanirah regards her experience of going to Mecca by plane, unimagined by those who went to Mecca before her, as a special blessing. After this pilgrimage, Haji Sanirah was never the same. She made her pilgrimage a defining reference point in life and dated significant events in relation to it. For example, she explained that her son was born two years after she returned from the sacred land; she rebuilt her house a year before the pilgrimage; and her neighbour undertook the pilgrimage ten years after her. In , women, particularly the Makassarese and Bugis, are more interested in conducting the pilgrimage than men. According to the South Sulawesi Department of Religious Affairs, women occupied 67.95 per cent (4,642) of the total of 6831 jamaah haji (pilgrims) in 2007.[12] In 2007, South Sulawesi had a waiting list of 20,000 people; and this was the largest waiting list in Indonesia.

Haji Sanirah
Haji Sanirah and her husband went to Mecca together, but in most cases in Bulukumba, women of the household go first. Haji Maesaro, Haji Sanirah's neighbour, is an example. Haji Maesaro said that she went first because her husband was not ready to be a hajj: 'The money is there; but he said he still likes to play with children. Becoming a hajj is difficult, and he is not ready (belum siap).'[13] Strikingly, a lot of the South Sulawesi women who go to tanah suci are young, in contrast to Javanese pilgrims who are usually old and male. South Sulawesi hajis make fun of the Javanese hajis as 'already smelling of the grave' (sudah bau kuburan). This enormous interest in pilgrimage has to do with its impact on social status. It impacts on the bride payment—,'the price of women' paid at weddings. After gaining a hajj title the 'spending money' the prospective groom needs to pay to marry a young woman will increase. If an ordinary woman receives seven to fifteen million rupiah, a hajj woman will receive a minimum of twenty-five million rupiah for the costs of the celebratory feast (similar costs apply if the woman is a civil servant).
In South Sulawesi, pilgrimage links to social stratification. The Bugis Makassar, as Susan Millar argues, are very concerned about the display of social status, which is strikingly in evidence at wedding ceremonies. While ascribed social status is inherited through blood, achieved social status is conferred through education, migration and pilgrimage.[14] Pilgrimage provides a short-cut for social mobility. As noted above, for older haji, the higher social status means that, for example at a wedding party, they will be seated in 'higher seats' in the front rows where government officials and other high-ranking individuals sit; and for the young, their spending money will be much higher. Many told me that it is the duty of a husband to send their wives to Mecca. Since husbands do not need to do it again because the brides are already haji, they have to pay more expensive spending money for the wedding. For both the elders and for the young, cipo'-cipo' is a highly visible means of displaying hajj social status in public.
Given the local cultural importance, the month of pilgrimage is an important season in South Sulawesi. The departure of the pilgrims will be celebrated, and they will be accompanied by hundreds of family members on their way to the hajj dormitory where they await departure.[15] Media also extensively report on pilgrimage events. Five local newspapers (Tribun Timur, Harian Kota Makassar, Fajar, Pedoman Rakyat and Ujung Pandang Express) dedicate two pages to the progress of the pilgrims: reporting on their embarkation in Makassar, the performance of the hajj in Mecca, and their return home. Many newspaper stories take the 'pilgrimage into another pilgrimage' angle, describing how the hajis are reborn into a new piety, ushering in new experiences of self and social relationships enveloped with celebrations.

Passion for rituals and Islamic education
Haji Sanirah is not an ordinary haji: she is also an expert on rituals and is very concerned about Islamic education. She manages an Islamic school (pesantren) where approximately 200 students study religious knowledge. Her family invited a prominent ulama (religious scholar) from a pesantren in Sengkang, the pool of Islamic scholars in South Sulawesi, to be the gurutta (principle religious teacher) in her pesantren. Haji Sanirah is also passionate about rituals. Her husband is both an uragi (carpenter) and panrita-balla (house ritual specialist). As an uragi, he excels in house building; while as a panrita-balla, he has become proficient in the spiritual side of house-building rituals. Haji Sanirah prepares the required materials, such as bananas, particular leaves and coconuts, for the house-building rituals that her husband conducts. In addition, Haji Sanirah prepares the required elements for the associated rituals that she conducts. I observed her leadership in many rituals conducted around her house, her village and even beyond her district. She embodies Martin Rossler's comment about women and ritual in South Sulawesi: 'Women's informal authority is assured by their position as "managers" in the daily practice of traditional religion. In this capacity, they oversee the performance of rites of passage and the making or redemption of individual vows.'[16]
However, Haji Sanirah does not recognise the category of 'traditional religion' as separate from Islam. She told me that rituals 'are the prayers and expression of gratitude to God.'[17] She is very passionate about rituals by which she inculcates, expresses and produces Islamic identity. Haji Sanirah conducts the rituals confidently because through them her commitment to Islam is performed. She can explain confidently and authoritatively the stage and meaning of every ritual process she conducts. She can vividly demonstrate the rituals step by step, bringing her knowledge to life. She cannot disentangle her enthusiasm for the rituals at which she officiates from her commitment to Islam. I would argue that her view is not unusual; in South Sulawesi generally, Islam is represented as a set of meaningful rituals.
Her passion for rituals was tested on the day of her youngest son's marriage. She did not agree with the bride's family plan to organise weddings for two sisters in one ceremony to save money. Haji Sanirah believed that such a wedding would not be blessed. Not only could it create failure in family life, she thought, but it would also end up in divorce. As she explained, 'I have had experience of that in my family and I didn't want it to happen to my son. At that time, I was accused of being syirik (superstitious, believing in more than one god) by an ustad (a religious teacher) invited by the bride's family to the meeting to discuss wedding arrangements. He said lots of bad words to me.[18] But I insisted that such a wedding could not take place and that if they insisted on it, the wedding could not happen without the presence of my son.'[19]
Her expression revealed the tension of the conversation with the religious teacher and the deep impact it had had on her. However, the confidence she had in standing up to those who challenge her beliefs and actions was clear. The experience of pilgrimage has given her a sense of religious piety and authority, which in turn also strengthens her confidence in conducting local ritual practices. Many people that I met believe that being a haji means that one has completed his or her commitment to Islam as pilgrimage is one of the five pillars of Islam. This experience of completeness, which not everyone can afford, lends Haji Sanirah confidence to strike back when her ritual practices are challenged.
Haji Sanirah's authority on rituals is widely acknowledged. A well-known imam of the village mosque in Anrihua (around five kilometres from her village of Garuntungan) who had served as an imam for more than twenty years was reluctant to answer my questions about wedding rituals when I told him that I was staying in Haji Sanirah's house. He suggested that I should ask Haji Sanirah instead. 'She is the authority to answer that question,' advised Karaeng Haji Ismail. Illustrating her authority, the imam said, 'When Haji Sanirah is present, no one else will be brave to enough to conduct mapasilukang (the ritual concerned with the marriage between souls, which is conducted after the akad [Islamic marriage contract], and considered the most important wedding rite in Islamic prescriptions.'[20] In South Sulawesi, mapasilukang (called mapasikarawa in the Bugis area) is an important part of the wedding ritual, and is regarded by some Muslims in Bulukumba as 'the real akad', without which a man and a woman cannot be a husband and wife.
In sum, the accumulation of all these factors—knowledge of traditions, expertise in rituals, experience of pilgrimage, passion for Islamic education, and leadership in other aspects of social life—contribute to Haji Sanirah's confidence. However, this confidence is enacted and vitalised by wearing cipo'-cipo'. Wearing cipo'-cipo' continually provides a sense of religious authority with which she can confidently face any challenge, such as the demonisation of ritual practices as syirik. More importantly, wearing cipo'-cipo' is not only an expression of Islam, it is the vehicle for Haji Sanirah to inculcate Islam and produce Islamic identity.

Cipo'-cipo', the hajj head covering
What is cipo'-cipo' like? What myths are developed around it? Unlike the most common haji head covering which is white, cipo'-cipo' is a beautiful and colourful cloche-shaped head covering. In South Sulawesi, cipo'-cipo', along with the characteristic elevated wooden houses [21] and wedding rituals,[22] is a distinctive manifestation of Islamic material culture amongst Bugis and Makassar Muslims. Through this hajj head covering, the Muslim women there express their passion for bright colours, demonstrate their social status as a haji and display Islam in a concrete form.
Because of the importance of distinctive hajj clothing, it has been argued that seeking rights to wear it is a main purpose of pilgrimage. Michael Wolff, a Dutch consul in Jeddah between 1911 and 1914 opined that many Muslims undertook pilgrimage because of the 'hajj dress'. In letters sent to the Governor of Hindia Belanda in Batavia (Jakarta), he said that 90 per cent of hajj are 'small people' who did the pilgrimage because they believed that pakaian haji (hajj dress) was a religious duty.[23] In his report to the Government of the Netherlands in Batavia, Snouck Hurgronje also expressed the same view. He argued that most indigenous Muslims did hajj because of their eagerness to be respected for their sorban (Indonesia: hajj head covering), which is why, he maintained, pilgrimage was not a threat to Dutch domination in the archipelago.[24] In South Sulawesi, the importance and pleasure of wearing cipo'-cipo' for women is observed in their performance and talk in wedding festivities, rituals and everyday gossip.
Cipo'-cipo' should not be equated with other forms of head covering common in South Sulawesi: namely sarung, kerudung, and jilbab. A sarung (tubular skirt) is popularly worn wrapped as a head covering among elders and middle-aged women when they go to their fields. Kerudung, or long shawl, is a loose head covering popular in the 1970s among young people and still worn by middle-aged and some young women. The newer form, jilbab is, by contrast, wrapped tightly and covers a woman's hair, neck and usually upper chest—body parts that are often visible when wearing sarung and kerudung. The jilbab has now become popular in Indonesia as a public expression of personal piety, regarded by Islamic reformers as the proper form of Islamic clothing, which covers a woman's aurat in accordance with Islamic prescriptions. The jilbab embodies shari'ah discourse in the urban political sphere.
Hajis of South Sulawesi regard cipo'-cipo' to be the embodiment of Hajar Aswad (the sacred black stone in Ka'bah, Mecca), and to express piety and social status. They believe they must subject themselves to particular norms when they are wearing cipo'-cipo'. Holding her cipo'-cipo', Haji Sanirah explained that her cipo'-cipo' was given to her by the imam of the Masjidil Haram mosque when she had finished all the hajj rituals. 'It symbolises Hajar Aswad. That is why I am not allowed to put anything directly on top of the cipo'-cipo' without a barrier. When I carry something, a container of cloves or vegetables on my head, I put a scarf between the cipo'-cipo' and the container.'[25]
The myth around cipo'-cipo' is empowered by the vigour of its style. In Java, there is a similar cloche-style head covering called kerudung topi (Ind. cap-like head covering) worn by haji. The kerudung topi became popular in Java among older women in the early 1990s and when the trend changed in the early 2000s it was replaced by the headscarf. The difference lies in the colouration, motifs and its local importance. The hajj cipo'-cipo' is colourful, embroidered at its base and ringed with a finely rolled headscarf of rich colours. The cipo'-cipo' has gained more and more importance in local contexts because it is institutionalised in adat (customary practice). Another significant difference between cipo'-cipo' and the ordinary cloche-like head covering like those I often saw in Java in the early 1990s lies in the way it is worn. While Muslim women in Java purchase the cloche-like head covering ready made, the hajis in South Sulawesi make and then wear it. They have to make it first before they can wear it.
The hardest and most important part of making a cipo'-cipo' according to Haji Sanirah is preparing the roll that rings the cap (Figure 2). 'It requires patience and skill to arrange the roll. Not every haji is able to make one. They should learn and practice from a senior haji,' she explained. However, she assured me that the time and the skill invested pays off. This roll of vibrant colours is what makes the hajj cap look stylish and beautiful. 'The roll can be filled with the hair of its user. The longer the hair, the more attractive this part will be.'[26] Saying this, Haji Sanirah demonstrated, step by step, the care and the passion with which she assembled and wore the hajj head covering.

Figure 2. Haji Sanirah demonstrating how to make the roll of cipo'-cipo'. Photographed by Moh Yasir Alimi, Bulukumba, 3 April 2007.
Unlike jilbab, which is the contemporary Islamic head covering popular among young people, cipo'-cipo' normally exposes the ears, neck, hair around the face, and the upper chest. Because of this exposure, Muslims with conservative leanings—particularly Islamic activists in urban areas—proclaim that the cipo'-cipo' is unacceptable. For them, this quintessential symbol of the female haji does not meet the requirements of the Qur'anic jilbab verse (24:31), which, they argue, obliges women to cover their body except for 'ma zahara minha' or 'what usually appears'.
Islamic jurists commonly translate 'ma zahara minha' or 'what usually appears' in the above verse as the face and palms of hands, following the saying (hadith) of the prophet: 'if a woman has reached menstruation, she is not allowed to expose her body except face and this (the prophet held out his wrist and palm).'[28] I often heard Islamic reformists in South Sulawesi (in interviews and public forums), argue that a haji should wear jilbab, not cipo'-cipo'. Jilbab, they argue, will cover the neck, upper chest, hair and ears properly. But Islamic scholars differ in their understanding concerning the compulsion of head covering. Some liberal thinkers suggest that Muslim women are not required to wear jilbab. They only argue that according to the Qur'an women should dress decently and modestly.[29]
The cipo'-cipo' is usually brightly coloured and embroidered with shiny threads, and is normally worn with bright sarongs and colourful transparent blouses (Figure 3). Those who regard cipo'-cipo' as lacking modesty sarcastically note that the haji expose their necks and upper chest so they can expose their necklaces, and that the hajis use transparent outfits so they can expose the wealth which they put on their bodies. 'Hajis display all their wealth in their bodies when they attend weddings. Many of them wear all the gold bracelets, rings and necklaces they have. Even through the transparent dress some hajis expose their bra straps made from gold,' I heard a speaker say in a public discussion.[30]
However, this comment tells us more about the accusers than about the haji and her head covering. For Haji Sanirah, a cipo'-cipo' represents her expression of piety, aesthetics and locality. It enables her to be pious and authoritative on the one hand, and beautiful on the other. 'To wear cipo'-cipo' is not an easy matter,' said Haji Sanirah. Cipo'-cipo' is the crown of a haji, and to be a haji a person has to demonstrate a particular moral and religious standard. 'Hajis should be pious, disciplined about Islamic prayers, and avoid unallowable speaking and behaviours. Not everyone can or would act like this.' Therefore, with regard to the pressure to wear jilbab, Haji Sanirah said:
Figures 3 and 4. Variations of how to wear cipo'-cipo'. Photographed by Moh Yasir Alimi, Bulukumba, 3 April 2007.
Haji Sanirah emphasises the irreplaceability of cipo'-cipo' which serves as the main badge of honour for haji. At the time of Kahar Muzakkar's Islamic revolt against the central government (1950–1965),[32] the challenge against the hajj cipo'-cipo' and the hajj cap was even harsher. Voicing egalitarian values, Kahar forbade Muslims from using any terms of address that indicated differential status (such as Haji, Puang, Andi and Karaeng) and symbols of differential honour, including the hajj cipo'-cipo'. I was told a story about a male haji who was caught and he was urged to take off his hajj cap. But he refused saying, 'I will only take off my hajj cap, if my head is taken off from my body.'[33]
Besides expressing social status, cipo'-cipo' expresses aesthetics, in its look and feel. As with other forms of head covering,[34] haji women put on this garment to be faithful, locally respected and, simultaneously, to look beautiful. The contrast created by the combination of a kebaya (blouse) of vibrant colour, a bright pink silk sarung and a colourful transparent headscarf covering her cipo'-cipo' makes 60-year old Haji Sanirah believe she looks younger. Of the hajj head covering, Fadwa El Gundi has written:
As El Gundi suggests above, in many places female haji are generally old, and concerned more about piety than aesthetics. This is true in Java, at least in the village that I come from. Javanese haji women express their piety by wearing a white head cover, a white overcoat and no make-up. But, that is not the case in South Sulawesi. Many of the hajis are young and through cipo'-cipo' they show their concern for aesthetics without reducing their concern for piety and ethics. This aesthetic aspect seems to be, as Daniel Miller explains, 'the source of its capacity to objectify myth, cosmology, and also morality, power and values.'[36] Cipo'-cipo'—the bright colours, the grace of the pattern, the authority it promises and the pleasing contrast between head cover, blouse and sarung—continues to be a source of appeal as well as controversy in contemporary South Sulawesi.
Along with houses,[37] ritual elements (sara-sara)[38] and wedding rituals,[39] hajj cipo'-cipo' marks different religious groupings in South Sulawesi. Ahlusunnah followers in South Sulawesi, nationally called 'traditionalists', mark their religiosity by their acceptance of cipo'-cipo', the style of their traditional houses and the particular procedure of wedding rituals. In contrast, Muhammadiah or Istiqamah followers, who are considered to represent reformist camps, play down these local practices, and follow what they consider to be more universalised forms of Islam. While the difference between these two groups in Java is largely discursive, in South Sulawesi the difference is marked by material forms, such as house building, wedding rituals and cipo'-cipo'. Muhammadiah followers emphasise the idea of individual responsibility, whereas the ahlu sunnah emphasises the idea of social location and family status. Most of the men in ahlu sunnah circles are also very concerned that women in their family can become hajis and wear cipo'-cipo' because the headdress not only elevates the status of its wearer, but also that of her family.
This emphasis upon the representation of Islamic clothing gives weight to Nilüfer Göle's argument. She argued that 'Islam is carried by corporeal performances and self-presentations rather than by textualized forms of subjectivities and discursive practices.'[40] Observing the practice of cipo'-cipo', wedding rituals, house building and the density of rituals in everyday life in South Sulawesi convinces me to make a point about the difference between the expression of Islam in Western Indonesia and that of Eastern Indonesia. While the disputes in Western Sumatra, as observed by Bowen, are largely discursive,[41] the practice of Islam in Eastern Indonesia, and the disputes around it, are largely expressed through material and corporeal practices. Muslim life is characterised by continuous oscillation between scriptural imperatives and local cultural meaning,[42] and in South Sulawesi the materiality of cipo'-cipo' helps maintain a dialogue between these two coordinates. In the next section, I will explore the local semiotics of clothing, the diversity of head covering and the 'fashionisation' of the Islamic clothing which give new context to cipo'-cipo'.

Forms of head covering and the indigenous semiotics of clothing
In South Sulawesi we see many forms of head covering, reflecting the diversity of Qur'anic interpretations on appropriate dress, the recent fashionability of the jilbab, and the continued existence of local forms of Islamic clothing. This diversity of head covering, which expresses the indigenous semiotics of clothing, can be observed in the household of Haji Sanirah, where she lives with her mother (aged 100) and two daughters (32 and 35). Her mother usually wears a sarung as a head covering, while her two daughters wear various jilbab. Though sarung are available in many colours and patterns, Haji Sanirah's mother usually wears a dark sarung as her head covering. She said she prefers to wear dark colours because she is old. Her granddaughters, who bought her sarung, suggested that dark colours suit her and can be combined with any dress colour.
Sarung are popular among the elders as if it marks one's phase of life and freedom from the pressure of values about beauty and social status. In the past Haji Sarinah's mother wore sarung as head covering on all occasions: going to a party, the market and other social events. Only after the 1970s did she wear a long shawl (kerudung) as head covering when she went to parties, and a sarung as her skirt. On other less informal occasions, she used a sarung as a headscarf. On limited occasions, Haji Sanirah's mother wears a black jilbab, particularly in the period since the introduction of a Muslim dress by-law in her village. I will come back to this by-law later.
Kerudung (a scarf that loosely covers the head and shoulders) has a different story. Before the 1970s, the wearing of kerudung in this area was limited to traditional pesantren and the wives of pious merchants in urban areas. Since the 1970s the use of kerudung has spread more widely. This new tendency has come in the wake of factors such as the Iranian revolution,[43] and the 1991 government-initiated Kompilasi Hukum Islam (Compilation of Islamic Law), which have helped strengthen a particular sense of Islamic identity amongst the populace. Along with accelerated modernities in Indonesia such as the expansion of mass education, the movement of ideas and people, fundamental changes in the family and women's integration into employment,[44] women are able to purchase kerudung. The result was greater use of kerudung with a sense of heightened piety.
In the late 1990s and 2000s, with increasing integration of Indonesia into the globalised world through information technology, the greater mobility of people, and the rapid development of fashion, Indonesian women were introduced to various forms of jilbab. While some women began to adopt cadar (full face veil) and large, encompassing jilbab which represent stricter religious views, others adopt fashionable jilbab, developed by a creative fashion industry, and which express middle-class urban life styles. This introduction of various forms of jilbab from different directions globally marks the diveristy of religious orientation, leaving kerudung and sarung when used as head coverings, as emblems of Islamic traditionalism. These various forms of jilbab are more closed than kerudung. They cover all of the areas considered to be aurat (a shari'ah-based concept about parts of women's body which should be covered. This includes all parts of women's body except face and hands); certain fashionable jilbab are by contrast considered 'sexy' because they are very tight and expose the shape of the bodies of its wearers.
Despite the pressure brought about by the introduction of new styles of clothing, sarung are still a primary marker of the Kindang Islamic community. Sarung are everywhere: they are on women's heads; freshly laundered, they hang on shrubs, fences or washing lines; and they are ubiquituous in rituals. In wedding rituals, sarung are displayed in campaniga (a bamboo 'throne' for brides and grooms from noble families); in family visits prior to weddings, sarung are given as gifts from the bride and groom to their aunts; and during the ritual Qur'anic reading completion prior to a wedding, nine sarung are attached one by one to a bride's back and nine more are used to provide a seat for her. Sarung are key elements of pregnancy rituals. In Kindang, all participants wear sarung in adat meetings that involve royal descendents.
Haji Sanirah always wore a sarung while at home. Like other women in Kindang, she also wore sarung pesta (a quality silk sarung) when she attended a wedding party. Women wear sarung on their heads when they go to their gardens. Returning home, the sarung is used as a sling to carry vegetables and sometimes clove flowers. They can also be used as bath towels and sleeping blankets. The use of the sarung by men was written about in 1785 by Thomas Forrest in his text A Voyage from Calcutta to the Mergui Archipelago:
Sarung have, for a long time, been associated with South Sulawesi Muslims and evoke religious and cosmological structures. Analysing the textile patterns of sarung, Elizabeth Morrell suggests that 'symmetrical quadrate textile motifs' used in the sarung of the Islamic Bugis and Mandar peoples of South Sulawesi, symbolise the 'basic division of the world into wind, water, fire and earth.'[46] Sarung are also the most common items of clothing in Sulawesi cupboards. My landlord had a shelf of sarung in his wardrobe. In my own Muslim family in Java, people have only one or two sarungs. But despite the ubiquity of sarung in Kindang, at the time of my research most of the young women were reluctant to wear them for public events. They regard them as 'the dress of old mothers' (Konjo: bohong ama-ama). This is not to suggest that young women avoid sarung entirely. They wear them in their private activities: taking a bath, studying the Qur'an and sleeping. For public events, including wedding feasts, young women in the village wear busana Muslim (Ind.: Islamic costume, meaning a long sleeved blouse and sometimes trousers rather than sarung) and fashionable head covering (jilbab), by which they can feel pious, modern, fashionable and up-to-date with the recent development of head covering styles that they see every day on television.

The fashionability of jilbab
Cipo'-cipo' cannot be isolated from the development of jilbab. The 1990s witnessed a sudden burst of jilbab onto the Indonesian landscape. Researchers who were present in Indonesia during the 1980s and 1990s often drew attention to this change and to the angst of the religious resurgence they felt in their ethnographic fieldwork. Anna Lowenhaupt Tsing, in her research among environmentalists and women activists in South Kalimantan, for example, expressed her surprise when she observed that a considerable number of activists were wearing 'full tentlike veils'.[47] Perhaps what she meant by 'full tentlike veils' were large-sized jilbab that covered many parts of the body. Similarly, observing the trend for head covering in the early 1990s among young women in an urban Yogyakarta, Nancy J. Smith-Hefner was equally struck by the popularity of the jilbab and its variations of styles. She wrote,
A major observation of Smith-Hefner's research was that, in the 1990s and early 2000s (2001 and 2002), veiling was urban, and had been adopted by young women and the middle class. In the 1970s when she visited Indonesia she found few women studying in secular universities wearing the jilbab.[49] In the 2000s, when Smith-Hefner was in the country again she was surprised by the change. Jilbab were everywhere, particularly among students of secular universities. In 2005, I observed that jilbab and its variations had reached rural areas in South Sulawesi too. Having benefitted from education and integration into the workforce, many women can now buy jilbab of various designs and prices that have been mass-produced to meet the demands of the emerging Muslim middle class.
There is an epistemic shift that should be emphasised with this change. In the early 1990s, Robinson suggests that the jilbab was a sign of 'personal commitment to a more pious style of religious devotion and an embrace of an alternative modernity and cosmopolitanism to the Westernised modernity adopted by the New Order.'[50] In the 2000s, this initial concern for Islamic devoutness shifted to 'a mode of cultural consumption'.[51] With this thought in mind, I cannot accept entirely earlier arguments about the rise of jilbab, which assume that it is a marker of Islamic resurgence and Islamisation,[52] a badge of the Islamists,[53] the symbol of identity, privacy and resistance,[54] or a symbol of Islamist patriarchal oppression.[55] Though I embrace the idea that jilbab marks an Islamic resurgence, the rise of jilbab does not necessarily echo the rise of Islamism. While Islamic resurgence is largely cultural, Islamism is political. The popularity of jilbab, as recent research shows, represents a mixed statement of piety, modernity and fashion.[56] Muslim women wear the jilbab because through it they can express their desire to be pious, modern and fashionable. Wearing jilbab is not necessarily an expression of piety, and can be an expression of life-style. Consuming jilbab does not only mark the commodification of Islamic clothing by industry, but also emphasises 'consumption' as a religious practice through which Muslims realise their Islamic identity.
Thanks to this commodification, Muslim women can now choose the jilbab of their preference, with a range of styles, textile qualities and at prices they can afford. Jilbab can be differentiated by size and colour. Large jilbab, normally with plain colours, intended to cover the body and to make an unalluring impression, represent conservative religious views. This style is popular among female students at secular universities who follow particular transnational Islamic organisations such as Hizbut Tahrir, or local organisations with a transnational orientation such as Wahdah Islamiah and Kesatuan Aksi Mahasiswa Muslim Indonesia (KAMMI, Unity of Indonesian Muslim Student Action). Smaller jilbab, which have eye-catching motifs and colours, usually express more moderate religious beliefs. This style is currently popular among the majority of young women in urban and rural areas.

The most popular form of jilbab between 2006 and 2007 when I conducted my fieldwork was the jilbab Inneke.

The term Inneke refers to the well-known, but previously controversial, actress Inneke Koesherawati. After converting from a hot movie star to a pious actress, Inneke always wore a stylish and beautiful jilbab in her new role as a television soap opera star. While the jilbab segitiga (Ind.: triangle jilbab) has to be tied with a special knot at the chin and its ends cover the body and clothing, the jilbab Inneke is ready-to-wear. It is smaller and its ends are tucked into the woman's outfit (Figure 5) so the beautiful motifs and embroidery of the woman's clothing is visible.

Figure 5. Oma and her Jilbab Inneke. Photographed by Moh Yasir Alimi, Bulukumba, 2 March 2007.

The growth of middle-class Muslims and the presence of jilbab in soap operas has encouraged fashion designers to produce various styles of busana Muslim (Muslim clothing, usually understood as a long blouse over loose pants) and jilbab, making jilbab-production a big industry. Festivals and the bourgeoning of the industry have made Indonesia the haven of Islamic fashion. There are many kinds of styles and motifs that can satisfy women's desire for fashion. Because of the various styles and motifs offered by the market, young women, like Oma (Haji Sanirah's daughter), have to pay particular attention to the combination of dress and head covering they choose. Oma told me:
Oma can buy cheap but expensive-looking veils in the traditional market in Bulukumba, far away from the centres of consumerism that are easily found in big cities. Oma does not only wear triangle jilbab and kerudung in formal situations and weddings. She wears them on other occasions, and only wears sarung when she is at home to protect herself from the cold temperatures of Garuntungan. Young people in rural areas are attracted to the headscarf through exposure to television and to urban experiences. They have been to school or university in town, and when they return home, they have introduced the new headscarf to their area. Headscarves allow young women to feel more religious, modern, beautiful and up-to-date with the fashions they see on television.
Oma's life narrative illustrates the dramatic rise of the jilbab in Indonesia since the 1990s. Her photograph collection reveals its effect on wedding ceremonies, the most important ritual in South Sulawesi. Brides began to wear jilbab at this time, and the women in the reception line at wedding ceremonies began to combine their transparent blouse (baju bodo), the traditional dress for wedding ceremonies, with jilbab. Pictures of pesantren students taken between the 1970s and 1990s also showed the change.[58] In the 1970s, the students still used the long shawl (kerudung) worn loosely over their heads, leaving parts of the hair, ears and neck exposed. But in 2005, students of the same pesantren wore jilbab. This headscarf transformation also took place among the wives of public civil servants. I recall many pictures in the daily newspaper, Fajar, that revealed that in the 1980s women left their hair exposed in public gatherings. Such a situation is impossible to imagine now. The wives of high-ranking public servants now use head covering, and the choice of styles becomes the informal topic of conversation at social gatherings. Women now are very enthusiastic about wearing busana Muslim as a means of demonstrating that they are modern, pious and fashionable from head to toe. Of course, jilbab has 'heavy religious meaning' through which women express piety—as emphasised by Lyn Parker in her analysis of the jilbab by-laws in Padang.[59] However, key to jilbab-wearing is the production and experience of Islam. Muslim women achieve their 'Islam-ness' by consuming jilbab and its variety of styles.

The effect on cipo'-cipo'
The commodification of jilbab and the Islamic resurgence has had a double effect on hajj head covering. First, religious commoditisation is often assumed to be superficial, but it does not hinder the possibility of what Brian Turner calls, 'a deeper emphasis on self-understanding, self-awareness and self-reflexity.'[60] It renews young people's understanding of women's aurat and Islamic awareness. Young educated female hajis now question the use of haji head covering. Haji Ada (pseudonym) is an example. She finished her degree in a Makassar-based institute of language teaching and is now teaching in her alma mater. She performed her hajj in 2004 before she got married. Though she is a haji, she usually does not wear cipo'-cipo'. She thinks that it does not cover her aurat properly. Her mother and neighbours question her reluctance to wear cipo'-cipo'. As she explained,
Facing these pressures, Haji Ada often wears cipo'-cipo' when she is at her parents' home, but she wears the jilbab on campus and when she attends wedding parties. Ada's attitude is understandable. A student of an Australian university, she is an intellectual woman who has travelled widely. Cipo'-cipo' is a local practice, which she deems to be not flexible enough for mobility within several cultural contexts. Commodification also strengthens cipo'-cipo'. Haji Sanirah has more choices of headscarves she can combine with cipo'-cipo'. By covering her cipo'-cipo' with a colourful and transparent headscarf on certain occasions, Haji Sanirah can satisfy her concern for aesthetics, respond to local dynamics and remain faithful to the expectations of the local community.

Malu: the localising discourse of jilbab
As suggested above, the rise of jilbab has a global dimension: the rise of Islamic fashion was triggered by the global concern for more 'Islamic visibility'. In Göle's words, the jilbab gives Islam 'new forms of visibility … as it has made its way in the public avenues of both Muslim and European societies.'[62] While operating as a universalised expression of piety and Islamic visibility, jilbab can also carry with it a 'localized reference to tradition, politics, class and status as well as public and personal ethics.'[63]
In my observations, the jilbab is successful in South Sulawesi because it takes on local cultural meanings. Many Muslim adults advise young women to wear jilbab in order to have malu (a sense of shame, propriety). Malu grows out of siri', a powerful Bugis concept of both self esteem and a family's social position in which women are its centre.[64] About siri', Robinson writes,
Wearing head covering for women was being conceptualised as being part of siri', the outward expression of a family or individual's social position. In fact siri', as illustrated by Robinson above, is a concept larger than clothing; it is 'an attribute of social groups and individuals.'[66] However, as with malu, it has been used specifically as a force for gender construction. The distinction between siri' and malu lies in the way the later has a strong gender connotation. During my fieldwork, I often found women and men citing malu as the justification for the application of the regulation requiring students to wear jilbab at primary school level beginning from grade two. While cipo'-cipo' is culturally strong because it is embedded within the spirit of siri', jilbab derives its value from the discourse of malu, the gender discourse associated with siri'. In the next section, I will discuss the jilbab regulations (perda) and particular motives that spurred the legislation of busana Muslim and the response of Haji Sanirah.

Jilbab Perda, public morality and shari'ah at the district level
Decentralisation has orchestrated a wave of 'identity reinvention' at the district level across Indonesia. In 1999, the spirit was enveloped within the term kembali kepada kearifan lokal or return to local wisdom. The Bulukumba district reinvented its identity as an Islamic region; the district produced four local regulations (perda/peraturan daerah) purportedly based on shari'ah. By this means, they sought to change the appearance of Bulukumba and create a truly Islamic district. The regulations comprised: a requirement for Qur'anic literacy for brides, grooms and school students; requirements for Islamic dress (busana Muslim) mainly directed at women; the banning of alcoholic beverages; and a regulation on alms payments. The district government decorated its main streets and avenues with Islamic calligraphy and the district offices used Arabic letters on its signage. After the adoption of these four controversial regulations, Bulukumba declared itself as the 'gate of Islamic shari'ah' (Gerbang Syari'at Islam).
Besides changing the face of the district, the Bulukumba government sought to change women's public appearance. They required every female student (from junior high school to university) and every female government officer to wear a head covering. A staff member of the district said that this limited application to schools and government offices was a trial before the initiative was applied to the whole community. However, the district head often stopped women not wearing a jilbab in his district and gave them a one of the jilbab he routinely carried in his car.
Of the three ways in which the Islamic public sphere is shaped by policies that concern women—'women's visibility, women's mobility, and women's voices'[67]—in Indonesia the focus is largely on women's visibility. What happened in Bulukumba gives weight to Göle's statement about the public sphere in an Islamic community. As she wrote, 'In contrast to the formation of public sphere in the West, characterised initially as a bourgeois sphere that excluded the working classes and women, in Muslim contexts of modernity, women function as a pivotal sign/site in the making and representing of the public sphere'.[68] It reflects C. Becker's claim that 'men rely on women to provide the group with symbols of their identity.'[69]
Many schools in Bulukumba expanded the application of the by-laws for the reproduction of Islamic school culture. Nira Yuval-Davis described such processes as 'the cultural reproduction of the nation' beyond women's assumed primary role as 'the biological reproduction of the nation.'[70] Though the dress regulation applied only from Junior High School to Higher Education, several principals of primary schools soon obliged their female students, beginning from year two, to wear headscarves. As the primary school uniform in the first years is a short-sleeved white dress and short red skirt (or light-brown dress and dark-brown skirt), the addition of a headscarf left only the hands and feet or legs of the girls exposed.
In addition, schools also began to enforce dress regulations on male students. Teachers in a popular public senior high school in Bulukumba suggested, 'every Friday, every male student has to wear Muslim dress and a black cap (kopiah). Every day every female student wears jilbab.'[71] Students at year two should begin to wear jilbab to nurture malu within themselves.
However, in practice, many students wore jilbab when they arrived at the school gate and took off their headscarves when they left for home. In a similar vein, in 2006, a daily newspaper reported that one after another, female government officers had stopped wearing their headscarves two years after the issue of the by-laws.[72] Most of them knew they were breaching the regulation but they argued that the high temperatures in the non-air conditioned government offices gave them little choice. Others used different reasoning: they thought that working in an office was like staying at home with muhrim, or relatives, with whom there is no obligation to wear a jilbab. Others emphasised the importance of politeness (kesopanan) as the requirement for being Islamic. In conversation with me, they argued that as long as the dresses they wear express politeness, they feel they have met the requirements of the faith.
Patabai Pabokori, the head of the district until 2005, and the mastermind behind these Islamic regulations, gave examples of the advantages of wearing a jilbab for his family. He said that before she began wearing jilbab, his wife took a long time to get ready for festivities. 'She had to go to a beauty salon and a hairdresser, and wear this and that, but now she can do everything by herself.'[73] The adoption of the jilbab, he argued, can save time and money. 'A headscarf is like having a beauty salon in your home,' he said when I interviewed him, a statement he has often made in seminars he attended in Makassar.[74] That is why, with the emergence of clothing regulation, the focus of beauty has moved from the appearance of hair to that of clothing.
Another reason Patabai gave for the adoption of the jilbab was the issue of public morality. In 2002, Bulukumba, like other districts in South Sulawesi, was shaken by the emergence of cadoleng-doleng—a type of striptease show where dancers expose their breasts—which had become popular entertainment during wedding feasts. This form of entertainment that originated in Sidrap, around seven-hours drive from Bulukumba, has now been banned in most districts.
Anxiety about cadoleng-doleng manifested the deeper concern about morality related to the increasing flow of ideas, images and people, which accompanied the information technology revolution during the latter years of the New Order and more intensively after the collapse of the Suharto regime. The proliferation of TV stations and the booming sales of mobile phones, coupled with the weakening of government control, produced a feeling of insecurity about identity. In Bulukumba, one of the responses was the introduction of dress regulations for women, which also regulated the dress requirements for elekton singers. Elekton is the show involving a single organ or keyboard played during a wedding feast, currently popular in South Sulawesi.
Patabai perhaps realised that there are many forms of head covering, some of which expose rather than obscure the shape of the body. He said 'the most important thing at this early stage is that Muslim women wear jilbab, whatever its form'[75] (that is not kerudung, sarung or cipo'-cipo'.) For Patabai, wearing tight jilbab, normally called sensual jilbab, that expose the shape of a woman's body is still better than not wearing jilbab. The idealised dress style, however, includes 'long-sleeved tops that are loose-fitting and not see-through, a long skirt or pants that are not tight, and a headscarf that covers the hair, ears and neck.'[76] For Patabai, head covering can be used as social currency to reclaim the authority of the state after its systematic weakening in the reform period.
A 2007 survey by Komnas Perempuan (the National Commission for Women) showed that thirteen of the forty-eight shari'ah-inspired religious by-laws directly addressed women. In 2009, Melissa Crouch found that there were 160 shari'ah-like perda in twenty-six provinces across Indonesia, and many targeted women.[77] Tangerang (West Java) does not allow women in public streets after 10 P.M., even if they are waiting for buses, otherwise they may be identified as prostitutes. In Padang, West Sumatera, the jilbab is compulsory for school students [78] and in Riau the Bupati urged female staff to wear jilbab.[79] These districts and provinces have reinvented Islam as their identity, and therefore regulated the obligation to wear jilbab as the implementation of that identity. In other words, in the reinvention of Islam as identity, jilbab is reinvented as a district identity. This reinvention is ambivalent because what is initially regarded as authentic identity is merely a product of the 1990s Islamic headscarf explosion. What is perceived to be old, indigenous and authentic is in fact only recently constructed.[80]
Besides schools and government offices, in Bulukumba these dress regulations have also been applied in twelve desa Muslim (Muslim villages). These villages are obliged to enforce all four of the new regulations: Muslim dress, compulsory contribution of alms (zakat mal), Qur'anic literacy before marriage and a ban on alcohol. Non-Islamic villages only apply the last two. Muslim dress in Garuntungan takes the form of a white jilbab, known as jilbab perda. Garuntungan, Haji Sanirah's village, has been appointed as one of these twelve Muslim villages since 2003. What are Haji Sanirah's responses to the shari'ah initiative in general and jilbab perda in particular?

Haji Sanirah's response
Overall, Haji Sanirah supports the 'shari'ahisation' of her district. For ordinary women like her, shari'ah is a sacred construct, revealed by God. Though its principles are not always adhered to in everyday life, shari'ah should be respected. From her perspective, the desire to challenge the legitimacy of shari'ah law (in this case, as manifest in local regulations), as liberal Muslims do, is a form of muddled thinking. She was proud when her village was selected as one of the desa Muslim. For her, this was an elevation in status: becoming more Islamic and more religious. Haji Sanirah also supports the obligation to wear jilbab in her village because covering the body, she said, is necessary for every Muslim woman in order to have malu—the feeling of shame. 'Even if Muslim women only have underwear and they can cover their body with underwear, it is necessary that woman veil their body with that underwear,' Haji Sanirah said.

Figure 6. Haji Sanirah in her Perda Jilbab. Photographed by Moh Yasir Alimi, Bulukumba, 3 April 2007.
She emphasised Muslim women's obligation to wear a headscarf. However, this does not mean that she accepts the novel dress codes defined by the district administration. Rather, she believes in the existing widely accepted practices of Islamic head covering. The shari'ah regulation requires every woman in the village to wear a headscarf, but Haji Sanirah insists on wearing the hajj cipo'-cipo'. Haji Sanirah wears cipo'-cipo' on almost every public occasion, such as attending wedding festivities. She also challenged the notion of 'women's public space' introduced by an element in the shari'ah council in the district. The shari'ah council is a body of religious leaders representing Islamic groups in Bulukumba, elected by the administration to develop and evaluate the application of Islamic by-laws in the district. One element in the council introduced the law that women gather in their village mosques for dhuhur (mid-day) prayer to promulgate Islam. This proposal was, however, challenged by many local religious leaders and by Haji Sanirah herself as being insensitive to the rural rhythm of agricultural life in which women and men are still in the fields at that hour. Crouch has commented that in general, the shari'ah-based local regulations have undue effects on vulnerable groups such as women, minorities and followers of local religions.[81]
Despite her challenge to the shari'ah discourse, Haji Sanirah has made several compromises. She bought a jilbab blusukan, a kind of jilbab which can be put on simply by pulling it over the head. Before the village was designated as desa Islam, she usually wore her cipo'-cipo' to her garden, but now she goes in her jilbab. In contrast with her colourful cipo'-cipo', her jilbab is plain, either white or black. 'This is my perda dress,' said Haji Sanirah, showing her white jilbab. 'The advantage of wearing this is that it shields me from the cold and mosquitos in the garden.' Haji Sanirah never uses this jilbab on other occasions. At home she wears cipo'-cipo', and at the mosque she wears the prayer clothing (mukena) which covers her head and body. At festivities and at the rituals she conducts she wears cipo'-cipo'.
For Haji Sanirah, cipo'-cipo' already covers aurat (parts of the body required to be covered). She accepts sarung, cipo'-cipo' and kerudung (long scarf) as acceptable head coverings to conceal aurat, even though they can expose her neck and the front of her hair. When I asked why she accepts these head coverings, she replied that they are modest and have been approved by the religious teachers in her Islamic boarding school. She does not feel it is necessary to cover the hands and feet.
Haji Sanirah also challenges the ban on beautiful wedding attire promoted by some modernist activists. In South Sulawesi, Wahdah Islamiah (a Makassar-based Islamic organisation) and Darul Istiqamah (a Maros-based Islamic boarding school) are known for their strict religious interpretation of the dress codes. These activists normally wear large black or white clothes that cover their body and do not expose its shape. Black and white are both regarded as non-attractive colours These organisations questions the customary elaborate wedding festivities and the use of colourful wedding attire for brides and grooms. They suggest that the customary bride's costume does not meet the requirements of Islamic head covering: thick, unalluring and not exposing hair, neck and upper chest.
Countering this view, Haji Sanirah suggests that the Qur'an allows for the use of beautiful clothes for both men and women. She is referring to the Qur'anic verse: 7:26. 'O children of Adam! Indeed, We have bestowed upon you from on high [the knowledge of making] garments to cover your nakedness, and as a thing of beauty: but the garment of God-consciousness is the best of all. Herein lies a message from God, so that man might take it to heart.' That is why she insists, 'Islam allows women to be faithful and beautiful.'
Because of this belief and the living practices in South Sulawesi, she related how she challenged the family of the groom at one local wedding because they had conservative religious views and requested that the bride not wear traditional wedding attire. 'A wedding is a party and a beautiful day for the bride and groom. It should be celebrated with colourful dress. I challenged them because as the aunt I had a right over the bride too. Finally, the bride and groom celebrated in the traditional way. They wore beautiful attire.'[82] Many local provisioners of the hired wedding costumes (locally known as indo bunting) agreed with Haji Sarinah's stance.
This debate over whether the bride and groom should wear beautiful attire is very typical of religious disputes in South Sulawesi. Because of her limited knowledge on the plurality of Qur'anic reasoning, Haji Sanirah used accepted practice to defend her position. And in this area she has a lot of experience. Therefore, when her district introduced perda jilbab (the regulation requiring the wearing of jilbab), it is not surprising that it did not change her mind about her appearance in formal settings like wedding feasts. She wears cipo'-cipo', but she complements this with a transparent kerudung (scarf) to cover her ears, hair and neck. However, her cipo'-cipo' is still visible. The wearing of a cipo'-cipo' fulfills her concern about being faithful, beautiful and authoritative in the local context. Haji Sanirah realises that the jilbab can be fascinating for women, but to her, it is not for a haji. Jilbab is unable to express local concerns for hierarchy and to show that one is a haji.

Figure 7. Haji Sanirah and her transparent kerudung over her cipo'-cipo'. Photographed by Moh Yasir Alimi, Bulukumba, 3 April 2007.
Haji Sanirah's corporeal and visual strategy for engaging with shari'ah, is different from that of her youngest son. An activist from an Islamic organisation in Makassar and trained in liberal Islam, her son is able to draw a gender-sensitive synthesis of the Qur'an, the sayings of the prophet (hadith), the theory of Islamic jurisprudence (ushul fiqh) and the discourses of human rights. Having graduated from an Islamic State University and Islamic boarding schools, he is able to access 'discursive arguments' developed by progressive Islamic thinkers such as Abou Zaid and Said al-Asymawi, whose book about the jilbab has already been translated for Indonesian audiences.[83] As a representative of the new Muslim generation that has become proficient in contemporary humanitarian sciences and Islamic legal jurisprudence, he can show the non-obligatory nature of jilbab in Islamic scholarship—a form of argument with which Haji Sanirah is less familiar and which she finds harder to imagine. For her, head covering is a must. Her repudiation of shari'ah formalisation is not as clear-cut as that of liberal Muslims; but for her (and many women in South Sulawesi) their position is clear, if not based in these modern forms of argument.
What is often overlooked here is that Haji Sanirah's strategy is no less effective than that of her son. In the context of South Sulawesi, where 'deconstructing' shari'ah can be sensitive, Haji Sanirah's strategy proves to be very effective. She embodies what Bowen argued about the unique relationship Muslim adherents have to religious texts, 'ignoring the rule is much easier than rewriting it.'[84] Indeed Haji Sanirah's decision to ignore or silence the rule allowed her practice of head covering to be both locally meaningful and respectful of the sacredness of the scripture. Her strategy does not alienate her from local cultural contexts. The liberal Muslims in Indonesia rarely acknowledge, much less adopt, this indigenous non-discursive strategy in their critical engagement with 'shariahisation' of the public sphere. Instead, they tend to challenge the formalisation of shari'ah head on. But such a strategy is more effective at the national level than it is locally. In this debate, there should be greater recognition of popular and non-discursive approaches as those exercised by Haji Sanirah. In fact, the bedrock of Indonesian tolerance is not discursive argumentation (a recent innovation), but the diverse totality of practices already available to ordinary women in their everyday lives.
For women like Haji Sanirah, Islam is experienced as a tradition of inculcation, a collection of non-reflexive actions, rituals and material culture and mundane routines, rather than as a tradition of discourse, which presents itself in doctrine and legalistic forms. For her, Islam is realised through everyday non-reflexive practices rather than through discourses. Approaches that measures local responses to shari'ah formalisation solely through the amount of discursive Quranic-based criticism (as embraced by most liberal Muslim activists) fail to recognise the Bulukumba Muslim women's distinctive response, which is expressed through the practices of everyday life, not directly articulated and located at the practical level of consciousness.

Review and conclusion
To recapitulate, I have discussed Haji Sanirah's brief life history, the importance of pilgrimage for women, the local meaning of cipo'-cipo', and the new fashionability of the jilbab in the context of the 'shari'ahisation' of Indonesia's public sphere. I also have explored Haji Sanirah's response to the male-defined shari'ah adopted in the district. Muslim women of contemporary South Sulawesi are exposed to several styles of head covering, including new forms encouraged by the multiplicity of Islamic discourses, and the dynamics of fashion. Sarung is popular among elders, cipo'-cipo' among the hajis, and jilbab among young people. This diversity of head covering poses a challenge to the regulated preference of the district government for the jilbab. The narrative of Haji Sanirah illustrates the fact that Muslim women do not automatically embrace forms of head covering which are represented as the direct embodiment of the scripture. Muslims find their reference point for Islamic clothing not only from scripture, but also from local meanings and the dynamics of fashion. Thus, shari'ah in a Muslim's life is only one of many sources of knowledge and power—albeit an important one. This is not to argue against the notion that religion is the soul arbiter of Bugis Makassar culture, but rather to suggest that shari'ah as discursive and legal doctrine is not the entirety of religion.
Cipo'-cipo' survives through the appeal of its materiality, its aesthetics, its importance within the local system and its ability to adapt to changes in fashion. At a time when religious discourses are in ascendancy, this distinctive head covering helps Haji Sanirah not only to reproduce her authority in ritual tradition, but also to engage the 'shari'ahisation' in the public sphere. She recognises the importance of shari'ah, but refuses to accept the models of shari'ah proposed by the administration. Haji Sanirah accommodated the new regulations by adopting a transparent head covering to cover her cipo'-cipo'. This clothing strategy illustrates that Islam is not only a tradition of discourse, but also a tradition of inculcation. Exploring the non-discursive engagement expands our understanding about what we can call Islam and women's experience of clothing. It also helps to expand the possibility of feminist practice in an Islamic context. Finally, the experiences of Haji Sanirah as well as many other women indicate that cipo'-cipo' is not only for covering her head or displaying her hajj: it is a head covering to live by.

Endnotes
[1] This article is a revised version of the paper presented at the Ninth International Women in Asia Conference held at the University of Queensland, 29 September–1 October 2008. Thanks to the conference participants particularly Prof. Kathryn Robinson for her insightful comments to improve this article.

[2] John Bowen, Why the French Don't Like Headscarves: Islam, the State and Public Space, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006; Nancy J. Smith-Hefner, 'Javanese women and the veil in post-Soeharto Indonesia,' in The Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 66, no. 2 (May 2007): 389–420; Johan Lindquist, 'Veils and ecstasy: negotiating shame in the Indonesian borderlands,' in Ethnos, vol. 69, no. 4 (December 2004): 487–508; and Suzanne Brenner, 'Reconstructing self and society: Javanese Muslim women and "the veil”,' in American Ethnologist, vol. 23, no. 4 (1996): 673–97. Lyn Parker, 'To cover the aurat: veiling, sexual morality and agency among the Muslim Minangkabau, Indonesia, in Intersections: Gender and Sexuality in Asia and the Pacific, Issue 16 (March 2008), URL: http://intersections.anu.edu.au/issue16/parker.htm, site accessed 4 June 2011.

[3] Kathryn Robinson, Gender, Islam and Democracy in Indonesia, London and New York: Routledge, 2007; John R. Bowen, 'Qur'an, justice, gender: internal debates in Indonesian Islamic Jurisprudence,' History of Religion, vol. 38, no. 1, Islam and Law (August 1998): 52–78.

[4] Robinson, Gender, Islam and Democracy in Indonesia, p. 29.

[5] Bowen, 'Qur'an, justice, gender,' pp. 52–78.

[6] John R. Bowen, Muslims through Discourse: Religion and Ritual in Gayo Society, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1993; Bowen, Islam, Law and Equality in Indonesia: an Anthropology of Public Reasoning, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003.

[7] Robinson, Gender, Islam and Democracy in Indonesia, p. 29.

[8] Talal Asad, The Idea of an Anthropology of Islam, Washington, D.C.: Center for Contemporary Arab Studies, Georgetown Universty, 1986, p. 16.

[9] Despite speaking different languages, South Sulawesi Muslims—Bugis, Makassar and Mandar—share similar ritual practices regarding house-building and weddings as well as myths around pilgrimage to tanah suci.

[10] M. Shaleh Putuhena, Historiografi Haji Indonesia, Yogyakarta: Lembaga Kajian Islam dan Sosial, 2007, p. 138.

[11] Abdul Kadir Munsyi, 'Kisah Pelayaran Abdullah ke Mekah' (The story of Abdullah's voyage to Mecca), in Amin Sweeney, Karya Lengkap Abdullah bin Abdulkadir Munsyi (The Complete Works of Abdullah bin Abdulkadir Munsyi), Jakarta: Kepustakaan Populer Gramedia/École française d'Extrême-Orient, 2005, p. 80. Cited in Putuhena, Historigrafi Haji Indonesia, p. 137.

[12] 'Antrian Jamaah Haji' (The waiting list of pilgrims), in Tribun Timur, 6 April 2007.

[13] Interview with Haji Maesaroh, Bulukumba, 12 January 2007.

[14] Susan B. Millar, Bugis Weddings: Rituals of Social Location in Modern Indonesia, Berkeley: Center for South and Southeast Asia Studies, University of California at Berkeley, 1989.

[15] Indonesian pilgrimages are organised by the government and pilgrims depart in orderly groups. They stay in a special dormitory specially prepared for haji called 'hajj embarcation' while they are waiting their turn for departure.

[16] Martin Rossler, 'Introduction to authority and enterprise,' in Authority and Enterprise in South Sulawesi, ed. G. Acciaioli, K. van Dijk and R. Tol, Amsterdam: KITLV, 2003, pp. 1–14, p. 7.

[17] Interview with Haji Sanirah, Bulukumba, 10 January 2007.

[18] This pejorative term is used to label beliefs deemed not to originate in the sunnah.

[19] I have chatted with Haji Sanirah about various issues. She usually spoke flowingly and determinedly, including about the difficulties she experienced during Kahar Muzakkar's atrocities. But when recounting the disputes that took place during the wedding ceremony of her son, she often stopped and took a deep breath.

[20] Interview with Karaeng Haji Ismail, Bulukumba, 15 January 2007.

[21] Kathryn Robinson, 'History, houses and regional identities,' in the Australian Journal of Anthropology, vol. 8, no. 1 (1997): 71–88. See also Kathryn Robinson, 'Traditions of house building in South Sulawesi,' in Living Through Histories, ed. K. Robinson and M. Paeni, Canberra: Department of Anthropology, Research School of Pacific and Asian Studies, the Australian National University, 1998, pp. 168–95.

[22] Millar, Bugis Weddings: Rituals of Social Location in Modern Indonesia.

[23] Putuhena, Historiografi Haji Indonesia.

[24] Putuhena, Historiografi Haji Indonesia.

[25] Interview with Haji Sanirah, Bulukumba, 10 January 2007.

[26] Interview with Haji Sanirah, Bulukumba, 10 January 2007.

[27] QS, 24: 31.

[28] Sunan Abu Dawud, Hadith no 4092 on Clothing (Kitab Al-Libas) on searchtruth.com, http://www.searchtruth.com/book_display.php?book=32&translator=3&start=0&number=4088, accessed 5 November 2012.

[29] The debates about jilbab can be seen in Quraish Shihab, Jilbab Pakaian Wanita Muslimah: Pandangan Ulama Masa Lalu dan Cendekiawan Kontemporer, Jakarta: Lentera Hati, 2004; Muhammad Said al-Asymawi, Kritik Atas Jilbab, Jakarta: Jaringan Islam Liberal dan The Asia Foundation, 2003.

[30] Public Discussion on Shari'ah Law in South Sulawesi, Makassar, 25 June 2007.

[31] Interview with Haji Sanirah, Bulukumba, 10 January 2007.

[32] DI TII (Darul Islam Tentara Islam Indonesia) is an armed movement that sought to implement Islamic law in Indonesia. In South Sulawesi, the rebellion was led by Kahar Muzakkar. Despite the ideological objective to create an Islamic state, the emergence of DI TII in South Sulawesi did not begin from religious or ideological motives. Rather, it was derived from the dissatisfaction of ex-guerilla fighters in the province with Jakarta. Jakarta would not accommodate the fighters in South Sulawesi becomming part of the national army of the new Indonesia after it had become an independent nation. See Anhar Gonggong, Abdul Qahhar Mudzakkar: Fari Patriot Hingga Pemberontak (Abdul Qahhar Mudzakkar: From a Patriot to a Rebel), Jakarta: Grassindo, 1992.

[33] Interview with Haji Sanirah, Bulukumba, 10 January 2007.

[34] Guliz Ger and Ozlem Sandicki, 'Aesthetics, ethics and politics of the Turkish headscarf,' in Clothing as Material Culture, ed. D. Miller and S. Kuchler, New York and Oxford: Berg, 2005, pp. 61–85.

[35] Fadwa El-Gundi, Veil: Modesty, Privacy, and Resistance, London: Berg, 1999, p. 14.

[36] Daniel Miller, 'Introduction,' in Clothing as Material Culture, ed. D. Miller and S. Kuchler, Oxford and New York: Berg, 2005, pp. 1–20, p. 1.

[37] Robinson, 'History, houses and regional identity.'

[38] Moh Yasir Alimi, 'Inculcating Islam: the public sphere and the Islamic tradition of South Sulawesi,' PhD thesis, Canberra: the Australian National University, 2009.

[39] Millar, Bugis Weddings.

[40] Nilüfer Göle, 'Islam in public: new visibilities and new imaginaries,' in Public Culture, vol. 14, no. 1 (2002): 173–90, p. 183.

[41] Bowen, Muslims through Discourse: Religion and Ritual in Gayo Society.

[42] John R. Bowen, 'On scriptural essentialism and ritual variation: Muslim sacrifice in Sumatra and Morocco,' in American Ethnologist, vol. 19, no. 4 (1992): 656–71.

[43] Smith-Hefner, 'Javanese women and the veil.'

[44] Kathryn Robinson, 'Indonesian women: from order Baru to Reformasi,' in Tradition, Modernity and Globalization, ed. L. Edwards and M. Roces, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2000, pp. 139–65.

[45] Thomas Forrest, A Voyage from Calcutta to the Mergui Archipelago, London: J. Robson, 1792, p. 80, cited in Christian Pelras, The Bugis, Cambridge, Mass.: Blackwell Publishers, 1996, p. 222.

[46] Elizabeth Morrell, 'Symbolism, spatiality and social order,' in Living Through History, ed. Kathryn Robinson and M. Paeni, Canberra: Department of Anthropology, Research School of Pacific and Asian Studies, The Australian National University, 1998, pp. 151–67.

[47] Anna Lowenhaupt Tsing, Friction: An Ethnography of Global Connection, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005, p. 237.

[48] Smith-Hefner 'Javanese Women and the Veil,' p. 412.

[49] In the same year, Vallerie J. Hull, conducting research in rural Java, did not report anything about jilbab in rural Java. Smith-Hefner, 'Javanese Women and the Veil.' See also Valerie J. Hull, 'Fertility, socioeconomic status and the position of women in a Javanese Village,' PhD Thesis, Canberra: the Australian National University, 1975.

[50] Robinson, Gender and Democracy in Indonesia, p. 172.

[51] Rachmah Ida, 'Muslim women and contemporary veiling in Indonesian sinetron,' in Indonesian Islam in a New Era: How Women Negotiate Their Identities, ed. S. Blackburn, B.J. Smith and S. Syamsiyatun, Monash: Monash University Press, 1999, pp. 47–68, p. 47.

[52] Lyn Parker, 'Uniform jilbab,' in Inside Indonesia, vol. 83 (July–September 2005), online: http://www.insideindonesia.org/weekly-articles/uniform-jilbab, accessed 5 November 2012.

[53] Nilüfer Göle, 'The gendered nature of the public sphere' in Public Culture, vol. 10, no. 1 (1997): 61–81.

[54] Fadwa El-Gundi, Veil: Modesty, Privacy, and Resistance, London: Berg, 1999.

[55] Marnia Lazreg, Questioning the Veil: Open Letters to Muslim Women, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2008.

[56] Ida, 'Muslim women and contemporary veiling in Indonesian sinetron'; Nancy J. Smith-Hefner, 'Javanese women and the veil'; Robinson, Gender, Islam and Democracy in Indonesia.

[57] Interview with Oma, 4 March 2007.

[58] I obtained these photos from the archive of Pesantren Urwatul Wusqa, in Sidrap.

[59] Parker, 'To cover the aurat,' paragraph 60.

[60] Brian Turner, 'Introduction: mapping to the sociology of religion' in The New Blackwell Companion to the Sociology of Religion, ed. Turner, Singapore: Wiley Blackwell, 2010, pp. 1–29, p. 11.

[61] Interview with Haji Ada, Makassar, 2 March 2007.

[62] Nilüfer Göle, 'Islam in public,' p. 173. Explaining this Islamic visibility, Göle writes:
[63] Smith-Heffner, 'Javanese women and the veil,' p. 389.

[64] Robinson, Gender, Islam and Democracy in Indonesia, p. 28

[65] Robinson, Gender, Islam and Democracy in Indonesia, p. 28.

[66] Robinson, Gender, Islam and Democracy in Indonesia, p.28.

[67] Farzaneh Milani, Veils and Words: The Emerging Voices of Iranian Women Writers, Syracuse, N.Y.: Syracuse University Press, 1992, p., 238, cited in Göle, 'The gendered nature of the public sphere,' p. 61.

[68] Göle, 'Islam in Public,' p. 184.

[69] C. Becker, 'Gender, identity and Moroccan weddings: the adornment of the Ait Khabbash Berber bride and groom,' in Wedding Dress Across Cultures, ed. H.B. Foster and D.C. Johnson, Oxford and New York: Berg, 2003, pp. 105–22, p. 106.

[70] Nira Yuval-Davis, Gender and Nation, London and New Delhi: Sage Publication, 1999.

[71] Interview with school teachers, Bulukumba, 8 February 2007.

[72] 'Perda syari'at yang mulai pudar,' in Fajar, 2 August 2006.

[73] Interview with Patabai Pabokori, Makassar, 20 March 2007

[74] Interview with Patabai Pabokori, Makassar, 20 March 2007.

[75] 'Jilbab wajib di Bulukumba,' in Pedoman Rakyat, 28 November 2004.

[76] Melissa Crouch, 'Religious regulations in Indonesia: failing vulnerable groups,' Review of Indonesian and Malaysian Affairs, vol. 43, no. 2 (2009): 53–103, p. 60.

[77] Crouch, 'Religious regulations in Indonesia.'

[78] Parker, 'To cover the aurat.'

[79] L. Setyawati, 'Adat, Islam and womanhood in the reconstruction of Riau Malay identity,' in Indonesian Islam in a New Era: How Women Negotiate their Muslim Identities, ed. S. Blackburn, B J. Smith and S. Syamsiyatun, Monash: Monash University Clayton, 2008, pp. 69–96.

[80] Setyawati, 'Adat, Islam and womanhood,' p. 92.

[81] Crouch, 'Religious regulations in Indonesia.'

[82] Interview with Haji Sanirah, Bulukumba, 10 March 2007.

[83] Muhammad Said al-Asymawi, Kritik Atas Jilbab, Jakarta: Jaringan Islam Liberal dan The Asia Foundation, 2003.

[84] Bowen, 'Qur'an, justice, gender,' p. 76.

Published with the support of Gender and Cultural Studies, School of Culture, History and Language, College of Asia and the Pacific, The Australian National University.
URL: http://intersections.anu.edu.au/issue30/alimi.htm
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