Vision and Gendered Space: Making Women Invisible in Yogyakarta Sultanate Palace

Gender and Vision in Islamic Tradition

Throughout the world, vision is controlled through spaces that are arranged according to cultural values and in order to construct differences. Space is hierarchical through what is revealed and what remains curtailed to either grant or deny physical and visual access. In the construction of this social order, architecture plays a critical role. The visual organization of buildings and the built environment as a whole guides our gaze to differentiate insiders from outsiders, the most respected from the common, and the privileged to the underprivileged. Architectural elements, such as walls, doors, screens, stairs, and columns, direct our perception of what to see, where to move, and toward which place we may or may not access.

A number of scholars in various fields have studied how space is manipulated to control the spectators’ vision. In the context of ancient Rome, for example, Gleason (1994) demonstrates that Pompey’s portico (built in 1 BCE) was attached to the theater building not only to provide protection but, more important, to choreograph their visual perception. The built environment is also often designed to facilitate surveillance in a social context, as shown in Mitchell’s work (1992) on 19th-century Egypt. Employing Foucault’s panoptic model, Mitchell examines the role of visual signs of behavior in the disciplinary system of colonial Egypt. He points out that the disciplinary order had been used to control the different social and political aspects of society. The order appeared to express the achievement of “intellectual orderliness, social tidiness, and physical cleanliness” to enhance the representation of Egypt as a newly emerging modern state and an obedient colonial subject. The ordering was also accompanied by the method of disciplining, which he calls “enframing.” This is described as a technique for controlling members of society through schooling, village remodeling, time keeping, and the new order of the army. This resulted in the society members’ submission to the authoritative power operating in the system (Mitchell, 1992).

Similar enframing occurs in the West where feminist critiques position women as the object of a gaze and men as the traditional owners and controller of the gaze. A key work in this respect was Mulvey’s (1975) use of psychoanalysis theory which set out to examine the way the societal patriarchic subconsciousness shapes people’s experience in watching movies. Mulvey argues that preexisting social patterns cause viewers of Hollywood movies to see women as passive objects of the gaze. Whether the actual viewer was male or female, the position is always gendered and male. She further concludes that the gaze or the pleasure of looking at an object is masculine.

Islamic culture has its own set of normative framing techniques, yet it articulates the visual representation of toward women differently from the Western tradition. As in the West, women may be visual objects in Islamic art, where there are dancers. Even nude and seminude women are displayed in private spaces such as bathhouses and harems as well as in books for private consumption. Nonetheless, in the public sphere, the female body remains invisible, either modestly covered or absent altogether. Even in the early establishment of Islam when women’s participation in public appearances was permissible, women were commanded to conceal themselves with cloaks when they went out so they would be recognized as free Muslim women (Abbott, 1941, 1942).

In Islamic tradition, the gaze toward others is carefully controlled from the individual to the urban level. At the individual level, the Quranic verses overtly command female and male believers to “lower their gaze” and “guard their modesty” (Quran 24:30-31, translated by Ali, 1998). Other verses restrict spatial access specifically to the Prophet’s home in order to respect his family’s privacy and others’ houses (Quran 33:53, translated by Ali). The latter verse emphasizes one’s respect for others’ territory. In Middle Eastern urban space, houses that are huddled together have small curtained windows that are often positioned above the eye level of the passersby along narrow and angled streets. The houses can only be entered through an indented gate that is kept closed. The entry is often constructed with a bent entrance that allows movement but curtails vision (Ruggles, 2007). This often leads to an inner courtyard with a fountain which, in addition to engineering the microclimate of the surrounding apartments, may also function to distract the arriving visitors’ eyes from directly looking at the apartment doors inside the residential compound. Likewise, residential districts in Islamic cities are constructed with oblique entrances along smaller side streets that restrict the view toward a building’s interior.

The difference between men and women’s sexuality in Islam is apparent in the different definition of their ‘awra (the bodily areas that have to be covered). On the other hand, the obligation to lower the gaze, as stated in some Quranic verses (Quran 24:30-31, translated by Ali), implies that while men and women have different degrees of responsibility for their sexuality, controlling the eyes is important for both sexes in order to preserve the purity of the heart. Due to the danger of the gaze, the famed scholar al-Ghazzali (1050-1111), referring to the Hadith, even asserted that “the look is the fornication of the eye.” He believed that the gaze was always imbued with sexual power, so that, for him, controlling the eye was as crucial as disciplining the soul (Ghazzālī, 1995). Despite the mandate to control the eye found in Islamic teachings, in fact, it is largely through women’s seclusion that the control has been traditionally practiced. In other words, the eye itself has not been controlled, so much as the temptation removed from the visual field.

Aside from Islamic contexts, nowhere in the Javanese traditional texts does the concept of women’s ‘awra and the control of the gaze appear. In fact, traditional Javanese women’s clothes expose the shoulders and breast area—parts of the body that most interpreters of Islamic law regard as part of the ‘awra. However, there are numerous 18th to 20th century Islamic Javanese historical texts on women that contain teachings on how women should behave to keep their dignity and to preserve their marriage. In “Wulang Estri” (“The Lessons for Women,” 1809), for example, Sunan Pakubuwono IV of the Surakarta Sultanate (1788-1820), which—like the Yogyakarta Sultanate—was a successor of the Mataram Sultanate, taught his daughters to devote themselves to their husband in order to preserve their marriage. Another article, “Abdul Merak Ati” (“The Slave of the Beautiful Heart,” 1809), compiled by a male palace scholar under the order of the Sultan, contains the Prophet Muhammad’s teachings to his daughter Fatimah that harmony in marriage follows the wife’s treatment of her husband. These texts took the Prophet’s marriage as an exemplary practice. However, they did not embrace the practice of veiling as it was exemplified by the Prophet’s family and companions in the early establishment of Islam. This reveals that, although Muslims in the 19th-century Javanese sultanates (as well as Javanese Muslims today) might strive to follow the Prophet’s example, their customs differ from those in other places and times.

The Keputren of the Yogyakarta Sultanate Palace

Yogyakarta Sultanate (1755-1945) was a Javanese Islamic kingdom, which has been transformed into the Special Region of Yogyakarta Province since 1950, following Indonesia’s independence in 1945. The special status was given to allow the province the privilege of preserving its precolonial monarchy and to adopt this status within its provincial government under the national Indonesian government. Thus, the Sultan of Yogyakarta holds the title as the governor of the province.

There is no inscription mentioning when the keputren was established. However, considering the firm tradition of sexual segregation in the sultanate palace, it is believed that the keputren has been established since the construction of the palace in 1756. Bu Kangjeng Tejanegara, the woman who now supervises the maintenance of the keputren even though only one royal resident remains, told me: “Sex segregation [in the palace] has existed since His Majesty the First [Sultan Hamengkubuwono I], and the women’s quarter has been separated from the men’s quarter ever since” (K. Tejanegara, personal communication, April 20, 2011). This is supported by notes compiled by the Center for Conservation of Archaeological Relics of Central Java and Yogyakarta that the keputren complex has existed since the palace was founded in 1756.

The Javanese word for harem—keputren—stems from the word putri, which means princess or in the honorific Javanese language used in the palace, it can also simply mean a woman. Thus, the word keputren denotes the women’s quarter at the palace area. However, like the Arabic term “harem,” there have been two spatial definitions of keputren. In addition to the keputren in the Yogyakarta Sultanate palace, such a practice is also found in the Surakarta Sultanate palace (built in 1744) in Central Java and the Old Cirebon Sultanate palace (built in 1527) in West Java. Traditional Javanese houses that have developed since the pre-Islamic era, particularly those of the noble families, apply sex segregation in the house’s spaces (Santosa, 1997). However, the palace applies an even stricter separation that conceals women altogether. This spatial segregation is apparent in the palace arrangement in which the keputren is located on the west side of the palace and the kasatriyan (literally the knights’ quarter; T in Figure 1), where unmarried circumcised princes lived, is on the east side. Traditionally, the palace functions as a place where the sultan lives with his wives, concubines, daughters, and female relatives from the previous king. In the past, this area was reserved as a place for the sultan’s consorts to live with their unmarried daughters, young uncircumcised sons (until age 10), and their female servants.

OPEN IN VIEWER

Figure 1.

Andi Muhlis and Tutin Aryanti after Revianto B. Santosa, the Keputren (F, G, H, I, J, K, L, P), and the Sultan’s Complex (A, B, C, D, M, O, N), 2011, drawing.

According to the chief religious officials of the palace, the keputren of the Yogyakarta Sultanate palace refers to the private zone of the palace (comprising the sultan’s residential area, the harem, and the Mother Queen’s Palace), which covers the entire west wing that lies to the west of the kedhaton courtyard (Figure 1). Previous scholars conducting research on the spatial arrangement of Javanese palaces like Behrend (1983), who studied Surakarta Sultanate palace, and Santosa (1997, 2000) who studied Yogyakarta Sultanate palace, have adopted this definition. However, in daily conversation among the sultanate servants and royal family members, the term keputren is used to specifically designate the women’s quarters at the southern section of the palace’s west wing. For the sake of clarity, in this article, I use the term “keputren” to signify the specific women’s quarter or harem and the term “the sultan’s complex” to denote the areas of the west wing, excluding the keputren. This second term includes the sultan’s office and traditional residence (Gedhong Jene), Masjid Panepen (the sultan’s mosque), and the West Palace. This should be the Mother Queen’s Palace but it is now the residence of the current sultan with his wife. My selection of these terms serves my purpose to highlight the restriction that is applied to the keputren as an exclusively preserved women’s area as opposed to the larger keputren, which is more generally labeled as a women’s place (contained in the word keputren) but is still accessible to the sultan’s male relatives and servants. Despite being named keputren, the sultan’s complex does not completely bar men from entering. Such a similar case is also found in the keputren of the Surakarta Sultanate (1757-1945), where gender restrictions are not strictly applied (Behrend, 1983).

There has been a significant change in the way the keputren functions since the current sultan, Sultan Hamengkubuwono X (1989-present), ascended to the throne. Unlike his predecessors, who had several wives and unofficial consorts, Sultan Hamengkubuwono X (age 66) has a monogamous marriage with his queen, Gusti Kangjeng Ratu Hemas (age 60). When he ascended to the throne on his father’s death, Sultan Hamengkubuwono X departed from traditional practices in choosing not to live in the part of the palace (B in Figure 1) where the previous sultans had lived separately from their families. Instead, he lives together with his wife and some of his five daughters (currently between the ages of 25 and 39 years) in the Western Palace (N in Figure 1), which used to be the Queen Mother’s Palace. Additionally, some of his daughters were educated overseas and are pursuing their own careers. Both the Sultan and his wife actively engage with a national political party, through which Queen Ratu Hemas is an elected senator for the Special Region of Yogyakarta province where she has served for two election periods. Furthermore, Sultan Hamengkubuwono X has chosen to follow a different path in the way he builds his lineage. While many Javanese royal families commonly insist on their children marrying other Javanese nationals, preferably a person who was born into a royal family in order to preserve genealogical bloodlines, Sultan Hamengkubuwono X has welcomed men from nonroyal and non-Javanese families as his sons-in-law.

The change in the Sultan’s lifestyle affects life in the keputren. The houses are now abandoned and empty since all the wives of the earlier sultans have passed away. The lone exception is the pavilion (K in Figure 1) at the west end of the northern row, a house that is inhabited by Gusti Riyokusumo, the daughter of Sultan Hamengkubuwono IX (1940-1988) from Kangjeng Widyaningrum. As she is a widow and the keputren is otherwise vacant, Gusti Riyokusumo has been granted permission to reside in the keputren, at the northwestern corner in front of Masjid Keputren (P in Figure 1), with her only adult son. Thus, her son can enter and leave the keputren through the door that connects the keputren with the Western Palace without transgressing too deeply into the keputren area. In other respects, however, strict sex segregation is still preserved inside the palace. Men are prohibited from entering the keputren, except for the sultanate’s religious officials who lead the prayer at the mosque of the keputren, Masjid Keputren. This is an area traditionally reserved for the palace women.

The Visibility of the Keputren

The classic sultan’s ideal of women’s visibility in the Javanese Islamic tradition is apparent in the spatial arrangement of the palace architecture. By imposing sexual segregation, the sultan puts himself as the controller of the interactions between the sexes. He establishes a male quarter (the kasatriyan) to the east and the women’s keputren to the west, with the main palace courtyard (the kedhaton courtyard) and the Golden Pavilion (Bangsal Kencana; C in Figure 1), where he sits on his throne, in the middle (Santosa, 1997). The provision of the kasatriyan appears to complement the keputren’s but it is different from the keputren, which accommodates the sultan’s wives, concubines, and unmarried princesses of the current and previous sultans. The kasatriyan is provided only for unmarried princes. The spatial layout of the palace shows that instead of protecting his mature sons by locating the kasatriyan behind his traditional residence, the sultan supervises them and trains them to be independent, prior to their marriage, by providing them with a residential space across from his own pavilion. However, on the contrary, the sultan acts as the protector of his wives, concubines, and unmarried daughters who live in the keputren, located behind his traditional residence.

The word “winates,” that Kangjeng Jatiningrat used to describe the keputren, has multiple meanings, all of which signify a sense of demarcating. Stemming from the Javanese word wates (border), winates can be translated as limited, restricted, confined, or bordered. In this sense, it is parallel to the Arabic word haram, meaning “restricted” as well as denoting a harem. It may also imply the sense of being controlled. The Javanese phrase ngerti wates (to know the limit in a moral sense) is commonly used to express one’s control over herself or himself. The notion of winates that I quote from my interview with Kangjeng Jatiningrat, therefore implies that the two concepts of sex segregation and restriction from the public’s gaze are embodied in the sultanate palace that I discuss here. Both meanings suggest control over bodies and their senses.

Naming is a way of representing objects through language. It becomes a sign through which messages and meanings are expressed (Barthes, 1972a, 1972b). The label keputren, or the princesses’ place, is an indexical sign that conveys restriction and limitation. As such, the label keputren specifies the use of certain space for women through the exclusion of men, while simultaneously confining itself as separate from its contexts. This has two consequences. On the one hand, it results in the exclusivity of the keputren as a woman only restricted area in the palace. Yet, on the other hand, it also creates a binary opposition between the women’s area and the space outside of it. The area outside of it is then seen as male space, and results in women’s exclusion from other spaces, which according to this binary opposition is defined as male space. The Javanese traditional space is claimed to embrace such an oppositional concept, which is apparent in the spatial layout of the palace (Santosa, 2000; Tjahjono, 1989). Although the opposition occurs along a spectrum, allowing the emergence of in-between categories, the primary arrangement overtly reflects a binary system of male–female space.

The sexual borders in the sultanate palace are also demarcated through visibility. Showing physical access to a certain object, visibility serves as a device to show accessibility, and thus a way of communicating who may enter and who may not. To reach the keputren, one enters through the Mannikhantojo Gate (F in Figure 1), located to the south of the sultan’s complex. The gate, which was renovated in 1924 (under Sultan Hamengkubuwono VIII), has porches on its left and right sides, a 3.5-meter-high ceiling, columns and beams, and beautiful ornamentation of golden flowers and leaves carved on its dark green wooden doors. The Mannikhantojo Gate itself is a bent entrance and situated behind another small bent gate that connects the keputren complex with the sultan’s complex. As in forts, the bent entrances that are commonly found in the palace protect the residents from the eyes of outsiders and at the same time keep evil spirits from penetrating the wall (K. Jatiningrat, personal communication, April 11, 2011). Behind the Mannikhantojo Gate, stands a tall white insulating wall, blocking the visitor’s vision toward the keputren. The barrier wall (Figure 2), named the baturana, is elaborately ornamented with a fantastical creature’s head, surrounded by vines and flowers. The barrier wall and its ornaments remind us of a similar insulating wall at the entrance of the nearby Tamansari water castle, a small recreation complex that was built for Sultan Hamengkubuwono I in 1756.

OPEN IN VIEWER

Figure 2.

The Barrier Wall (Baturana) behind the Mannikhantojo Gate, 2011, photo.

While visually containing and hiding the interior complex of keputren, the wall behind the Mannikhantojo Gate also directs visitors along a prescribed path. They are sent to the left before entering a 2-meter-wide cement pathway toward Masjid Keputren, which is about 50 meters away at the west end of the path. There are several gates to the concubines’ quarters along the southern side of the pathway. Unlike the Mannikhantojo Gate that is colorfully ornamented with vines and flowers, these gates and fences—enclosing a humble wooden house in each lot—are plain white in color with simple carvings displayed across them. Across from this row of houses are newer houses that were assigned to the wives. The houses or dalem (a polite Javanese term for house) were named in reference to the name of the residing wife. Dalem Pintakan (J in Figure 1), for instance, belonged to Kangjeng Raden Ayu Pintakapurnama, who was Sultan Hamengkubuwono IX’s first wife.

Compared with other buildings aligned along the west side of the kedhaton courtyard, the Service Building (E in Figure 1), where the entrance to the keputren is situated, looks shabby with a rather poorly maintained appearance (Figure 3). Moreover, it is visually impeded as it is set back behind an outer entrance gate, an obstructing wall, and shady trees. The outer entrance to the keputren from the kedhaton courtyard is not a gate with beautiful decoration. Nestled in the southwestern corner of the palace largest courtyard, the modest gate to the keputren is not as visually attractive as the Sweet Pavilion (D), the Golden Pavilion (C), and the sultan’s traditional residence (B), whose columns and apertures are beautifully carved with colorful flowers and are also embellished with hanging crystal lamps. Instead of being inviting, this gate is filtering, generating a sense of reluctance for those who visit the kedhaton courtyard to enter the restricted space of the keputren. The Mannikhantojo Gate (F) provides a similar impression. Flanked by two barrier walls at its front and its back, the inner entrance toward the keputren is almost concealed from the kedhaton courtyard by the magnificent reception pavilion in front of it. Even standing in the Sweet Pavilion, one is not able to look into the women’s quarters due to the restrictive double bent entrances. This layered and deflected spatial layout, as well as the unattractive visuality, has made the keputren nearly “invisible” to those who visit the kedhaton courtyard. The outer entrance gate, the Service Building, and the Mannikhantojo Gate create a set of boundaries that distinguish guests from the inhabitants and the royal servants who serve the quarters, men from women, and between those outside and those inside. Beyond this point, vision and behavior are more strictly controlled. Framed within this set of entrance gates, the hidden keputren is not an object for display. The layered deflected gates imply that the inside should not be exposed to public sight because of privacy concerns, while at the same time requiring selection and membership for access.

OPEN IN VIEWER

Figure 3.

Winny Setyonugroho and Tutin Aryanti, the Entrance to the Keputren, 2012, photo.

Unlike the women’s keputren, the sultan’s complex is sometimes visible to the public. The sultan’s complex was a very private area until a gate was built at the northwestern corner (R in Figure 1) of the palace complex under the reign of Sultan Hamengkubuwono IX (1940-1988) to make access easier for the royal family’s cars. Under the reign of Sultan Hamengkubuwono X, the Sultan specifically welcomes women to his palace by hosting a province-wide women’s Islamic study group (pengajian) that is held regularly every 35 days (known as selapan in the Javanese calendar) in the Western Palace pavilion (N in Figure 1), where he and his family reside. The number of attendees is limited to 150 representatives who are invited by the Yogyakarta Women’s Islamic Studies Union (Gabungan Pengajian Ibu). This union is the organizer of the event. To reach the pavilion, the invitees enter through the northwestern gate (R in Figure 1) and proceed down the path alongside the fence that surrounds Masjid Panepen (M in Figure 1), a small shrine where the sultan meditates and supplicates. Moreover, the Sultan always lets the national press observe his daughters’ wedding pronouncements at Masjid Panepen and publish the events to the outside public. Thus, some parts of the sultan’s complex are made visible to the public not only through direct observation but also through media worldwide; resulting from the increased use of Internet in the press.

Bodies as Representation

The gendered differentiation is shaped not only through the visibility and the prescription of movement in space but also through the control of the physical appearance. The clothing regulations at the palace demonstrate social and gender differences. No documentation has been found on how clothing indicates women’s class and social status in Javanese society, but my observations show that in the palace, only the royal family members have the freedom to choose their clothes. Unlike the royal family members who may wear clothes in any colors and motifs, the sultanate officials and servants have to wear monochromatic uniforms. Colors of the uniforms vary among officials and servants and the different colors indicate their status and position. The white color, symbolizing Islamic purity, belongs to the high-ranking religious officials, the royal Islamic scholars. But unlike the Arab Islamic scholars’ long white robes that flow down to the heels, the Indonesian officials wear a short white coat with a batik wrap and a small white turban (Figure 4). Such attire is only worn by the 12 royal Islamic scholars, named the abdi dalem pamethakan, to indicate the highest religious authority under the sultan. Because the members of the religious corps have to be male and because white is a symbolic religious color, no royal women may wear white clothing in the palace. Thus, this is a visible sign of women’s exclusion from the royal religious responsibility at the palace.

OPEN IN VIEWER

Figure 4.

The royal religious corps members with the white coat and a batik wrap, 2011, photo.

The requirement for royal servants is different. The only attire that was accepted for them was the peranakan. For male royal servants, it is a dark blue long-sleeved striped coat that covered the upper body to the upper neck, a batik cloth that covers the legs, and a traditional headdress. For women, the peranakan is a batik torso wrap that leaves the shoulder area open, a batik cloth that covers the legs, and a bun pinned to the head (Figure 5). Interestingly, such traditional attires—which presumably have existed since the pre-Islamic era—were preserved even when Yogyakarta became the territory of Muslim rulers. The fact that the clothing for women provides less covering than the clothes for men is striking for an Islamic kingdom like the Yogyakarta Sultanate because it is not in compliance with the generally accepted Muslim rules of covering the ‘awra. In pre-Islamic Arabia, the veil and full covering of the body were limited to women from middle- to high-class status as a sign of their sexual unavailability (Ahmed, 1992). The women’s clothing, particularly that of the female royal servants, implies either that women’s social status is lower than the men’s because of their being female or that there is a difference in men and women’s bodies so they have to appear differently in their attire (Figure 5). Here, the clothing serves as a social system of communication that delivers the message of gender relations in the palace (Micklewright, 2000).

OPEN IN VIEWER

Figure 5.

The royal servants and officials’ attires at Yogyakarta Sultanate Palace. Left: Female Servant’s Peranakan; middle: Female Official’s Attire; right: Male Servant’s Peranakan Attire, 2011, photo.

Seen in visual terms, the different clothing that women and men wear in the palace shows social distinctions that are not verbally sanctioned. Bu Kangjeng Tejanegara once said that the clothing rule has been part of the royal regulations (paugeran), created by the “palace” a very long time ago, and has been preserved hereditarily until today. The royal regulations have served as what Foucault calls the “political technology of the body” (Foucault, 1984b) in which the body becomes a useful force in preserving the sultan’s ideology and for representing his power. Men and women’s bodies are subjected and grouped according to their sex and social class, defined according to the sultan’s conception and shown in visible relationship with the keputren and the sultan’s palace complex.

Seen from outside of the palace, the female royal servants’ appearance looks peculiar particularly because of the exposure of the body among the otherwise increasing trend of fashionable veiling among modern Javanese society. Associated with the private keputren complex, the female peranakan costume is imposed through actual borders as well as serving as a representation of those borders of the keputren. Nyi Karyo, a female royal servant, implied that the women’s peranakan attire was considered “improper” to wear outside the palace. She felt that she would look too attractive by displaying sensual body parts, that is, the bare shoulders and upper breasts. Therefore, she put a blouse over her peranakan attire before she left the palace (N. Karyo, personal communication, February 11, 2011). Here, Nyi Karyo affirmed the difference between the inside and the outside regimens of the palace through clothing and the way the body is seen or not seen. Bu Kangjeng confirmed that female servants had to dress in the peranakan when they entered the keputren’s threshold. A number of female royal servants who wore the hijab (veil) on a daily basis outside the palace had to take it off by regulation once they entered the keputren gate. As a woman who wears modest Islamic dress, including the hijab, I empathize with their discomfort in having to remove the hijab. Nyi Wage was one of those who wears the hijab outside the keputren. The keputren office (E in Figure 1) was like a serving kitchen for the whole palace, and she had to meet male royal servants who came and went as they brought and took food or offerings. She felt embarrassed to be seen with her hair and arms uncovered, but in the specific context of the keputren, she became used to the exposure.

The peranakan dress demarcates the border between the inside and the outside of the keputren and the shifting identities resulted from the body’s movement over the border. It is, therefore, an expression of the women’s subservience to the sultan and serving to represent his power that is limited to the palace area. The use of the sanctioned dress in the palace area demonstrates the social space as a bodily experience. Here, the body should not be seen as merely the physical embodiment of a person but a culturally constructed set of ideas and ideals of what society views to be proper for men and women (Mitchell, 2000).

The spatial and bodily practices at the palace demonstrate the “incarcerated bodies” (Foucault, 1984c), where both movement and sight are austerely controlled according to the prescribed path, and where individual figures lose their individuality as the bodies are grouped as a uniform corporeal being—in a peranakan dress. The docile bodies lose their specificity, suffer virtual erasure, and submit to the ruling power of the sultan. In the palace, the bodies are subjected to both tacit and explicit codes that regulate where they move, what they do, and what they wear. In this case, clothing has served as a way of categorizing bodies into emplaced groups and defined them in terms of hierarchy according to different social status. The way the body is treated helps create the representation of space. The clothing to be worn in certain prescribed spaces shows both the connection of body to space and the subjection of the bodies to the power that operates within space.

Conclusions

The architectural layout of the sultanate palace reflects the intention of making women and their space invisible to people—especially men—other than the sultan himself. What we observe in contemporary practice offers a window into the more elusive practices of the past, a time when we do not have access to the residents who lived in these spaces and followed their rules. But, although some practices have changed, the principle of a gender-segregated space still remains. Women’s submission to the rule of segregation is shown in their voluntary use of the prescribed space, proving what Foucault has coined as a “disciplinary practice” as a method of controlling the operation of the body. Such a practice produces “docile bodies” that are subjected and practiced (Foucault, 1984a). Gendered borders separate sexes while differentiating access to sources of knowledge, leadership, and political positions altogether. More important, as we have seen in the sultanate palace of Yogyakarta, gendered segregation also results in, and is represented through, a different quality of space. But because that social hierarchy is masked, its spatial manifestation appears to occur naturally. Borders do far more than plainly separate the inside from the outside: They simultaneously assign hierarchy through restriction and limitation, which results in exclusionary practices.

Spatial layout, as found in the palace, can be a way of not only regulating women and men’s physical interactions but also restricting women’s appearance and representation in the public eye. The positioning of the keputren in the layout of the palace served as a mechanism to support the visibility of the center as a male space. Here, visuality is regulated both to conceal the women’s space and to reveal the men’s space, where the sultan as the authoritative power holder is either present or represented through his pavilions and mosque. The harem is made invisible to the public and managed in a way that subordinates it to the sultan’s complex. The practices at the sultan’s complex, which include the sultan’s meditation and supplication, the abdi dalem pamethakan’s religious activities, the royal wedding pronouncement, the control of the sultanate from the sultan’s office and throne, posit the sultan’s complex at the center—mirroring the political centrality of the sultan himself—although it does not literally stand at the physical center of the palace. The sultan’s complex appears superior to the keputren due to the vital rituals it accommodates, the sultan’s presence (as represented in his throne, residential palace, and shrine), and its architectural appearance. The spatial structure of the palace works as a “technology of gender” (Lauretis, 1987), to strengthen social boundaries (Sibley, 1995)—in this case, those between men and women and among sultanate family members, officials, and palace attendants. It serves to assert the social division in the palace; to make women less visible, or excluded from the visitor’s view and thus marginalized.