Editor: Fina Nihayatul Muzayyanah
What does it mean to be a “good woman” in a society that rewards silence and suffering? Athirah (2016), directed by Riri Riza, offers a quietly devastating answer. Set in 1950s Makassar and based on the life of Athirah Kalla, the film explores the emotional and social toll on a woman whose husband takes a second wife. Through intimate domestic scenes, it unpacks the entanglement of gender, religion, and patriarchy in postcolonial Indonesia. A powerful work of feminist cinema, Athirah remains vital for those interested in Southeast Asian history and the Women, Peace and Security agenda.
Resilience in Silence: Emotional Labour as Survival
What makes Athirah remarkable is not a grand act of rebellion but the quiet persistence of dignity in the face of betrayal. Athirah never confronts her husband in a public spectacle. Instead, her pain is conveyed through small, deliberate gestures, a lowered gaze, a quivering silence, a controlled breath. This display of emotional restraint is not a sign of weakness, but a quiet form of resilience. It reflects the cultural expectations placed on women in many traditional Indonesian families, to endure, to serve, and to keep the family intact, even as it unravels.
This concept of emotional labour, unpaid and unrecognised effort to manage one’s own and others’ emotions, sits at the core of Athirah’s character. The film’s power lies in making this invisible work visible. In doing so, it invites viewers to question how women are made responsible not only for household harmony but for the moral reputation of their families.
Polygamy and the Normalisation of Gender Inequality
Polygamy, although legal under certain conditions in Indonesia, is often framed as a religious or cultural norm. Athirah challenges this normalisation by showing its emotional costs, especially for the first wife. When her husband justifies taking another wife by invoking Islam, Athirah is forced to navigate her faith and her personal grief simultaneously. The film does not attack religion but interrogates how it is selectively used to justify male desire and power.
In this way, Athirah offers a critique aligned with the protection pillar of the WPS agenda. It makes clear that protection cannot be limited to physical violence alone, gender-based harms also occur through institutional and cultural practices that are sanctioned by law, custom, or religious interpretation. Women like Athirah are not “safe” from violence simply because they are not beaten, they are harmed in socially permissible ways that deny them agency, justice, and emotional well-being.
Motherhood and Social Roles in Transition
Despite her suffering, Athirah remains committed to raising her son, later revealed to be Jusuf Kalla, without bitterness. Her strength becomes a blueprint for her son’s future moral compass. Yet the film is not romanticising maternal sacrifice. Instead, it asks uncomfortable questions: Why must women always forgive? Why are women expected to be the emotional glue of fractured families?
Athirah’s maternal role is a double-edged sword, it gives her purpose and dignity but also binds her to the very system that causes her pain. This paradox speaks to broader tensions in women’s lives during Indonesia’s transition from colonial rule to nationhood. As modernity knocks on the door, through education, radio broadcasts, and urban migration, women are asked to change, but their roles remain structurally confined (Blackburn, 2004).
Her Story Isn’t Over, It’s Still Ours
Though set in the 1950s, Athirah speaks powerfully to contemporary Indonesia. Today, debates about polygamy, women’s rights, and the role of religion in public life continue to polarise society. In 2021, Indonesia’s Marriage Law still permits polygamy under certain conditions, and the rise of conservative religious movements has threatened hard-won gains in gender equality.
The film thus serves as a reminder that peace and development are gendered experiences. The emotional labour women perform in private spaces is as much a part of the national story as elections and policies. Without attending to this invisible labour, we cannot achieve the WPS goals of participation, protection, and recovery.
Rethinking Heroism and Resistance
Athirah does not offer easy resolutions. There is no moment of triumph or revenge, no burning down of the house or public speech. Yet it is in this restraint that the film achieves its radicalism. It asks viewers to rethink what counts as resistance. In a world where women are taught to swallow their rage, choosing to persist, raise children with care, and rebuild one’s life is an act of courage.
The film challenges viewers not to pity Athirah but to recognise her as a quiet revolutionary. She embodies a different kind of heroism, one that is tender, complex, and deeply rooted in the everyday realities of women in patriarchal societies. For audiences, especially those interested in feminist theory, gendered histories, or Southeast Asian culture, Athirah is more than a film. It is a mirror, a memory, and a call to look closer at the stories we’ve ignored for too long.
References
Blackburn, S. (2004). Women and the state in modern Indonesia. Cambridge University Press.
Riza, R. (Director). (2016). Athirah (Film). Miles Films.
