“Because what feminism? You don’t need to read books to be a feminist. When you are born in a poor family, then you become a feminist because you are oppressed by class, by patriarchy.”
— Nawal El Saadawi 

I never needed to read dense volumes of feminist theory. I only needed to be born a Batak girl to know exactly what it means. Being born a Batak girl taught me feminism from the very ground I stood on. Not from pages nor literatures, I learned it by watching how patriarchy is meticulously groomed, practiced, and preserved by a sacred institution they call adat.

Since I was a child, I was driven into domestic work, the script was identical at every family gathering. The men occupied the center of the room, their laughter booming, their voices heavy with authority. The women drifted toward the margins, tethered to the kitchen by an invisible leash. This strategic layout ensured that the moment the men desired something, a woman was already within arm’s reach, ready to spring into action.

Long before puberty, I was already a cog in this machine, stationed near the kitchen, waiting to serve whatever “Tuan” commanded. And when I brought out the tray of scalding drinks, praises poured in: “Nah, ini baru boru Purba,” or “Nah, boru Batak itu begini.” 

But those compliments tasted like ash, like nothing. Why were only women in the kitchen, risking our skin against boiling water? Was a woman’s existence reduced to this? Never to command, only to be commanded?

At family gatherings, I wanted to play football with my male cousins. I wanted to move freely, to laugh out loud without the haunting fear of being labeled a “lazy girl.” My male cousins tasted freedom which I could only watch from the kitchen window. They ran, they ate, they played, they slept whenever they pleased. But for my female cousins and me, leisure was a foreign concept. We had to remain on high alert, because the “Raja” were always demanding something; coffee with no sugar, coffee sweet as syrup, or a pack of cigarettes from a shop miles away.

My male cousins were celebrated for running fast, for playing well, or for ranking first in school. They were praised for their choices; we were praised for our submission.

The Bitter Reality of Being a Batak Girl

“Fetch this, carry that, bring it over here; Don’t walk too fast or you’ll spill it; Too much sugar, your uncle hates it sweet!”

Or worse: “You’re a Batak girl, you need to be quick on your feet, so men will want you. So your sinamot will be high.” 

These words were spoon-fed to me before I hit puberty. To them, it was well-meaning advice. To me, it was really odd. Why was my entire life already being measured and priced to please a man, way before I even understood the concept of marriage? Why didn’t they push me to chase loftier ambitions? Why was that fire reserved only for my male cousins, who were urged to exercise so they could become police officers? I did not want to be someone’s wife – I wanted to be someone.

There was a quiet humiliation in being forced to serve male cousins my own age, or even younger. It made me furious. It was a glaring, everyday reminder that from birth, men are positioned above us. Because the one who serves will always be deemed lesser than the one being served.

In elementary school, textbooks promised me that gender equality had arrived, reassuring us that we were finally living in a modern society. Yet, looking out at our courtyard filled with luxury cars, I wondered, “Why were their minds still shackled to an ancient status quo? Is modernity nothing more than a change of clothing and changing cars?”

In Batak culture, the birth of a boy is a triumph, a girl is a quiet concession, for she cannot carry the marga. If the boy is born to carry the name, the girl is born to carry the lineage of being The Other, following the footsteps of every Batak woman before her, straight into the kitchen.

Because they carry marga, boys are treated like royalty – no, I am not being hyperbolic. In our culture, men are formally titled Raja. And like any tyranny, Raja holds absolute power, while everyone else is reduced to The Other. At home, his word is law. At the grand cultural halls, these Raja sit at the front, their voices always absolute, deciding policies, while receiving the finest cuts of meat (Jambar).

Women are called Boru ni Raja (Daughters of the King), and mothers are Istri Raja. But much like the tragic queens in fictional lore, the women in our culture are merely ornament, present, but voiceless. 

Nothing sickened me more than hearing a relative congratulate my cousin after her mom finally gave birth to a son: “If it weren’t for your little brother, you would be worthless.” Are we so devoid of intrinsic value that our worth must be validated by the arrival of a male savior?

As a child, I constantly asked why Adat Batak was so unfair to women. Why was it my job to wash and carry the dishes? Why couldn’t my aunts sit in the center of the room and speak loudly like the men? Why did they stay in the shadows of the back room, only standing up when those man asked them for a coffe? And the answers I received only exposed the decaying core of this patriarchy. They told me everyone had their designated roles. “In our house, youre a servant. But when you marry into your husband’s family, you will be Raja too.”

The logic made my head spin. Why must I surrender myself to a man just to inherit a shred of respect? Why couldn’t justice be mine as a child, without waiting for the proposal of a so called Raja? What if I choose never to marry? What if I am a lesbian? Does that mean I am condemned to be worthless for the rest of my life? 

But truth be honest, I don’t care for that title. Monarchies are a feodal concept, utterly useless today. And what is marga or clan anyway?

“Apalah arti sebuah nama, Apalah arti sebuah marga.”

Why I Stop Attending Gatherings

As I grew into my teenage years, I stopped attending the gatherings. I could never find joy in the celebrations everyone else loved and cherised. To me, they were places where patriarchy played out before my eyes, a culture trying to police my very body, making me curse my own existence as The Other. Domestic work might be banal to most, but for me – and perhaps other girls – it felt like a cage designed to shrink our spirit. 

What enraged me most was watching my female cousins accept this subjugation, normalizing the weight until they forgot they were carrying it.

Perhaps this is why I, and many Batak women like me, refuse to marry Batak men. It is not a hatred of them as individuals, it is a refusal to compromise with the culture they inherit. Even if I were to become the “Istri Raja” of a new household, my heart could never bear the sight of my sisters-in-law and the women of that family kneeling at the altar of servitude.

I never needed to read thick volumes of feminist theory. I only needed to be born a Batak girl to know exactly what it means.