Working-class women wearing the kebaya (Study Sheet with Women, Hairstyles and Mothers with Children, c. 1660, by Wouter Schouten. Collection of the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam)
By Alma Al Farisi
It is surprisingly difficult to answer a seemingly simple question: what is a kebaya?
Every few years, the internet erupts with familiar debates: “The kebaya has changed too much.” “That’s not a real kebaya.” “This isn’t pakem (according to custom).” Behind these arguments lies an assumption that somewhere in history there existed a single, original version of the kebaya waiting to be preserved.
History tells a different story.
Rather than being a garment frozen in time, the kebaya has continually evolved alongside the communities that wore it. Its silhouette, fabrics, construction, and meanings have shifted across centuries; shaped by trade, colonialism, industrialisation, nationalism, and changing ideas of femininity. If there is one constant in the history of the kebaya, it is that it has evolved along with the women who wore it.
The kebaya is generally understood as a front-opening blouse worn with a wrapped cloth or kain. By the 18th century, it had become one of the most widespread forms of women’s dress across much of the Indonesian archipelago. Scholars have identified visual evidence of indigenous women wearing garments resembling the kebaya as early as the seventeenth century in paintings of Batavian street life (The Castle of Batavia, pictured).
Dutch-Eurasian woman wearing an early version of the Kain-Kebaya. (The Castle of Batavia, c. 1662, by Andries Beeckman. Oil on canvas. Collection of the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam)
Over the following century, the now-familiar silhouette became increasingly established, while lightweight white cotton emerged as one of its most recognizable materials. To European eyes, the garment appeared so informal that one British sailor once mistook a woman dressed in a kain-kebaya for only wearing her nightclothes.
>“Madam Couperus was dressed in the most unbecoming manner…her outward garment being made exactly like a shift, she looked as if she reversed the order of her dress altogether…”
Yet even as the kebaya became commonplace, it was never worn in the same way by everyone. In the Dutch East Indies, clothing reflected the colony’s rigid racial and social hierarchy. The same garment could communicate different meanings depending on who wore it, where it was worn, and under what circumstances.
One example came during the British interregnum. Olivia Mariamne Raffles, wife of Lieutenant-Governor Thomas Stamford Raffles, discouraged elite Batavian women from attending official social functions in kebaya, favoring European-style dress instead. The Java Gazette welcomed the change, in an 1812 article they wrote, congratulating the British administration for what it described as “the amelioration of the public taste.” (Bosma, U., & Raben, R. 2008. p.87) The kebaya, during this time, had already become a medium through which ideas of civility, status, and modernity were negotiated.
At a glance, the silhouette of the kebaya panjang (long kebaya) appears similar to the Chinese beizi or hanfu. The Peranakan Chinese community across the archipelago had long planted their roots and assimilated, occupying a unique position within the colony’s racial hierarchy. Dutch colonial reforms gradually altered the legal status of many Chinese communities. Although they remained classified as Vreemde Oosterlingen (Foreign Orientals), new regulations expanded economic, social, and legal opportunities for sections of the Peranakan elite.
As their social status changed, dress became an increasingly important way of negotiating both assimilation into colonial modernity and the preservation of a distinct Peranakan identity. At first, many Peranakan women wore the white lace kebaya similar to their European counterparts, but over time, wealthy Peranakan women modified and customized their kebaya according to their own cultural identity and heritage. Insofar as developing handiwork such as kerancang (cut work), and sulam (embroidery), these customized kebaya would become synonymous with the kebaya encim we are familiar with today. The Peranakan identity permeated even to the accessories that one would wear when “berkebaya”; the kasut manek (beaded slippers) was worn along with the kain kebaya on special occasions. Skills such as embroidery, cutwork, and beadwork were taught to Peranakan girls and passed down through generations, allowing clothing to become a vessel for preserving traditions, communal identity, and collective memory.
A Chinese-Peranakan couple, with wife wearing a long, embellished kebaya now known as ‘kebaya encim’. (The Koo Kiem Tie couple in Jogjakarta c.1930, Collection of Leiden University Libraries)
Of course, I can’t talk about the kebaya without mentioning the “OG Kebaya influencer”; R.A Kartini. During her time, the silhouette we now know as “Kebaya Kartini” was more popularly called “Kebaya Tangkeban”. The iconic picture we now put up to celebrate hari Kartini (of Kartini wearing the white kebaya), made the white kebaya tangkeban synonymous with her image. After Kartini’s death, Kartinischool was opened in 1907, and the white kebaya became the de facto uniform of pupils, because it was a practical and widely accepted form of dress across social classes (Kartinischool accepted girls regardless of social strata). In doing so, the garment acquired new meaning. The white kebaya, and the kebaya in general, was no longer simply everyday attire; it became associated with literacy, education, and the aspirations of a new generation of Indonesian women.
Kartini may have opened the door, but it was the generation of women that followed who transformed that doorway into a space where women could thrive. Women walked through the door together, bringing with them new ideas of nationalism, education, and becoming a woman that will shape the next generation of children who will push the nation forward towards freedom: to a new Indonesia. For the first time, women and girls around the archipelago became active participants in imagining what an independent Indonesia could look like and what they would wear while building it. In an article called “Mode Indonesiers, apakah tidak bagus?” published in Pertja Timur on 26 November 1927, author R.S Soemijati argued;
“Our fashion is in no way inferior to that of any other nation, and it would be even more fitting if Indonesians dressed in the Indonesian style. Whether clothing is inexpensive or costly, Indonesia is capable of producing it. Beyond its beauty and elegance, Indonesian fashion also signifies that Indonesians are helping to support the industry and economy of their own nation.”
“Our fashion is in no way inferior to that of any other nation, and it would be even more fitting if Indonesians dressed in the Indonesian style. Whether clothing is inexpensive or costly, Indonesia is capable of producing it. Beyond its beauty and elegance, Indonesian fashion also signifies that Indonesians are helping to support the industry and economy of their own nation.”
Soemijati’s words captured the spirit of pergerakan (the nationalist movement) that spread throughout the early twentieth century. Clothing was not merely a matter of personal appearance; it became a visible expression of political consciousness. Choosing to wear Indonesian clothing meant supporting local industries and forming a visual identity that created a language of what it looked like to be an Indonesian.
This active discussion and image building of a nation of peoples continued throughout and after the revolution. Historian Charley P. Sullivan, in his dissertation Years of Dressing Dangerously: Modern Women, National Identity, and Moral Crisis in Sukarno’s Indonesia, 1945–1966, explores how women’s clothing became deeply intertwined with ideas of nationalism and modernity in postcolonial Indonesia.
Opening of “Kartinischool” (Sekolah Kartini) on 2 May 1915 in Bogor, Jalan Panaragan 19.
Collection of Wereldmuseum (v/h Tropenmuseum)
Sullivan’s work highlights how women’s appearance became a factor in navigating the turbulence of Soekarno’s last years of presidency leading into 1965. The kain-kebaya transformed into a symbol of femininity that reflected the wearer’s “Eastern morals”. Yet these expectations were often rigid, contradictory, and difficult to define. The kebaya was central to this discussion. Wives of diplomats and high ranking military officers were often presented as embodiments of this ideal Indonesian womanhood, adorned in their kain and kebaya. This culminated in how women’s appearances were a reflection of women’s moral conduct, with media narratives used to construct moral panic, weaponising leftist women’s movements such as Gerwani, and arguably justifying the horrors of 1965.
Understanding the Kebaya in post-colonial Indonesia is almost akin to understanding gender structure throughout Indonesian history. Julia Suryakusuma, an Indonesian scholar who coined the term “State Ibuism” to explain how the Indonesian New Order government used the idea of “motherhood” to control women and society, wrote in article published by Kompas titled “Kebaya sebagai Identitas, Ekspresi, dan Opresi”;
“The female body symbolizes the dignity of the nation. Thus, the body of an Indonesian woman dressed in the kain kebaya becomes the personification of the state, defining it as non-Western while providing ‘proof’ that, although we have adopted many Western attributes, in spirit we remain authentically Indonesian, pure and untainted.” (Kompas, 21 April 2001)
“The female body symbolises the dignity of the nation. Thus, the body of an Indonesian woman dressed in the kain kebaya becomes the personification of the state, defining it as non-Western while providing ‘proof’ that, although we have adopted many Western attributes, in spirit we remain authentically Indonesian, pure and untainted.”
Through this lens, the kebaya reveals a central contradiction in Indonesian history. It has been a symbol of pride, agency, identity, and cultural continuity. But it has also been used to impose upon women expectations of femininity and morality. The kebaya became a national symbol representing Indonesian women, but symbols are constructed and can as easily become systems of control.
Throughout its long history, the kebaya has carried contradictions. It has been a garment that has expressed aspirations, showcased identity, practiced agency. It is a blouse that has been worn through national movements, transformation, revolution, civil conflict, and personal celebrations. The kebaya has never belonged to a single moment in history, a single community, or a single definition of womanhood. It has been continuously reshaped by the people who wear it. Generations of women who have found their own meanings within its folds.
So when you ask, what is a Kebaya?
Yes, it’s a traditional Indonesian women’s blouse often worn paired with a kain. But it’s also much more than that. It is a garment that has been shaped and continues to be transformed by the women who continue to give it meaning through the past, present, and future.
Satirical cartoon of an Indonesian woman titled “Mode ala Indonesia” published in Pertja Timur 27 Oct 1928 Edition, via Perpusnas.
The writer (Alma Al Farisi) in 2025 during an event celebrating Hari Kebaya (24 July).
References
Bosma, U., & Raben, R. (2008). ‘Being “Dutch” in the Indies. A History of Creolisation and Empire, 1500-1920.’ Singapore University Press and Ohio University Press
Lennon, W.C. (1881) ‘Journal of a Voyage Through the Straits of Malacca on an Expedition to the Molucca Islands Under the Command of Admiral Rainier With Some Account of Those Islands at the Time of Their Falling into Our Hands, and Likewise Suggestions Relative to Their Future Better Management in Case of Being Retained in Our Permanent Possession.’ Journal of the Straits Branch of the Royal Asiatic Society No.77 (51-74)
