Where Can Women Dance? A Reflection on Space, Freedom & Self Expression

A few weeks ago, I witnessed something that made me stop and think. As I enjoyed my breakfast at a small diner, I saw a group of women across the street. They were a mix of ages and wore varying hijab styles, gathered in the parking lot of a Dunkin' Donuts. Music blasted from a portable speaker, a mix of Sundanese dangdut and some odd EDM that made you want to shake your hips. It was clear they were attempting something like a Zumba class, but the choreography was loose and joyful rather than strictly regimented. The instructor seemed to abandon any initial plan of teaching the right moves and joined the others, laughing and singing along. It was quite a sight.

Although they eventually got tired and sat around the parking lot, I could see how much joy the activity brought them. Phones were out, and they seemed to be taking a lot of selfies together. This seemingly simple scene struck a chord with me, a bittersweet mix of joy at their positive energy and a realization of how rare such a sight is. And that's when a big question started swirling in my head: Why do we accept parking lots as makeshift dance studios? Of course, poor city planning is the main reason for this—but it also led me to another question: “If not parking lots, then where?”

As positive and uplifting as this moment felt to me, the sentiment wasn’t shared by the rest of the customers in the diner. Many of them whispered loudly, criticizing the women as immoral and out of place. The fact that these women were mostly Muslim and wearing hijabs seemed to be the main issue for these customers. I overheard one woman say to her friend, “What’s the point of wearing a hijab if you’re going to dance like that in public? They should be ashamed.” I rolled my eyes so hard hearing that. Why do innocent scenes of women enjoying themselves become debates about religion and morality? What subtle messages have we internalized that make women expressing themselves through movement seem so out of place? And how messed up is that?

The Religious Roots of Indonesian Dances

Before diving into the depressing topic of the lack of safe spaces to dance, let’s look back at how we initially started dancing here in Indonesia. This country boasts a stunning array of traditional dances, from the graceful Javanese Srimpi to the energetic Saman of Aceh. These dances often originated from community celebrations, rituals, and storytelling traditions. Saman, for instance, was originally created by an Islamic preacher named Syekh Saman to spread Islam in the region. Unlike many other Indonesian dances that emphasize solo performers or specific music, Saman focuses on synchronized body movements, clapping, and rhythmic chanting. The lack of musical instruments highlights the power of the human voice and collective energy. It is often accompanied by the recitation of traditional stories in Gayo (a local language) or Arabic. While deeply rooted in its religious origins, Saman’s popularity has extended beyond Aceh, becoming a powerful symbol of cultural identity and communal spirit.

While Tari Saman reflects the strong Islamic influences of Aceh, Tari Kecak is rooted in the Hindu traditions of Bali. Originally a devotional act, Tari Kecak is performed by a large group of male dancers in checkered cloths arranged in a circular formation. Their rhythmic chanting of the word “Cak,” combined with swaying movements and raised arms, symbolizes both religious expression and stylized movement. This sacred ritual has now evolved into a performance designed for public consumption. Tari Kecak occupies a complex space as both a commodified cultural spectacle and a devotional practice retaining elements of its religious origins.

These examples highlight how many Indonesian dances were initially crafted to serve a religious purpose. Throughout Indonesia, we see other examples of how religion spread through cultural byproducts, such as dances, songs, writings, or performances. This fusion of faith and artistic expression is seen in:

• Wayang Kulit: Javanese shadow puppetry, which predates Islam, was adapted to incorporate Islamic narratives alongside tales from Hindu epics, helping communities transition to Islam.

• Barong Dance (Bali): Originally rooted in animistic beliefs, this dance now depicts the eternal struggle between good and evil, a theme compatible with many religious worldviews.

• Religious Architecture: From the grand Istiqlal Mosque in Jakarta to Bali’s intricate Hindu temples, religious devotion in Indonesia is expressed through various artistic forms.

In addition to serving religious purposes, many Indonesian traditional dances are tied to tribal identity. For instance, the Bataknese Tor-Tor dance from North Sumatra is characterized by rhythmic hand movements and stomping feet, often used to communicate with the spirit world. Christianity’s arrival in the region rebranded the dance, shifting its focus from spirit communication to a celebration of Batak cultural identity.

Dance as a Partition of Classes

While many traditional dances emerged organically from communities, a significant portion of Indonesia’s most well-known dances originated within royal courts. Dances like the Balinese Legong or Javanese Bedhaya were created to celebrate royal events, with rigid rules governing their performance. The Bedhaya dance from the Keraton of Yogyakarta, for example, can only be performed on particular days due to its mystical background. These royal dances, while beautiful and culturally significant, reinforced the idea that dance was a specialized art form reserved for the elite.

The exclusivity of these dances was maintained through specialized training, typically available only to those within court circles. Themes often centered on gods, kings, and mythical battles, distancing these dances from the everyday lives of ordinary people. Some dances held spiritual significance, with dancers viewed as representations of the divine, creating a barrier between performers and their audience.

Despite wider access today, this historical legacy still creates a sense of division. Many still perceive classical dance forms as requiring a refined taste or specific cultural knowledge to fully appreciate them. This perception, whether conscious or unconscious, fosters cultural elitism, discouraging wider participation and reinforcing the notion that these art forms are not meant for everyone.

Dancing Through Political Turmoil

Indonesia’s history of colonization and shifting religious influences also affected how dance is perceived. Some traditional dances were only permitted to be performed by certain members of society, and political changes further shaped public attitudes toward dance. For example, Dutch colonization brought Western social dances like the waltz, while the growing influence of conservative Islam has led to some traditional dances being viewed as less acceptable, particularly for women.

Governments have also used dance as a political tool. Under Sukarno (1945–1967), traditional culture, including dance, was promoted as a way to foster national unity. However, his limited understanding of Indonesia’s diverse cultures meant that Javanese and Balinese traditions were prioritized, elevating these regions as the cultural face of the nation.

This control over dance is also evident in the case of the Jaipong dance from West Java. Introduced in 1974, Jaipong quickly gained popularity for its traditional roots and energetic movements. However, in 2009, a controversial regulation criminalizing actions resembling pornography restricted Jaipong dancers’ attire and movements. This demonstrates how the ruling class can modify cultural expressions to align with their beliefs, controlling who can perform and how.

Patriarchy and Poor City Planning

Returning to the parking lot dance party that inspired this reflection, I began to wonder: where are women supposed to dance? Dance studios are not common in Indonesia, especially among lower-income groups. The idea of paying to rent a space just to dance is unrealistic for many. Considering the demographic of the women I saw, it’s unlikely they could afford to spend their earnings on something non-essential like studio rental. With the cost of living skyrocketing, they’d rather spend money on groceries than on a room with mirrors.

Personally, I’ve struggled to find places to dance, especially as a non-drinker. For many young Indonesians, the only option is to dance in a club, but I don’t drink, and the idea of going to a club just to order a Coca-Cola feels ridiculous (I’ve tried this before, and the bartender gave me the biggest side-eye). Add my social anxiety and aversion to crowds, and dancing at a club becomes impossible. For many women, dancing in public spaces like clubs also invites unwanted male attention, far from liberating. With so few safe spaces for women to dance, a parking lot suddenly seems more understandable.

Public spaces in Indonesia aren’t designed for leisure activities like dancing. The Ministry of Public Works and Housing notes that urban green space should cover 30% of a city, but as of 2019, only 9.8% of Jakarta met this standard. When the largest city in Indonesia falls short, smaller cities are even worse off. And even when public spaces exist, they are often poorly designed — with hard concrete playgrounds, little shade, and minimal public transport access.

As much as I’d like to make this a gender-neutral issue, women are disproportionately affected. Public spaces designed for women to express themselves freely are virtually nonexistent. Parks and public areas are either playgrounds or sports courts (for badminton, tennis, football, etc.). Where do women’s needs fit in? They don’t. While newer public parks may cater to mixed-use activities, none are specifically designed with women’s needs in mind.

Even when women do use public spaces, the risk of harassment is high. The parking lot scene I witnessed illustrates how women’s presence in public can be twisted into a discussion of morality. This sends a clear message: women’s leisure, self-expression, and well-being outside the home are not priorities. It highlights how women are often an afterthought in public space design.

So, Where Can Women Dance?

The sad truth is, there are no easy answers. In a society built on restrictive norms and inadequate infrastructure, women’s freedom to dance — to simply express their bodies joyfully in public — remains a distant dream. But maybe the next time I see women dancing in a parking lot, instead of feeling pity or frustration, I’ll feel a surge of defiance. Because their refusal to be invisible, even within these limitations, is an act of resistance in itself.