Reclaiming of the heritage name by Peranakan Chinese in the Netherlands and their sense of belonging

Abstract

Purpose

Looking through an autoethnographical lens, the authors analyse the reclaiming of the heritage name of Indonesian Peranakan Chinese in the Netherlands with regard to their sense of belonging and (translocational) positionality. The discussion is situated in the realm of (post)colonial ties between the country of birth and their current country of residence, against the backdrop of assimilationist policies of President Soeharto’s “New Order” after the regime change following the September 30, 1965, coup attempt (G30S). The authors’ own reflections were studied in combination with interviews, both formal and informal, and desk research to compose a narrative of active memories and stories told. How was the state-imposed name change experienced? Why did they choose to reclaim their Chinese name when applying for Dutch citizenship rendered that opportunity? Where can the affective bonds be found?

Design/methodology/approach

The authors’ own reflections were studied in combination with interviews, both formal and informal, and desk research to compose a narrative of active memories and stories told. How was the state-imposed name change experienced? Why did they choose to reclaim their Chinese name when applying for Dutch citizenship rendered that opportunity? Where do the affective bonds lie?

Findings

The reclaiming of the heritage name has a different resonance in the sense of belonging for different generational cohorts. In the specific post-colonial Dutch context - for the generation of our interviewees and of our parents - it represents an active re-positioning of one’s self as having Chinese ancestry (the name I was born with), not because they wanted to renounce their Indonesian connection but because they were forced to make a choice. For us, the authors, it was more a matter of: because we were raised with this name.

Originality/value

This article is a response to the appeal to expand the scarce literature published on the Peranakan Chinese group in the Netherlands (e.g. Tjiook–Liem, 2017; Van der Meer and Eickhoff, 2017; Ang, 2005; Li, 1999) who live in a fascinating (post)colonial positionality comprising of Chinese ancestry, Indonesian background and the Dutch (new) home country. Studies on this group barely mention the consequences of name change for their belonging (Healy, 2020) and positionality (Anthias, 2012).

Citation

Thio, M.L. and Sidarto, L. (2024), "Reclaiming of the heritage name by Peranakan Chinese in the Netherlands and their sense of belonging", Journal of Organizational Ethnography, Vol. 13 No. 3, pp. 393-409. https://doi.org/10.1108/JOE-04-2024-0018

My father always gratefully recollected that upon our arrival in Curaçao from Indonesia in late 1968, at the municipality office he came across “a benevolent official who was willing to register us as ‘Thio also known as Hadisaputro’, thus enabling us to continue to live by our Chinese name over there.” After the designated period of years - Curaçao still a part of the Netherlands Antilles in those years - we applied for a Dutch passport and simultaneously changed back to our Chinese name when we obtained Dutch nationality. (May Ling)

From my earliest childhood, I always knew I was born with the name “Sie Yoe Lien”. Yet, the only people who ever called me by that name were elderly relatives in my grandmother’s hometown of Batu. I have little, if any, emotional connection with my Chinese name. The name I see as mine is Linawati Sidarto. As an adult, my Chinese name did mean multiple paperwork whenever I had to apply, or renew, identity documents. After the fall of Soeharto, my husband has asked me time and again if I wanted to change back to my birth name. I have no intention of doing that, as I identify myself with my Indonesian name. (Linawati)

Introduction

The above reminiscences have their origins in the assimilationist policies of President Soeharto’s “New Order” (Orde Baru [1]) government (1966–1998), which immediately issued regulations to suppress expressions of Chinese ethnic, cultural and religious identity after assuming power in Indonesia (Hoon, 2006; Wertheim, 1976). The aftermath of the regime change after the September 30, 1965, coup attempt (G30S Gerakan (Movement) 30 September) resulted amongst others in a decree in 1967 in which Indonesian citizens of foreign descent, virtually synonymous to the Chinese (Chua, 2007; Suryadinata, 1997), were urged to do a ganti nama (name change): take on Indonesian (sounding) names, both for their surnames as well as first names. Our families conceded, resulting in the Thio family becoming Hadisaputro, and May Ling renamed Setiawati, while the Sie family adopted Sidarto as a family name, and Yoe Lien was changed to Linawati.

This state-imposed transition was peculiar, given that a certain group of ethnic Chinese in Indonesia evolved into being referred to as Peranakan Chinese, meaning children from the soil, signified by the embedded Indonesian word for “child”, anak. This was the case with those who “creolized” through adapting to Indonesian customs, food and language as opposed to a smaller group of totok Chinese – totok referring to “pure” – who adhered more to their original culture and had less interaction with the local community. The Peranakans’ [2] rootedness in Indonesia was in a way contested by the ganti nama ruling and many other regulations before 1967, resulting in a continuous awareness and confrontation of discrimination (see also next section). These sentiments led to a migration wave in the late 1960s (Kitamura, 2017) of approximately 10,000 Peranakan Chinese (Li, 2013, p. 146) seeking refuge outside their country of birth, of which 5,000 went to the Netherlands.

This article will focus on Peranakans who moved to the Netherlands, and especially those who, together with applying for a Dutch passport, requested to return to their heritage name (balik nama [3]). Walsh and Yakhnich (2021, p. 874) believe that reclaiming a name is a special – and barely studied – case for examining positioning processes following migration and settling. In this article, we will discuss this process in the specific context of the postcolonial ties that exist between Indonesia and the Netherlands. The starting point will be our own (the authors’) family histories: our shared Peranakan Chinese heritage and the influence of ganti nama, balik nama or keeping the “new” name as sources of contemplation. This discussion relates to how we perceive the role of our names, either Chinese or Indonesian, regarding our identity and sense of belonging, social position and positioning (following Anthias, 2012) in the Netherlands, where we have resided for several decades.

Oostindie (2010) coined the term “postcolonial bonus” as an advantage immigrants from former colonies would encounter when they move to the country of the colonizer: they are already familiar with the country’s customs, norms and values, in addition to possible legal benefits regarding citizenship rights. This would render their integration easier compared to immigrants who do not share those ties. However, Oostindie chose not to include Peranakan Chinese in these groups because of their intricate affiliation with their Chinese ancestry, resulting in Thio (2007) calling Peranakans “initiated outsiders” in the Netherlands. Therefore, the issues we want to address arise, especially when one feels questioned on an assumed identification, when being denied a membership belonging (unbelonging) or losing a sense of belonging (not-belonging) (Healy, 2020), as reflected in the Peranakan Chinese experiences in Indonesia described earlier. These questions come together in Anthias’ (2012) translocational positionality framework, where identity is analysed as fluid, self-constructed as well as externally ascribed by others and connected to locations that are treated contextually and temporally, beyond the notion of physical spaces. Positionality refers to the combination of outcomes (position) and process (positioning) in social practices and interactions, where our experiences are related to ourselves and others. The postcolonial context provides an in-between space where “othering” is not so clear-cut, since these groups of immigrants share some common history with the established members of their new home country.

Lastly, this article is a response to the appeal to expand the scarce literature published on the Peranakan Chinese group in the Netherlands, e.g. Tjiook-Liem (2017), Van der Meer and Eickhoff (2017), Ang (2005) and Li (1999). Peranakan Chinese live in a fascinating postcolonial positionality comprising of Chinese ancestry, an Indonesian background and their new Dutch home country. Studies on this group barely mention ganti nama, and the ones who have done so include it more as a matter of fact without elaborating on its consequences. With this study, we wish to address that gap by analysing how this reclaiming affects the sense of belonging of Peranakan Chinese living in postcolonial Netherlands.

For the research, we used duo-autoethnography as a lens, complemented with five interviews, archival research and informal – planned and unplanned – conversations with extended family members and social networks. By doing this, we interweave our personal histories with narratives of others and give meaning to cultural, social and emotional experiences of ganti/balik nama (cf. Ellis, 2004; Poulos, 2021). The additional oral sources were indispensable because we were both born shortly after G30S, therefore only toddlers when ganti nama took place, and in May Ling’s case also still a child when her family’s heritage name was reclaimed. To put our exploration into perspective, an insight in the context of Peranakan Chinese in Indonesia, from Soekarno’s Orde Lama (Old Order) to Soeharto’s Orde Baru (New Order), is in place.

From Orde Lama to Orde Baru – Peranakan Chinese in Indonesia

When the Dutch arrived on the shores of Indonesia in the late 16th century, Chinese migrants were already an established, albeit small, part of communities there, especially in urban coastal areas. The Dutch East India Company VOC (Verenigde Oostindische Compagnie), set up in 1,602, made use of the “many Chinese traders in the archipelago” with its trade ranging from spices and minerals to textiles and slaves (Van Reybrouck, 2020, p. 44). During the Dutch colonial presence in Indonesia, “the essential links between the Dutch and the Chinese were trade and economy, in which the Chinese played a key intermediary role” (Tjiook-Liem, 2017, p. 5). This prominent role led to jealousy from other communities, which sometimes resulted in clashes. In the 1930 census, 1.2% of the almost 61 million residents in the Dutch East Indies were of Chinese descent. Bouts of violence targeting ethnic Chinese continued from time to time into the era of a sovereign Indonesia.

One law coined by China in 1909 would have a significant impact on Chinese Indonesians well beyond Indonesia’s independence: a nationality law stipulating that all people born from a Chinese father – even those born outside of China – have Chinese nationality.

Even decades before the law became official, however, “China viewed the Chinese in the Dutch East Indies as its nationals” and tried to exert its influence on the Chinese there (Tjiook-Liem, 2022, p. 58). When the law became official in 1909, “it became crucial for the Netherlands to clarify to China that the Chinese in the Indies … were Dutch subjects”, which was done by establishing the Dutch Subject Law in 1910 (p. 59). Subsequently, there was an agreement between China and the Indies colonial government that Dutch colonial law prevailed over the Chinese when they were in Dutch territory, but that they could choose under whose jurisdiction they fell when they were outside those territories. Apart from the legal aspect, this interest from the Chinese government strengthened the awareness of the Chinese in the Indies regarding their ancestral heritage and belonging (Coppel, 2002). China’s active help and support stood in sharp contrast with what the Chinese experienced with the passive and unaccommodating attitude of the colonial administration (Tjiook-Liem, 2022).

By 1920, colonial law divided the Dutch East Indies population into three groups: Europeans, Foreign Orientals (this also included the Chinese) and the Natives. By the end of World War ll, Indonesia proclaimed independence from the Netherlands in August 1945. This was followed by a physical and diplomatic war, with the Netherlands finally acknowledging its former colony’s sovereignty in December 1949.

After Indonesia’s independence from the Dutch, residents of the former Dutch East Indies – including the Chinese – had to choose between Dutch or Indonesian citizenship. For the Chinese, regardless of which choice they made, this new citizenship was still paired with Chinese nationality. China and Indonesia agreed to end this dual nationality in the late 1950s, and the Chinese in Indonesia had until 1962 to choose between the two citizenships.

Institutionalised discrimination based on race in the Dutch East Indies still loomed over the Chinese in independent Indonesia. The departure of the Dutch did not mean that old colonial sentiments – that the Chinese are economically privileged – had disappeared. “In reality, political and administrative measures constantly attacked their interests or limited their freedoms” (Somers Heidhues, 2017, p. 99). Somers Heidhues further indicated that in the 1950s leading political parties tried to “dismantle the ‘colonial economy’ by limiting Chinese businesses and promoting indigenous entrepreneurs”.

In May 1959, a governmental regulation concerning the ending of dual nationality for Chinese Indonesians for the first time included a suggestion that those opting for sole Indonesian citizenship “could make an addition to their name with another name deemed indigenous Indonesian as an alias.” [4] However, Peranakans who tried to actively position themselves on the national fora did not necessarily speak with one voice. The left-leaning Baperki (Badan Permusyawaratan Kewarganegaraan Indonesia or the Consultative Council for Indonesian Citizenship), set up in 1954, were close to the communist PKI party. It heralded the notion of “integration”: that every ethnic group in Indonesia, including the Chinese, “retain their ethnic identities such as their names, language, and culture, but working together with other ethnic groups in developing Indonesia” (Dewi, 2013). Others, like those in the military-backed Lembaga Pengkajian Kesatuan Bangsa (LPKB, Institute for the Promotion of National Unity), favoured “assimilation”: the “complete social and political integration of ethnic Chinese in Indonesian society and considered this best reached by abandoning all aspects of Chinese cultural life” (Aizawa, 2011, p. 47). One assimilation method, according to the LPKB, was that Chinese Indonesians were encouraged to adapt their names to names commonly used in Indonesia (Dewi, 2013).

On the night of September 30, 1965, six army generals and a lieutenant were murdered as part of an attempted coup blamed on the PKI. Afterwards, power transferred from President Soekarno, who was seen as close to the PKI, to Major General Soeharto. In the months following the G30S, hundreds of thousands – some estimates go into the millions – of people deemed to have any ties to communism were killed, and many others were arrested and jailed without due process. After Baperki’s demise following G30S, LPKB was left as the sole political body representing the interests of Chinese Indonesians (Aizawa, 2011). While Chinese Indonesians were not the main target in the post-G 30 S mass killings – estimates of Chinese deaths are in the thousands – the impact on the Chinese during this period “was more political and cultural suffering … Soekarno’s closeness with communist People’s Republic of China gave the impression that the Chinese (Indonesians) were closer to the communist ideology” (Sutrisno in BBC News Indonesia, Oct 2021). In 1967, the cabinet under Soeharto made its stance clear towards the Chinese in Indonesia by underlining that the masalah Cina (the Chinese problem) “had to be dealt with as a national issue and needed the commitment and initiative of the state to solve it” (Aizawa, 2011, p. 52).

The first major legal step by the government to curb Chinese Indonesians came in July 1966, with the banning of Chinese language and characters in the public sphere [5]. This was followed in December that year by Keputusan Presidium Kabinet no. 127/1966 (Cabinet Presidium Decision no. 127/1966), specifying the process of ganti nama. It opens as follows: “In the process of nation and character building, Indonesia needs to accelerate the assimilation process of Indonesian citizens of foreign descent into the Indonesian nation”, and that“the name change into Indonesian names of Indonesians of foreign descent could support this assimilation process”.

Actually, well before the Cabinet Decision was issued, there were already steps towards urging Chinese Indonesians to change their names. Less than a month after G30S, Wignjosumarsono (1965) – a strong proponent of assimilation – published a booklet titled Bagaimana Ganti Nama (How to Do a Name Change). He said that one of the factors nurturing Chinese Indonesians’ “racial exclusiveness” is “their names, which are the same as those of foreigners”. The Cabinet Decision was further strengthened by a Presidential Decree issued in December 1967. Article 5 of the decree says: “Particularly for Indonesian citizens of foreign descent still carrying Chinese names, it is recommended to change their names to Indonesian names in accordance with the law.” In his book “Ganti Nama”, prominent assimilation proponent Jahja (1987, p. 12) wrote that “millions of Chinese descendants took advantage” of the 1961 Law [6] and 1966 Cabinet Decision on name change. The more simplified process of ganti nama stipulated in the Cabinet Decision was valid from the end of December 1966 until March 31, 1968. After that date, those applying for a name change must take the lengthier steps according to the 1961 Law (Jahja, 1987). Ganti nama, which had started more as a suggestion and social discussion starting in the late 1950s, became something much more menacing after 1965. Lina’s brother noted: “Not doing it was seen as a risk not worth taking”.

Institutionally imposed name changes elsewhere in the world

There are not many historical comparisons of state or institutional interventions imposing name changes; the Japanese–Korean case comes closest to the Indonesian ganti nama intervention.

In February 1940, coinciding with the 2,600th anniversary of the mythical Emperor Jimmu’s founding of Japan, Japanese colonial authorities in Korea required Koreans to adopt Japanese names, binding the fate of the colony with that of the empire. Those Koreans who did not comply were barred from enrolling at schools, received no service at government offices, and were excluded from food rations and other supplies (Pak and Hwang, 2011).

Ironically, until the late 1930s, Koreans were not allowed to have Japanese names because the colonial authorities wished to be able to clearly distinguish the ancestry of their citizens. The turnaround of this point of view has been attributed to the intention to “dismantle the traditional Korean family structure and at the same time to accelerate the assimilation process with the escalation of war”, (Mizuno in Pak and Hwang, 2011, p. 391). Kim’s (1998, pp. 99–100) semi-fictional narrative exemplifies how one must have experienced such a drastic interference when the boy-protagonist wonders, “My new name, my old name, my true name, my not-true name?” In 1946, after the Japanese defeat, a Name Restoration Order was issued by the United States to enable Koreans to reclaim their original Korean names if they wished so.

There is also the well-known Ellis Island name change story during the Mass Migration from Europe to the United States in the first half of the 20th century. In a memorable scene from the movie The Godfather, Vito Andolino was assigned the name of his last place of residence – Corleone – as his family name [7], suggesting these name changes happened because inspectors did not understand, misinterpreted or misspelled the information provided onsite. This is a myth. The fact is that these officials only checked the passengers’ manifests recorded by the steamship companies when the tickets were bought. So, if anything was altered, it was not by act of the receiving country’s immigration offices but often already instigated at the port of departure. Of course, there was always the possibility that the names of passengers were spelled wrong, perhaps by the clerk when the ticket was bought or during transliteration, when names were transferred from one alphabet to another. However, studies have shown that it is more likely that immigrants were their own agents of change. This would, for instance, be the case when they thought a more American-sounding name would make it easier for them to fit in, integrate and assimilate in their new home country.

The Ellis Island name change myth is recognizable with the case of Ethiopian Jews entering Israel, described by Walsh and Yakhnich (2021) as both assimilation pressures and encouragement. Ethiopian Jews came to Israel in 1984 and 1991, through “Operation Moses” and “Operation Solomon”, followed by more scattered relocations between 2000 and 2007, adding up to almost 50,000 diaspora immigrants (Walsh and Yakhnich, 2021). All participants of this study indicated that they “received” Hebrew names by either formal or informal institutional representatives, e.g. government employees or teachers, often because Israeli residents found their names difficult to pronounce and/or to facilitate their interactions with the local community. These newcomers experienced the name change as imposed, and although feelings of neutrality, acceptance and dislike varied among the observed reactions, they agreed that it was “… like someone took their identities” (Walsh and Yakhnich, 2021, p. 885).

Compared to the Japanese–Korean situation, in the Ellis Island examples – and also the Peranakan Chinese’s ganti nama as we will discuss later on – there was little agency regarding the imposed name with the Ethiopian immigrants. This changed when young adult Ethiopians, who moved as minors to Israel, started to reclaim their heritage name some decades later. Walsh and Yakhnich see this process as a reflection of a growing sense of confidence and autonomy, whereby their sense of belonging is not contested anymore.

Identity, home, belonging – what’s in a name

It has been demonstrated that we have different social identities depending on the place, group or setting we are in (e.g. Hogg, 2003; Jenkins, 2014). Different, but not excluding, from how Crenshaw (1991) argued that every individual resides at the nexus of multiple identities, each affecting and shaping the others. Anthias (2012) has elaborated on this intersectional framework, offering the lens of translocational positionality to address – abandon actually – the residuals of essentialism in the social-cultural discourse and study. The translocational connotation refers to the fact that our identity and sense of belonging are not only bound to fixed social spaces but that our lives are located across multiple but also fractured and inter-related social spaces (Anthias, 2012, p. 15). We reside in multiple “identity locations” related to several terrains coinciding with what Appiah (2018) coined as creed, colour, country, class and culture. Appiah’s own background – the son of a British mother and a father who belonged to Ghanese Asante royalty – provides ample examples to substantiate this line of reasoning. With his recollection of “when the idea that you could be properly English and not white seemed fairly uncommon” (Appiah, 2018, p. 7), he shows how in this case, the intersection of colour, country and culture was confusing because of conflicting conceptions of self and the other, often by the other. It also reflects the tendency of judgementally dividing people into categories of belonging and, as Anthias (2012, p. 15) also argues, how these spaces are defined by boundaries and hierarchies. Who decides when, how and what your societal positioning is? The interplay between those categories and the possibility of contradictory effects in these intersections lie at the heart of translocational positionality.

By drawing attention to the role of social locations (positions) and social processes (positioning), Anthias points out that identity originates from narratives of self and others, including (re)presentation, labelling, myths of origin and destiny and the accompanying identifications: I am, become, belong. With belonging, although being symbiotically connected to identity, the emphasis is more on the lived experiences “… of being part of the social fabric and the ways in which social bonds and ties are manifested in practices, experiences, and emotions of inclusion” (Anthias, 2012, p. 8). So, how we see ourselves is made up by those narratives, but also by the way we are seen by others. This is reflected by questions like “where do I belong?” and “where are you really from?” often instigated by attributions of others questioning what has been obvious to you, asking for explanations. “You say you are Chinese? How come you don’t speak Chinese?” almost forcing you to “choose sides”, as in Ang’s (2005) reflection “On not speaking Chinese”.

Translocational positionality is about not having to choose sides, as also demonstrated by Ghorashi (2017) with her study on narratives of migrant women. These women shared experiences that showed how their “otherness” does not automatically have to lead to a conclusive strand of not-belonging or unbelonging (we will discuss Healy’s (2020) observations on this “Other Side of Belonging” later on) but go beyond a territorially rooted notion of belonging. Belonging gives you a sense of how you fit into the social world.

And how do we make sense of our place in the world: where/when do we feel at home (e.g. Jackson, 1995) and how do we understand what home is (e.g. Mallett, 2004)? Mallet dissects home as places, spaces, feelings, practices and/or an active state of being in the world. The author provides perspectives within various frameworks, offering inspiration for different study angles. In Jackson’s (textbook example) ethnography of his time with the nomadic Warlpiri people of the Tanami Desert in Australia, he looks for an answer to the question of what it means to be “at home”. Next to his fieldnotes, Jackson compared numerous definitions of home from different disciplines, cultures and periods in history (Jackson, 1995, pp. 120–122). One can discern the more factual description of the ancestral link (descendancy and ethnicity) and the conceptual perspective associated with safety, happiness and/or company of people. Most of these elements can be seen in the Warlpiri’s conceptions of home, as in “where one hails from”, but also in places where they have settled for longer or shorter times, leaving them with memories because they (once) had made it their own. This leads Jackson to the observation that “[h]ome is always lived as a relationship”, between the self and the other.

Although Mallett and Jackson have different approaches, we would argue that both authors arrive at the same understanding of home and that we see a close resemblance with Appiah’s identity elements of creed, colour, country, class and culture and Anthias’ translocational positionality. “Home” can be perceived as a multidimensional concept that derives its meaning from “the eye of the beholder”. In defining home, people define themselves (Jackson, 1995), but boundaries are understood and/or tested in interaction with others.

This connects seamlessly with how we are to understand belonging. Belonging is about emotional attachment, about feeling “at home”. Nevertheless, the pivotal point is that how and/or where the “self” has envisaged its place in the world has to be recognized by the “other” (Healy, 2020; Yuval-Davis, 2006). If those two strands do not coincide, we face either not-belonging or unbelonging. Not-belonging occurs when an individual has a formal membership but is not considered or accepted as one by “reality”, as Healy (p.131) describes it. This will position the person as “not part of us”. When this loss of sense of belonging is aligned with the loss (or removal) of membership, unbelonging renders the person “disconnected”, similar to what we have argued earlier: that home and belonging are not confined to only one (physical) place, state or practice (see also Mallett, 2004).

The ganti nama ruling of 1967 regarding Peranakan Chinese in Indonesia may act as an example for both positionings: aiming at their assimilation into the Indonesian state as “full citizens”, Peranakans were disconnected from their heritage background (unbelonging), obliged to reside under a different name, essentially forced to trade one membership over the other. As mentioned before, in the colonial administration, Peranakan Chinese were labelled Foreign Orientals, considered not-belonging to either the Dutch or Indonesian state. Peranakan Chinese in the Netherlands, and especially the first-generation migrants, embody this translocational positionality through their affective bond with Indonesia, their Chinese ancestral awareness and the connection with the Netherlands by their (post)colonial background. In that sense, they arrived as “initiated outsiders” in their new place of settlement (Thio, 2007).

Following Appiah’s (2018) terrains of identity, we argue that one’s name is tied to one’s culture. This is especially the case with the Chinese naming tradition, where the patrilineal family name is placed up front, followed by the two given names – usually the generation name in the middle and the last being the personal name, indicating one’s position in the family lineage (Subanti, 2021; Lie and Bailey, 2017). Ganti nama therefore would represent a disturbance of one’s sense of belonging: something that is cut off because of having to live under a different name – almost as residing somewhere else. “Giving up one’s family name could thus be experienced as tantamount to giving up one’s identity and family” (Lie and Bailey, 2017, p. 86). Balik nama then fits with the findings of Walsh and Yakhnich (2021) on how name reclaiming reflects a process of social-political positioning, returning to one’s roots and heritage.

Methodology

To our knowledge, experiences about ganti and balik nama have not been the subject of academic research in the specific context of Peranakan Chinese in the Netherlands, where reclaiming took place outside the realm of the administration who imposed the name change. Methodologically, the combination of our overlapping personal backgrounds offered a compelling and apt opportunity for duo-autoethnographic-based research as advanced by, for instance, Ellis (2004) and Poulos (2021) in order to give meaning to family stories (un)told. It connects adequately with the focus on narratives to convey the impact the name-changing processes had or still have, on the social positions and positioning of this group, as advocated by Anthias (2012), Ghorashi (2017) and Yuval-Davis (2006). We have a lot in common: female, born in a privileged middle-class (Christian) Peranakan family in Indonesia shortly after G30S, youngest child with one older brother, married to a Dutch man, living and raising a family in the Netherlands for the past several decades. We differ in that Lina still holds her Indonesian name and passport, while May Ling has her Chinese name and Dutch citizenship. So, we share a lot of Appiah’s (2018) creed, colour, country, class and culture, but with the distinction that Lina spent her formative years in Indonesia and is fluent in the Indonesian language, while May Ling moved away from her birth country to Curaçao (back then still part of the Netherlands Antilles) when she was a young child and completely lost proficiency in her mother tongue. Creed and class only have a factual role in this research, but the study of ganti nama is closely connected to the context of our mixed ethnic descent and migration history, so colour, country and culture have a prominent role.

We engaged in dialogues on the belonging debate by listening to each other’s stories, reflecting on them and reflecting on these reflections, both verbally and in writing. To connect our history and present situation – individually and mutually – we exchanged factual information about our parents and relatives and questioned seemingly light-hearted notions that we had previously taken for granted as being part and parcel of our social conversations. We discovered, for instance, how even one of our favourite pastimes of talking about food (very Asian, if we permit ourselves this essentialist attribution), proved to tell us something about our mixed – and sometimes confusing – Peranakan Chinese background of belonging.

The true origins of sup merah – or rode soep [red soup] as my parents called it – only became clear to me when I was working as a journalist in Jakarta in the 1990s. (…) One day Ibu T., who worked for the Australian, brought some sup merah to the office. I was pleased yet surprised. “How interesting, this is just like my grandmother’s soup!” My comment was immediately followed by an incredulous reaction from another colleague: “I knew you were ignorant, but this is the limit! (…) That is a typical dish of the Peranakan Chinese from East Java. How is it possible that a Chinese gal from Malang doesn’t know this!” (Lina)

Lina’s story surprised May Ling, because the latter has always considered this same dish as her mother’s signature comfort food; it was even referred to by her own children as “oma’s kippensoep” (granny’s chicken soup). Adding to May Ling’s confusion was that her mother is from the Padang region in Sumatra, thousands of kilometres away – over land and sea – from Lina’s grandparents’ hometown of Malang, East Java. Still, we share this dish as part of our cultural heritage, although we both first thought it to be something quite personal.

As we moved on with our introspective interactions, we checked our stories with our brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins and extended family from our Peranakan social network in various parts of the world. How did the family choose the Indonesian name, and what were the consequences? How did they feel about it? Why did they choose to reclaim their heritage name or keep their new name? What role did the application for a Dutch passport have, and where is your home? Because we were both quite young when the ganti/balik nama processes took place, our primary sources consisted of stories told to us, fragments of our own memory and the lived experience. Therefore, we also interviewed five people, by coincidence all male, living in the Netherlands who have clear memories of both ganti nama and balik nama. The interviewees were born in Indonesia with Chinese names between 1940 and 1953. They went through the ganti nama process between 1966 and 1968 and left Indonesia shortly after that: between 1968 and 1971.

Archival work was done with Delpher (the historical texts website of the KB National Library of the Netherlands) on records of Koninklijke Besluiten (Royal Decrees) of granted applications for Dutch nationality. These were then searched for persons born in Indonesia in combination with terms related to name change for the period of 1970–1980, assuming that most of the post-ganti-nama migrants would by then be eligible to request a Dutch passport. This was the only way to make a first selection, because obviously Peranakan Chinese are not registered with their ethnic ancestry. Subsequently, the outcome of this systematic search was manually reviewed by us to assess if it concerned a Peranakan applicant with an Indonesian name. We would claim that only people with our background could discern this on sight, recognizing variations of (non-original) Indonesian-sounding names chosen by Peranakans. With this analysis, we aimed at an indicative notion of the amount of balik nama requests and the kind of Indonesian names chosen. To determine the procedures individuals had to follow relating to name registrations back then in the 1970s, we consulted the Immigration and Naturalization Service (IND), Ministry of Justice and Security, National Archives The Hague and CBG (Centre for Family History).

Ganti nama stories

Of course, the starting point of our ganti nama conversations lay in the how and why – and the realization that we both wished we could still pose these questions to our parents. The interviewees pointed to practical reasons when asked why they and their families went through the ganti nama process. Brothers T and A, interviewed separately, both mentioned that their older brother’s university matriculation played a role. This was confirmed by R, another respondent: “My parents thought it would be easier when having to process things like entering schools and getting permits. One of the things was indeed because I was about to enter university”. However, it was also clear that the Soeharto government’s recommendation to do ganti nama was taken very seriously, with fear of repercussions if unheeded: “… there is no real prohibition surrounding it, if you look it up in the laws, but the reality is that it was required by Soeharto, because if you don’t do what the government says, you can get into trouble” said P, another respondent. This coincides with May Ling’s reconstruction afterwards, believing that her parents were already planning to depart from Indonesia because of strong anti-Chinese sentiments in the Medan region when they underwent ganti nama, and “they knew it would make leaving easier”. Because May Ling’s father followed the name choice of his older brother, she turned to the widow of this uncle for clarification.

We wanted the name to have a proper meaning, and also avoiding the risk of choosing an Indonesian variation of Thio and maybe later on learning that it meant something silly. So, Oom (uncle) asked an Indonesian colleague for advice, and that is how we came up with Hadisaputro. It stands for helpful and decency (May Ling’s aunt).

May Ling does not know how her parents chose the given names of their children:

Looking at our names, though, the act had a bit of a perfunctory ring to it, because they are the male and female version of “loyalty”. In hindsight one could, however, give a deeper sense of meaning to that specific choice (May Ling).

Lina’s brother still has vivid memories of the “process” of name-choosing by their parents:

I remember sitting in the car with Papa and Mama – I think that was on the way to submitting the name change documents. They were discussing which Indonesian names they would choose. Papa was quick, going for simplicity and ease of pronunciation, hence Jos Sidarto. Meanwhile, Mama went on and on as she wanted all her name pieces in the new name, finally settling on switching Tji Siu to Sutji and added “ningsih” for good measure so it sounds Indonesian. So, the whole name choosing was done in like fifteen minutes before we got to wherever that was. Papa said Mama’s name was too complex, but Mama stuck to it and Papa said “up to you lah”. (e-mail Lina’s brother)

Asked if interviewees were proactive in choosing their Indonesian name, three of them – who were teenagers during the occurrence – said they were not involved. T said that he “either didn’t care, or it just didn’t make any difference”, adding the following: “The whole situation was already confusing enough for us”. The oldest interviewee, who was already in his 20s during his ganti nama, carefully selected his new name and included the history of his Javanese ancestry in the name. “I actually liked this name, because it at least had a link with the family history. Not better than the Chinese name, but still, it was not bad”.

So, the common practice was that everyone was free to make their own choices, ending up in many families not being traceable as relatives based on last names. May Ling’s father took the same name as his brother, but there is a branch in the Thio-family tree that goes by “Setyo”. The brother of Lina’s father already lived in the Netherlands when ganti nama took place, so he never had to give up his Chinese name – but the Sie grandparents chose Sanusi as their Indonesian name.

As far as I recall, the mood was a light talk, no stress or a big deal, even a bit of a banter that they didn’t think to call each other to agree on the same name. In our family the new name choices were more on embedding the Chinese name, especially the surname in it. (e-mail Lina’s brother)

Extended family of May Ling’s related that their father took the Indonesian word for his profession as the basis for their surname. Understandably, their paternal uncle chose a different name because he did not share the same job. “It’s annoying, as we cannot search for cousins, relatives simply by looking at surnames”, (personal communication, sisters K.) The most basic familial binding tie has gone.

Following the ganti nama process, those who were still in secondary school or already at university said their classmates and teachers continued to call them by their Chinese names. However, as soon as they entered a new phase, most of them started using their Indonesian name. “When I started at Airlangga University, I introduced myself with my Indonesian name. Why? Because it was the name on my ID card. Those people I knew from high school, though, still called me by my old name”, (H). P, who was just starting work as a doctor, was matter-of-fact about it: “Oh well, at that time you don’t fuss too much about such things: you must take another name, and that’s what you do”.

These first-hand stories resonated with what we found in our Delpher search, though only in the “how” of course and not the “why”. By looking for persons who applied for balik nama, we were able to compare the Indonesian and Chinese names, both family as well as given names, and patterns regarding the (continued) use of Indonesian first names or keeping/adding Western names. For a general impression, we present some factual information. The Delpher records show the first paired Dutch citizenship and balik nama requests in 1971: 27 applicants, this being only adults, as we did not include their underaged children in the counts. Taking into account the mandatory residence period of five years to apply for Dutch nationality and bureaucratic handling time, as expected, the largest numbers appear in 1974 and 1975, resulting in respectively 76 and 95 applicants who, together with taking on Dutch nationality, reclaimed their heritage Chinese name. In the analysed 10-year period, the number of applicants with balik nama showed a range of 10–95 per year, a total of 401 and an average of 44. Over those years, a stable one-third showed that the Chinese name was somehow intertwined or still recognizable in the Indonesian name, especially in the surnames. Our own families’ ganti nama show two of the most common choices: work the Chinese family name into the Indonesian one as Sie to Sidarto or choose a totally different name (based on its meaning). For the sake of privacy, we cannot be too explicit about the Delpher findings, but we were able to see how, for instance, a typical Peranakan family name “Tan” had been Indonesianized into “Abdoelradjabtan”, “Tanuwidjaja” or “Tanamal”. Creativity was further visible in the reflection of the Chinese surname in the Indonesian first name, as with “Tan” in “Jonathan” and “Siem” in “Simon” but also in the complete Chinese first name “Ong Nio”, becoming the Indonesian “Ony”. The Delpher search also resonates with what our interviewees shared about the first names: often the Christian (Western) or Indonesian name was retained next to the Chinese name after balik nama because they were used to people calling them by that name. This was especially the case with younger people, e.g. minor children. Besides that, in Dutch social interactions, the Chinese name proved to be more difficult to pronounce, so “[my Christian first name] is still used by my Dutch friends and colleagues. It’s easier. My good friends and family call me by my Chinese name” (P). This coincides with the Mass Migration and Ethiopian Jews’ stories.

We encountered a couple of aliases, like the case of May Ling’s father, who registered as “Thio also known as Hadisaputro”. Inquiries with governmental and archival agencies like the IND, Ministry of Justice and Security, National Archives and CBG did not result in decisive answers about this alias possibility. It was suggested that in those years, registrations took place upon good faith as long as legitimate source documents could be presented to support the request.

Balik nama stories

In the Netherlands, the legal process of changing one’s name is relatively complicated, lengthy and expensive. When taking on Dutch citizenship, however, there was an exception to this measure in the 1970s based on our interviewees stories, though we have not been able to substantiate this with official sources. Thus, Chinese Indonesians who wish to take back the name recorded on their birth certificates have the opportunity to take back their Chinese name – balik nama – in tandem with obtaining Dutch nationality, “… without additional costs!” as P cheerfully added. One IND official confirmed that most probably the presentation of an official document like an original birth certificate was considered substantial enough proof for the name change. As May Ling and her brother always had an inkling of the “Hadisaputro” attachment, they remembered not being surprised about their father asking them to make up a signature with their Indonesian names because a passport was needed in order to go on a holiday abroad in summer 1973. “But yes … a few years later, papa told us now to make one with ‘Thio’,” (May Ling’s brother). In hindsight, that must have been around 1976, the year our balik nama was effectuated together with receiving Dutch citizenship. The Sidarto siblings have no memories of their parents ever considering reclaiming their Chinese name.

While the balik nama process itself was a relatively simple one, for some people it came with plenty of complications. Four out of the six interviewees opted for balik nama, two for the same reason: “… because that was the name I was born with.” P did this even though “[I] did not have an aversion towards my Indonesian name. I actually thought it was a beautiful name.” A, however, was much more pointed about the matter: “It was very deliberate: I will not use my Indonesian name anymore. We were more or less half refugees,” indicating a sense of returning home by the act.

For A’s brother T, this process was anything but simple. He obtained Dutch nationality in 1977 together with his parents, but they kept their Indonesian name. When asked why his parents made that decision, T said that “dad forgot to request for their birth names in the naturalization process.” Older brother A, however, said that his parents did this “among others because they still had assets in Indonesia.” T also did not change his name at that time, “because I didn’t think it was practical then. I was in my third year of medical school, and thought it was too much of a hassle to adopt a new official name in the midst of my studies, with all the administrative changes that needed to be done.” In 1983, when T was already working as a doctor, he started the legal process of balik nama. “I hired a lawyer to do this, and all the paperwork needed to be filed at the Justice Ministry.” While T’s request was approved the next year, it turned out that the approval was only for his family name. “In order to change my first name, I needed to start a whole new process through the courts.” T then decided to reject the approval given to change his last name, “since that would still be a detraction towards my original name.” Thus, the family of brothers T and A landed in an odd situation where parents and the youngest son have one surname, while the two elder sons – A and another brother – have other last names.

Dentist H reverted to his heritage name when he took Dutch citizenship in 1977 because “… the Indonesian name was somewhat put upon me,” so he did not feel like it really belonged to him. H was later confronted with the reality of his two names when his town’s new mayor had an emergency toothache one weekend, and he was on call. Apparently, the mayor wanted to know more about this dentist but could not find his diploma under the name H, which was the name of the dental practice. In fact, H’s diploma from the university’s dental faculty was under his Indonesian name. “I had to go into the mayor’s office to show him my documents.” Several years before H retired, there was an appeal that dentists should display their diplomas in their practices. As the name on his diploma did not commensurate with the name of his practice, he asked the university if it were possible to change the name on his diploma. Alas, this was not possible. “Luckily, the dean of the dentistry faculty at that time was a friend of mine, and he issued a statement that I had changed my name.” During the interview in June 2022, H told us: “I just had a [dental school] reunion, and some called me by my Indonesian name, while others who knew I had adopted back my birth name call me by my Chinese name. For some it took some adjustment, as they would ask: what should I call you? I said either would be good.”

Quite extraordinary is R’s balik nama process, which he did in Indonesia when Soeharto was still in power. R, born in Jakarta, left for Europe in 1971 to continue his medical studies. When he returned to Indonesia in 1974 to do medical field work, he was frequently confronted with his “Chineseness” when processing documents, despite his Indonesian name. “I became so sick of being confronted time and again about my Chinese lineage. It was intimidation, and a way to ask for bribes.” He then went through the highly unusual process of changing back to his birth name. “My mother was very worried. Friends and family asked if I wasn’t scared.” He had to go through four official institutions to do the paperwork, the final one being at Jakarta’s immigration office for his passport. “The official there was so stunned that he didn’t, as was usually the case, ask for money. I got the name change without any problems”. He added, “I’m probably the first and the last person to have ever done this.” Before R embarked on this, however, he had already made the decision that he would leave Indonesia and reside in the Netherlands.

Varying answers came up when respondents were asked which name they most identified themselves with. While A firmly said that he only identified himself with his Chinese name, he pointed out that his brother T has always been much more Indonesia-oriented. “He stayed three years longer in Indonesia, and those were important, formative years.” T confirmed this, adding that his interest in Indonesia has also been influenced by his wife, a writer who translates Indonesian books into Dutch. H, meanwhile, said that even during the years he used his Indonesian name, “I identified myself with my Chinese name.” He pointed out that while his Indonesian name no longer means anything to him now, “it did have some form of meaning when I was still a practicing dentist,” one could say as a more distant, professional identity. May Ling’s Indonesian name only has a remote meaning for her, more linked to the story of her parents’ flight than to any emotional ties. She was raised with the notion of “we are Chinese” and identifies herself as such, but paired with Indonesian roots, as in their home, the language and cuisine reflected their Chinese Indonesian Peranakan heritage. Her father had taught his children about their names through the typical three-syllabic system. With the first one, Thio, people know to which family you belong. The second one, May, indicates your generational position in the Thio family, while the third one, Ling, is one’s personal name. Once, a totok Chinese acquaintance confused her by asking why she did not identify more with the Netherlands because of her Dutch nationality, residence and fluency of the language, or for that matter, Indonesia as her country of birth. On that occasion, May Ling was compared with Peranakan friends also present, who, like Lina, grew up in Indonesia and still lived under their Indonesian name but in the USA. The “discussion” was decided with: “Ah, but yes, I understand, at least you still have your Chinese name,” a remark that May Ling experienced as a reassuring confirmation.

For Lina, who has lived in the Netherlands for a quarter of a century, balik nama has not been an option as she still holds – by choice – Indonesian nationality. Regardless of her citizenship, however, she would never change her name, which she has identified with for as long as she could recall. She only remembers being called by her birth name “Yoe Lien” by elderly relatives when she was a young child. The name was never used elsewhere, not even within her family. Lina’s two names did cause problems on occasions: she had to delay her marriage in the Netherlands for a year, as her documents from Indonesia – Chinese name on her birth certificate and the Indonesian name elsewhere – took a long time to process. It was not surprising that from the two authors’ discussion on their hyphenated identities, Lina recognized herself more in “Chinese Indonesian”, while May Ling intuitively preferred “Indonesian Chinese”. We both feel that we made a home for ourselves in the Netherlands, most likely related to the presence of husband and children, but also share a strong emotional bond with the countries where we spent our formative years. Indonesia is prominent in Lina’s affective existence. Nostalgia is for May Ling connected to Curaçao, but Indonesia is certainly present, be it more connected through the stories and members of her family.

Concluding reflections

Looking back at the stories shared, we see that most of the Peranakan Chinese in Indonesia felt pressured to undergo the ganti nama procedure, although some were more opposed, or at least indifferent to it, than others. The families in our research often offered practical reasons for their decision, including fear of repercussions. These considerations were always connected to possible future implications like registration at (state) educational institutions, real estate and economic interests, or, like May Ling assumes, preparation to leave the country. Lina’s father appeared very practical in choosing new names, transforming Sie into Sidarto, a name which we would consider recognizable as an Indonesian name of people of Chinese descent. This was reflected in the Delpher search, where we compared names of applicants for Dutch citizenship who also requested balik nama: one-third had taken on Indonesian names echoing their Chinese heritage name, either only in their last name or also in their first names. Others, like May Ling’s family and P's, chose names that reflected respectable qualities or ancestral history, respectively.

In the choices made, we can discern the wish to incorporate one’s singularity: a connection with the personal background, be it the Chinese name, family history, occupation or positive traits. Since there was no ruling about the choice of name within one family, we encountered several families where siblings took on different names. Consequently, the next generations could no longer easily trace extended family members. Then, there are also cases where some members of one family changed back to their heritage name – balik nama – while others did not. Observations from our exploratory research are that this partition is closely aligned to the Peranakan Chinese who left Indonesia in the late 1960s (cf. Kitamura, 2017) and those who stayed in Indonesia or left long after the declaration of the ganti nama decree. The last-mentioned group, and especially their offspring, grew accustomed to their Indonesian name and, like Lina, do not consider undergoing balik nama. We see that those who did choose to do balik nama only carried their Indonesian name for a relatively short period of time. The balik nama was done after emigration to the Netherlands and in tandem with obtaining Dutch citizenship – and out of reach of the Orde Baru regime. Only one interviewee did otherwise – changing back to his heritage name in Indonesia – albeit with the prospect of emigrating to the Netherlands. We see that the Netherlands or Dutch citizenship, can be considered to have served as a safe haven to return to a preserved self, interestingly enough facilitated through former colonial ties. While we encountered a range of choices in why or how Peranakans in Indonesia went through ganti nama, the reason for balik nama can easily be summarized by “because I was born with it.” Obviously, this is a heartfelt argument for those who had an active memory of their Chinese name. We also see, however, that interviewees often grew accustomed to their Indonesian first names, especially if it was a more Western-oriented name, e.g. more easily to be pronounced in interactions in Dutch society. May Ling was never called by Setiawati Hadisaputro – it was only a name on paper. Conversely, for Lina, this was the case with her Chinese name. We never questioned which name “belonged” to us and, depending on our whereabouts, neither did people around us. For both of us, the following was what mattered: because we were raised with this name, the other name somehow only clings to us as a shadow (cf. Lie and Bailey, 2017).

Whether we see ourselves as Chinese Indonesian or Indonesian Chinese, this ethnic-cultural identification is not distinguished in the broader social and societal spaces we engage with in the Netherlands. Because of our appearance – one could say colour, according to Appiah (2018) – our names are “Asian enough”, especially if we add our country (Appiah, 2018) of birth, if we get the question “where are you from?”. We ourselves clearly recognize each other’s sameness, regardless of our names, but through our lived experiences (cf. Anthias, 2012; Yuval-Davis, 2006), however, tell how we differently give meaning to our sense of belonging. During the discussions in the research period, May Ling sometimes envied the strong bond Lina still maintains with Indonesia, reflected in the latter’s self-evident use and knowledge of the language and local customs. After all, May Ling cannot connect to either the Chinese or Indonesian language, even though she identifies with “I am born in Indonesia, but from Chinese descent”, and only has her name to substantiate this last part of her background. Referring to the relational emphasis in belonging, otherness and positionality (Anthias, 2012; Healy, 2020; Yuval-Davis, 2006), we see that we feel like we have to explain our-“selves”: because of our mixed ancestry, we are mainly viewed as “from Indonesia” and, due to our names, specifically seen as more Chinese or Indonesian. But we also agreed that in the Netherlands – because of the former colonial bond – this intricate positionality is often met with “ah, yes”, in contrast to our experiences in other countries, where eyebrows often go from an amazed arch to a puzzled frown.

For us, it seems that upbringing (“you are Chinese”) and country of childhood play a decisive role with regard to our emotional ties and feelings of home, and that we feel comfortable in all related settings since ganti/balik nama is a remote narrative to us. We have not experienced the explicit connotation of not belonging and unbelonging through the name changes, with the interlinked positionality of these processes in our country of birth. Neither is this the case in our current country of residence. Our interviewees who emigrated to the Netherlands differ in having childhood memories of Indonesia, active recollections of their birth name and awareness of both ganti and balik nama. Out of reach of the discriminatory treatment in Indonesia and the unsettling reference of displacement, balik nama for them can be perceived as both a statement and reinstatement of one’s heritage against an imposed identity and a superficial assimilation. In the Netherlands, they could be themselves again.

Altogether, we can say that our Chineseness stays with us, with our names determining the emphasis on our positioning by others. The translocational bonds are felt as a cherished fact rather than as a burden. To our thinking, the reclaiming of the heritage name, balik nama, has a different resonance in the sense of belonging for different generational cohorts. In the specific post-colonial Dutch context, i.e. for the generation of our interviewees and of our parents, it represents an active re-positioning of oneself as having Chinese ancestry, not because they wanted to renounce their Indonesian connection but because they were forced to make a choice. One could argue that by the frequently surfacing, implicit “but where are you really from?” we are still “othered”, but that is explicitly not through institutional regulations.

We see possibilities for belonging and positionality research on Peranakan Chinese in Indonesia, e.g. those born and raised after the 1970s: how do they identify themselves, how are they viewed by others, and what role do creed, colour, country, class and culture play with regard to their positionality. Another interesting perspective could be gained by tracing back more ganti/balik nama stories of Peranakan Chinese in the Netherlands as well as in other countries such as Australia, Canada and the United States of America, since these are known as migration destinies in the aftermath of Indonesia’s regime change in the late 1960s.

Notes

1. For the sake of readability, all Indonesian words will be written in italics only once.

2. For readability reasons, Peranakans and Peranakan Chinese will be interchangeably used, indicating the same group of Chinese Indonesians, although we realize that the term “Peranakan” is not exclusively reserved for creolized Chinese descendants in Indonesia only (see also Tjiook-Liem, 2022).

3. In Indonesian, balik nama means “name change on a deed or property rights deed” (dictionary KBBI – Kamus Besar Bahasa Indonesia). However, among the Peranakan community in the Netherlands, “balik nama” is informally used when people who have gone through the ganti nama process in Indonesia officially reclaim their original Chinese name in tandem with obtaining Dutch citizenship.

4. Peraturan Pemerintah (PP) Nomor 20 Tahun 1959 tentang Pelaksanaan Undang-Undang Tentang Persetujuan Perjanjian Antara Republik Indonesia dan Republik Rakyat Tiongkok Mengenai Soal Dwikewarga-Negaraan (Government Regulation no 20, 1959, regarding the Implementation of the Law Concerning the Agreement between the Republic of Indonesia and the People’s Republic of China on the Issue of Dual Citizenship)

5. Tap MPRS no 32/1966, pasal 3 (Resolutions of the Temporary People’s Consultative Assembly no 32/1966, article 3)

6. PP no 4/1961 Tentang Perubahan Atau Penambahan Nama Keluarga – Law no 4/1961 Regarding Changes or Additions to Family Names.

7. https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smithsonian-institution/ask-smithsonian-did-ellis-island-officials-really-change-names-immigrants-180961544/