In what may be one of the early mentions of interlinear translation in a scholarly publication the famed Dutch linguist Van der Tuuk, writing in the Leiden-based journal Bijdragen tot de taal-,land- en volkenkunde (BKI) in 1866, mentioned an Arabic to Malay interlinear translation of al-Samarkandi’s Bayān ʿaqīdah al-uṣūl (commonly known in Indonesia by its author’s name) in a brief report he published on various Malay manuscripts. There was no detailed description or discussion, but Van der Tuuk was clearly familiar with this popular text and noted that interlinear translations of al-Samarkandi into Javanese in west Java were “numerous” and that there was also, in Batavia, a commentary on the text which had an interlinear translation in Javanese. Finally, he mentioned that he was in the possession of two such commentaries in Sundanese. Based on this fleeting note we can conclude that Van der Tuuk was familiar with the phenomenon, with interlinear translations from Arabic into two or three languages (Malay, Javanese, possibly Sundanese), and with their popularity. There is nothing in his brief paragraph that expresses any surprise or special interest or insight.

       Fifteen years later (1881), writing in the same journal, the philologist A. W. T. Juynboll discussed an Arabic to Javanese interlinear translation of the same text, which he had translated into Dutch. His article, which contained only two pages written by him and ten pages of the interlinear text, was titled “A Muslim catechism in Arabic with a Javanese interlinear translation in pegon script.” All we learn about the manuscript on which his translation was based is that it was brought by one of his students from Java to Holland, and that large parts of it were eaten up by ants. Although Juynboll highlighted the interlinear translation in his article’s title, he seemed interested in authorship, content and textual versions but said nothing of the translation method, its uses or implications. The Dutch translation he produced referred only to the Arabic text, ignoring the potential meanings and nuances of the Javanese interlinear translation and its use as a pedagogical and cultural phenomenon. Although this remains unacknowledged, the Dutch in fact replaced the Javanese as the translation language.

       This type of approach, which viewed interlinear translation as a gateway to questions of content and textual variability but not necessarily as worthy of study in its own right as a translation model, as a pedagogical tool or as a product of a particular culture, seems to have been common amongst colonial scholars in the 19^th and early 20^th centuries. However, although less common, a different approach was also evident at the time: the work of Van Ronkel stands out for his interest in the translational practice itself and his attentiveness to the detail that is among the hallmarks of interlinear translation. In an 1896 article describing six manuscripts housed at the Cambridge University library he discussed two that included interlinear texts and commented in detail on several of their characteristics. Possibly following that work, as well as an examination of additional manuscripts he encountered, Van Ronkel several years later (1899) published what constituted (and still does) a pioneering attempt to survey the interlinear practice and map its far-reaching effects. Some of Snouck Hurgronje’s work also reflected an interest in the nuances of interlinear translation.

       In general, a broader survey of 19^th and early 20^thc.  literature on Islamic interlinear translation, which is beyond my scope here, shows that the popularity of this practice was not matched by the scholarship produced about it. What can we glean from this fact, and from the approaches presented, however tentatively? Can we detect in the lack of interest, as has been more generally proposed regarding colonial Dutch scholarship, a bias towards the Hindu-Buddhist and away from the Islamic? The curiosity or lack thereof towards interlinear texts may have been part of the trend, i.e., an enduring interest in the ruins of temples, ancient sculpture, the role of Sanskrit in Old Javanese poetry, while viewing Islam as a “thin veneer” covering prior traditions and possessing a deep-seated anxiety about Islam. It may have also been that interlinear translation was taken at face value, as a convenient way to translate – to transfer meaning efficiently from one language to another – but no more than a technical device. Scholars of the period who were exceptions to the rule in their interest and in the studies that they produced, above all Van Ronkel and Snouck Hurgronje, showed how those who did examine the practice of Islamic interlinear translation more closely discovered its complexity and its implications which were apparent in the linguistic, religious and social spheres. The work of these scholars (and other, more recent ones whose studies lie beyond the scope of this blogpost) points to the richness of interlinear translation as a research topic and to the many yet unanswered questions about it that await investigation.

 

References:

Al-Attas, S. M. N. The Oldest Known Malay Manuscript: a 16th Century Malay Translation of the ‘Aqa’id of Al- Nasafī. Kuala Lumpur: University of Malaya, 1988.

Arps, B. and Gallop, A. T. Golden Letters: Writing Traditions of Indonesia/Surat Emas: Budaya Tulis di Indonesia. London: The British Library; Jakarta: Yayasan Lontar, 1991.

Drewes, G.W. J. Een 16de Eeuwse Maleische Vertaling van de Burda van al-Busiri (Arabisch Lofdicht op Mohammad) ‘s-Gravenhage: Martinus Nijhoff, 1955.

Juynboll, A.W.T. “Een Moslimsche catechismus in her Arabisch met eene Javaansche interlineare vertaling in pegonschrift.” BKI 29 (1881): 215–227.

Ricci, R. “Interlinear Texts from Indonesia: Preliminary Thoughts on their Study.” Journal of Arabic and Islamic Studies (forthcoming 2025).

Van der Tuuk, H. N. “Aanteekeningen.” BKI 13.1 (1866): 466–467.

Van Ronkel, Ph. S. “Account of Six Malay Manuscripts of the Cambridge University Library.” Bijdragen tot de taal-, land- en volkenkunde 46, 1 (1896): 1–53.

Van Ronkel, Ph. S. Mengenai Pengaruh Tatakalimat Arab Terhadap Tatakalimat Melayu. Trans.Ikram, Jakarta: Bhratara, 1977. First published as “Over de Invloed der Arabische Syntaxis op de Maleische,” Tijdschrift voor Indische Taal- Land- en Volkenkunde 41(1899): 498–528.

 

 

Figure 1 al-ʿAwāmil (DS 0043 00011)

Al-ʿAwāmil is a brief treatise of merely fourteen pages, written on paper measuring 20 × 14.5 cm, with a text block of 13 × 7.5 cm. The script is relatively large, with wide spacing between the lines and only six lines of text on each page. It consists of ʿawāmil, namely grammatical elements in the Arabic language that determine the case endings marking the grammatical function of a word, whether noun or verb, within the sentence. One hundred governing elements are presented, divided into two principal classifications: lafẓiyya (“phonetic”) and maʿnawiyya (“semantic”). The lafẓiyya are further divided into simāʿiyya (“attested by usage”), comprising ninety-one governing elements, and qiyāsiyya (“analogical”), comprising seven—leaving two of the maʿnawiyya type.

The treatise presents only these governing elements without any accompanying explanation. The only form of elucidation is the heading for each group of governing elements, indicating its function, such as ḥarf tajurru al-ism faqṭ (“particles that render the noun only in the genitive case”) or ḥurūf tanṣibu al-ism wa tarfaʿu al-khabar (“particles that put the subject [ism] in the accusative case and the predicate [khabar] in the nominative case”). Beyond this, there is no further theoretical exposition. Accordingly, standing on its own, it appears as material for the practical memorisation of beginners.

This format also suggests that the text could not function independently within the pedagogical practice of teaching Arabic. It does not yield much meaning without theoretical grammatical explanation. Thus, we may infer that it was a complementary text used alongside other, more theoretical works, probably like the Ājurrūmiyya. The Ājurrūmiyya is likewise a basic and practical text, but unlike al-ʿAwāmil it offers brief theoretical elucidation. One may imagine the Ājurrūmiyya and al-ʿAwāmil being used together in the pedagogical practice of Arabic instruction that developed in the surau of Minangkabau, of course, together with other works also found in surau collections, such as the Qaṭr al-Nadā (“Drop of Dew”), Matan Kāfiyya (“The Kāfiyya Text”), the Alfiyya (“A Thousand Verses”), and several other untitled treatises on grammar.

Yet to describe the work merely as a complementary aid is to underestimate its function. The text was consciously designed for inclusion of annotation . The copyist of this manuscript left wide spacing between the lines, thereby providing room for inserting explanations deemed necessary. Not only between the lines, but also in the outer margins of the paper, ample space was provided—and these margins, too, contain numerous annotations.

The primary form of annotation consists of simple example sentences employing the governing elements presented. Every element is accompanied by an example sentence. There is also frequent identification of semantic signification (fāʾida), such as inna signifying taḥqīq (“emphasis”), kaʾanna signifying tashbīh (“comparison”), and lākinnā signifying istidrāk (“qualification”). One also finds grammatical identification of words, such as writing ṣifa (“adjective”) or khabar (“predicate”) beneath the relevant words, as well as what may be termed a “grammatical translation,” namely a Malay word indicating the grammatical position of an Arabic word—for example akan, used to mark the position of the mafʿūl bih (“direct object”).

These annotations point to a broader pedagogical role for al-ʿAwāmil. In the tradition of Islamic postclassical pedagogy, there developed a practice of close reading (muṭālaʿa ʿamīqa), in which a work was examined extensively, each word receiving detailed grammatical analysis and explanation, often with reference to excerpts from other relevant texts. Brief and practical though it is, al-ʿAwāmil appears to have been the subject of such close-reading practices. It was not only a text offering insight into grammar, but also a text subjected to grammatical analysis.

This is further attested by the presence of another work, Tarkīb al-ʿAwāmil (DS 0043 00001). Tarkīb is a specific genre of derivative commentarial writing devoted to the linguistic analysis of a given text. It explores the types of words or particles mentioned, their syntactic positions, grammatical inflection (iʿrāb), morphological patterns, number, semantic connotation, and other relevant linguistic features. Tarkīb al-ʿAwāmil is thus a work analyzing al-ʿAwāmil. Although it is a brief and simple text, al-ʿAwāmil received serious scholarly attention, to the extent that it gave rise to its own commentary.

This naturally leads us to consider the wider educational context. One point seems clear: al-ʿAwāmil, together with its textual family—the sources of its annotations, the other grammar texts likely taught alongside it, and the derivative commentary—points to an already mature stage of grammatical learning in the surau setting. These texts indicate that grammar had become an educational preoccupation in its own right.

This, in turn, brings us to Snouck Hurgronje’s account of two models of Islamic educational practice that he observed among the Jawah community in Mecca during the latter part of the nineteenth century, as discussed by Ricci in her forthcoming article. In Mecca, he noted that Jawah students began with an intensive engagement with grammar, as opposed to the native method in Java, which did not involve systematic grammatical study. To this description, Ricci raises an intriguing question on the use of interlinear translation: “whether it could be a practice that developed in Arabia—in Mecca—and not in Indonesia.”

If we accept Hurgronje’s description, al-ʿAwāmil may be taken to attest to the presence of what he called “the Meccan method” in the Minangkabau world.

Yet in The Atjehnese he described a comparable method in Aceh. Here, however, he did not link it to Mecca (as he did in the case of Java, where he attributed the “new-fashioned method” to Meccan and Ḥaḍramī influence), nor did he provide textual or historical evidence. Rather, he stated only that the method “appears to have been in vogue in Acheh for a long time past.” Our copy of al-ʿAwāmil most likely predates Hurgronje’s observations in Mecca. It contains a note recording that it was copied while its owner was studying at a surau in Sijunjung, a district in Minangkabau, and the transmission of Islamic intellectual traditions from Aceh to Minangkabau since the seventeenth century is also well established.

Thus, while Hurgronje’s scholarship implies that the method reached Aceh from Mecca earlier than it did Java, the dating of al-ʿAwāmil in Sumatra in relation to his Meccan observations opens another possibility. Could it be, in fact, the other way around—that the method developed in the Malay world and was then carried to Mecca, where it shaped the instruction of the Jawah community in Arabic? 

 

References:

Hurgronje, Snouck C. The Achehnese, translated by A.W.S. O’Sullivan. 2 volumes. E.J. Brill, 1906.

Hurgronje, Snouck C. Mekka in the Latter Part of the 19^th Century: Daily Life, Customs and Learning, the Moslims of the East-Indian-Archipelago. 1888–1889. E. J. Brill, 1931.

Ronit Ricci, “Interlinear Texts from Indonesia: Preliminary Thoughts on Their Study,” Journal of Arabic and Islamic Studies (forthcoming, 2025).

 

Figure 1: Example of a Balinese lontar manuscript from the Lontar Library of Udayana University.

The term maarti derives from the Balinese word arti (“meaning”) and refers to a format in which translation equivalents are placed directly above or below the source text, with dotted lines connecting corresponding segments.

Figure 2: A page from Kekawin Arjuna Wiwaha Maarti (here “Kekawin” reflects the Balinese form of the Old Javanese kakawin), showing the Balinese translation aligned with the Old Javanese source text by dotted lines. Courtesy of Balai Bahasa Provinsi Bali.

This layout allows the source and target texts to correspond at the word or phrase level, enabling readers to engage with both simultaneously.
In essence, maarti represents a uniquely Balinese form of interpretation, providing access to the meaning and poetic sensibility of kakawin, originally written in Old Javanese, through the local language of Balinese.
Old Javanese, a classical literary language that developed in Central and East Java between the 9th and 15th centuries, declined in Java after the 15th century but was preserved, transmitted, and further developed in Bali—especially by way of its manuscript culture, poetic theory, and recitation practices.

While maarti differs from the narrow definition of interlinear translation—where are the translation is inserted between lines—it shares essential features such as the visual proximity to the source text and word- or phrase-level alignment.
Its primary function is to communicate the poetic and semantic content of the original text directly, in a localized and more modern language. Despite these differences in physical layout and textual arrangement, the purpose of maarti remains closely tied to the source: to stay near to it, both visually and interpretively

This post focuses on a particular maarti manuscript housed at the Balai Bahasa Provinsi Bali: the Kekawin Arjuna Wiwaha Maarti. This palm-leaf manuscript consists of 174 folios and contains the Old Javanese text of Arjuna Wiwaha (The Marriage of Arjuna) up to Canto 36, accompanied by a Balinese translation arranged in the maarti format. In this format, the translation is positioned directly above or below the source text and connected to it by dotted lines, enabling the reader to follow the semantic correspondence between the two languages in a visually immediate and structured way.

Arjuna Wiwaha is a classic work of Old Javanese court poetry, or kakawin, composed in the 11th century by the poet Mpu Kanwa. Drawing inspiration from the Sanskrit Mahābhārata, the poem recounts the spiritual and heroic journey of Arjuna, a noble warrior who engages in deep meditation and ascetic practice in order to receive divine support. With the gods’ blessing, Arjuna succeeds in defeating the powerful demon Niwātakawaca. As a reward for his service, he is granted marriage to seven celestial nymphs. The narrative thus moves between the realms of self-denial and sensual pleasure, juxtaposing seemingly contradictory themes—asceticism and eroticism—within a coherent vision of spiritual refinement.

One particularly striking feature of maarti manuscripts such as this one lies in their subtle and culturally sensitive approach to the translation of erotic passages. In Cantos 31 and 32, the Arjuna Wiwaha portrays Arjuna’s intimate relationship with the heavenly nymph Tilottamā. These episodes are among the most richly poetic and emotionally charged in the entire poem. The translator of the maarti manuscript demonstrates a sophisticated understanding of how to convey the sensuality of these scenes while maintaining appropriate tone and decorum aligned with Balinese literary norms.

A central technique that enables this delicate balance is what is known as register shift—the deliberate use of varying levels of linguistic formality, intimacy, and poetic refinement depending on the context. In linguistic terms, “register” refers to stylistic variation shaped by social, literary, or ritual conventions. Notably, such register variation does not exist in Old Javanese but is richly developed in Balinese. By adjusting the register—a feature inherent to the Balinese language—the translator is able to shape the narrative voice with great sensitivity and skillfully guide the reader’s emotional engagement with the scene.

In the opening stanzas of the scene, the Balinese translation adopts a high register, echoing the solemn and elevated tone of the original kakawin. For example, when describing Tilottamā’s breasts (payodhara in the source text), the translator uses the word sari, which originally means “essence,” “pollen,” or “flower.” This poetic and euphemistic term, drawn from the Old Javanese lexicon, implies delicacy, refinement, and symbolic indirection. However, when her breasts are described again as susu in the following stanza, the tone shifts. The translator replaces the high-register term with nyonyo, a more physical and everyday Balinese word that conveys a stronger sense of embodied presence. This shift marks a narrative movement from formal distance toward emotional and sensory intimacy.

Such a shift is neither abrupt nor crude; rather, it is part of a carefully crafted progression. The translator stages eroticism gradually, allowing the reader to approach the scene step by step. By doing so, the translator demonstrates sensitivity to cultural values as well as to the rhythm of emotional experience. This reflects a shared view—present in both the Old Javanese source and the Balinese translation—of sexuality as sacred and beautiful, rather than something to be treated as vulgar. The view also appears in the following translation choices. For instance, the Old Javanese word smarāgama—literally “the art of love”—is rendered as smaran tantranne, which can be translated as “the doctrine of love,” reframing erotic experience as ritual knowledge. Likewise, kĕtĕ-kĕtĕg, meaning “signs of heightened emotion or desire,” is translated as raras, a term that evokes beauty, charm, and emotional resonance in both Old Javanese and Balinese usage.

These lexical decisions transform the tone and affect of the scene. Rather than merely translating words, the maarti translator interprets, reshapes, and recontextualizes the narrative. The resulting text offers not only access to the meaning of the original but also insight into Balinese cultural aesthetics and ethical sensibilities, demonstrating how literary translation becomes an act of creative negotiation across languages and worlds.

 

Sources and Image Credits

• Kekawin Arjuna Wiwaha Maarti (007/BPB/Vb/91), Balai Bahasa Provinsi Bali
• Barber, C. Clyde. (1979). Dictionary of Balinese-English. Aberdeen University Library, Occasional Publications No. 2.
• Robson, S. (2008). Arjunawiwāha: The Marriage of Arjuna of Mpu Kanwa. Leiden: KITLV Press.
• Zoetmulder, P. J. (1982). Old Javanese-English Dictionary. With the collaboration of S. O. Robson. The Hague: Nijhoff.

 

The Batak proverb "Ndang dao tubis sian bonana" (Figure 1) is translated to Indonesian as “Tidak jauh rebung dari pokok (induknya)”; (ndang=not; dao=far; tubis=bamboo shoot; sian=from; bonana=its parent plant). In English it literary translates as: Not far (is the) bamboo shoot from its parent plant. This translation preserves the syntactic structure of the original Batak while providing semantic clarity. Batak proverbs often utilize concise structures, where the omission of subjects or auxiliary verbs is compensated by the richness of contextual meaning. The absence of a subject draws on collective knowledge to supply the referents. Figure 2 shows the proverb’s literary Batak translation which in literary English is translated as “Not far (is the) child’s character from his/her father’s; (pangalaho=behavior, character; ni=definite article the or “nya” in Indonesian; anakna=his/her child; sian=from; amana=his/her father (ama=father). This translation is more specific in expressing the meaning of the Batak proverb, clarifies the underlying moral principle for audiences who may not immediately grasp the natural symbolism of bamboo, linking ecological imagery to familial resemblance. This interlinear translation plays a critical role in conveying the proverb’s linguistic and cultural layers.

Figure 1. The Batak proverb with its Indonesian translation (Sitanggang, 1996)

An equivalent variant of the proverb having similar meaning is “Sodao tubu sian bonan” (Siahaan & Barus, 2020); sodao is a variant of ndang dao (so=ndang); tubu is a variant of tubis, representing the new shoot; bonan is the shorter version of bonana, the possessive pronoun of bona. Although morphologically slightly different, both proverbs communicate the same idea, reflecting dialectal or stylistic flexibility in Batak oral and literary traditions. The proverbs blend ecology and ethics with imagery centered on the bamboo shoot which grows closely around the base of the bamboo plant (bonana). It aptly symbolizes familial closeness and the transmission of traits from one generation to the next (ancestry root), to describe family likeness, often with pride or deep cultural meaning, emphasizing the importance of genealogy inherited identity in Batak society.

Figure 2. The Batak proverb with its Batak translation (Sibarani, 1979)

The use of tubis is significant in typical traditional Batak dishes like arsik (dried stewed seasoned fish) and gantalan (curry made with cowhide and tubis). Bamboo is used in construction, for tools in practical daily life, and for musical instruments (Simanjuntak, et al., 1993). In earlier times it was also used for Batak manuscripts (Pustaha bulu) and calendars which are preserved in museums and libraries. Bamboo typically grows near villages, riverbanks, or rice fields, and is planted to reinforce land, retain water, or serve as natural fences (known as parik) (Simanjuntak, et al., 1993). The translations miss the emotional weight of pride or critique often implied when the proverb is used in context, along with its relevance to everyday life. Bamboo shoots that grow close to their rootstock/clumps (Uchimura, 1981), symbolizes the shared identity within the social structure and kinship system of Batak people (known as Dalihan Na Tolu (“three-legged stove”). Bamboo reflects interconnectedness of hula-hula (the wife’s side’s families), boru (relatives from a female’s side of the clan), and dongan tubu (siblings or relatives of the same clan), which emphasizes inherited social roles, moral responsibility, and family unity, represented by the clumps’ system and growth of bamboo. These cultural values however cannot be captured through the interlinear translation.

The proverb finds parallel in Indonesian proverb, “Sebab buah dikenal pohonnya” or “Madu satu tong jika rembes, rembesnya pun madu jua” (Natia, 1990), expressing also the idea that children resemble their parents. The Malay saying “Melentur buluh biarlah dari rebungnya” (“To bend bamboo, start with the shoot”) emphasizes the importance of early education and the influence of upbringing. The Batak proverb is generally applied under family situations where children grow up within the same environment as their parents.

The significance of interlinear translation lies in its ability to preserve linguistic authenticity while facilitating cross-cultural understanding. By retaining the original Batak structure, it allows scholars and learners to appreciate the language’s conciseness and metaphorical richness. It also highlights the challenges of translating culturally specific concepts, prompting deeper exploration of Batak values. The dual role—linguistic and cultural—makes interlinear translation a vital tool for anthropologists, linguists, and educators seeking to bridge indigenous knowledge with global audiences.

In conclusion, “Ndang dao tubis sian bonana” encapsulates a deep Batak cultural truth through a simple bamboo metaphor. Interlinear translation analysis reveals its linguistic structure and ecological symbolism, while exposing its limitations in capturing the depth of Batak kinship and social values. The interlinear translation of the proverb serves as a vessel for moral and cultural transmission, also encoding shared human experiences within unique cultural frameworks.

 

 

References:

https://prpm.dbp.gov.my/

Natia, I Ketut. 1990. Peribahasa & Ungkapan dalam Bahasa Indonesia. Surabaya: Bina Pustaka.

Siahaan, Jamorlan & Barus, Asni. 2022. Form, content of umpama and umpasa in Batak Toba Language: Study of Local Wisdom. TALENTA Conference Series. LWSA Conference Series 05: 51-61

Sibarani, AN Parda. 1979. Umpama Batak dohot Lapatanna. Jakarta: Proyek Penerbitan Buku Sastra Indonesia dan Daerah, Departemen Pendidikan dan Kebudayaan.

Simanjuntak, Belam, Sitanggang, Toga, & Sianipar, Parulian. 1993. Dapur dan alat-alat memasak tradisional daerah Sumatra Utara. Jakarta: Proyek Penelitian Pengkajian dan Pembinaan Nilai-Nilai Budaya.

Sitanggang, SRH. 1996. Tradisi Umpasa Suku Batak Toba dalam Upacara Pernikahan. Jakarta: Pusat Pembinaan dan Pengembangan Bahasa. Departemen Pendidikan dan Kebudayaan.

Uchimura, Etsuzo. 1980. Bamboo Cultivation. Proceeding of a Workshop on Bamboo Research in Asia. Ottawa: International Development Research Centre: 151-160

 

 

 

The performer, who uses the channel name Widhi Sastra, had uploaded a video chanting verses from the Bhagavad Gita, with a melodic macapat meter and an interlinear explanation in Indonesian. The performance is simple and sincere, sung from the heart quietly as an act of devotion.

In the comment section, a viewer writes:

Bhagawad Gita adalah sabda Sri Krisna kepada Arjuna...Hare Krishna (HK) tidak dinaungi di Hindu Indonesia.... bagaimana pendapat anda tentang hal ini Rahayu semoga kita semua tercerahkan oleh chenal ini.

Translation:

‘The Bhagavad Gita is the word of Sri Krishna to Arjuna ... Hare Krishna (HK) is not included in Hindu Indonesia... what is your opinion on this?  Peace (upon you), may we all be enlightened by this channel.’

This comment does several things at once. It acknowledges the sacredness of the text, affirms Krishna’s authority, and simultaneously questions the place of the Hare Krishna movement (ISKCON) in the context of Indonesian Hinduism. The mention of tidak dinaungi di Hindu Indonesia implies an institutional exclusion, possibly referring to the fact that ISKCON is not officially recognized by Parisada Hindu Dharma Indonesia (PHDI), the primary Hindu organization in the country. The tone, however, is not confrontational—it ends with a Balinese blessing, Rahayu, and a hope for collective enlightenment. This suggests a desire for clarification or agreement, not condemnation.

Widhi Sastra responds:

rahayu... saya tidak bisa menanggapi hal terkait hk... dsni saya hanya menyalurkan hoby saya me-gita (nyanyian), karena bukan hanya menyanyikan sastra ini saja yg dapat karma baik. mendengarkan pun juga mendapat karma baik... mohon di-subscribe dan juga di-share... biar saya lebih semangat lagi upload sloka demi sloka.²

Translation:

‘Peace (upon you)... I can’t comment on anything related to HK... here I’m just sharing my hobby of the Gita (singing), because it’s not just singing these scriptures that brings good karma, listening also brings good karma... please subscribe and share… so I can be even more motivated to upload verse by verse.’

This response is notable for its deliberate avoidance of diving into group identity politics. Rather than affirming or rejecting the Hare Krishna movement, the performer reframes the act as personal, devotional, and karma-generating—both for the singer and the listener. The emphasis on hobi ‘hobby’ is not merely casual; it distances the act from institutional authority and aligns it with individual spirituality.

A third commenter then interjects with a seemingly out-of-place remark:

Bacaan Al-Qur'an saja
‘Just read the Qur'an.’

This seems like a dismissive or provocative, particularly if read as a suggestion that Islamic scripture should be read or recited instead. However, the performer replies without defensiveness:

klo bisa saya baca alquran mungkin saya akan nyanyikan…
‘If I could read the Qur’an, maybe I’d sing it...’

This disarming reply shifts the conversation once from confrontation to framing the question as a problem with linguistic and musical ability, rather than religious boundaries. The tone is light, in order to defuse potential tension.

What can this brief but layered exchange tell us about religious identity and digital performance? First of all, YouTube comment sections are informal yet powerful spaces where religious boundaries are negotiated. While the Bhagavad Gita performance itself may seem apolitical or purely devotional, it becomes a springboard for viewers to discuss larger issues of who belongs in which religious group.

Additionally, Widhi Sastra’s position is delicate. As a performer, he is visible, yet he avoids assuming theological authority – maybe because he is uploading a video of himself singing in macapat meters, which is unusual and puts him in a contrasting position to the state’s authoritative pepaosan. His defense stating this is his hobby sidesteps doctrinal disputes and presents performance as inclusive. This aligns closely with what we might call a Devotional or Spiritual-Movement’s Performer identity, and thus it makes sense he is trying to avoid the question about ISKCON, who are not so well-liked in Bali.

An especially interesting moment in the reply is the equal valuation of listening and chanting. This shifts religious merit away from the performer of the practice toward the participation of the audience who gain merit from listening, including through media consumption, thus spreading bhakti through YouTube in the digital age. This continues a much older tradition in which audiences of public readings of manuscripts also gained merit from listening.

The Qur'an comment and the performer's response show how cross-religious engagement  - even attempts at provocation - is navigated with care in the performer’s hands. Although it is unclear whether his response is mocking gently or expressing reverence, he manages to avoid an argument about which holy book should be read aloud, and thus which religion is better.

This exchange was an example for how traditions, when placed online, encounter new audiences, new interpretations, and new frictions. Online pepaosan operates in a space where devotional intent must coexist with institutional politics, hobby-singers and performers, and interfaith discussions. This layering of voices in the comments mirrors the interlinear nature of pepaosan itself, where meaning emerges not from a single line, but from the dynamic interplay between recited text and translated response.

Thus, through the added meanings of the comments layer we learn that this performance generates karma, provokes discussion, and—importantly—reminds us that even in the pixelated corners of YouTube, identity remains in motion, verse by verse, comment by comment.

---

¹ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ti-9h2NPw68&t=400s

² All comments are cited as written online, including grammatical or spelling mistakes, capitalization, abbreviations, slang and so on.

 

 

Figure 1. A 54 from the collection of the National Library of Indonesia, fol. 1v. An earlier common translation of al-Raḥmān and al-Raḥīm into Javanese.

I was familiar with the translation of raḥīm as asih and the interpretive additions of “ing dunyā” (in this world) and “ing akherat” (in the hereafter), which I had learned over years of studying in traditional pesantren. There, we read Arabic textbooks using a traditional interlinear translation method. Every time we began a new book, we encountered the formula bismillāh al-Raḥmān al-Raḥīm at the very beginning, and we consistently translated it using this traditional method. Over time, the translation became so familiar that we memorized it by heart: “kelawan nyebut asmane Allāh Kang Maha Welas ing dunyā, Kang Maha Asih ing akhirat” (“by invoking Allah’s name, Who is Most welas [Compassionate] in this world, and Most asih [Loving] in the hereafter”). Yes, we, students of the late 20^th and early 21^st centuries, used welas—not murah!

Figure 2. Misbah Mustafa, al-Iklīl fī Maʿānī l-Tanzīl. A common modern (late 20^th and early 21^st century) translation of basmala.

I was even more surprised when, a few years later, I discovered that murah was also used to translate raḥmān in old manuscripts preserved at my own pesantren, Pondok Pesantren Qomaruddin in Gresik, East Java! These manuscripts show that this usage continued well into the 19^th century—and possibly even into the early 20^th.

Figure 3. DS 0097 00053, a copy and translation of Safīnat al-Ṣalā by Isḥāq b. Muḥammad Rāwī in 1318/1900-1, fol. 1v. The use of murah for raḥmān in the early 20^th century.

In that moment of surprise, I realized something: the seemingly “formulaic” translation—since several alternative translations are also used in pesantren—of this recurring formula was something I had always taken for granted. I began looking into Modern Javanese dictionaries and came across explanations by Johann Gericke and Taco Roorda. In their dictionary, murah is defined as “overvloedig; veel en gemakkelijk te bekomen; goedkoop; laag van prijs; een lage prijs bieden; ook mild, milddadig, goedertieren (vrg. loma)” (“abundant; in abundance and easy to obtain; cheap; low in price; to offer a low price; also gentle, benevolent, kind (cf. loma)”) (Gericke and Roorda 1901, 2:480). Stuart O. Robson’s Javanese-English Dictionary goes further, noting that the sense of murah as generous, gracious, or merciful is specifically used for God (Robson and Wibisono 2002, 501).

However, when I cross-checked with Old Javanese literature and dictionaries collected on the website www.sealang.net, “generous,” “gracious,” and “merciful” are not listed as meanings of murah; murah only means “cheap” and “copious.” The website’s reverse search feature also allows for the search of Old Javanese words meaning “generous,” “gracious,” and “merciful,” but murah never appears in the results. These all made the case more interesting to me and prompted me to undertake further investigation. In the two sections of this blog post, I will outline what I have uncovered so far. In Part I, I will explore the historical use of murah in Islamic literature, while in Part II, I will present the findings of my preliminary inquiry into the potential origins of this usage.

Murah-asih has been there since the 16^th century!

My search began with three manuscripts that, to this day, are the oldest known Arabic-Javanese interlinear texts: I F 31 and I H 1 in the University of Amsterdam’s collection, and Sloane 2645 in the British Museum’s collection. I consider these three manuscripts to represent the 16th-century interlinear translation practices, as the first two were purchased by a Dutch collector around 1610, and the third manuscript dates its creation to 1545 in the Javanese calendar (1623-24 AD) in its colophon. All three manuscripts are copies and translations of legal texts, and none of them translate the basmala or include al-raḥmān and al-raḥīm within the body of the text.

In other 17th-century manuscripts written in the following decades, I have not found murah used for raḥmān. One reason for this is that the basmala was once again not translated, and raḥmān was never included in the body of the text. On the other hand, raḥīm appears more frequently in these manuscripts and is consistently translated as asih or kasih (which are possibly variants of the pronunciation of asih or its derivation, both meaning “loving”). However, in these manuscripts, I found the word murah—in the form of kamurahan/kemurahan with the prefix ke-/ka- and the suffix -an to turn the adjective murah into a noun) used to translate jūd and karam (both meaning generosity) (for example, in manuscript A 97 from the National Library of Indonesia, written after 1100/1688, fol. 5 for jūd and fol. 17 for karam). The context for these two words is actually similar to the meaning of raḥmān as “generous”.

The earliest Javanese Islamic literature in which murah is used for raḥmān is manuscript Or. 2016 from the Leiden University Library collection, dated 1116/1705. This manuscript includes a page with Allah’s asmāʾ al-ḥusnā, the “beautiful names,” all of which are provided with interlinear translations. Raḥmān and raḥīm, as part of the asmāʾ al-ḥusnā, are translated as “kang murah ing dunya, kang asih ing akhirat.” Since it was written five years after the turn of the century, I assume that it somewhat reflects the translation norms of the 17^th century.

Figure 4. Leiden University Library, Or. 2016, a compendium written in 1116/1705, fol. 1v. The use of murah for God’s attribute raḥmān.

Assuming www.sealang.net is accurate in noting the absence of the meanings “generous,” “gracious,” and “merciful” for murah in Old Javanese, then the 17th-century usa of murah in this sense prompts the question of whether this semantic expansion arose within Modern Javanese more generally, or was shaped by the particular influence of the Javanese Islamic literary tradition. I will explore this further in Part II. Stay tuned!

 

References:

Manuscript

Leiden University Library, Or. 2016

The National Library of the Republic of Indonesia, A 54

Dreamsea collection, DS 0097 00053, Safīnat al-Ṣalā, https://www.hmmlcloud.org/dreamsea/detail.php?msid=4495

Website

www.sealang.net

Literature

Gericke, Johann F.C., and Taco Roorda. 1901. Javaansch-Nederlandsch Handwoordenboek. Vol. 2. Leiden: Brill.

Mustafa, Misbah. n.d. Al-Iklīl Fī Ma‘ānī al-Tanzīl. Surabaya: al-Ihsan.

Robson, Stuart O., and Singgih Wibisono. 2002. Javanese-English Dictionary. Singapore: Periplus.