The Kitāb contains many small texts with interlinear translations into Malay in the categories of doa (prayer, supplication), dhikir (remembrance of God), talqīn (exhortation to the dead), wirid (a recitation of supplications or Qur’anic verses),  and ṣalawāt (invocations of God’s blessings) to be recited on specific occasions. There are, for example, doa to be recited upon waking from sleep, when washing the left and right feet, on a person’s sickbed, when a very strong wind blows, or when one hears a dog bark. Some are to be recited daily or nightly while others are meant to be recited annually, for example a doa for the last day of the year or for Idul Fitri. Sections in Malay that offer explanation and guidance appear among the Arabic texts. Several prior sources are mentioned including the 17^th century Hadrami scholar ‘Abdallah ibn ‘Alawī al-Ḥaddād’s rātib and wirid.

The issue of gender caught my attention while reading the Kitāb. Generally, in translating Arabic between the lines translators had to almost constantly acknowledge the basic structural differences between Arabic and Malay, with one among them the role of gender in the construction of words and sentences. In Arabic inflected verbs, nouns, adjectives and most pronouns are gendered, but they are not so in Malay. One implication, for example, is that in an Arabic sentence it is clear if a figure being depicted is male or female whereas the Malay translator would often need to clarify this point with additional words, e.g. the Arabic word walad (boy) and bint (girl) might both be translated into Malay as anak (child) but for clarification the translator could add laki-laki (anak laki-laki, boy) or perempuan (anak perempuan, girl). In many cases such an addition seems to have sufficed because once it was clear if the figure was male or female, a relatively simple clarification to add in Malay, adjectives, pronouns and verbs that could not be inflected for gender remained gender-neutral but the reader could surmise who they were referring to.  

A similar example to what was described above is found on page 52 of the Kitāb (see Figure 1) where the believer asks of God that the rewards of praising Him benefit several categories of the dead: Muslim men and women, almuslimīn wa almuslimāt, is translated beneath the line as sekalian Islam laki-laki perempuan (all Muslims, men [and] women/male [and] female) while male and female believers, almu’minīn wa almu’mināt, is translated as sekalian mu’min laki-laki perempuan (all believers, men [and] women/male [and] female).

Figure 1. Kitāb Maslaku al-akhyāri fī al-ad‘iyati wa al-athkār al-wāridatu ‘an al-nabī al- 

mukhtār, 52.

The Kitāb presents some alternatives to this typical model of addressing gender.

For example, on p. 21, there is a Malay note preceding a doa:

Ini doa dibaca kepada kanaq2 kecil laki2 atau perempuan (“this doa is to be recited on behalf of little boys or girls”), followed by the Arabic prayer and its translation (see Figure 2). Interestingly, the verb in the doa itself is in the masculine: u‘īdhuka, I protect you/seek refuge for you, with the suffix ka indicating the masculine, translated as aku lindungkan engkau (engkau being a gender-neutral form of “you” in Malay). We find here a variation: rather than a clarification appearing between the lines a Malay paratext frames the Arabic doa, explaining that it is valid for both boys and girls.

Figure 2. Kitāb Maslaku al-akhyāri fī al-ad‘iyati wa al-athkār al-wāridatu ‘an al-nabī al- 

mukhtār, 21.

In several instances in the Kitāb we find Arabic rather than Malay additions that are gender-related, on which the translator remained silent. In a translation of al-Ḥaddād’s wirid  there is a section asking for the goodness of this day (khayr hadhā al-yawm: yawm, day, is masculine and therefore the demonstrative pronoun hathā is also in the masculine, and translated into a gender-neutral Malay kebajikan ini hari) and protection from the evil of this day and all evil that is in it (sharri hadhā al-yawm). Twice on the margins is added hadhihi al-laylati, that is the plea for wellbeing and protection from evil is extended through this small addition also to nighttime (layla) which is feminine in Arabic and requires the demonstrative hadhihi (see Figure 3). There is no Malay addition on the margin or between the lines that addresses this expansion of the prayer. Another example that does include a directive is found on page 30 -31 where to the masculine yā ‘abd Allāh (“O God’s slave”) is added a marginal note in Malay: jika perempuan yā amat Allāh (“if female [say]: O God’s female slave”). Despite the instruction of how to change the Arabic phrase here too the change is not reflected in the interlinear translation.

Figure 3. Kitāb Maslaku al-akhyāri fī al-ad‘iyati wa al-athkār al-wāridatu ‘an

        al-nabī al-mukhtār, 66.

Interlinear translations had different aims and functions. Several previous blogposts in this series have highlighted the relationship between interlinear translations and the study of Arabic. The little Kitāb discussed here seems less geared towards the teaching of the Arabic language and more focused on understanding the meaning of some doa and dhikir recited daily, annually or periodically. Within this general aim, the instances of noting or emphasizing gender difference and how to adjust the prayers for girls and women may point to the everyday, routine use of these prayers and to the need to recite them correctly for male and female believers in order to maximize their efficacy. It may also be that the gender-related notes hint at the particular period during which the Kitāb was published. Clearly, the translation of gender as expressed in Arabic into Malay was not monolithic and further research and comparison are needed in order to better understand and categorize its intricacies, and its potential effects on devotional practices.

 

References:

Anonymous. Kitāb maslaku al-akhyāri fī al-ad‘iyati wa al-athkār al-wāridatu ‘an al-nabī al-

mukhtār. Surabaya: Sulaymān Mar‘ī and Co., no date.

Proudfoot, Ian. Early Malay Printed Books. A provisional account of materials published in the

Singapore-Malaysia area up to 1920, noting holdings in major public collections.

Kuala Lumpur: Academy of Malay Studies and The Library, University of Malays, 1993.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The text is a translation of Hidāyat al-adhkiyā’ ilá ṭarīq al-awliyā’ (“Guidance for the clever  towards the path of saints”), a rhymed poetic treatise by an Indian great poet and Sufi, Zayn al-Dīn al-Malībārī (d. 1521 AD). Sirāj al-adhkiyā’ contains 188 verses on spiritual guidance to help one get closer to Allah, and advice to be patient, sincere, and liable to Him (Sanusi n.d.).

The author, Ahmad Sanusi (1888-1950) was one of the most prolific Sundanese Muslim authors in the early 20^th century. His works, written mostly in Arabic and Sundanese but also in Indonesian (Malay), cover various Islamic fields, including Quranic exegesis (tafsīr), ḥadīth, Islamic Jurisprudence (fiqh), theology (tawḥīd), and sufism (taṣawwuf). He actively criticized some religious practices that he regarded as “unjustified” according to Islamic teachings. Among his works are those written in Arabic with Sundanese interlinear translation (composed in  Pégon-Sunda, Sundanese written in Arabic script) including the work I am dealing with.

The Sirāj al-adhkiyā’ is found as a printed lithograph kitab which reflects the development of print culture since the late 19^th century. It is part of about 60 kitabs that belonged to Husen Hasan Basri, who collected them from his family and colleagues in Sukabumi, West Java, and then donated to me to be preserved and studied.

Figure 1. Cover of Sirāj al-adhkiyā’ fī tarjamat al-azkiyā’

The author put a brief description of this work in Sundanese, which is found on the cover (see Figure 1): “Sirāj al-adhkiyā’ fī tarjamat al-azkiyā’…damarna kabagjaan buat jalma-jalma anu caralakan dina narjamahkeun kitab Azkiyā’, dikumpulkeun disusun ku kaula anu da’if Haji Ahmad Sanusi bin Haji Abdurrahim, Gunung Puyuh pukhel weh 100, Sukabumi (“Light of happiness for those who are bright in translating the book of Azkiyā’, compiled and arranged by me, the humble Haji Ahmad Sanusi…”). An ownership note is found at the top: “Hak Husein Hasan Basri”, indicating that this copy previously belonged to him. An elaborate explanation in Pégon Sundanese is also found on the left and right margins of each page (see Figure 2).

Figure 2. Muqaddimah (Introduction) of Sirāj al-adhkiyā’ fī tarjamat al-azkiyā’

While the interlinear translation tradition is very popular in the context of the Malay-Indonesian world, particularly in Malay and Javanese texts since the 17^th century, it is not until the late 19^th century that such works could be found within the Sundanese tradition. Ahmad Sanusi is one of only a few Sundanese authors who dedicated their scholarship to writing religious works with such Sundanese Pégon interlinear translation.

The text is complete, discussing four stages of Islamic mystical doctrines, namely: sharī‘ah, ṭarīqah, ḥaqīqah, and ma‘rifah, through which the soul of the seeker in the Sufi tradition has to pass for eternal union with God (see Figure 2). These four stages are very popular in the discourse of Sufism in the Muslim world, both in Indonesia and beyond. We can find such a discussion, for instance, in the 17^th century Arabic Sufi texts by Indonesian Muslim scholars, such as Tanbīh al-Māshī by ‘Abd al-Ra’ūf al-Sinkīlī (Fathurahman 1999). The main message of such a treatise is to apply a rapprochement between the esoteric (taṣawwuf) and exoteric (sharī‘at) aspects of Islam. Ahmad Sanusi based his explanation on some great Sufi and ḥadīth treaties such as Iḥya’ ‘Ulūm al-Dīn by al-Imām al-Ghazālī (d. 1111), ‘Awārif al-Ma‘ārif by al-Suhrawardī (d. 1234), and Riyāḍ al-Ṣāliḥīn by al-Imām al-Nawāwī (d. 1277).

In this blogpost I will not elaborate on these doctrines. Rather, I would like to highlight some characteristics relating to the Pégon interlinear translation of this work instead. I am assuming that such characteristics may be found as well in other works by Ahmad Sanusi.

It seems that Ahmad Sanusi did not aspire to put only a word-for-word literary Pégon interlinear translation between the lines. Rather, he sometimes inserted also a kind of interpretation (tafsīr) for certain words. The word تهليل – “tahlīl” (p. 29) for instance, a form of dzikir, is translated as “dzikir lā ilāha illallāh” (utterance of “there is no God but Allah”), or the word فعليه – “fa ‘alayh” (p. 4) which literally means “maka wajib kepadanya” (“then it is obligatory for him”), is interpretated as “maka wajib ka anu hayang wusul ka Allah” (“then it is obligatory for those who want to  connect to Allah”) (see Figure 3).

Figure 3. Part of pages 4, 22, 29 of Sirāj al-adhkiyā’ fī tarjamat al-azkiyā’

Another characteristic is that Ahmad Sanusi consistently applied the traditional model of translation practiced in pesantren (traditional Islamic education institution) called ngalogat (Sundanese) or ngapsahi (Javanese), in which he translated an Arabic word into Pégon-Sundanese and added certain words that represent Arabic grammatical markers.

He, for instance, always put the word ari before a Sundanese word representing the subject of a sentence in Arabic (mubtada’), and éta before a word representing the predicate of a sentence in Arabic (khabar mubtada’). Both ari and éta are just markers in terms of Arabic grammar, and not separately and semantically translated. The interlinear translation for the word فشريعة – fa sharī‘ah, for instance, is ari syari’at (“sharī‘ah is”), and the word كسفينة – ka safīnah is éta saperti parahu (“like a ship”) (Figure 2: p. 2, line 3). Such a translation strategy may relate to the fact that K.H. Ahmad Sanusi was a leader of Pesantren Cantayan, Sukabumi, where he addressed such works especially to his own audience.

It is interesting to find a rather “modern” Pégon interlinear translation word taken from Malay when Ahmad Sanusi translated واجهد لتحضر في صلاتك قلبك – wa ijhad li tahḍura fī ṣalātika qalbaka - as: kudu enya-enyaan manéh buat ngahadirkeun dina salat manéh kana haté manéh…(“please be serious in order to be present in your heart during your prayer”) (Figure 3). He chose the Malay word buat (“in order to”) to translate the Arabic “lam” (لام للتعليل) rather than choose a Sundanese word of translation. The use of this word may indicate the influence of Malay on Ahmad Sanusi’s Sundanese translation.

This blogpost represents a first step in understanding Ahmad Sanusi’s translation strategies. Further research is needed to elaborate on the characteristics of Sundanese Pégon interlinear translation and its significance in terms of the Indonesian Islamic intellectual tradition, particularly in the early 20^th century.

 

References:

Fathurahman, Oman. 1999. Menyoal Wahdatul Wujud: Kasus Abdurrauf Singkel Di Aceh Abad Ke-17. Bandung-Jakarta: Mizan-EFEO.

Sanusi, Ahmad. Sirāj Al-Adhkiyā’ Fī Tarjamat al-Azkiyā’. Sukabumi, West Java.

 

 

 

 

Readers of modern Indonesian Qur’an translations will encounter the basmala formula rendered as “Dengan nama Allah Yang Maha Pengasih lagi Maha Penyayang” (lit. “With the name of Allah, the Most Loving, the Most Caring”). This translation has become so widely accepted that most Indonesian readers likely take it for granted.

However, more meticulous and curious readers might wonder: the words raḥmān and raḥīm look similar, so why are they translated into two distinct terms in Indonesian?

This is a perfectly valid question, as both words stem from the same root, r-ḥ-m, which signifies “tenderness of heart.” How are these two words different, and do pengasih and penyayang truly capture the essence of raḥmān and raḥīm?

Turning to history might shed some light on this question. In the 16^th century Malay interlinear translation of ʿAqāʾid al-Nasafī, raḥmān is translated as “yang maha murah” (“the most generous”) and raḥīm as “yang mengasihani hamba-Nya dalam akhirat” (“who cares for His servants in the hereafter”). A similar translation appears in Tarjuman al-mustafīd, written by ʿAbd al-Raʾūf al-Sinkīlī in the 17th century. With these two examples, it’s reasonable to assume that this translation was quite common during that period.

Figure 1 The translation of basmala at the opening line of ʿAqāʾid al-Nasafī. Source: al-Attas (1988).

But how does the older translation of raḥmān and raḥīm differ from its modern counterpart? One thing is clear: in their morphological forms, raḥmān and raḥīm carry a superlative nuance of r-ḥ-m and the two translations convey this sense with the word maha (lit. “great”). For now, let’s set that aspect aside.

The contemporary translation closely reflects the general characteristics of the genre of Qur’an translations, which according to Johanna Pink (2020), typically prioritises the source text over the translator’s ideas or extra textual explanatory materials.

Whether pengasih accurately corresponds to raḥmān and penyayang to raḥīm remains an open question. However, the translator in this instance has rendered each word in the source text with a single word in the translation, demonstrating an effort to remain faithful to the original text.

On the other hand, in the older variant of the translation, raḥmān is rendered as “maha murah” (“the most generous”). This version is also trying to be faithful to the source text, albeit using a different diction from the contemporary translation. As a side note, this translation endured for quite some time; even Ahmad Hasan in the 1920s used the same rendering, though with the prefix pe-, resulting in pemurah (the generous).

However, with raḥīm, the translator introduces extra-textual material, rendering it “yang mengasihani hambanya di akhirat” (“who cares for His servants in the hereafter”).

If the translators of the older version sought to remain faithful to the source text, their option would have been to find another term in Malay that is morphologically related to murah. It’s possible they couldn’t find one.

However, another likely scenario is that the translators were fully aware that both words are bound to specific meanings in the scholastic tradition of Islamic thought. As names of God, these words carry a particular significance that goes beyond the literal meaning suggested by their etymology.

Indeed, within the scholastic tradition the commonly accepted meaning is that raḥmān refers to Allah’s mercy towards believers and non-believers in this world, while raḥīm refers specifically to His mercy towards believers in the hereafter.

It is likely that the translators of ʿAqāʾid al-Nasafī and Tarjuman al-mustafīd were drawing on this understanding. Since raḥīm carries a more specific meaning than raḥmān, they chose to provide a more explicit translation for the former, one rooted in the tradition of Islamic thought. Searching for the corresponding Malay words for each Arabic term in the source text is certainly their objective. However, in some other cases, they could not overlook the scholastic meaning.

Three centuries have passed, and contemporary translators seem quite comfortable with pengasih and penyayang. For one thing, kasih-sayang, the root of pengasih and penyayang, is an idiom widely used in Indonesian. Contemporary translators may have perceived raḥmān and raḥīm as two words of an idiomatic expression in Arabic, much like kasih-sayang in Indonesian.

But, have they disregarded the scholastic meaning?

I suspect the answer is yes in this case. They have 'conceded' to the demands of the genre of Qur’an translation and set aside the scholastic interpretation.

Qur’an translators in Indonesia today remain closely connected to the Islamic scholastic tradition and are aware of the nuanced semantic connotation of raḥmān and raḥīm.

However, because these subtle meanings cannot be fully captured by the available vocabulary in Indonesian, and given the need for translations that are concise, efficient, and highly readable (as seen in the official Qur’an translation of the Republic of Indonesia), they have settled on pengasih and penyayang.

I refer to them as having ‘conceded’ because I do not believe they currently view pengasih and penyayang as the ‘new home’ for raḥmān and raḥīm. In other words, kasih and sayang have not been infused with the semantic nuances of raḥmān and raḥīm.

Likewise, I also believe that most Indonesians would see kasih and sayang as interchangeable. Therefore, the change in contemporary translations may also suggest that raḥmān and raḥīm can be used interchangeably. While in older versions ‘mengasihani’ (a word derived from kasih) was the translation for raḥīm, in the contemporary version ‘pengasih’ is used as the translation for raḥmān. This, however, is not something that the scholastic tradition would allow. However, it is not an issue in the contemporary translation, because they have ‘conceded.’

I suspect the concession in this case relates to the idea of ‘distance.’ In ʿAqāʾid al-Nasafī, the translation maintains a very close relationship with the source text, following an interlinear format. In contemporary translations, however, the translation is positioned at a greater distance, which has a noticeable impact on the expectation for translators to remain faithful to the scholastic tradition.

Proximity to the source text reflects a strong connection to the scholastic tradition, the original ecosystem of the source text. In contrast, the distance from the source text in contemporary Qur'an translations is intended to reduce the gap between the text and its audience. This highlights a difference in priorities between preserving the ecosystem of the source text and engaging with the readers.

 

References:

Al-Attas, Syed Muhammad Naquib. The Oldest Known Malay Manuscript: A 16th Century Malay Translation of The ʿAqāʾid of al-Nasafī (Kuala Lumpur: Department of Publications University of Malaya, 1988).

Lukman, Fadhli. The Official Indonesian Qurʾān Translation: The History and Politics of Al-Qur’an Dan Terjemahnya. 1st ed. Vol. 1 The Global Qur’an (Cambridge, UK: Open Book Publishers, 2022).

Pink, Johanna. “The ‘Kyai’s’ Voice and the Arabic Qur’an; Translation, Orality, and Print in Modern Java.” Wacana 21, no. 3 (December 2020): 329–359.

 

As one of the most appreciated works in kakawin literature, alongside Rāmāyaṇa and Bhāratayuddha, Arjunawiwāha seems to have been a popular candidate for translation from Old Javanese into Modern Javanese. For example, there is a manuscript of this text entitled Serat Wiwaha Jarwa in macapat verse (MN 474), dated 1842 and attributed to the Dutch scholar C.F. Winter with the help of R. Ng. Ronggawarsita; a manuscript entitled Serat Wiwaha Jarwa Sekar Macapat in macapat verse (KS 423.1), composed in 1778 by Sri Susuhunan Pakubuwana III; and a manuscript entitled Serat Arjuna Wiwaha Kawi-Jarwa (HN25) in which each Old Javanese stanza is translated into Modern Javanese prose by an anonymous translator in the mid-19th century. 

This blog focuses on a manuscript coded KBG 342, preserved in the Perpustakaan Nasional Republik Indonesia. It contains Arjunawiwāha as an Old Javanese source text and its Modern Javanese word-for-word translation. The translation adopts the interlinear model which is placed below the source text. This manuscript has three distinctive features. 

Figure 1: Arjunawiwāha in Old Javanese and an interlinear translation in Modern Javanese, Perpustakaan National Republic Indonesia, KBG 342. 

The first point is that each poetry line in the source text is written without any breaks. Although the Modern Javanese translation follows the word order of the Old Javanee source text, each word of the source text and its equivalent are not immediately identifiable because the Old Javanese text is not broken down into words by commas or spaces. This is distinctive from other word-for-word translations from Old Javanese into Modern Javanese. For example, there are manuscripts with a column structure. In these manuscripts, the page is divided vertically into several columns (usually two or three), with the leftmost column containing words or phrases from the source text, while the columns to the right contain the Modern Javanese translations. In this structure, the Old Javanese words or phrases in the left column are written one by one in each line. Also, there are manuscripts with alternating translations, in which each word of the source text and its equivalent are arranged alternately, separated by commas. In this structure the words in the source text are written separately by inserting the translation words between them. Therefore, both structures have the source text broken down into words.  

In KBG 342, however, the source text Arjunawiwāha doesn’t appear word by word, but from one poetry line to another, separated by specific marks. The readers therefore need at least the following: first, they are required to possess the ability to break down an Old Javanese poetry line written continuously into words; then, they are also required to match the Old Javanese words in the divided-up source text with Modern Javanese words in the right order. 

The second feature is the older script used to write the source text. Looking at bitexts in Old and Modern Javanese in the manuscripts written in the 18th and 19th centuries, many Old Javanese texts are corrupted because of sounds that cannot be represented in modern Javanese script, such as the long vowels ā, ī, ū and the consonants ś, ṣ, ṭ, ḍ, ṇ, which are changed to short vowels or dental sounds, respectively. However, in this manuscript, the source text is transcribed relatively faithfully to the Old Javanese phonetics by using an older script. At the same time, this means that the readers of the manuscript are required to be able to read the script that is not used to represent Modern Javanese. 

Both the first and second features indicate that the manuscript is intended for readers who have a certain knowledge of Old Javanese vocabulary and the older script. The third feature, in contrast, gives the reader some background information on Arjunawiwāha. That third feature is the existence of a summary outlining the story and a word list. The summary precedes the source text and translation. It contains sections numbered from 1 to 51, which means the story is divided into 51 parts. The word list is attached at the end of the manuscript, and entitled punika dasanama (“a list of synonymous words”). It has 44 entries accompanied by one synonym for each word, probably for the clarification of words that appear in the translation. 

The manuscript illustrates an interesting example of a kakawin translation specifically intended for advanced readers who have learned the Old Javanese language and phonetics. The additional information may have been attached for preparation and review before and after the study of Old Javanese through reading Arjunawiwāha. If this is the case, the manuscript’s function can be assumed to have been a textbook that provides learning tools for Old Javanese scholars. 

 

References and image credits: 

PNRI KBG 342, Perpustakaan National Republic Indonesia. 

Florida, Nancy K. 1993. Javanese Literature in Surakarta Manuscripts: Introduction and manuscripts of the Karaton Surakarta. Ithaka, New York: Cornell University Press. 

———. 2000. Javanese Literature in Surakarta Manuscripts: Manuscripts of the Mangkunagaran Palace. Ithaka, New York: Cornell Southeast Asia Program Publications. 

———. 2012. Javanese Literature in Surakarta Manuscripts: Manuscripts of the Radya Pustaka Museum and the Hardjonagaran Library. Ithaka, New York: Cornell Southeast Asia Program Publications. 

Robson, Stuart. 2008. Arjunawiwāha. The marriage of Arjuna of Mpu Kanwa. Bibliotheca Indonesica, 34. Leiden: KITLV Press. 

 

 

 

One of the most prominent forms of interlinear translation in Bali is bebaosan, or pepaosan, where two practitioners—the pengwacen (reader) and peneges (translator)—perform sacred texts by singing and translating them in real-time. This unique oral tradition not only conveys the text’s meaning but also serves as a spiritual offering and an expression of devotion to the Goddess Dewi Saraswati (Reisnour 2018: 213). This method of line-by-line translation, often moving from a source language like Old Javanese or Sanskrit to a local vernacular such as Balinese or Indonesian, is not only a means of linguistic interpretation but a key to preserving cultural and religious identity. The manuscripts translated to modern-day languages orally include various traditional genres, such as Balinese Kidung and Geguritan, Old Javanese Kakawin, and Sanskrit Mantra and sloka, (Schumacher 1995: 497, 500; Creese 2014: 297). Today, bebaosan is practiced by three main groups: traditional village clubs (sekaa santi), Hindu reform schools and organizations, and new spiritual movements like ISKCON (The International Society for Krishna Consciousness) and Sai Baba (Reisnour 2018: 211-214).

 

In this blog post, I aim to offer an ethnographic perspective on bebaosan by sharing my conversation with a practitioner who associates himself with the sekaa santi group. Through his insights, I examine how bebaosan bridges communities and reveals complex intersections between tradition and modernity, highlighting the connections between traditional and reformist groups. By delving into both theoretical aspects of interlinear translation and the lived experiences of Balinese performers, this post explores bebaosan as a vital and evolving practice within Bali's spiritual landscape.

 

I met Bli (pseudonym) at a café not far from his university. He had just finished studying and left the university gates with his friends, chatting and laughing. After saying goodbye to them, he came into the café. We greeted each other and ordered drinks, and he suggested we sit outside so he could smoke. Bli is a friend and former classmate of my Balinese language teacher; they had known each other from their university days, and he was delighted to hear that I already knew some basic phrases in Balinese. He was even more intrigued by my interest in his hobby, bebaosan singing.

Bli explained that each village (desa) in Bali has a temple (pura), and each temple has a sekaa santi group that practices bebaosan. His group includes both men and women, though he, at 25, is the youngest among mostly older, male, members. Members either learn to sing the sacred texts or to translate them, so performances always require at least two people. The choice of text varies by ceremony—weddings, for instance, require different texts than cremations—and audiences can sometimes request specific texts, provided the group has learned them.

Regarding the text I was interested in, the Bhagavad Gita, Bli noted that it is sometimes performed in bebaosan, particularly during odalan (traditional village temple celebrations). In this context, the Old Javanese version is sung, featuring only a brief section in Sanskrit, while most of the text is in Old Javanese translated into Balinese. In these contexts, it is recited without meter and translated interlineally in a theatrical way.

Bli shared that he began with Balinese macapat, which is the traditional Javanese poetry and meters (Marrison 1987: 472-482) singing in primary school, discovering his passion for singing. He later learned to sing and translate kakawin poetry (classical epic poetry which was produced in the Indic courts of Java and Bali between the ninth and twentieth centuries) (Creese, 2001: par. 1). in middle school and started competing in performances throughout high school. After graduation, he continued his singing in his village’s sekaa santi group, as he liked the singing more than competing. Interestingly, he identified both the Hindu-reformist perspective of his schoolyears and the traditional Balinese bebaosan style in his village as the same group, referring to both as “traditional.”

It turned out Bli was a talented performer, and he demonstrated various melodies in the café, his enchanting voice resonating in the small courtyard. He explained that singing is quite complex, requiring attention to long and short syllables (guru laghu), vocal trembling, and the appropriate meter and melody. Even within the reformist schools’ melody, Hreng Sruti, there are various performance styles. However, he noted that Hreng Sruti is typically not performed in temples, where Sanskrit texts are reserved for priests (pendeta sebagai pedanda). If the sekaa santi group were to sing it, it might be seen as imitating the priest. They could perform in Sruti in the priest's absence, but this was quite uncommon.

We wrapped up our conversation and stepped into the warm sunlight and the bustling streets of Denpasar. Bli's insights illuminated the complexities of bebaosan and its cultural significance. Our discussion emphasized the importance of this renewing tradition in Bali and highlighted the perspectives of a traditional performer on the topic. Bli also pointed out an interesting connection between the traditional sekaa santi bebaosan and the institutional reformist bebaosan, showing how both are viewed nowadays as “tradition”. As we parted ways, I left with a feeling of new understanding of how bebaosan serves as a bridge connecting diverse communities in contemporary Bali.

 

References

Creese, H. (2001). ‘Images of Women and Embodiment in Kakawin Literature’, Intersections: Gender, History and Culture in the Asian Context 5.

Creese, H. (2014). ‘The Utsawa Dharma Gita Competition: The Contemporary Evolution of Hindu Textual Singing in Indonesia’, The Journal of Hindu Studies, 7(2), 296–322.

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Serat Yusup is a Javanese literary work that tells the story of Joseph, the son of Jacob, composed in the Javanese poetic form known as macapat. It was originally written in Javanese script and later also in pegon, an Arabic script adapted for writing Javanese. Pigeaud suggested that Serat Yusup dates back to the seventeenth century (Pigeaud 1967, 1:217), yet this should apply only to the versions written in Javanese script. The pegon versions likely emerged about a century later, coinciding with the period of the two earliest translations of the Quran being discussed.

Pigeaud further suggested that the Javanese Serat Yusup was shaped by the Malay model Hikayat Yusuf, with which it interacted alongside the original Arabic texts (Pigeaud 1967, 1:217). According to Majid Daneshgar, who closely examined the oldest version of Hikayat Yusuf in Erpenius’ collection at Cambridge University Library, this text is rooted in a Persian tafsir (Daneshgar 2024). This connection places the Javanese Serat Yusup within the tafsir tradition. In this study, I aim to further extend this lineage by illustrating how the Javanese Serat Yusup has also played a role in the production of Quran translations. To support my argument, I present three instances where Serat Yusup has left its mark on interlinear translations of the Quran. These cases are derived from two manuscripts: A.54, currently housed in the National Library of the Republic of Indonesia, and Or.2097, which is preserved in Leiden University Library. Both manuscripts were written in the 18th century.

The first instance is the spelling of Zulaykha’s name. Zulaykha (spelled زليخا in Arabic), the wife of Potiphar, is a character featured in a Quranic story, but her name is never mentioned. In the Quran, she is only referred to as imraʾat al-ʿAzīz (the wife of al-ʿAzīz). In other words, the Quran doesn’t tell its readers how to spell her name. In order to learn that, Javanese Muslims—who are not native Arabic speakers—have to rely on derivative texts, such as the Serat Yusup. In these Javanese texts, her name is spelled as Jaleka in Javanese script or Zalika/Zaleka in pegon.

Figure 2. MS Dd.5.37 of Cambridge University Library, a 17th-century Malay Hikayat Yusuf, f. 21v. The spelling of Zulaykha’s name.

Figure 3.MS  AW 97 of the National Library of the Republic of Indonesia, undated, original place unknown. The spelling of Zulaykha’s name in a pegon version of Serat Yusup.

Figure 4. MS A.54b of the National Library of the Republic of Indonesia, an 18th-century Bantenese interlinear Quran translation. The spelling of Zulaykha’s name.

Figure 5. MS Or.2097 of the Leiden University Library, an 18th-century Central Javanese interlinear Quran translation. The spelling of Zulaykha’s name. 

Interestingly, this spelling is also found in both of the oldest Quran translation manuscripts (Figure 4 and 5). This is a first signal for the connection between the Serat Yusup and the Quran translations.

Strengthening that signal is the second instance which concerns the translation of the word al-dhiʾb. This word—translated as “wolf” in modern dictionaries—refers to the animal that is said to have killed the Prophet Yusuf while he was playing with his brothers. The Quran again does not provide any further details about this animal. And again, Javanese Muslims have to rely on derivative texts for clarification. In MS. Dd.5.37, the Cambridge manuscript of the oldest Malay Hikayat Yusuf, the animal is always identified as harimau (tiger); in all the Javanese Serat Yusup manuscripts I’ve read, it is presented as macan (tiger), and interestingly, this macan presentation is also used in both Quran translations, A.54 and Or.2097. While it is important to investigate whether the Persian tafsir provides a Persian equivalent for ‘tiger’ in this context, that lies beyond my expertise. Nonetheless, this example further highlights the relationship between Serat Yusup and the interlinear Quran translations.

The third instance, however, shows a more complex relation between Serat Yusup and the interlinear Quran translations. It highlights something more subtle than the previous two, i.e. the levels of Javanese language. Broadly speaking, Javanese has two speech levels: the low one (ngoko) and the high, refined one (krama). The krama level is used when addressing someone respected, be it due to their age, social/political/religious status, or other factors. The shift in speech levels is usually done through word choices or adding specific elements to the root words. All types of words—nouns, verbs, adjectives, etc.—may undergo this transformation. What is particularly relevant here is the level of the word used to describe Zulaykha’s actions. When news of her affair with Joseph spread through the city and became the talk of the town, Zulaykha became aware of it and sought to clarify the situation. The story continues with the well-known scene where women, mesmerized by Joseph’s beauty, unwittingly cut their fingers. However, I want to focus on the moment when Zulaykha became aware of the gossip about herself and Yusuf.

In The scene is depicted in Q. 12:31 where, the Quran uses the word samiʿa (fa-lammā samiʿat, “so when she heard”), literally meaning “to hear,” to indicate Zulaykha’s awareness of the gossip. Iand it is this literal meaning meaning that is reflected in the two 18th-century Javanese interlinear translations of the Quran: amiharsa in A.54 and midhanget in Or.2097. Interestin—gly, both terms are considered refined in Javanese. It is also important to point outintriguing that the very verse Q. 12:31 is never translated literally in the Serat Yusup, and Zulaykha is accordingly never associated with the verb for hearing. Where then did the Quran translators get amiharsa and midhanget from? While I haven’t come across the word midhanget in the Serat Yusup, I often find amiharsa, which is associated with highly respected figures (e.g. God [Sang Yang Widi], the king [Sribupati and Srinalendra], the Prophet Jacob, and the Prophet Joseph himself); Zulaykha is never linked to this term. Other words for “hearing” used in Serat Yusup are a refined word pireng attributed to the king (ratu), and a lower one angrungu attributed to figures of lower social status.

By attributing amiharsa and midhanget to Zulaykha, the two interlinear Quran translations seem to place Zulaykha in a position equal or at least close to God, kings, and prophets. This is particularly intriguing, as it suggests an elevation in her rank—in Serat Yusup Instead, she is often only depicted as “speaking,” “dreaming,” and “seeing,” using with words of the low level: sumaur/angucap, angimpi, and tumingal, suggesting her low position. . Given this, the Quran’s use of amiharsa and midhanget in relation to Zulaykha is unique, as it conveys a different nuance from what we see in the Serat Yusup. This raises theone may raise a question of whether the Quran translators intend to show more respect for Zulaykha than the composers of Serat Yusup did. Put theThis question aside, this example illustrates how the interlinear Quran translations not only dreaw from and get were influenced by Serat Yusup but also engaged with it critically.

Through these three instances—highlighting spelling, translation, and more nuanced linguistic features—I aim to demonstrate how the Javanese Serat Yusup has contributed to the production of a Quran translation. In addition to Serat Yusup, there are numerous other literary works to investigate, such as Serat Enoh and Sūrat Nūḥ (Q. 71), as well as Hikayat Israʾ Miʿrāj and Sūrat al-Isrāʾ (Q. 17), to name just two. Examining the connections between these serats and their corresponding sūrat counterparts not only acknowledges the serats’ significance within the tafsir tradition but also, as I mentioned in my earlier post, gives the Javanese Quran translation its due as part of the Javanese literary tradition.

Sources

MS. PNRI A.54a-e, The National Library of the Republic of Indonesia collection.

MS. Or. 2097, Leiden University Library.

Daneshgar, Majid. 2024. “Translating Persian Tafsir in Aceh: The Oldest Malay ‘Story of Joseph’ at Cambridge University Library.” Cambridge University Library Special Collections (blog). 14 Oktober 2024. https://specialcollections-blog.lib.cam.ac.uk/?p=26005.

Pigeaud, Theodore G. Th. 1967. Literature of Java. Vol. 1. The Hague: Nijhoff.