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).

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.

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.

Figure 1: Kitāb al-ḥādīth. B7-Ms8, Collection of Sheik Muhammad Said bin Imam sa Bayang, Marawi City. ff. 23v-24r.

2a. f.23r.

2b. f.23v.

Figure 2: Kitāb al-ḥādīth. B7-Ms8, Collection of Sheik Muhammad Said bin Imam sa Bayang, Marawi City.

The Malay interlinear translation is provided throughout the work, whereas the Maranao interlinear translation is only provided for one hadith and is written in different handwriting and ink. The unique handwriting suggests that this Maranao text was written by Sheik Muhammad Said bin Imam sa Bayang (c. 1902–1974), for whom the collection is named, between 1930 and 1974.

The Arabic text and its English translation are as follows:

من تكلم بكلام الدنيا في خمسة مكان بعث الله تعالى يوم القيامة كصورة الخنزير

Whoever speaks worldly words in five places, Allah the Exalted, will raise him on the Day of Resurrection in the form of a pig.

The texts in the three languages and the English translation of the Arabic text are as follows.

The Arabic text has been translated word for word into Malay and Maranao, maintaining the original word order. The Malay words are written diagonally from top right to bottom left below the corresponding Arabic words and divided according to the Arabic spacing. The Maranao text is written below the Malay text, also diagonally from top right to bottom left. However, unlike the Malay text, the spacing is not always clear. Instead of clearly separating each word and placing it directly below the corresponding word, the Maranao text tends to be written continuously without spaces, as in the first line of this hadith. Consequently, the word dalem (in) is not written below the corresponding Arabic and Malay words fī and pada, but in the next line. The characters in the Malay text are much smaller than those in the Arabic text; however, the Maranao text is written in larger characters than the Malay text.

In the Malay and Maranao translations, words that frequently occur in the Arabic text are consistently rendered with specific words. For example, the Arabic prepositions bi and fī are often rendered with the Malay words dengan and pada, and the Maranao words sa and dalem, respectively, as seen in this hadith. The Arabic expression “man + verb” meaning “whoever does this and that” is consistently replaced by the Malay and Maranao expressions “barangsiapa (whoever) + verb” and “si/so taw (the person) a + verb,” respectively.

Maranao language has a unique feature not found in Arabic or Malay: it has many particles such as ligatures that link words (e.g., a, na) and determiners that mark the relationship between words (e.g., so, si, o, ko, sa). Therefore, if Arabic or Malay words were translated strictly word for word into Maranao without these particles, the relationships between words would not be indicated, resulting in disjointed sentences that are difficult to understand. The Maranao translator included these particles in the interlinear translation at the expense of not strictly following the Malay interlinear translation convention of writing the translation directly under the corresponding word. Thus, he was able to form coherent sentences within the limited space between the lines.

Was the Maranao text translated from the original Arabic text or the Malay translation? Since the contents of the Arabic and Malay texts are essentially the same, answering this question by comparing them is difficult. In the Lanao region in the mid-20th century, reformist Islamic scholars were increasingly interested in prioritizing the original Arabic text in Islamic learning. Given this contemporary social context, the translator probably based the Maranao translation primarily on the Arabic text to ensure that its meaning was accurately conveyed, while also referring to the Malay translation to verify the meaning.

This argument is supported by the text of another hadith in the same manuscript, which reads: Man fasada qalbahu gharaqa fī āfāti al-dunyā (Whoever has a corrupt heart will drown in the troubles of this world) (Figure 3).

Figure 3: Kitāb al-ḥādīth. B7-Ms8, Collection of Sheik Muhammad Said bin Imam sa Bayang, Marawi City. f. 24r.

The Arabic word āfāt is a plural form of afah (harm, damage, ruin), which is translated into Malay as pekerjaan (work, job). The Maranao translator was not satisfied with this translation and wrote down the Maranao word pakabinasa (it can bring destruction) as the meaning of āfāt. This single word, which could easily be overlooked as a meaningless scribble, proves that the translator did not simply accept the Malay interlinear translation, but critically examined and corrected it based on the Arabic language. Thus, by carefully reading between the lines, we can explore a realm that we would not have found from the main text alone.

References:

Fathurahman, Oman, Kawashima Midori, and Labi Sarip Riwarung (eds.). 2019. The Library of an Islamic Scholar of Mindanao: The Collection of Sheik Muhammad Said bin Imam sa Bayang at the Al-Imam As-Sadiq (A.S.) Library, Marawi City, Philippines: An Annotated Catalogue with Essays. (Occasional Papers No.27). Tokyo: Institute of Asian, African, and Middle Eastern Studies, Sophia University.

Ricci, Ronit. 2016. Reading between the Lines: A World of Interlinear Translation. Journal of World Literature, 1: 68-80.

Photographs: Kawashima Midori et al., February 27, 2012.

I would like to thank Dr. Moctar Matuan for his advice on the Maranao language, although I take full responsibility for any errors.

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.

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.

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.

Marrison, G. E. (1987). ‘Modern Balinese — A Regional Literature of Indinesia. Bijdragen Tot de Taal-, Land- En Volkenkunde, 143(4), 468–498.

Ricci, R. (2016). ‘Reading between the Lines: A World of Interlinear Translation’, Journal of World Literature, 1(1), pp. 68–80.

Reisnour, N. J. (2018). Voicing Selves: Ethics, Mediation, and the Politics of Religion in Post-Authoritarian Bali (Doctoral dissertation, Cornell University).

Schumacher, R. (1995). ‘Musical Concepts in Oral Performance of Kakawin in Bali’. Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde, 151: 490-515.

Van der Meij, D. (2017). Indonesian Manuscripts from the Islands of Java, Madura, Bali and Lombok (Vol. 24). Brill.

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.

Aglaia Iankovskaia (2023) observed this distant-interlinear feature in another copy of the same text (Leiden MS. Or. 7075). MS. Or. 7075 is a copy from MS. ML 341 kept in the National Library of the Republic of Indonesia. Additionally, there is one other digitised copy with Aceh provenance available on the EAP platform. Each of these manuscripts displays this ‘distant-interlinear translation’ at some point. Could it be that this feature is quite common in Malay manuscripts?

Another important observation from this manuscript is that it demonstrates that the translator did not consistently pursue the smallest detail of Arabic grammar and syntax in translation. Such meticulous attention to the details is what makes interlinear translation associated with word-for-word translation and literalism. This manuscript, however, shows that the words of the translation are organised into a coherent sentence that can be comprehended on its own. Even without the original text, the translated version, although it may not sound entirely natural and idiomatic to modern readers, is still understandable. It is tempting to assume that the interlinear translation in this text works at the level of the phrase, but combined with the aforementioned distant-interlinear feature, I would say that the translation works at the sentence level instead.

With the distant and sentence-level translation, the text might be taught to students at the elementary level of their surau education, while they had not yet learned to read an Arabic text. The provided example clearly demonstrates that translation in this text is not only put at a distance from the specific word it renders, but that it is also frequently placed beneath a different word. This format may not be suitable if students were expected to connect each word of the original text with its corresponding translation. Additionally, with the translation that works at the sentence level, students were invited to understand the text in its Malay version. We can imagine the translation and original text standing alone, but they are stitched together on paper because they were read in the classroom.

This way, this text is comparable to the layout of the printed Qur'an translation in early twentieth-century Indonesia (see Fig. 2), where the Arabic text occupies the half-right side of the page, while the Malay/Indonesian translation occupies the other half. The audience for this Qur'an translation was the new growing Muslim intellectual class who had a Western education and was unfamiliar with Arabic (Pink, 2017). The inclusion of the Arabic text—and thus the Arabic recitation—in both layout formats apparently serves as an indication that the text's authority lies in its original form rather than in any translated versions. The distinction between the readers of our manuscript and those of the printed Qur'an translation lies in the fact that the surau students who read this manuscript would go on to read and translate the actual Arabic text later in their education.

Fig. 2. The Quran translation of the Ministry of Religious Affairs (1965) that follows the popular parallel layout of Quran translation since the early 20th century. 

The available descriptions of interlinear translation provided by scholars, combined with the traditional pesantren or surau model of oral translation of Arabic texts that still exists today, have led me to believe that interlinear translation is a highly complex enterprise. A further consequence of this perception is the notion that interlinear translation bridges the language of the original text, Arabic, to the language of the translated text, in this case Malay, in a way that is intended for learning the original Arabic text, and hence, learning Arabic. It is therefore not surprising that Iankovskaia, in her analysis of MS. Or. 7075 and MS. ML 341 concluded that these texts combine moral education for students as well as an Arabic language education. However, the text discussed in this blogpost does not fully attest to this complexity, leaving us to consider a more nuanced description of this tradition, including its role in Arabic language learning.

References:

Iankovskaia, A. (2023) ‘Between translation and commentary: an interlinear text from the collection of Snouck Hurgronje’, Archipel, 106, pp. 89–124. Available at: https://doi.org/10.4000/11wu6.

Pink, J. (2017) ‘Form Follows Function: Notes on the Arrangement of Texts in Printed Qur’an Translations’, Journal of Qur’anic Studies, 19(1), pp. 143–154. Available at: https://doi.org/10.3366/jqs.2017.0274.

Ricci, R. (2014) ‘Story, Sentence, Single Word: Translation Paradigms in Javanese and Malay Islamic Literature’, in Bermann, S. and Porter, C., A companion to translation studies. Chichester, West Sussex: Wiley Blackwell (Blackwell companions to literature and culture, 86), pp. 543–556.

Ricci, R. (2016) ‘Reading between the Lines: A World of Interlinear Translation’, Journal of World Literature, 1(1), pp. 68–80. Available at: https://doi.org/10.1163/24056480-00101008.