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.

Juxtaposing the interlinear translations in ML 341 and EAP329/1/11 reveals an interesting correlation between the two versions of the Malay text: they are too different and too similar at the same time— too similar to be unrelated and, at the same time, too different for the differences to result from corruption in the process of recopying. This ambiguity brings up questions around the practices of transmitting interlinear translations, which appear to have differed from those of reproducing the matn. How can two texts be this much different but still related? A possible explanation is that the interlinear text might have gone through multiple stages of both written and oral transmission, which involved a teacher dictating the translation looking into a written copy, but feeling free to slightly modify or complement the text during the dictation—adjusting to the students’ level and anticipated need for additional elucidation. Frozen on the page of a manuscript, this interlinear text captures the translation as it was performed in the classroom, demonstrating one of the many ways in which orality and literacy were entangled within Malay manuscript culture and Islamic educational practices.

References:

Collective volume with two texts in Arabic with interlinear translation in Malay, Leiden University Libraries, Or. 7075, http://hdl.handle.net/1887.1/item:3128072

DS 0043 00014, DREAMSEA Repository, https://www.hmmlcloud.org/dreamsea/detail.php?msid=1403

Mau'izah and Adab al-Muta'allim, British Library, EAP329/1/11, https://eap.bl.uk/archive-file/EAP329-1-11

Mawaiz al-Badiah Waghairiha, ML 341, National Library of Indonesia

The content is taken from the ancient literary work Rāmāyaṇa Kakawin, which is believed to have been completed no later than the first half of the 10th century AD and is the oldest known Old Javanese work. The Rāmāyaṇa Kakawin contains 26 chapters (sarga) in all, of which the manuscript extracts stanzas 125-154 from sarga  21. The stanzas retell the scene where the sages from heaven sing a hymn to the hero Rāma to encourage him to revive and fight against his enemy after he was fatally damaged.

I would now like to focus on one unique aspect of this manuscript which is the theme of this blogpost: the transcription of sound. The point is that the manuscript’s author adapted the metre used in the Old Javanese text into a more modern metre. The stanzas in the Rāmāyaṇa Kakawin follow a metre consisting of 4 poetic lines that have the same definite number of syllables with fixed positions of long and short vowels. For example, stanza 128 follows the metre called wīralalita which is supposed to have 16 syllables in a line, hence 64 syllables in a stanza. On the other hand, the more modern macapat metre called dhandhanggula that the Old Javanese text in the manuscript adopts contains a stanza consisting of 10 lines. In this case, the final vowel of each line is specified. The number of syllables and the final vowel of each dhandhanggula line are as follows; 10i, 10a, 8e/o, 7u, 9i, 7a, 6u, 8a, 12i, 7a (84 syllables in total).

Therefore, what is needed to adapt wīralalita to dhandhanggula is to increase the number of syllables in a stanza from 64 to around 84 and to change the vowels of the final syllable of each line  as necessary. Let us compare a sample stanza from the Old Javanese text in the manuscript and its counterpart in Rāmāyaṇa Kakawin. As a source for the Romanized edition of Rāmāyaṇa Kakawin, I refer to Kern’s critical edition (published 1900, republished 2015) . A specific example from the manuscript is shown below.

Figure 2: Rāmāyaṇa Kakawin, Sarga 21, stanza 128 line 1 to stanza 129 line 1 in Kern’s critical edition (Kern 2015: 447-448) on the left. Old Javanese text in Or. 2174(E) on the right.

On the right side, the final syllable of each line according to dhandhanggula is underlined. As you can see, by lengthening the vowel in the last syllable of each line. For the purpose of increasing the number of syllables in a stanza, the scribe takes 5 lines from the Rāmāyaṇa Kakawin as one stanza, and adds syllables after that. Also, note that several underlined vowels are changed from the left-hand column for the purpose of changing the vowels of the final syllable of each line.

Tuning our eyes to the Modern Javanese interlinear text, it follows the metrical pattern of the Old Javanese text above it. However, it is further divided into smaller parts (caesuras). These caesuras are represented by physical spaces whereas the breaks between lines are represented by long vowels without physical spaces in the Old Javanese text. Following the caesuras in an example of a Modern Javanese text in the fifth stanza, the pattern is 10ī 4a 6a 8e 7ū 9ī 6a 6ū 8a 4a 8ī 7a (83 syllables in total). Therefore, it is even more detailed than the pattern of dhandhanggula metre, and attempts to match the rhythm of the Old Javanese text written above with that of the Modern Javanese translation.

The translation from Old Javanese to Modern Javanese does not always appear semantically precise. The word kita, expressing the second person both singular and plural in Old Javanese, is consistently translated as ingwang, representing the first person singular in Modern Javanese. From the point of view of pronunciation, however, kita and ingwang are words with the same number of syllables and the same vowels in the same positions.

To summarise, employing the interlinear model in the manuscript was likely intended to make it easier for the scribe, upon making a translation, to confirm the number of syllables and each final vowel in the Old Javanese text, and to compose a Modern Javanese text, also in dhandhanggula, that was as close to the older version’s sounds as possible. This example is valuable for the following three reasons: (1) it shows that a modernization of the sound of the Old Javanese text was performed (2) it presents in visual form the process in which modernization was first carried out through the Old Javanese text, and then the Modern Javanese translation was made according to the rhythm of the Old Javanese text, and (3) it adopts the interlinear model for this process. Hence, it reveals that the interlinear model was not only used for the general purpose of rendering the meaning of the source language text, which is divided into words or phrases, into words or phrases in the translation language but rather it may have had additional purposes, as in this case.

Becker and Ricci, upon analyzing the translation from an Indian Rāmāyaṇa into the Old Javanese Rāmāyaṇa Kakawin,refer to the ancient Javanese court poets’ adjusting the translation language of Old Javanese to the metres derived from the source language, Sanskrit, as “translating forms along with content” (Becker and Ricci 2008: 20).What then should we call the adjustment of the source language, Old Javanese, to the metre of the translation language, Modern Javanese? Can this also be called a translation of form?

At least for the person who composed the text of this manuscript (not necessarily the scribe), the task of “translation” seems to have also been to transcribe the sounds. The example of this manuscript shows us the broader concept of “translation” and the versatility of the interlinear model.

References:

MS. Or. 2174(E), Leiden University Library.

Becker, A. L. and Ronit Ricci. 2008. “What Happens When You Really Listen: On Translating the Old Javanese Rāmāyaṇa: Ramayana Kakawin, Translation and Essay” In Indonesia 85: 1-30.

Kern, H. 2015. Rāmāyaṇa. The story of Rāma and Sītā in Old Javanese. Tokyo: Research Institute for Languages and Cultures of Asia and Africa, Tokyo University of Foreign Studies. Romanized edition by Willem van der Molen. Javanese Studies 1.

Pigeaud, Theodore G. Th. 1968. Literature of Java: Catalogue raisonné of Javanese manuscripts in the library of the University of Leiden and other public collections in the Netherlands. Volume II: Descriptive Lists of Javanese Manuscripts. Leiden: Bibliotheca Universitatis Lugduni Batavorum. Codices Manscrupti X.

I will begin this blogpost by answering the question posed in the title. Yes, and thus the translations of the Quran into vernacular languages need to be treated as part of their own local literary traditions. With particular regard to translations in interlinear form, the limited space available to translators has made them more creative in playing with subtleties not found in the Quran’s original language, Arabic.

To make my point clearer, I will take an excerpt from two Javanese interlinear Quran translations from the eighteenth century: a manuscript from Banten, MS A.54 now kept in the National Library of the Republic of Indonesia, and a manuscript from Semarang, MS Or.2097 of Leiden University Library. To be more specific, I will discuss a group of words that are derived from the stem r-w-d (which generally means ‘to desire’) from Q. 12 (Sūrat Yūsuf).

The verses I pick here describe scenes when Zulaykha tried to seduce Yūsuf (v. 23); when  news of the affair  then spread all over the city and the women were gossiping about it (v. 30); and when Zulaykha proved to the women that Yūsuf’s beauty is so very exceptional that everyone will be captivated by it (v. 32). The last verse (v. 51) is depicting a scene where the king (malik) was helped by Yūsuf and, upon Yūsuf’s request, asked Zulaykha and the women of the town to clarify what happened between them and Yūsuf.

In these verses, there is one word in the form of fiʿl muḍāriʿ (present and future tense), turāwidu (v. 30), and three other words in the form of fiʿl māḍī (past tense), i.e., rāwadat (v. 23), rāwadtu (vv. 32 and 51), and rāwadtunna (v. 51). The actor (fāʿil) of the first three words (turāwidu, rāwadat, and rāwadtu) is the wife of Yūsuf’s master identified in the books of tafsīr as Zulaykha, while that of the fourth word (rāwadtunna) is given in female plural form referring to Zulaykha and women of the town.

In translating the above r-w-d derivation, the two Javanese translators used different words. The Banten manuscript (PNRI A.54) uses three words (akarĕp, arĕp, and anĕkani), while the Semarang manuscript (Leiden Or.2097) uses only two (angarĕpi and adhĕmĕn). Angarĕpi is used in the Semarang manuscript to translate all derivations of r-w-d except for the first rāwadtu in verse 32 which it translates as adhĕmĕn. It is interesting that the same rāwadtu in this verse is also treated differently by the Banten manuscript; it is the only word translated with the word arĕp. The second rāwadtu in verse 51 is translated with anĕkani, the same word it uses to translate rāwadtunna in the very verse. The words rāwadat and turāwidu were both translated as akarĕp.

What is the difference between these Javanese words employed in the translations? Why did the two Javanese translators use the same Javanese words to translate different Arabic words (rāwadat and turāwidu) on the one hand, and different Javanese words for the same Arabic word (the two rāwadtus) on the other? Why did the Bantenese translator introduce a totally new word for the two r-w-d derivations in verse 51, while the Semarang translator went back to the words that he/she used in the beginning (verse 23 and 30)?

In order to answer these questions, one cannot merely rely on one’s knowledge of Arabic. The distribution of verb actors (fāʿil) in Arabic I mentioned above, for example, shows a pattern different from that of the translation. The philological analysis of some works of tafsīr specializing in linguistics also cannot give us clear answers—all more so because we do not know whether such tafsīrs were accessible to the two Javanese translators. What helps us more is linguistic and literary analysis of the Javanese.

In two aggregator websites for Javanese dictionaries (www.sealang.net and www.sastra.org), we find that arĕp (also the root of akarĕp and angarĕpi) comes from the Old Javanese language, harĕp. Besides ‘to desire something/someone’ which fits the topic of desire addressed here, arĕp also has the meaning of ‘to want, to wish’ and ‘in front of, fore part’, the latter being quite far from desire. Tĕka also comes from Old Javanese and also has a meaning quite distant from desire, that is ‘to come to’. The addition, the prefix a- and suffix -i for angarĕpi and anĕkani aim to make the verbs transitive. Although not listed in the sealang website as a derivative form of harĕp, akarĕp is recorded in three other sources that I consulted with a meaning not far from its root: ‘to want, wish, desire for’.

The nuances of arĕp, angarĕpi, anĕkani, and akarĕp are quite different from adhĕmĕn. This last word also comes from Old Javanese and is included in the four sources above. Compared to the previous words, dhĕmĕn has less variations in meaning, either ‘to like something very much’ or ‘to love, to be pleased with someone/something’ in association to lust.

What can we make of these explanations? I suggest this has to do with the speech contexts of each word. The first two words (rāwadat and turāwidu) appear when the Quran speaks to its readers and women of the town speak to other women. In these two conversations, Zulaykha was referred to in the third person. For Javanese, in this kind of context, the choice of words to attribute to the third person (whether to use formal, polite words or the informal, casual ones) depends on the relation between the third person and both the speaker and interlocutor. In this case, the relation between Zulaykha and the speakers (Quran and the women) and interlocutors (Quran’s readers and other women) is equal, so the Javanese Quran translators did not have to use a formal or polite word.

A different feeling emerges in the first appearance of rāwadtu (verse 32). In this verse, Zulaykha is speaking in the first person to the women of the town. Even though there is no clear explanation regarding the identity of these interlocutory women, the mention of Zulaykha as the wife of al-ʿAzīz (lit. a respected person) in the Quran is enough to give Zulaykha a position higher than the women. Moreover, in this verse Zulaykha has succeeded in convincing these women of Yūsuf’s extraordinary beauty. In such a context, Zulaykha finds a kind of safe space that allows her to speak more openly about what she feels for Yūsuf. The safe space was then lost when Zulaykha and the women of the town had to go before the king (malik) and explain what they had done to Yūsuf (verse 51).

The identification of these three situations may help explain the choice of words to translate derivatives of the Arabic r-w-d. In the first neutral situation, the Javanese translators had no reason to speak very directly about desire, so they chose akarĕp and angarĕpi which hint quite clearly at desire but not as straightforwardly as adhĕmĕn. The safe space and power relations in the second context allow Zulaykha to use the direct word adhĕmĕn to express her feelings. However, she had to quickly change course and speak indirectly when discussing this matter with the king. According to the Banten translator (A.54), Zulaykha even had to resort to innuendo by using a word completely unrelated to desire, anĕkani.

Could we reach this understanding by reading tafsir works? I would rather suggest delving into Javanese literary works to identify and further comprehend its subtleties, as shown above. To put it another way, one should give the Javanese Quran translation its due as part of the Javanese literary tradition.

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

MS. Or. 2097, Leiden University Library.

www.sastra.org

www.sealang.net

Who was al-Wangarī? In the beginning of ʿAqīdat al-Wangarī, the author’s name is mentioned as Muḥammad b. Aḥmad al-Wangarī (see Figure 1). Several manuscripts in the National Library of France in Paris bear his full name (see Figure 2; cf. Figure 3) before the beginning of this work: qāla al-shaykh al-faqīh al-muḥaqqiq al-mudaqqiq al-naḥwī al-uṣūlī Abū ʿAbdillāh Muḥammad b. Aḥmad b. Maḥmūd b. Abī Bakr Baghyugh. This scholar, known as a jurist, grammarian and theologian, is most likely the descendant of a well-known Timbuktu scholar who originally came from Djenné, in present-day Mali, Muḥammad al-Wangarī al-Timbuktī al-Jinnawī (d. 1594), known as Baghayogho, whose manuscript library was cited by the celebrated Timbuktu historian Aḥmad Baba (d. 1627) (see Jappie & Diagne 2008).

Figure 2. Wangarī’s Creed in Maghrebi script. BnF Paris, Arabe 5602 ff. 402b-403a.

 Figure 3. Wangarī’s Creed in Maghrebi script. BnF Paris, Arabe 5484 f. 143a.

The transmission of Sanūsī’s works in Timbuktu can be well understood due to its geographical proximity to North Africa. But how did Timbuktu’s commentary on al-Sanūsī travel to Sumatra? Lebe Bandar, an unknown scholar and scribe in the early eighteenth century in the Sultanate of Aceh, wrote a prose commentary based on ʿAqīdat al-Wangarī, namely Al-Laṭāʾif al-nafsiyyah ʿalā naẓm al-ʿaqīdah al-sanūsiyyah (“The Psychic Subtlety Commenting on the Minor Creed of Sanūsī”). He noted that he learned of Wangarī’s text when he was in Medina at the end of the seventeenth century. This historical note corroborates the fact that the Hijāz was the most important transmission site of intellectual traditions to the Malay world. If we accept Lebe Bandar’s note, ʿAqīdat al-Wangarī very likely came to Aceh at this time, if not earlier, and this milieu encouraged the scholars in the  Sultanate of Aceh to study it closely, leading Muḥammad Zayn to compose his Bidāyat al-hidāyah in ‘the tongue of Jāwī/Malay” (lisān al-Jāwī). Bidāyat al-hidāyah was able to complement or even replace in popularity the theological works of earlier scholars such as Nūr al-Dīn al-Rānirī (d. 1658) and ʿAbd al-Raʾūf al-Jāwī al-Fansūrī (d. 1693).

Despite the popularity of Muḥammad Zayn’s commentary on al-Sānūsī’s work, ʿAqīdat al-Wangari continued to be recited, perhaps because the credal poem possessed a mnemonic function and was memorized up to the first half of the of the nineteenth century when the manuscript EAP329-1-95 was compiled. The single copy of this Arabic text with its Malay interlinear translation does not mean that it was not popular earlier, prior to the Dutch-Aceh War (1873-1904). It nevertheless at least testifies to an intellectual and textual connection between distant corners of the Islamic world at the time: Timbuktu, the Islamic learned culture far to the west, and Southeast Asia, the Islamic region far to the east.

Comparing three manuscripts—one from Aceh and the other two from the Maghreb  - which are currently kept in the National Library of France—the Acehnese manuscript lacks the indication of Wangarī’s full name at the beginning of the text as well as book divisions such as ‘introduction’ (muqaddimah), the ‘absolute attributes of God’ (mā yajib fī haqq mawlānā tabāraka wa taʿālā), and other Ashʿarī theological doctrines. The function of such subdivisions makes it easier for the readers to distinguish between the sections, thus they can skip from one to the other for subsequent perusal. The Acehnese manuscript differs from the two Maghrebi copies in the way in which the scribe copied it from other older manuscripts. Although the three manuscripts date back to ca. 1750-1850, they certainly have different stories. The history of texts and books is always fascinating when one considers their variants and translations. The Malay interlinear translation of ʿAqīdah al-Wangarī, as can be seen in Figure 1, itself attests to two types of interlinear translation: one is literal, word for word, and can be read throughout the text. The second is an irregular translation, which can be recognized already in the first line of the text:

Yaḥmadu rabbahu bi-khayri al-aḥmadi          al-Wangarī ibn Muḥammad ibn Aḥmadi

Sentiasa memuji oleh Wangari itu akan Tuhannya dengan sebaik-baik puji….

(“Always praised by the Wangari is his Lord with the best of praises”)

At the time when the translator wrote her/his translation, other explanatory elements were added above the words or in marginalia. While the Acehnese manuscript lacks Wangarī’s full name, for instance, the translator/scribe added the meaning of the word ‘al-Wankarī’ in the upper position or copied it from another text in Arabic and Malay: ayy al-mandūb [sic!; al-mansūb] ilā al-Wankarī, artinya dibangsakan negeri Wankari (i.e., “it refers to the territory of Wangarī”). An intriguing question that requires  further study  is how and why some  Arabic theological terms were partly translated  into Malay while others were left untranslated. This text opens a window to the rich tradition of Malay interlinear translation as practiced in Aceh and as found in the EAP Aceh collection, the books of which were used as part of an Islamic curriculum in the region. 

References:

Bruckmayr, Philipp. “The šarḥ/ḥāshiya Phenomenon in Southeast Asia: From al-Sanūsī’s Umm al-Barāhīn to Malay Sifat Dua Puluh Literature.” Mélange of IDEO 32 (2017).

Jeppie, Shamil and Souleymane Bachir Diagne (eds.). The Meanings of Timbuktu. Cape Town: South Africa (2008).

Olson, Caitlyn. “Beyond the Avicennian Turn: The Creeds of Muḥammad b. Yūsuf al-Sanūsī (d. 895/1490).” Studia Islamica 115, no. 1 (2020): 101-140.

Zacky Khairul Umam was a postdoctoral researcher at “Mapping Sumatra’s Manuscript Cultures” project, SOAS University of London and is currently a lecturer at Universitas Islam Internasional Indonesia.

I will explore the section appearing in the manuscript’s initial pages that speaks to the benefits of engaging with the stories of Muhammad’s prophethood and his attributes, benefits that extend to the textual community which encompasses those who wrote the texts, listen to, carry, keep or borrow them, or connect with them in various other ways. Such depictions are common in Javanese Islamic literature but here I wish to draw attention to the way reading this particular, small section in both Arabic and Javanese raises questions about the relationship between these two intertwined Islamic traditions. Due to the brevity of this blogpost and the need for further research my major aim here is to highlight such questions, not answer them.

First, a caveat: the manuscript seems to be missing several pages, as stated also on the DREAMSEA website, and unfortunately one or two pages are apparently missing at the start, after the opening page, so the section discussed is incomplete.

What is clear, however, is that those engaging with the stories related in the manuscript will be protected from various threats and harm. I’d like to suggest that the list of perils and the vocabulary used to name them in the Javanese interlinear translation of the Arabic text is reminiscent of one of Java’s famous poems, the Kidung Rumeksa ing Wengi (“A song Guarding in the Night”) attributed to Sunan Kalijaga, one of the nine apostles of Islam (J. wali) who is said to have lived in Java between the mid 15^th to mid-16^th centuries.

The Kidung, which has been classified as an invocation, a supplication, a mystical poem and a magic incantation (Arps 1996), was recited in the past not only in Java but also in Javanese exilic communities living as far away as colonial Ceylon (Ricci 2012) in order to ward off forces and beings lurking in the night, and it remains known and popular in some parts of Java in the present.

The protective role of the text (rumeksa) is phrased in similar terms in the Hikayat, also employing the verb reksa (to guard, protect, watch over), and nighttime is central to both: in the Kidung it is mentioned exclusively while the Hikayat mentions protection during both night and day.

A partial list of threats that reciting the Kidung and reading the Prophet’s stories will ward off includes the following: (the first word in each example appears in the Kidung, the second in the Hikayat, if the vocabulary is identical in both a single word is listed): fire (geni/ kobar), thieves (maling/begalan), harmful spells (guna/sihir), unlucky places (lemah sangar/enggon kang sangar), wild beasts (sato galak), jinn and devils (jim setan), all sorts of calamities (bilahi).

Even if the manuscript did not specifically evoke the Kidung for its audience (only speculation is possible here), the opening section of the Hikayat and the famous poem draw on a shared repository of images of looming dangers that need to be avoided, harnessed or overcome, and both offer protection from harm.

The Kidung Rumeksa ing Wengi has been studied and appraised repeatedly as a quintessential product of Javanese culture. Reading the interlinear text of the Hikayat with its tantalizing hints raises questions about potential inspirations for the Kidung: was it based in part on tropes from Arabic texts that were brought to Java from elsewhere? Or, conversely, perhaps the Arabic text appearing in the Cirebon manuscript was written locally rather than imported or copied from a foreign text in which case the Arabic telling would have been shaped by Javanese sensibilities about the natural and supernatural environments. I am not implying that “Javanese” and “Arabic” existed in separate, isolated spheres – far from it – and yet reading the Javanese between the Arabic lines powerfully resonates with the Kidung and other texts like it and invites us to think about possible relationships between the two manifestations of “the same text” we find on the page.

And perhaps we witness here not just a window to the well-known and oft-cited Kidung and its history but to the vast language of chants, spells and charms, to questions about the desired circumstances for employing them and their various intended forms of protection. Is this language related to, or rooted in Arabic textual sources and if so, how? Or was Arabic writing in Java shaped by old, perhaps pre-Islamic Javanese notions of reality and did these notions in turn affect the reading and interpretation of non-Javanese (especially Middle Eastern) Arabic texts? And, finally for now, how can the in-depth study of interlinear translation help us re-visit these questions?

References:

Arps, Bernard. “A Song Guarding at Night. Grounds for Cogency in a Javanese Incantation.”

In Stephen C. Headley (ed.), Towards an Anthropology of Prayer: Javanese ethnolinguistic studies (Aix-en-Provence: Publications de l’Université de Provence, 1996) 47–113.

Ricci, Ronit. “The Discovery of Javanese Writing in a Sri Lankan Malay Manuscript.” BKI 168.4

(2012): 511-518.

DREAMSEA project no. 0058_00010

https://www.hmmlcloud.org/dreamsea/detail.php?msid=2018

When a word is translated into Malay, there are numerous occasions where the Malay word serves a similar purpose as the first category mentioned above, i.e. to provide linguistic clarification, particularly when a word can have multiple linguistic functions. In an anonymous Adab al-mutaʿallim (“Ethics for the learners,” coded DS 0043 00014), for instance, at one point the word mā is translated below the line as تياد "tiada" (“no/none”). There are several functions of mā in Arabic, including as an interrogative word, a relative pronoun, a negative word, and more. The translation “tiada” in this text is intended to indicate its function as a negative particle rather than any of the other options.

In terms of translation model, Adab al-mutaʿallim (Fig. 2) is different from the other examples that we have discussed. Unlike the previous ones which contain occasional interlinear content, Adab al-mutaʿallim provides not only detailed translations of almost every Arabic word but also a relatively complete and meaningful sentence. The opening line of the text states: al-ḥamd lillāh al-ʿaliyy al-bārī, translated as “segala puji-pujian bagi Allah yang amat tinggi lagi menjadikan segala makhluk” (“All praise be to Allah the Most High, who created all creatures”)

Figure 2 Adab al-mutaʿallim, DREAMSEA DS 0043 00014 p. 5r

These various interlinear materials may have a connection to the visual and oral aspects of the texts and their teaching moments. Texts containing elaborate interlinear material like ʿAwāmil and Adab al-mutaʿallim, suggest that these texts are used for beginner learners. On the other hand, texts that contain a lesser amount of interlinear material are used for more advanced education. The presence of both Arabic and Malay inserts between the lines indicates that the actual teaching process was likely to incorporate a blend of Malay and Arabic. However, an intermediate learner would not need every word translated and glossed for them, thus producing a scarce interlinear text.

Figure 3 Sharḥ Khulāṣat al-alfiyya, DREAMSEA DS 0043 00017 p. 10v.

Having said that, it's crucial to avoid falling for visual impressions. A gloss to Khulāṣat al-alfiyya (DS 0043 00017), a popular treatise on Arabic grammar, displays highly dense interlinear contents and sidenotes (Fig. 3), but is certainly not intended for beginners. The copyist or reader of this text does not seem to be interested in translating the text but rather in gathering relevant opinions about certain words in the Arabic text from different sources. For example, upon explaining the opening word of the text, qāla (“he said”), it offers two similar glosses but with different wordings, most probably originating from two different sources. The sources in question are not named, thus warranting further research, but it is a case in point to see that the text is read at an advanced level.

In conclusion, the different kinds of material provided between the lines are, in some respects, pointers to the actual pedagogical setting in which these texts were used. A first glance at the visual aspects of a manuscript enables us to discern the levels of Islamic education that transpired within the community that used it, but only with a closer look at the interlinear contents can we gain a better idea about the learning process. The density of the interlinear inserts, the different materials offered between the lines, and the mixed use of Arabic and Malay point to the degree of readers’ familiarity with all the means that were necessary for understanding the texts and offer hints for gauging the reader’s educational level.

References

Azra, Azyumardi. 2003. Surau: Pendidikan Islam Tradisi dalam Transisi dan Modernisasi. Jakarta: PT. Logos Wacana Ilmu.

Bruinessen, Martin van. 1990. “Kitab Kuning: Books in Arabic Script Used in the Pesantren Milieu: Comments on a New Collection in the KITLV Library.” Bijdragen Tot de Taal-, Land- En Volkenkunde 146 (2/3): 226–69.

Hadler, Jeffrey. 2008. Muslims and Matriarchs: Cultural Resilience in Indonesia through Jihad and Colonialism. Itacha: Cornell University Press.

 As a first step to find out I made a comparison of the religious aspect of the two renderings. In the ninth-century text the religious aspect is part of the core message. The text  tells a romantic story about a happy couple and their vicissitudes. At the same time the story is about good and evil: Rama, the namesake of the poem, is an incarnation of the Hindu god Wisnu, come to the earth to liberate the world from evil. The setting of the text is thoroughly Hindu: we read about Hindu gods, Hindu concepts of good and evil, incarnations, Hindu patterns and prescriptions regulating life, etcetera. Fine tuning the above question one wonders what remains of this Hindu aspect in the modern version, created in an Islamic environment.

 For my pilot I picked one small passage of the story, the so-called ‘hymn in praise of Rama’. This hymn is embedded in both texts in the episode of the battle waged by Rama and his allies against the villainous king who kidnapped his wife. A serious setback for Rama occurs when a magic weapon is applied by the enemy: he is paralyzed on the spot. Unable to move he loses his fighting spirit and gives up. At that moment a divine group appears in sky, singing his praise. As a result the effect of the magic weapon is undone. Soon Rama gains the upper hand.

Figure 2. Hanuman, one of Rama’s allies, immobilized by the magic weapon of the enemy. Relief at Panataran. Source: Jasadipoera, Serat Rama, 1925.

What interested me was the miracle that happens to Rama: what is the secret of the hymn? An analysis of such hymns in general in Old Javanese literature carried out by Stuart Robson suggests that three elements are crucial for the hymn to have effect: it is uttered by one of the protagonists of the story, it is uttered at a moment of crisis, and it contains a plea for help, persuading the deity addressed by underlining that deity’s supreme power and the worshipper’s humility and helplessness.

These three elements are all present in the old hymn. How about the modern version? This shows many similarities compared to the old version: the context is the same, and so is the content, even up to and including some of the wording and imagery. However, next to the many similarities there are also dissimilarities, quite a few in fact, in wording, in imagery. I found dissimilarity especially in two respects. To begin with, there is a difference of tone. While the Old Javanese hymn is a reverent prayer to the god, the modern version is rather an encouragement in a familial, even homely tone.

Next, besides the difference in tone, there is also a difference of perception on who Rama is. The Old Javanese text stresses the oneness of Rama and Wisnu, whereas in the modern version there is no oneness at all – at least, it is not mentioned explicitly. The godlike Rama of the Old Javanese in the modern version is reduced to a brave hero.

The conclusion from this small comparison must be that the modern version of the Ramayana replaces views no longer acceptable by modern standards. At the same time it appears that, although the translation can by no means be called interlinear, still the principle underlying interlinear translation, of faithfulness to the original at the level of the word, is adhered to within the limits set by religious doctrine.

References:

Jasadipoera. Serat Rama. Kawewahan beboeka lan sesorah déning toewan J. Kats. Djilid III (Weltevreden: Balé Poestaka, 1925. Mawi gambar tjorèk 33 idji. BP 696b).

Kern. H. Rāmāyaṇa. The Story of Rāmā and Sītā in Old Javanese. Romanized edition by Willem van der Molen (Tokyo: Tokyo University of Foreign Studies, 2015. Javanese Studies 1).

Pigeaud, Th.G.Th. Literature of Java. Catalogue raisonné of Javanese Manuscripts in the Library of the University of Leiden and Other Public Collections in the Netherlands. Volume I (The Hague: Nyhoff, 1967. Koninklijk Instituut voor Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde).

Rama Jarwa Leiden University Library Or. 1791.

Robson, Stuart. "Hymns of Praise in Kakawins. H.M. Creese and A. Griffiths (eds.) From Laṅkā Eastwards. Rāmāyaṇa in the Literature and Visual Arts of Indonesia (Leiden: KITLV Press, 2011. Verhandelingen van het Koninklijk Instituut voor Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde 247) 1-10. DOI: https://doi.org/10.1163/9789004253766_002