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

For instance, in the section dealing with clothes and textiles, there appears a confusing word spelled as dāl-ḥā’-rā’-yā’-ḍād (in 3231(8)) or dāl-ḥā’-rā’-ṣād (in 3233(2)), which can be read as daḥrīḍ or possibly daḥriṣ (3233(2) provides no diacritics). Such a word does not seem to be found in dictionaries, but its interlinear Malay translation appears to give a clue to what it might have originally been. Below the line, this word is translated as suji baju (‘shirt embroidery’). There is an Arabic word for embroidery that could have sounded similarly to daḥriṣ to a non-native Arabic speaker, that is taṭrīz, as well as another word, takhrīm, that could have possibly transformed into daḥriṣ as a result of two stages of corruption, phonetical and graphical (the final mīm having been misinterpreted by a copyist as ṣād). If any of the two is the case, this seems to suggest that the history of reproduction of the text included both written and oral transmission, i.e. at different points in time it might have been copied from a manuscript and written down by dictation.

In the Arabic lines of the vocabulary, such possible traces of oral transmission still appear to be rather scarce. The majority of misspellings are those a copyist could produce due to inattention or unclear handwriting in the earlier manuscript, while the scribe’s own relatively fine hand suggests that the wordlist was copied without much haste from a written source—which seems to not be the case for the Malay translation. This translation is scribbled between the lines in a less accurate manner and might not have been copied at the same time with the Arabic text. Besides the sloppiness of the handwriting, there is another feature pointing to the different life paths of the Arabic and Malay parts of the vocabulary. The Malay translations of the Arabic words in the two manuscripts are largely identical, but not entirely, and the differences do not seem to result from recopying. For example, the Arabic word al-sundus (‘taffeta,’ thin silk textile) is translated in 3231(8) as kain sutra yang nipis (‘thin silk fabric’) and in 3233(2) as just kain (‘cloth, fabric’); and al-biṭānah (‘lining’) as lapis baju (‘shirt lining’) and luar baju (‘outer layer of a shirt’), respectively. Might these differences be due to a teacher’s reinterpretation in the classroom, or a student’s hastiness in writing the translations down?

Corrupted as it is, the Arabic wordlist in the vocabulary still appears to be a more stable part of the text than the Malay translations. The spelling differences between the two manuscripts seem to be not intentional, but rather result from the multiple stages of thorough but not flawless recopying by non-native Arabic speakers. The variety in translations, on the other hand, appears to be more voluntary, which might reflect the fluid character of interlinear translation and the role of an oral element in its transmission.

After its opening sentence the Kitab moves on to the formulaic “thus spoke the Prophet SAW,” with Muhammad speaking to his daughter Fatima but in fact turning to all women, reminding them of the duty to be devoted to God, His Messenger and their husbands. The Kitab then continues with a series of prohibitions on women: they should not be sinful towards their husbands, neither speak with anger nor make the husband sick at heart – all these behaviors being the distinguishing signs (A. ‘alāmah; J. tĕtĕngĕr) of a wicked woman.  The opposite characteristics are also enumerated. For example, the Prophet highlights God’s love for devoted and obedient wives who will gain all the fruit, clothes and palaces of paradise. 

The Kitab concludes with a tradition attributed to the Prophet’s wife Aishah about how a woman carrying her husband’s child will receive the rewards of one who fasts, prays day and night or fights a holy war. It is noteworthy that this text about and for women ends with a carrot, not a stick. We may also consider that it ends with mention of holy war: perhaps women’s lives are an ongoing holy war or holy struggle of sorts to live correctly, constantly facing the temptations and challenges that the authors of such texts expected them to overcome.

In considering the Kitab’s interlinear translation I will here highlight briefly a single aspect: voice.

Voices in the Kitab
On the surface the Kitab can be read as a long series of “dos” and “don’ts” addressed to women. Total dedication to one’s husband is portrayed as a religious obligation and an indication of faith in God and the Prophet. A closer look reveals that although this is indeed the general framework, and although the dominant figure whose words are cited is Muhammad, there is a variety of voices speaking throughout the Kitab’s pages. Whose voices are they and how were they mediated through translation? Here are two examples.
            After Muhammad states that women who obey their husbands will be welcome in paradise, paradise itself speaks, asking (Arabic followed by the Javanese translation that appears in between the lines):
Faqāla aljannatu ayna ḥabībī wa ayna dākhilī
Maka matur sawarga pundi ka2sih amba lan pundi kang amanjing ing amba
Paradise spoke: where is my beloved and where is the one to enter me?

The Javanese translation expresses a hierarchy not present in any form in the Arabic. Paradise is speaking to God using the verb matur (to speak) and referring to itself with the humble first person pronoun amba (“I,” literally slave, servant). As a site, paradise bears no title. When God responds His speech is depicted as follows:

Faqāla Allah ta‘āla                
Maka nagandika gusti Allah ta‘āla

For God, the verb ngandika (“speak” in a high register of Javanese) rather than matur is employed and He receives the royal Javanese title gusti. In this example the same verb for speech is employed in Arabic (qāl) for paradise and for God. Javanese, with its hierarchical structure and emphasis on honorifics, conveys nuance that emphasizes the difference between the two speakers through the verb, a self-deprecating pronoun and the addition of a title (Ricci 2023). The voice of paradise in Javanese is speaking from a lower status, conveying humility and deference.

Hell’s voice too is heard through direct speech in the Kitab, cited by Muhammad:

Alnnāru jahannama nādin                    min makānin ba‘īdin    
Naraka jahanam iku angundang2        saking anggon kang adoh
Hell beckons                                         from a place far away 

Ta‘ālū yā                                     nisā’  al‘āṣiyati         
Padha mareneha sira wadon     hai sakehe wadon kang padha duraka ing lakine
Come O                                      rebellious women

Wa ana juw‘un      wa ‘aṭshun          
Lan isun iku luwe  lan dahga isun        
As I am hungry and thirsty

Here is found another characteristic of Javanese interlinear translation: expansion. Various elements that are “built-in” to Arabic verbs or nouns, for example the plural form, need clarification in Javanese (e.g. ta‘ālu - “come!” - is translated as padha marenehe). The Arabic ‘āṣiyati, “disobedient, rebellious” in the feminine form is translated by wadon kang padha duraka ing lakine, highlighting that the women mentioned are rebellious in a specific realm – towards their husbands. This suggests that Javanese women reading the Kitab or listening to it being read and translated had access to a set of clarifications that didn’t leave much room for speculation or misunderstanding.

Additional voices speak out in the Kitab. The interlinear translation helps us assess how, through particular translation strategies, the translator understood these voices, differentiated among them and characterized them. Furthermore, the Kitab offers us a chance to consider, on a small scale, the gendered dimensions of Islamic interlinear manuscripts. Considering the centrality of the stories and messages offered in such didactic texts, and of the pedagogical settings in which they were read, the gendered aspects of interlinear translations are worthy of further research.

References:

https://eap.bl.uk/archive-file/EAP211-1-4-37

According to the catalogue, the manuscript was written during approximately four months, from the end of April to the end of August 1812, and was owned by the son of Panambehan [Panĕmbahan] of Samanap [Sumĕnĕp] (Ricklefs, P. Voorhoeve† and Annabel Teh Gallop 2014: 61). This indicates that this manuscript was created in Java under British rule. The Panambehan of Samanap, who is called Panambahan of Sumenáp by Raffles in his monumental work The History of Java, was the informant whom Raffles relied on at the time and whom he considered to be a rare Old Javanese scholar in post-Majapahit Java, albeit with limited linguistic abilities. The Panambahan of Sumenáp came from a Javanese family that had specialized in the ancient scripts and in Old Javanese, and Raffles noted that this family had acquired this knowledge through connections with Bali (Raffles 1817: 370).

As Javanese courts had become Islamized, Hindu-Javanese culture and associated traditions of court literature fell into disuse and knowledge of Old Javanese gradually diminished. On the other hand, Bali became, and continued to be, a center of Hindu-Javanese tradition where the manuscripts of Old Javanese literature were copied and preserved in better conditions than on Java.

In his book Raffles writes the following about Bhāratayuddha: “Considering how little was known on Java of the Kawi language, and how likely that little was to be lost for ever, I felt a strong interest in analyzing and translating, as far as practicable, one of the principal compositions in that language; and availing myself of the literary acquisitions of the Panambahan of Sumenáp..." (Raffles 1817: 410). Kawi here refers to Old Javanese.

If we assume that the manuscript MSS Jav 25 was also part of Raffle’s project, then it is most likely a manuscript created on Raffles’ order with the help of the Panambahan of Sumenáp or someone from his family, and its purpose was to attempt to learn Old Javanese and its grammar using stories written in that language.

Another manuscript associated with the Panambahan of Sumenáp is Lor. 2174E which contains the Old Javanese original text of the Rāmāyaṇa with verbatim interlinear glosses below it. What MSS Jav 25 and Lor. 2174E have in common is that Modern Javanese is inserted between the lines of the original Old Javanese text, whether it is word for word or sentence by sentence. Another common feature is that rather than writing the original text in modern Javanese script, the scribes tried to recreate the ancient sounds by using a different script.

The Old Javanese text in MSS Jav 25, written in Balinese script, distinguishes sounds which are not distinguished when writing in modern Javanese script. For example, the long vowel ā is distinguished from the short vowel a by adding the long syllable markers called tedung after a consonant. Also, when writing the long vowel ī, the marker ulu sari is used instead of the marker used for the short vowel i. Also, d in dental and ḍ in palatal, t in dental and ṭ in palatal, s in dental, ś in retroflex, and ṣ in palatal are written in different scripts. These differentiations also occur in Lor. 2174E.

            Such similarities between MSS Jav 25 and Lor. 2174E encourage a hypothesis: the fact that both manuscripts with interlinear glosses are associated with the Panambahan of Sumenáp or his family indicates that he utilized interlinearity as a method of translating Old Javanese in dealing with the tasks commissioned by Raffles. And, if so, the interlinearity in these two manuscripts focuses more on language learning than on conveying the content of the original text because the purpose of the Bhāratayuddha translation as stated by Raffles was the learning of Old Javanese. In addition, reproducing sounds of Old Javanese, which are no longer used in Modern Javanese, by using Balinese script or an ancient Javanese script was an essential option for Raffles, who attempted to preserve the knowledge of the language that he feared was on the verge of being lost at the time. Further research is needed to develop and substantiate this hypothesis.

References and image credits:

British Library MSS Jav 25

https://www.bl.uk/manuscripts/FullDisplay.aspx?ref=MSS_Jav_25

Leiden University Library Lor. 2174E

Raffles, Thomas Stamford, 1817, The History of Java. Volume One. London (reissued with a new Introduction 1978, Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press).

Ricklefs, M.C., P. Voorhoeve† and Annabel Teh Gallop, 2014, Indonesian Manuscripts in Great Britain: A Catalogue of Manuscripts in Indonesian Languages in British Public Collection, New Edition with Addenda et Corrigenda. Jakarta: Ecole française d'Extrême-Orient, Perpustakaan National Republik Indonesia, Yayasan Pustaka Obor Indonesia. Naskah dan Dokumen Nusantara Seri XXXIII.

Upon reviewing the English translation of the first page from Hikayat Faqir, which is the only page that has translation, it becomes clear that the translation struggles to capture the rich nuances and depth of the original Malay text. The hurried translation process has resulted in the omission of important textual subtleties that are vital to fully appreciating the Malay narrative.

From the get-go, the translation seems to strip the text of its natural rhythm and poetic repetition, features that embellish the original Malay script. Elements such as the rhythmic and repetitive phrases, like ‘dan lagi’, which accentuate the aspects or events narrated, are sadly lost in translation. The English version opts for simplified phrases that fail to convey the original text’s poetic essence.

Furthermore, the English version suffers from potential misinterpretations of certain words, which while not incorrect, do not encapsulate the deeper essence of the original phrases. For instance, ‘masyhur’ suggests being renowned, a notion that extends beyond just being famous. The word ‘murah’ embodies generosity or kind-heartedness, not simply being liberal. Moreover, descriptions of festivities are translated quite literally, failing to vividly convey the joyous celebrations portrayed in the Malay narrative.

Notably, the translation overlooks a crucial sub-clause that illustrates the actions of the faqir, specifically whils he ‘datang duduk minum kanjah’ or ‘came to sit and drink kanjah’. Although the translator noted the English equivalent, ganjah, in the manuscript margin, it lacks contextual explanation, leaving a gap in the narrative and raising questions about ganjah’s role and significance in the story. This missing detail might have offered a deeper insight in the faqir’s character or a significant cultural aspect, thus adding to the storyline.

And evident flaw is the omission of the recurring preposition/adverb/conjunction ‘hatta’, which in the Malay text serves to connect sentences and events, fostering a seamless and interconnected narrative. Its absence in the translation results in a fragmented text, devoid of the smooth flow and cohesive progression seen in the original.

This discrepancy is not just a result of linguistic barriers but is also deeply rooted in the socio-historical circumstances of the British colonial era during which it was acquired. The manuscript, housed in the British Library, reflects a time of territorial and cultural conquests, acquired by the Scottish poet and scholar John Leyden around 1811. Leyden, profoundly interested in Oriental languages, fostered a strong alliance with Thomas Stamford Raffles during his time in Penang between 1805 and 1806. This collaboration facilitated the creation of a significant collection of Malay manuscripts, mirroring the power dynamics of that time.

Examining this manuscript reveals the tumultuous zeitgeist of its creation period. Its rushed translation mirrors the colonial setting, offering just a superficial glimpse into the Malay narrative. This approach hints at a lack of genuine engagement and respect for the native literature and culture, reminiscent of the colonial era’s sentiment.

Thus, when scrutinizing the English translation against this larger backdrop, the faults cannot be separated from the broader implication of British colonialism, which is marred by power imbalances and cultural negligence, palpably represented in the translation.

References:

https://blogs.bl.uk/asian-and-african/2017/01/malay-literary-manuscripts-in-the-john-leyden-collection.html

https://www.bl.uk/manuscripts/FullDisplay.aspx?ref=MSS_Malay_B_10

Brown, I.M. 1955. John Leyden (1775-1811): his life and works. Edinburgh: University of Edinburgh

In Part I of this blogpost on Linguistic Encounters, we saw how a VOC administrator attempted to translate the sacred language of Arabic into the European vernacular of the Dutch language in the context of the VOC’s philological and missionary enterprise. There, I showed how interlinear translations can invoke a sense of closeness, through familiar terms of comparison in Biblical understandings of Creation.[iv] However, not every linguistic encounter leads to closeness or connections. Some can create distance and alienation.

Petrus van der Vorm’s Malay interlinear translation of the Arabic translation of the Book of Genesis can point us in many different directions. Clearly, in this case, we are seeing a translation of a translation: the Arabic verses are translations from the Hebrew, collaboratively produced by two men of unknown origins; and the Malay is the Dutch pastor’s word-for-word translation of the Arabic translation for the purposes of translating the Bible into Malay. Curiously, unlike other translations from Arabic to Malay, almost none of the Malay words Van der Vorm chose in his interlinear translation are Arabic cognates; in fact, he seems to have carefully avoided using Arabic terms altogether, except when Allah was mentioned. Furthermore, it seems that Van der Vorm might have been relying on his knowledge of either Hebrew or the Dutch translation of the Hebrew Bible to translate some of the Arabic words into Malay.

Arabic Translation of Hebrew

Awwalu mā khalaqa Allāhu al-samā'u wa al-arḍu wa kānat al-arḍu tahiyyatan bāhiyyatan wa al-ẓalāmu 'alā wajhi al-ghamri wa al-rīḥatu al-'aẓīmatu tahubbu 'alā wajhi al-mā'i.^[v]

[English Translation: First what Allah created was the heaven and the earth and the earth was desolate and empty and the darkness was on the surface of the inundation and the mighty wind blew over the surface of the water.]

Malay Interlinear Translation of the Arabic Translation

Pertama yang dijadikan Allah itulah langit dan bumi; dan adalah bumi itu hampa lagi sunyi dan kelamlah di atas muka arungan dan angin yang amat besar bertiuplah di atas muka air.[vi]

[English Translation: First that which was created by Allah was the sky and the earth; and the earth was empty and desolate and the darkness was over the surface of oceanic crossings and the wind that was very big blew over the surface of the water.]

The Arabic words “tahiyyatan bāhiyyatan” (Image 2) are almost impossible to translate without knowing their corresponding Hebrew words of similar root, “tohu wa-bohu,” which were commonly translated as “desolate and empty” in English and “woest en ledig” in Dutch.^[vii] Van der Vorm’s Malay interlinear translation reads “hampa lagi sunyi” (empty and desolate), corresponding to the common Dutch translation of “tohu wa-bohu.”^[viii] While this invites more questions than answers, the translation of “tahiyyatan bāhiyyatan” into the Malay “hampa lagi sunyi” might point to intermediating languages not explicitly on the page: the hint of Hebrew words “tohu wa-bohu” and the common Dutch translation of the Hebrew as “woest en ledig.” It is perhaps the form of the interlinear translation itself that not only forces the Arabic derivation of Hebrew words to correspond directly with Malay, but also creates a sense of ambiguous distance, bringing the intermediating language of Dutch as well as the original Hebrew between the lines of one’s reading.

Figure 2. The first few verses from Petrus van der Vorm’s Malay interlinear translation of the Arabic translation of the Book of Genesis. BSS, Cod.arab.233, f. 2v. https://www.digitale-sammlungen.de/en/view/bsb00018809?page=11.

Linguistic encounters in the process of creating interlinear translations can create a sense of closeness as well as distance, as one sees how other languages lurk in the interpretive gaps between translations. While the Arabic to Malay translation is word for word, one seemingly having a direct relationship to another, other languages come into play as Arabic is deposed from its usual place of authority.[i] Layers of translation across multiple linguistic boundaries are embedded in this one copy of the Book of Genesis, some visible, others invisible. For indeed a translator, too, can summon his or her own multilingual “prior texts” in the process of translation, manifested in silence or perhaps in this case, in the barely audible trace of similar roots and of meandering meanings.[ii] While comparative readings between the two copies of Van der Vorm’s interlinear translations will require continued research, this brief example, I hope, demonstrates how interlinear translations, as a form, open up new ways of interpreting cross-cultural and cross-lingual interactions, both in the past and in the present.

Works Cited

Primary Sources

München, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Cod.arab.233.

Cambridge University Library, Or. 193.

Secondary Sources

Becker, A.L. “Silence across Languages.” In Beyond Translation: Essays toward a Modern Philology, 283-294. Ann Arbor, MI: The University of Michigan Press, 1995.

Collins, James T. “A Book and a Chapter in the History of Malay: Brouwerius’ Genesis (1697) and Ambonese Malay,” Archipel 67 (2004): 77-127.

Kister, Menahem. “Tohu wa-Bohu, Primordial Elements and Creatio ex Nihilo,” Jewish Studies Quarterly 14:3 (2007): 229-256.

Swellengrebel, J.L.  In Leijdeckers Voetspoor: Anderhalve Eeuw Bijbelvertaling en Taalkunde in de Indonesische Talen. ’S-Gravenhage: Martinus Nijhoff, 1974.

Wieringa, Edwin. “Arabisch-Malaiische Genesis, Arabic-Malay Genesis.” In Die Wunder der Schöpfung: Handschriften der Bayerischen Staatsbibliothek aus dem islamischen Kulturkreis (The Wonders of Creation: Manuscripts of the Bavarian State Library from the Islamic world), edited by Helga Rebhan, 58. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2010.

Arabic words are put one after another in a line, little space being left between them. Their Malay translations hang hooked to them beneath, often exceeding the source in the number of words and length. The vocabulary is divided into three big chapters according to a grammatical principle: particles, nouns, and verbs. Within the chapters, thematical arrangement is applied. The chapter on the nouns takes an encyclopaedic form, commencing with sections on God’s names, religious, epistemological and abstract terms, and then proceeding to words describing the physical world: those for land and sky; geographical notions; inanimate phenomena and materials; spices and aromatics; food and drinks; vessels and household utensils; diseases; plants and their parts; water and fish; animals and insects; body parts; categories of people; clothes and furnishings. Often a number of synonyms is provided, their translation replaced by the letter mim under the line. Humans find themselves in the fauna section, after the word al-ḥayawān (‘animal’), which is translated to Malay as segala yang hidup (‘everything that lives’). They are classified according to their gender, age, and social roles: men and women, old and young, free and slaves, kings, ministers and warriors. Women are divided into maids, brides, widows, young and old, married and not, and a variety of kinship terms is listed, as well as other words describing interpersonal relationships: friend, enemy, neighbour.

The sloppy handwriting and somewhat messy structural arrangement of this anonymous manuscript leaves an impression that the vocabulary was not intended for any audiences. It rather resembles personal notebooks in which learners of foreign languages write down words learnt and to be learnt in an endeavour to systematise their knowledge. Apparently compiled by a Malay-speaking learner of Arabic somewhere in nineteenth-century Sumatra, this wordlist provides an insight not only into the language learning practices of the time, but also into the student’s worldview and mindset. Assembling the elusive foreign words in logically arranged sections, the scribe unwittingly describes the world around—in an encyclopaedic and largely intuitive way.

Source:

Or. 3231(8), ff. 33r –32v, Leiden University Library

Some scholars argue that after Tarjumān, no translation activity was found until two centuries later, and the need for translation was already fulfilled by Tarjumān. This assumption may not be accurate because (1) several translation manuscripts have been found from those centuries, and (2) the need for a Qur’an translation in the Malay language might not have been as urgent as it is suggested. In fact, from the past until now, Indonesian Muslims who study Islamic sciences have generally used Arabic-language books from an early age.

During my childhood, once I had learned how to read the Qur’an, the next step was to acquire knowledge of the essential sciences of Islam, such as Fiqh (Islamic jurisprudence) and Aqidah (theology). It was typically achieved by studying simple Arabic-language books like Safīnatun Najāh, rather than reading books written in local languages such as Javanese or Malay. Consequently, it became the norm to rely on Arabic books for a comprehensive understanding of the Qur’an, making Tafsīr al-Jalālayn more popular than Tarjumān in this regard. For Muslim students, reading Arabic-language books holds more legitimacy than reading books in local languages.

This assumption is supported by the widespread use of Tafsīr al-Jalālayn as the standard reference for comprehending the Qur’an in various Islamic boarding schools (pesantren) across Indonesia. An example that illustrates how Javanese individuals accessed the Qur’an is a Jalālayn manuscript dating back to the 18th-20th century which was digitized by the Endangered Archive Project (EAP) from Pondok Pesantren Langitan in Tuban, East Java. The EAP has collected numerous similar Jalālayn manuscripts from pesantren in Ponorogo and suraus (Islamic assembly places) in West Sumatra.

This EAP061/1/105 is not a complete Jalālayn manuscript. This volume only includes Surah al-Baqarah to al-Ahqaf, consisting of 461 folios. Based on similar manuscripts, it can be assumed that there is a separate second volume from this manuscript, which may contain Surah Muhammad to Surah al-Fatihah. The arrangement, used in most Jalālayn manuscripts in pesantren including EAP061/1/105, differs from the arrangement of surahs in the Qur’an, which usually starts from al-Fatihah and ends with al-Nas. Manuscripts that start from al-Baqarah and end with al-Fatihah reflect the division of manuscripts based on the author’s order.

As known, Jalālayn is a tafsīr book written by two individuals, Jalaluddin al-Mahalli and his student, Jalaluddin al-Suyuthi. When writing this tafsīr, al-Mahalli started from Surah al-Kahf to al-Nas. When he intended to complete it from the beginning of the Qur’an, he passed away after completing just al-Fatihah and 26 verses of Surah al-Baqarah. The tafsīr writing project was then continued by al-Suyuti, who rewrote it from al-Baqarah, omitting the 26 verses of al-Mahalli’s version, until completing Surah al-Isra. Unlike this manuscript, the current printed version of Jalālayn usually starts from al-Fatihah.

As seen in Figures 1-2, the strategy used by Javanese Muslims to “translate” the untranslatable Qur’an is by translating the Jalālayn. The Jalālayn manuscript itself consists of two texts. The red text represents the verses of the Qur’an, while the black text represents the Jalālayn interpretation. Using two different colours for the Qur’an text and the interpretation is not unique to Indonesia. Several manuscripts from the Middle East also use the same approach.

Javanese individuals employ interlinear translation when working with the Jalālayn. The translation is rendered in black ink and appears smaller in this manuscript. While the Qur’an text and the Jalālayn interpretation are written in naskh script, the Javanese interlinear translation is penned in riq’ah script. This specific writing style, known as “makna gantung” or “makna gandhul” (hanging meaning), is commonly observed in Java. The language utilized in this manuscript is Javanese.

This translation of makna gantung, as shown in manuscript EAP061/1/105, was written by a student in a pesantren. They provided translation notes based on what their teacher (kiai) recited. As seen in Figure 2, the hanging translation by these students is done for both the Qur’an text (red) and the Jalālayn text. It can also be observed that the student leaves some words untranslated. The words left without translation are usually words whose meanings were already known.

Manuscripts like Jalālayn, as shown here, are evidence that the scarcity of Qur’an translations until the 20th century is mostly due to Javanese people who chose to become users of the Arabic language in their study of Islam. Because, in any case, the Arabic language is in their eyes more authoritative than other languages. The motivation to master Arabic is higher than the need to read translations.

Figure 2. Jalālayn manuscript from Pondok Pesantren Langitan, Tuban, Indonesia. Endangered Archives Programme EAP061-1-105, p.3.

Source:

Jalālayn manuscript from Pondok Pesantren Langitan, Tuban, Indonesia. Endangered Archives Programme EAP061-1-105. https://eap.bl.uk/archive-file/EAP061-1-105

Notably, the first page of this manuscript is heavily annotated in pencil with an interlinear English translation. This translation presents a confounding complexity. It is not a faithful translation of the original text, and words are frequently misplaced in different lines. In addition, rather than providing a word-for-word interlinear translation, it fails to capture the essence and details of the narrative.

To shed further light on this issue, below is the transliteration of the first page of Hikayat Faqir, followed by its English translation.

Transliteration of the First Page:

   Billahi 'ala. Ini hikayat pasal yang pertama-tama yang amat

   masyhur dan lagi terlalu amat banyak dan lagi memberi manfaat yang mendengarnya.

   Adalah suatu raja bernama Sulthan Abduljalil nama negerinya Zamin Ambar.

   Hatta baginda itu terlalu amat besar kerajaannya dan beberapa buah negeri ta'luk

5       karenanya. Hatta baginda itu serta dengan adil lagi dengan murahnya. Syahdan,

   hatta baginda itu pun sehari-hari pergi bermain-main di luar negeri yang tiada berhenti.

   lagi diiringkan oleh segala raja-raja menteri hulubalang ra'yat sekalian demikian sehari-hari

   makan dan minum yang tiada khalnya lagi. Hatta kepada suatu hari baginda keluar

   negeri bermain itu maka baginda pun berjumpa dengan suatu kebun bunga-bungaan

10     dan bagai-bagai jenis poko'-poko' di dalam kebun itu. Hatta baginda pun turunlah

   dari atas kudanya  lalu berjalan ke dalam kebun itu. Tatkala itu faqir yang empunya

   kebun datang duduk minum kanjah(?) maka faqir itu pun kedengaran

   suatu suara. Demikian bunyinya. Hatta faqir aku datanglah. Maka faqir itu pun

   heranlah dirinya. Siapa juga yang berteriakkan aku ini. Hatta …

The English Translation:

              Billahi a’la the beginning of this story, this first chapter of which is very

              Famous and good and will do good to all who hear it

              There was a rajah named Sultan Abdul Jelil & his country

              Zamin Ambar. This prince was great in his sovereignty and many

5            Countries were under his government & he was upright & liberal

              This Prince was good to go from his country daily to amuse himself

              & he was attended by his ministers, hoeloebalangs & people

              & their eating and drinking was never finished

              One day the prince went out from his county when where he

10          Fell in with a garden (caboon) in which were flowers & various

              plants & trees - on which he alighted from his horse &

              entered the compound; the fakir to whom

              the garden belonged heard a voice saying, hey,

              fakir, you, come here, on which the fakir thought within himself, or said

              to conjecture who it was who called to him

The reason behind this inadequately done interlinear translation remains a subject of speculation and leaves us pondering the motivations and intentions of the translator. While the exact reason behind this enigma remains speculative, several factors could have contributed to this puzzling situation.

One possible factor is time constraints. Translating a manuscript, like Hikayat Faqir, requires a significant investment of time and effort. The translator may have been restricted by limited time availability, potentially due to other commitments or pressing deadlines, resulting in a rushed and incomplete translation.

Limited resources may have also played a role. Translating a text from one language to another necessitates access to dictionaries, reference materials, and linguistic expertise. If the translator lacked sufficient resources, such as comprehensive dictionaries or access to language experts, it would have been challenging to produce a precise and thorough translation.

Linguistic difficulties could have further complicated the translation process. Malay literature often contains intricate language structures, cultural references, and idiomatic expressions that can pose challenges for translators. If the translator faced difficulties in comprehending or conveying these nuances, it could have resulted in an inaccurate translation.

Another possibility is that the translator's intention was not to provide a meticulous, word-for-word interlinear translation. Instead, their goal may have been to offer a general overview of the story, focusing on conveying the broader narrative rather than preserving every detail. This intention, while understandable in certain contexts, could contribute to the imprecise nature of the translation.

In the absence of concrete information about the translator's circumstances and intentions, we can only conjecture on the reasons behind the inadequate translation. The case of Hikayat Faqir serves as a reminder of the intricacies involved in translating prose works from the past as we navigate the intricate world of translation and explore the wide reaches of Malay literature.

Acknowledgements:

I would like to extend my deepest gratitude to Rahmat Sopian and Genie Yoo. Their invaluable assistance and expertise in reading the translated page have been instrumental in shedding light on its contents. A more in-depth analysis on the translation may soon follow.

References:

https://blogs.bl.uk/asian-and-african/2017/01/malay-literary-manuscripts-in-the-john-leyden-collection.html

https://www.bl.uk/manuscripts/FullDisplay.aspx?ref=MSS_Malay_B_10

Brown, I.M. 1955. John Leyden (1775-1811): his life and works. Edinburgh: University of Edinburgh

Please find the continuation of the article in the following link:

Lost in Translation- Part 2