ISLAM AND

COLONIALISM
BECOMING MODERN IN
I N D O N E S I A A N D M A L AYA

M U H A M A D A L I
Islam and Colonialism
 Islam and Colonialism
Becoming Modern in Indonesia and Malaya

Muhamad Ali
 For
Neneng and Inas

© Muhamad Ali, 2016

Edinburgh University Press Ltd

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The right of Muhamad Ali to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in
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Related Rights Regulations 2003 (SI No. 2498).
 Contents

Glossary vii
Acknowledgements xiii
List of Abbreviations xvii
Transcriptions and Orthography xviii
Mapxx

Introduction 1

Part I  Making Islam Modern

I Organising Da’wah and Spreading Reform 35

II Colonising the Muslim East and Reinforcing Culture 74

Part II  Modernising Politics and Government

III Building Siyasah and Reforming Sultanate 107

IV Controlling Politics and Bureaucratising Religion 137

Part III  Modernising Law

V Integrating Shari’ah, Adat and European Laws 165

VI Formalising Legal Plurality 193
 vi | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

Part IV  Modernising Education

VII Teaching Agama and the Secular 223

VIII Secularising Education 256

Conclusion 279

Bibliography 297
Index329
 Glossary

adat: custom. From Arabic, adat (ade, adat istiadat) becomes a local term in
the Indonesian-­Malay world. Another Arabic term is urf to refer to local
custom.
adatrecht: customary law. From Arabic (adat) and Dutch (recht).
agama (ugama, igama): religion. From Sanskrit. A local term in Indonesia
and Malaya.
Ahl al-­Sunnah wa al-­Jama’ah: People of the Tradition of Muhammad and
the Community. This theological branch of Islam was developed by
Abu Hasan Al-­Ash’ari (874–936 ad) who attempted to reconcile reason
and revelation. Ahl al-­Sunnah wa al-­Jama’ah is often identified as the
Sunni in general. Groups who hold Ahl al-­Sunnah wa al-­Jama’ah usually
reject Shi’ism, Mu’tazila, Khawarij and other theological branches they
claim did not follow the Way of the Prophet and Early Community of
Believers. They accept the four caliphs after Muhammad: Abu Bakr,
Umar, Uthman and Ali. Al-­Ghazali (d. 1111 ad) has been followed as
one of the Ahl al-­Sunnah wa al-­Jama’ah theologians influential in the
Indonesian-­Malay world.
Aisyiyah: a women’s department or sub-­unit of the Muhammadiyah. Named
after Prophet Muhammad’s wife, Aishah.
akhirah: the final, everlasting world. From Arabic. The hereafter. A Qur’anic
concept of the everlasting world to come, as opposed to the temporal
world (dunya, dunia).
aqidah: ‘to bind’. Faith. Belief. Another Arabic term for this is ‘itiqad.
aql: an Arabic term for reason, rationality. It is localised as akal.
bangsa: nation. Sanskrit. Often similar to Arabic qawm or kaum.
Barat: the West. A regional or cultural entity. In the Indonesian-­Malay

vii
 viii | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

world, Barat has become associated with Western Europeans and

America.
bid’ah: religious innovation. From Arabic, it has become a local term. The
term is found in the saying attributed to Prophet Muhammad that is
divided into good innovation and bad innovation.
bissu: a healer. A local shaman in South Sulawesi. Of third gender.
bumiputera: sons of the soil. From Sanskrit. The local people.
dar al-­harb: the abode of war. Often deemed the world of ‘non-­Muslims’.
It refers to countries under the rule of kafir where Islamic law is not
practised.
dar al-­Islam: the abode of Islam. The term is not found in the Qur’an and the
hadith, but it was used by Abu Hanifah (699–767 ad) and then by other
jurists such as Al-­Shafi’i (767–820 ad). Dar al-­Islam refers to the coun-
tries under the rule of Islam in which Muslims enjoy peace and security.
da’wah: to call to the way of God. Islamic mission. It can be oral (preaching,
tabligh), written and in action.
din: religion, path, way of life, law. Islam is described as din. Christianity,
Judaism and many others are adyan (pl. of din). In Arabic, the term is
discussed alongside milla and shir’a, or shari’ah.
dunya, dunia: this world. From Arabic, meaning the worldly, the temporal.
See also: akhirah.
fatwa: an opinion by a scholar. Often not legally binding, but authoritative
according to those who accept it. In Arabic, ifta is the process of deliver-
ing a fatwa; mufti is the fatwa-­giver; istifta is the act of asking for a fatwa;
and mustafti is the fatwa-­asker. The fatwa became institutionalised fol-
lowing the institutionalisation of the mufti, whose main task is to issue
fatwas. The Muhammadiyah employed the Indonesian term ‘putusan’
rather than ‘fatwa’.
fiqh: to understand. Islamic jurisprudence. Interpretations and practices of
jurists.
hadith: The sayings and actions attributed to the Prophet Muhammad.
Considered secondary to the Qur’an, it is subject to debate between the
Sunni, the Shi’ism and others.
hajj: a pilgrimage to Mecca. Considered to be one of the five obligations in
Islam. To occur once in a lifetime for a Muslim who can afford it. Hajji
 g lossary | ix

is a status for the person who has performed the hajj. For example, Hajji
Muhammad As’ad.
hijrah: emigration of the Prophet from Mecca to Medina. The date became
the first Islamic year.
hukum: from Arabic, meaning law, rule, regulation. Hakim: judge.
ibadah: worship. In its narrow sense: ritual. In its broadest sense, every act of
service to God and humanity.
ijma’: consensus. Scholarly consensus in a certain time and place.
ijtihad: independent reasoning to extrapolate rules and guidance from the
Qur’an and the Sunnah.
ilmu: knowledge. From Arabic ilm, ilmu has many meanings. Ilmu agama
(local term): religious knowledge. Associated with the knowledge about
the Qur’an, the hadith, kalam, fiqh, tasawwuf and others.
imam: leader. Prayer leader or community leader in the Sunni tradition.
Shi’ism defines imams as supreme spiritual leaders.
iman: faith. Belief in God, angels, scriptures, prophets, the Day of Judgement.
jahiliyyah: ignorance, darkness, before or outside Islam.
jama’ah: community, congregation.
jam’iyyah: organisation, association, perkumpulan, perhimpunan, persyarika-
tan (in Indonesian and Malay).
Jawa­– J­ ava: the land of Java. An island in the archipelago. The people of Java
live primarily in Central and East Java.
Jawi­– ­Jawa: a language or an attribute to Jawi language spoken and written
in many parts of the Indonesian-­Malay archipelago. The Jawi people
speak a Jawi language.
jihad: struggle. jihad fi sabilillah: any form of struggle in the path of God.
kafir: someone who covers (the truth). Often translated as ‘non-­believer’,
‘disbeliever’, ‘non-­Muslim’. It is, however, a multifaceted concept.
kalam: to speak. Islamic dogma or theological discourse.
kaum muda: the young faction. The reformist.
kaum tua: the old faction. The conservative.
khilafah: caliphate. Universal Islamic leadership. Khalif: caliph.
khutbah: sermon. Weekly sermon on Fridays. But also daily, annually and on
any occasion.
kitab: book. Associated with Arabic books, although not always.
 x | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

kiyai: Islamic teacher. Often leader of an Islamic school. An honourary title.

Sometimes kiyai is mentioned together with haji, hence Kiyai Haji (KH).
For example, KH Hasyim Asy’ari and KH Ahmad Dahlan.
madhhab: a school of thought within Islamic jurisprudence. There are five
major Sunni madhdhabs: Hanafi, Maliki, Syafi’i, Hanbali and Zahiri
(the latter marginalised). There are two major Shi’ism madhhab (Ja’fari
and Zaidi). Different madhhabs produced different interpretations about
Islamic ritual and law derived from different techniques of extrapolation
from the foundational texts.
madrasah: school, Islamic school or modern Islamic school.
Majlis: a place for meeting. Council.
Majlis Tarjih: a council created by the modernist Muhammadiyah in Java
as an attempt to revive ijtihad or reasoning for making decisions and
answers to contemporary issues.
Majlis ugama islam dan adat istiadat: MAIK. The Council of Islamic Religion
and Custom, founded by the Sultan and the scholars in Kelantan,
Malaya.
Melayu (Malay): an ethnic group with a particular language and culture. It
has multiple and changing meanings.
mu’amalah: social relations. One of the dimensions of Islam, alongside faith
and worship. See also: iman, aqidah, ibadah.
mufti: someone who issues a fatwa, an opinion. Mufti is also institutionalised
in some places. See also: fatwa.
Muhammadiyah: the organisation labelled modernist by many. Founded by
Ahmad Dahlan in 1912 in Yogyakarta, Central Java.
Nahdlatul ‘Ulama (NU): the organisation labelled traditionalist by many.
Founded by Hasyim Asy’ari in 1926 in Surabaya, East Java.
Pangngaderreng: a cultural norm of the Bugis and Makassarese people,
Sulawesi.
penghulu: a local headman or court official. Sometimes called punggawa.
pesantren: Islamic boarding school, from the Sanskrit word santri: student.
Mostly in the village.
pondok: the hub for students to stay. Associated with Islamic boarding school
or pesantren.
priyayi: members of Javanese administrative-­ aristocratic elite. Equivalent
 g lossary | xi

to karaeng and daeng, in South Sulawesi, and keluarga raja or keluarga

sultan. Some members are called datuk and tok in Malaya.
qadi: a Muslim judge in the court. Usually the chief judge.
qawm: an Arabic term for ‘race’, ‘nation’. Localised as kaum or bangsa in
Sanskrit.
salaf: the generation that passed. Salaf Salih: ‘Pious Generation’. The early
Muslim generations after Muhammad, in opposition to khalaf, the later
generation of Muslims. For the traditionalists in NU, ‘ulama salaf could
refer to scholars like Imam al-­Nawawi (d. 1277) and Imam al-­Suyuti
(d. 1505). For many reformists in Muhammadiyah, the salaf were the first
three generations of Islam: the Companions of Muhammad, their follow-
ers, and the followers of the followers. Thus, salaf has various meanings.
shari’ah: a path, a religious path that is not necessarily Islamic. But it has
become identical with Islamic law. It is deemed sometimes more general
and broader than Islamic jurisprudence (fiqh), but sometimes similar to
it.
shaykh: great teacher. More than ordinary teacher. More credentials and cha-
risma in many Muslim societies. Shaykh is sometimes used for kiyai, too,
in the Indonesian-­Malay world.
Shi’ism: an Islamic group who believe that Ali ibn Abi Thalib, rather than
Abu Bakar, was the successor of Prophet Muhammad. It shares common
beliefs and practices with the Sunni, but they have some differences in
aspects of beliefs, rituals and practices.
shirk: to associate the divine with anybody or anything else. It is used for
judging certain ideas and practices. Mushrik is the person who does the
association. Sometimes it is translated as ‘polytheist’, but can be defined
as ‘associationist’.
siriq: a sense of communal dignity, a sense of social shame. In the Bugis-­
Makassarese communities in South Sulawesi, Indonesia.
siyasah: to gain and execute power. Politics. Strategy and technique associated
with gaining and executing power and authority.
sultan: political power. The title given to Muslim ruler. Sometimes also called
‘raja’ (Sanskrit).
sunnah: tradition. The tradition of Prophet Muhammad, later recorded in
the hadith.
 xii | i slam and col o nia l is m

Sunni: an Islamic group who believe that Abu Bakar was the first successor of
Prophet Muhammad. See also: Shi’ism.
surau: a local term for mosque. A place for prayer.
tabligh: preaching.
tafsir: interpretation. An interpretation of the Qur’an.
tajdid: renewal. Refom.
ta’lim: teaching.
taqlid: to follow the authoritative schools of legal thought (madhhab).
tarbiyyah: education in its various forms. Education is deemed broader than
teaching.
tarikh: history. Often Islamic history. The meaning and its practice vary.
tariqah (tarikat, tarekat): a Sufi order or brotherhood.
tasawwuf: Sufism. A spiritual dimension of Islam.
tauhid: oneness of God. The opposite of shirk.
‘ulama: a plural form of ‘alim, the learned individual, scholar. Originally
meaning scholar in any form of knowledge, it becomes associated with
religious scholar.
ummah (umat): a community. It is often associated with Islamic community.
watan: an Arabic term for homeland, or country.
waqf: religious endowment. Usually the land, the mosque, the school, funded
or supported by a Muslim community, rather than particular individuals.
zakat: to purify one’s wealth. Almsgiving. Charity. One of the pillars of Islam.
zelf-­bestuurder: Dutch title for native officials working under Dutch Residents
or Advisers, as part of indirect rule. Native regent or swapraja.
 Acknowledgements

T his book would not have come to fruition without the aid of a number
of institutions and individuals. I would like to express my gratitude
to the University of Hawai’i at Mānoa (UHM), particularly the History
Department and the Southeast Asian Studies Program, and the East–West
Center, Honolulu, Hawai`i. My research interest in Islam in Southeast
Asia was inspired by my interaction with Azyumardi Azra from the Syarif
Hidayatullah State Islamic University Jakarta (also known as Universitas
Islam Negeri (UIN) Syarif Hidayatullah Jakarta), and his former mentor at
Columbia University in the City of New York, William R. Roff (d. 2013),
who later became my mentor at The University of Edinburgh. I would like
to thank historians of Islam at Edinburgh, especially Carole Hillenbrand
and Andrew Newman. In Edinburgh I was able to meet Montgomery Watt
whose works influenced my scholarship in Islamic studies. During my gradu-
ate studies at UHM, I benefited greatly from Leonard Andaya, my primary
advisor who continues to share his expertise and give me constructive advice
and support. I am very grateful to Barbara Andaya for her tremendous help
and support. Barbara read the whole manuscript and provided detailed and
valuable comments and advice. I learned Southeast Asian history also from
Liam Kelley, Michael Aung-­Thwin and Vina Lanzona. My study of European
colonialism and modernisation theories was aided by European historian
Peter Hoffenberg and world historian Jerry Bentley (d. 2012). My paper on
Islamic and secular education in a world history conference at Berkeley was
partly in remembering Jerry Bentley’s intellectual legacy. I am also grateful
for the exchange of ideas with him, other professors, and other students at
UHM.
During my research for this book, I consulted with Rohayati Passeng,

xiii
 xiv | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

Robert van Neil, Robert Hefner, Anthony Reid, Timothy Barnard, Martin
van Bruinessen, Leonard Blusseé, Nico Kaptein, Hendrik Neijmeijer, as well
as Anwar Syarifuddin, Didin Nurul Rashidin, Noorhaidi Hasan, Muridan
Widjojo, Agus Suwignjo, and friends at Towards a New Age of Partnership
(TANAP), an Indonesian–Dutch joint programme. The Toyota Foundation,
Tokyo, Ford Foundation, Jakarta, and the Indonesian International
Education Foundation, Jakarta, enabled me to conduct archival research at
the Royal Netherlands Institute of Southeast Asian and Caribbean Studies
(KITLV), the International Institute for the Study of Islam in the Modern
World (ISIM), Universiteit Bibliotheque, and Nationaal Archief (Dutch
National Archives), Den Haag.
I would like to thank librarians, including the Interlibrary Loans staff
at the University of California, Riverside (UCR), and colleagues scattered
around the world. I would like to specially thank colleagues who have read
parts of or the full manuscript: Richard Fox, Michael Feener, Michael Laffan,
June O’Connor, Ivan Strenski, Vivian-­Lee Nyitray, Pashaura Singh, Henk
Maier, René Lysloff, Michael Alexander, Sherri Johnson, Justin McDaniel,
David Biggs, Mariam Lam, Deborah Wong, Jeffrey Hadler, Julia Howell, Julie
Chernov Hwang, Ebrahim Moosa, Bruce Lawrence, Mark Jurgensmeyer,
Merle Ricklefs, Andrée Feillard, Jason Carbine, Mark Woodward, Pieternella
van Doorn-­Harder, Ronald Lukens-­Bull, Zayn Kassam, Richard Kraince,
and Etin Anwar. I am also indebted to Jaida Samudra and Dannette Bock
for editing this work. I am particularly grateful to the readers employed by
Edinburgh University Press for their constructive feedback and helpful sug-
gestions. I thank Nicola Ramsey especially for her advice and support. I thank
all the EUP staff as well for their assistance.
In South Sulawesi, Indonesia, I am indebted to many people. Among
them are Gurutta Muhammad Abduh Pabbaja (d. 2009), Gurutta Daud
Ismail (d. 2006), Rafi Yunus Martan, Musafir Pababbari, Wahyuddin Halim,
Syamsuddin Baharuddin, Mohammad Saleh, Abu Hamid, Rahman Halim,
Mustari Bosra, Abdul Kadir Ahmad, Mohammad Noer, Andi Rasdiyanah,
Muhammad Qasim Saguni, Jamaluddin, M. Qashim Mathar, Ahmad Sewang,
Norman Said, Hashim Aidit, Khaidir, Rahman Halim, Abdurrahman,
Dzulkarnain, Zamroni Ahmad, Syamsuddin Baharuddin, Mubarak, Indra
Mutiara, Lilis and Iim Abdurrahim, Aan Farhani, Muhammad Abduh, and
 a ck nowledg ements | xv

Muhammad Saleh Tajuddin. I thank the Badan Arsip dan Perpustakaan

Daerah (the Regional Archives and Library Institute), Makassar, the Faculty
of Ushuluddin, the Faculty of Literature of UIN Makassar, Al-­Markaz al-­
Islamy, the Muhammadiyah board in Makassar, As’adiyyah in Sengkang,
the NU branch of Makassar, Golkar local office, PAN (Partai Amanat
Nasional) of Makasar, Darul Istiqamah, Pondok Modern IMMIM (Ikatan
Masjid Mushalla Indonesia Muttahidah), Ma’had al-­Birr, Pesantren Darul
Istiqamah, and local publishers and bookstores.
In Jakarta, I would like to thank rectors, deans and department heads
at the Syarif Hidayatullah State Islamic University Jakarta for their support.
I am grateful for the conversation with colleagues and friends at the same
university. I also want to thank the National Library of Republic of Indonesia
(Perpustkaan Nasional Republik Indonesia) and Arsip Nasional Republik
Indonesia (ANRI).
In Malaysia, I want to thank the National Archives of Malaysia (Arkib
Negara Malaysia) (ANM), Kuala Lumpur; the Regional Archives of Malaya
in Kelantan (Arkib Negara Malaysia, Kelantan); the Library at Universiti
Malaya (UM), Kuala Lumpur; the Library of Peringatan Za’ba at UM; the
Library at Islamic Studies Academy (Perpustakaan Akademi Pengajian Islam),
UM of Kelantan; and the Library of Tun Sri Lanang, Universiti Kebangsaan
Malaysia (UKM). I am grateful for the insightful comments made by Shamsul
AB, Zaidin Mohammad Noor, Tuanku Abdul Hamid Tuan Daud, Mustafa
bin Ahmad, Raja Husni bin Raja Hasan, Che Mohd Fahmi bin Che Omar,
Dato Hj Salleh bin Mohd Akib, Zainal Nur, Abdullah Che Tengah, Encik
Nasir, Farid Razak, and members of the Parti Islam se-­Malaysia (PAS) and
the United Malay National Organization (UMNO) in Kelantan as well as the
International Islamic Center in Kota Bharu, Kelantan. I would like to thank
especially the teachers and students at Ma’had Muhammady, Kelantan. I
also wish to thank the Islamic Library or Muzium Islam of the Council
of Religion and Custom (Majlis Agama Islam dan Adat Istiadat, MAIK),
Kelantan, as well as teachers and students at Pondok Pasir Tumboh, several
other pondoks, and local publishers and book stores.
This book is also a product of my educational upbringing in madrasah,
pesantren and the Department of Tafsir and Hadith, the State Institute for
Islamic Studies (IAIN) (now Universitas Islam Negeri (UIN)). My years at
 xvi | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

the Madrasah Aliyah Program Khusus (MAPK) at Pesantren Darussalam at

Ciamis, West Java, are particularly significant in shaping the modern and
the traditional dimensions of Islamic knowledge. MAPK was regarded as
an Islamic school combining the ‘traditional’ Islamic knowledge and the
‘modern’ disciplines such as history, physics and mathematics, established
by the Ministry of Religious Affairs under Munawwir Sadjali (whom I thank
especially for this great educational initiative). This book would never have
been the way it is now without the influence of my kiyai, KH Irfan Hielmy
(d. 2010), and all teachers and santri friends at the pesantren. I visited and
contacted KH Irfan Hielmy in Ciamis many times. In June 2006 I talked
about this book project. He asked me some interesting questions for me to
address: what does ‘power’ mean to different people? Does it mean politics
only or power in general that includes knowledge? Kiyai Irfan Hielmy also
commented that all sciences, such as tafsir, the hadith and fiqh were histori-
cal. He also said that shari’ah is permanent, but situations are changing. On
colonialism, he remarked that the Dutch generally impeded Islam whereas
the British did not. He contended that the British were probably ‘the most
generous imperialists’ in the world, a contention I discuss in this book.
Finally, this book is dedicated to my other half Neneng Syahdati Rosmy
for her true love and support, and to our daughter Inas Anandini Ali. I am
very thankful to my father Miqdar Muhammad Umar (d. 2002) and my
mother Zainab Anwar for their upbringing, conducted with both piety and
wisdom. I would like to also thank my brothers and sisters, and all my in-­
laws, for their support. While I am humbly grateful to all the individuals and
institutions mentioned above, I am the only one responsible for the content
of this book.
M. A.
Riverside, California, 2015
 Abbreviations

ANM : Arsip Negara Malaysia

ARK : Annual Report Kelantan
BAK : British Adviser Kelantan
HIS : Hollands-­Inlandse School
INIS : Indonesian–Netherlands Cooperation in Islamic Studies
KAR : Kelantan Administration Report
KH : Kiyai Haji
KITLV : Koninklijk Instituut voor de Taal-­, Land-­en Volkenkunde
MAIK : Majlis Agama Islam dan Adat Istiadat, Kelantan
NA : Nationaal Archief, Den Haag
NU : Nahdlatul ‘Ulama
PSII : Partai Sarekat Islam Indonesia
Q. : The Qur’an
SI : Sarekat Islam

xvii
 Transcriptions and Orthography

C omplications derive from the different ways in which names and terms
are written and pronounced in Arabic, Dutch, English, Sanskrit,
Javanese, Malay, Indonesian, Bugis and Makassarese as they were connected
at some points in history. There is also the issue of overlap between language
and terminology used in historical and contemporary contexts. For example,
‘colonialism’ is an analytical term for ‘penjajahan’, although both convey
rather different meanings and applications. The word ‘moderen’ is used in
local periodicals (such as Islam moderen) although ‘the modern’ means differ-
ent things to different people.
This book uses the transcription system that is widely accepted. Some
consonants are in their English forms, such as sh, rather than sy (for exam-
ple, shari’ah rather than syari’ah, but Hasyim Asy’ari rather than Hashim
Ash’ari). For consistency, the English spelling Sumatra is used rather than
Sumatera and so is Java rather than Jawa. In other cases, consistency is dif-
ficult. Tjokroaminoto is used instead of Cakraaminata; Agus Salim is used
rather than Agoes Salim; kemajuan instead of kemadjoewan; ummah instead
of umat, oemat or umma; and Sulawesi instead of Celebes. But in a few
places I have to keep the original, old spellings, such as Moehammadijah
instead of Muhammadiyah. It should be noted, however, that one term may
have different uses in different languages, such as adat. Adat (and its varia-
tions, such as ade and adat istiadat) is originally Arabic, but it has become
local in different parts of the Indonesian-­Malay world even before conver-
sion to Islam. I use s for plural forms of Arabic concepts (fatwas, rather than
fatawa).
The following system of letters are used in the text for denoting original
languages.

xviii
 t ranscri pti ons and orthogr a p h y  | xix

A. Arabic
B. Bugis
D. Dutch
I. Indonesian
J. Javanese
M. Malay
S. Sanskrit

I utilise the Qur’anic translations by Abdullah Yusuf Ali (1997), The

Meaning of the Holy Qur’an, Beltsville, Maryland: Amana Publications, unless
otherwise stated.
Many Arabic terms have become local and many Indonesian terms are
Malay as well. Widely known names and words are spelled in their English
forms, such as Ramadan and Muhammad. All dates follow Anno Domini
(AD) or Common Era (CE) unless noted otherwise. (AH is used for After
Hijrah, the Islamic era.) I cite original terms and passages when they are
particularly important to my argument.
 Introduction

I t is commonly held that European colonisation and the efforts to modernise

Muslim lands challenged Islam and undermined local custom, and that
Islamisation was generally opposed to European ideas and technologies and
rejected local beliefs and practices. While colonial historiographies tend to
focus on the influence of European actors, Muslim nationalist and postcolo-
nial scholars emphasise Muslim and native agencies. In the Netherlands East
Indies and British Malaya, however, the ideas and actions associated with the
concept of modernity were formed as an outcome of the interplay between
Islamic reform and European colonialism. Islam and colonialism were not
as confrontational as is often assumed. In this book, I offer a comparative
and cross-­cultural history of Islamic reform and European colonialism as
both dependent and independent factors in shaping the multiple ways of
becoming modern in the Netherlands East Indies (or Indonesia) and Malaya
(today’s Malaysia) during the first half of the twentieth century.
I argue that in formulating and advancing their respective projects of
reform and modernisation, Muslim reformers and European colonial schol-
ars and administrators often differed, but they were not always antagonistic.
Although they often understood progress differently, they sometimes worked
in tandem in order to achieve common ends. For example, motivated by a
mixture of economic, political and moral interests, Indonesian and Malay
Muslim reformers understood Islam as a progressive faith and thus sought to
build and foster communities by creating and expanding organisations and
selectively borrowing Western vocabularies and organisation models. The
colonial powers sought to know Islam and maintain control by conducting
research on Islamic practices and local cultures, often accommodating Islamic
scholars and the native elite. They, too, recognised the role of Islam and

1
 2 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

custom in modernising local communities. The colonial bureaucracies were

willing to accommodate sultans and native officials in developing systems of
economy, government and law that would be not necessarily incompatible
with Islamic norms of economy, government and law. The Muslim reform-
ers developed publications to disseminate Islam and practical information
that were not necessarily posing a threat to colonial administrations, even as
they challenged discriminatory colonial policies and demanded ‘rights’ for
the native populations. As the colonialists introduced new forms of govern-
ment, Muslim reformers began to appropriate Arabic concepts of siyasah
and Western notion of politics and government. While they were critical
of the implementation with respect to personal and family life, they rec-
ognised that in the absence of effective Muslim government and law, the
common or civil law that Europeans had introduced could ensure justice
and order. In reinterpreting Islamic texts, Muslim scholars promulgated that
shari’ah (now translated as Islamic law), need not be applied in its entirety
to formal colonial institutions, as they concentrated on the ‘private’ sphere
in the form of fatwas or putusan, non-­legally binding religious opinions or
edicts in Indonesia, or rather reinforced rulings in Malaya. For their part, in
addition to Islamic knowledge, Muslim reformers adopted science into the
curricula of their schools. As the colonialists promoted science and secular
skills in their European schools and taught local languages and cultures in the
vernacular schools, Muslim reformers made a distinction between dunya (A.
worldly) and din (A. religious) domains in order to teach religion, science and
other worldly skills deemed useful in their schools. While the European colo-
nialists sought to separate the private and the public, and the religious and
the secular, in order to effectively make progress, they emphasised vernacular
languages and cultures, and tolerated Arabic and Islamic education outside
the colonial institutions. Islamic reform and Europan colonialism worked
often in different spheres but did not fundamentally serve as contradictory
forces in both Indonesia and Malaya.
I focus on the varying discourses of progress and approaches to reform
and modernisation in the Dutch East Indies and British Malaya, the simi-
lar and contrasting impacts of Dutch and British colonial policies and the
similar and differing strategies adopted by Muslim reformers as they sought
to become modern. I examine the myriad voices, attitudes, policies and lan-
 i ntroducti on | 3

guages, critically but not hierarchically, as part of the wider colonial and
Islamic fields that produced them. I study the colonialists’ responses to Islam
and local custom and highlight the way in which Islam and local custom
shaped Europeans’ views of modernity and projects of modernisation. I
explore the way in which Muslims in the Dutch or Netherlands East Indies
developed voluntary associations and political movements in Java and the
outer islands (particularly South Sulawesi); I find that in British Malaya
(particularly Kelantan), by contrast, the management of religious matters was
left in the hands of the Malay sultans and religious councils, while English-­
educated Muslim authors and activists formed journals and clubs to address
Islamic and ethnic Malay issues.
The differences can be largely attributed to the fact that Dutch interven-
tion in native and Islamic affairs was far more pronounced than that of the
British in Malaya. In the Netherlands East Indies, the Dutch were preoc-
cupied with the textual and political manifestations of Islam, whereas the
British were concerned with the historical and cultural expressions of Malay
identity. Although Islamic law had a distinctly Malay flavour and the educa-
tional cooperation between Malay elite and British colonialists was relatively
strong, the connection between Malay Islam and Arabic language and culture
was close. By contrast, in the more ethnically and demographically diverse
East Indies, Islamic law was localised within its many Muslim cultures, and
the intellectual network and social organisation of Islam was far more varied
than in Malaya. Thus, due to different Islamic contexts, colonial policies and
local circumstances, European colonialists and Indonesian-­Malay Muslims
developed different approaches to social organisation, politics, law and edu-
cation. In the process of becoming modern, they laid the basis for different
conceptualisations of authority and community that developed in the inde-
pendent nations of Indonesia and Malaysia. Muslim reformers and European
colonialists contributed to the formation of modern organisation, politics,
law and education in colonial and postcolonial Indonesia and Malaysia.
European colonial powers and Asian Muslims framed their activities
around a general desire for improvement and progress, a movement towards
what can be called ‘modernity’. The term ‘modern’, from Latin ‘modernus’,
generally refers to that that is ‘here and now’, and is usually associated with
qualities such as innovation, dynamism, and openness in conscience and
 4 | i slam and col o nia l is m

technology (Hodgson 1977: 417; Cooper 2005: 142). The ‘modern era’ was
therefore frequently characterised as a period of rapid intellectual, political,
economic, social, technological, cultural and psychological change (Black
1975: 20–5; Benavides 1998: 186). Such attitudes were not new in Southeast
Asia and well before Europe’s economic and political control, a modern spirit
was present, fostered through international trade and the trans-­ethnic move-
ment of religious and cultural ideas (Reid 1993). A desire to be ‘up to date’
was embedded in Southeast Asian cultures. ‘Being modern’ in the region
was manifested in a selective localisation that combined the foreign and the
indigenous in ways that empowered indigenous agency (Andaya 1997: 409;
Wolters 1999: 39). From the late nineteenth century onwards, however,
manifestations of ‘modernity’ came to be closely associated with develop-
ments associated with European influences, such as the use of print media,
increased interest in science and technology, the adoption of European
vocabularies, greater political engagement and a call for a more equitable
and just government. It was from this time on that ‘modern fields’, such as
administration, politics, law and education, were made alongside trade and
the economy, communication and others.
For many Muslims the idea of intellectual and mental shifts was not new,
for the Islamic conception of time reached back to a distant age of ignorance
(A. jahiliyyah) that preceded the age of the Prophet Muhammad. The Muslim
condition of general backwardness (especially when compared with the
Christian West) drove reformers, inspired by the sacred texts and by Islam’s
past achievements as well as the reformist ideas from Mecca and Cairo (Laffan
2003), to work for the revitalisation of da’wah (A. mission) and ummah
(A. community), siyasah (A. politics), shari’ah (A. religious law), and ta’lim
(A. teaching). By the turn of the twentieth century, various European and
Asian leaders referred to the age in which they lived and their adaptations to
change as ‘modern’ or ‘progressive’, although the interests, sources, termi-
nologies and processes they associated with modernity were not necessarily
identical.

Colonial Modernities: Westernisation, Christianity and Science

Modernity, colonialism and the West were (and remain) loosely related con-
cepts. Colonialism can refer to the occupation of a territory by a foreign
 i ntroducti on | 5

power, to a broad imperialist agenda or to a hegemonic ideology (Said 1994:

9). New concepts such as penjajahan (Indonesian word for ‘colonisation’ or
‘colonialism’) and imperialisme Barat (an Indonesian translation of Western
imperialism), and Arabic terms such as istima’riyyah (the Arabic word for
‘colonialism’) emerged as labels for Western colonialism in Arabic and Asian
countries. In general, however, although some European colonial govern-
ments were ‘reluctant modernizers’, and did not necessarily seek to bring
colonisede subjects into a closer relationship to the state (Cooper 2005: 143),
they generally served as agents of modernisation. Colonial administrators
and scholars functioned as modernisers to the degree that they introduced
and conducted research, established bureaucracies and developed legal and
educational systems that could serve administrative needs and ‘uplift’ colonial
subjects. In so doing they associated modernity with ‘rationality’, differenti-
ating the domains of administration, politics, law and education from the
‘non-­rational’ domains of religion and tradition. They pushed modernisation
through bureaucratic and administrative innovations, such as the Office for
Native and Muhammadan Affairs, the People’s Council, native regency, the
Committee of Malay Studies, State Councils, Residency, and Advisers, which
were all new to local elites and Muslim reformers.
Under Dutch and British colonialism, modernisation was increasingly
equated with Westernisation (hence, ‘Western modernity’). In some cases,
colonial administrators and educators even encouraged local nobility and
their children to learn Dutch or English, wear European clothing and adopt
other aspects of Western (deemed ‘modern’) lifestyles or cultures. They dis-
tributed information to colonial subjects about Western practices in Dutch
or English via print technology, in gazettes, reports, notices and newspapers.
At the same time, they standardised local languages and preserved aspects of
cultures by translating, collecting and publishing local histories and stories
such as hikayat (the Arabic term for ‘stories’) in order to increase their acces-
sibility and effectiveness. The promotion of Western science and technology
was considered part of the modernisation package, since science was linked
with rationality and there was an assumption that traditional beliefs and
the resort to ‘magic’ and ‘superstition’ would decline as modern education
advanced. Indeed, the argument that Western nations have dominated the
world since the Enlightenment because they embraced science and dispensed
 6 | i slam and col o nia l is m

with religion as an organising narrative began to take root in the early twenti-
eth century. Social theorists saw industrialisation as evidence of technological
and economic progress, and claimed that non-­European societies could only
become modern if they followed the same path. More recently, however,
scholars have demonstrated that modernisation does not necessarily weaken
religion, render it irrelevant or consign it to the private domain (Casanova
1994; Hefner 2000; An-­ Na’im 2008). Indonesian scholar Nurcholish
Madjid, for example, describes modernisation as the process of making Islam
modern and the act of rationalising the valuable, secular domain of life with-
out Westernisation (Madjid 1989: 171).
Christianisation complicates the conflation of Westernisation and mod-
ernisation. Most colonial administrators, although intent on modernising
native populations, did not approve of missionaries spreading the Christian
gospel in already Islamised communities (Steenbrink 2006: 98–123). The
Dutch colonial government and the Christian missionaries showed both
divergent and convergent interests. In many cases, the Dutch controlled and
regulated Christian missionary activities partly in order to avoid problems
with the native Muslims (Schroter 2010: 10–13). Other Europeans, doubting
whether native cultures could themselves ‘progress’, tended to be more sup-
portive of missionising, since they saw Christianity as morally preferable to
Islam. Meanwhile, native populations assumed that Europeans were religious
Christians and equated Christianity with Westernisation. Some embraced
Christianity as a route by which they could acquire the faith and the status
associated with being ‘modern’ (Keane 2007). Other colonised subjects had
no more interest in changing accepted lifestyles than they had in converting
to Christianity (Bigalke 2005). Still others adopted European ideals of gov-
ernance and rule of law along with Western technological sciences as tools
to be used on their way to becoming more religious and independent of the
colonial enterprise.
Given these differing attitudes and complex responses and interactions,
colonial modernity cannot be treated as a single phenomenon or even a
definable goal. Anthropologist Talal Asad argues that academic analyses of
‘modernity’ frequently collapse a variety of processes pertaining to change
‘for the better’, thereby tending to treat all of these processes and their results
as if they were unified. For Asad, a more important question concerns why
 i ntroducti on | 7

modernity ‘has become hegemonic as a political goal, what practical conse-

quences follow from that hegemony, and what social conditions maintain it’
(Asad 2003: 13; italics in original). Asad has also maintained an argument
that colonial power invented modernity (Asad 2006: 291–2). In this book,
I read modernity not necessarily as a hegemonic political goal, but as an
increasingly important project initiated by non-­state Muslim reformers as
well as the traditional ruling elite and colonial administrators. I find moder-
nities filled with contradictions and divergences as well as compromises and
convergences.
I agree with the notion of multiple modernities (Mitchell 2000; Hefner
1998), but I intend to focus on commonalities as well as differences, and to
explore intersections and correspondences as well as disconnections and indif-
ferences. I find that modernity has multiple definitions when different actors
understand ‘progress’ toward a better future in multiple ways. Various aspects
and patterns of modernity may overlap (Masud et al. 2009). It is therefore
necessary to describe historically the ways in which colonial administrators
and scholars defined the modern as universal, monolithic and linear and to
compare the Muslim reformist use of parallel notions of ‘progress’, ‘justice’
and ‘rationality’ as well as other notions pertaining to the ‘new and here’
(Cooper 2005: 149). While some historians have argued that words such as
‘modernity’ and ‘religion’ are problematic in historical studies (Laffan 2011:
xiii), I use the concepts while being aware of the interplay between categories
of analysis and categories of practice. I follow the suggestion that theory and
history could converge (Burke 1993).

Islamic Modernities: Reform, Islamisation and Progress

The term ‘Islamic modernity’ refers to a non-­essentised, never completed

and uneven project of making things both Islamic and modern. The word
‘Islam’ comes from the Arabic aslama, which literally means ‘submission’
(to God). A Malay author of the journal Pengasuh in Kelantan thus defined
Islam by quoting a hadith: ‘Islam is to witness that there is no god but Allah
and Muhammad is His messenger, to perform prayers, to give alms, to fast in
Ramadan, and to go for hajj (A. pilgrimage) if you can afford the journey.’1
Yet what Islam means to its adherents has constantly changed over time
and around the world (Rippin 2007; Denny 2011). It has also evolved and
 8 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

diversified (Gibb 1947; Metcalf 1982). Contemporary scholars have argued

that Islam, modernity and modernisation, are not inherently incompatible.
Islamic modernity had real power to the degree that Muslim reformers took
action to sustain unity and progress (Nasr 2011). Here I link Islamic moder-
nity to discourses and projects of renewal (A. tajdid ) carried out by both
modernists and traditionalists and use modernity as a category of analysis and
of practice interchangeably.
According to Francis Robinson who works on Islam in South Asia,
Islamic reform can be defined in part ‘through its opposition to Western cul-
tural and political hegemony’. Since Muslim reformists made use of Western
knowledge and technology ‘to drive forward [their] purposes’, Islamic reform
was fundamentally shaped by interaction with the West (Robinson 2008:
2–3, 21). However, I consider Islamic reform to have occurred much earlier
and to be much broader than this definition implies. Islamic modernity may
imply Islamic reform­– ­as exemplified by the primarily internal debate on
individual reasoning (A. ijtihad ) versus the following of religious authority
(A. taqlid )­– b­ ut it covers a broad range of ideas and practices that seek to
change Muslim communities and society at large, before and beyond encoun-
ters with Europeans. After such encounters occurred, Muslim reformers in
Indonesia and Malaya addressed different aspects of colonial modernity as
well as considering other Islamic reforms in the light of local traditions. Those
scholars and activists regarded as belonging to the People of the Tradition of
Prophet Muhammad and the Community’ (A. Ahl al-­Sunnah wa al-­Jama’ah,
or broadly ‘Sunni’), often associated with being ‘traditionalist’, sought to
reform Muslim communities, in response to the struggle against ‘puritanist’
Saudi Wahhabism considered strict in rejecting Sufi orders (A. tariqah) and
un-­Islamic adat, and to the modernist groups who were more receptive of
Western science and organisation and critical of their traditionalist approach
to Islam. Because they emerged under colonial rule, some ‘traditionalist
reformers’ had to deal with European influences and policies as well. They,
too, played an important role in modernising society. The modernist reform-
ers emphasised the discovery of an authentic Islam, at times by debating the
adoption of Western symbols of modernity such as wearing trousers, taking
photographs, driving automobiles and even reading newspapers (Laffan
2003: 8). But the traditionalists, who are often seen as opposed to change,
 i ntroducti on | 9

also adopted reformist strategies, and adapted to colonial rule and modernist
means of organisation and teaching. Beyond the ideas of nation and commu-
nity, they developed such concepts as da’wah and tabligh, siyasah and politics,
shari’ah and law, ilmu and science, ta’lim and teaching while demonstrating a
new awareness of the age of progress (I. zaman kemajuan).
As they wrote or talked about the modern age they saw it as a work in
progress, a time for improving the worldly lives of Muslims while staying
firm in the faith. In referencing the need for change, they cited Qur’anic
passages, such as: ‘Allah will not change the fate of a people unless they
themselves change it’ (Q.13:11). In their sermons and writings they quoted
the hadith that stressed the necessity of taking action, working hard and
being disciplined and patient if they wanted to improve their lives. Although
rendered in various foreign and local terms, these reformist views were similar
in certain ways to European ideas of progress and modernity.
In this book I have drawn on the term ‘Islamisation’ in order to discuss
the nature of Islamic modernity. In its narrowest sense, Islamisation refers
to the transmission of Islam into new cultures and the conversion of people
to Islam. It describes the deliberate effort to invite people to the path of
Islam, using the various modes of communication (Roff 2009: 97–115). The
Islamic term most closely related to the notion of Islamisation is da’wah,
usually translated into English as ‘mission’, ‘propagation’, ‘proselytisation’
or ‘preaching’ (Arnold 1984; Berkey 2001) but literally meaning ‘calling’ or
‘inviting’. A Muhammadiyah author used an Indonesian term ‘penyiaran’,
meaning ‘spreading (Islam)’ to refer to da’wah (Mangkoeto 1936). A mod-
ernist Muslim in Java, Tjokroaminoto (1882–1934), wrote a book on a his-
tory of Islam and the Prophet Muhammad employing ‘Islamic propaganda’
to refer to tabligh, meaning ‘conveying (the message)’, one of the most popu-
lar meanings of da’wah (Tjokroaminoto 1955 [1931]: 4). An often recited
Qur’anic verse expresses da’wah thus: ‘Invite all to the way of thy Lord with
wisdom and beautiful preaching, and argue with them in ways that are best
and most gracious’ (Q. 16:125). Da’wah is also linked to the concept of
‘enjoining good and forbidding evil [A. amar ma’ruf nahi munkar]’, as in the
Qur’anic verse, ‘Let there arise out of you a band of people inviting to all that
is good, enjoining what is right, and forbidding what is wrong. They are the
ones to attain felicity’ (Q. 3:104). Da’wah could be considered traditionalist
 10 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

or modernist, conservative or reformist, oral, written or practical, depending

on the message being conveyed, the method being used and one’s perspective.
The common understanding of da’wah is rarely related to modernisation.
Islamic modernist movements that looked to the West and actively sought to
change Muslim attitudes are often singled out as the only modernisers (see
Noer 1973). More traditional religious scholars have seldom been regarded in
this light. Earlier modernisation theorists viewed Islam (like other religions)
as an obstacle to progress and modernisation, and saw Islamisation as an
effort to turn Muslims away from socio-­political organisations, democratic
government, legal reform and scientific education. Reform can, however, be
given a broader interpretation, by which da’wah or Islamisation becomes a
dynamic process that not only renders new ideas and practices more congru-
ent with Islam and Islam more relevant to people’s lives, but also adjusts
some aspects of Islam to fit with new ideas, practices and institutions. This
process is found in the various Muslim authorities and groups in Indonesia
and Malaya. Conducted within a more localised and traditional framework,
these organisational, political, legal and educational agendas can be read as
attempts to modernise Muslim communities and society at large. Islamic
reform and European colonialism play crucial parts in making modern
Indonesia and Malaya.
While contemporary scholars have debated whether Muhammad was a
‘modernist’ for his time, American sociologist Robert Bellah argues that early
Islam was ‘remarkably modern’ because of the ‘high degree of commitment,
involvement, and participation’ expected from the ordinary members of the
community, and in ‘the openness of its leadership positions to ability judged
on universalistic grounds and symbolized in the attempt to institutionalize a
nonhereditary top leadership’. The dominant ethos of the Muslim ummah,
Bellah continued, was ‘this worldly, activist, social, and political­. . . and also
relatively accessible to the dominant ethos of the twentieth century’ (Bellah
1970: 150–2). In the Indonesian-­Malay world of the first half of the twenti-
eth century, Muslim scholars viewed Islam as a new path to progress, allow-
ing them to adopt and adapt the concept of jam’iyyah (A. organisation) and
Western political parties and administration, rejecting the Islamic political
order of caliphate (A. khilafah) without rejecting the sense of a global ummah
and, in Malay cases, the sultanate.
 i ntroducti on | 11

Since da’wah concerns the transmission of Islam, it is much related to

teaching (A. ta’lim), and its role in conveying teaching about the faith, the
Qur’an, the Prophet’s life, ritual and social ethics, in order to create a ‘good or
better Muslim’ in both the material and spiritual domains of life (Eickelman
1985; Berkey 1992; Hefner and Zaman 2007). In promoting education,
Muslim reformers in the first half of the twentieth century used the local
terms such as ‘pengajaran’ or teaching and had not used the term ‘tarbiyyah’
or ‘pendidikan’. But they drew upon central Qur’anic concepts such as ilm,
din, dunia and akhirah. The ‘ulama or scholars classified subjects as either
part of religious knowledge (I. ilmu agama, ilmu akhirah, ilmu al-­din) or
worldly knowledge (I. ilmu dunia). In the Netherlands East Indies and British
Malaya, this division between religious and secular knowledge facilitated the
combination and integration of sciences into a Muslim educational system,
although to varying degrees and emphasis. Some Muslim reformers main-
tained that science was transmitted from Arab, Muslim scholars to Europe
in the Medieval Ages. Others believed that science was universal and did not
belong to any race and that God was the ultimate source for revelation and all
sciences. Education became a distinct sphare, conceptually and institution-
ally divided into the religious and the secular (and into the traditional and the
modern) as a response to Islamic reform, colonial and Christian education
and local context.
Islamic reform can refer to processes of modernisation. Desiring improve-
ments in the lives of Muslims and their fellow countrymen under colonial
control, being inspired by text and history, by their faith and reasoning,
Muslim scholars opened up their ways of ‘reaching goodness in this world’
and attaining ‘happiness in the hereafter’ (Q. 28:77). For example, in the early
twentieth century a Javanese Muslim reformer, Ahmad Dahlan (1868–1923)
established an organisation, Muhammadiyah, intended to make society more
Islamic and Islam more relevant in Java and in the outer islands, by educating
boys, girls, men and women, conducting social work and providing health
services. In developing modern initiatives, he sought to combine progressive
ideas derived from the Qur’an and the footsteps of the Prophet Muhammad
with Dutch and Christian concepts and institutional models. In Malaya,
however, writing (A. kitabah) and publication in the forms of book, news-
paper and periodical, became the primary media for the da’wah apart from
 12 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

schooling. In his writings, Syed Ahmad Al-­Hadi (1867–1934), for example,

criticised kaum tua (old faction) scholars, the sultan, and ordinary Malays
for their old-­fashioned and non-­rational way of thinking. He called for them
to change their attitudes toward Islam and promoted the use of reason in
making sense of Islamic belief, ritual and ethics. Belonging to the kaum muda
(young faction), Al-­Hadi claimed to be modernist in orientation and mission,
although the kaum tua associated with the sultan in Kelantan, also emerged
as reformers of the state and society where Malay culture and religion were
distinguishable from, but coexisting with, the British colonial sphere.

Islamisation and Secularisation

Islamisation and secularisation are commonly held to be antagonistic.

However, the religious and the secular are intertwined modern categories
of analysis (Calhoun et al. 2011). The term ‘secular’, which implies concern
with worldly matters as distinct from the sacred, is as complex and multi-­
dimensional a concept as that of religion. The word was unknown during
colonial times and was hardly used in Muslim countries until the twentieth
century, despite its uneasy contemporary Arabic translation as ‘alamāniyy
(Keddie 2003: 14–30; As’ad 2003: 206). On the other hand, the concept
of ‘worldly’ or dunya occurs in the Qur’an and the hadith and is used by
Muslims in Indonesia and Malaya. The worldly is differentiated from the
hereafter or akhirah. In calling for work in this world, Muslims also cited,
‘But seek, with the (wealth) which Allah has bestowed on thee, the home
of the hereafter, nor forget thy portion in this world’ (Q.28:77). A Javanese
Muslim, for example, demanded that the Dutch colonial government not
intervene in ‘religious and private affairs’ such as marriage and attendance
at mosque and its management, but recognised colonial policies in matters
considered ‘secular’ or ‘public’, such as the government, security, transporta-
tion, economy and commerce, as long as these did not hinder religious life.
Malay sultans and reformers generally accepted the British policy of non-­
intervention in religious and cultural affairs, but they sometimes accepted
the British interference in these affairs. As a concept, secularisation has mul-
tiple meanings: religious decline, differentiation, and privatisation (Casanova
1994). In this book, secularisation, as an analytical term, concerns mainly
the differentiation of the domains of life and the privatisation of the religious
 i ntroducti on | 13

domain, as understood and imposed primarily by the Dutch and the British
administrators but also as tolerated by the ruling elite and some Muslim
reformers. The Indonesian-­Malay world witnessed no religious decline even
under colonial rule.
Muslim reformers pushed to modernise political domains, often creating
and sometimes crossing the religious–secular boundaries. Because Islam can
be expressed in different forms in the domain of politics or siyasah, disputes
about the interpretation of symbols and ideas and about the control of the
institutions that sustain these ideas have often generated political conflicts
(Eickelman and Piscatori 1996: 5). Although not itself new to Muslims, artic-
ulations of siyasah in Indonesia and Malaya were influenced by their interac-
tion with Islamic reform, colonial policies, global and local circumstances. To
address matters of siyasah means to be modern. And to be politically modern
was to be actively involved and organised in objectives and agendas. Muslim
politics took the form of non-­cooperation or cooperation with the colonial
power. Many Muslims rejected Western ideologies, but other Muslims used
Western vocabularies and ideas in rejecting the ideologies deemed harmful to
Muslims. Some cooperated with colonial institutions, but in other times they
rejected them, and still in other cases they worked autonomously without
colonial intervention.
In terms of political discourse, an increasing number of Muslims in
colonial Indonesia and Malaya began to engage with a wide range of Arabic
ideas such as ummah (community), qawm (nation), watan (country), jama’ah
(union), khilafah (caliphate), ‘imara (leadership), jihad (struggle), shari’ah
(law), fiqh (jurisprudence), hukum (regulations, law), and dar al-­Islam (abode
of Islam) and dar al-­harb (abode of war). Muslim reformers derived these
foreign, Arabic ideas from scriptures and authoritative texts, but reinterpreted
these concepts in the new socially and politically engaging environments of
the time. Thus, they also talked about negeri (S. country), bangsa (S. nation),
demokrasi, recht (D. law) and others. While some were interested in shaping
political institutions and seeking independence from colonial powers, most
generated socio-­religious movements with the goal of building a country and
a nation, thereby changing Muslim relations with the Dutch authorities.
Muslim reformers and political activists in the East Indies defined shari’ah
as Islamic law, but interpreted it and applied it in different ways to the
 14 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

domains that they aspired to reform (Hallaq 2005; Feener 2007). In Malaya,
Muslims sought to increase political awareness through the English-­like clubs
and periodicals, retaining the sultanate while criticising its weaknesses and
promoting the ideas of nation and country (Roff 1967; Milner 1994; Milner
2003). They transmitted ideas and institutions from outside to their com-
munities but they, too, invented new conceptions and institutions, creating
and crossing the religious–secular and the private–public boundaries. In the
Indonesian-­ Malay archipelago, colonial modernisation and secularisation
were rarely separate from religion, tradition and the processes of localisation.

Locating and Localising Agama and Adat

World historian Marshall Hodgson has argued that colonial attempts to

modernise the societies they governed often disrupted aspects of local prac-
tices (Hodgson 1977: 417). I agree with Hodgson, but there are many cases
where European administrators were conscious of the need to recognise,
tolerate and even preserve the customary matters and to proceed carefully as
they introduced their modernisation projects. For example, in the treaties by
which colonialism was extended over the Malay Peninsula, the British left
‘religious and cultural matters’ to the respective sultans and religious scholars,
as both an outcome of the British fear of native resistance and a source of
the Malay elite’s willingness to cooperate with them. While Europeans often
criticised adat as obsolete, impractical, parochial or immoral, they preserved
this as part of colonial histories and cultural practices. In some cases, the
British even supported Islamisation indirectly through their research and
publications as well as administrative, legal and educational assistance. The
Dutch power, too, admitted the role of Islam in modernising local culture
and even invited the Western nations to help Muslim reformers engaged
with the modern world. Colonial administrators and scholars appropriated
the ‘non-­modern’ culture and reformist Islam in order to help stabilise local
order and maintain their modernisation projects, which did not necessarily
jeopardise much of the Muslim agendas of reform.
In Indonesia and Malaya, Islam was associated closer to tradition than
with modernity. The Malay sultans spoke of ‘adat and agama’­– ­‘custom and
religion’­– i­n the same breath, and Europeans used the phrase in the treaties
that they made with Malay rulers (Roff 2009: 179). By the same token, an
 i ntroducti on | 15

Islamic association in South Sulawesi had a unit dealing with affairs of ‘adat
and agama’.2 It is a historical construction, rather than given. Because of this
connection, some Muslim reformers attempted to reform some aspects of
adat and preserve other aspects of adat while they wanted to conform to their
Islamic boundaries.
The terms used to understand ‘religion’ are the Arabic word ‘din’ and
the Sanskrit word ‘agama’, which has become an Indonesian and Malay
term. Din has several layers of signification: ‘the way’, ‘the law’ and the
moment of final judgement. Din can be defined as religion. Islam is a din,
but Islam is deemed broader and more comprehensive than other dins. In the
Qur’an, Islam is depicted and interpreted as the din of God, the religion of
all prophets. Another term, ‘agama’ (S.), has multiple meanings, too. Agama
is used for scriptures in Buddhism, Hinduism and Jainism. In the colonial
time, the Dutch and Muslim modernists described ‘religion’ in different
terms: ‘agama’, ‘godsdienst’. Modernist H. Agus Salim ((1884–1954) used
godsdienst in its scriptural religion connotation. He defined it as ‘the system
of duty and obedience with respect to the regulations given by god to people
through prophets with teachings and examples’.3 Another modernist Javanese
Muslim, A Haanie, in response to Hendrik Kraemer’s view of Islam, used
agama for Islam, but he defended Islam from Kraemer and other Westerners’
call for separating agama and politics (and other worldly matters). Islam for
him was a religion that should be distinguished from Western Christian
conceptions of religion (Haanie 1930: 85).
For anthropologist Talal Asad, religion is a modern Western construct
and therefore is not an adequate concept to describe Islam (Asad 1993: 28),
but some Muslim modernists appropriated religion, godsdienst and agama to
refer to Islam with different meanings. The ‘religion of Islam’ or agama Islam
began to be popularly used despite its different meanings and implications.
Asad criticises the hegemonic use of the Western constructions of religion as
being an ‘autonomous essence’ without understanding and recognising the
multiplificity and complexity associated with it. I agree with Asad partially
in that Islam and religion are not identical, but I would disagree with him
in that the broad and narrow understanding and practical manifestations of
Islam as religion did occur among Muslim societies themselves, in colonial
(and postcolonial) Indonesia and Malaya. Muslims’s understandings of Islam
 16 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

as agama, godsdienst or religion differed but could also coincide with Western
constructions of Islam as agama, godsdienst or religion. This is particularly
due not only to Western impacts on Muslim life, but also to Muslims’ own
agency within their specific histories.
Tradition also denoted multiple meanings: tradition as local customs
and culture (for example, Javanese, Malay and Bugis); tradition as collected
and codified as adatrecht mentioned earlier; and tradition as classified into
different dimensions, such as history, language, ethnicity, food, clothing,
wedding, arts, literature, and religion. Local culture was sometimes deemed
more tolerant toward Westernisation.
From an anthropological angle, Islam has been conceptualised as a
‘discursive tradition’ because it has its styles of reasoning derived from the
scriptures that instruct practitioners regarding the ‘correct belief and prac-
tice’, related conceptually to a past and to a future through a present (Asad
1986: 14). ‘Tradition’ can include adat, conceived of being outdated, or still
relevant and important to a modern community. Over the centuries there
has also been an acculturation of Islam and adat, which has blurred the
distinctions between Islamic identity and ethnic affiliation. In other similar
contexts, elements of European culture and religious elements of local court
were juxtaposed and mixed. A social harmony between multiple traditions
(for example, Islamic, Javanese and even Dutch) could exist for surviving
domination and preserving cultures (Sumarsam 1995: 80–1, 240–1).
In this discussion I am conscious that there can be ‘multiple traditions’,
for tradition has layers of signification and uses according to actors and con-
text, and according to scholars. In local usages, religion and tradition are
often closely related because religion has become part of a long history of the
people in the region. For most Muslims, tradition could mean the Tradition
of the Prophet Muhammad, or sunnah, recorded as the hadith. It can signify
the interpretations of the Qur’an and the hadith, accumulated for genera-
tions that later became part of a Muslim heritage (A. turath). World histo-
rian Marshall Hodgson, for example, juxtaposes ‘the Islamic heritage’ and
‘the modern conscience’ within the context of contemporary Muslims facing
the challenges of the West (Hodgson 1977: 411). Yet Hodgson recognises
that Islam, as part of the ‘pre-­modern heritages’, should provide ‘the widest
resources for new vision’ (431). Islamicist William Graham would have
 i ntroducti on | 17

agreed with Hodgson’s idea of ‘the Islamic heritage’, as Graham discusses

‘Islamic traditionalism’, which emphasises Islam’s sense of connectedness to
the past (Graham 1993). But, for Graham, Muslims would never be entirely
‘modern’ if that means compromising the Qur’an, the hadith and other trans-
mitted traditions considered unchanging and authoritative even if these do
not conform to the Western modern. Egyptian Muslim philosopher Hasan
Hanafi also discusses the difficult way in which Arab nations deal with their
‘old heritage’ (A. turath qadim), ‘Western heritage’ (A. turath gharby) and
human reality (A. waqi bashir) in pursuing renewal (Hanafi 1991: 12–13). By
the turn of the twentieth century, Muslim reformers in the Indonesian-­Malay
world had to address their ‘old heritage’ (local custom or adat, which could
be Hindu, Buddhist, indigenous), Arabic and Islamic heritage, and Western
heritage, and human reality in articulating and pursuing their reform.
Adat did not remain unchanged under the influence of the Islamic and
Western ideas and institutions. Tradition persists and changes, and complex
factors explain why and how it persists, strengthens or weakens. A living tra-
dition, Alasdair MacIntyre says, is a ‘historically, extended, socially embodied
argument, and an argument precisely in part about the goods which consti-
tute that tradition’ (MacIntyre 2007: 222). Islam as an agama or religion is
not separate from other ideas and practices regarded as adat. Islam can be
analised as a living tradition, and yet it is also a modern force in Indonesia
and Malaysia. This book highlights the process of locating adat and agama
within multiple conceptions of tradition and modernity during the colonial
time. Tradition should not be understood as a primordial, static culture,
but as ‘the ensemble of practices and arguments that serve the social bond
and provide cohesiveness to human communities of varying scale’ (Salvatore
2009: 5).
Despite their adoption of Islam, the dominant ethnic groups of the
Indonesian-­ Malay archipelago­– M ­ alay, Javanese, Sundanese, Acehnese,
Minangkabau, Bugis and Makassarese­– ­have been regarded as traditional
unless they followed the path of the West. However, beginning in the early
twentieth century, European colonial authorities and Muslim activists
employed similar means to forward their modernisation projects. One shared
strategy involved locating and identifying local customs or traditions as adat
within their frameworks. On the basis of experience and research, colonial
 18 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

authorities identified adat as the indigenous, the customary or the local, often
distinguished from Dutch or English modern cultures, and often differenti-
ated from the Islamic. They clarified their interpretations of adat, most clearly
exemplified in the Dutch codification of adatrecht, customary law, which
they distinguished in particular from Islamic shari’ah law, although in prac-
tice interacting with it (Hadler 2008: 29). Dutch administrator Christiaan
Snouck Hurgronje, for example, regarded adat elite as more easily ‘modern-
ised’ than Muslim leaders whose religious faith made them more resistant.
British administrator Wilkinson, on the other hand, considered much of
the Malay adat as particularly resistant to change, and yet was very keen to
educate Malays to be modern.
European modernisers judged which local practices and institutions
belonged to adat and which ones could be productively Westernised because
they saw them as either relevant or irrelevant for their modernisation pro-
jects, or could be left intact as part of local cultural identity and inheritance­
– ­and their Western colonial achievements. In these instances, colonialists
positioned adat not merely as being a non-­modern object of research and
preservation but also as an integral part of their modernisation projects.
Muslim reformers, too, appropriated the Western modern in pursuing
their agenda. They were often critical of adat, especially beliefs, rituals and
lifestyles they considered forbidden, using such Islamic categories as shirk,
bid’ah or haram. Yet they saw the preservation of certain adat as important
in sustaining their claims and projects, as well as in contesting foreign cus-
toms and ideologies that they rejected. They did not deny that ethnic groups
now embracing Islam had the right to maintain their language and cultures.
Muslim scholars, writers and teachers who conceived of Islam as a religion
that integrated and influenced all domains of life made an effort to explain
the faith to people in their local languages, using familiar symbols and expres-
sions to communicate their message, and adapting some Islamic ideas so that
they were compatible with the adat. For the most part they refrained from
attempting to change adat practices that did not violate the tenets of Islam.
 i ntroducti on | 19

Islamising and Colonising the Indonesian-­Malay World:

A Brief Overview

In the first half of the twentieth century different names were used for these
countries, including East Indies, or Hindia Timur, and Netherlands Indies,
or Hindia Belanda. From the early 1920s the name ‘Indonesia’ became
increasingly popular. The peninsula was called ‘Malay land’, or Tanah
Melayu, and the ‘Federation of Malaya’ was adopted in 1957 at the time of
independence from the British. The name ‘Malaysia’ was adopted in 1963,
including Singapore, North Borneo and Sarawak. Because of its location on
the maritime routes between China and India, the region we call broadly
the Indonesian-­Malay world has long been a crossroads for long-­distance
trade and the world religions and philosophies (Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam,
Christianity, Confucianism) that moved among these pathways. For cen-
turies Arabs, Indians, Chinese, and later Europeans travelled through the
region, largely by boat. The islands of Java, Sumatra, Sulawesi (Celebes) and
Kalimantan (Borneo) could all be reached by sea from the Malay Peninsula,
and local (especially coastal) peoples travelled extensively and sometimes set-
tled far from their places of birth. For example, many Bugis from Sulawesi
lived in Kelantan, proudly claiming it to be ‘the Verandah (I. serambi) of
Mecca’ and Selangor on the Malay Peninsula, while a Malay community
was well established in Makassar in South Sulawesi, proudly labelled as ‘the
Verandah of Medina’.
Carried along trading routes, Islam has been in the Indonesian-­Malay
region since at least the fourteenth century. Although rulers who adopted
Islam sometimes used force to spread the faith among their subjects and
among neighbouring kingdoms, the expansion of Islam has been largely
peaceful: through trade, marriage and da’wah. Among the earliest forms
of Islamic organisation were Sufi orders, expressions of mystical Islam that
gained widespread influence from the twelfth century onwards. Under the
guidance of a Sufi master, their ultimate goal was union with the Divine
but they addressed a variety of matters, including Islamic beliefs, ethics, law,
philosophy and metaphysics, in relation to spiritual life. One of the theo-
logians and Sufi masters influential throughout the Southeast Asian world
was Al-­Ghazali (d. 1111), a ‘religious genius who created a new synthesis
 20 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

between the two poles of the religious consciousness by rebuilding the struc-
ture of orthodox theology upon the foundations of personal religious experi-
ence’ (Gibb 1947: 20). Through the vision of Al-­Ghazali, transmitted by
Sufi teachers who travelled through the Indonesian-­Malay archipelago, local
Muslims could observe a combination of spirituality and law, religion and
the worldly that came from different places, including Arabia, North Africa,
the Indian subcontinent, and other parts of the Indonesian-­Malay archi-
pelago (Pelras 2010; Chambert-­Loir 1985). Sufi scholars addressed the idea
of textual revelation (the Qur’an), intuition (A. ilham) and illumination (A.
kashshaf ), and the idea of a ‘perfect human being (A. insan kamil )’ (Abdullah
1997: 50–61). Being influenced by Al-­Ghazali and other Sufis, local scholars
regarded themselves as ‘reformers’ of Muslim societies and nations, empha-
sising the cultivation of the heart and communion with the Divine without
necessarily denying the importance of other dimensions of Islam that they
believed to be sacred and universal. Sufi orders were trans-­local because the
mobility of teachers, students and followers in search of learning spread their
teachings far beyond geographical boundaries. While teachers and scholars
arrived from India and Arabia, Muslims from Southeast Asia also travelled to
Mecca and other centres as pilgrims and as students to further their knowl-
edge of Islam.
In 1511, the Portuguese conquest of the powerful city-­state of Malacca
on the Malay Peninsula was intended to open the route to the Spice Islands
in eastern Indonesia, but was justified by the goal of acquiring converts to
Catholicism. Surrounding Muslim rulers mounted several campaigns against
Portuguese Malacca and there was continuing conflict in eastern Indonesia as
well. Indeed, some scholars have seen the hostility between Muslim kingdoms
and the Portuguese and their allies as the result of a ‘race’ between Christians
and Muslims to gain more converts. An example of the kinds of antagonisms
that developed are evident in the writings of Shaykh Nuruddin al-­Raniri
(d. 1658), a Gujarati-­Acehnese scholar, whose work Al-­Tibyan fi Ma’rifa
al-­Adyan (‘Explanation on the Science of Religions’) in the Jawi (modified
Arabic) script was probably written from 1634 to 1644. In separating truth
from falsehood, Al-­Raniri classified Christians and Jews as non-­believers (A.
kafir) and therefore purveyors of falsehood. He saw them as rejecting the
truths of Islam, rather than as ‘people of the book’ (A. Ahl al-­Kitab) who
 i ntroducti on | 21

were differentiated from mushrikun, those associating partners with God.

Shaykh Yusuf (1626–99) travelled from Makassar, to Yemen, Mecca, Patani,
Makassar, Aceh and Cape Town (Hamid 1994: 73–139, 158; Cummings
2002: 54).
By the late seventeenth century outright conflict between Muslims
and Christians was less apparent. The Catholic Portuguese were displaced
by the Protestant Dutch East Indies Company (Verenigde Oost-­Indische
Compagnie (VOC)) and other Europeans, who were mainly concerned with
maxmising trade opportunities. Nonetheless, there were occasional calls for
Muslims to unite against European intervention. In 1772, for example, the
Sumatran scholar Abdul Samad Al-­Palimbani (1704–89) wrote a letter from
Arabia inviting Javanese rulers to wage jihad against the ‘enemies of Islam’,
quoting Qur’anic passages (2:154 and 3:169) and the hadith that implied
that Muslims who were killed in the struggle would be rewarded in heaven
(Azra 2008: 14). For the most part, however, local scholars began focusing
internally on separating ‘orthodox’ practices associated with shari’ah from
‘heterodox’ practices associated with Sufism and local and foreign customs
and ideas.
Although colonisation itself proceeded in a piecemeal fashion, many
Europeans saw the spread of ‘civilisation’ as a moral responsibility that jus-
tified continuing involvement in the region. For example, the East India
Company official Thomas Stamford Raffles stated that he not only wanted to
increase free trade in the region, but also to do ‘something for [the] advance-
ment’ of the ‘Asiatic’, by which he meant the peoples of China, Siam,
Javanese and Malays, among others (Winstedt 1948: 81). A new chapter in
the relationship between Europeans and Indonesian-­Malay societies began
with the signing of the 1824 Anglo-­Dutch Treaty between Britain and the
Netherlands, which formally divided the Dutch and British ‘spheres of influ-
ence’ down the Malacca Straits. The Malay Peninsula (including Malacca)
and Singapore was deemed to be a British domain, while islands south of
Singapore, including Java and Sumatra, became the preserve of the Dutch
(Andaya and Andaya 2001: 125). Through the nineteenth century and the
early twentieth the Dutch spread their control through Indonesian archipel-
ago, often by force, and the British slowly solidified their dominant position
in the Malay Peninsula.
 22 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

With the advent of steam power and the opening of the Suez Canal
in 1869, sea trade and travel between Southeast Asia, the Middle East and
Europe expanded. The numbers of Southeast Asian Muslims making the
pilgrimage to Mecca grew (Tagliacozzo 2013); many of them also travelled
to attend Al-­Azhar University in Cairo, where they studied with reformist
scholars. The Arab immigrants and diaspora communities (A. hadhramis),
too, transmitted reformist ideas in the Indonesian-­Malay world by ways of
trading, intermarriage, preaching, writing and organisation (Mobini-­Kesheh
1999; Eliraz 2004: 48–54). In South Sulawesi, for example, a number of
Hadhramis from southern Yemen came and lived in the island of Salemo
where they established Islamic centres.4 Graduates from Salemo established
a branch of the Jakarta-­based Arab-­descent association called Jami’atul Khair
(Association of the Good) in Barru, South Sulawesi.5 Shaykh Mahmud al-­
Jawwad fled Medina, Saudi Arabia, and came to Java and migrated to Luwu,
South Sulawesi where he met another Arab, Shaykh Hassan al-­Habshi. The
king of Luwu welcomed both shaykhs who later married local women and
established a school Madrasah al-­Falah (the School of Success) in 1923. In
this madrasah, both taught Sufism well as the shari’ah, assisted by some
local teachers. Being well known, they were invited by the king of Bone to
teach the court (Safwan and Kutoyo 1980­/1: 85). These shaykhs and others
claiming the descendants of the Prophet Muhammad (sayyid (A. ‘lord’))
became a socio-­religious status distinguishing them from others, the non-­
descendants (‘ajam, non-­Arab, sometimes also called Jawi), local Muslims,
despite intermarriages and alliances (Saransi 2005: 47–51). Being an Arab
or a non-­Arab remained a social marker in the Indonesian-­Malay world. The
Arabs established mosques, such as the Arab mosque in Makassar. There they
delivered sermons in Arabic in a predominantly Arabic congregation. The
Muhammadiyah activists, for example, were concerned about the emerging
schism among the Arabs.6
Besides the Sunni Arabs, there were some Shi’ite Arabs, such as Sayyid
Jalaluddin al-­ Aidit, who came from Arabia through Aceh and Banjar
(Kalimantan) to Cikoang (South Sulawesi) in the seventeenth century.
Jalaluddin al-­Aidit was said to have come to Cikoang rather than to Makassar
because of the dominance of the Sunni Shafi’i legal practice in the latter as
in other parts of the archipelago. One of the Shi’ite practices in these villages
 i ntroducti on | 23

has been the annual celebration of the Birthday of the Prophet Muhammad
(maulud Nabi) in a manner different from that of the rest of the Sunni
Muslims in the region. The influence of the Al-­Aidit family in Cikoang
indicates the network of the ‘ulama between Mecca, Aceh, Banjar and South
Sulawesi, but also that of some Shi’ite unbroken line of influence in South
Sulawesi from the seventeenth century, to the colonial time, and even to the
present day.7
The establishment of Muslim communities was, in the words of anthro-
pologist Clifford Geertz, ‘hardly a matter of Arab incursion and settlement’.8
Local Muslim preachers, teachers and activists in the East Indies came from
diverse races, ethnicities and localities, demonstrating global and local char-
acters of Islamic knowledge and its networks. Global experiences through
pilgrimage, travel and study in the Middle East significantly influenced these
‘ulama-­activists to feel the need to reform Muslim societies. The Arabs, as
well as returning non-­Arab pilgrims and students from Mecca and students
from Cairo, played a crucial role in the dissemination of diverse forms of
Islam in the Indonesian-­Malay world. By the beginning of the twentieth cen-
tury, Dutch and British scholars observed that more than 85 per cent of the
population of the Netherlands Indies professed the religion of Muhammad
and that Islam had been established in Malaya for several centuries (Winstedt
1947: 33). Meanwhile, the Muslim leadership previously offered by the
Ottoman Empire declined, the Saudi Wahhabi Islam did not attract most
Muslims and European imperialism was increasingly encroaching upon
Muslim-­majority countries.

A Comparative and Cross-­cultural History

This comparative history focuses on the forty years roughly between 1901
(when a new ‘Ethical Policy’ was initiated in the East Indies) and 1941
(when the Japanese invaded and occupied the entire Malay-­Indonesian archi-
pelago). In this formative period Europeans stepped up their attempts to
modernise many domains of their colonised subjects’ lives. Concerted efforts
were made to eliminate practices deemed contrary to a modern state, such
as slavery, headhunting and piracy, and despite the abuses that accompanied
economic exploitation, colonial subjects were now being ‘forced into a more
modern age’ (Ricklefs 2001: 189). Yet Muslim reformers in the region were
 24 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

not p ­ assive and their articulation of reform coincided with, coexisted with
and even reinforced modernisation agendas.
My aim is not to separate Islamic and European reforms and influences,
but to juxtapose and contextualise them by comparing two colonial admin-
istrations (the Dutch and the British) and two Muslim local areas (the East
Indies, or Indonesia, and British Malaya). This comparative history empha-
sises common and parallel features among diverse forces for change, although
not at the expense of variation (Kocka 2003: 39). It narrates multiple ways of
becoming modern, and also compares and contrasts the notions of rational-
ity, the desire for advancement and progress, the use of print media, the need
for organisation and effectiveness, the rule of law and justice, the seeking of
knowledge and literacy and concern with the material, worldly life.
I have drawn upon a variety of Islamic religious, colonial and local
texts. Primary local materials included newspapers and magazines, sultan-
ate and council notices and regulations, school curricula, official reports,
collected fatwas and sermons, and autobiographical works by local authors.
These texts were written in a variety of languages, including Arabic, mix-
tures of Persian, Arabic and Malay (that is, the Jawi script used in Malaya;
Bahasa Indonesia, a version of Malay written with the Latin alphabet) and
less widespread languages spoken by the Bugis and the Makassarese in South
Sulawesi. Transmission of writings in Arabic, Islam’s common language, and
their local translations are part of the longer process of adopting the foreign
within an indigenous and familiar framework (Ricci 2011: 1–20). In Java,
Islamic scholars and teachers also used a Javanese-­Arabic script called pegon
in transmitting Islamic religious knowledge to the people (Umam 2011).
Some Buginese and Makassarese scholars used the Bugis-­Arabic script called
serang, although this did not become as popular as the Jawi script in other
parts of the Indonesian-­Malay world. My focus is on expressions of becoming
modern in Dutch and British documents and in the writings of local Muslim
reformers that became the prime medium by which Muslims could begin to
think of themselves as devout and simultaneously modern.
By the late nineteenth century, despite low levels of general literacy,
print technology had become widespread in the East Indies and Malaya.
The use of print technology, new to most people in the region, became a key
element in the transmission of ideas. The circulation of printed material, as
 i ntroducti on | 25

Benedict Anderson has shown, made it possible for rapidly increasing num-
bers of people to think about themselves and relate to others in profoundly
new ways that helped create a new, imagined community of nationhood
(Anderson 1991: 33–6, 44–6; Adam 1995; Laffan 2003: 10). As literacy
gradually improved, print technology became an important medium of com-
munication for Muslim scholars, teachers, students, writers and readers in
the Indonesian-­Malay world. It created information flows that reached out to
local audiences and connected Muslims to one another and to non-­Muslims
in many parts of the world. Periodicals promoting different interests flour-
ished. Fadjar Indonesia (‘The Dawn of Indonesia’), published in Sulawesi,
presented progressive views and tolerant attitudes toward internal schism
in Islam. Journals competed for readership in Malaya and beyond. The
Kelantan publication Pengasuh (‘The Bearer’) was written in Jawi; Kenchana
(‘The Balance’), was published in Singapore using the Latin alphabet.
Texts generated by specific individuals and organisations are also used
to exemplify different attitudes and agendas. The Dutch scholars Christiaan
Snouck Hurgronje (1857–1936) and Hendrik Kraemer (1888–1965) were
selected as emblematic of different colonial ideas about Westernisation,
Christianisation and Islamisation in the East Indies. Their discourses and
policies are compared to two British scholars and administrators in Malaya,
Sir Richard James Wilkinson (1867–1941) and Sir Richard Olaf Winstedt
(1878–1966). Wilkinson was more interested in historical, literary and cul-
tural aspects of Malay society than in studying political aspects of Islam.
Winstedt, like Wilkinson, was a colonial administrator and educator, but
he paid greater attention to the practice of Islam within the larger con-
text of Malay beliefs and culture. Muslim scholars such as Ahmad Dahlan
(1868–1923), the founder of Muhammadiyah (1912), and Tahir Jalaluddin
(1869–56) identified themselves with the collective Muslim enterprise, as
did Hasyim Asy’ari (1871–1947), one of the founders of Nahdlatul ‘Ulama
(Revival­/Awakening of Religious Scholars) (henceforth NU), which was
established in 1926. Another Javanese figure, Western-­educated Muslim
Tjokroaminoto, mentioned earlier, represents the perspective of Islamic
socialist and political activism, which once struggled ‘under the protection
of the government’, but became critical of capitalism and imperialism, and
opposed to cooperation with the colonial regime. The Muslim reformer and
 26 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

leader of Sarekat Islam (Union of Islam) (SI), Agus Salim (1884–1954) repre-
sents an eclectic figure as he was educated both in an Islamic, Minangkabau-­
Malay cultural environment and in Dutch schools. Muhammad As’ad (and
his As’adiyah school in South Sulawesi) presents a little-­studied example of a
‘traditionalist’ reformer.
Political organisations such as SI and socio-­religious movements such
as Muhammadiyah and NU in the East Indies did not emerge in Malaya
because the political situation under British rule was quite different. Malay
modernists joined literary and cultural clubs similar to English clubs, such
as the Kelantan’s Putera Club, which demanded that the British and the
sultan provide better access to education for all Malays but did not pose a
threat to British modernisation. Tok Kenali (1869–1933), who studied in
Mecca, promoted progress for Malays in Kelantan through writing, educa-
tion and activism.9 Although he wrote in Arabic and Jawi script, he encour-
aged English and Malay literacy in schools. Tok Kenali and his fellow ‘ulama
established the Council of Religion and Malay Custom in Kelantan (Majelis
Agama Islam dan Adat Istiadat (henceforth MAIK) that stressed the teach-
ing of Arabic and religious knowledge and supported English and science as
modern subjects.
The European modernisation project involved efforts to categorise and
enumerate not only the people who they sought to dominate, but also events,
ideas and practices. As different ethnic groups increasingly related to one
another under the colonial umbrella, Muslims also began to think more spe-
cifically of their religious and ethnic identities. Historian Frederick Cooper
discusses the importance of treating the ‘process of identification’ of self with
others as a category of practice rather than using ‘identity’ labels as obvious
categories of analysis (Cooper 2005: 59–60, 113–49). Alert to these nuances,
I nonetheless treat the mutable identities of people in the Indonesian-­Malay
region as categories of analysis at times and as categories of practice at other
times, depending on the context. In many cases, although aware of their con-
tingency, I have given labels to historical actors (such as ‘Muslim reformers’,
‘traditionalist reformer’ and ‘socialist Muslim’) because they are part of my
critical terminology (see also Cooper 2005: 59–77). In other cases, I use local
terms such as kemajuan (I. progress, improvement, advancement), muda (I.
young), moderen (modern, modernist), terbelakang (I. backwardness), tradi-
 i ntroducti on | 27

sionalis (traditionalist), tua (I. old) and kolot (I. conservative). The narrative
thus reflects the interplay between these two frames of reference: the language
of analysis and the language of practice.
In a similar vein, when discussing tradition and modernity, Alasdair
MacIntyre invites us to consider multiple notions of justice, multiple notions
of rationality and other similar ideas (1988: 1–11). His stress on the compe-
tition and rivalry between key ideas will be evident in my discussion of the
use of kemajuan by Muslim reformers and the colonial deployment of the
term progress, and in the Muslim idea of akal (reason) and the colonisers’
rationality. Simultaneously, a major theme of this book concerns the overlaps
and collaboration as well as tension and conflict between Western colonial
regimes and Islamic reformers in defining and promoting these ideas. In par-
allel with Europeans, Muslim scholars consciously constructed identity labels
for themselves or for others that incorporated evolving analytical vocabularies
relating to the modern and the traditional, the political and the apolitical,
the private and the public, the socialist and the capitalist, the orthodox and
the heterodox, and the religious and the worldly or secular. It will become
evident that the conversations by which Islamic and colonial modernities in
Indonesia and Malaya were developed, shaped and defined involved many
voices, echoes of which can still be felt today.
Writing on the Dutch in Indonesia, Indonesian historian Taufik
Abdullah discusses interchangeable periods of cooperation, partnership in
progress, cultural accommodation, and peaceful coexistence as well as com-
petition, conflicts and wars, and subordination (Abdullah 1994). Dutch
Islamicist Karel Steenbrink explores cases of antagonistic, accommodationist
and neutral relationships between Indonesian Islam and Dutch colonialism
(Steenbrink 2006). Even Indonesian Muslim modernist Hamka, discussed in
several places in this book, expresses his thankfulness to ‘the Dutch writers
and researchers for their historical writings on Islamic kingdoms in detail’
and who ‘introduced theories and facts’, while being critical of the colonial
and Christian missionary interests (Hamka 1950: 3). Michael Laffan exam-
ines more closely the way in which the Sufi image of ‘Indonesian Islam’
was made primarily by European colonialists, and became appropriated by
Muslim reformers who promoted ‘modern Islam’ (Laffan 2011). Dutch
Islamicist Nico Kaptein explores Sayyid Uthman and his partnership with
 28 | i slam and col o nia l is m

Snouck (2014). This present book offers a study of the parallelism and con-
nections between Islamic reform and European colonialism in the moderni-
sation of Islamic organisation, politics and government, law, and education
in Indonesia and Malaya.
This comparative historical study is intended as a contribution to Islamic
Studies and Southeast Asian Studies, especially to current scholarship on
historical Islam, empire, colonialism and postcolonialism in Southeast Asia
and the broader Muslim world. A historical analysis of Islam as interpreted
and practised in global and local contexts provides an avenue for develop-
ing a critical Islamic Studies that draws upon religious disciplines or ilmu
agama. The research on the Qur’anic interpretation, the hadith, da’wah, siya-
sah, shari’ah and tarbiyyah may be advanced by offering colonial views and
programmes in local contexts. The study on Orientalism, government, law,
and education, may be advanced by offering Islamic views and agendas in
local contexts. These studies can help to expand historical studies of religion,
colonialism, and modernity. By reading the myriad voices and languages of
Muslim reformers and European colonialists critically, rather than hierarchi-
cally, it is hoped to develop the comparative study of Islamic societies, of
colonialism and of modernity.
Postcolonial theorist Gyan Prakash, for example, proposes the ‘shakening
of the history of colonialism and colonialism’s disciplining of history from
the domination of categories and ideas it produced’ (1995: 5). Rather than
shaking the history of colonialism as such, this book juxtaposes European
colonialism with Asian Islamic reform in articulating reform, progress, legal-
ity and rationality and in forming organisations and institutions in their own
ways as well as in relation to one another. The idea that colonial administra-
tors and Muslim reformers differed but often coexisted and sometimes even
collaborated in the drive for progress and modernisation should be of interest
to students and scholars of secularisation as well as postcolonial and subaltern
studies.

Outline of Chapters

The historical narrative presented here is topical rather than chronological.

Related events and trends are discussed in terms of what they meant to
various actors within circumstances that were variously constraining or lib-
 i ntroducti on | 29

erating. The book is divided into four main parts, each consisting of two
chapters. The first part examines the organisations and intellectual institu-
tions that Indonesian and Malay Muslim reformers and Dutch and British
colonial officials put in place to advance different agendas in the region. The
next three parts each compare Islamic and colonial modernisation efforts
around politics and government, law, and education.
Part I: Making Islam Modern is divided into two chapters. Chapter I,
‘Organising Da’wah and Spreading Reform’, deals with the way that Muslims
who were influenced by Muslim reformist movements in Mecca and Cairo
began to construct Islam as a progressive religion and build faith communi-
ties in order to pursue progress. Chapter II, ’Colonising the Muslim East and
Reinforcing Culture’, explores the different approaches to Islam and local
traditions as they were expressed in Dutch and British writings and research
institutions.
Part II: Modernising Politics and Government is also divided into two
chapters. Chapter III, ‘Building Siyasah and Reforming Sultanate’, describes
the diverse political orientations and activisms among Muslim groups in
the East Indies and among sultans and ‘ulama in Malaya. Chapter IV,
‘Controlling Politics and Bureaucratising Religion’, examines the ways in
which colonial governments distinguished private from public matters and
modern from traditional government, allowing religious or cultural practices
to continue and flourish while controlling political activities and managing
the secular, public domain.
Part III: Modernising Law is comprised of two chapters as well. Chapter
V, ‘Integrating Shari’ah, Adat and European Laws’, focuses on Muslim artic-
ulation of evolving ideas about shari’ah in terms of law and its relation to adat
and European laws. Chapter VI, ‘Formalising Legal Plurality’, investigates
how Dutch and British administrators and scholars, who often criticised
Islamic and customary laws for their lack of compatibility with their Western
laws, were compelled to develop centralised, if not actually pluralistic, legal
systems in the colonies.
Part IV: Modernising Education has two chapters. Chapter VII, ‘Teaching
Agama and the Secular’, focuses on Muslims’ definitions of knowledge and
education in terms of faith and progress, and the ways that they distin-
guished worldly from religious (agama) subjects and promoted the teaching
 30 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

of both. Chapter VIII, ‘Secularising Education’, examines the way in which

Europeans distinguished religion from secular science and yet promoted ver-
nacular languages and cultures while tolerating the private teaching of Arabic
and Islamic knowledge.
The conclusion summarises the argument that Islam and European colo-
nialism have been less confrontational in recent history than is generally
assumed. In colonial Indonesia and Malaya, the processes of Islamisation,
localisation, Westernisation and secularisation frequently operated in parallel
and sometimes even together to modernise organisational, political, legal and
educational institutions. In today’s popular media and scholarship, Islamic
ideas are often interpreted as hostile to modernisation, while Western moder-
nity is deemed antithetical to Islam and custom. History, however, reveals
a more nuanced picture. Moving beyond binaries such as Orientalist versus
Islamic and modernity versus Islam, this book offers historical evidence and
theoretical engagement with Islamic reform and European colonialism in
particular, and with religion, modernity and tradition in general. An escape
from the essentialisms of European modernities versus Asian anti-­modernities
is possible by laying out fields of historical interaction against the grains of
European colonial histories, Asian national histories and even Islamic histo-
ries. Ultimately, it is my hope that this book will encourage scholars, students
and the general public to adopt a more nuanced understanding of Islam,
European colonialism and modernity.

Notes
1. Hasan, Haji Idris bin, ‘Rukun Ugama Islam’, Pengasuh, No. 3, 1918, 3–4.
2. Pemberita Makassar, No. 26, 31 January 1940.
3. My translation from Dutch. Haji Agus Salim, ‘Godsdienst’, from his book
‘Tauhid’, No. 1 (Sumber Ilmu, 1935), in Salim (1954: 245).
4. There was an increase in the Arab population in the Netherland Indies, from
8,909 (1860) to 27, 399 (1900) to 71, 335 (1930). In Sulawesi alone, the Arabs
numbered about 33 (1860), 1,022 (1900) and 7,424 (1930). Indisch Verslag,
1935, II. Statistisch 1934 (Batavia: Landsdrukkerij, 1935), 43; Interview with
Abdul Kadir Ahmad, in Makassar, 26 June 2005.
5. Interview with Drs. Abdurrahman, Universitas Islam Makassar, 24 June 2005.
6. ‘Perpitjahan Kita’, Tentara Islam, No. 1, June 1931, Year 1.
 i ntroducti on | 31

7. My visits to Cikoang in 2006 suggest a strong Shi’ite influence in their annual

celebrations of the birthday of Prophet Muhammad. Amansjah, ‘Mazhab Sji’ah
di Tjikowang’, Bingkisan, No. 11, Year II, July 1969, 27–39.
8. Geertz, ‘The Near East in the Far East: On Islam in Indonesia’, unpublished
paper No. 12, December 2001, the Occasional Paper of the School of Social
Science, presented at the Sabbagh Lecture on Arabic Culture at the University of
Arizon, Tucson in February 2000.
9. Kenali, ‘Kemanusiaan’, Pengasuh, No. 1, Year 1, 14 July 1918, 1–3.
 PART I
MAKING ISLAM MODERN
 I
Organising Da’wah and Spreading Reform

Although we are divided into nations, we human beings are one. In order
for us all to live in prosperity and happiness we should unite our hearts­. . .
and should try something new and different, instead of merely following
our own customs.
(Dahlan cited in Mulkhan 1986: 7–9)

I became very eager and hoped that in this Malay Peninsula there would be
a journal, a magazine, or a newspaper owned by the people of our country,
which would wisely command us to gather together and unite in all tasks
to bring about public goodness [maslaha] to the country [watan], the com-
munity [bangsa], and the religion [agama].
(Kenali 1918: 2)

T he da’wah movements that emerged in the late nineteenth century and

in the early twentieth came in the wake of the decline of the Ottoman
Empire and attempts by the Wahhabi Saudi Government to become the
new caliph of the Muslim world.1 Muslims in the Indonesian-­Malay world
were exposed to these issues and the concept of reform or tajdid through
their engagement with intellectual networks in Mecca and Cairo and by
interaction through the Indonesian-­Malay world. When the Ethical Policy
was instituted in 1901, an increasing number of Indonesian-­Malay Muslim
students and pilgrims had been involving themselves in the call for cultiva-
tion and renewal of Islam. Upon returning home, Muslims from all over the
Indonesian-­Malay world preached and taught in mosques and pesantren or
pondok schools where they encountered very low levels of literacy and under-
standing of various branches of Islamic knowledge. Regarding themselves
as part of a globally imagined ummah, they were soon dissatisfied with the

35
 36 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

number of people they could reach by teaching in mosques or in their homes.

Having decided that a pan-­Islamic caliphate would be ultimately unfeasible,
they began to coordinate their activities, create organisations (A. jam’iyyah)
and publish sermons and articles for newspapers and periodicals in order to
further the objectives of reform.
Muslims who had travelled abroad to study or to make the pilgrimage
were not necessarily from privileged backgrounds, but the status that they
acquired through study at prestigious institutions overseas gave many the
opportunity to preach and teach Islam. A number of the returning students
and pilgrims published their ideas in foreign and local languages in newspa-
pers and periodicals that were now available due to technological innovation
that came with colonialism. The more literate authors and speakers appropri-
ated Arabic, Dutch or English terms to convey their messages, selectively uti-
lising these new vocabularies when they found it meaningful for addressing
other local people.
While drawing on established texts, the reformers simultaneously viewed
Islam as a modern religion. In particular, they felt that the lives of local
Muslims­– ­viewed as humiliated, poor and divided­– ­would be improved
by greater attention to the basic teachings of Islam. They sought reform to
ensure dignity, unity, prosperity and progress as they defined them, advo-
cating reform in order to rectify both the perceived and real stagnation of
Muslim society in the Netherlands East Indies and Malaya. Some labelled
their orientation modernist, Islam moderen (modernist Islam) or kaum muda
in contrast with Islam kolot (traditionalist Islam) or kaum tua. Traditionalist
Muslims responded to the modernists by establishing separate community
organisations where they held fast to older madhhab (A. school of legal
thought) and the scholarly consensus (A. ijma’). Other Muslims, regarding
the modern–traditionalist differences as trivial, called for unity, but in that
sense created their own factions. Reform was intended to bring Muslims
together, but the result was greater plurality in Islamic thinking and action.
This diversity can be seen in the varied responses to external, particu-
larly Western, influences and local beliefs and practices. Despite the criticism
of Christian missionaries and colonial officials that many Muslim leaders
expressed, others were more accommodating, and an increasing number of
Muslims involved in local Islamisation adopted new or modern tools, such as
 o rganising da’wah a nd spreading r e f o r m | 37

emulating Western organisational methods. While remaining loyal to local

traditions, they framed their commitment as both ‘Islamic’ and ‘modern’,
and as both ‘religious’ and ‘worldly’. Using the phrase ‘modernist Muslim
movement’, Indonesian scholar Deliar Noer made a distinction between the
educational and social movement on the one hand and political engagement
on the other, but defined ‘modernists’ as those who recognised Western
methods and techniques (Noer 1973: 306). However, although regarded as
religiously conservative by the modernists, Muslim traditionalists adapted
new models to reach their communities. This chapter traces the modernist
and traditionalist reform efforts in the East Indies and in Malaya, while high-
lighting connections and disconnections, similarities and differences between
them. One of the key differences is that while Indonesian reformers sought
to reform society through organisations, their Malay counterparts primarily
used publications to reform the Malay nation.

Making Islam Modernist in Java: Ahmad Dahlan and Muhammadiyah

By the turn of the twentieth century, as the Ethical Policy was introduced,
the Dutch colonial government widened its administrative and economic
penetration in the East Indies to include the central Javanese sultanates of
Yogyakarta and Surakarta. The native elites and the younger generation
received some Western education, whereas the Islamic schools (I. pesan­
tren) continued to teach Islamic disciplines­– f­or them still highly relevant.
However, with the return of students and pilgrims, urban youth became
exposed to different sources of information and knowledge through news-
papers, journals and meetings, which became conduits for a new ‘modern’
vocabulary, including words such as ‘progress’ (kemajuan) and ‘movement’
(pergerakan). Muhammad Darwisy, later known as Ahmad Dahlan, was born
in 1868 in Yogyakarta, Central Java. He was raised in the milieu of the
Yogyakarta sultan’s Grand Mosque where his father was the imam and also
served the palace, an abdi dalem. As a youth Dahlan learned Arabic from his
father, receiving his education in a local pesantren and then making the pil-
grimage to Mecca. Here he studied for twelve months with ‘ulama, including
some from the Indonesian-­Malay world, and met other students from all over
the East Indies, as well as other Muslim countries (Azra 2004: 152; Laffan
2003: 109–13; Burhani 2004: 55).
 38 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

Dahlan exhibited a strong sense of reformist mission in promoting a

renewed faith and organised action. In Mecca one of his teachers was the
‘traditionalist’ Shaykh Ahmad Khatib, known for his opposition to heretic
Sufi practices and adat, the expansion of Christian influence and Dutch colo-
nialism. Nonetheless, Dahlan was exposed to other influences, notably the
writings of the Egyptian scholar Muhammad Abduh (1849–1905) in Kitab
Tauhid (A.‘The Book of Divine Unity’) and al-­Islam wa al-­Nashraniyyah (A.
‘Islam and Christianity’) and transmitted through the reformist journals Al-­
Manar (A. ‘The Beacon’) in Cairo and Al-­Munir (A. ‘The Radiant’) published
in West Sumatra, 1911–16 (Salam 1963: 35–7; Hamka 1950: 60; Laffan
2003: 168). Muhammad Abduh sought to revive the Arabic language and
the Islamic sciences, and to correct the deviations of the Egyptian govern-
ment. Abduh spoke against the Muslim rulers who were ‘giving a free hand to
foreigners to carry on the affairs of their states and even of their own houses,
and fastening foreign rule upon their own necks’ (Adams 1968 [1933]: 59).
As a modern salafi (the modern follower of the early generation of pious
Muslims), Abduh produced newspapers, established schools, and adopted
and adapted some European models to achieve his ends, and argued that the
real cure for Egypt’s ills was a return to the pure form of Islam as practised
during the early caliphs and first three generations of Islam. He learned from
Europe in order to find ways to fix Muslim backwardness (60).
However, Abduh influenced his audience to varying degrees and in
different ways. For Javanese Muslim teachers like Dahlan, Arabic as such
needed no revival and the foreign colonial power was not necessarily the
enemy. Abduh was a man of pen and a man of action and Dahlan was more
a man of action than a man of pen; Dahlan hardly recorded his thoughts in
writing. He was more concerned about the insidious nature of feudalism,
illiteracy and poverty among Javanese, and their general lack of understand-
ing of fundamental Islamic teachings such as helping the poor and orphans
(Q. 107). After returning to Yogyakarta, Dahlan earned his living as a batik
(J. textile) merchant, but also spoke out against certain beliefs and practices
he considered were out of alignment with Islam. Having studied astronomy
in Mecca, he argued that the kiblat that indicated the direction of Mecca in
the mosque of the Yogyakarta Palace was incorrect. Although the contro-
versy was short-­lived, in 1909 Dahlan pursued his reformist goals by join-
 o rganising da’wah a nd spreading r e f o r m | 39

ing a new Javanese organisation, Boedi Oetomo (I. ‘The Good Action’).
Promoting literacy and Javanese culture, its members were drawn from the
aristocracy (J.­/I. priyayi), who felt the need to respond to aspects of Western
culture that were undermining the Javanese heritage. Dahlan’s goal, how-
ever, was to influence other Javanese members whom he regarded as being
nominally Muslim. Encouraged by supporters, in 1912 Dahlan established
a new Muslim organisation, the Muhammadiyah, which he registered with
the colonial government in Batavia, and thereby gained official recognition.
Besides his leadership in Muhammadiyah, Dahlan was one of the commis-
sioners of the Sarekat Islam, the Central Committee of which was located in
Surakarta. However, Dahlan’s role in the increasingly politicised SI was over-
shadowed by his involvement in the Muhammadiyah (Shiraishi 1990: 51).
Dahlan and the Muhammadiyah he founded offer an example of
a modern organisation with an Islamic agenda, emphasising the need for
schools to teach Islam and secular subjects (see Chapter VII), and use meet-
ings, public speeches, publications and socio-­religious activities to relay the
message of Islamic renewal (Nakamura 1983: 47). The Muhammadiyah
started as a small but dedicated group, rather than attempting to speak to
the native population at large, and in this sense reinterpreted the Qur’anic
concept of ummah in terms of association using such terms as jam’iyyah,
persyarikatan or perkumpulan. Although a worldwide ummah remained the
ultimate goal, the immediate concern for Muslim reformists like Dahlan was
to make Islam meaningful in Java and the wider region of the East Indies. To
this end they were involved with charitable institutions­– ­schools, hospitals
and orphanages­– m ­ odelled on those established by missions and the colonial
government, in the belief that in this way they could serve their fellow believ-
ers more effectively. Muhammadiyah speakers reminded their audiences that
Muslims were part of a community that ‘should enjoin good and forbid evil’,
but the driving force was the promotion of social improvement and tajdid at
home. The goal was to enable ‘the teaching and learning of Islam in the East
Indies to flourish and develop a Muslim life in accord with the will of Islam’
(Muhammadiyah 1923: 9). Dahlan believed that ‘even though Islam would
not die out in this world, it could die out in Indonesia if the ummah did not
defend it’ (in Hamka 1955 [1939]: 78).
It was possible for Muslim communities to envisage prosperity in the
 40 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

East Indies. Dahlan said, ‘Although we are divided into nations, we human
beings are one. In order for us all to live in prosperity and happiness we should
unite our hearts­. . . and should try something new and different, instead of
merely following our own customs’ (Dahlan cited in Mulkhan 1986: 7–9).
He believed that oneness of God should mean oneness of humankind and it
was through the unification of hearts and reasoning that prosperity and hap-
piness could be attained.
Like Abduh, Dahlan advocated independent reasoning (A. ijtihad ) in
order to form individual opinions on Islamic matters, rather than unques-
tioning emulation (A. taqlid ) of the opinions of authority figures. Tajdid,
ijtihad and jihad all come from the same Arabic root jahada, but each has a
different connotation. For example, jihad fi sabilillah means ‘to struggle in the
path of God’; the struggle can be physical or non-­physical, intellectual, spir-
itual or material, as long as it is in service to God. Abduh did not emphasise
political jihad in his writings, but stressed ijtihad, the intellectual endeavour
to understand God’s message in order to improve society. Likewise, Dahlan
preferred to address social problems through interpretations of the Qur’an
and the hadith instead of relying first on the madhhab.
While the madhhab were consulted for comparative purposes (Noer
1973: 95–8), Dahlan believed that reason (A. aql ) was essential for under-
standing the Qur’an and the hadith and for addressing practical problems
that faced the Muslim community. Common sense (I. akal sehat), defined
as ‘reasoning that can make choices after careful consideration (I. cermat dan
pertimbangan) and can lead one to stay firm to these choices’ (Dahlan cited
in Mulkhan 1986: 11), should be employed in seeking goodness in this world
and happiness in the hereafter. In the same vein, he argued that any aspect
of adat that contradicted the God-­given human faculty of reason should be
regarded with suspicion.
At the same time, while Dahlan regarded reason as a necessary educa-
tional tool, it was not necessary for comprehending the divine. He contended
that reason could not grow without being watered by knowledge, but that
all effort to water reason with knowledge should be aligned with the will of
the Almighty (Dahlan in Mulkhan 1986: 11). In keeping with this view,
Muhammadiyah advised its followers that belief was the most important
factor in understanding matters related to the essence of God and his quali-
 o rganising da’wah a nd spreading r e f o r m | 41

ties and that reason was limited in comprehending these.2 In matters of belief
and worship (A. ibadah), Muslims should simply follow the Qur’an and the
hadith (in a manner that the Dutch termed ‘orthodox’). However, independ-
ent reasoning (ijtihad ) and the creation of guidelines based on the Qur’an
and the hadith were allowed and even encouraged for dealing with problems
for which analogy (A. qiyas) could be used by referring to the existing texts.3
Dahlan neither encouraged nor prohibited the study and teaching of
tasawwuf, although his main objective was active engagement within society.
Other Muhammadiyah members seemed to condemn local mysticism, magic
and other practices considered shirk or bid’ah, but not tasawwuf as such.
Some members translated Al-­Ghazali’s Ihya Ulum al-­Din. Other members,
such as Haji Abdul Malik Amrullah or Haji Rasul from Minangkabau, wrote
an article ‘tasawwuf ’ for the 1932–3 Muhammadiyah Almanac (Drewes
1959: 281), and his son, Hamka (1908–81) wrote a book Tasauf Modern
(1955 [1939]) in which he sought to modernise Sufism by focusing on spi­
rituality (happiness) without neglecting the worldly or the material (Hamka
1955 [1939]; Riddell 2001: 218). Hamka used a variety of sources, such as
the Qur’an, the hadith, Sufi literature by Al-­Ghazali, Muhammad Abduh’s
works, as well as texts by the Russian writer Leo Tolstoy (1828–1908) and
British philosopher Bertrand Russel (1872–1970). The Arabic word ‘din’ was
to surrender and to worship. The equivalent word was ‘agama’, a Sanskrit
word that had become popular usage, meaning the outcomes of belief in
the forms of ritual and action. The religion of Islam is a religion that calls its
adherents to work and explore the causes of dignity and greatness of nations
(Hamka 1939: 14, 24–5, 63–4). On progress (kemajuan), Hamka criticised
religious leaders who held that progress was an infidelity (kufr) and others
who said that religion was ignorance (kebodohan). Hamka asserted that reli-
gion was not the enemy of progress: it guided progress to achieve the well-­
being and peace of humankind, citing several Quranic passages sanctioning
all the good (A. khair, hasanah, thayyibah) (96–7).
Interestingly, Hamka did not make any reference to the Dutch colonial
ruler in the East Indies. But when he discusses what ‘keeping dignity’ means,
he mentions the word ‘penjajahan’ (colonisation): ‘To colonise others’ coun-
try is to the coloniser a dignity, but to the colonised it is a humiliation;
to resist colonisation is, to the colonised, redemption for dignity and to
 42 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

the coloniser it is a treachery. So what is the definition of dignity?’ (74).

Hamka recognised European progress and Muslims suffering from confusion
and blindness: ‘In the past Europe had religious fanatics but today it has
freed reason and will. The Prophet Muhammad taught Muslims to free their
reason from ignorance but today Muslims are suffering from the same disease
[as the old Europe]’ (93).

Accommodating Colonial and Christian Organisation

Modernist organisations selectively borrowed from Cairo and Meccan

forms of organisation and from Dutch colonial and Christian organisations.
The Muhammadiyah adopted Dutch and Christian models of organisa-
tional structure and vocabularies that they considered useful and practical
for defending the faith and carrying out their mission (Noer 1973: 306).
For example, it became common to use the Dutch terms ‘verslag’ (organi-
sational report), ‘hoofd-­bestuur’ (central administration), ‘voorzitter’ (head-
man), ‘statuten’ (rule, statute) and ‘kweekschool’ (native school for teachers),
among many others (Muhammadiyah 1923: 16–20). Meetings distinguished
between those that were held outdoors (openlucht), indoor meetings open to
the public (D. openbaar) and those that were closed (D. besloten). The same
terminology was sometimes applied to preaching (A. tabligh), described as
openbaar tabligh during the colonial time. Muhammadiyah leaders were care-
ful to operate within colonial constraints, submitting requests, for instance,
for conducting outdoor meetings. One example of an application letter dem-
onstrates that Muslim reformists realised the necessity of following colonial
law, since it specifies that speakers at outdoor meetings must ‘speak politely,
have good character, courage, and clarity and should not speak things against
the law’ (Mangkoeto 1936: 12–13). The letter refers to relevant Dutch laws,
including Article 153: ‘Anyone who by conscience expresses ideas in words,
written or in images, by insinuation, implicitly, interfering public order (I.
tertib umum), or resisting the authority of the Netherlands or Netherlands
Indies or inviting others to do so shall be subject to imprisonment for at
most 6 years or to a fine of at most f 300.’ Clearly concerned that its leaders
and spokespeople did not violate Dutch regulations, the letter also reminds
readers of Article 154: ‘Anyone who expresses hatred and enmity towards the
Netherlands Government or Netherlands Indies Government in the public
 o rganising da’wah and sprea di n g r e f o r m | 43

arena, shall be subject to imprisonment for at most six years or to a fine for
at most f 300.’ The public should be aware that Dutch law mandated a mini-
mum age of eighteen for Muhammadiyah membership and restricted any
activity regarded as infringing public security. Meanwhile, through courses
and printed publications, Muhammadiyah members were made aware about
their legal rights, including that of organising and conducting meetings, since
only those held outdoor required a governmental permit. The 1856 Press Act
had stipulated that ‘the publication of ideas and sentiments by the press and
the admission of printed matter from outside the Netherlands must not be
submitted to any restriction except such as needed to ensure public order’
(Adam 1994: 33).
Writing on da’wah in the 1930s, a Muhammadiyah author linked the
desire for an Indonesian renaissance (I. kebangunan) to political, social, eco-
nomic events and to Islamic movements in both ‘the East and the West’. He
noted that even though an ocean separated Indonesia from the rest of the
world, the country could feel the waves of global influences. It was necessary
to respond to these changes by replacing adat-­based strategies and techniques
(A.­/I. kaifiat and siasat) with new, effective ones, particularly in dealing with
the law of Netherlands Indies and the different forms of adat in Java and the
outer islands (Mangkoeto 1936: 5–7, 20–7).
While Muhammadiyah leaders often used their publications and speeches
to criticise adat elites as an impediment to progress, and derelict in their
duties as Muslims, they also defined Islam in relation to other religions, espe-
cially Christianity. On the other hand, dispite the use of the Qur’anic term
‘kafirs’ to identify non-­Muslims, Christians as such were rarely confronted
as enemies. Christian missionaries, however, were the object of criticism
because they were believed to be actively working to win new converts among
Muslims (Muhammadiyah 1923: 8–9, 1927). Another source of resentment
was the financial support that Christian missionaries received from colo-
nial administrators and foreign agencies, since Muhammadiyah members
were struggling to finance their activities through voluntary waqf and zakat.
They felt that it was important to establish Muhammadiyah schools and
mosques to prevent ‘Christianisation’, given missionary efforts to attract
converts through Christian churches, hospitals, orphanages, schools and
libraries. Muhammadiyah activists believed that by also establishing these
 44 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

institutions among Muslim communities, Islam would become strong. Yet,

Muhammadiyah publications included information about Christian holidays
as well as Islamic and Dutch imperial ones, which indicates recognition of
the presence of native Christians and colonialists (Muhammadiyah 1931: 6).
Some scholars have seen conflict as a dominating theme in
Muhammadiyah-­ Christian missions (see Shihab 1995), but the interac-
tion was multifaceted and dynamic. Dahlan himself had conversations with
priests, pastors and theosophists and that he also turned to Christian doctors
to help him with his health issues.4 Although undocumented, his reported
conversations with theosophists, mystics and Christian missionaries in Java
also helped to strengthen his belief that reform of adat was necessary.
Muhammadiyah preachers referred to Christians (along with Jews) as
the adherents of other religions, sometimes as the People of the Book, since
they had scriptures that came from the same God as Muslims. Although
they sought an internal Islamic unity, there were Muhammadiyah preachers
who promoted the idea of mutual respect toward the prophets (Muhammad
and ‘Isa al-­Masih or Jesus Christ) and invited collaboration in social activi-
ties (A. mu’amalah). Muhammadiyah preachers pointed to a shared belief
in a creator God; one Muhammadiyah speaker, Mas Mansoer, then the
head of the Surabaya branch, asked Christians to ‘return to a belief in one
God and respect prophets and to work together and help the activities of
Muhammadiyah because the outcome will be for everyone in the country
regardless of religion’ (Mansoer 1936: 10).
As one may expect, the Muhammadiyah had its opponents. For example,
Dahlan was criticised for using tables, chairs and blackboards in classrooms
like a foreigner, and some Islamic teachers called him a kiyai kafir (infidel
teacher) and others called him a Christian Muslim leader (I. kiyai Kristen) or,
recalling the fact that he had made the pilgrimage, an infidel hajji (haji kafir).
Dahlan dealt with such criticism by arguing that fundamental faith could be
derived from any techniques or technology, even those originating among
the kafir. He is reported to have asked a man, ‘When you came here from
Magelang [a city in Central Java], did you walk by foot or take a train?’ The
man answered, ‘I took a train.’ Dahlan replied, ‘Then when you go home,
you’d better walk­. . . [because] if you take a train you would be using the
means of the kafir’ (Salam 1963: 77–8).
 o rganising da’wah and sprea di ng r e f o r m | 45

The influence was evident in the Muhammadiyah’s attitude towards the

inclusion of women and girls in the movement, as in the Christian mis-
sionary organisations and schools. Dahlan created a unit initially called
Sapa Trisna (J. ‘the one who loves’) to address women’s rights and respon-
sibilities. In 1917 the name was changed to Aisyiyah, after Muhammad’s
wife Aishah, who was considered a model for women in their dual roles as
wives and thoughtful Muslims. Muhammadiyah also created a special unit
for girls called Nasyi’atul Aisyiyah (A. Builder of the Aisyiyah). Among the
first women organisations founded in the Indonesian-­Malay world, Aisyiyah
increasingly played a significant role in reforming and modernising the life
of Muslim women in Java and later in the outer islands. In Makassar, a
branch was established in 1926 (Rusin 1979: 28–30; Doorn-­Harder 2006:
78–81).

Bringing People in South Sulawesi into Modernist Islam

From its base in Central Java, the Muhammadiyah movement spread to

the other islands of the Indonesian archipelago, where a branch had been
established in 1926.5 At a national congress held in Yogyakarta, in 1931,
the Muhammadiyah leader H. Hasjim called on Muhammadiyah members
everywhere to follow the Qur’anic injunction to establish an association in
order to ‘enjoin good and forbid evil’ and affirm a united community of
Muslims who could consult with one another (musyawarah) in order to
achieve dignity (kemulyaan) and well-­being (kesejahteraan) in this world
and goodness in the afterlife (Hasjim 1931: 10–11). The following year
about six thousand people from all over the East Indies came to attend the
Muhammadiyah’s annual conference, on this occasion held in the city of
Makassar. The speakers, from Java, Sumatra and Sulawesi, and a Chinese
Muslim, all exhorted attendees to work for the progress of Islam and Islamic
law in the East Indies.6
By 1906, through a combination of force and treaty arrangements, the
Dutch had imposed colonial control in South Sulawesi. Islam’s spread here
had come relatively late, with the major conversions occurring in the early sev-
enteenth century, but in the ensuring years it had become important in con-
necting the three major groups, Bugis, the Makassarese, and the Mandarese,
as well as Arabs and their local descendants. Despite their d ­ ifferences in
 46 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

language and adat, and despite the persistence of many indigenous influ-
ences, Islam was a marker of shared identity even as local distinctiveness was
retained (Paesa 1960­/1: 134).
The first reformist organisation founded in South Sulawesi was probably
Al-­Jam’iyatul Mardhiyah (A. The Blessed Organisation) founded by Arab-­
descended (hadhrami) traders and preachers probably in 1913, according
to a reference concerning this organisation’s meeting (D. vergadering) held
on 1 February 1914. The establishment was influenced by the similar Arab-­
descended organisation in Jakarta: Jam’iyatul Khair (A. The Association of
the Good) and its branch on Salemo Island. Like other organisations in the
East Indies, al-­Jam’iyatul Mardhiyah created a bestuur (D. management):
president, secretary and commissaries, using Dutch terms. Several of the
figures also became the advisor and secretary of another organisation: Sarekat
Islam (SI) for the branch of Makassar.7 Sarekat Islam, founded in Solo, Java
(see Chapter III for further), founded its branch in Makassar on 17 April
1914.8
Years afterwards, the Muhammadiyah also penetrated South Sulawesi.
Among the first Muhammadiyah figures to gain prominence in Sulawesi
was also an Arab-­descended trader and preacher, Mansur al-­Yamani, who
came from Surabaya, East Java, and opened a shop in Makassar, in 1922. In
cooperation with Bugis preachers and traders, he founded a branch of the
Muhammadiyah in Makassar in 1926, where a local association, Shiratal
Mustaqim (A. The Straight Path) had been founded three years earlier.9 The
founders of Shiratal Mustaqim, Haji Abdul Razak and Haji Abdullah, were
former Sarekat Islam members who wanted to focus more on Islamic prop-
agation and education than on politics. Shiratal Mustaqim was organised
along modern lines, with a president, vice-­president, treasurer, secretary and
assistants (Bosra 2003: 150),10 but the leaders were split into a traditionalist
line represented by Haji Abdul Razak and a modernist, led by Haji Abdullah.
Although Haji Abdullah later became active in the Muhammadiyah, Shiratal
Mustaqim continued to operate, but was soon overshadowed by the greater
resources and experience of the Java-­based Muhammadiyah. While the two
organisations originally shared similar reformist ideas, disputes developed
over aspects of belief and practices, such as the date for celebrating the Eid
festival and the Eid of Sacrifice (I. Gerebeg Besar), and as Shiratal Mustaqim
 o rganising da’wah a nd spreading r e f o r m | 47

became associated in the popular mind with kolot, a more conservative form
of Islam.11
In Makassar and the surrounding areas the Muhammadiyah was intro-
duced to the people through an open, public gathering (D. openbarevergader-
ing), new for the time, as indicted by the vernacularisation of the Dutch term
vergadering as parahadele (Bosra 2003: 167). The local branch was under a
committee, headed by a voorzitter (D. chairperson) and a vicevoorzitter (D.
vice-­chairperson), and thus structurally set apart from the more traditional
Shiratal Mustaqim and the As’adiyyah school in Sengkang (see below) and
from the Khalwatiyyah Sufi order. Apart from sponsoring annual local and
national congresses that debated the issues facing Muslims, the Makassar
branch established a modern Dutch school (Hollands-Inlandse School)
that also gave some religious instruction, and the Islamic elementary Munir
School, built hospitals and orphanages, a boy scouts organisation known as
Hizbul Wathan, as well as other organisations for women and girls (Radjab
1999: 20–1).
The ‘newness’ of Muhammadiyah reformists was visible on different
levels, most obviously in the fact that they wore trousers rather than a sarong
and prayed without the turban. It was in the domain or religious praxis,
however, that Sulawesi Muslims were most clearly confronted with reformist
innovations. Muhammadiyyah members prayed on Fridays with one call to
prayer instead of two, and preachers gave sermons in Bugis, Makassarese or
Malay-­Indonesian rather than Arabic. In the month of Ramadan, the addi-
tional prayers (known as tarawih) were accompanied by bowing eleven times
rather than twenty-­three times, believing that the Prophet only bowed eleven
times despite his later caliphs performing more times. They began the Eid
prayer at the end of Ramadan in an open field in the city. They did not recite
the Qur’anic chapter Yasin during a funeral, as was traditional. Their female
teachers were encouraged to wear headscarves (I. tudung) (then covering the
greater, not yet whole, part of the hair), despite resistance among some teach-
ers. All of these beliefs and practices were considered new, and were therefore
either attractive or dangerous to many in South Sulawesi (Radjab 1999:
8–78). With the influence of reformist ideas, a wide organisational network
and links to Java and Sumatra, Muhammadiyah gradually became an impor-
tant anchor of religious-­social identity for an increased number of people
 48 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

in Sulawesi.12 South Sulawesi witnessed the emergence of newspapers and

periodicals,13 and in local publications the label ‘Islam moderen’, for example,
began to be used in opposition to ‘Islam kolot’ in the press.14
Muhammadiyah preachers stressed the need for kemajuan (progress)
if Muslims were to catch up advanced nations, and follow the Qur’an in
‘competing in goodness’ (quoting a Qur’anic passage ‘fastabiq al-­khairat’).
A preacher called Muslims in the East Indies to emulate other Muslims who
had travelled all over the world, to China, India and Europe, seeking the
‘foreign knowledge’ that included modern science (see Chapter VII). This
could then be used to improve conditions at home (Hasjim 1931). During
the twenty-­first Muhammadiyah Congress, held in Makassar in 1932, six
speakers addressed attendees from all over Indonesia, with speeches given in
Malay, Arabic, Dutch and Buginese. Muslims were again exhorted to work
toward becoming the best possible ummah by embracing progress based on
Islam and wetenschap (D. science).15
Although Hindu and Buddhist beliefs were hardly present in this region,
unlike in Java, certain local beliefs and practices deemed ‘animistic’ or ‘mysti-
cal’ were subject to da’wah (Paesa 1960­/1: 132–49). The Muhammadiyah
message on the oneness of God (tauhid ) had particular relevance in South
Sulawesi because of the concern to eliminate shirk (polytheistic) beliefs in the
tomanurung (divine beings who descended to Earth, linked with community
origins) and in the powers of sacred objects and regalia associated with the
tomanurung and the nobility. Muhammadiyah leaders invited preachers and
teachers from Java and Sumatra, the most famous of whom was Haji Abdul
Malik Karim Amrullah, or Hamka, as mentioned earlier. Hamka stayed in
South Sulawesi for several years (1932–4), establishing good relations with
Haji Abdullah, the Bugis vice-­chief of the Makassar Muhammadiyah.16 Haji
Abdullah was an activist-­preacher, ‘whose speech in Bugis was poignant, but
appealed to the heart, and whose movement was smooth like an eel, like an
old hero of the Gowa Kingdom’.17 He frequently confronted the Bugis tradi-
tion and Dutch attitudes he believed to be contradictory to Islam, emphasis-
ing the need for spiritual reform­– ­‘Woe to men who merely pay attention to
outer clothing when their inner part has no clothing.’18
Notwithstanding its expansion, the Muhammadiyah encountered resist-
ance, since people thought that they were introducing a new type of religious
 o rganising da’wah a nd spreading r e f o r m | 49

teaching, or supported ‘Wahhabism’, a Saudi strand of Islam that condemned

local and Sufi practices, or was emulating Dutch Christianity (Moentoe 1931:
60–4). A mosque led by a Muhammadiyah imam who did not use a stick
during the sermons and preached in Malay­/Indonesian rather than Arabic
was labelled ‘masjid moderen’ (modern mosque) or ‘masjid Muhammadiyah’.
The kolot people who were not members of the Muhammadiyah felt that they
could not use the mosque.19
In the wider Sulawesi world, Islamisation occurred by means of warfare,
trade and intermarriage. The newly reformed Muslims among Buginese and
Makassarese interacted with Christians such as the Torajans and and other
Muslims deemed more accommodationist toward local adat. The establish-
ment of the Muhammadiyah in Palopo in 1930, four years after its presence
in Makassar, received resistance from the traditional ruling elites led by Bone
and became subject to Dutch control. In Luwu, Muhammadiyah was able
to conduct its programmes and build schools, and on a dispute regarding
the collection and administration of the mosque funds, won the approval
by the Netherlands Indies Advisor for Native Affairs in Batavia, against the
traditional qadi of Luwu. Yet, among the Torajans, Bugis became associated
with Islam, and ethnic difference became an important reason why Islam did
not take a strong hold among the former (Bigalke 2005: 118–21).
The Muhammadiyah became increasingly involved in the larger move-
ment that had spread across the East Indies, aided by a multi-­ layered
organisation that included numerous committees devoted to such matters
as socio-­political issues, women’s affairs, youth affairs, scouting for boys,
education, library and archival resources, economic development and issuing
religious opinions (Peacock 1978: 50). Positioning itself within the Dutch
colonial framework, Muhammadiyah public presence was strengthened
through the publication of sermons, speeches, and reports of congresses.
It became increasingly not merely an association (I. persyarikatan), but a
movement (gerakan). In Makassar, an editorial in the local Fadjar Indonesia
commented that an association is where people just meet, like a marketplace,
whereas members of a movement are working together to move forward,
with a firm belief in the need to change society. Both leaders and mem-
bers of the Muhammadiyah aimed to open the way for a new awareness (I.
kesadaran) of Islamic spirituality as well as rationality, progress, and equality.
 50 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

Muhammadiyah writers and activists called on their fellows to pay atten-

tion to policies that had worked and those that had not worked: ‘where
are Muhammadiyah now heading?’ asked the editorial. ‘Have they already
fulfilled the needs of religion, the economy, industry, agriculture, trade, and
other matters?’ Islam should conform to the age of progress, the editorial
asserted.20
While Islamic reform was often defined ‘through its opposition to
Western cultural and political hegemony­. . . at the same time [it] made use,
where appropriate, of Western knowledge and technology to drive forward
its purposes and came to be fashioned in part by its interaction with it’
(Robinson 2008: 2–3, 21). But their motives and the sources they used for
reform were primarily Islamic. The Muhammadiyah reformers in Sulawesi,
male and female, sought to improve the conditions in local society, employ-
ing modern means of sustaining progress by reading newspapers and by the
establishment of schools, mosques, orphanages, clinics and congresses.21
In many cases, Muhammadiyah preachers, teachers and activists coex-
isted and even worked with the adat, Dutch colonial institutions and other
Muslim groups. In Sengkang, Wajo, in 1938, Muslims celebrated the Eid
al-­Fitri (Festival of Returning to Purity after Fasting) attended and joined
by local headman and Dutch officials including controller Wesseling and his
wife.22 In 1941, the Muhammadiyah of Sulawesi held its annual congress
in Sengkang, Wajo, where the zelf-­bestuurders attended and supported the
event. In becoming inclusive of Muslim diverse groups, the Muhammadiyah
planned to conduct a tabligh event involving preachers from the As’adiyah
Pesantren, the Khalwatiyyah Sufi order, newly convert Muslims, as well as
the Muhammadiyah.23
Formulating Islamic reform and modernity was not only the agenda
of the ‘modernists’, however. It is sometimes forgotten that in their own
way many individuals whom the modernists disparaged as ‘traditionalists’
also aimed at reforming Muslim society. For the traditionalists such as the
Nahdlatul ‘Ulama in Java and As’adiyyah in Sulawesi, Islamic reform did not
entail rejection of teachings propounded by earlier scholars nor was it against
all local customs. Like the modernists, they also selectively employed modern
features­– ­especially organisational methods and educational strategies­– ­but
within a framework of maintaining old ways that they considered still crucial
 organising da’wah and sprea di n g r e f o r m | 51

and relevant. We now turn to consider the alternative paths they took in the
quest to become ‘modern’.

Making Islam Traditionalist: Hasyim Asy’ari and Nahdlatul ‘Ulama

in Java

For Islam kolot, which local press used in order to refer to the conservative or
traditional Muslim groups, being modern was also intimately related to the
goal of reforming Muslim society. This was to be achieved without compro-
mising the religious authority of the past as expressed in the writings of the
revered scholars, Imam al-­Shafi’i (767–820 AD) and Abu Hasan al-­Ash’ari
(874–936 AD). The traditionalists believed that these interpretations had been
carefully extrapolated from the Qur’an and the authentic hadith and they
trusted the piety and discipline of the early scholars. They, too, embraced
aspects of modernity that suited their reform goals and purposes, primarily
through organisations that did not substantially differ from those of Islam
moderen.
The establishment of the NU in 1926 was a response to the fall of the
Caliphate in Turkey in 1923, and to the penetration of the ‘puritanist’
Wahhabi doctrine coming from Saudi Arabia. This impetus followed an
incident in which the Saudi Government (that was attempting to establish
itself as the Islamic caliphate) barred a representative of a stream of Islamic
thought of Ahl al-­Sunnah wa al-­Jama’ah in Java from attending the Caliphate
Conference because it was not an official organisation. However, the NU was
also founded as an alternative to the encroaching modernist organisations,
the Muhammadiyah and Sarekat Islam, which traditionalists believed under-
mined the madhhab and long-­standing Javanese religious practices. Studies
of the early years of the NU have given particular attention to the leadership
of Wahab Chasbullah (1898–1971), who has been considered more recep-
tive than his peers to the incorporation of modern organisational methods,
schooling, and intellectual forums (Bruinessen 1994: 28–38). In the follow-
ing, however, I focus on Hasyim Asy’ari (1871–1947) and on his contribu-
tion to the modern, organisational aspect of the NU.
A Javanese kiyai (religious teacher) and a graduate from Mecca, Hasyim
Asy’ari became the chairman of the new NU association in 1926 when it
met in Surabaya. He was appointed to this position in preference to the
 52 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

teacher-­activist Wahab Chasbullah because he was well-­known to both the

NU leadership and the kiyai of pesantrens throughout Java. Asy’ari was born
in Jombang in Central Java, where his grandfather had founded a pesantren.
After returning from Mecca, in 1899 Asy’ari established another pesantren
in neighbouring Tebuireng, in part to preserve the theological teaching of
Ahl al-­Sunnah wa al-­Jama’ah (‘The People of the Way of the Prophet and
the Community of Muslims) (Muzadi 2006: 6–7). The colonial government
­categorised Hasyim Asyari and his group as ‘strictly orthodox’, and considered
that they were reacting against the reforms advocated by the Muhammadiyah
and other modernists, and against the Wahhabis, who had attacked the madh­
hab and had demolished holy graves in Mecca. According to a Dutch report
of the NU Congress held on 13 October 1927, ‘the orthodox ulama, when
questions of religious finesse are not involved, are realists and practical con-
servatives who have a really classical ability to portray the existing situation as
legal’ (cited in Penders 1977: 270–2). According to this governmental report,
speakers at the congress praised colonial religious policies and demanded that
‘the freedom of true Islam without interfering in the actual religious aspects’
be maintained. They also were critical of others who ‘misused religion for
political purposes’. With their focus on the religious sphere, leaders and
members of the NU were as critical as modernist Muhammadiyah members
of bid’ah, which they feared may be heretic, although they differed in judging
which practices should be prohibited (Effendi 2008: 79–80).
While concentrating on the pesantren and religious leaders in Java’s rural
areas, NU also sought to reform Muslim communities by adopting modern
institutions: cooperatives, small businesses (A. syirkah), waqf, orphanages,
and schools teaching both Islam and science, albeit not to the same extent as
the Muhammadiyah. The NU also wanted to help ‘backward, ignorant and
poor’ farmers gain more access to education, and thus provide them with
opportunities for greater prosperity.24 Many Islamic teachers in Java were also
involved in farming and trade besides preaching and teaching in their pesan­
tren, and were therefore personally aware of the economically and spiritually
deprived lives of rural Javanese.25
The NU conducted its early meetings in Arabic, while adopting an
organisational structure that was relatively new for that time. This structure
comprised the Consultative Board (A. shar’iyyah, shuriyyah), which included
 organising da’wah and sprea di ng r e f o r m | 53

the chairman (A. ra’is), vice-­chairman and various secretaries, assistants and
advisors as well as an Executive Board (A. tanfidhiyyah), which also consisted
of a chairman, a secretary, a treasurer and commissioners. The organisation
was registered with the colonial administration on 30 February 1930. Like
the Muhammadiyah, the NU understood that it needed to operate within
the legal framework of the Dutch Government (Ismail 2003: 25–8). In the
official registration document, the NU Board outlined its efforts: to create
connections between the ‘ulama and the recognised madhhabs; to ascertain
that Islamic books used in schools were in accordance with the Ahl al-Sunnah
wa al-­Jama’ah; to disseminate Islam through theologically and legally correct
means; to increase the number of Islamic schools; to focus on matters related
to mosques and schools, orphans and the poor; and to establish institutions
in order to advance agriculture, trade and business without contravening
Islam tenets (Feillard 1999: 12–13; Muzadi 2007: 62).
The more conservative members of NU questioned this modern organi-
sation, concerned that they were heretic innovations that did not exist during
the Prophet’s time. In response, the NU Consultative Board stated that
the organisational structure adopted was a tool for sustaining Islamic theo­
logy, rather than the objective itself, so that Muslims would affiliate with
Islamic organisations rather than becoming members of others that were
‘non-­Islamic’. If membership of any organisation harmed Islam, it would be
prohibited (haram); if it benefited Islam, it would be permitted (halal ); and
if it neither harmed nor benefited Islam, it would be permissible (A. mubah)
(Masyhuri 1997: 205). The statements of NU leaders thus showed some
degree of flexibility, both in their intentions and in their judgements about
the advantages and disadvantages of implementing new social practices. For
them, formal or modern organisations were simply instruments (alat) for
reaching their religious and social goals. The NU became associated with
‘traditionalist’ Islam primarily because of its emphasis on the madhhab, the
leadership of religious scholars and the educational traditions transmitted
through pesantren (Dhofier 1995). In this context, ‘traditionalist’ thus refers
to a process of making an authoritative religious heritage relevant for address-
ing contemporary problems. In NU eyes, the discipline, piety and tradition
of past scholarship was considered sufficiently authentic, coherent and elabo-
rated to provide a moral guide in addressing new problems (Masyhuri 1997:
 54 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

137). The NU religious traditionalism did not mean rejection of reform and
modern means.
Like Muhammadiyah, NU sought to disseminate the Islamic faith and
values among Javanese people before moving out to other parts of the East
Indies. In keeping with other Ahl al-­Sunnah wa al-­Jama’ah followers, NU
scholars followed the Islamic legal-­moral traditions of the past in assessing
those new ideas and activities that were mandatory (A. wajib), recommended
(A. mandub), permissible (A. mubah), reprehensible (A. makruh) or forbid-
den (A. haram) (Dhofier 1995). These categories offered them a ‘sophisticated
yet handy tool of orientation of moral action accessible to all practitioners
[that] facilitate[d] determining the degree of permitted creative interpreta-
tion versus undue innovations’ (Salvatore 2009: 20).
NU resembled the Muhammadiyah in its wariness towards religious
innovation, but there were differences in the way they interpreted specific
changes. NU members worked to preserve early texts that had been produced
in accordance with the Prophet’s Tradition as recorded in the hadith (A.
ahl al-­sunnah) in order to forestall and trend for Muslims to turn to ‘reli-
gious innovation’ (A. ahl al-­bid’ah). Asy’ari collected Arabic books on various
issues, such as differences in belief (A. iman versus kufr) and ethics (A. good
versus bad akhlaq). One fatwa listed four types of kufr, defined as ‘concealing
the truth’, or disbelief: 1) the disbelief of rejection (A. kufr inkar), meaning
one who knows God but rejects Him as the God; 2) the disbelief of denial (A.
kufr juhud ), meaning one who knows God in his heart, but does not admit
it verbally; 3) the disbelief of stubbornness (A. kufr inad ), referring to one
who knows God in his heart and says so, but does not practise His law; and
4) the disbelief of hypocrisy (A. kufr nifaq), meaning one who claims belief
verbally, but not in the heart (Masyhuri 1997: 61–2). From this standpoint,
the term kufr, sometimes used to label the Dutch and other Christians in the
East Indies, was neither a monolithic nor a simple concept.
Beyond the question of belief, Muslim reformers framed Islam in terms
of ethics. Hasyim Asy’ari thus stressed the moral values of the pious early fol-
lowers of the Prophet, which incorporated courage, trustworthiness, love of
action, love of knowledge, solidarity, equality and justice. He and other NU
scholars also issued fatwas on various subjects, including the ethics of learn-
ing and teaching, maintenance of theology, marriage, fasting, the observance
 organising da’wah and sprea di n g r e f o r m | 55

of Muhammad’s birthday and the importance of following the teachings of

the salaf (the earliest generation of Muslims) (Asy’ari in Hadziq 2007). NU
scholars also issued fatwas regarding the legitimacy of Sufi orders: whether
or not particular Sufi orders were authoritative. Other NU ‘ulama addressed
a wide range of issues of the time, including the permissibility of drawing
animals, playing musical instruments for entertainment and reading books
authored by kafir. One of these fatwas, issued in response to a question as to
whether a woman could give a speech before a male audience, laid down that
this was permissible because the human voice does not issue from a part of
the female anatomy that should not be exposed (A. aurat) (Masyhuri 1997:
116). What characterised the NU’s responses to new predicaments was the
fact that their fatwas were based on a combination of reason and scriptural
authority.
No women played a part in the early NU leadership until the meeting
of Muslim women in 1938 and the establishment of NU Muslimat in 1946
(Doorn-­Harder 2006: 81). From 1938, a number of NU women began to
promote participation and involvement in the NU programmes; they articu-
lated the ideas of progress in this world and reaching happiness in the hereaf-
ter. The rise of an NU women’s organisation may be attributed to a number
of factors: the emerging ideas about equality of men and women in teaching
and learning Islamic knowledge; the rise of mixed-­sex schools and courses for
girls and women; the rise of women working outside of the household; and
the rise of women’s organisations demanding rights to the colonial power
and male authority. Wahab Chasbullah and Hasyim Asy’ari supported the
creation of this organisation (P. P. N. U. 1979: 39–42).
By the mid-­1930s, as NU expanded beyond East Java, the NU had
had, approximately, some 90 branches, with 400 kiyais and 67,000 mem-
bers. During the colonial period the number of branches increased to 120
(Bruinessen 1994: 48). However, individual NU members from Java had
visited South Sulawesi since 1930.26 The NU’s late arrival in the outer islands
can be partly attributed to the focus on East Java, and a relative lack of inter-
est in expanding the organisation beyond the pesantren, which were mostly in
Java. In addition, the Shafi’i madhhab and the Ahl al-Sunnah wa al-­Jama’ah
theology were quite well-­established in the outer islands and there appeared
to be no immediate need for strengthening through new organisations.
 56 | i slam and col o nia l is m

Making Islam Traditionalist in South Sulawesi: Muhammad As’ad

In South Sulawesi the traditionalist Ahl al-Sunnah wa al-­Jama’ah doctrine was

transmitted by a Bugis teacher, Muhammad As’ad (1907–52), who founded
an Islamic school, the Madrasah Al-­Arabiyyah al-­Islamiyyah (A. Islamic
Arabic School (MAI) that represented ‘traditionalist reform’ due to As’ad’s
emphasis on teaching and the giving of the Friday khutbah in Arabic. As’ad
preserved the manggaji kita, which involved memorising and reciting Arabic
books. But, gradually, his school in Sengkang followed a classroom system,
in addition to the manggaji kita, in part as a response to the penetration of
the Muhammadiyah organisation and schools. As’ad students later expanded
educational network and organisation to the eastern part of Indonesia.
Muhammad As’ad (locally known as Haji Sade) was born in Mecca
(called Tana Marajae among Bugis or Butta Lompoa among Makassarese) in
1907 to Bugis parents and received an Islamic education, studying at differ-
ent madrasah, including Madrasah al-­Falah and the mosques in Mecca and
Medina. When As’ad moved to Sulawesi in 1928, he took up residence in the
small town of Sengkang, where his preaching and teaching introduced local
society to his reformist ideas. He then began working towards a programme
of Islamic preaching (A. jama’ah tabligh) (B. tabale) and establishing a madra-
sah for different elementary and secondary levels (see further Chapter VII).
The traditionalist reformists like Muhammad As’ad, who had grown up in
Arabia, ‘wore a turban and dressed like an Arab’.27 As a preacher, As’ad chal-
lenged a number of traditional customs: for example, he prohibited Muslims
from paying a fee as a substitute for a missed obligatory prayer, and denied a
noble family’s request to bury their father’s body inside a mosque. While he
concentrated primarily on preaching and teaching, As’ad also wrote several
short treatises, some in Arabic and some in Bugis, concerning aspects of
Islamic faith, the life of the Prophet, ritual, Qur’anic exegesis, ethics, and
Arabic (Manguluang 1990: 1–15). In his Arabic works28 he censured the
modernists who translated part of the Friday’s sermon into non-­Arabic lan-
guages, but was equally critical of some practices of the Tariqah Khalwatiyyah
and of local Sufi leaders deemed inauthentic (Bosra 2003: 228–9). It is thus
apparent that while the modernists have been regarded as the major critics
of Sufi orders (Laffan 2011), their religious legitimacy was also questioned
 organising da’wah and sprea di n g r e f o r m | 57

by some traditionalist reformers such as NU scholars in Java, As’ad and his

students in South Sulawesi.
As’ad was also concerned about some contemporary religious issues,
particularly the lack of Islamic propagators at a time when he believed that
‘other religions and nations’ (presumably Christianity and the Dutch) were
hostile towards Islam. He was convinced that one way to sustain Islam was
to preach solely in Arabic not only on Fridays but on other occasions as well.
In this he was clearly opposed to other preachers, including Muhammadiyah
­modernists, who delivered their Friday sermons in local languages. Conversely,
As’ad used Bugis script to reach local audiences and defend his views, making
reference not only to the Qur’an and the Prophet’s sayings, but to reformist
scholars such as Muhammad Abduh. Citing Abduh, As’ad argued that Arabic
had universal applicability and questioned those who promoted non-­Arabic
Friday sermons. Muhammad Abduh, As’ad argued, had helped spread Islam
in Europe by giving his Friday sermons in Arabic rather than in a local,
European language. It was not necessary for translations to be provided, for
the Friday sermon, he said, was a ritual (A. ibadah), not an ordinary form
of advice (A. nasihah). While delivering Friday sermons in a language other
than Arabic was a ‘modern practice’ (I. perbuatan moderen) at odds with the
consensus of both early scholars and their contemporary successors, sermons
partly in Arabic and partly in another language was also religious innovation,
which merited disapproval although not categorical prohibition (As’ad 1940:
1–18, 35–43).
Like many other NU members, As’ad believed that the consensus (A.
ijma’ or mufakat) of Muslim scholars was essential for the path of true believ-
ers (mu’min). Humankind had enjoyed the ‘best time’ during the life of the
Prophet, with the time of his companions and their followers ranked only
slightly below. As a follower of the Shafi’i school of thought (rather than,
for example, Shi’ism, Khawarij or Mu’tazila), As’ad cited past scholarship to
argue that anything that appeared at odds with the Qur’an, the hadith, schol-
arly consensus (ijma’ ) or the atsar (the Prophet’s companions’ sayings) was
an unacceptable religious innovation. By contrast, a good act that conformed
to the teachings of past religious authorities was an accepted innovation
(bid’ah hasanah). School and organisation were thus deemed bid’ah hasanah.
Muslims should follow the authoritative schools of thought because they had
 58 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

little capacity to extrapolate laws by themselves from the Qur’an and hadith
(As’ad 1940: 74–8). His views on the use of Arabic in Friday sermons are a
prime example of his insistence that ritual had to remain in accord with the
ways of the Prophet, his companions and the consensus.
As’ad’s emphasis on preserving Arabic on Friday sermons, his constant
reference to scholarly consensus and religious authority and his Arab style of
dress made him kolot in the eyes of the moderen Muhammadiyah activists, but
he was also a keen educational, social and religious reformer whose reputation
reached well beyond Sulawesi. He was reported to resist the ‘traditional-
ist–modernist’ dichotomy, stating: ‘We recognize neither kolot (traditional)
nor moderen (modern); what we need is truth and goodness wherever found.
Our goal is to raise the religion of God and to guide the people to follow
His path’ (Nawir 2000 [1999]: 82). Such views found support among other
Muslim outlets; an editorial in the local newspaper, Fadjar Indonesia, con-
cerned about the tension among Muslims, also stressed that ‘we know in
Islam neither kolot nor moderen’.29
While Islamic reform suggests an ‘assault on the authority of the past,
jettisoning much of the scholarship of the Islamic world’ (Robinson 2008: 9),
traditionalist reformers such as As’ad and his students did not necessarily view
it that way. They used modern tools selectively and endorsed the teaching of
modern skills that they saw as useful and relevant in reforming the commu-
nity. Despite their adherence to the past scholarship, not all new practices
were rejected. For example, As’ad and other teachers in his Sengkang school
adopted print technology for disseminating their ideas in Arabic and local
languages. In its development, the school adopted the teaching of science
and a new organisation. One of his students, Abdurrahman Ambo Dalle
(1900–96), created a new organisation called Dar al-­Da’wah wal-­Irsyad (A.
the House of Mission and Guidance) in 1947. Ambo Dalle refused to join
or establish a branch of the Java-­based ‘traditionalist’ NU, although they
too belonged to the Ahl al-­Sunnah wa al-­Jama’ah.30 He then introduced the
teaching of science (considered modern), in addition to the Arabic language
and traditional Islamic studies.31
Ahmad Dahlan and Hasyim Asy’ari in Java and Muhammad As’ad and
his students in South Sulawesi exemplify some of the early voices of Islamic
reform and modernisation in Indonesian-­Malay Muslim communities. They
 organising da’wah and sprea di n g r e f o r m | 59

used modern organisational structures, and new vocabularies to offer dif-

ferent ways of interpreting the Qur’an and the hadith and early Islamic
literature. They drew on both faith and reason in judging what new practices
and technologies would be considered lawful or unlawful, good or bad. They
upheld colonial law and accepted the necessity of maintaining certain forms
of social order while promoting reform.
While Malay graduates of Islamic Studies in Mecca and Cairo formed
connections to their peers in the East Indies, and were likewise inspired to
promote reform and modernisation, activities took on a different character
in British Malaya as compared to Dutch-­ruled areas. This was partly because
reform in Malaya was not undertaken by community-­based organisations like
the Muhammadiyah and the NU and partly because sultans and the ‘ulama
worked together under British protection. From the 1910s until the 1930s,
Malay reform movements developed in mosques and schools and through
publications that generally accepted the reality of collaboration between the
British and the Malay elite. Although Muhammad Abduh and other reform-
ers were influential in Malaya, this influence was expressed in quite different
ways from Java and Sulawesi.
More than their counterparts in the Dutch Indies, Malay modernists
and traditionalists in Malaya relied much on print technology and focused
on publishing newspapers, periodicals and books. The Indian press was under
tight surveillance after the Indian Mutiny, when the Vernacular Press Act of
1878 was passed to control any challenge to British rule, but similar measures
were not adopted in Malaya (Adam 1994: 31–3). As a result, periodicals and
newspapers flourished, established both by modernists and the traditional-
ists (Adnan 2003: 47–62). The story of these ideas, which primarily were
produced through writing and circulated through publication of journals and
newspapers, is the focus of the next section.

Making Islam Reformist in Malaya: Tahir Jalaluddin and Syed Al-­Hadi

A number of Malay scholars were identified with the modernists, the so-­called
kaum muda (young faction). Muhammad Tahir Jalaluddin (1869–1956) and
Syed Shaykh Al-­Hadi (1867–1934) were regarded as among the pioneers
of the kaum muda generation in the Malay world because they advocated
tajdid of Malay society by returning to the fundamental creed but also by
 60 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

using ijtihad to deal with matters unmentioned in the Qur’an and the hadith
(Hassan 1973; Aziz 2003: 1–3). Abduh and other Egyptian reformers influ-
enced Malay reformers. Like the modernists in the East Indies, the Malays
stressed the importance of literacy and education, but they did not create
mass organisations like the Muhammadiyah to establish schools, clinics and
orphanages. Nor did they mirror NU in working to consolidate the ‘ulama of
pesantren. Some built religious associations centred on mosques and schools,
but these remained limited to particular local areas and did not develop into
large organisations with branches in other parts of Malaya.
Tahir Jalaluddin was born in 1869 in Ampek Angkek, Minangkabau
(West Sumatra). He attended a Dutch school for natives for three years
in Minangkabau, and then he studied Islam in Mecca and astronomy (A.
ilm al-­falaq) at Al-­Azhar, Cairo, before moving to Malaya in 1899. When
Snouck was in Mecca, he noticed that Jalaluddin was one of the non-­Arab
prayer leaders (A. imam) in the Grand Mosque. He described Jalaluddin as ‘a
person of Minangkabau origin regarded by the Jawi community in Mecca as
the most talented and the most knowledgeable among them. All the pilgrims
from Indonesia visited him in Mecca’ (Steenbrink 1984: 140; Zakaria 2006:
140). Jalaluddin was influenced by the teachings of Muhammad Abduh
and befriended the influential Egyptian scholar Muhammad Rashid Ridha
(1865–1935), as well as making contact with other Malays and Javanese,
such as Ahmad Dahlan discussed earlier (Roff 1967: 60).
Jalaluddin became a mufti (A. foremost scholar who gives authoritative
fatwa) in the state of Johor, and, in 1911, he accompanied Sultan Idris to
the inauguration of King George V in London (Ramli 1980: viii). He is
probably best known, however, for his editorship of a new Singapore-­based
journal, Al-­Imam (A. ‘The Leader’), published from 27 July 1906 until 25
December 1908. Modelled on Cairo’s Al-­Manar (A. ‘The Lighthouse’), Al-­
Imam aimed to disseminate reformist ideas and information, and sought to
‘remind the mindless, wake the sleeping up, show the deviant, and invite the
good with wisdom’ (Ton 2000: 157–66, 181). Tahir Jalaluddin, Syed Al-­
Hadi and other Al-­Imam writers were critical of Malay rulers, the aristocracy,
and Malay Muslims more generally, but they were not interested in creating
or supporting a global Islamic caliphate to unite all Muslim communities,
especially those now living under European rule.
 o rganising da’wah and sprea di ng r e f o r m | 61

Like Abduh, Jalaluddin used reformist language and terms to address

problems of ‘Malay backwardness’ and promoted the need for change by
writing about ‘progress and freedom of the ummah’.32 He used Christian
sources selectively in order to support the idea of liberation, and even referred
to Martin Luther in making his point about the necessity for reform within
the Islamic tradition. Like Dahlan, Jalaluddin was an advocate of ijtihad on
contemporary matters. This was part of a broad effort on the part of kaum
muda to change Malay attitudes and move beyond internal disputes about
non-­essential matters (A. furuiyyah), such as whether people were allowed to
read prayers or were required to memorise them and whether or not it was
obligatory to give alms for the building of mosques. One particular exam-
ple concerned religious regulations regarding dog saliva. Traditionalists, for
whom dog saliva was unclean, said that any contact required an individual to
ritually purify themselves by rubbing the place with dirt seven times. Some
kaum muda, however, contended that this was totally unnecessary, since dogs
were ritually clean and could even be kept as pets (Musa and Kelantan in Roff
1974: 153–69).
As mentioned in the Introduction, Arabs or hadhramis played a cru-
cial role in the Islamisation of the Indonesian-­Malay world. Syed Al-­Hadi
(1867–1934), born in Malacca, to an Arab (hadhrami) father and a Malay
mother, was a prominent figure in Malaya’s kaum muda faction. Unlike
Tahir Jalaluddin, who studied for long periods in Mecca and Cairo, Al-­Hadi
travelled to Riau, Singapore, Terengganu and other parts of Malaya, merely
visiting Cairo and only going to Mecca for the hajj. In Singapore he was
closely involved with Al-­Imam, where he established from 1906 a reputation
as a prolific writer of essays and novels. As the owner of the Jelutong Press,
he founded another journal Al-­Ikhwan (A. ‘The Brethren’) in 1926, which
published articles on the need to purify Islam, pointed to the reforms and
progress of more advanced Muslim countries and stressed Islam’s flexibility
in adjusting to modern conditions (Bakar 1994: 75). Al-­Hadi also founded
another journal, Saudara, a Malay­/Sanskrit word for ‘the Brethren’ in 1928
in Pulau Pinang. Like Jalaluddin, Al-­Hadi shared Abduh’s ideas about Islam,
but he was more of a ‘scholar’ (A. alim) and his writings were so forthright
that he has been termed a polemicist (Roff 1967: 63). Having witnessed
economic and political development in Singapore and Pulau Pinang under
 62 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

the British, in contrast to economic backwardness and political conservatism

under the Malay sultans, Al-­Hadi reiterated the message that Europeans were
progressing while Malays were regressing, but under the law of God, progress
was possible for any society where people worked hard and acted according
to reason. He argued that if Malays wished to move forward, they should
emulate European attitudes and methods:

They [Europeans] make progress everyday, and as they progress faster

towards the richness and glory of life, the natives descend further into
poverty and humiliation. Indeed, there is nothing wrong with the actions of
the European nations. They are just pursuing the demands of a God-­given
human nature, common to all human beings, which is to demand superior-
ity. The Qur’an chapter 30:30 suggests that such is the natural instinct that
God has implanted in mankind. This human nature is what the philosopher
Darwin called the law of competitiveness­. . . in the promotion of their lives­
. . . which God has instilled in all humans, the will to achieve progress and
attain perfection. (Al-­Hadi cited in Gordon 1999: 214)

For Al-­Hadi, prosperity and dignity were not the property of any particular
nation or race, because the law of nature was divine and universal. Since
Europeans had advanced in many domains of life, the Malays should follow
in this shared path. It was not Islam or the Qur’an that made the Malays poor,
backward and illiterate, but their conservatism, by which he meant the lack of
rational interpretations of sacred texts and understanding of the natural law
decreed by God. Al-­Hadi accused the kaum tua of accepting the opinions of
Islamic scholars (expressed verbally or in books) in the assumption that these
were based on the Qur’an and the hadith. The kaum muda position was that
no individual opinions were sacrosanct, and only the Qur’an and hadith were
indisputable. When a difference in opinion occurred, it was obligatory for
Muslims to examine the truth of the Qur’an and from this base develop their
own independent reasoning (in Gordon 1999: 201–2).
Al-­Hadi showed generally positive attitudes toward the British in Malaya.
But he showed at times ambivalent attitudes. On the one hand, he praised the
British modernisation of Malaya. On the other hand, in an article published
in al-­Ikhwan, al-­Hadi wrote, ‘for if we are conscious and still possess the
faculty of thought, then how can we allow another people to rule over us, to
 organising da’wah and sprea di n g r e f o r m | 63

be our guardian in our beloved watan?’ He also criticised the prosperity of

the British and European capitalists in Malaya when most Malays remained
backward and poor (Al-­Hadi cited in Alatas 2005: 266–7). Yet al-­Hadi was
critical more towards the Malay sultans and ‘kaum tua’ ‘ulama who resisted
a rational understanding of Islam. One of his criticisms was directed to the
kaum tua ‘ulama’ of Kelantan who banned his periodicals Al-­Ikhwan and
Saudara, writing ‘which through the implementation of British justice, has
just emerged from barbarism into the modern world and in which it seems
there are still people who believe in the words of the religious authorities
who have never opened their eyes to the dawn of modernity and freedom of
thoughts such as we have under the protection of the three colored-­flag’ (Al-­
Hadi cited in Alatas 2005: 265).
For Al-­Hadi, religion and rationality were compatible. Even ritual in
Islam should be rationally understood and should benefit the practitioners.
Thus, the five pillars of Islam were not merely an ibadah for the hereafter,
but for this world and the good in this world; to be good in this world was
the only way to gain blessings in the hereafter. The religion of Islam, Al-­Hadi
believed, was the true and eternal religion, compatible with the rationality
of all ages. Syed Al-­Hadi reconciled revelation (wahyu) and reason (akal ) to
the extent of arguing that all Islamic rituals (such as the five pillars) had to be
rational and beneficial to the well-­being (sejahtera) of people in this world,
not merely in the hereafter as many ‘ulama believed. Quoting Qur’anic
verses, Al-­Hadi argued that Islam honours reason because without it no one
would recognise Allah, and because Allah asks human beings to use their
reason and condemns those who do not. In interpreting the verse ‘no com-
pulsion in religion’ (a verse that Snouck Hurgronje quoted but for a different
purpose), Al-­Hadi said that one should only accept a rational religion. He
believed that Islam protected religious freedom (I. kebebasan ‘itikad ), for the
Prophet Muhammad had showed compassion and kindness to people and
societies who followed other faiths. Thus, for example, Islam allows Muslims
to marry kafir women of the People of the Book (A. kafir kitabi), and in these
cases Muslim husbands should give religious freedom to their wives (Al-­Hadi
1931: 13–14, 23–5, 41–2).
Syed Al-­ Hadi maintained that when non-­ Muslims were subjects of
Muslim rulers, they paid taxes for their own protection but felt that in return
 64 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

they should be given religious and cultural freedom. Islam, Al-­Hadi contin-
ued, combined goodness in this world and in the hereafter in the same way:
One was not better than the other. Islam comprises the material and the
spiritual, incorporating faith, ritual, laws, and ethics. From this perspective
Al-­Hadi and other reformers were critical of the lack of the ‘Protestant work
ethic’ in Malay society. By emphasising that Islam and reason were compa­
tible, Al-­Hadi emphasised a rational and individualistic approach to religion
(Al-­Hadi 1931: 45–6, 50–60).
Kelantan, however, had its own reformist journal­– ­Pengasuh­ – ­written
in Jawi and other periodicals written in Latin script. Kaum muda publica-
tions, such as al-­Urwat al-­Wuthqa (A. ‘The Strong Bind’), Al-­Imam, Saudara
(M. ‘The Brother’) and A-­Riwayat (A. ‘The Story’) and, in Kelantan, jour-
nals such as Pengasuh and al-­Hidayah (A. ‘The Guidance’) were associated
with the kaum tua, but they, too, reinforced the message of the urgency of
reform if the Malays were to advance (Roff 1961; Bakar 1994).33 The editor
of Pengasuh emphasised the importance of publishing: ‘Among advanced
nations, newspapers are like food and clothing that they used­. . . perhaps just
as the Malays eat rice with fish’.34 One of the founders of Pengasuh was Tok
Kenali, who may be regarded by some as kaum tua due to his emphasis on the
Arabic language and Jawi script, but he was indeed a keen reformer of Malay
Islam through schooling and writing.

Making Islam Reformist in Kelantan: Tok Kenali and Pengasuh

Muhammad Yusuf bin Ahmad (1869–1933), known as Tok Kenali, assumed

an important role in reforming the Malay educational system and society.
He was born in Kota Bharu, the capital of Kelantan, in 1868, his father
being an impoverished rice farmer. After an education in Arabic and Islamic
knowledge in the mosque in Kota Bharu, Kenali studied for twenty-­two
years in Mecca and visited Cairo for several years. Several of his teachers,
including Shaykh Ahmad Khatib from Minangkabau and Shaykh Ahmad
al-­Fatani, taught other students from the East Indies and Malaya, but he was
also influenced by the writings of Muhammad Abduh, apart from his study
of Sufism. Tok Kenali was influenced by Abduh’s promotion of modern
education and cooperation with sultans while being critical of foreign inter-
vention in Muslim affairs. From his background and his early involment
 o rganising da’wah and sprea di ng r e f o r m | 65

with the teaching of Arabic in pondok, Tok Kenali has been later categorised
as belonging to the kaum tua but his involvement with the modernisation of
educational curricula and his engagement with socio-­political issues has made
him associated with kaum muda. A contemporary scholar considered him a
reformist (Bakar 1997: 50–64).
Tok Kenali returned to Kelantan in 1908, just as the British and Siamese
governments were discussing the state’s transfer from Siamese overlordship
to the British. His teaching and activism in Kelantan marked a new age
of reform for Muslim education in Kelantan, now subject to British colo-
nial control (Daud 1996: 265). There is no direct reference to the West or
Western influences in his writings. Although Kenali never directly criticised
the British-­Sultan collaborative administration in Kelantan or in Malaya more
generally, he did emphasise the Qur’anic doctrine of equality of rights, which
he believed to be inherently Islamic. Kenali believed that all human beings
were equal and had the same rights and responsibilities, citing Qur’anic pas-
sages such as ‘we have created the children of Adam in dignity’ (Qur’an
17:70) and ‘we have created human beings in the best form’ (Qur’an 95:4).35
He was also indirectly critical of the foreign rules­– ­first the Siamese and then
the British­– ­in Kelantan (see Chapter III).
In the early twentieth century some Malay reformists tried unsuccess-
fully to establish unions (M.­/I. perhimpunan or kesatuan) that would help
improve the conditions of their community, arguing that ‘the weak will
become strong if they organize, and the poor will become rich if they unite’
(Othman 1906: 141). However, in December 1912, a religious scholar wrote
to the ‘British Adviser for the State of Kelantan’, requesting permission to
establish the Jam’iyatul Khairiah (A. ‘Association of the Good’), which would
be primarily educational in orientation and would aim at ‘bringing benefits
to seekers of knowledge’. The Adviser, J. E. Bishop, replied positively, writ-
ing that ‘this government has no objection to the formation of the proposed
association for the objectives set out in your letter’, but ‘the association must
be prepared to agree not to employ any teacher of Mohammedan religion or
law who may appear to the Highness the Sultan an unsuitable person to be so
employed’. In his next letter, after the sultan had given his approval, Bishop
agreed to the appointment of a Malay teacher.36 The permit to publish jour-
nals seemed to be easier than the permit to create organisations. The sultan
 66 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

and the British, however, collaborated in acting as patrons for the creation
and dissemination of religious ideas and secular information in Kelantan and
other parts of Malaya.
Tok Kenali built on this initiative by urging Malays to develop asso-
ciations and publications that would serve the community and the Islamic
religion. Invoking the Qur’anic passage ‘human beings are created weak’,
Kenali argued that working in an association would lead to strength. Creating
a union or providing opportunities to gather together was a collective obli-
gation (A. fard kifayah) for those who had intellectual abilities (M. orang
yang berakal ) and wanted to benefit their community and their people (M.
bermanfaat bagi bangsa dan kaum).37 Thus, in 1924, he established an asso-
ciation called Al-­Jam’iyyyah al-­‘Ashriyyah (A. Modern Association) in Kota
Bharu, where people could pray, study and discuss current issues affecting
the Muslim world (Yusoff 2010: 76). But typical of Muslim organisations in
Malaya, this association did not last long or expand to other parts of Malaya,
and in this sense represents a contrast to developments in the East Indies.
Malay reformers focused on writing and publishing literary works
and teaching and Tok Kenali himself acted as chief editor for the journals
Pengasuh and Al-­Hidayah. In the inaugural publication of the Pengasuh, the
only British Malaya journal sponsored by a sultan, Tok Kenali reported that
it would ‘be published every half month’ in order to ‘serve the Islamic com-
munity in the Malay peninsula, particularly in Kelantan­. . . giving them
compassion and love [to support their] outer material and inner spiritual
needs’.38 His statement of his vision was unequivocal:

When I realized that no one else would become a messenger or medium

[M. utusan], who would strive to unify our children of Malaya, I became
very eager and hoped that in this Malay Peninsula there would be a journal,
a magazine, or a newspaper owned by the people of our country, which
would wisely command us to gather together and unite in all tasks to bring
about public goodness [A. maslahah] to the country [A. watan), the com-
munity [M.­/I. bangsa], and the religion [M.­/I. agama].39

In order to spread Islamic knowledge, Tok Kenali felt that it was impor-
tant to publish essays about a variety of contemporary topics relevant to
Malays. He believed that transmitting information through print media
 organising da’wah a nd spreading r e f o r m | 67

would also serve his religion and society more generally by improving Malay
literacy and understanding of both religious and worldly matters. He would
refuse to die, he said, until he saw ‘a new and beautiful change’ (Mahmud
2010: 172–3). Like Al-­Hadi, Kenali pointed to European nations that had
advanced because they were able to adapt to change. His essays in Pengasuh
repeated the view that every person was born with the same potential to
achieve dignity and greatness: ‘If we look at men in the past and today who
achieved greatness in life and could conquer the seas and lands, we know that
they had no additional bone or muscle: they were the same as us. They had
a great desire for achievement and persevered to reach their desire.’40 Malay
Muslims needed to reform themselves, but change must occur in balance
with this world and that of the hereafter. He warned against overdue con-
centration on spiritual life, because the Qur’an itself showed that knowledge,
material well-­being and action in the present were as important as looking
to the hereafter.41 In his interpretation of the hadith, he contended that
Malays should understand the history of Muhammad and his caliphs, who
had served both the religion of Islam and the material world.
One issue discussed in Pengasuh was the implications of the term
‘Melayu’, especially in the colonial context. Kenali observed that for some
‘ulama it was associated with weakness and backwardness, and should there-
fore be changed. He argued that reform should not be concerned with the
changing of a name, but should focus on changing Malay attitudes and
worldviews.42 Another contributor argued that ‘the Malay land should be
for Malays’, but that it was not necessary ‘to get rid of the foreign people in
the Malay Peninsula, only to protect Malay rights from being removed by
these foreign people’. Although most Malays were religiously ignorant (A.
jahiliyyah), they nonetheless increased in number every year and so deserved
a better place in their own land­– ­presumably a reference to the increasing
numbers of Chinese and Indian migrants who serviced the colonial economy.
Malays, he said, should protect their ownership rights and improve their
capabilities; this would enable them to progress and eventually triumph.43
A related matter concerned Malay language as a vehicle for reaching
a larger public. For instance, should journals and newspapers publish in
Jawi (an Arabic script) or Rumi (a Romanised script), or use both in the
same journals and newspapers? Pengasuh editors advocated the retention of
 68 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

Jawi, which should be developed still further in preference to Romanised

Malay.44 Kenchana (M. ‘Gold’), which was published in Singapore, used
the Romanised Malay. The editor of Kenchana disagreed with the Pengasuh
editor, who had argued that the fall of the Turkish Uthmani was due to their
moving from using Arabic to Roman script as promoted by Kemal Ataturk:
‘Turkey became a strong Islamic state by shifting from the Arabic that was
used by the lazy, luxury-­loving sultans to Roman script.’45 The editor of
Kenchana contended, ‘The Pengasuh mind is conservative [kolot], narrow,
and not far-­sighted’, due to their use of Jawi script.46 Here Pengasuh was
regarded by other Malays as being conservative, although the former aimed
at reforming Malays by using Jawi. Another periodical, Al-­Hikmah (A. ‘The
Wisdom’), saw no contradiction between Jawi and Romanised script, since
both disseminated ‘general [not specifically religious] knowledge and infor-
mation’ and targeted both Malay and non-­Malay audiences.47 Another issue
was whether more effort should be devoted to translations. Editors of local
journals such as Al-­Riwayat felt that translating Arabic, English and even
Siamese works into the Malay language would be useful for Malay readers
who could ‘take lessons and make mirrors for living a safe journey on the
ocean of life by selecting the good from the bad and by acting accordingly’
(Umar 1938). This self-­conscious awareness of being ‘Malay’, of speaking
their own language and of belonging to their own place or homeland, was
emblematic of increasing ‘modern’ preoccupations (Benavides 1998: 200).
An editor of Al-­Riwayat praised the support given by the sultan to a
journal that would ‘give the people goodness in this world and goodness in
the hereafter and protection from the hell’ (Umar 1938). A more obvious
target for criticism was British colonisation and its effects on Malay society,
but it was often implicit and indirect and did not lead to movements against
the British. One Al-­Imam author wrote: ‘We, the children of this nation,
have become wicked and dangerous. The wolves have been trained to watch
and eat their prey. Therefore, we people in this colonised land [M. tanah
jajahan] should be aware and consolidate our power and energy. If we do
not help each other then we, the ummah, will be destroyed and lost’ (cited in
Ton 2000: 244). Yet, despite calls to be aware of the contemporary situation,
such words of warning in writing did not lead to anti-­British organisations
or political parties during this time, primarily because of the careful efforts of
 organising da’wah a nd spreading r e f o r m | 69

collaboration between the colonial administration and the Malay sultans in

public matters.

Conclusion

This chapter has shown that the traditionalists or kaum tua and the modern-
ists or kaum muda agreed on the need for reforming Muslim communities
in their particular locations, although they understood the ideas of ‘advance-
ment’ and ‘modern’ in different ways and used different sources and different
approaches to authority. European colonialism, the decline of the Caliphate,
a sense of internal crisis and Islamic reform movements were important con-
texts for raising awareness in bringing ideas of reform to their societies. They
believed in revelation and adopted Meccan and Cairo forms of organisation
and publication, but they also promoted the use of reason and made use of
European, Christian organisational structure, vocabularies and technology as
they deemed fit, albeit to varying degrees and in different ways. They asserted
that Islam was a modern religion, which could be critical of adat and religious
practices deemed harmful to the fundamentals of Islam but that could also
selectively borrow useful ideas and institutions.
In the East Indies, urban ‘modernists’ were generally more prepared to
adopt Dutch colonial or Christian models of organisation and new technical
concepts. Nonetheless, the predominately rural ‘traditionalists’ also gradually
accommodated new organisational forms, while maintaining the consensus
opinions of early scholars whom they regarded as authoritative and effec-
tive. In a time of far-­reaching social changes, the traditionalists sought to
preserve the Arabic language for use in ritual and sermonising, but they saw
the practical advantage of using local languages in other religious and social
contexts. Both modernists and traditionalists built organisations to manage
their schools, preachings, and other social agendas. The Dutch intervention
in native affairs (as will be discussed next) stimulated East Indies Muslim
leaders to respond by a ‘culture of movement’ through organisations that
spread through the East Indies. In contrast to the more geographically unified
and more homogenous Malay society of the peninsula, the geographical sepa-
ration between islands and the ethnic diversity of the East Indies contributed
to the need for strengthening connections.
In Malaya, reformists took a greater advantage of print technology by
 70 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

producing periodicals and newspapers and focusing their efforts on these.

A Malay writer, Za’ba, for example, wrote: ‘What we wanted to do, like
them (Indonesians), was to write, and to help our people raise their standard
of living’ (cited in Roff 1974: 155). By prohibiting movements that could
turn against the establishment, the sultan, established ‘ulama and Malay
intellectuals played a significant role in Islamising and reforming bangsa
Melayu through publications than did the aristocrats and ‘ulama in Java or
South Sulawesi. Yet, despite these differences, throughout the Indonesian-­
Malay world the widening literacy and expanding flows of knowledge
and information played a significant role in the circulation of ideas that
introduced a new chapter in the history of modern Islam in Indonesia and
Malaya.
In becoming modern Muslims, Indonesian and Malay reformers showed
ambivalent attitudes toward European rule and modernisation. Indonesians
showed more varied responses to the Dutch than the Malays toward the
British but the Indonesians, too, did not always show their direct resist-
ance when they selectively borrowed from Dutch (and Christian missionary)
vocabularies and organisations and when they competed with them in pursu-
ing reform. Malay reformers directed their criticisms toward the traditional
rulers and ‘ulama rather than towards the British modernisers.

Notes
  1. On Muhammad ibn ‘Abd al-­Wahhab (1703–92) and Wahhabism, see ‘Attar
(1972) and Rippin (2007: 19–23).
  2. Pimpinan Pusat Muhammadiyah, ‘Kitab Iman’, Himpunan Putusan 1967: 12.
  3. Pimpinan Pusat Muhammadiyah, ‘Kitab Masalah Lima’, Himpunan Putusan
1967: 278, 313.
  4. Some suggest that Ahmad Dahlan wrote booklets on the Obligation of a Living
Being (kewajiban orang hidup) and on World Solidarity (persaudaraan dunia),
but these were unpublished (see Muhammadiyah 1923: 9; Salam 1963: 55–7).
 5. The 1930 congress, for example, reported 112 branches and groups with
approximately 24,000 members. This membership increased to in the region of
250,000 in 1938, maintaining 834 mosques and small mosques (langgar), 31
public libraries, and 1,774 schools, with 5,516 male and 2,114 female preachers
(Noer 1973: 83).
 o rganising da’wah and sprea di ng r e f o r m | 71

  6. ‘Congres Moehammadijah ke-­21: 30 April 1932, Makassar’, Tentara Islam, No.

1, 1932, Year 1.
 7. Pemberita Makassar, No. 29, 4 February 1914.
 8. Pemberita Makassar, No. 64, 17 April & No. 65, 18 April 1914.
  9. Other sources suggest that there was no Shiratal Mustaqim branch in Makassar
until 1939. Interview with Hashim Aidit, Makassar, 3 July 2005; ‘Acciraathal
Moestaqim (A.M.)’, Pemberita Makassar, Friday, 5 January 1940.
10. ‘Acciraathal Moestaqim (A.M.)’, Pemberita Makassar, Friday, 5 January 1940.
11. Beudeker, Memorie van Overgave van de Assistant-­Resident van Makassar, the
period between 1 September 1946 and 12 June 1948, 102–6; ‘Pemandengan
dari fihak neutral soal Idoel Fitri dan Gerebeg Besar’, Pemberita Makassar, No.
15, 18 January 1940.
12. ‘Soeara dari Koeboer: Mohammadija di Celebes Selatan’, Tentara Islam, No. 6,
1932, Year I.
13. Colonial periodicals in Dutch and­/or Indonesia included Pemberita Makassar,
Sinar Matahari and Makassaarch Courants. The Dutch played a crucial role
in publishing these, but the Chinese and natives joined the flowering of the
periodicals. The Chinese published Chau Sing, Njaring and Sin Hwa Po, and
newspapers in Indonesian such as Pewarta Makassar. ‘Native publications’
included Anak-­Kontji, Barisan Kita (Perserikatan Celebes), Berita Baroe and
Fadjar Indonesia. Lijst van inde Inheemsche Talen verscgijnende Bladen, in
Inlandsche Pers Overzicht, 1928 and 1939, KITLV; Katalog Perpustakaan
Nasional, Jakarta.
14. Fadjar Indonesia, No. 1, 7 October 1930; Pemberita Makassar, No. 15, 18
January 1940.
15. Tentara Islam, No. 1, June 1932, Year I.
16. Interview with Abu Hamid, Universitas 45, Makassar, 5 July 2005; Steenbrink
(1991).
17. ‘Congres Moehammadijah ke-­21: 30 April 1932, Makassar’, Tentara Islam,
No.1, 1932, Year 1.
18. ‘Moetiara’, Tentara Islam, No. 1, June 1932, Year I.
19. ‘Dari Medja Redactie’, Fadjar Indonesia, No. 4, 15 January 1931, Year I.
20. ‘Satoe Kesadaran dalam Kalangan Moehammadijah’, Fadjar Indonesia, No. 1, 7
October 1930.
21. ‘Celebes: Moment actie Pemoeda Moehammadijah Rappang’, Pemberita
Makassar, 5 January 1940.
22. Image title ‘Ontvangst te Wadjo ter Gelegenheid van Idoel Fitri’, circa 1938,
 72 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

collection of J. J. Wesseling, http:­/­/media-­kitlv.nl­/all-­media­/indeling­/detail­/

form­/advanced?q_searchfield=wadjo, accessed 14 March 2015.
23. Amangkasiriji, ‘Conferentie Moehammadijah Daerah Selebes jg. Ke 16 di
Sengkang’, Adil, No. 30, 26 April 1941.
24. Nahdlatul ‘Ulama (NU) (n.d.), Khitthah Nahdlatul Ulama, Pengurus Wilayah
Nahdlatul ‘Ulama, 10–30.
25. Berita Nahdlatul Ulama, vol. 6, No. 16, 15 June 1937.
26. Early NU figures in Makassar included Abdul Hamid Daeng Magassing and
hadhrami Arab Sayyid Hussein Saleh al-­ Segaf (Abdurrahman 2002: 9–10;
Bruinessen 1994: 49).
27. Interview with Mustari Bosra, Makassar, May 2005; Bosra (2003: 15–16).
28. As’ad wrote Idharul Haqiqah (A. ‘Revealing the Truth’); Assirat al-­Nabawiyyah
(A. ‘The Prophet’s Life’); Kitab al-­Aqaid (A. ‘The Book of Faith’), Ilmu Ushul
Fiqh (A. ‘The Science of the Fundamentals of the Jurisprudence’), and Ajwibatul
Mardhaiyyah (A. ‘The Blessed Answers’).
29. ‘Dari Medja Redactie’, Fadjar Indonesia, No. 4, 15 January 1931, Year I.
30. Interview with Drs. Abdurrahman, Universitas Islam Makassar, 20 June 2005.
31. Interview with Musafir Pababbari, UIN Alauddin Makassar, 21 June 2005;
Bosra, ‘Peranan Kiai Haji Abdurrahman Ambo Dalle dalam Dinamika
Masyarakat Islam Tradisionalis di Sulawesi Selatan’, paper presented at the
65th Anniversary of Dar al-­Da’wah wal Irsyad (DDI), 30 December 2003,
Mangkoso, Barru; Said (2002).
32. Jalaluddin, ‘Membetulkan Perjalanan Agama Islam atau Peraturan Perjalanan
Kaum Agama Islam’, al-­Ikhwan, 1, 16 November 1926, 44.
33. Djamily, ‘Penerbitan Buku2’, Kenchana, Year 3, September–October 1949, 6–8.
34. ‘Orang Melayu dengan Surat Kabar’, Pengasuh, No. 291, 30 March 1930;
‘Setua-­tua Surat Kabar dalam Dunya’, Pengasuh, No. 295, 28 May 1930.
35. Kenali, ‘Kemanusiaan’, Pengasuh, No.1, Year 1, 14 July 1918.
36. Archive m62, m209, 1912, ANM.
37. Kenali, ‘Kemanusiaan’, Pengasuh, No.1, Year 1, 14 July 1918.
38. Pengasuh, No. 1, 14 July 1918.
39. Pengasuh, No. 1, 14 July 1918.
40. Kenali, ‘Kemanusiaan’, Pengasuh, No. 1, Year 1, 14 July 1918, 2–3.
41. Kenali, ‘Seruan’, Pengasuh, No. 3, Year 1, 1918.
42. Kenali, ‘Kalimah Melayu’, Al-­Hidayah, No. 3, Year 1, 1923.
43. ‘Semenanjung Tanah Melayu bagi Anak2 Melayu atau Bumi Melayu bagi
Melayu’, Pengasuh, No. 302, 8 September 1930.
 o rganising da’wah a nd spreading r e f o r m | 73

44. ‘Siapakah yang menghancurkan Bahasa Melayu’, Pengasuh, No. 301, 25 August
1930.
45. Dari Meja Pengarang: Pengasoh dan Kenchana, Kenchana, No. 7, Year 3,
November–December 1949, 1.
46. Apa Kata ‘Pengasoh’, Kenchana, Year 3, September–October 1949, 6–7.
47. One of its covers pictured Britain’s King George VI with his queen; the text
praised their leadership during the world wars. Al-­Hikmah, No. 277, Year 6, 4
January 1940.
 II
Colonising the Muslim East
and Reinforcing Culture

It would be a great satisfaction to me if my lectures might cause some of my

hearers to consider the problem of Islam as one of the most important of our
time, and its solution worthy of their interest and of a claim on their exertion.
(Snouck 1916: 150)

The Malay cares nothing for consistency; he does not exchange old customs
for new; he keeps both the new and the old. He is indeed afraid to give up
the old.
(Wilkinson 1925a: 64)

S cholars have suggested that one of the professed aims of European coloni-
sation was ‘to inscribe the colonized in the space of modernity’ (Mbembe
cited in Cooper 2005: 143; Scott and Hirschkind 2006: 291). ‘Colonial
modernity’, as a category of analysis, was manifested partly in the act of know-
ing their colonial subjects and engaging them in the modern world. Much
as Muslim reformers attempted to strengthen the faith and modernise local
Muslim communities by establishing new forms of voluntary association and
communicating ideas through print publications, Dutch and British colonial
administrators and scholars studied the colonised as ‘object-­like’, published
information on them and ‘re-­ordered’ them bureaucratically (Mitchell 1988:
33). As believers and natives, Muslim reformers talked about what ought to
be done and many in the East Indies were generally involved in ‘movements’
and many in Malaya wrote essays in pursuit of progress, whereas Europeans
became interested in Islam and local culture in order to bring them into
the modern world. Islam and local culture influenced the ways in which
European colonialists viewed and acted toward Muslim-­majority colonies as
well as toward their self-­perceptions of the West and modernity.

74
 c oloni si ng the musli m ea s t | 75

In this chapter, I explore the way that European colonial administrators

and scholars became interested in Islam and studied its textual, theological,
historical and contemporary cultural expressions in the colonies. The colonis-
ers were influenced in their discourses about the East by their observations of
Islam and Muslim subjects as well as by their Christian background knowledge
of Christianity and Western culture. In turn, readings of Islam and interaction
with Muslims in the colonies shaped their views of the modern. Although some
European scholars recognised scriptural, doctrinal and historical links between
Islam and Christianity (and Judaism), they tended to conflate Islam with the
East and traditionalism, and Christianity with the West and modernity. Their
discourses would not necessarily become colonial policies, depending on a vari-
ety of factors such as their colonial position, large and disparate geographical
location and individual preferences. Their impacts on the local life were not nec-
essarily immediate or direct, but the colonial literature they produced shaped
the reinforcement of religion anad culture in the East Indies and Malaya.
Like Muslim reformers who associated Islam with being progressive and
therefore in opposition to that that they deemed non-­Islamic, traditional-
ist or backward (as discussed in the previous chapter), European colonisers
positioned Western modernity against things that they considered non-­
modern, using terms such as ‘traditional’, ‘ancient’, ‘medieval’, ‘religious’
or ‘customary’ (see Mitchell 2000). Dutch scholars Snouck Hurgronje and
Hendrik Kraemer and British scholars Wilkinson and Winstedt were critical
of some aspects of Islam and Muslim practices, but they were also apprecia-
tive of other aspects and encouraged ‘mutual understanding’ and ‘exchanges
of ideas’. They attempted to identify few modern elements in Islam, but
they framed these in terms of Western, implicitly or explicitly Christian,
paradigms. They compared the West and modernity in relation to Islam, the
East and adat traditionalism. They used such terms as the ‘Muslim East’ and
‘Muhammadanism’, but located these in the framework of the ‘modern age’
and they contributed to intellectual encounters between Europe and Asia
and between Christians and Muslims. The key difference between the Dutch
and British Orientalist views and agendas toward Islam and Muslims is that
the former were increasingly concerned with the political manifestation of
Islam in Indonesia whereas the latter quite consistently addressed the cultural
expressions of their Malay subjects. The Dutch scholars served as ‘Islamicists’
 76 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

in the sense that they explored the various dimensions of Islam as a world
religion and a local practice in the East Indies whereas the British seemed
to serve as ‘culturalists’ whose main preoccupation was to preserve Malay
culture, of which Islam became one of the main elements. They would have
varying impacts on the studies of Muslim politics and culture in Indonesia
and Malaya.

Colonialising and Christianising the East Indies

Changes were especially evident in the Netherlands Indies after the enact-
ment of the ‘Ethical Policy’ (D. ethische politiek), introduced in 1901 because
of widespread criticism of the profits made in Java and Sumatra by Dutch
capitalists and the exploitation of indigenous labour. In her speech from
the throne, Queen Wilhelmina (r. 1890–1948) said that the goal of the
Ethical Policy was to share the benefits that the Netherlands had derived
with the colonised population. The Dutch had a moral obligation to develop
economic and social projects, particularly education (Locher-­Scholten 1981:
176). In emphasising that colonial rule should bring benefits, the queen’s
speech implied the conflation of Dutch capitalism and Protestant ethics.
More particularly, she emphasised her support for Christian converts: ‘as
a predominantly Protestant nation, the Netherlands has a duty to improve
the condition of native Christians in the Indonesian archipelago, to give
Christian missionary activity more aid and to inform the entire administra-
tion that the Netherlands have a moral obligation to fulfil as regards the
population of those regions’ (cited in Kroef 1953: 53).
The Dutch Government maintained an office for missionary activities
in the East Indies, but many churches worked independently of the colo-
nial state. Others were sometimes financially supported, sometimes morally
encouraged or respected, and at other times restricted from activities for
different reasons (Jongeling 1966; Schumann 2010). Christian missionaries
played an important role in educating and modernising the natives in the
East Indies, including Sulawesi. The Protestant mission had been present
in the archipelago from the mid-­nineteenth century, although it did not
expand until the early twentieth century (Jong 1995). From 1905, different
Protestant mission bodies in Holland formed an alliance with the idea of
advancing missions in many parts of the East Indies. Christian missionaries
 c oloni si ng the musli m ea s t | 77

tried to avoid conflict with the Islamic teachers and Muslim communities
and their influence therefore became stronger in the mountain areas where
‘animists’ were still dominant, like the Toraja areas in the Sulawesi highlands.
Some converts became preachers themselves, or sponsors of Christian activi-
ties. Although Dutch colonialists were largely Protestant, Catholic priests and
teachers also worked in the East Indies, including Makassar. Protestant and
Catholic churches, hospitals, welfare organisations and schools contributed
to the modernisation of education, health services, orphanages and social
work in the East Indies.

Associating the Muslim East with the Medieval World: Snouck

Hurgronje

Christiaan Snouck Hurgronje was a theologian-­scholar who contributed to

the Western study of Islam in relation to Dutch colonialism and the develop-
ment of colonial policies in the East Indies. A student of philology, Snouck
was educated in Arabic languages and literature in Leiden after earning a
certificate in theology.1 Methodologically, Snouck’s approach to Islam was
eclectic: textual and contextual, doctrinal and historical, as well as ethno-
graphic. He visited Mecca, arriving on 28 August 1884 and remaining inside
the mosque for research until 1885. During his visit, Snouck adopted an
Arabic name­– A ­ bd al-­Ghaffar (The Servant of the Forgiving God) since
only Muslims were allowed to stay inside the mosque (Koningsveld 1989).
Snouck was ‘a Muslim­– ­a fact accepted by his fellow Muslims­– ­though
most likely not a true believer’ (Laffan 2003: 62). Despite this ambiguity,
Snouck wrote about the everyday life of Muslims in Mecca in a way that
no one ever had before.2 His main purpose was to understand Islam and
Muslims in their ‘medieval milieu’, and how the ‘Muslim East’ could be
integrated into the modern world. England, France, Holland and other
countries governing Muslim populations were, in his estimation, striving
to find ways to incorporate their Muslims subjects into their own modern
civilisation. Snouck became concerned about how the Muslim world was
to be associated with modern thought. He saw the gap between ‘the whole
civilized world’ and ‘the whole world of Islam’, which according to him,
should be bridged (Snouck 1916: 146). From this perspective, Islam was the
non-­civilised other that needed to be civilised through the efforts of Muslims
 78 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

themselves and with the help of the civilised Europeans. Because he left
the East Indies in 1906, Snouck did not witness the rise of modernist and
traditionalist reformers in Java after 1912, the date of the founding of the
Muhammadiyah. Thus, according to G. F. Pijper (1893–1988), a student
who later became another administrator, Snouck saw Islam as the religion
transmitted by previous generations, not that of the reformers (Laffan 2011:
177).
As an academic in Holland, Snouck continued his writing and lecturing.
In a lecture to an American audience in 1914 (about eight years after he left
the East Indies), about the origins and development of ‘Muhammadanism’,
Snouck felt honoured to have the unique experience of being a ‘modern
man’, an ‘Orientalist’ and ‘a student of Islam’ in the heartland of Islam,
Mecca. Here, he said, he could observe ‘the mentality of people learning
those things not for curiosity, but in order to acquire the only true direction
for their life in this world and the salvation of their souls in the world to
come’ (Snouck 1916: 178–9). He differentiated between modern Islamic
scholars and those whom he regarded as predominantly ‘medieval’. To be
modern was to be curious and objective in approaching subject matters. In
his view, for Muslims to be modern meant a transformation of the ‘medieval’
mentality and an acceptance of Western objectivism. Muslims could only
become modern by following the West.
Concerned to bring Islam to the Western world while bringing moder-
nity to the willing Muslims, Snouck invited scholars to see the ‘problem of
Islam as one of the most important of our time, and its solution worthy of
their interest and of a claim on their exertion’ (Snouck 1916: 150). He tried
to explain to Westerners why Islam should be of interest. First, the previ-
ous Dutch discourse regarding Islam was based more on ‘sound conviction’
than on ‘historical knowledge’ (Laffan 2011: 75). Snouck wanted to histori-
cise rather than ideologise Islam. Second, it would be more constructive for
the West to have some knowledge of Islam because ‘Islam is next akin to
Christianity’ (Snouck 1916: 146). He urged all of the nations participating
in the global exchange of material and spiritual goods to recognise the impor-
tance of understanding Islam. For Snouck, ‘Islam­. . . was indeed a familiar
enemy encountered now in a new part of the world’ (Laffan 2011: 84), but
while this vision of conflict was certainly salient, some notions of human and
 c oloni si ng the musli m ea s t | 79

religious kinship between Christianity and Islam were also articulated, albeit
at times ambiguously.
Snouck stressed the misunderstanding of Islam in the West, citing
negative and partial European representations of Islam, the Qur’an and
Muhammad. Tracing the ways in which Europeans viewed Islam, he urged
them to allow Muslim authorities to speak for themselves as well. He thus
criticised European authors such as Voltaire, author of the play Le Fanatisme,
ou Mahomet, for its ‘superficial, prejudicial, and fictitious knowledge’ of
Islam drawn only from secondary sources. He called for Europeans to use the
Qur’an as the main text in understanding Islam because all Islamic sects and
parties had the same text, despite ‘its errors and defects’, and that any changes
were ‘without intentional alterations or mutilations of real importance’
(Snouck 1916: 20–8). The hadith were developed during the first centuries
of the hijrah and therefore reflected a conflict of opinions in this formative
period. The hadith could be distinguished from later biographies (sirah) and
various pious accounts. In other words, Snouck believed that scriptural or
textual approaches to Islam would help the West gain ‘real knowledge’ of
Islam. Two hundred million people, he commented, called themselves the
followers of Muhammad, basing their faith on the common belief in God
and Muhammad (Snouck 1916: 30–2).
Regardless of its diversity and material manifestations, Islam combined
both ‘religious and spiritual essences’­– ­although he did wonder if this spir-
itual essence would survive the fall of Islam’s material and political power in
the modern era. For Snouck, spirituality was associated with the essence of
religions, and because spirituality persisted, it became conservative, whereas
materiality was progressive. He recognised the need for Muslims to revive
their spiritual potentiality but felt that they needed to change their mental
attitudes and move forward in the material domains of life. Muslim reformers
had made efforts to conserve and revive the spirituality, but should be more
willing to use the necessary instruments to also progress materially. With his
notion of ‘the Muslim East’ characterised primarily with spiritualism, Snouck
can be read as playing a role in maintaining the Orientalist notion of a ‘mystic
East’ (King 1999: 4), in opposition to the materialist West.
Snouck was talking about spiritualism as the ‘essence’ of Islam, but he
also discussed Islamic spiritual orientation associated with tasawwuf and
 80 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

tariqah. Snouck’s attitudes toward tasawwuf and tariqah were ambiguous:

often critical, but sometimes sympathetic. Snouck ‘agreed that the tariqahs
were the leftovers of a bygone age of Indic-­inspired ignorance’ (Laffan 2011:
235), but he nonetheless acknowledged the spiritual essence of Islam and
tasawwuf, alongside theological discourse (kalam) and jurisprudence (fiqh)
as belonging to ‘orthodox Sunni Islam’. He observed how tasawwuf, kalam
and fiqh had been fully recognised since Al-­Ghazali, an influential figure in
the Indonesian-­Malay world, forming ‘the sacred trio of sciences of Islam’:
‘the Law offered the bread of life to all the faithful, the dogmatics are the
arsenal from the weapons must be taken to defend the treasures of religion
against unbelief and heresy, but mysticism shows earthly pilgrim the way to
Heaven’ (Snouck 1916: 78). He noted that both ‘true’ and ‘false’ mysticisms
were resolved by Al-­Ghazali, generally recognised as orthodox (Snouck 1916:
84). For Snouck, Sufi practices belonged to the past but the Islamic essence
of spirituality should survive the material political decline and thus remain
relevant in the present.
Beyond tasawwuf and tariqah, Snouck discussed the theological connec-
tion between Islam, Judaism and Christianity in order to make the point that
Islam should not be ‘strange’ for Westerners. He used Christian, Western
vocabularies in the words ‘Mohammedan Catholicism’, ‘protestant elements
of Islam’, ‘conservative Islam’ and ‘liberal Protestantism of Islam’ in order
to better communicate with the Western, Christian audience. However, he
implied that although Muhammad derived many of his ideas, rituals and laws
from Jews and Christians, he had long departed from them (Snouck 1916:
81–2). Islam was doctrinally linked to Christianity, and had progressive doc-
trines, but Snouck also asked why it had not modernised in the same ways
as Christianity. He argued that Muslims were not ready to move forward
because they sought to preserve their doctrines at the expense of embracing
historical changes. The possibility of reform from within the Muslim world
was therefore doubtful, primarily because Muslims saw their lives as subject
to God’s eternal message.
On the other hand, he recognised few cases of ‘modernist Islam’ in Cairo,
Egypt, where Muhammad Abduh promoted the idea of ‘adapting Islam by
all means in the powers to requirements of the modern life’. For Snouck,
‘modern Islam’ was different from the Wahhabi reformers in Mecca who a
 c oloni si ng the musli m ea s t | 81

century earlier had attempted to restore Islam’s ‘original purity’. He noted

approvingly that European professors, both Christian and Muslim, worked
together in the university in Egypt (Snouck 1916: 141), but the efforts
of these ‘progressive Muslims’ and their Western patrons were bound to
fail.
While pessimistic, in the latter part of his lecture Snouck expressed
reserved optimism that progress could be made in parts of the Muslim world.
Muslims themselves should be left to ‘reconcile the new ideas which they
want with the old ones with which they cannot dispense’. On the other hand,
Western nations could help Muslims in ‘adapting their educational system to
modern requirements’, and provide ‘a good example by rejecting the detest-
able identification of power and right in politics which lies at the basis of their
own canonical law on holy war as well as at the basis of the political practice
of modern Western states’ (Snouck 1916: 148). More importantly, in order
to be associated with modern thought, Muslims needed to distinguish the
‘progressive’ from the ‘conservative’ elements in their religion. There were
elements in Islamic dogma, law and mysticism that could be compatible with
modern thought, although there were also other Islamic doctrines and prac-
tices (Snouck mentioned polygamy, slavery and ‘holy war’) that were incom-
patible with the modern world. All nations, he told his audience, should
‘collaborate in their efforts to be modern­– ­whatever their religious conviction
might be’ (149).
While Snouck recognised that his background and perspective was
Western, he saw hope for engagement, friendship and collaboration with
Muslims. He expressed his pride about his project of association in the East
Indies where ‘the thirty-­five millions of Muhammadans lived under Dutch
guardianship’. Quoting poet Kipling­– ‘­East is East and West is West, and
Never the twain shall meet’­– ­Snouck argued that his own experience showed
the possibility of building relationships with ‘Muslim Orientals’ and of
creating mutual understanding between Islam and the modern world. ‘To
Kipling’s poetical despair’, he argued, ‘I think we have a right to prefer the
words of a broad-­minded modern Hindu writer: “the pity is that men, led
astray by adventitious differences, miss the essential resemblances”’ which for
him applied to Islam as well (Snouck 1916: 149–50). Studying Islam and the
Muslim world was the strategic way for bridging the divide between the East
 82 | i slam and col o nia l is m

and the West. Albeit pessimistic, he nevertheless wanted an end to Islamic–

Western antagonism. He wished to bring Islam into the modern world (see
further Chapters IV, VI and VIII).

Muslims Responding to Snouck’s Views of Islam

Western modernity was regarded not necessarily as Christian or as harmful

to Islam, but it was deemed a real challenge for the Muslims to move for-
ward and educate and liberate themselves. Sayyid Uthman (1822–1914), a
Batavian mufti of Arab origin, was appointed by Snouck to be an honourary
Adviser for Arab affairs from 1891 to his death in 1914. Sayyid Uthman was
among the hadhrami diaspora whose title ‘sayyid’ implied a descendent of
the Prophet Muhammad. The government usually regarded Arab-­descent
people as ‘foreign Orientals’. Uthman was critical of certain Sufi orders that
he thought lacked knowledge of Islamic law and deemed a threat to colonial
law and order in Java. He received a government’s allowance (albeit discreetly
paid by Snouck Hurgronje instead of there being open cooperation as a result
of his position of mufti) (Kaptein 2009). Snouck regarded Uthman as ‘a
friend of the Netherlands’, and as ‘more valuable to us than any number of
liberal wine-­drinking regents’. Uthman called himself ‘the mufti of Islam to
the people’ when writing about Islamic belief, ritual, law and socio-­political
issues concerning jihad, bid’ah and tariqah. For example, he charged the
Muslim hajjis who rebelled against the Dutch in Cilegon, Banten and Java
in 1888 as a ‘misunderstanding of jihad by ignorant people’. He wanted to
support law and order and prevent political disruption. His collaboration
with the Dutch colonial government resulted in an accusation of him being
‘a Dutch spy’ (Azra 1995: 16). Uthman’s collaboration with Snouck suggests
mutual relationship between a Muslim traditionalist reformer and a colonial
moderniser (Kaptein 2014).
Snouck received appreciation particularly among some Muslim modern-
ists. Snouck assisted Muslim modernist Agus Salim to be a staff in the Dutch
consulate in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, before returning to a civil service position
in the Department of Education and Culture and later the Department of
Public Works. For Salim, his fellow Muslims had been left behind and they
had to catch up with the modern West, not by imitating the West in its
entirety, but by creating their own civilisation based on Islam and Eastern
 c oloni si ng the musli m e a s t | 83

character (I. watak bangsa Timur).3 Salim discussed Snouck’s essay on the role
of women in Islam and discussed it using some Qur’anic verses and hadith
to address what he viewed as Islamic regulations concerning sexual relation-
ships. According to Salim, Snouck was the ‘most popular European expert on
Islam’.4 In this regard, the Dutch presence shaped the self-­identification of
the Eastern-­ness of Islam and the Indies, among friendly but critical Muslims
like Agus Salim and among hostile Muslims like a writer of Het Licht.
In the periodical, an activist of the Union of Muslim Youth (Jong
Islamiten Bond ) in Makassar, South Sulawesi, wrote a short essay questioning
the Islamic identity of Snouck:

Dr Snouck did not believe in the revelation of God sent down to

Muhammad and it is his disbelief that has led to his false charges against
Muhammad, that Muhammad hated the Jews and Christians because they
did not accept his prophecy. Dr. Snouck’s accusations against Muhammad
are simply the legacy of his Christian predecessors. His accusation was not
unusual because many propagators of Bible’s religion (penjebar-­penjebar
agama indjil ) in the past similarly attempted to weaken Islam in order for
Christianity to prevail. Dr Snouck wanted the spread of Christianity rather
than Islam in the East Indies.5

This particular case indicates distrust toward the motives of Dutchmen study-
ing Islam. There was also an association of colonialism with Christianisation.
Here colonial modernity was regarded as harmful to Islam and Muslims in
the country.
The intellectual impact of Snouck among Muslims was not immedi-
ate due to the natives’ inaccessibility to his works in Dutch at the time.
The immediate impact of Snouck in the East Indies became institutionalised
through the Office for Native (and Arab) Affairs, where he served as the first
Adviser to the government. He befriended Sayyid Uthman. Snouck played an
important role in directing Dutch colonial policies toward the Muslim sub-
jects in the East Indies, although not all of his suggestions were implemented
since he was succeeded by other Dutch officials after he left for Holland in
1906. Nonetheless, he continued his academic career until his death in 1936.
 84 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

Administering Colonial Subject: The Office for Native and Arab Affairs

The Dutch Government established an Office for Native and Arab Affairs
(D. Het Kantoor voor Inlandsche en Arabische Zaken) in 1889, which operated
in Java and Madura, but later had branches in the outer islands. It was created
to study Muslim beliefs, institutions, and cultures in the East Indies and to give
advice to the governor-­general when requested. The first Adviser was Snouck
himself. While the original title suggests the importance of the Arab popula-
tion in Dutch eyes, it was also called the Office for Native and Muhammadan
Affairs (D. Het Kantoor voor Inlandsche en Mohammedanische Zaken), which
indicated the conflation of Arab-­ness and Islam as well as native-­ness and
Islam. This colonial institution played an important role in constructing a
‘modern understanding’ of Islam as both a universalised religion but also a
racial and native category. In 1907, it was decided to change the name to the
Office for Native Affairs, because it then implied ‘Javanese’ and other tradi-
tions not necessarily Islamic. The Dutch Government appointed a scholar
to head the Office, but there were often miscommunications and problems
because he was separated from the governor-­general and other civil servants.6
The Office played an important role in other respects. The Dutch
attempted to find an alternative source and repository for knowledge that
was distinct from the existing independent Christian missionaries and the
information that they may have gathered from converts. This alternative
concerned predominantly Muslim subjects and their myriad activities. As
Snouck put it, ‘[K]nowledge of the situation in the Mohammedan region
here, of the spirit and influence of Mohammedan education, of the scope
of the so-­called mystical societies, etc., is as necessary for government and
legislation as one’s daily bread’ (Laffan 2011: 147–8).
The Office for Native Affairs became scholarly and political in orienta-
tion as new native movements and political parties emerged. According to
the goals articulated in 1907, the Office had the task of investigating local
language and ethnography, with the help of Arab-­descent or Javanese native
assistants. In 1931, the Office developed more tasks: to conduct research on
religious and political movements among the natives, to investigate and seek
information about movements among the Arabs and spiritual movements
in Islam, to pay attention to the natives’ pilgrimage to Mecca, and to study
 c oloni si ng the musli m ea s t | 85

languages and ethnography when deemed necessary, also creating contacts

with Dutch representatives abroad, such as in Jeddah (Saudi Arabia), Turkey,
Cairo, Calcutta and Singapore (Suminto 1986: 102–6). The Office began to
produce knowledge about the language, religion, law and culture and later
became more concerned about political ideas and movements in the East
Indies.7
While constructing Islam in modern terms through the religious–­cultural
and secular–political differentiation, the interests of the Office shifted from
the religious to the political. Here again the influence of Snouck became
apparent. The Office increasingly responded to the modernising, politically
orientated Islamic movements. Although division of Islam into religious and
political later became a subject of debate among native Muslims, the histori-
cal survey of Islam and its doctrines as they had evolved from Muhammad
to the present covered a vast range of subjects, and was considered invaluable
for research by both Dutch and non-­Dutch, and both Christian and Muslim
scholars alike.
This research and publication institution also helped in allocating govern-
mental funds for various subjects. However, the fact that the Office supported
research about religion suggests two opposite tendencies: one, secularisation,
in the sense that it was differentiating between the religious and the secular
and two, governmental interference, through funding, intellectual prefer-
ence and technical and office support. In addition, colonial employment of
local Arab and native assistants points to some collaboration between Dutch
scholars-­administrators and Muslim elites in constructing modern categories
pertinent to the ‘Muslim East’.

Making Islam a Missionary Problem: Hendrik Kraemer and a Muslim

Response

A critical, sometimes negative, sometimes ambigious representation of Islam

can be found in Hendrik Kraemer (1888–1965). Kraemer was a student of
Snouck. He became a Protestant priest and scholar sent by the Dutch Bible
Society to study Islam in the East Indies. Kraemer later served as a profes-
sor of the history of religions at Leiden University. He worked primarily on
sixteenth-­century Javanese literature, but he supported Snouck’s general idea
of association of the native into the modern world. Kraemer viewed Islam
 86 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

as a religion (D. godsdienst)­– ­and a problem that Protestant missions in the

archipelago needed to address.
In a book on the religion of Islam­– A ­ gama Islam, translated into
Indonesian, by Cornelis Taroreh under his guidance and published in 1928,
Kraemer wrote that he employed a descriptive approach based on second-
ary literature authored by European scholars studying Islam from Islamic
scholars.8 The book was initially meant as instructional material for Christian
teachers, students, and leaders of congregations, but it was also read by
Muslims and others. Kraemer argued that his book was ‘neutral’ because it
looked at both broad and specific aspects of Islam, and aimed neither to criti-
cise Islam as a religion nor to give an outsider’s perspective, either of a par-
ticular philosophy or of another religious perspective (Kraemer 1952 [1928]:
5–7). Kraemer said that it was not for him to judge whether a person was a
‘true’ Muslim­– t­ hat was the task of Muslims themselves, through examining
their conscience and with the consensus (A. ijma’ ) of religious scholars. He
tried to offer a brief narrative of pre-­Islamic Arabia, the life of Muhammad
and his successors, an overview of countries with a Muslim majority, the pil-
lars of Islam, the pillars of faith and finally an account of the spread of Islam
in Indonesia. Kraemer traced Islam to the time of Jews and Christians in
Medina, although he did not particularly link Islam to Jewish and Christian
doctrine as Snouck did. He noted that Muhammad aimed to reform adat of
the Arabs of his time whom he regarded as ignorant and uncivilised. Some
indigenous Arabs, Kraemer wrote, considered Jews and Christians who lived
in Medina to be ‘more civilized and higher in their cultures’ because they had
their own scriptures: thus, they called them also ‘the People of the Book’ (A.
ahl al-­kitab) (Kraemer 1952 [1928]: 217–18). Kraemer implied that even
early Islam had to follow Christians and Jews in order to be civilised. But, for
him, Islam’s origins were distinctly Arabic and it later became a missionary
religion penetrating other races and cultures, including those in Asia and
Africa.
In discussing the religion–state relationship, Kraemer contrasted con-
temporary Islam with Christianity in terms of ‘old’ and ‘modern’ nations, of
non-­Europeans and Europeans (and Americans). Kraemer recognised that
the Popes of the medieval age had integrated the Church with the State,
but this integration was criticised and eventually dissolved in the Protestant
 c oloni si ng the musli m e a s t | 87

world. The Muslim world, he argued, exhibited a very different situation­

– ­a theocracy­– ­due to Islamic historical and doctrinal factors (Kraemer
1952 [1928]: 47–50). While Christianity became modernised in the form
of Protestantism, Islam had not taken the same path. While Christianity
reformed the world, Islam governed the world through laws and prohibi-
tions, he said (Kraemer 1952 [1928]: 95).
Kraemer therefore translated jihad as a holy war (D. heilige oorlog).
Following the popular hadith, he described the greater jihad as the ‘great
holy war’, meaning the struggle against human passions. The lesser jihad, he
tried to explain, referred to the military and the political fight against non-­
Muslims. This distinction, he argued, did not exist initially because everyone
had been aware that Muslims sanctified war in order to achieve political
and religious power. Kraemer claimed that only in the modern world had
jihad come to mean a struggle in the spiritual and other-­than-­war sense
(Kraemer 1952 [1928]: 218–19). In this way, his explanation of jihad was
an attempt to contrast Islamic worldliness with Christian spiritualism. For
him, Christianity did not aim to take over politics, whereas Islam essentially
was political through jihad. He wished Islam to be much like spiritualist
Christianity.
Kraemer recognised that Muslims regarded tasawwuf or Sufism as an
orthodoxy through the scholarly consensus or ijma’. He admitted that tariqah
or Sufi orders had been very influential in the Muslim world (Kraemer 1952
[1928]: 92). But in another book he said that Sufi orders were an ‘alien
growth’ in Islam and its ‘most degraded form’ (Kraemer 1938b: 357).
After surveying Islam in its dimensions, Kraemer described Islam in
Indonesia. He contended that traders and travellers, primarily from India,
were responsible for the propagation of Islam, like Hinduism and Buddhism,
in a peaceful manner without wars or the use of force. But, he continued, the
peaceful propagation in Indonesia did not result in a complete conversion
of the people because they retained their pre-­existing traditions. To convert
to Islam, Kraemer explained, an individual would simply declare shahadah
(there is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is the messenger of Allah). It was
only later that the convert may acquire some religious education (Kraemer
1952 [1928]: 108). Kraemer noted that many beliefs and practices associated
with Sufi Orders and local adat were not Islamic but this fact was ­appreciated
 88 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

by only a few Muslim scholars and most Muslims in the East Indies saw
themselves as following accepted usage (110).
Unlike Snouck, Kraemer had more time to observe and interact with
‘modernist’ Islam associated with Muhammadiyah and other movements
such as the Jong Islamieten Bond. Kraemer noted that Muslim modernists
were critical of ‘un-­Islamic’ adat and sought to purify Islam and Islamise the
tradition. These ‘Muslim missionaries’, Kraemer observed, sought to improve
the faith of the people, including ‘pagans’, Hindus and Buddhists through
schooling and preaching. However, he deemed the Muslim modernist mis-
sion to be a failure for several reasons: the mission was independent of politi-
cal power, it faced strong old religions and it encountered relaxed attitudes
among the people. In short, Islam was incompletely observed in the East
Indies (286). For Kraemer, Muslim reform had proved unsuccessful. Here,
on the one hand, Kraemer criticised Islamic theocracy, but, on the other
hand, he argued that only through such theocracy would Islam be completely
embedded in Indonesia.
Kraemer was also critical of modernist Muslims who merely become
modern in their way of organisation and not religiously. He noted that from
the nineteenth century ‘Westernisation’ had led to the emergence of a group
of Indonesians ‘influenced by the West’ (I. pengaruh Barat). The influence
of the West was first evident among Javanese priyayi and then among the
youth who ‘did not have a strong faith in Islam or religion in general’, like
the activists of the Budi Utomo (Good Morality) association, the first native
political society founded in 1908 in Java. But from the early twentieth cen-
tury, this influence affected other Muslims as well. These ‘new Muslims’ felt
threatened by the people who did not respect religion and who argued that
Islam was not transmitted from ancient times. This assertion paved the way
for Muslims to create movements and encouraged a sense of national con-
sciousness (I. keinsafan kebangsaan) in Indonesia in keeping with perceptions
of Asia as embarking on a new era. Muhammadiyah had been inspired by
Islamic reforms from Egypt, and in Kraemer’s view other modern organisa-
tions were more influenced by European ideas of nationalism. The effects
of this influence were generally apparent merely in the organisation and
administration (I. cara bekerja), rather than in religious worldviews (Kraemer
286–8). Muhammadiyah followed Western models in terms of organisation
 c oloni si ng the musli m e a s t | 89

and developing their Muslim community without embracing foreign religion

or ideology. Efforts to strengthen and reform the Islamic faith, he argued,
would not lead to significant changes in Muslim religious paradigms. In
this sense, Kraemer implied, Islam­– ­and not only its adherents­– ­remained
predominantly ‘traditional’ in the modern world.
Kraemer noted that Muslims saw Christians as the enemy to conversion,
whom they could attack in order to gain religious and political power. He
also commented that many people saw the Dutch and Christianity as identi-
cal, although he noted that some Muslims separated the two. Furthermore,
he said, there were Muslims, including Muhammadiyah activists, who were
not hostile to Christians­– t­ hey regarded them as competitors in working for
goodness (fastabiq al-­khairat), quoting the Qur’an (2:148).9
In another work, Kraemer compared Islam with Christianity in terms
of the East–West paradigm. Islam, for Kraemer, was a ‘little complicated
religion’, although he felt that ‘the contours of Islam as a system of law and
learning are clear and simple. Some simple and great thoughts maintain the
unity of God and humanity through the prophets’ (Kraemer 1938a: 3–4). He
argued that the theological content of Islam was poor, but he saw the power
that it had over its followers.
Unlike Snouck, Kraemer offered an explicit evangelical approach to non-­
Christian religions. He held the view that both the West and the East faced
a crisis due to relativism, secularism and the penetration of the West in the
East, but rejected stereotypes that portrayed the East as inherently spiritual
and the West material. Christianity, he said, was essentially spiritual and
ethical, unlike Islam, which remained legalistic and political (1938b: 4–55).
But, like Snouck, Kraemer felt that the problem of modernising Islam
involved coming to terms with shari’ah, religious law, since it regulated and
sanctioned a medieval society on the basis of revelation. Modern Islam was
a ‘secularized theocracy’ characterised by ‘religious imperialism’, as demon-
strated through the concepts of dar al-­Islam versus dar al-­harb. In many
respects, the penetration of Western civilisation and the resulting conflicts
had played havoc with Islam, but this had not yet generated a ‘really religious
awakening’ because modernist reactions were ‘vindications of Islam’ in the
face of contemporary life. Islam’s ‘defensive attitude’ strengthened rather
than diminished its ‘unjustified feeling of superiority’ (1938b: 222–6). To
 90 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

Kraemer, Eastern Islam clashed with Western Christianity; it also clashed

with the modern West, with modern scientific civilisation and with European
colonialism. Muslim modernists were merely ‘defensive apologists’ who para-
doxically perpetuated these confrontations (270–1).
Kraemer’s theological criticism against Islam can also be seen in his
discussion of the thought of an Indian Muslim thinker Muhammad Iqbal
(1877–1938), whom he deemed one of the modern apologists of Islam.
Seeing himself as a ‘critical non-­ Moslem observer’, Kraemer appreci-
ated Iqbal’s remarkable mind, but critiqued his ‘reconstruction of Muslim
thought’, deeming it harmful to Islam itself. Kraemer affirmed his convic-
tion that Islamic and European modes of thinking were radically different­
– ­subjective versus objective, deductive versus inductive, and psychological
versus empirical. Muslim scholars such as Iqbal, instead of a re-­vindicating of
Islamic thought, destroyed its essence, which was ‘the real religious habitus of
mind in Islam’ (Kraemer 1939: 150).
Javanese modernist Muslims who read Agama Islam became criti-
cal of what they saw as a negative representation of Islam. For example, a
Muhammadiyah author, A. D. Haanie, published a response to Kraemer’s
Agama Islam. Haanie pointed out that Muslims understood their faith very
differently. The Prophet Muhammad, according to Haanie, had established
‘a strong ummah capable of displaying the flags of knowledge, civilization,
dignity, freedom, equality, brotherhood, and compassion among all human-
kind whose conditions are disorderly, foolish, and low in morality’. Haanie
similarly rejected Kraemer’s interpretation of the word ‘Islam’, which he had
translated as submission to God, while criticising some Javanese Muslims
who defined Islam as peace (A. salam, I. damai). While Haanie pointed
out that Islam and salam came from the same root, he also disagreed with
Kraemer’s representation of Islam’s preoccupation primarily with worldly
practices and worldly issues (I. adat kelakuan duniawi). Kraemer had claimed
that Muhammad was so concerned with worldly matters that Islam lost its
spiritual essence, but Haanie replied that Islam was not like Christianity,
which only stressed the spiritual, the hereafter and death. Islam, Haanie
argued, concerned the inner and outer life of this world, including politics,
incorporating both religion (agama) and law (shari’ah, which includes poli-
tics and the state). Haanie also took Kraemer to task for presenting Islam as
 c oloni si ng the musli m e a s t | 91

religion focused on ‘holy war’. War, Haanie wrote, was only conducted to
defend Islam against its enemies; Islam spread its message through a peaceful
mission. Islam was religious-­tolerant, for, in the words of the Qur’an: ‘[Y]
our religion belongs to you, and my religion belongs to me.’ Haanie saw
the West, Christians and Western imperialism as operating in conjunction
with some of their ‘trained children’ in the East, and together opposing
Islam. ‘Islam is great’, he wrote, ‘but it is sleeping.’ Western imperialism
had ‘undermined the sense of belonging to Islam [by introducing] ideolo-
gies that are non-­religious and cultures (adat) that are against religion (mak-
siat).’ Haanie contended that Islamic movements would not destroy, but
rather advance science, philosophy and civilisation (Haanie 1930 [1929]:
91). Haanie’s response to Kraemer exemplifies one way in which a modernist
Muslim rejected the idea that Islam was backward and overly concerned with
the spiritual and neglecting the material world, but it also reflects a more
general feeling that Muslims themselves were best qualified to comment on
Islam because they were the believers.
Kraemer warned Christians that expressions of superiority, like those
expressed by some Muslims, were dangers. The science of comparative
religion should exclude all feelings of superiority; it required recognition
of common humanity with adherents of other religions (Kraemer 1938b:
215–22). Since Muslims were ‘stubborn’, preoccupied with ‘group-­solidarity’
and resisted any effort that may involve change in religion, Christians should
be reminded of the importance of obedient faith. While Christianity and
Islam were ‘acquaintances from the very beginning’, Islam had become
antagonistic towards Christianity, because of the theological emphasis on
the Trinity, and belief that a resurrected Jesus Christ was the Son of God.
If Muslims accepted Christianity, it would imply explicit recognition of the
error of Islam (Kraemer 1938b: 357).
These exchanges obviously occurred primarily with regard to theological
differences, but Kraemer’s writings did not contain a mere confrontation.
Kraemer’s juxtaposition of Islam and Christianity did not necessarily convey
a consistent message of criticism. Kraemer asked Christians to learn from
Islam, which was ‘the teacher of patience’, and should regard Islam itself
not with ‘fear, disgust, or hatred’ but with ‘faith, hope, love, and endur-
ance’ (Kraemer 1938b: 352–4). Christians should therefore treat Muslims
 92 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

not as non-­Christian, but as fellow human beings ‘with the same fundamen-
tal needs, aspirations and frustrations’. He believed that true human and
religious contact would be possible with them because the mystical concen-
tration on ‘God and the soul’ had removed ‘the axis of religious life from
group-­solidarity to communion with God in the purely religious sense of
the word’ (1938b: 357). More than Snouck, Kraemer was critical of vari-
ous theological aspects of Islam and Muslims’ practice in the East, but both
emphasised the spiritualist essense of Islam that should survive modernity.
They believed that Islam, alongside Christianity, could offer its spiritual and
moral ethos to the modern world.

Civilising Mission: The British in Malaya

In Malaya, British imperial powers saw economic gain­– ­or ‘the Great Market’­
– ­as their foremost motive in colonialising other parts of the world (Woodruff
1940). However, the economic motive was often difficult to separate from the
religious and moral because of the distinction made between ‘civilised’ and
‘primitive’ peoples­– ­often also in terms of Christians and non-­Christians.
Many statesmen of Victorian England sought to enlarge the British Empire
by making its colonies part of the British ‘civilisational’ project.10 Although
specific references to Christianity were muted, belief in its innate superiority
to other religions did influence the way that British officialdom dealt with
the world. Lord Alfred Milner (1854–1925), an influential British colonial
administrator, described himself as a ‘British race patriot’, and a ‘nationalist’.
As a believer in the ‘law of human progress’, he argued that ‘the competition
between nations, each seeking its maximum development, is the Divine order
of the world, the law of life and progress’ (McLeod 1999: 60). Echoing the
views of Raffles a century earlier, Milner believed not only in British racial
superiority and nationalism, but also in obligation to spread ‘civilisation’ to
the rest of the world.
Unlike the Dutch Queen, the British authorities hardly expressed explicit
support for Christian converts in the British Empire. While the Dutch colo-
nial government saw Christian missions and schools­– e­ specially in remote
areas and non-­Islamic regions­– ­as an ally, the British Government did not
provide mission in Malaya with financial assistance. In most cases, British
administrators sought to distance themselves from Christian missionaries
 c oloni si ng the musli m e a s t | 93

and while they may have talked of ‘civilisation’ they never saw themselves
as evangelisers (Greenlee and Johnson 1999; Veer 2001; Cox 2002). The
Malay Peninsula was predominantly Muslim, and experiences in India made
the British very aware of possible resistance from Muslim subjects. In con-
sequence, the overseas endeavours of the various mission societies, such as
Bible translations, were independently financed and conducted essentially
without government financial aid (Etherington 2001: 304–5). Yet, although
colonial administrations neither supported nor hindered Christian missions,
in Malaya as elsewhere in the British Empire, the expense of welfare respon-
sibilities for the native population was avoided because Christian missions
became the main providers of ‘modern’ educational and health services.
In British Malaya, there were no figures like Snouck and Kraemer in
terms of knowledge of Islam. According to historian William Roff, no British
scholar could compare to Snouck in Arabic and in his encyclopedic knowl-
edge about Islamic history and doctrines. The most prominent authorities in
Malay culture were Richard Wilkinson (1867–1941) and Richard Winstedt
(1878–1966). In fact, Wilkinson and Winstedt cited Snouck on aspects of
Islam and Islam in the East Indies (for example, Wilkinson 1906: 4–5).
While Winstedt wrote prolifically, Wilkinson was ‘the most percipient of
early British administrators in colonial Malaya’ (Roff 2009: 97). Unlike
Snouck and Kraemer, Wilkinson and Winstedt related British imperial inter-
ests to the Malay population, rather than to global and historical Islam.11
Wilkinson and Winstedt produced works on the various aspects of Malay his-
tory and culture, and their contribution to shaping policies had a far-­reaching
impact on British colonial attitudes to Islam and Malay governance.12 Both
scholar-­administrators reinforced the conceptualisation of Islam as insepara-
ble from Malay religion and cultural identity, and clearly distinguished from
Christian theology and from Western modernity. In another departure from
the attitudes of Snouck and Kraemer, Winstedt and Wilkinson approached
Islam primarily as a cultural, Malay phenomenon. They displayed little inter-
est in the theological content of Islam and its political manifestation in the
context of the Anglo-­Malay collaboration. They contended that Sufi orders
were considered old-­fashioned, but they recognised that aspects of Sufi teach-
ings were deeply embedded in Malay religious practices­– ­and in some cases,
could still be relevant as Malays encountered the modern world.
 94 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

Observing Practical Islam: R. J. Wilkinson and Malay Heterodoxy

R. J. Wilkinson was born in Greece, but educated at Trinity College in

Cambridge where he learned European languages (French, German and
Spanish). He joined the Straits Settlement Civil Service and then became a
cadet in 1889, acquiring both Malay and Hokkien, a widely spoken Chinese
dialect. He was appointed as acting director of education in Penang, acting
inspector general of schools in the Straits Settlements (Singapore, Penang,
Malacca and Province Wellesley), and then British Resident of Negeri
Sembilan, before he became colonial secretary in the Straits Settlements. He
became a ‘keen moderniser’ in the field of education, establishing the Malay
Training College in Malacca in 1900 and founding the Malay Residential
School, later known as the Malay College Kuala Kangsar (MCKK).
One characteristic of the scholarship of Wilkinson was the categorisa-
tion of Islam into orthodox (‘correct’ belief and practice) and heterodox, to
some degree reflecting a similar categorisation among Muslim reformers who
used kufr, shirk and bid’ah to label ‘outside Islam’ or ‘heretic’. Wilkinson
maintained that although Islam and Malay identity became closely con-
nected, ordinary Malays were predominantly heterodox. He did not see that
Malay Muslims were enthusiastic about a global, universal Islam, despite
increased pilgrimage and the growing number of students in Mecca and
Cairo. Orthodox Islam, for him, was differentiated from older beliefs such as
the invocation of local spirits. He also contrasted the West, embodying ‘the
spirit of skepticism’ (scepticism was the ‘main feature of modern man’) with
the ‘Far East’, which could include ‘several irreconcilable faiths at one and the
same time’. A locally born Chinese, for example, could venerate ‘the Virgin
Mary, the Prophet Muhammad, and all the ghosts in Singapore’ (Wilkinson
1906: 1).
Like Snouck and other contemporaries, Wilkinson used the labels
‘Muhammadanism’ and ‘Islam’ interchangeably. Wilkinson claimed that
‘Muhammadanism’ was inherently ‘intolerant’, because it judged rival faiths
as future inhabitants of hell. Islam, he wrote, would punish a renegade as a
murderer, and would reject any belief borrowed from competing religions.
If rival creeds surrendered to the Muslim world, the missionary zeal of the
Muslims was willing to grant great concessions. However, in peninsular
 c oloni si ng the musli m ea s t | 95

Malaya, the Muslim environment was dotted with sacred localities wherein
‘old Hindu and Indonesian divinities’ were still worshipped under other des-
ignations. The Malay Muslims who reject such ‘heterodox’ practices, however
disguised, were in the minority. Although the five pillars of Islam constituted
the doctrinal and ritual that were central for Muslims, Malay Muslims were
predominantly non-­observant.
Wilkinson described Malay Muslims as formally belonging to the Sunni
theology and Shafi’i legal school of thought, but they appeared unaware of
the existence of ‘rival Mussulman sects and of the divergence of their (Malays)
creed from the truer Sunnite beliefs’ (Wilkinson 1906: 2–3). Wilkinson’s
contribution to British understanding of Malay Islam was his recognition
of its interaction with local beliefs. He recognised that other Europeans had
often based their ideas of Islam on a perusal of the Qur’an alone, overlooking
aspects such as the social conditions and local context. He was critical of the
notion of an ‘ideal Islam’ that did not exist in real life. For him, to approach
Islam fairly was to judge ‘modern Islam by what is actually believed by its
votaries and preached in its mosques’ and to try to understand ‘its missionary
work by studying arguments that appeal to its proselytes and not by those
that would carry weight with us’ (3). Wilkinson placed more value on what
he called ‘practical Islam’ because he believed that it had more application in
Malay life than ‘ideal Islam’, which he equated with orthodoxy. He thus saw
some value in ideas that Malay Muslim reformers would deem as backward
and heterodox.
For Wilkinson, the place of Sufism was ambiguous. It was one of the
integral, orthodox dimensions of Islam, and Muslim Sufi saints and jurists
had provided knowledge and civilisation that was ‘far above the moral, spir-
itual, and intellectual level of the average modern Malay’ (6). On the other
hand, local Sufi orders could also become ‘heterodox’, for spirit reverence was
a controversial issue that divided the orthodox, or ‘true’ Muslims studying
religion, Arabic, Malay and accepted forms of mysticism from the heterodox,
lax Malays, focusing on divination, invulnerability and magic. Orthodox
Malays believed in One God, Omnipotent and Eternal, but, in general, ordi-
nary Malays were superstitious, syncretistic and ignorant of Islamic theology
(18–19). Although they were open to new ideas, Malays were ‘afraid’ to
set old traditions aside. ‘The Malay cares nothing for consistency; he does
 96 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

not exchange old customs for new; he keeps both the new and the old’
(Wilkinson 1925a: 64).

Preserving Local Culture: The Committee of Malay Studies

In 1906 the colonial government established the Committee for Malay

Studies with an aim to oversee research and publication of studies on Malay
history, religion and culture.13 The government appointed Wilkinson as chair
and other British staff and several Malay assistants. With Wilkinson as the
general editor, the committee published pamphlets and books on Malay
life and customs, including Islam. It printed previously unpublished manu-
scripts, such as the Pasai Kings history (M. Hikayat Raja-­Raja Pasai), the
Malay Annals (Sejarah Melayu) and the history of the Kings of Riau (Hikayat
Raja-­raja Riau), applying a uniform system of Romanising Malay. While
the Arabic-­Malay script (Jawi) was retained for many manuscripts produced
in Malaya and others transmitted from Arabia and elsewhere, others were
published in Romanised Malay. Wilkinson advocated a policy based on ‘con-
servation combined with development’, as part of what came to be called the
‘pro-­Malay campaign’ aimed at protecting Malay history and culture (Burns
1971: 2–3).
An important series comprised the ‘papers on Malay subjects’, divided
into various topics: Life and Customs, Malay Literature, and Law. ‘Life and
Customs’ consisted of several parts: 1) the Incidents of Malay Life, 2) the
Circumstances of Malay Life and 3) Malay Amusements. ‘Malay Literature’
was also divided along lines that made sense to a Western reader­– ­Romance,
History, and Poetry.14 This new grouping of Malay ‘life and customs’ into
different topics was intended to serve as a textbook for the examination
of colonial officials and to meet the needs of out-­station officers whenever
they needed fuller information than some simple explanation from a Malay
informant (Wilkinson 1924: vi–viii). These papers could be consulted in
colonial offices and reference libraries, which were established for the benefit
of scholars and students working in Malay history and culture in order to
‘promote a better knowledge of this country and of its people’.15 By trans-
mitting ‘tradition’, Malay culture would be better equipped withstand the
advance of outside influences. Concluding his work on Malay life and cus-
toms, Wilkinson wrote, ‘It would be a pity if Malay custom was allowed to
 c oloni si ng the musli m ea s t | 97

perish unrecorded’ (1925a: 74). Because Islam was considered a key element
in the sense of being Malay, the committee looked beyond Malaya to col-
lect Islamic literature, which was pertinent to Malay culture. For example,
they received and preserved copies of the ‘Manual of Muhammadan Law’
by al-­Imam Nawawi (d. 1278), a ‘medieval’ Shafi’i scholar, who had by that
time become popular in Malay schools and mosques. They also discovered an
English translation of the Arabic book Minhaj al-­Abidin (A. ‘The Path of the
Worshippers’) published in London. Copies of this work were distributed to
British officials because it was thought that it would be useful in some ways,
especially in the courts.16
The Dutch Office for Native and Arab Affairs affected the study of various
ethnic cultures in the East Indies, whereas the Committee of Malay Studies
singled out Malay ethnic culture and history. The diversity of Islamic move-
ments as discussed earlier influenced the way in which the office expanded
their understanding of the colony. The relatively homogenous Malay culture
perpetuated the colonial understanding of a Malay ethnic identity and culture,
despite the various Malay sultanates. Both offices had few native assistants in
conducting administration, research and report, thus suggesting some degree
of collaboration in a new form of study, research and publication.

Reinforcing Malay Culture: Richard Winstedt and his Contributions

Richard Winstedt served as an education officer for about thirty-­two years

before being appointed Reader at the School of Oriental and African Studies
(SOAS) in the University of London. A graduate in English literature at
Oxford and trained by Wilkinson, Winstedt focused on studying and pub-
lishing studies of Malay language, literature, culture, history, economics, arts
and crafts, law, and religion. In these categories he saw different degrees of
Islamic elements. As inspector of schools in Perak, then as assistant district
officer in Tapah, and then as assistant director of education in the Straits
Settlements and Federated Malay States, he made a ‘revolutionary’ contribu-
tion to education in Malaya and in the view of one authority, was ‘the last
and greatest of the British “colonial” scholars in Malaya’ (Bastin 1964: 9).
His works on Islam were limited, but unique, and no less important than
Wilkinson’s. He saw Malay culture as multi-­layered, which had over the cen-
turies incorporated many influences. Winstedt wrote, ‘Anyone who ­surveys
 98 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

the field of Malay literature will be struck by the amazing abundance of its
foreign flora and the rarity of indigenous growths. Malay folklore, even, is
borrowed, most of it, from the vast store-­house of Indian legend, an early
crop garnered in the Hindu period, later in the Islamic’ (Winstedt 1969b
[1940]: v).
Winstedt wrote short essays about the rise of Muhammadanism in the
Malay Peninsula and archipelago (1917), the Arab Yemen descendants of
Perak and Siak (1918), ‘the early Muhammadan missionaries’ (1920), ‘some
Malay mystics, heretical, and orthodox’ (1923), and ‘notes on Malay subjects’,
including mysticism in Malaya (1947) (Bastin 1964: 1–23). When reviewing
Malay beliefs and religion, Winstedt used a chronological and topic mode
of organisation: first ‘primitive’, second ‘Hinduism’ and last ‘Islam’. The
‘primitive’ Malay culture was characterised by belief in many spirits, shaman-
ism (intermediary between spirits and humans) and sacrifice of animals as a
form of propitiation. Indian Hinduism and Buddhism had then penetrated
Malaya, evident through the use of Sanskrit terms (such as ‘agama’ for ‘reli-
gion’, ‘puasa’ for ‘fasting’, ‘surga’ for ‘heaven’ and ‘neraka’ for ‘hell’) and
through Hindu literature (especially the epic story of Mahabharata). In the
last section, he described how Islam reached Sumatra in the thirteenth cen-
tury, encountered Hindu courts and customary laws, and developed in the
Indonesian-­Malay archipelago. In noting that Muslims numbered only about
85 per cent in the Netherlands Indies, but 100 per cent in Malaya he con-
firmed the general idea that being Malay was inseparable from being Muslim.
Regarding Sufism, Winstedt observed that ‘Malay Muhammadans’ faced
conflicts between ‘theologian orthodoxy’ and ‘Sufi heterodoxy’: ‘There has
been the recurrent conflict between the transcendentalism of orthodox theo-
logians, for who God is in heaven, and popular mysticism, which starting
from animism inclines towards a pantheism that finds Him closer than the
veins of one’s neck’ (Winstedt 1947: 38). Winstedt studied Sufism and magic
in 1925 and did not publish it until 1951. He tried to demonstrate magic
as a combination of primitive, Hindu, Sufi and Muslim beliefs. In his view,
‘Malay magic’ was neither unique nor indigenous because it incorporated
foreign ideas and terms. What others may see as ‘original’ was ‘primitive’.
For its part, Malay Islam not only tolerated the spirits and gods of older
faiths (Hinduism and primitive beliefs), but introduced the Malay to the
 c oloni si ng the musli m ea s t | 99

Islamic devil or iblis and brought new methods of divination and amulets.
Linguistically and culturally, the acceptance of Islam meant that Sanskrit
terms were replaced by references to Adam, Allah and Muhammad, along
with genies (jinns) and angels (Winstedt 1982 [1951]: 81).
In his account of Malay Islam, Winstedt referred to Muhammad Abduh’s
‘modernism’, which he described as a ‘puritan ideal of religion freed from
superstition and its advocacy of a scientific education for the transforma-
tion of djinns into microbes’. He noted that Malays had become aware of
the Muhammadiyah movement in the Netherlands Indies, ‘the party that
would interpret the Kuran [sic] in the light of modern knowledge and aim at
the physical and intellectual advancement of the race’ (Winstedt 1947: 44).
However, he was uninterested in the spread and influence of this modernism
in Malaya, which he saw as having little relevance to ‘Malay culture’ as he
conceived it. Much like Snouck, Winstedt showed little optimism in mod-
ernising Islam in Malaya.
On the personal level, Winstedt found the Sufi understanding of spiritu-
ality particularly appealing, rather than ‘orthodoxy and the idea of Paradise
versus Hell’. As he put it: ‘The thought seems presumptuous and even impi-
ous: God is nearer to me than the muscles of my neck, says the Sufi mystic,
and surely that ought always to be the attitude of the religious ... At present
I find so much to fascinate me and hold me to this colourful life’ (Winstedt
1969a: 186).
The Malays’ responses to the Malay studies were generally positive, prob-
ably because the studies focused on language, history and culture, rather than
on theology and politics. As a response, Malay author Za’ba, who praised
a ‘cordinal relationship’ between the British and the Malays, expressed his
appreciation of R. J. Wilkinson’s contributions, and especially Winstedt’s
‘deep and broad contributions’ to Malay studies, although these demand
futher research. Wilkinson’s works on Malay grammar in Latin script was
used in Malaya from 1901 onwards. Winstedt’s works on Malay language,
literature, culture, religion and history, were used in Malaya from the time
of publications onwards. According to Za’ba, in 1921 Winstedt planned to
write a book on a ‘history of the “Muhammadan thought” among Malays’
but in the event did not actually write this work­– f­ or reasons that are unclear.
In contrast to Snouck, Winstedt was able to make only few references to
 100 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

Islam in his works. This was because Za’ba sought to improve Malay literacy
and attain progress through writing. He initiated a Malay Literary Society,
whose main aim was to unify Malay spelling and advance Malay literature
(Roff 1967: 185). Wilkinson helped Malays reach the goal.
Zaba also recognised that the British introduced the use of Arabic terms
‘tarikh’ and ‘sejarah’ for a history of the Malays in the strict meaning of
the rendering of the past based on reliable sources and ‘rational’ methodol-
ogy, such as ‘Tawarikh Melayu’, ‘Sejarah Negeri Johor’ and ‘Sejarah Tanah
Melayu’. ‘God gave language to Malays, but Sir Winstedt gave them gram-
mar!’, he wrote (Za’ba 1964: 337). Along with Wilkinson, Winstedt played a
crucial role in reinforcing Malay identity and culture.

Conclusion

The Dutch and the British shared imperial goals but they acted differently
in relation to Christian missions in the colonies. Generally speaking, some
Dutch colonialists became more supportive of Christian missions in the East
Indies than the British attitude toward the Christians in Malaya, although
they tried to avoid clashing with majority Muslims. In their efforts to ‘know’
their subjects, the Dutch and the British drew upon their own cultural tradi-
tions in order to know and understand Islam and local customs in Indonesia
and Malaya, either to control them or to bring them into the modern world.
In turn, Islam and local culture influenced their ideas about the relationship
between the West, Christianity and modernity as well as the development
of Orientalists, missionaries and Western modernisers. By the early twenti-
eth century, when Muslim reformers in the Indonesian-­Malay world were
preoccupied with organisation and writing about Islam in pursuing ‘pro-
gress’, European administrators and scholars were critical of various aspects
of Islamic doctrines and practices, but they, too, saw Islam as a potential ally
in drawing local peoples towards the path of modernity laid out by the West.
The Dutch explored Islam as a global religion and a local practice in different
parts of Indonesia, whereas the British were interested in Islam in terms of its
association with Malay culture.
The four ‘Orientalists’ described certain qualities associated with
‘progress’­– ­rationality, science, capitalism and materialism­– ­that they did
not see in the ‘Muslim East’. As scholars, missionaries or colonial admin-
 c oloni si ng the musli m ea s t | 101

istrators, they treated Islam as an object of study or as a ‘problem’; they

showed varying degrees of interest in Islam and Muslims depending on their
educational background and colonial positions. There was no unified, mono-
lithic ‘Orientalism’. Snouck was a self-­proclaimed Orientalist who studied
Arabic texts and other sources of Islamic history in addition to contemporary
dimensions of Islam. He viewed all religions as conservative, but thought
that the overwhelming majority of Muslims had a medieval mentality. But
he was optimistic about Muslims being able to modernise because he felt
that Islam shared some ‘essential resemblances’ with the modern world and
that examples of ‘modernist Islam’ already existed. The missionary Kraemer
approached Islam from a comparative theological perspective, describing
Islam for Protestant missionaries working in Muslim contexts. Although he
believed that Christianity faced challenges from secularism and materialism,
he considered that Islam represented a challenge due to its spiritual strength
and the zeal with which Muslims pursued spiritual and especially political
powers. Islam was widespread and a political Islam was emerging in the
East Indies, but its encroachment had been checked by mysticism, adat and
European penetration.
Wilkinson and Winstedt were less concerned about Christian missions
and theological questions in Malaya than were Snouck and Kraemer in the
East Indies. Approaching Islam as a practical, living tradition, Wilkinson
defined it as a communal religion. He claimed that most Malays were for-
malistic, although not orthodox, in their Islamic practice. Like Wilkinson,
Winstedt approached Islam from a literary and historical viewpoint and con-
sidered the Islam practised in Malaya to be unorthodox. He recognised that
Arabic had transformed Malay vocabulary as Islam had replaced the older
Hindu-­Buddhist religiosity, although not completely, and like Wilkinson,
Winstedt concluded that Malay Muslims were culturally ‘eclectic’ despite
their formal conversion to Islam. Both Wilkinson and Winstedt believed that
Malays would not give up older beliefs and practices even when overlaid by
new ideas, but their influence also shaped the official British colonial view
of Islam as the foundation of Malay religion and culture. Based on their
Western desires for knowledge and order, they were able to preserve and
document information about Malay culture, which they saw as a coherent
and ultimately knowable product.
 102 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

They expressed criticisms of Islam and Muslims, but they also recognised
certain aspects: Snouck apparently converted to Islam and called for mutual
understanding between the Christian West and the Muslim East; Winstedt
became attracted to the mystical, cultural Islam; Wilkinson respected Malay
Muslims for their strong sense of identity; and Kraemer attempted to write
about Islam without wanting to offend Muslim sensibilities.
Indonesian Muslims’ responses to the Dutch studies of Islam seemed to
be more diverse than the Malays’ responses to the British studies of Malay lan-
guage, history and culture. Kraemer’s theological work in particular received
criticism by the modernist Muslim author Haanie, whereas Winstedt’s works
on language and culture were regarded as a significant contribution to the
study of Malay cultural identity.
Edward Said’s (1979) Foucauldian argument regarding European colo-
nial knowledge and controlling power is particularly helpful in understand-
ing the Dutch and the British views of Islam and the East. However, it is
important to recognise the diverse backgrounds, approaches and positions
discussed in this chapter and other chapters. It is also helpful to consider
the variety of Muslims’ responses to the colonial views of their religion and
cultures discussed in this chapter as well as in other chapters.

Notes
  1. Snouck was a student of a Leiden professor and the chief editor of The Encyclopedia
of Islam. Arabicist and philologist, Michael J. de Goeje (1836–1907), Overgedrukt
uit de Nederlandsche Spectator, 1881, 51. KITLV.
  2. Snouck ’s conversion to Islam in Mecca has been a contentious topic (Witkam
2007: xiii).
  3. Salim, ‘Mana Jang Harus didulukan?’, Neratja, 24 January 1918, No. 17, Year
2, in Salim (1954: 36); Salim, ‘Benih Pertjederaan’, Neratja, 7 January 1919,
No. 4, Year 3, in Salim (1954: 45).
  4. Salim, ‘De Sluiering en Afzondering der Vrouw’, Madjalah Het Licht, Year 2,
1926, in Salim (1954: 167–75).
  5. ‘Snouck Hurgronje dengan Islam’, bag. IV, Het Licht, No. 6, Year 7, August 1931.
  6. The advisers for native and Arabic affairs were as follows: Snouck Hurgronje
(1899–1906), G. A. J. Hazeu (1907–13 and 1917–21), D. A. Rinkes (1914–16),
R. A. Kern (1921–2 and 1924–6), E. Gobee (1923 and 1927–37) and G. F.
Pijper (1937–42). Laffan (2011: 209–32).
 c oloni si ng the musli m ea s t | 103

  7. This Office later developed into Kantoor voor Inlandsche Zaken, or Kantor Agama,
Office for Religious affairs (Kantor Agama) and then became the Department
of Religious Affairs (Balai Penelitian Lektur Keagamaan) in 1946 created by
Muslim nationalists. Noer (1978).
  8. Kraemer uses works by Western scholars such as his mentor Snouck Hurgronje,
Dunkan Black Macdonald, A. J. Wensinck and Reynold Nicholson, and
Muslim authors such as Syed Amir Ali, Maulana Muhammad Ali, Hamka and
Mohammad Natsir.
  9. The verse is ‘To each is a goal to which God turns him; then strive together as in
a race towards all that is good. Whoever ye are, God will bring you together. For
God hath power over all things.’
10. Archive No. 4­/1940, Education Office of Kelantan, 8­/40, ANM.
11. Sir Richard Winstedt published the following books among others: Malaya,
The Straits Settlements and the Federated and Unfederated Malay States, 1927;
An English–Malay Dictionary, 1939; Britain and Malaya, 1786–1941, 1944;
Malaya and its History, 1948; The Malay Magician: Being Shaman, Saiva, and
Sufi, 1951; and A History of Classical Malay Literature, 1969.
12. My correspondence with the late William Roff (d. 2013), then a retired profes-
sor at Edinburgh University who lived in St Andrews, 20 March 2011.
13. ‘Memorandum on Malay Studies’, 5 August 1911, ANM.
14. Wilkinson (1924, 1925a, 1925b, 1929, 1932).
15. ‘Memorandum on Malay Studies’, 5 August 1911, ANM.
16. ‘Manual of Muhammadan Law by Mahmudin Abu Zakaria ibn Sheri Nawawi
translated by E. C. Howard into English’, No. 24, 1915; High Commissioner’s
Office, Singapore, 29 December 1914, the British Adviser, Kelantan
Government, Kota Bharu, ANM.
 PART II
MODERNISING POLITICS
AND GOVERNMENT
 III
Building Siyasah and Reforming Sultanate

The Sarekat Islam has been criticized for showing hatred (I. permusuhan)
against the government and the Dutch people in the East Indies, but our
leaders work hard, sincerely, and truthfully so that such negative comment
against our movement may be avoided, and that the government could put
trust on Muslim people and our movement because what we aim is what all
aim: to reach progress (I. kemajuan).
(Partondo 1914)

Indeed, the English are an army of God, the Lord of the worlds, who has
ordered them to come here to free us from darkness, the prison of igno-
rance, injustice, wickedness, and cruelty of our own rulers.
(Al-­Hadi 1926)

P olitics comprises various kinds of leadership in theory and in action,

in educational, economic and social and even household policies. In
‘Politics as a Vocation’, Weber focuses on the political association of a state
(1958 [1921]: 77), but he also observes that ‘an essentially political character
marked all the main ordinances of Islam’, because of Islam’s interest in chal-
lenging enemies, regulating sexual behaviour, prohibiting usury, supporting
the poor and even in proclaiming that God is one and Muhammad is his
messenger (1993 [1922]: 263–4). For Snouck (a contemporary of Weber),
Hendrik Kraemer and other colonialists, ‘religion’ was different to but insep-
arable from ‘politics’ in Islam. Snouck, for instance, observed that Muslim
political authorities needed to keep the community in the right path in its
life and doctrine (Snouck 1916: 84–5). However, Snouck did not address
how Muslims disagreed on the meanings and means of politics. In Malaya,
Muslims used politics and siyasah sometimes interchangeably alongside other

107
 108 | i slam and col o nia l is m

terms for leadership and government. The Arabic term ‘siyasah’ has no exact
equivalences in the Qur’an and the hadith, but Muslims have used it to
mean ‘politics’ both in theory and practice (see Ayubi 1993; Qardhawi 2007;
Martin and Barzegar 2010). This chapter examines how Muslim reformers
in colonial Indonesia and Malaya articulated politics, and how they related
to the caliphate, the colonial state and the traditional governments. Mostly
uninterested in supporting or renewing the caliphate, many Indonesian
Muslims began to appropriate and build politics, some cooperating with the
Dutch and others not, whereas many Malay reformers sought to reform the
Malay society, without rejecting the British-­sultan modernisation projects.

Building Politics beyond Caliphate: Serving Ummah and Negeri

In the Indonesian-­Malay world, those Muslim reformers who divided Islam

into the political and the religious, based on Qur’anic concepts of dunya and
din matters, considered politics to be an aspect of worldly affairs and a means
for making progress in the material world of the living. The old kingdoms
and sultanates remained, but they were transformed into a colonial system of
government. Beyond the internal politics among the Dutch power and the
local kings, and between local kings themselves, Muslim reformers became
cooperative or non-­cooperative toward the Dutch colonial government and
native officials. Others, being influenced by Russian and Chinese socialisms,
became critical of Dutch colonialism and capitalism, but used Dutch vocabu-
laries and institutions. They were motivated to change social conditions and
transform attitudes, through the medium of political associations (Shiraishi
1990: 27).
The global context for this diverse Muslim political environment is the
same: at a time when European colonial powers consolidated their hege­
mony in Muslims and non-­Muslim countries, the worldwide leadership of
the Islamic ummah was declining, culminating in the abolishment of the
Ottoman Empire and caliphate in 1923 in Turkey. However, the ideas and
activities of Muslims were predominantly localised and as result they were
politically divided.
Muslim reformers began to debate what politics means. For example, in
an essay entitled ‘What is politik?’, a local contributor to the periodical Anak
Kontji in Makassar characterised politik as the ability to lead with commit-
 b u il d ing siyasah and ref ormi ng s ul ta n a te  | 109

ment, to take care of the affairs of others, to follow a straight path, to exercise
self-­control and to employ correct speech.1 Politics was for him a moral force.
In another case, in West Sumatra, politics was defined as a secular, non-­
religious matter when a dispute arose between a local headman and a preacher
concerning the content of Friday sermons. The headman reported to the
Dutch controller that the khutbahs in a booklet ‘Contemporary Khutbahs’
were political and therefore unsuitable in mosques. Khutbahs should be
strictly religious, and concern prayer and remembrance of Allah and prepara-
tion for life in the hereafter. He was critical of preachers who made political
speeches in the mosques intended to foment social movements or support
political parties. Indeed, such political preachers often took Friday sermons as
an opportunity to criticise other Muslims for being backward, for irrational
or merely symbolic religiosity and for maintaining a tradition of ignorance
(A. adat jahiliyyah). They also criticised unjust rulers and those who accumu-
lated wealth without taking care of the poor. They talked of knowledge and
progress, the struggle against religious innovation and unlawful acts, while
exhorting listeners to love their nation and the country. The local headman
regarded all of these issues as political and irrelevant to the religious character
of the Friday khutbahs.2 This understanding of what is political is differ-
ent from the one demonstrated by the modernist Muhammadiyah author
A. Haanie who criticised Hendrik Kraemer for depoliticising Islam discussed
in the previous chapter.
In Malaya the major players were the modernists and the traditionalists
(who could be either critical or indifferent to the British and royal authority);
Malay nationalists (who tended to be critical of colonial policies, but were
largely accommodating); and, unlike the East Indies, the predominant role
of the sultan or traditional elite (allied to the British). There was a strong
feeling among Malays that traditional sultanate should be maintained, but
reformers displayed a new understanding of politics and spread a new politi-
cal awareness (M. kesadaran baru). New identities were created on the basis
of territories (negeri), peoples (bangsa) and faith community (ummah), thus
transforming the old sultanate (Milner 1994: 7; 2003). Under British colo-
nialism, the kaum muda, who could be products of Arabic, Malay or English
schools (see Chapter VII), became increasingly politicised as they found the
traditional government unable or unwilling to pursue reformist goals (Roff
 110 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

1967: 254). Some of the Malay activists were well informed about the activi-
ties of their Indonesian brothers as well as with those in Cairo, Turkey and
Saudi Arabia, through travels and through reading news and periodicals.
While Muhammadiyah reformers spoke publicly about the worldwide
ummah and the necessity to struggle in the path of God, they rarely talked
about a caliphate or Islamic political unity. Ahmad Dahlan, discussed earlier,
seemed uninterested in promoting either a pan-­Islamic unity or anti-­colonial
nationalism. Dahlan himself did not openly oppose Dutch rule, and because
there was no attempt to adopt an anti-­Dutch stance, the organisation was
able to operate within the colonial system until the Japanese invasion of
1941.
A significant development during this period was a discussion of the
concept of Negeri Islam (I. Islamic country). In response to the question of
whether Indonesia was a negeri Islam, the NU fatwas referred to the three
kinds of ‘house’: 1) the Abode of Islam (dar al-­Islam) where Muslim rulers
applied Islamic law, partly or completely; 2) the Abode of War (dar al-­harb),
the non-­Islamic or kafir domain; and 3) the Abode of Peace (A. dar al-­sulh)
where Muslims were allowed to apply Islamic law or had a peace contract
with the kafir. NU’s 1936 annual congress reasserted that Indonesia was part
of the Abode of Islam (dar al-­Islam), or an Islamic country or region, daerah
Islam, rather than the Abode of War (Khuluq 2000: 84–5). In a response to a
question ‘Is our country Islamic?’, NU issued a fatwa stating that ‘our coun-
try, Indonesia, is an “Islamic country” because it has always been ruled com-
pletely by Muslims. Even though it’s now being ruled by a kafir colonizer,
it has remained an Islamic country now and will do so forever.’ References
were made to the NU translation of an Arabic book of fatwa published in the
early twentieth century, Bughya al-­Mustarsyidin (A. ‘The Desire of Guided
People’), by a Shafi’i scholar, Abdurrahman Ba’alawi. As long as Muslims
were able to observe Islamic law even partially after coming under kafir rule
and if Muslims had been rulers at some point, a nation could be regarded as
Islamic, dar al-­Islam. The mention of Batavia (I. Betawi) and Java (A. bilad
al-­jawa) in the fatwa points to the Islamic associations of nation and country
(in Masyhuri 1997: 138). They reinterpreted the opposition between dar
al-­Islam and dar al-­harb in light of the fact that they were Muslims living in
their own lands but ruled by Europeans. Thus they found the idea of dhimmi,
 b u il d ing siyasah a nd ref ormi ng s ul ta n a te  | 111

the protected non-­Muslim minorities, and the application of jizyah, a poll

tax required from the dhimmi for Muslims’ protection, irrelevant. From the
1920s, the name Indonesia as well as Hindia Timur (East Indies) had been
sometimes used to refer to this negeri Islam.
Many called their country bilad al-­jawa, or a country of Jawa. In a 1937
speech, Hasyim Asy’ari emphasised the unity of the Ahl al-Sunnah wa al-­
Jama’ah doctrine, with specific reference to Jawa as a ‘country’.

O, all people, before you stand infidels who deny God. They fill every
corner of the country. Who [among you] is ready to engage in dialog with
them and guide them to the right path? Indeed our religion is one! Our
legal allegiance is one: the Shafi’i! Our region (tanah air) is one: Jawa [Java],
and we are all of us Ahl al-Sunnah wa al-­Jama’ah. (Asy’ari cited in Mulkhan
1986: 16–20)

As this call for unity suggests, Hasyim Asy’ari realised that Muslims were
disunited and he therefore called for Muslims, both modernist and tradi-
tionalist in the bilad al-­jawa, to ‘maintain brotherhood, unity, and harmony
and to uphold virtue in order reach prosperity’ (Asy’ari cited in Khuluq
2000: 62–3, 72). This goal of unity was problematic, however, because the
symbol of the Muslim ummah, the Ka’ba in Mecca, was under Wahhabi-­Ibn
Saud rule, which considered many Sufi and local practices heretical. The
rejection of Saudi Wahhabi leadership by Muslim traditionalists in the East
Indies had led to the creation of NU, and SI gave up its pan-­Islamic voice
in favour of Indonesian nationhood. At the General Islamic Congress in
Jerusalem in 1931, the only Indonesian present was a 23–year-­old Al-­Azhar
student, Kahar Muzakkir. Due to the increasing ideological division in the
East Indies, no representative was sent to attend the Congress of Caliphate
in Cairo. As the goal of electing a new caliph faded, Jawi Muslims became
increasingly concerned about the immediate problems in their homelands
(Bruinessen 1995).
A native group that accepted Dutch colonial government while con-
fronting the ideology of imperialism and capitalism was Sarekat Dagang
Islam (SDI), which would become Sarekat Islam (Union of Islam) (SI). Later
this would become a political party (Partai Sarekat Islam) (PSI) and then
Partai Sarekat Islam Indonesia (PSII). With its new form of organisation, SI
 112 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

has been considered ‘Indonesia’s most spectacular anticolonial movement,

although it was complex and many-­faceted­. . . spanning old and new in a
variety of ways’ (Bastin and Benda 1968: 104). SI first aimed at challenging
Chinese economic forces and unifying Muslim traders, but was separated
into different factions with different orientations­– ­Islamist, nationalist, and
communist­– o­ rientations and categories that were not necessarily exclusive
of one another.

Making Islam Socialistic and Political: Sarekat Islam in Java

The first nationwide movement in the East Indies combining Islam and eco-
nomic concerns was Sarekat Islam, founded on 5 April 1909 as the Islamic
Trade Union (Sarekat Dagang Islamiyah (SDI) by R. M. Tirto Adhi Soerjo
(1880–1918) in Bogor, West Java. Tirto envisaged SDI as a movement by
free people (I. Kaum Mardika, D. Vrije Burgers), such as merchants, peasants
and other workers, who were unified by Islam (Pramoedya 2003 [1985]:
150). He himself was born to a priyayi family, received a Dutch educa-
tion and before founding SDI established the first ‘Indonesian’ press, Soenda
Berita (‘Sunda News’) in 1903, which published Soeloeh Keadilan (I. ‘Justice
Guidance’) and Medan Prijaji (I. ‘The Field for Aristocrats’). He was involved
in an association known as Perhimpunan Oost en West (I.­/D. Union of
East and West). He believed in education for native women, and viewed the
Dutch language as a valuable acquisition. Critical of aristocratic attitudes of
superiority, he studied Islam by himself in order to understand the minds
of the Muslim people. His inclusive ideas about religious belief are evident in
his idea that God, Tuhan and Allah are identical, but he was also an advocate
of modernity (Toer 2003 [1985]: 59, 168). The SDI document stated: ‘the
present time is considered the age of progress. Our watchword thus must
be that striving for progress should not remain idle sound­. . . The organiza-
tion aimed to create brotherhood, foster solidarity and mutual help among
Muslims, by any means that are not in conflict with the laws of the country
and the Government’ (Shiraishi 1990: 42; Toer 2003 [1985]: 170). Here
liberation was understood not in terms of anti-­Dutch law and government.
In 1927 activists changed the SI into a political party: Partai Sjarikat
Islam Hindia Timoer (the East Indies Muslim Union Party), renamed Partai
Sarekat Islam Indonesia (Indonesian Party of Muslim Union) (henceforth
 b u il d ing siyasah and ref ormi ng s ul ta na te  | 113

PSII) in 1929. This change in name and orientation reflected its changing
leadership and agenda. During these years, the agenda shifted from improv-
ing the economy and the social condition of Muslim natives in reaction to
Chinese economic domination, to advancing Islam in Indonesia and then
to promoting Islamic nationhood. In documents and correspondence, PSII
leaders used various sources­– ­Russian and Chinese Marxism, the Qur’an, the
hadith and Islamic history and literature­– ­in order to address a number of
issues, including a refutation of imperialism and capitalism.
A second influential SI leader was H. O. S. Tjokroaminoto. Born in
Madiun, he attended OSVIA (D. Opleiding School Voor Inlandsche
Ambtenaren), the Dutch school for training civil servants, and began to work
as a civil servant (1902–5) before he left and became a writer and activist.
In one of his early speeches, unlike other SI leaders, Tjokroaminoto was ini-
tially reluctant to question colonial domination, and did not believe in direct
confrontation. A speech in 1914 thus explained that being Muslim means
being native and that Muslims should obey the laws of the Netherlands:
‘Even though the anti-­SI group is getting bigger and bigger, and seems to
be obstructing our movement, we will not give up making mighty efforts,
under the protection of the Government, to advance and elevate the lot
of the Natives’ (Tjokroaminoto in Shiraishi 1990: 61). However, as time
passed he became increasingly Islamic and ‘radicalized’, in part because of
the growing friction among the SI leaders, and demanded, for example, that
self-­government be granted soon or in the near future (104).
For Tjokroaminoto, siyasah or politics was an obligation for Muslims with
clear objectives: freedom of the Islamic ummah and implementation of Allah’s
commands stipulated in the Qur’an. To achieve these objectives, an Islamic
political party was crucial for transmitting political knowledge and promot-
ing political education according to Islamic teachings and for preparing their
future government in their own country (Tjokroaminoto 1958 [1931]: 76–7).
Tjokroaminoto’s concern at the general poverty and backwardness of Muslims
made him a firm advocate of progress and prosperity, couched in both religious
and worldly terms. For him, Islam was not only progressive, but, more impor-
tantly, it was also anti-­capitalist and anti-­imperialist, and thus represented the
antithesis of Western values. He and other SI leaders promoted socialist ideas
through organising, speaking, writing and publishing, often using the Dutch
 114 | i slam and col o nia l is m

language in which they had been educated. Tjokroaminoto regarded Western

capitalism as the cause of Muslims’ ills because it drove the Dutch to colonise
Indonesia and institute national slavery (I. penghambaan kebangsaan). Because
of their wrongdoing, capitalists would be ‘punished by God, both in this world
and in the hereafter’. By contrast, Tjokroaminoto talked about Islamic social-
ism, citing Qur’anic passages that forbade usury (A. riba) and that obliged
Muslims to give zakat to the poor. But poverty, he recognised, was a global
problem, and he referred to the German Socialist Party’s challenge to capi-
talistic enterprise in Europe, the United States and in the Netherlands Indies
(Tjokroaminoto in Amelz 1952: 31–7). Tjokroaminoto’s writings were influ-
enced by his readings of the Qur’an, the hadith and other reformers around
the world, including Indian Syed Ameer Ali through his book ‘the Spirit of
Islam’ (1891), another Indian Ahmadi author Maulana Muhammad Ali’s
through his book Muhammad the Prophet (1924) and other Muslim authors
living in Western countries (Tjokroaminoto 1955 [1931]). He learned from
Karl Marx and Frederich Engles, but he criticised their historical materialism
and social Darwinism that recognised no God. Tjokroaminoto elaborated
what he called ‘Islamic socialism’ in terms of such concepts as freedom (I.
kemerdekaan), equality (I. persamaan) and fraternity (I. persaudaraan) citing
the Qur’an, early stories of Islam and Western works (Tjokroaminoto 1950
[1924]: 25–7, 33–8). For example, he wrote:

The Prophet Muhammad created his government for his country (negeri)
in a truly socialistic way. His successor Umar ibn Khattab implemented the
Prophet’s socialism even in a more advanced way because Umar ruled peo-
ples from different races and nations and treated them in equality. Umar’s
imperialism­– ­if we can say that­– ­was based on socialism, very differ-
ent from egoistic and materialistic imperialism of the twentieth century.
(Tjokroaminoto 1950 [1924]: 68)

Conceptualising the Islamic socialist community would mean acting

through nationalist movements in the East Indies (Hindia Timur), rather
than calling for political pan-­ Islamism. Tjokroaminoto employed the
Indonesian and Arabic phrase ‘kemerdekaan ummat’ and Dutch phrase
‘Nationale Vrijheid ’ as identical. He called his political party PSII to change
the condition of all Muslims in Indonesia, citing a Quranic passage: ‘God
 b u il d ing siyasah and ref ormi ng s ul ta n a te  | 115

will not change the condition of a nation (qawm) unless they themselves
change it’ (Q. 13:11) (Tjokroaminoto 1958 [1931]: 19–20).
To Tjokroaminoto, Islam endorsed societal values (I. kerakyatan) as well
as those of the individual (I. pribadi). Nonetheless, individuality should be
subservient to the needs of the society, because individualism could fuel
capitalism, which undermined the sense of community.3 He wanted Islam
to be implemented in its fullest sense, encompassing the individual, the
familial, the social, the national, the material, the moral, the intellectual
and the spiritual. Islam had once been successful in establishing civilisation
(I. kesopanan, peradaban) in Mecca and Medina, but this was not sustained
after Muhammad died. Therefore, today, he affirmed, Islam should unify
all Muslim organisations because national freedom could not be achieved
without the unity of Muslims (Amelz 1952: 39).
In his exploration, Tjokroaminoto borrowed ideas from many social-
ist thinkers, such as German author Rosa Luxemburg through her work
De Akkumulation des Kapitals (1913) in condemning Western capitalism
(Tjokroaminoto 1958 [1931]: 52–4). In his explanation of the Party’s prin-
ciples and programmes, he defined politics as the strategy of governing a
country or managing a state in both theory and practice: ‘In order to practice
politics on the basis of Islam, one should remember these Dutch wisewords:
“the present is in the past and the future is in the present”’ (In het verleden ligt
het heden, in het nu wat worden zal ) (71). He wrote in the same booklet that
the party would not intervene with political bodies and councils created by
the colonial government but would protest any political act, laws and regula-
tions harmful to the country and the people (78).
Although SI activists were distressed at the fall of the caliphate in 1923,
and promoted the idea of revival, like other Muslim activists they were
increasingly focused on the immediate problems in their homelands. When
the Grand Shaykhs of Al-­Azhar in Cairo called for a global meeting to elect a
new caliph, some Muslim groups in the East Indies, such as Muhammadiyah,
SI and the Arab-­descended group Al-­Irsyad attended the Congress of Islam
in the East Indies, but disagreed on ideology and strategy. SI, for example,
was divided into the red faction, advocating communist socialism in the
pursuit of Islamic goals, while the white faction pressed for a caliphate that
would provide Islamic leadership in both spiritual and worldly affairs. One
 116 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

individual who regarded himself as both Islamic and communist (the Red
SI) is Haji Misbach (1876–1926), who left the Muhammadiyah because of
its capitalist orientation, and was equally critical of the SI. In 1923, when he
established a branch of the Indonesian Communist Party (Partai Komunis
Indonesia) (PKI) in Surakarta, he argued that both Islam and communism
were inherently compatible. He regarded those who professed themselves
communists but pressed for abolition of Islam to not be true communists,
while those who professed Islam but rejected communism to not be true
Muslims (Shiraishi 1990: 267–8, 285).
After Tjokroaminoto’s death in 1934, the new SI leader, Agus Salim,
mentioned earlier, was critical of the Dutch, but he was generally more
cooperative than Tjokroaminoto in his relations with the Dutch moderni-
sation. He was born in West Sumatra and raised in a Dutch-­influenced
family (his father was a prosecutor in Riau’s High Court, and received the
highest civilian award from Queen Wilhelmina). Agus Salim was one of
the few Indonesians to study at the Europese Lagere Scholen (Elementary
European School) (ELS), from whence he went on to the Hogere Burger
Scholen (Senior High School) (HBS), where he mastered not only Dutch,
but knew French, English and German. Salim served as an assistant in the
Dutch consulate in Jeddah and then a civil servant in the Department of
Education and Culture and later the Department of Public Works. He went
back to his village and there created the Dutch-­Native School (HIS). He then
went to Batavia, where he served as director of a Dutch-­language native news-
paper, Neratja (S.­/I. ‘Balance’), and then as chief editor at the Commission
for Peoples’ Literature (D. Commissie voor de Volkslecteur) (later known as
Balai Pustaka). Both were subsidised by the colonial administration as part of
the Ethical Policy discussed earlier.
For Agus Salim, Western progress and Eastern progress were quite dis-
tinct, and yet the path for Indonesians toward true, authentic progress was to
embrace the good from the West with their own heritage. In so doing, Salim
saw no reason for Indonesians to wage war against colonialism, since the
Dutch had superior forces. The best way to achieve progress, Salim argued,
would be through peaceful means. Indonesians had to unify themselves in
pursuit of the same goals. They should demand equality of dignity, rights and
laws for all people in the Indies, as well as the right to become involved in
 b u il d ing siyasah a nd ref ormi ng s ul ta n a te  | 117

political meetings in order to express their views on how the country should
be run.4
Salim observed that too many people were standing outside politics
and that existing political parties had no solid or clear programmes and
organisation. For Salim and his political party ‘Consciousness Movement’
(I. pergerakan penyadar), it was more beneficial than harmful for people to be
cooperative with the colonial power. According to Salim, the native popula-
tion was not aiming to overthrow the Dutch: instead, they wanted to improve
the people’s right for freedom, through consultation and agreement (I. and
M. musyawarat dan mufakat) as part of the democratic demands. They would
be able to express their ideas about improving the economy and government
by joining the volksraad. Salim calculated the pros and cons of such coopera-
tion, even as he hoped, as a Muslim, that God would grant his movement
the best outcome. Progress exists, Salim asserted, and ‘in this country we are
striving to attain progress among the people, with the people, and for the
people, in an orderly, safe, and peaceful manner’.5
Despite the inception of the Ethical Policy, Salim observed, many
Indonesians were still living in poverty, an injustice that many Dutch politi-
cians themselves acknowledged. Salim contended that the Ethical Policy was
motivated by Dutch self-­interest, rather than by real concern to improve the
life of Indonesians. Therefore, Indonesians would attain progress and pull
themselves out of poverty only after building unity and obtaining freedom.
He also believed that Dutch educational regulations offered more disadvan-
tages than advantages to Indonesians because they knew little about the real
situation of the people, because Western progress was only concerned with
material matters and not with feeling or emotion (I. rasa, D. gevoel ):

What is good from the Dutch has to be studied and followed. However, we
are convinced that much of Western progress [I. kemajuan Barat] is false,
as is proved by the wars [among Westerners]. We are also convinced that
the best [form of] progress for our nation is one based on the principles
and heritage of our past. Our path is to improve and perfect our heritage
while taking the good from Western education. True progress accords with
the character of Eastern nations [I. bangsa timur] which does not reach for
material [goods] at the expense of feeling.6
 118 | i slam and col o nia l is m

Despite his contention that the Dutch tried to alienate elite Muslims
from Islam, Salim was also critical of fellow Muslims in the East Indies. As
Adviser to the Jong Islamiten Bond, he expressed a modernist approach to
politics. Salim believed in Islam as the religion of both material progress and
spiritual enrichment, as contrasted with the materialistic and divisive West.
He claimed that Western scholars had very little knowledge about Islam as a
complete system, and as a religion that could eliminate enmity, humiliation
and backwardness in this world and in the world to come.7
Muslim political activists did not necessarily reject the Dutch colonial
government and its laws, but they rejected interventionist and discriminatory
policies. Being present-­minded was to be engaged with contemporary eco-
nomic and political issues­– i­ncluding imperialism, capitalism and socialism­
– ­in defence of one’s religious and communal interests and goals. Some
Muslims as well as some native Christians favoured being religiously neutral
and liberal, and during the 1920s and 1930s the tension between the Islamic
faction and what some termed the secular nationalist faction was obvious. For
the secularists, being Westernised and modern would mean that the pursuit
of freedom and progress would entail critical engagement with the West and
its culture.8

Making Islam Socialist in South Sulawesi

The ripples of conflicts and cooperations that occurred in Java often extended
to South Sulawesi, albeit within local contexts. Many of the organisations
established in Java expanded to the outer islands, and Makassar in South
Sulawesi became a gateway to enter other cities and islands in the eastern
archipelago. Muhammadiyah had already reached South Sulawesi, while
Sarekat Islam established a branch in Makassar in 1914, to be followed by
Partai Sarekat Islam (PSI) (renamed PSII in 1929) in 1918. But leaders of
these new organisations had to tread carefully. For example, Soekarno’s PNI
(The National Party of Indonesia) (Partai Nasional Indonesia), formed in
Makassar in 1929, was soon banned by the Dutch because of its anti-­colonial
stand. Some of its members then joined the Partai Indonesia Raja (Party of
Greater Indonesia), but this was also banned (Pelras 1996: 278–9). Others
created their own local groups. Some reformers addressed political issues
through fatwas and khutbahs (sermons), while others established branches of
 b u il d ing siyasah a nd ref ormi ng s ul ta n a te  | 119

the Javanese mass movements and disseminated their views in journals and
speeches.
Like their Javanese fellow countrymen, Bugis and Makassarese Muslim
activists turned their gaze more directly on colonial policies and attitudes, crit-
icising those that they viewed as being interventionist or discriminatory. They
also demanded more governmental intervention in providing and improving
education for the people, contending that the Dutch administration paid
more attention to colonial schools and Protestant churches and schools than
to Muslim mosques and schools. In Makassar, for example, some activists
asked the colonial administration to protect mosques, since churches were
guarded.9 At times such criticism could become a call for direct opposition.
During a congress in Parepare, while demanding an end to forced labour, the
PSII promoted the idea of non-­cooperation with the Dutch Government.
But the relationship between PSII leaders and the colonial power was not
always adversarial. For example, Muhammad Abduh Pabbaja (1918–2009),
a student of Muhammad As’ad and an engaged member of PSII, remembered
that Dutch colonial rulers did not really hinder his religious-­political activi-
ties, and for him personally there was no confrontation.10
In the SI first meeting in Makassar in 1914, a speaker from the Java SI
Raden Partonto spoke to an audience that included hundreds of people from
Makassar and Java, as well as several Arabs, Indians and Chinese. While
he explained the reason for establishing an SI in Makassar, namely work-
ing towards progress for all, he also made it clear that SI did not advocate
open opposition towards the colonial government. The Makassar SI then
asked for the governor-­general’s approval, which enabled it to expand to
other districts in South Sulawesi.11 In Makassar and other regencies in South
Sulawesi, Sarekat Islam first served as a socio-­religious movement by creat-
ing schools and conducting social works from its early penetration to the
mid-­1920s when Sarekat Islam began to become a political organisation.
The split of Sarekat Islam into the religious and the political was one of
the main reasons why some of the Bugis members and leaders such as Haji
Abdullah and Abdurrahman Ambo Dalle quitted the party and created other
organisations or became members of the existing organisations (Bosra 2003:
136–43).
The PSII in South Sulawesi (as in Java) became associated with
 120 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

non-­cooperation, and this led to tension with Muhammadiyah activists, who

focused on educational and religious issues, and did not favour confronting
the Dutch. The tensions in Java had local ramifications as each group defended
their own strategies. In South Sulawesi this was manifested also in their peri-
odicals: Al-­Wafd by PSII with the editor H. A. Mawengkang, from North
Sulawesi, a Muslim convert from Protestantism, and the Muhammadiyah
Tentara Islam, with the editor Mansur Al-­Yamani from Surabaya, Java. The
Muhammadiyah activist Hamka (from Minangkabau) thus criticised PSII
activists for only talking on the podium rather than taking any real action,
while the Al-­Wafd editor challenged Muhammadiyah willingness to receive
Dutch subsidies for schools (343–6).
This increased politicisation can be seen in later SI meetings, when oppo-
sition to the Dutch became more pronounced. Indeed, it can be argued that
SI was directly responsible for increasing a new religious political awareness
in Sulawesi. For example, disappointed with the lack of support for the
caliphate, one SI speaker quoted the Qur’an: ‘Do not feel that you are power-
less, and do not feel sad; you are the highest if you truly are believers’ (Q.
3:139–42) and the Prophet’s saying: ‘Don’t be afraid and don’t be sad; your
position will be highly respected if you believe (in God).’12 This speaker told
the audience that Muslims had become slaves because they felt powerless
under the imperialist unbelievers who had used them as a tool for maintaining
domination. He said that Muslims should be empowered and should become
powerful, as their religion taught them.13 In his opinion, Islam should not
merely be a belief but, more importantly, a political ideology­– ­an ideology
that should challenge capitalist imperialism.

There are around 400 million Muslim people [ummah Islam] in the world
today, many of them suffering from a sense of being enslaved [D. slaven-
geest] because they feel lower than other communities who do not share
one God, one scripture, one prophet, one ka’ba. These other communities
have raised their dignity using other people’s knowledge and skills, but
the Muslim people have become an easy tool for them to use in reaching
their objectives. The Muslim soils have become fertile for imperialisme and
kapitalisme. We have not forgotten how the Congress of Islamic Peoples in
Jerusalem and the Caliphate Congress in Egypt did not address siyasah on
 b u il d ing siyasah a nd ref ormi ng s ul ta na te  | 121

which we should work together, especially in Asia where many [people] are
Muslim.14

He referred to the colonial government as kafir, quoting a Qur’anic verse

(2:191): ‘If the unbelievers fight against you, then you should fight against
them’,15 and therefore called for political action among Muslims everywhere.
The speaker understood siyasah as both a discourse and a practice of address-
ing political concerns. He was particularly disappointed that even the cali-
phate congress did not really plan a worldwide Muslim political unity. He
was imagining a global Islamic ummah, but he was an activist of a political
party implanted in the soil of the East Indies.
Beyond SI and PSII, in Makassar, the newspaper Fadjar Indonesia
critically addressed Islam, politics, the economy and worldly affairs. Many
Muslims, about 3.5 million of them in Sulawesi, a contributor to the newspa-
per wrote, became anti-­Islamic because they had little knowledge about their
religion. In Islam, politics and agama, the writer said, should be connected.
The enemy of Islam increased; secular nationalists became critical of the hajj
to Mecca and of the position of women in Islam. And the volksraad, the peo-
ple’s council created by the government, was merely a place for talking rather
than delivering the needs of the people.
In addition, in 1930 the world was suffering from great depression or
malaise. This affected the colonial government, private companies and the
Muslims in Sulawesi.

We, the Islamic ummah, are suffering from many crises: bad things are hap-
pening to Palestinians and Berber. The world is suffering from malaise, in
addition to volcanic erruptions. Consequently, the government is lacking
funds so they had to reduce the number of officers. Companies are firing
their employees. We are now in the beginning of 1931. We are demanding
that governmental regulations which are not in line with our time be ended.
Religious regulations which do not conform to our age, including subsidies
given to Christian missions, be removed. We hope that the people regain
their dignity and welfare. We have to maximize our efforts using our money
and ideas for the sake of the dignity of our nation, country, and religion.
There is no strength nor power except with Allah (A. La haula wa la quw-
wata illa billah).16
 122 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

Thus, colonial-­Islamic encounters contributed to the rise of divergent

modern ideas and movements and their competing and compromising
agendas and identities. Local Muslim responses to certain colonial policies
deemed discriminatory or interventionist created the political and non-­
political, cooperative and non-­cooperative, critical and indifferent attitudes
among Muslims. Muslims responded to these as well as to wider, global
Islamic reformist ideas and events in Mecca, Egypt and Turkey and in their
homelands. In defining and promoting progress, they made references to
the Qur’an, the hadith and other authoritative texts. They defined ummah
as a global Islamic community to be built through organisations, but they
showed little interest in a political pan-­Islamism, although some called for
unity in division. They saw Islam as not separating religion and politics,
but they did not necessarily want to overthrow the colonial state, return
to the old government and replace the existing order with an Islamic
constitution.

Building Siyasah without Movements in Malaya

In Malaya, the views and attitudes toward politics and the political establish-
ment were quite different. The alliances between the British and the Malay
Sultans had reduced the possibility of non-­cooperative political movements.
Historian Anthony Milner noted that in colonial Malaya, a new discourse
of politics, in the sense of new awareness, was invented in terms of three
confronting, albeit dynamic, ideological orientations: loyalty to the kerajaan,
or sultanate, represented by the hikayat literature; loyalty to the Islamic com-
munity, or umat (ummah), represented by the journal Al-­Imam; and loyalty
to the Malay race, or bangsa, represented by the journal Utusan Melayu.
Terms such as ‘siyasah’ or ‘politik’ did not appear until the early twentieth
century. Milner argued that nationalism was not a hegemonic voice among
diverging Malays, and the key Islamic voice­– t­he shari’ah-­minded group­
– ­was anti-­nationalist and anti-­liberal. However, some Muslim writers, indi-
rectly influenced by Muhammad Abduh and the Cairo reformist network,
and in response to European thinking, began to use words such as ‘akal’ to
mean ‘reason’, and ‘tarikh’ to mean ‘history’. Milner further suggested that
the Arabic concept of ‘watan’ (motherland) was of European origin and thus
antagonistic to Islam. In other words, Malay politics was to a large extent
 b u il d ing siyasah a nd ref ormi ng s ul ta n a te  | 123

a derivative discourse, a product of post-­Enlightenment Western thought

(Milner 1994, 2003: 169–91).
Here, however, I contend that while this observation is well-­articulated,
some Muslim reformers referred to terms of debate from within the Islamic
tradition. Moreover, Malay politics was not merely a discourse; it also con-
cerned policies and activities. Malay Muslims invented politics: literary poli-
tics, represented by writers and journalists, sultanate Islam, represented by
the Kelantan Council of Religion and Custom in Kelantan, and British-­like
social clubs critical of the kerajaan­/sultanate and establishment ‘ulama. Their
discourses included invitations to increase awareness of ummah, watan and
bangsa, which were not necessarily seen as contradictory loyalties.
Zainal Abidin bin Ahmad, or Za’ba, a Malay reformist writer mentioned
earlier, called for Malays to be loyal to both watan and bangsa, reducing the
loyalty to sultan or raja. Tok Kenali of Kelantan encouraged knowledge of
siyasah as well as that of religion, and was critical of British colonisation while
embracing English education for the sake of unity and progress. The Sultan
of Kelantan was able to integrate allegiance to Malayness, Islam and kerajaan
with the practicalities of British collaboration and occasionally intervention
in Islamic affairs, despite official policies of non-­intervention. Thus, at its core
Malay politics was not only about a new awareness but also about leadership
and a shared, bureaucratic administration of the kerajaan and religious and
cultural matters. With these independent voices and officialdom, Malays did
not feel the need to create mass movements or political parties until the last
years of the British rule.
The Muslim reformer Tahir Jalaluddin did not directly confront the
British in his writings, although he was fully cognisant of European domi-
nance in the Indonesian-­Malay world. He seemed to show ambiguous posi-
tions regarding the Dutch and the British. Concerned about the Dutch in
the East Indies, he referred particularly to the 1824 Anglo-­Dutch treaty that
divided the Indonesian-­Malay world into British Malaya and the Dutch East
Indies (Ramli 1980: 2). In one of his poems, Jalaluddin expressed his senti-
ments about progress and colonialism, although without any call for political
activism: ‘O nation! Enter the path of progress; Then your fame will reach
to the clouds; Then we fear looking at you; Like a slave for a seizure; So they
entered our country; They owned all the earth and property; They made
 124 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

us slaves like camels; They swallowed our blood whenever they wished it’
(Jalaluddin cited in Aziz 2003: 80).
Elsewhere, however, Jalaluddin praised British non-­ interference in
Islamic affairs: ‘the great government, which provided this eastern country,
does not like to interfere, far less to change, the religious law and custom of
the native people’ (Zakaria 2006: 206). He also supported teaching English
in Malay schools when others saw it as the language of the kafir (Ibrahim et
al. 1993: 24, 29). Interestingly, when he was in Sumatra in 1923, Jalaluddin
publicly criticised Dutch intervention in native affairs without any adverse
repercussions, but four years later, when he visited Sumatra again, he was
arrested for accused involvement in a communist conspiracy against the
Dutch. Sentenced to gaol for six months, he was released for lack of evidence
and returned to Malaya. Jalaluddin was also politically engaged, as when
he showed sympathy to the Turkish Kemal Pasha and expressed his dislike
of Syarif Hussain of Saudi Arabia (Hamka 1950: 77–9). Jalaluddin neither
rejected the gaining of material wealth nor condemned Western skills and
technologies­– a­ s long as Muslims were able to obtain security and freedom.
He also learned some Dutch and English when he was in Mecca (cited in
Zakaria 2006: 205). He wrote about the political history of Muslim nations
and in his homeland, but did not create any political movement in Malaya.
Syed Al-­Hadi, mentioned earlier, pointed to Muslims’ subjugation to the
West, but he considered the West a challenge rather than an enemy: ‘Then
came to our eastern countries the Europeans from the north winds­. . . and
what happened to all of us here? We were all silent. We surrendered to them
our dignity, our laws, and our properties and national pride.’ Yet Al-­Hadi
could still associate the British with God’s army, bringing about blessings
to the Malay people: ‘Indeed, the English are an army of God, the Lord of
the worlds, who has ordered them to come here to free us from darkness, the
prison of ignorance, injustice, wickedness, and cruelty of our own rulers’.17
Here, like Sayyid Uthman in the East Indies, Al-­Hadi was critical of the
traditional elite and conservative ‘ulama rather than the British modernis-
ers. He saw a positive British impact on the Malay economy through the
creation of banks that extended credit to Malays, in contrast to the Malay
rulers. Malays should improve themselves, not by blaming the British, but
by emulating their modern ways. In an essay ‘The Real Cry’, Al-­Hadi said:
 b u il d ing siyasah a nd ref ormi ng s ul ta na te  | 125

Do not be deceived by the wealth and prosperity in your country for

these are the result of good government by the British which has attracted
European capital and opened banks to enable other people to purchase
saddles to place on your backs that you may hoe and rake your very own
land for their profit­. . . Leave behind those who grumble about politics and
complain about politicians, but themselves know nothing about politics.
What is appropriate now is for you to be grateful for the British govern-
ment’s intervention which has benefited you in that you have been released
from the serfdom of your leaders, and you have been given laws which will
not prevent you from seeking the road to progress and a better life. (Al-­
Hadi cited in Gordon 1999: 186–7)

Al-­Hadi called for the creation of an institution in the Malay Peninsula

that could collect and distribute zakat and oversee other religious matters in
the way that Islam required, not through the now impossible goal of resur-
recting the caliphate, especially since caliphs were no longer assiduous in
observing their religion, as in the early time of Islam (Al-­Hadi 1931: 111–12).
Another reformer, Za’ba, was concerned about the poverty of Malays in
many aspects: economic, educational, intellectual, moral, cultural and reli-
gious: ‘[T]heir outlook on life is poor and full of gloom; their religious life
and practice is poor and far removed from the pure original teachings of the
Prophet.’ In short, the Malays cut poor figures in every department of life
(Za’ba cited in Roff 1967: 151–2). In his reply to Al-­Hadi’s essay above,
Za’ba said:

Our fall into the hands of foreigners [the British], and our fall before the
Chinese and others are because of our own fault. It is that fault that we
have to rectify; don’t talk about the fall, when the causes for the fall have
been extirpated, we will rise again without having to discuss that we had
once fallen and were enslaved by others, so work! Work! Do work! It is not
enough to laze about and just shout and scream. (Za’ba cited in Gordon
1999: 191)

Za’ba supported Al-­Hadi’s criticism against the traditional elite and the
conservative ‘ulama but he wished that Al-­Hadi acted more. Za’ba asserted
that it was honourable to love one’s own country but in doing so one should
 126 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

not create hatred or ignore the rights of other people; regardless of race, all
could love a wider motherland (A. hub al-­watan) (Za’ba in Gordon 1999:
193).
Several cases of resistance against British policies were sporadic and
shortlived and did not have a widespread impact. The prime example was the
uprising in 1915, led by a Kelantan trader-­teacher named Haji Nik Hassan
(1853–1915), popularly known as Tok Janggut because of his long beard. Tok
Janggut, who turned against the establishment, represented Malay awareness
of the socio-­economic problems in a local area. Tok Janggut studied Islam
in Mecca but he was also master of the Malay martial art silat. He saw the
loss of the traditional power in Kelantan as being due to British presence.
He invoked some Islamic references such as Allah is the Greatest (A. Allahu
Akbar) and a Qur’anic passage: ‘Fight them, and Allah will punish them by
your hands, cover them with shame, help you to victory over them, heal the
breasts of believers’ (Q. 9:14), which carried a religious tone to his resistance.
But the uprising resulted from land reforms and imposition of taxes, rather
than by British attitudes toward Islam as such, although it received some
additional impetus from the 1914 global fatwa regarding jihad issued by
Ottoman Turkey’s Grand Mufti, Shaykh Khairi Effendi, against England
and France. This led the British authorities in Malaya to issue an enactment
prohibiting local Malay papers from disseminating information about the
war and forbidding any show of sympathy or support for the Ottoman cause
(Hassan in Mahmud 1999: 25–39).
In order to convince the Malay sultans that they were not waging war
against Islam, the British colonial government enlisted the aid of the Aga
Khan, a Shi’ite leader in India. He was asked to write a letter to the Malay
rulers that would state that the war was not religious and that criticised
the alliance between the Muslim Ottoman Empire, Germany and Austria.
William Langham-­ Carter, then British Adviser in Kelantan, asked for
Sultan Muhammad IV’s support. Accordingly, the sultan and the Council
of Religion sided with the British and in November 1914 the mufti even
wrote to the British authorities affirming that he prays ‘to Allah the Almighty
that the Majesty King George will remain powerful in Europe and will get
victory in this war’. The eventual execution of Tok Janggut in the same year
led the British to modify some tax policies, since they regarded the rebellion
 b u il d ing siyasah and ref ormi ng s ul ta n a te  | 127

as a socio-­economic rebellion rather than a religious war (Mahmud in Roff

1974). In consequence, the sultan and the British were able to maintain their
collaborative relationship.

Bureaucratising Religion and Custom: MAIK in Kelantan

Some scholars have argued that British colonialism left the pre-­colonial
Malay sultanate existing in symbolic form (Milner 2003; Hamid 2004). In
Kelantan, however, the British kept and even reinforced the sultanate and
religious establishment. Sultan-­backed councils of religion and English-­like
clubs and associations became venues for conducting literary, social and reli-
gious activities, but they were strikingly not anti-­British, regardless of some
critical views expressed towards the ruling elite. For various reasons, Malay
criticism of the British was less harsh than that of the Indonesians towards the
Dutch, as the case of Kelantan clearly exemplifies.
This alliance between the British and the sultan is evident on many
different levels, even to the royal titles bestowed on British Residents and
Advisers, such as Yang Berhormat Tuan H.W. Thomson Pemangku Penasehat
Inggris bagi Kerajaan Kelantan (M. The Honourable H. W. Thomson, English
Adviser to the Kingdom of Kelantan).18 For their part, British administrators
were punctilious in addressing the sultan as His Highness the Sultan or His
Supreme Majesty.19
In Kelantan, political divisions also became less possible from 1915
because of the establishment of the Council of Religion and Malay Custom
(Majlis Ugama Islam dan Istiaadat Melayu Kelantan) (MAIK). Several
‘ulama, including Tok Kenali, proposed a department in charge of religious
and customary affairs. The official ‘ulama and the British Adviser readily
approved the establishment of this Council, which included the ruler. The
latter had been on the throne since 1900 as Tuan Long Senik but adopted
the title of Sultan Muhammad IV from 1910 when Kelantan was transferred
from Siamese to British control and he accepted a British Adviser. In the view
of the sultan, MAIK would raise Kelantan to a status consonant with that of
other advanced states.20
MAIK became a vehicle for modernising efforts in Kelantan as a whole.
By advanced states, the sultan meant the Straits Settlements and the Federated
Malay States­– a­ nd probably European states, too, since he knew them as
 128 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

well. The sultan would have agreed with a Malay writer who categorised
nations as developed (M. yang maju), developing (M. yang akan maju) and
underdeveloped (M. yang mundur) and who labelled America the Crown of
the World (M. mahkota dunia).21 He would also have been in agreement with
another writer who spoke of nations that are advanced and civilised today
(M. umat-­umat yang berkemajuan dan bertamaddun zaman sekarang) and that
could be used as useful models for service to both religion (ugama) and the
country (tanah air).22
In his effort to advance the state, the sultan defined Islam as a reli-
gion that did not necessarily contradict local custom and ethnic affiliation.
Religious oversight referred to all matters pertaining to agama Islam that may
bring benefit to the people of this state and increase the welfare of Kelantan.
He described Malay custom as any style and custom that may properly be
preserved according to time-­honoured usage (in Roff 1974: 101). This diffi-
cult balance between religion, custom and modernity was facilitated because
of the willingness of the British Advisor, sultan and the reformist ‘ulama to
work together. It is obvious that the sultan did not see Islam as a political
ideology or a factor for anti-­British nationalism.
With this alliance, it was not difficult for the state to support the building
of mosques, schools, zakat management, the pilgrimage and any effort not
specifically religious in order to accomplish the shared mission of modernisa-
tion. For example, the state treasury gave financial assistance to the Grand
Mosque, Masjid Muhammady, which had been erected in 1867 in the capital,
Kota Bharu. 23 As a centre for preaching and learning, it also served as the
centre for the religio-­political authority of the sultan and ‘ulama. In 1931
Sultan Ismail (r. 1920–44) took over its management and made it the offi-
cial state mosque (Masjid Negeri). With this status, preachers at the mosque
became Great Teachers, and were appointed and paid by the state govern-
ment. Because of this centralisation, religious authority reached down into the
villages. The Council of Religion drew up a list of mosques as well as prayer
leaders and other mosque officials in order to determine their duties and
rights. Surau officials could collect zakat and perform marriages and receive
the fee,24 but they could also have various secular functions, including supervi-
sion of produce taxes and collection of poll tax, which under the Siamese had
been the responsibility of the village headman (Roff 1974: 104–5).
 b u il d ing siyasah and ref ormi ng s ul ta n a te  | 129

Although British Advisers focused on secular affairs, they were often

asked for administrative advice on such Islamic affairs as the hajj to Mecca.
On one occasion MAIK received a notice from the British Adviser stat-
ing that the government could not issue travel permits to pilgrims because
the Indian Government lacked sufficient ships to board those Muslims who
planned to undertake the hajj.25 Careful attempts by Kelantan’s British offi-
cials to appease the sultan and the established ‘ulama received a positive reac-
tion in the form of praises and support, which were themselves reciprocated.
In practice, therefore, the non-­interference of the British Adviser in religious
and customary affairs was fluid, especially when technical advice or financial
support was deemed necessary. Making administrative functions regular and
regulated was what the British attempted to do, and the sultan, too, found
that both useful and desirable. Issues of superiority and inferiority did not
really matter where pragmatic aims were expected to be fulfilled.

Building Malay Politics in Kelantan: Kenali, Adabi and Clubs

In Kelantan, the sultan and the established ‘ulama hardly resisted British
modern administration. Although at times critical, scholars like Tok Kenali
together with the sultan agreed on the necessity of preserving Malay reli-
gion and reforming their culture amidst the pressing challenges posed by
the Chinese, Indians and even Arabs­– ­even local-­born Indian and Arab
Muslims­– ­without necessarily being anti-­British. Criticism took the form of
special pleas for continued Malay privilege, not of anti-­colonial nationalism
(Roff 1967: 236). Nor was this expressed in pan-­Islamic political terms, as
discussed earlier. The formalised association between the Muslim religion and
the Malay culture was a crucial political project of the sultans, strengthening
the ties between Islam and Malayness.
Kenali believed that one could be patriotic without necessarily confront-
ing the British. In one of his poems, Kenali spoke about strengthening both
religious and siyasah knowledge. He realised the need for proper government
in Malaya: ‘High or low, a government is dependent upon its executive; if
the fox should become king and the rat is permitted to be his minister, then
there will be government, but in noisy disarray’ (Salleh cited in Roff 1974:
97–9). Yet though he was concerned more with promoting an awareness of
their position among Malays themselves, he also realised that Malays had
 130 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

gained few benefits from foreign rule: ‘It is a pity that the children of the
Malay nation [M. anak bangsa Melayu] have lived a life no different under
the shadow of the ears of the elephant [Siam] from the one now under the
chin of the tiger [Britain]. The Malays remain passive and silent, like those
hammering the sky with a nail to make it immobile when the world is actively
changing.’26 He nonetheless focused on education, preaching and writing,
rather than involvement in political action.
Kenali used the Arabic concept of siyasah as a tool for improving the
overall condition of Malays, but he did not specify any desirable form of
government, and discussed leadership and authority in general, substantive
terms, rather than in relation to party politics or resistance to the British
Government in Malaya. He talked about siyasah in the sense of strengthening
the role of Islam and the Malays in the pursuit of progress. Kenali did not
seek a separation of din and siyasah although he differentiated between the
two. As his biographer put it: ‘Islam brought by Muhammad was unlike the
Christian religion which teaches the state and society, including morality to
the state and religion to the Church. The Church has no responsibility to
warn the government and moral decadence happening due to the separation
between religion and politics.’27 But Kenali did not talk about the integration
of the state and the religion, nor did he see the need to create such a structure
in Kelantan. For him, it would be sufficient for Malay Muslims to have two
different authorities working together. Quoting a hadith, Kenali pointed to
the need to have religious scholars and rulers in order to establish a good
society, but he conceived of both authorities as serving different functions.28
What he advocated was progress in religious development and worldly affairs:
‘Open schools, build roads, and open lands’, Kenali responded to the sultan
when asked his advice (Salleh 2002: 137–43). So the sultan would take care
of the worldly affairs and the ‘ulama the religious affairs. And during this
time it was inevitable that the sultan functioned with British advice and
assistance.
Some educated Malay activists created British-­like clubs or associations,
and were interested in talking about socio-­cultural and particularly educa-
tional issues. A club was understood as comprising any association of people
who held meetings with rules, chapters, offices, advisers, presidents, vice-­
presidents, treasurers, secretaries and members.29 Organised along British
 b u il d ing siyasah and ref ormi ng s ul ta na te  | 131

lines, some were associated with the sultan and British Advisers, such as the
Kelantan Club (1911), while others were for sports and social activities. A
number focused on social and cultural ideas. The students of the Madrasah
Muhammady, the school established by MAIK, formed the Kota Bharu Club
and The Setiawan Belia Club. The Kota Bharu Club ran extra-­curricular aca-
demic and sports activities and included the sultan and British Advisers on its
advisory board. Yet another club, the Mohammedan Union Club, worked in
support of the sultan and the British Adviser (Ahmadi 2001: 25–6).
The clubs conducted seminars, or talks, sometimes with guest speakers
from both inside and outside Kelantan. The Setiawan Belia Club invited
people to speak about contemporary issues, including Malay unity and edu-
cation for girls: ‘Do girls now deserve an English education?’ (Al-­Ahmadi
2001: 30). One of the objectives of the Setiawan Belia Club was to gather the
Madrasah Muhammady students and interested youth to carry out good and
useful activities, such as learning how to speak in public (M. pidato), how to
dance in traditional and modern ways, how to perform drama and how to
write articles and study literature (Ahmadi 1994: 89).
Rarely, however, did any of these clubs reject the British–sultan alliance
in regard to modernisation. Abdul Kadir Adabi and others formed Putera
Club (the Youth Club) in 1928. Questioning the authority of the ‘ulama,
members criticised the ‘ulama who, in their view, manipulated religion for
their own interests, such as being polygamous (marrying up to four women)­
– ­but were very ready to divorce their wives when it suited them. Which
‘ulama, they asked, were the successors of the Prophet? (Noor 1996: 8). The
Putera Club accused the State of Kelantan of discriminating against many
Malays by not providing equal access to education, although taking care
to stress that it was not rejecting English education or the British rule as
such. Rather, they requested that the government open new English schools
in Kelantan. Members were, however, critical of land reform because they
would lose part of the ownership to capitalists and on one occasion sent a
petition to the British Adviser asserting that Malays would not give up even
an inch of their land to foreigners in any of their towns­– ­not in Kota Bharu,
Pasir Puteh, Pasir Mas or Bachok. In response, the government refused to
meet their demands, banned the club and prohibited government officials
from joining. The Putera Club was even accused of links with the Indonesian
 132 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

Communist Party (Hamid 1971: 54). Because of the ban and the arrest of its
leaders, the Putera Club did not continue its activities, although some of its
members shifted their activity to a less political club, Setiawan Belia Club, in
order to avoid confrontation with the British (Noor 1996: 8–11).
Adabi advocated increased awareness of the Muslims outside Malaya.
Writing in the local periodical Warisan Kelantan, for example, in response to
a letter he received from the Islamic Youth Committee in Baghdad regard-
ing the French Government’s harsh attitude toward Muslims in Magribi,
Adabi urged Malay readers to support their fellow Muslims. In another arti-
cle, Adabi invited Malays to follow Javanese who protested against certain
Chinese newspapers, which allegedly published negative statements against
Prophet Muhammad. Presumably aware of the growing non-­Malay presence
on the west coast of the peninsula, one reader responded that Malays should
be united because otherwise their existence and their Islamic faith would
be increasingly endangered by the Chinese and Indian peoples (Al-­Ahmadi
2001: 31–3). Adabi looked to the Sarekat Islam in Indonesia as a model
for a Malay-­based organisation, and his contemporary Haji Taha Abas in
Singapore also called on Malays to establish a Persatuan ‘Ulama Setanah
Melayu (M. Malay Religious Scholars Union) by following Indonesians who
created an association for the religious scholars (NU) (Al-­Ahmadi 2001:
22–49).
Beyond the clubs, a manifestation of the desire to foster unity of feel-
ing, thought and action was an organisation called Kesatuan Melayu
Semenanjung (Unity of the Malay Peninsula). In order for their voices to be
heard and respected by those in power, these new intellectuals sought to build
centres in different areas of the Malay Peninsula and publish newspapers in
Malay and in English so that their message would reach a wider audience.30
In the late 1930s and early 1940s the Persatuan Melayu Selangor (Selangor
Malay Union) aimed for general advancement of the Malays, with British
support. Although the Union aimed to assert the Malays’ position against
others, most of its members came from the ruling elite, educated in English
schools. Backing Britain whole-­heartedly during the First World War, they
even asked Selangor imams to pray for victory (Roff 1967: 238–42). Not
surprisingly, the Persatuan was regarded as an elite organisation and never
really reached ordinary people (Shamsul 1986: 52). Mass movements like the
 b u il d ing siyasah a nd ref ormi ng s ul ta na te  | 133

Muhammadiyah, NU and Sarekat Islam never developed in British Malaya,

and in the Malays’ writings there was hardly criticism against the British
administration in Malaya.

Conclusion

In Indonesia and Malaya, by the turn of the twentieth century, Muslim

reformers became interested in politics: some became engaged in politics
when many others stayed away from it. They meant different things by ‘poli-
tics’: they demonstrated cooperative, non-­cooperative or ambivalent attitudes
toward the colonial state and its policies. Some were socialist and others
non-­socialist. Others articulated politics within the framework of the Arabic
concept of siyasah, which connoted political ideas, strategies and techniques
pertaining not only to Muslims but also beyond. Muslim reformers attempted
to raise public awareness about contemporary issues by writing for periodicals
and newspapers and demonstrated their desire for progress, dignity, unity,
freedom and prosperity. They started to offer alternative views to the sultan-
ate or kingship. They created new notions of race and community, such as
bangsa, ummah and negeri, drawn from Western, Islamic and local sources.
I agree with Milner (2003) who argues that a new conception of politics,
the territorial understanding of negeri and a written constitution of undang-­
undang emerged in a response to colonial encounters, but I would also argue
that the sources that some used were not confined to the Western or colonial.
Moreover, in the Dutch East Indies, Muslim politics did not necessarily
entail being anti-­Western or pro-­caliphate. Nor did it necessarily mean blind
emulation of the concepts of the Abode of Islam versus the Abode of War,
since some defined the former as negeri Islam even under colonial rule. Critics
of Dutch imperialism adopted Dutch terminology to describe their political
ideas and socialist agendas while selectively borrowing Dutch organisational
structures to pursue their objectives. Others were opposed to Dutch policies
that they regarded as discriminatory and unjust or irrelevant in monitoring
internal, religious or private affairs. Many in South Sulawesi were influenced
by Java-­based political parties, but others had their local concerns and activi-
ties by creating their own organisations.
In Malaya, Muslim reformers worked especially through writing and
cultural clubs without confrontation against the sultan-­British modernisation
 134 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

projects. Under the British protectorate and advisory system, the sultan and
the established ‘ulama became religious-­cultural bureaucrats. While some sul-
tans thanked the British for helping them improve literacy and development,
Malay reformers preferred the colonial authority to the often arbitrary nature
of traditional rule. Like the East Indies, Malays did not aim to join a cali-
phate movement. Malay sultans and reformist ‘ulama instead worked with
the British to preserve and even reinforce Malay religion and culture and to
promote the unity and progress of Malays facing internal crisis and external
challenges by other nations. Unlike the East Indies, the sultans, establishment
‘ulama and the British played their role in integrating Malayness and Islam
with the state. The political consciousness of Malay Muslims was partially
born out of their complex relations to Europeans and other ethnic groups
residing in Malaya. While there was a common goal of building the ummah
and serving the negeri, the early reformist political movements in Java soon
spread across ethnic and demographic boundaries in the East Indies, creat-
ing and reinforcing ‘Indonesia’ as a nation, whereas Malay reformers sought
to appeal to a wider Malay population scattered across the sultanates in the
peninsula.
Talal Asad sees the hegemonic perception of modernity in the Muslim
contexts as singular (in Scott and Hirschkind 2006: 292) but the cases in this
chapter suggest differences among Muslim reformist movements. Muslim
politics was not a mere imposition by the colonial power, although the
latter shaped its emergence and dynamics. Political modernisation of the
Indonesian-­Malay world involved unprecedented debates on a number of
ideas and programmes­– ­secularisation, democracy, unity, freedom, justice
and leadership­– ­so that modernity could present multiple faces. Contesting
both the interpretation of symbols and control of institutions, Muslim agents
expressed both discontent and aspiration, and organised their resources for
sustained activity, in keeping with aspects that can be regarded as the modern
political (see also Eickelman and Piscatori 1996: 5; Walzer in Zubaida 2009:
63). Under colonial rule, with all its opportunities and constraints, Muslim
politics was diverse, hybrid and multi-­focal, and yet, although Indonesian-­
Malay Muslim reformers were aware of wider Islamic preoccupations, their
own activism for progress was localised and immediate.
 b u il d ing siyasah and ref ormi ng s ul ta na te  | 135

Notes
  1. ‘Apakah Politik itu?’, Anak Kontji, August 1921, Year 2.
  2. It was reported to the Contrôleur at Fort de Kock, Bukittinggi, on 15 December
1934. ‘Pendahoeloean dan Risalah Djoem’ah oentoek kitab Choetbah
Djoem’ah’, R. A. Kern Collection, KITLV, H 797, inventaris No. 473.
  3. Islam: Overzicht van de Ontwikkeling van de PSII, 2.10.36.15, inventaris No.
53, mailrapport 136, NA, Den Haag.
  4. Salim, ‘Kemajuan diperoleh dengan usaha’, Neratja, Thursday, 11 October 1917,
No.71, Year 1, ‘Kemajuan Perempuan Bumiputera’, Tuesday, 4 September
1917, No. 45, Year 1, in Salim (1954: 19–29); Kahfi (1996: 39).
  5. Salim, ‘Pergerakan Politik Indonesia’, in Salim (1954: 137).
  6. Salim, ‘Benih Pertjederaan’, Tuesday, 7 January 1919, No. 4, Year 3 in Salim
(1954: 45).
  7. Salim, ‘Persatuan Islam’, Dunia Islam, 23 March 1923, in Salim (1954: 7).
 8. Tentara Islam, No. 1, June 1932, Year I.
 9. The mosques were in Kampoeng Boetoeng, Kampoeng Melajoe, Kampoeng
Baroe, and Kampoeng Malokoe in Makassar, South Sulawesi. Hamid, ‘Sama
Rata Sama Rasa’, Anak Kontji, No. 5, 20 December 1920, Year I.
10. Interview with Muhammad Abduh Pabbaja, 9 July 2005; Amal ( 2003: 201).
Pabbaja was a preacher, teacher and activist of the Islamic political party Partai
Persatuan Pembangunan (Party of Unity and Development).
11. Pemberita Makassar, No. 65, 18 April 1914.
12. Prophet Muhammad was said to have thus assured his loyal companion Abu
Bakar on their emigration from Mecca to Medina.
13. Al-­Wafd, No. 1, January 1933, Year 2.
14. Al-­Wafd, No. 1, January 1933, Year 2.
15. Al-­Wafd, No. 2, February 1933, Year 2.
16. ‘1930–1931: Malaise dan Nasib Kita’, Fadjar Indonesia, No. 4, 15 January
1931, Year 1.
17. Al-­Hadi, ‘Teriak Yang Benar’, Al-­Ikhwan, October 1926.
18. Pengasuh, No. 43, 20 March 1920 (1338 H).
19. The 1935 Annual Report of the Department of Education, BAK, 1936,
ANM.
20. The authority and rules of MAIK began to be set out in 1916 and were later
altered according to changing situations. Malay scholars were appointed as assis-
tants to the British Adviser, working in cooperation with MAIK. Anonymous,
 136 | i slam and col o nia l is m

‘Penolong Tubuh Tuan Penasehat’, Pengasuh, No. 309, Sya’ban 1, 1349­/21

December 1930.
21. Zaman, ‘Masalah Kemajuan Dunya’, Pengasuh, No. 295, 28 May 1930.
22. Luthfi, Majalla al-­Riwayat, No. 2, Year 1, 15 November 1938.
23. Government contribution towards mosques in Tumpat, BAK Tahun 1911
(Kelantan ‘m’), 172, file 183­/11, ANM; a letter from Jemagar Bagat Singh, peti-
tion for the government contribution toward the building of a new Sikh temple,
BAK Tahun 1911 (Kelantan ‘m’), 177, file 1988­/11, ANM; Hony.Secy.Majelis
Ugama.KB, asks that the government may erect a building for Majlis Ugama
Islam Office, BAK (Kelantan ‘m’), 72, 73­/17, ANM.
24. The Mufti Kota Bharu, List of Imam in Kelantan, BAK Tahun 1911 (Kelantan
M), 158, file 166­/11, dated 16 July 1911, ANM; Mufti Kota Bharu, List of
Surau Officials under the Kathi, who are exempted from payment of taxes, BAK
Tahun 1911 (Kelantan M), 199, file 212­/11, ANM.
25. ‘Naik Haji Ke Mekkah al-­Mukarramah’, Pengasuh, No. 2, 24 July 1918.
26. ‘Soal dan Jawab’, Pengasuh, No. 4, 22 August 1918, Year I.
27. One Malay author briefly described major religious denominations in America,
and emphasised freedom of religion and its Constitution, including the clause of
the First Amendment: Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment
of a religion or prohibiting the free exercise thereof. ‘Ugama-­ugama di Amerika’,
Pengasuh, No. 208, 1 June 1950.
28. A hadith by Abu Nu’aim in Hilyah al-­Auliya. Salleh (2002: 136).
29. Pengasuh, No. 99, Year 5, 22 June 1922, 2–4.
30. ‘Kesatuan Melayu Semenanjung’, Pengasuh, No. 309, 21 December 1930.
 IV
Controlling Politics and Bureaucratising
Religion

Today, there are petty princes in East India under Dutch sovereignty who
decorate themselves with the title of khalif [Caliph], without suspecting
that they are thereby guilty of a sort of arrogant blasphemy.
(Snouck 1916: 111)

Malays saw the desirability of British interference with their religion and
custom.
(Winstedt 1948: 102)

E uropean colonialism was a force for political control and secularisation in

the East Indies and Malaya. European colonial governments had to coex-
ist with the political reality of Muslim colonies, however, which was a more
complex situation than could be solved by either integrating or separating
the religion of Islam from the colonial state. They sought to employ modern
bureaucratic distinction between private and public realms in this context. By
distinguishing religious and private affairs from political and public matters,
they influenced the transformation of politics and administration of religion
in Indonesia and Malaya.
In the East Indies, Islamic reform movements and colonial modernisa-
tion projects often collided in the domain of politics and government. The
Dutch had to respond dynamically to the different forms of Muslim politi-
cal activism discussed earlier. In a lecture on Muslim views of the church–
state relationship, Snouck outlined the political history of Islam. Snouck
argued that whenever Muslim lands were conquered by kafir, Muslims would
migrate to a Muslim country. Once relocation became impractical, how-
ever, Muslim legal scholars conceded to necessity and began permitting and
even recommending that Muslims resign themselves to being ruled by kafir.

137
 138 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

Snouck told his colonial audience that, following the view of Al-­Ghazali,
while submission to non-­Muslims was always to be regarded as temporary
and abnormal, Muslims would not resist a foreign ruler just because the ruler
was a kafir, so long as their religious needs and their sense of justice could
be guaranteed (Snouck 1916: 114). Dutch colonial administrative attempts
to govern their predominantly Muslim subjects fell in line generally with
Snouck’s suggestions. They included religious freedom, freedom of the press
and freedom of association in their political charters. They allowed religious
and cultural practices to continue and even flourish, while keeping political
activities under control. At the same time, although the Dutch interfered in
the Islamic political activities they, too, helped facilitate the management of
certain Islamic matters in the East Indies, particularly through the work of
native officials or regents (D. zelf-­bestuurder).
In Malaya, colonial administrators collaborated with the sultans and
introduced a new form of governance, thus transforming the sultanate
considered incompatible with modern, effective government. Although the
British stressed non-­interference in religious and cultural matters, they col-
laborated with the sultan and the ‘ulama in administering aspects of Islamic
religion and culture in Malaya according to their common interests and
particular circumstances.
As this chapter describes, these changes in systems of government, com-
bined with diverse interpretations of politics by Muslims, led to the develop-
ment of eclectic, hybrid governing systems comprised of various complex
official roles and departments in the East Indies and Malaya.

Secularising Government and Bureaucratising Religion

In the East Indies in 1900, there were, approximately, 250 Europeans, 1,500
indigenous civil servants, 16,000 Dutch officers and 26,000 native troops
hired to serve 35 million colonial subjects (Vickers 2005: 15). The Dutch
therefore sought to centralise power, by creating volksraad or the People’s
Council in 1916. This was also in response to the natives’ movements emerg-
ing to allow Indonesians some voice in policy debates. The governor-­general
nominated half of the 38 members for the 1918 to 1921 period, and the
other half were elected by the municipal and residency councils. It con-
sisted of Dutch and native members. As for the native members, ‘colonial
 controlli ng poli ti cs  | 139

authorities valued them as spokesmen for the indigenous population and they
seldom said anything to upset the Dutch’ (Sutherland 1979: 100). In 1920,
for example, the members were Dutch, Javanese, Sumatran, Ambonese and
others, including a Buginese teacher Nuruddin Daeng Magassing.1 The volk-
sraad had no formal legislative power but it served as a forum of debate on
various matters pertaining to the colony. In 1927, its powers were extended so
that volksraad approval was required in order to pass the budget and internal
legislation. Agus Salim and other members of the commission recommended
changes in the political structure, promoted limits to the Netherlands inter-
ference in the colony, sought a wider authority of the members of the volk-
sraad and suggested its electoral procedures.
The volksraad barely debated affairs specifically Islamic in the East Indies.
However, the Dutch Constitution guaranteed all peoples, including Muslims,
the right to establish associations and the right to hold meetings, the exercise
of which was in the interest of public order. It was not necessary for natives,
including Muslim groups, to request permission from the colonial govern-
ment to establish an association or hold a meeting as long as they did not have
secret objectives or harm public security and order.2
Colonial administrators intended to govern effectively but they had dif-
ferent levels of knowledge and degree of skill and different circumstances
on the ground. Colonial bureaucratisation encountered the existing ways
of governing society that were deemed traditional and irregular, and being
without clear separation between public and private. The colonial admin-
istration may have fit with what Weber calls bureaucracy characterised by
fixity and regularity (1958 [1921]), but in the colonial state it is more aptly
bureaucratisation, as it did not take a well-­established form as in Europe, nor
it was implanted without the prevailing traditional system of government.
The implementation was situational and complex.
The Dutch introduced a military force, which functioned to control the
existing rulers, but also ensured law and order (D. rust en orde) when riots
and crimes such as robberies occurred. Apart from the military administra-
tion used for protecting the colonial apparatus and pacifying native resistance
(Poelinggomang 2004: 11–12, 107), the hierarchy of civil administration
governed various other domains. The new taxation, the use of money and its
spending, the ownership of land and its use, and the need for special training
 140 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

of the new employees had to confront the traditional way of owning and
cultivating the land, of transactions, and of doing other activities. The Dutch
Government created departments: administration, land and taxation, the
courts, commerce, industry, transportation and communication, education,
knowledge and sciences, religion, and charitable funds.3 This bureaucratisa-
tion meant rationalising rules, means and ends; and secularisation meant
differentiating the domains of the life. Regularity and fixity and new methods
of doing official tasks were based on written documents, in addition to the
traditional oral order and prohibition. The Dutch administrative ‘techni-
calization’ (Hodgson 1977: 417) had to be adapted to the local condition.
Fixed rules were considered an integral part of colonial modernisation, but in
practice fixation was mixed with flexibility and confusion.
Although Muslim leaders focused on the socio-­religious domains, the
Dutch administration created the Department of Education and Religion,
apart from the Office of Native and Arab Affairs discussed in Chapter II.
The Dutch Government included the section Muhammadan religion (D.
Mohammedaansche Eeredienst), alongside Roman Catholicism and Protestant
Christianity.4 Annual reports included a section on ‘Muhammedaansche
Eeredienst’ that contained information about ‘Muhammadan clergy’ and
Islamic native schools.5
In governing Muslim society, the colonial government often faced ten-
sions and problems. Although the Dutch rarely showed interest in converting
natives to Christianity, they faced some apparent dilemmas: first, between
supporting and showing neutrality toward their fellow Christians and con-
verts and, second, between supporting and showing neutrality toward diverse
Muslim individuals and groups.

Accommodating Religious Holidays, Managing Masjid and Zakat

Article 119 of the 1919 amended Dutch Constitution stipulated that every
Dutch citizen had the freedom to adhere to a religion, as long as he or she did
not cause public disorder or violate laws. It also specified that the government
should not forbid observance of religious duties.6 The colonial government
understood ‘religious’ in a narrow sense­– ­that is, belief and ritual. Thus, for
example, they granted religious holidays to Christians, Chinese and Muslims,
as they considered them ritualistic and non-­political (meaning not a threat to
 controlli ng poli ti cs  | 141

colonial order), as well as the celebration of the birthdays of the Queen and
princesses. Muslims were free to celebrate holidays, such as the Night Journey
and the Ascension of the Prophet, the Birthday of the Prophet, the Eid al-­Fitr
concluding the fasting month of Ramadan, the Eid al-­Adha, and the first
day of the month of Ashura. Although these religious festivals could have
political meanings, the Dutch Government saw them as ‘religious’ activities.7
The colonial government would consider these ceremonial or ritualistic, and
therefore private, requiring no prohibition (see also Asad 1993: 55–79).
In some cases, the Dutch required a letter for the construction of a new
mosque from zelf-­bestuurder, detailing the land, the founder and its purpose
in order to determine that the mosque was being used for worship.8 Some
Dutch officials who served as Advisers to the zelf-­bestuurder had the right
to prohibit the building of a new mosque for the sake of public good. 9 The
zelf-­bestuurder had to watch the local imams to ensure that they did not
violate colonial law and that no religious teacher would misuse their religious
authority against the people. The zelf-­bestuurder would make a list of the
numbers and addresses of local mosques.10 There were several cases where
colonial administrators tried to ban mosque activities and this created some
tension. For example, a colonial attorney general asked the PSII to withdraw
copies of a khutbah intended for a large gathering at the end of the fasting
month because he believed it accused the colonial government of favouring
Christianity.11
Regarding the position of the masjid within the colonial administration,
the situation was quite complex. Mosques played a central role in Muslim life,
but many of the functions and the roles they played were situational. A local
mosque administration consisted of the head of the mosque, the preacher, the
caller to prayer and the staff, either appointed or a volunteer (Snouck 1924).
Most mosques operated independently and privately through the tradition
of waqf. The finances were locally managed. The mosque executive board
collected and distributed zakat, revenues from the waqf, and managed pay-
ment for Muslim marriages, deaths, and other services for rites of passage
(Bousquet 1939: 26).
In other cases, however, Dutch colonial officials allowed mosques con-
siderable freedom. Colonial administrators even facilitated the performance
of religious obligations among native officials by coordinating schedules for
 142 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

secular activities and religious events. In 1918 one governor expressed the
hope that every Muslim official would be given the allocated time (from 11
am to 2 pm) to attend the Friday prayers and sermons. If the time proved
inconvenient, the officials could rearrange their schedule with co-workers in
order to be able to attend Friday sermons without disrupting their duties.12
Nonetheless, despite such Dutch assistance, Muslims argued that support for
mosques was far less than that provided for Christian schools and churches.
For example, in the official report of 1939, Protestantism received the subsidy
of f. 844,000, Catholicism f. 335,700 and Islam f. 7,600 (Bousquet 1939:
26; Noer 1973: 170).
Colonial intervention in religious matters was also evident in the col-
lection of alms or zakat, where Dutch officials tried to prevent coercion by
‘ulama and the practice of using zakat to subsidise the ‘ulama’s income. One
regulation, for example, stated that a zelf-­bestuurder was responsible for pre-
venting ‘ulama from forcing people to donate funds for the establishment of a
mosque.13 The Dutch maintained careful oversight of mosque funds in order
to maintain accountability and prevent corruption (Fauzia 2008). Snouck
advised colonial officials to protect individual autonomy from any pressure in
collecting zakat fitrah, in determining their amount or in choosing the agency
that will allocate those religious funds (Salim 2008: 121). Permission for
construction was granted only when it could be proved that no compulsion
was used. Despite Dutch oversight, however, many imams actually managed
to collect mosque funds without colonial control or support. For instance, in
South Sulawesi, one local imam visited different places to collect donations
for repairing existing mosques and establishing new ones without the knowl-
edge of colonial officials.14 In other cases, the zelf-­bestuurder approved the
building of a mosque and appointment of an imam recommended by local
people. Dutch or native officials may also replace an imam who they deemed
unsatisfactory. Old mosques were renovated with Dutch financial help, like
that at Kampung Lajang in Makassar, rebuilt in 1902 after villagers asked to
have their own mosque.15

Controlling the Hajj, Political Parties and Sufi Orders

Guaranteeing freedom would mean scrutinising actions considered public.

For the Dutch, Islamic politics was characterised by distinguishing religion
 controlli ng poli ti cs  | 143

from its political expressions (Pijper 1961: 209–22). Politics meant the
techniques of controlling Muslims’ expressions in the public realm. Snouck
advised the Dutch Government that they should not act recklessly by ban-
ning religious practice in the colony. He urged the government instead to
treat both Christian and Islamic missions fairly and, more importantly, to
distinguish the religious from the political expressions of Islam (Snouck
1994a [1906]: 57–8). Colonial authorities should show tolerance toward
Islamic religious life but exercise vigilance toward its political movements
(Benda 1958b). He thus advocated a policy of circumspect intervention,
which would deal pragmatically with Islam. Although some Dutch politi-
cians in the Netherlands regarded him and other officials as too tolerant and
even too supportive of Islam, others praised Snouck for his ability to reach a
workable compromise with Muslim culture (Wertheim 1956: 204–5).
For Snouck, the caliphate movement was a doctrine uniting the whole
world under a centralised Islamic authority, an idea familiar to Christian
ecumenicalism. But, in the case of Islam, in his judgement it was more
importantly a factor constraining the assimilation of Muslims with modern,
Western civilisation. Snouck saw pan-­Islamism as an obstacle to accepting
the idea of nations as the desire to be together, and an impetus for Muslim
anti-­colonialism. He observed that in the Muslim daily press the Netherlands
was frequently derided as the enemy of Muslims, and in geographical text-
books used in Turkish and Arab schools the Netherlands was indicated as a
power unfamiliar with the principles of tolerance, under whose yoke millions
of Muslims suffer (Snouck 1994b [1909]: 73; Reid 1967).
The colonial fear of the caliphate emerged particulary during the later
part of the nineteenth century. Although not in any way a Muslim rebellion,
the Indian Mutiny of 1857 aroused considerable fear among Dutch colonial
officials. In response, the 1859 Pilgrimage Ordinance (D. Hadji Ordonantie)
aimed at regulating the requirements, travel arrangements and transportation
for prospective Muslim pilgrims from the East Indies.16 The government
sought to control Muslim networks between the Netherlands Indies and
the Middle East by requiring all pilgrims to obtain permits from their own
regions and to present these passes to the Dutch General Consul once they
were in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia.17 Snouck in fact saw this procedure as help-
ful for the pilgrims: the General Consul, assisted by native officials, was the
 144 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

r­epresentative of the Dutch Government and judge in the East Indies, so

when the native pilgrims encountered any difficulty they could meet the
Consul for assistance and advice, like Algerians and Tunisians having the
French Consul and Indians and Malays the English Consul (Snouck 1994b
[1909]). The Hajj Ordinance did not reduce the number of Muslim pilgrims
going to Mecca, and the actual number of pilgrims increased annually, except
during the period of the two World Wars.18
Snouck was aware that in the Netherlands itself there was considerable
apprehension regarding the hajj to Mecca and religious study in Mecca,
which was thought to create an opportunity for global connections between
Muslim teachers and students that would fuel pan-­Islamism­– a­ nd thus anti-­
colonialism. In response to calls for the impositions of bans, he explained that
Muslims were obliged to perform the hajj during the Zulhijjah month at least
once in a lifetime if it be possible, but that financial and personal restrictions
meant that it was only performed by relatively few Muslims, since the return
journey could take as much as three years. Added to this was the fact that
under certain conditions the Shafi’i madhhab, to which East Indies Muslims
adhered, even allowed a waiver from ever performing the hajj. The increase
in the number of pilgrims (roughly 2,000 East Indies pilgrims from 1852
to 1858) from a population of approximately 35 million people could be
explained by various reasons: strengthening one’s religiosity to gain prestige,
because of disappointment in the worldly life and to seek religious knowledge
in Mecca. Snouck explained that the returning pilgrims were not priests as
the government had called them, because Islam did not have priesthoods or
sacraments. Nor were they necessarily spiritual leaders of the community just
because they had performed the hajj or wore an Arab turban. He pointed to
a colonial regulation stipulating that the aristocrat elite and regents had the
task of watching native Muslim spiritual leaders, rather than Christian priests,
and to the 1859 Pilgrimage Ordinance. In his view, colonial opinion about
the adverse effects of the pilgrimage was unfounded. The government had
claimed, for instance, that it wanted to prevent natives leaving their family at
home without financial security since many died on their way, and to prevent
fraud by those who may claim the title hajji without having reached Mecca.
Rather than seeing a connection between pilgrimage and the spread of pan-­
Islamism, Snouck argued that Muslims who stayed in Mecca for some time
 controlli ng poli ti cs  | 145

could learn about Islamic unity through education and interaction (Snouck
1994b [1909]: 178). Those who were influenced by pan-­Islamism, Snouck
said, came home with it hoping for a political change ending the domination
by the kafir ruler. They saw a false government or suffered from economic dif-
ficulty so they resisted the Dutch, as in Cilegon, Java, 1888. This resistance,
Snouck continued, was not because of the hajj experience. He did not see
pan-­Islamism taking a strong hold among native Muslims in the East Indies.
Furthermore, the caliphate was in no way to be compared with the Catholic
Papacy because Muslims had never regarded caliphs as their true spiritual
head. Even the sultans of Istanbul could not think of restoring the authority
of the caliph over the whole Muslim world (Snouck 1916: 110, 113). There
were many local kings and princes that to have one true spiritual leader would
almost always be impossible.
In sum, Snouck argued, not many ‘ulama were fanatic or anti-­Dutch.
He sought to remove what he considered to be a myth among some Dutch
governors that hajjis would necessarily be rebellious against the colonial
government. In his view, administrators of Islamic law were the lower-­level
Muslim officials, more influenced by adat and more loyal to their rulers than
to any strict Islamic theology and ideology (Benda 1958b). Snouck saw that
Muslims were in political decay under Western domination. Many local aris-
tocrats and Muslims influenced by animism and Hinduism were not excited
about pan-­Islamic ideas. He believed that such a syncretic Islam was hardly
a threat to Dutch colonialism. By 1920s onwards Muslim reformers were
uninterested in the caliphate and focused on homeland politics and society
as discussed earlier.
Snouck’s division of Islam into the religious and the political was in line
with the Muslim division of the religious non-­political and the political that
started in the 1920s, of those who worked on the social and the educational
and those who had joining the volksraad and had created political parties
such as SI (Sarekat Islam) mentioned earlier. For example, Snouck advised
that the SI movement needed special attention because SI activists held dif-
ferent activities in different places.19 He believed that SI leaders would not
be difficult to deal with and that they could adapt to Dutch colonial power.
He argued that Christian missionaries could actually work together with
SI leaders as long as everyone was sincere and fair (Snouck 1994c [1915]:
 146 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

166). The Dutch Governor-­General A. W. F. Idenberg (in office 1909–16),

saw the Sarekat Islam as an expression of the native’s self-­awareness, con-
tending that Javanese never demonstrated a ‘fanatic Muhammadanism’, and
hardly showed an anti-­governmental character (Laffan 2011: 199). However,
according to Agus Salim, people could not stay out of politics because they
encounter colonial policy. At first, Salim said, SI was not political, but it
soon became aware of the need to engage with politics, since its activities
were motivated by hunger for national unity and progress, as discussed earlier
(Penders 1977: 257–61). The shifting nature of the SI–Dutch relationship
supports the argument that there was no monolithic and static relationship
between Dutch and Muslim politics in the East Indies.
Sufi orders were even willing to seek Dutch assistance in dealing with inter-
nally Muslim disputes. Such a case occurred in 1924, when Muhammadiyah
activists in the province of Bone in South Sulaweasi issued a fatwa of heresy
against the Tariqah Khalwatiyyah Saman (popularly called Tarekat Haji
Palopo, after its leader). They claimed that the Sufi followers emphasised a
close relationship with God without a ‘proper’ understanding of religion and
the shari’ah. This Sufi order, they claimed, was ‘exclusive’ and ‘isolated’ from
the surrounding community and endorsed the ‘heretical’ idea that humans
could become one with God, as found in the doctrine of al-­Hallaj (d. 922): ‘I
am God’ (Hamid 1983: 424). In response to these accusations, Haji Abdullah,
the son of Haji Palopo, tried to separate the followers from accusations of
heresy, relying on the idea that even those who reached the highest state of
knowledge would never say, ‘I am God.’ In asserting the links between his
tariqah and earlier tariqahs, such as Khalwatiyyah Qadiriyyah and Aflawiyah
(Ubaedillah 2011: 170), he tried to convince Muhammadiyah leaders that
his Sufi practice did not reject ‘orthodox’ Islamic ritual and law.20 Ultimately,
Dutch authorities decided that the dispute was ‘spiritual’, ‘religious’ and
‘private’ and that it did not harm public order and therefore did not merit an
official prohibition.21 Another Sufi order, the Tariqah Khalwatiyyah Yusuf,
also demanded and later obtained official approval in 1933 from the Dutch
(Abdullah 1978: 31). Sufi orders requested Dutch officials to accord them
official recognition in order to strengthen their position vis-­à-­vis critics.
 controlli ng poli ti cs  | 147

Establishing Hadat Council in South Sulawesi

In South Sulawesi, before colonialism, the local nobility karaeng functioned

as the ‘bureaucratic elite’ (Sutherland 1979: 1) dealing with the secular and
cultural affairs. They decided on matters of conflict and protected the region
from enemies, but also became leaders in religious and cultural ceremonies
at times of harvest and others (Poelinggomang 2004: 59). These local aris-
tocrats were in a strong kinship relationship (siri’) (see Chapter V) and in a
patron–client relationship, a relationship between lord and followers (Pelras
2000). The traditional elite also had sacred objects (gaukang), which they
needed to preserve as their cultural bond and authority symbol, respectively
(Poelinggomang 2004: 53). Despite the structural changes brought about by
Dutch colonisation, the traditional patronage and cultural symbols had not
disappeared. Patrons lost a few of their previous functions but they now had
new functions such as social prestige, local leadership and economic success
(Pelras 2000).
Colonial bureaucratisation had to meet with and make use of the native
form of the traditional rule of aristocracy­– ­and in some cases also of the
Muslim scholars. Dutch colonial government, with the capital Batavia, had
to control the vast territory and population of Java, Madura, and the outer
islands, including Sulawesi. For example, in Sulawesi, under the so-­called
indirect rule, the Dutch Government divided them into different levels
of administration: the afdeeling was an administrative area headed by an
Assistant Resident; under that was onderafdeeling, which was headed by a
controller; and then there was the local region (adatgemeenschap); and then,
the village, or kampung. In the city of Makassar, the colonial government
appointed a governor, an assistant governor, an Assistant Resident and a
controller. They appointed local traditional elite or aristocrats as the admin-
istrative head (regent), and local headmen (hoofd, penghulu) were appointed
through the hadat council. They also appointed native administrative officials
or zelf-­bestuurder. This multi-­level administrative system indicates modifica-
tion of the traditional system of gaukang (village) and bori (a smaller polity
led by nobles (karaeng)). The Dutch administration appointed Dutchmen
and the local aristocracy because they needed them to communicate and help
reach the rest of the people. The main requirements for the native elite to be
 148 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

government officials were that they should come from aristocracy and show
readiness to cooperate with the Dutch (Poelinggomang 2004: 5–6; Chabot
1950: 102–3).
Among those who collaborated with the Dutch were members of the
Hadat Council. The chief of the Hadat Council (Hadat Tinggi), for example,
gave a speech to the effect that he praised the Dutch modernisation and
interference in native government even three years after the declaration of
Indonesia’s independence in 1945:

We recognize that democracy is a new thing, but the principles of democracy

had long prevailed in our tradition as shown in the traditional chronicles
(lontaraq). Kings respected the people; and contracts were made between
the kings and the people spelling out each party’s rights and responsibilities;
if any of the two parties failed in their responsibilities then there would be
disaster. If democracy were defined not merely as a Western practice (the
government from, for, and by the people), but also as a government headed
by a king with contract with his subjects then democracy should not be
foreign to us. However, in this modern era, our customary tradition is
not adequate. We can say that this modern time begins in 1905 when the
Dutch government interfered with our local government which resulted in
change in economic and political affairs. Our local self-­governments were
educated by the Dutch officials to modernize local administration; they
became adjusted to the demand of the modern time. At the same time, we
have to maintain our basic social life, but we have to adjust to the demand
of the modern time. We value our cooperation with the Netherlands, and
thank you, Netherlands.22

The Dutch thus contributed to a process of a conceptual and institu-

tional separation between the public and the private, between the political
and the non-­political and between the traditional and the modern. This
liberal European idea was also embedded in the Dutch Constitution as a
church–state separation. Yet, because the Dutch governed Muslim subjects,
compromises were necessary, and in many cases this involved interference in
Muslim rituals and everyday life, as discussed earlier.
Moreover, adat was not necessarily against modernity because it could
serve as the source for modernisation. Historian Christian Pelras has argued
 controlli ng poli ti cs  | 149

that the customary laws of Bugis society did not necessarily conflict with
modern conceptions of law. He points to the sayings in the lontara of the
Kingdom of Wajo that could be interpreted in modern terms. For example,
the Hadat Council’s decision prevails over the rulers; the people’s leaders’
(anang) decision prevails over the council’s; the people’s decision prevails over
the people’s leaders. The other says: the People of Wajo are free (maradeka);
their only master is law (ade) (Pelras 2010: 373).

Showing Little Interest in the Hajj and Pan-­Islamism in Malaya

Like the Dutch, the British recognised the political and religious freedom of
its citizens as well as the people under their protectorate. As mentioned ear-
lier, the 1874 Treaty of Pangkor though stipulating that British advice must
be asked and acted upon, laid down that all matters touching Malay religion
and custom were under the sultan’s authority (Andaya and Andaya 2001:
158, 160–1). Nonetheless, despite this official policy, the British did interfere
with aspects of Malay religion and culture. Most obviously, unlike the Dutch
East Indies, colonial law formalised the conflation of Islam and Malay ethnic-
ity and culture. The Malay Reservation Act, originally intended for address-
ing agriculture, land holdings and other practical purposes, redefined a Malay
as any ‘person belonging to the Malayan race who habitually speaks Malay or
any other Malayan language and who professes the Moslem religion’.23
The Act introduced a race-­based categorisation of people (despite some
difficulty determining whether Muslims from Arabia, India and China could
be Malay), and also the construction of religion and culture. The British
introduced this religion-­based race categorisation in response to local cir-
cumstances rather than to the diverse understandings of Islam by many races
across the archipelago (Willer 1975: 78–9; Yegar 1979: 17–18). Indeed,
they themselves recognised the difficulty in differentiating Islam from Malay
custom in practice. Winstedt believed that Malays saw the desirability of
British interference with their religion and custom when it assisted govern-
ment (Winstedt 1948: 102; Willer 1975: 86), and when the elite raised no
objections. For Malay society generally, however, this variation created some
tension regarding the extent to which the British were able to intervene in
local affairs.
Unlike the Dutch, British administrators and scholars generally did not
 150 | i slam and col o nia l is m

express a strong interest in topics such as a pan-­Islamic caliphate, the impact of

the pilgrimage, Sufi orders, and the potential threats that these could pose to
the British rule. Some British administrators and scholars associated the word
‘Muslim’ or ‘Muhammadan’ with fanaticism, but, for Winstedt, fanaticism
was not natural among Malays. The British alliance with the sultans effec-
tively ensured that British power did not become a target of antagonism (Roff
1964: 75–90). Certainly, some British officials feared pan-­Islamism because
they thought that it may pose a threat to the Empire, as in the 1919–24 cali-
phate movement, which was regarded as the greatest anti-­British protest since
the 1857 mutiny rebellion. Further impetus had been given to pan-­Islamism
by the conquest of Arabia by the Wahhabi ruler Ibn Saud in 1924, and by the
attempt to revive the caliphate and to organise a rejuvenated Islamic world.
However, the proposed Islamic World Congress, to have been held at Mecca
in 1926, failed (Roff 1962: 172). Among the three possibilities that Malays
and Indonesians discussed (that is, pan-­Islamism, pan-­Malayanism [union
between Indonesia and Malaya] and anti-­colonial nationalism), pan-­Islamism
was the least realistic in political terms, and the shortest lived.
In Malaya the colonial government saw no need to control pilgrimage
traffic, and therefore issued no regulations as the Dutch did in the East
Indies. Wilkinson, for instance, viewed the pilgrimage primarily as a ritual,
albeit a global one, but one that carried no political significance, even though
some Malays claimed that they were proportionately sending more pilgrims
to Mecca than were Indians, Persians, Moors or Turks (Wilkinson 1906:
11–12). Although Wilkinson wrote about the concept of Islamic unity, he
did not conceptualise this in terms of political unity under a caliph. Islam, for
the Malays, he said, was a noble type of character, a freemasonry or bond of
union between all who profess it. He wrote, ‘More than a faith, more than a
philosophy and thought, it is a great quasi-­political force, a militant brother-
hood, a definite type of civilization of which all its members are extremely
proud and with which inferior races delight to associate themselves.’ It aims
at the conquest of the world for God and for Muhammad, he said. Islam
thus offered Malays a missionary zeal that makes converts swell the commu-
nity of Muhammad and so render more possible its conquest of the world.
In theory, he argued, all the Muslim world was to have constituted a single
nation under one caliphate. The destruction of the different ideals of the
 controlli ng poli ti cs  | 151

different Muslim states created a desire for making Islam once more a great
world power. However, that was in the minds of some, not many, Malay
Muslims. Political differences were being effaced by the gradual subjection of
the various Muslim princes whose powers distracted from the recognition of
the Caliphate of the Sultan of Turkey (Wilkinson 1906: 8–9, 18).
Thus Wilkinson became more interested in studying and recording how
pan-­Islamic writings, when they existed, may have influenced Malay litera-
ture, rather than their political implications. He said that ‘if anyone wishes to
learn the nature of the vain imaginings with which our philo-­Turkish agita-
tors try to delude the Malay public, he can do so at any time in the columns
of the journal that calls itself Chahaya Pulau Pinang (‘The Lustre of Penang’)’,
but ‘although pan-­Islamic movement in the Straits would furnish material
for a very interesting political study, it need only concern us at present in its
literary aspects’ (Wilkinson 1924: 63).
Winstedt agreed with Wilkinson about the lack of influence of pan-­
Islamism among Malays. He maintained that the puritan Wahhabi move-
ment, which allied with political ends, sustained the idea of pan-­Islamism,
but such notions of Muslim theocracy had little or no appeal to Malays
whose loyalties were still parochial (Winstedt 1947: 42). This also explains
why there were no elaborate, strategic British policies regarding Sufi orders
and other emerging Muslim associations in Malaya. As discussed in Chapter
II, Winstedt’s views of Sufism (tasawwuf ) were focused on its spiritual and
cultural aspect, rather than its political potentiality against the British. Thus,
the British Government focused more on the administration than on dealing
with Muslim politics.
The British sought to introduce a secular government, but they had to
deal with the Malay sultans and scholars whose ideas and practices could
contradict theirs. The adoption of Islam had drawn Malay rulers into a
Muslim world and had introduced many to modern spiritual doctrines and
techniques. The new modernity introduced by the British meant that the
Islamised sultans had to adjust again.

Bringing the Old Sultanate to Modern Government in Malaya

Like the Dutch, the British Government believed that their modern bureau-
cracy was superior to the traditional sultanate. The British attempted to
 152 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

teach the Malays, in the words of Frank Swettenham (1850–1946), the first
Resident General of the Federated Malay States, the advantages of good
government and enlightened policy (Andaya and Andaya 2001: 174). The
British took over the government but in accordance with the ‘indirect’ rule
pattern established in India maintained the traditional Malay ruling class as a
symbol of continuity. Yet the Sultan did play a role in religious and cultural
matters, even when the administrative assistance of the British stepped more
firmly into the domain of religion and custom.
After a meeting in Kuala Kansar in July 1897, Malay sultans sent a
statement to the high commissioner: ‘We, the Sultans of the Malay States
of Selangor, Perak, Pahang, and Negri Sembilan, by the invitation of Your
Majesty’s High Commissioner, are met together, for the first time in history,
to discuss the affairs of our States confederated under Your Majesty’s gracious
protection. We desire to offer to Your Majesty our respectful and cordial con-
gratulations on a reign of unexampled length and unequalled progress, and
we pray for Your Majesty’s long life and the continuance of that protection
which has already brought such prosperity to Malaya’ (Swettenham 1906:
288–9). The late governor of the Straits Settlements and high commissioner
of the Federated Malay States Frank Swettenham wrote in 1906 that, ‘In
Malaya­. . . when you take the Malay­– ­Sultan, Raja, chief, or simple village
head-­man­– ­into your confidence, when you consult him on all questions
affecting his country, you can carry him with you, secure his keen interest
and co-­operation, and he will travel quite as fast as is expedient along the path
of progress’ (344). He wanted to ensure paying sufficient attention to Malay
interests: ‘Time will not change the Malay character, or alter the fact that the
Malays are “the people of the country” whose confidence we have gained by
making their interests our first consideration’ (345).
Swettenham and other perceptive British officials understood the adverse
effects of change. The influential Wilkinson, mentioned earlier, for instance,
observed that ‘the sudden establishment of a modern settlement in an old
world community is such as that the Malays brings about great social changes.
To the people as a whole it brings a certain amount of economic prosperity.
To some individuals it brings evil’ (cited in Roff 1967: 131). Wilkinson
believed that the transition to a purely secular form of government created
anxiety among the chiefs. In former times, Wilkinson claimed, religious con-
 controlli ng poli ti cs  | 153

tributions could be misappropriated and that Malay Islam trusted a good

deal to compulsion in religious affairs. However, the formal British policy of
non-­intervention was not actually implemented when colonial Advisers tried
to reform aspects of Muslim activities, such as mosque fund management.
Most officials saw this as an improvement. Thus, on the zakat, Wilkinson
observed: ‘The British Government now stands in the place of the chiefs and
has in that way come to represent the indigent and pious Moslem for whom
the tithe was originally intended’ (Wilkinson 1906: 13).
At the same time, Richard Winstedt, discussed earlier, categorised old
and new governments, but viewed the sultans as generally amenable to new
influences. Winstedt depicted the political nature of Malay sultanates like
Malacca and Perak as predominantly patriarchal. The kings were named Yang
Di-­Pertuan (He who is made Lord), or Raja, if retaining a more Hindu style,
or sultan, his Islamo-­Persian title. He described Malay rulership as hereditary,
ceremonial, sacral and astrological­– ­strangely enough to modern minds.
The Malay ruler became the object of absolute obedience, so the penalties
for offences against royalty were heavy. After conversion to Islam, the local
ruler adopted the title sultan, as the ‘Shadow of God on Earth’ (A. dhil Allah
fi al-­‘ardh). The sultan became the servant of God, who pursued justice and
righteousness (Winstedt 1947: 68–70). Winstedt’s view is clearly expressed
in his description of a luncheon hosted by the Sultan of Perak, wearing ‘a
dark blue European uniform’, ‘a sash of sacred yellow form waist to knee as
became a good Muslim’, ‘a purple forage cap with the white ostrich feathers
for a Civil Servant’s cocked-­hat’, ‘a costume that made the best of all the
worlds in which he and his forebears had lived, Hindu, Islamic, British’
(Winstedt 1969a: 71).
According to Winstedt, the old constitution, like the Malacca sultanate,
detailed the procedure of appointment of the future ruler by the current
ruler, of prime minister or commander-­in-­chief (M. bendahara, orang kaya
besar), minister of police (temenggong), and other ministers (mantri). It men-
tioned the other positions, including the officer of the port (shahbandar),
admiral (laksamana), religious dignitary (Imam Paduka Tuan), territorial
magnates, and assistants. There was then no separation between the judicial
and the executive authority because the ministers had various duties, such
as collecting tributes or taxes, investigating the facts, knowing the law and
 154 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

passing sentences. Winstedt suggested that Malay ministers had the task of
directing an imperialist policy for the advancement of the royal dynasty and
the expansion of the trade, which brought wealth to the ruler and to them-
selves in the shape of taxes and presents. They had no expenditure to build
roads, schools, modern administration and the army. Winstedt contrasted
the sultanate against the modern government. The only civil servants were
police and tax collectors, and the only departments from which the peasant
gained benefits were the ‘department of religion and magic’ (Winstedt 1947:
72–9).
Here, Winstedt used the Perak Laws to explain the old ways of govern-
ing, which he regarded as medieval with some important features being a
degree of differentiation of function and territorial control among the chiefs
and the fact that they were consulted by the sultan on important matters.
In Winstedt’s view, these two characteristics made it easy for the British to
introduce State Councils and to reshape administrative structures. Old func-
tions, such as Temenggong, resembled new functions, such as commissioner
of police (Winstedt 1947: 79–80). With the advent of British colonialism the
mixture of old and new was apparent; in the state of Johor, for example, the
sultan created three councils modelled on the Privy Council of Great Britain
and the Executive and Legislative Councils of British colonies.
Nevertheless, there were distinct changes in this hybrid system as new
positions were created and new regulations promulgated. Thus, through-
out the Malay Peninsula, the British Government introduced new divi-
sions within the government, including the economy, banking, legislation,
education, health, transportation, communication, post office, the military
and police, markets, irrigation, land reform, labour, agriculture, mines,
prisons, the press and publicity, currency, and electricity.24 The annual
report for the Federated Malay States, for example, showed these catego-
ries: financial, trade, customs and shipping, lands and survey, geology and
mining, forestry, agriculture, legislation, police, prisons, medical, educa-
tion, posts and telegraphs, public works, railways, cooperation, and general
(Peel 1927). Differentiation of the domains became both conceptual and
administrative.
These administrative categories were to be fixed but there was some
overlap in documentation and implementation. For example, the British
 controlli ng poli ti cs  | 155

Government introduced a new system of land tenure in Malaya, giving

monetary value to land (tht could now be bought, sold and taxed) but to
appease the Malay ruling elite they kept the traditional position of local head-
man (penghulu) who would now have a fixed monthly allowance. The Malay
Reservation Enactment of 1913 was partially intended to ensure that Malay
felt a sense of ownership, but British capitalists also secured their own inter-
ests and restricted the peasantry from some cultivation rights (Shamsul 1986:
20, 28). The higher ranks of the technical departments were staffed almost
entirely by European engineers, surveyors, foresters, doctors, agricultural-
ists and educationists, although in the predominantly Malay states such as
Kelantan and Terengganu the small revenue left these technical departments
still backward (Winstedt 1948: 94).
The British thus transformed what they called old government into a
modern, civilised one, while still keeping some of the traditional functions.
Yet, as the case of Kelantan shows, Malay society at large did not become
‘modern’ in the way that the British would have wished. Furthermore, despite
the official policy of non-­interference, the practicalities of implementation
posed a dilemma as the British interacted with the sultans, ‘ulama, and local
circumstances. In other words, the British envisaged non-­interference but, in
actual policies, they often felt compelled to interfere in Malay religious and
cultural affairs.
The government documents in each state contained a dearth of informa-
tion, including statistical data and annual expenditures, and liabilities and
assets. While the supreme authority in each state was officially vested in
His Highness the Sultan who presided over the State Council that included
British Resident or Adviser (Peel 1927: 4), the association between the Malay
ruling class and the British colonial authorities served to disguise the fact that
real power ultimately resided with the British. British administrators doubted
whether the sultans will ever learn to govern themselves, and felt that what
was best suited to Malay society was a mild, just and firm despotism (Andaya
and Andaya 2001: 177). Despite instances of miscalculation by Residents,
Advisers and other officials, the British believed the traditional Malay elite
were predominantly autocratic, impractical, and wealth-­hungry (Wilkinson
1929: 1–6; Winstedt 1947: 63–81; Sadka 1964:184–5).
 156 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

Creating State Council in Kelantan

The British obtained the northern Malay States (Perlis, Kedah, Kelantan and
Terengganu) from the Siamese in 1909 in a transfer of suzerainty, protec-
tion, and administrative control. Kelantan became a British protectorate to
the extent that the status quo would be preserved as far as possible and that
any changes in the administration would be gradually and cautiously intro-
duced.25 Here economic considerations were not as prominent as in the Straits
Settlements and the Federated Malay States, but the distinction between
public and private (religious and customary) affairs was still significant. In
1911, two years after the transfer, the British adviser divided Kelantan’s gov-
ernment structure into the following categories: revenue, expenditure, assets
and liabilities, legislation, administration, land and agriculture, education,
health, courts, posts and telegraphs. The report included a Muhammadan
Marriage and Divorce Enactment under the section Legislation, alongside
Vehicles Enactment.26 Obviously, these British domains bore only a slight
relationship to the traditional system, but these included such family matters
as marriage and divorce (see Chapters V and VI).
The State Councils became the sole legislative body of each state, usually
consisting of ten individuals: sultan, selected princes and chiefs, a Chinese
representation and the British Resident. Nonetheless, these councils operated
very differently from traditional assemblies. Things customary and religious
would go into the hands of the sultan, and other matters­– ­the vast majority­
– ­were considered the responsibility of the Resident and ultimately the colo-
nial government in Kuala Lumpur (Andaya and Andaya 2001: 175). Thus,
more than the Dutch, the British introduced a stricter form of secularisation
as they attempted to distinguish secular, civil affairs from religious, cultural
affairs­– ­although there was some variation in different states. In the three
Straits Settlements of Penang, Malacca and Singapore, British laws governed
religious policies according to local circumstances, giving no special status to
Islam. In the Federated and Un-­Federated Malay States, the British helped
Islam to gain special status and enabled sultans to receive official, prerogative
recognition to safeguard the Muslim religion (Means 1978: 386).
The process of secularisation can also be tracked in British Malaya, albeit
in a direction quite different from the East Indies, as the position of the sultan
 controlli ng poli ti cs  | 157

and ‘ulama was reinforced. The British generally respected the aristocracy and
the Islamic scholars but this favoured position, some argue, contributed to
their becoming more religiously conservative. With British protection and
advice, the sultans centralised Islamic organisation and essentially controlled
religious life (see Chapters V and VII). British imperialism thus shared some
characteristics with the Dutch in objectives, but there were basic differences
in their strategy and policy towards Muslims and, accordingly, in the long-­
term consequences.

Conclusion

Different forms of political and governmental secularisation prevailed in colo-

nial Indonesia and Malaya. Secularism was not articulated as an ideology by
the colonisers and the colonised, but a process of secularisation in the sense of
differentiation of the domains of life (Casanova 1994) nevertheless occurred.
One aspect of secular colonial administration involved limiting Islam to the
religious sphere and locating it in its private place alongside other cultural
matters. The introduction of a modern bureaucracy contributed to secu-
larisation, as colonial powers bureaucratised the separation between public
and private matters, with religion and cultural customs classified as part of
the latter. They also differentiated between regularity and irregularity and
fixity and flexibility in enacting administrative rules and training new officials
(both European and native). Colonial administrations sought to maintain
relatively uniform bureaucratic standards as directed by the Colonial Office
(Sadka 1964: 184), but the diversity of colonial terrorities and their physical,
racial and cultural variation led to the different dynamics in colonial–Islamic
relationships.
Although these bureaucracies were central to colonial modernisation and
to the process of secularisation, European attitudes to government in the
East Indies and Malaya and their reactions to Muslim subjects reflects the
differences between academic perceptions of Islam and its actual practice.
Dutch colonial government, trying to strike a balance between their form
of secularisation and Muslim efforts towards politicisation, faced a dilemma
between maintaining governmental neutrality and intervening in Islamic
affairs. Despite the official non-­interference in Islamic affairs, the Dutch colo-
nial government guaranteed the freedom of Muslims to celebrate religious
 158 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

holidays, create organisations, and publish their writings but regulated any
activities they regarded as political in order to maintain social order and sta-
bility. They only felt it necessary to become involved in supervising Muslim
practices when they became of public concern or when they threatened the
colonial or social order. The Dutch intervened more than the British in over-
seeing Islamic practices (that is, congregational prayers, mosque and zakat
management, pilgrimages to Mecca) and in the oversight of Sufi orders and
Islamic organisations when they were perceived to be a political threat, but
left the content of Islamic beliefs and rituals unregulated. Muslim political
activists appreciated the Dutch bureaucracy when it focused on progress,
but they were critical of colonial policies they considered interventionist or
discriminatory in comparison to the treatment of Christian missionaries and
the adat aristocracy.
In contrast, British administrators officially claimed a policy of non-­
interference in Malay religion and culture, but did intervene when necessary
in order to maintain Malay privileges, amidst other races’ challenges. The
British allowed the sultans and the ‘ulama to regulate Islamic orthodoxy
and orthopraxy. Their collaboration with the sultan and official ‘ulama rein-
forced Islamic Malay identity. While the British hardly scrutinised political
expressions of Islam, they saw them primarily as a cultural expression and
thereby did not consider them an imminent threat to the British–Malay alli-
ance. Instead, the British administration and the sultanate attempted to view
each other as mutually supportive. Colonialism had created the situation
where the British governed worldly affairs and helped preserve Malay and
Islamic privileges amidst internal and external challenges. The British were
quite successful in maintaining the sultanate symbolic power while modernis-
ing the public domains that the sultans and ‘ulama had little administrative
capability.
Dutch interference in the religious and native affairs in the East Indies
led to social organisation and political movements that were largely inde-
pendent of the traditional ruling class. The bureaucratic separation of reli-
gion and custom from public affairs enabled Muslim reform movements to
flourish and vice versa. The Dutch secularisation served as a control mecha-
nism of native lives, but it did not necessarily undermine Muslim politics
or destroy adat. The political relationship between colonial Europeans and
 controlli ng poli ti cs  | 159

local Muslims became confrontational when their interests clashed and cir-
cumstances did not allow compromises or autonomies. When they shared
common interests in reforming administration and maintaining order they
could coexist and even support each other by dividing their labour to achieve
their modernisation goals.
Colonial powers had to maintain power over the colonised in order to
prevent resistance or rejection of their power. One of the ways that they
achieved this was by secularising various domains as part of the modernisa-
tion process. In his attempt to create an anthropology of secularism, Talal
Asad posed a question: ‘Is “secularism” a colonial imposition . . .?’ (Asad
2003: 21). This chapter and the previous chapter suggest a possible answer:
in different, contingent ways secularism becomes one aspect of European
colonialism, but Muslim reformers also played their crucial roles in limiting
its power and in shaping its manifestations. Muslim reformist politics coin-
cided with the loss of the sultanate power to the British in many cases, but, in
some cases, especially in Kelantan, sultans and the ‘ulama demonstrated their
symbolic and real authority in ensuring Malay orthodoxy and orthopraxy due
to the British inactivity and the official policy of non-­interference in religion
and culture.

Notes
  1. ‘Candidaat Lid Volksraad’, Anak Kontji, No. 5, Year 1, 20 December 1920.
  2. These articles in Dutch and Indonesian translations were also mentioned and
discussed in local journals and books in the East Indies. Buys (1894); Mangkoeto
(1936), 25: 5; Al-­Wafd, Nos 9–10, September–October 1933, Year 2.
 3. Bijlagen van het Verslag der Handelingen van de Tweede Kamer der Staten-­
Generaal, 1919–1920, Bijlage C. Koloniaal Verslag, 1919. KITLV.
  4. Ministerie van Kolonien, Mailrapporten, 2.10.10, 1896–1899, 1902, NA, Den
Haag; Overgedrukt nit de Nederlandsche Spectator, 1881, 51. KITLV; Jaarverslad
over 1931 van den Raadsman voor Studeerenden, Batavia: Landsdrukkerij, 1932,
244.
 5. Regeeringsalamanak voor Nederlandsche-­ Indie, 1911, Batavia: Ladsdrukkerij,
1911, 312–13.
  6. Het Departement van Binnenlandsch-­Bestuur 1920: 6–7.
 7. In 1925, the holidays included the Chinese New Year (24 January), the
Ascension of the Prophet (Isra Mi’raj, 21 February), the death day of Confucius
 160 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

(12 March), Tsing Bing (5 April), Good Friday (10 April), Easter Monday
(13 April), Birthday of the Netherlands Prince (20 April), two days at the
end of the fasting month (Idul Fitri, Garebeg Poeasa, 24–5 April), Birthday
of Princess Juliana (30 April), Ascension Day (12 May), Whit Monday
(1 June), Day of Sacrifice (Idul Qurban, Garebeg Besar, 2 July), the First Day
of Ashura’ (31 July), Birthday of the Queen Mother (3 August), Birthday of the
Queen (31 August), Birthday of the Prophet Muhammad (Maulud, Garebeg
Maulud, 3 September), Birthday of Confucius (14 October), Christmas Day
(25 December) and Boxing Day (26 December). Vaststelling van de sluitings-
dagen voor Gouvernements-­kantoren in verbend met de Mohammedaansche
feestdagen, 2.10.10, 1924, mailrapport 2593­/24, NA, Den Haag; Gelezen het
Schrijven van den Directeur van Justitie van 12 September 1924, A, 17­/31­/19,
mailrapport 2593, NA, Den Haag.
  8. Het Departement van Binnenlandsch-­Bestuur 1920: 39; Bousquet (1939: 26).
  9. F. C. Vorstman, de gouvernor van Celebs en Onderhoorighheden, Makasser,
20 October 1923, Serie P: Zuid-­Selebes, 41, Gewestelijke Regelingen Nopens
de Inheemsche Rechtspraak (1923), Adatrechtbundels, vol. 31: Celebes
(‘s-­Gravenhage: Martinus Nijhoff, 1929), 156; Meulen (1983: 4–7).
10. HT Damsté Collection (1874–1955), D Or. 535, KITLV.
11. Soera PSII, No. 10, November 1940.
12. Het Departement van Binnenlandsch-­Bestuur 1920: 61.
13. Het Departement van Binnenlandsch-­Bestuur 1920: 36–59.
14. Bijlagen van het Verslag der Handelingen van de Tweede Kamer der Staten-­General,
1919–1920, Bijlage C. Koloniaal Verslag, 1919, KITLV, 69.
15. Report by Matowa Lajang, named Kajang Djapar Dg. Manrapi bin Kamaluddin
Ishak Dg. Mambani, in Makassar, Kampung Lanjang, 20 June 1948, in Collectie
H.Th. Chabot, year 1932–1970, DH 1251, KITLV.
16. Jaquet (1980); Staatsblad van Nederlandsch-­Indie: de Pelgrimsordonnantie-­1922,
Staatsblad No. 286, 1927, Stoomvaart Pelgrims: Nedere wijziging en aanvull-
ing van d pelgrimsordonnantie-­1922 (Staatsblad No. 698), in verband met de
invoering van de Schepenordonnatie-­1927 (Staatsblad No. 33).
17. Het Departement van Binnenlandsch-­Bestuur 1920: 64–7.
18. For example, in 1905 there were 4,964 pilgrims from the Netherlands Indies;
then from 10,994 pilgrims in 1910 to 14,805 in 1920, to 33,214 in 1930.
Laporan Resmi Hindia Belanda in Suminto (1986: 222–3); Interview with
Muhammad Abduh Pabbaja, 9 July 2005; Interview with Abu Hamid, Makassar,
5 June 2005.
 controlli ng poli ti cs  | 161

19. Snouck, ‘Prof. Snouck Hurgronje over de SI’, A letter to Governor General of
the Netherlands Indies, written in Leiden, 14 October 1913, KITLV.
20. Mededeeling omtrent de Tarequat Hadji Palopo, door Hadji Palopo’s zoon
Hadji Abdullah bin Abdul Razak, bijgenaamd Poeang Lompo’, dated 24 May
1924, KITLV, Kern Collection, H 797, inv. No. 323.
21. ‘Vrijdag te Palopo’, Collectie RA Kern, No. 454.
22. ‘Pidato S.P. Andi Petenteng (head of the Hadat Council)’, Pelantikan Hadat
Tinggi Daerah Selebes Selatan: Pidato2 Jang Dioecapkan pada Tanggal 12
November 1948, 1948: 29–31.
23. Government of Kelantan, Enactment No. 5 of 1934, The Sultanate Lands
Enactment, signed by W. D. Barron as the British Adviser and the Sultan, ANM.
24. British Military Administration, 1943–1947, ANM, Kuala Lumpur; Swettenham
(1942: 101); Andaya and Andaya (2001: 163–4).
25. There were twenty-­ four British Advisers to Kelantan, from J. S. Mason
(1909–1911) to E. T. Williams (1939). See Talib (2003: 106, 225).
26. KAR, 1911, D.SUK 2­/14­/1, ANM.
 PART III
MODERNISING L AW
 V
Integrating Shari’ah, Adat and European Laws

You know better about your worldly affairs.

(Hadith cited in a Muhammadiyah putusan)1

Borrowing good things from a kafir would not be considered prohibited

[haram] when there were no bad intentions and no negative impact on the
person’s faith.
(Nahdlatul ‘Ulama fatwa, 1939)2

Allah will not change the blessing and the fate of a people until they them-
selves change their laws and regulations in accordance with the develop-
ment of life.
(Q. 13:11; Al-­Hadi 1931: 60–2)

I n an article entitled ‘The Concept of Progress and Islamic Law’, Professor

Noel J. Coulson noted that in classical Islamic theory, law precedes and
is not preceded by society: ‘If in Western systems the law is moulded by
society, in Islam exactly the converse is true’ (Coulson 1985: 203–4). This
is only partially true because despite the belief in the universality of shari’ah
for Muslims, its interpretations in the forms of fatwas, law, jurisprudence
and rules were not necessarily immutable, being shaped by local and even
Western colonial circumstances. In Indonesia and Malaya, Muslim reformers
increasingly sought to spread legal interpretations by addressing and accom-
modating customary and colonial laws. In this chapter, I examine the way in
which Muslim reformers and religious authorities began to formulate shari’ah
not only in terms of fiqh and legal opinions (fatwa) but also promulgated and
at times enacted it in relation to local custom (adat) and by accommodating
Western colonial law. They made eclectic articulations of law using terms

165
 166 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

such as shari’ah, hukum, jurisprudence, wet and recht drawn from the internal
context of fiqh traditions and from Western law and local adat.
The institutional role of Islamic law became subsumed within the complex
civil and customary legal system in the East Indies, which had unintended
consequences, including the creation of an Indonesian school of legal thought
(madhhab) or an Indonesian Islam in postcolonial Indonesia (Hooker 2003;
Feener 2007). Under colonial circumstances, Muslim reformers in the East
Indies tended to frame shari’ah in terms of faith, ritual and morality, rather
than making it part of the European civil or common laws. Beyond the colonial
co-­optation of the traditional qadi and penghulu in charge of Muslim familial
matters, there was no reformist idea or movement promoting Islamic law as part
of the constitution of the (colonial) state. Meanwhile, in Malaya (discussed in
the second half of the chapter), the Malay states and Muslim religious councils
assisted by the British focused on formalisation of many aspects of Islamic law,
encompassing belief, ritual, morality, personal and familial matters, because
they had now more authority to do so and because the British allowed them to
do so while modernising other matters considered public or secular. Muslims
in the Indonesian-­Malay colonies hardly changed the newly introduced colo-
nial laws, so Europeans remained in charge of civil and common law.
There was tension between legal decentralisation and centralisation in
colonial Indonesia and Malaya. There were also tensions and collaborations in
the development of legal systems in these countries (Hooker 1983). Muslims
generally did not distinguish Islamic law from adat but the colonisers rein-
forced the distinction between the two. In practice, Islamic law and adat
were often mixed or juxtaposed. Still in other cases, some Muslim reformers
compared Islamic law with Western, colonial law in order to stress the shared
principles of justice and order.
As this chapter and the next chapter will show, Islamic reform and
colonial modernisation influenced the way in which law became not only
a distinct category separate from other domains but also served as a new
mechanism for improving religiosity and social relations. Muslim reformers
and colonial modernisers merged their goals and interests in some aspects of
law but diverged in other aspects, reformulating Western law, Islamic law, and
customary law, thus contributing to different kinds of legal plurality in the
East Indies and Malaya. In the East Indies, some Muslim reformers criticised
 int e grat ing shari’ah , adat a nd eu r o p e a n l a ws  | 167

colonial regulations deemed interventionist and discriminatory, but many did

not reject colonial law as such. They hardly received administrative assistance
from the Dutch colonial government in implementing aspects of Islamic law.
In Malaya, sultans who received British advice and Muslim reformers who
focused on formalising Malay Islam rarely criticised British rule of law.

Promulgating Shari’ah, Accommodating Adat and Dutch Law in Java

The modernist Muhammmadiyah focused on producing fatwas on inter-

nal Islamic matters, also without confronting colonial regulations. In 1927,
in an effort to maintain unity and coherence among its community, the
Muhammadiyah established a council called Majlis Tarjih (Assembly for
Deliberation). The purpose of this Council was to discuss various opinions
in dispute and to decide on the most acceptable solution (A. marjuh) accord-
ing to their interpretations of the Qur’an and the hadith (Pimpinan Pusat
Muhammadiyah 1967: 276). In its collection of rulings (I. putusan), the
Muhammadiyah emphasised five matters: agama (religion), dunya (worldly
affairs), ibadah (worship), sabilillah (the path of God), and qiyas (A. analogy).
They defined agama as the religion of Islam revealed to Prophet Muhammad
in the Qur’an, succeeding the previous prophets, which contained com-
mands, prohibitions and guidance for the well-­being of humankind in this
world and in the hereafter. They described dunya as all worldly affairs, quot-
ing the hadith, ‘You know better about your worldly affairs’, affairs that were
not part of the function of prophets, affairs left to the wisdom of human
beings. Then ibadah, as they defined it, was being close to God by following
His commands, avoiding His prohibitions and practising all that He permits,
dividing it into the general and the particular. Sabilillah was described as the
path that brought people to the will of God, comprising all the acts aimed at
implementing His laws (Abdurrahman 2007: 201–2).
Instead of following the consensus of scholars (A. ijma’), the
Muhammadiyah felt that qiyas, or analogy­– ­or more broadly ijtihad, an
independent reasoning­– w ­ as an important method for judging the status
of matters not part of worship (ibadah) and not explicitly or directly stipu-
lated in the Qur’an and in the hadith.3 The inclusion of qiyas or ijtihad was
contrary to the traditionalists who regarded taqlid, following the authorita-
tive schools of thought, as one of the references after the Qur’an and the
 168 | i slam and col o nia l is m

hadith. Also, the Muhammadiyah sought to emphasise the value of reason

in understanding the Qur’an and the Sunnah and in making laws. Thus, for
example, by assessing the reason for why an act was forbidden in the Qur’an,
one should be able to judge if an analogous act was forbidden or not. This
served to answer new questions and problems according to changing circum-
stances. The function of the Majlis Tarjih, therefore, was consultative, and its
decisions were not legally binding (Tanfid Hoofdbestuur Moehammadjiah
1938: 14) and so the qadis in the East Indies were not obligated to abide by
its rulings. For example, regarding campfire rituals newly practised by the
boy scouts, in 1932, after some debate, it was decided that participation was
forbidden if the campfire was accompanied by certain ceremonies viewed
as bid’ah (Noer 1973: 81). The decision was a guide for the members, and
did not imply hostility to other opinions that were also based on the Qur’an
and the hadith.4 Other organisations, such as the PSII, created its Council
of Shari’ah and Ibadah, offering fatwas intended primarily for its members.5
These did not enforce religious decisions by imposing sanctions (A. ta’zir)
such as payment of fees or jail sentences, introduced by colonial government,
which were under the jurisdiction of the civil court.
The major impact of colonial rule was the strengthening of shari’ah
and adat as distinct and separate legal systems. Before European presence,
Muslim rulers in Java and Sulawesi formed the office of shari’ah (parawe sara)
and the office of custom (parawe ade) to deal with different segments of the
ruled. They appointed Muslim judges for parawe sara in charge of certain
religious affairs, including punishment for religious offences and a local cus-
tomary figure for the parawe ade. At least from the seventeenth century to
the early twentieth, the qadis were in charge of implementing the penalty of
amputation of the hands or legs for theft, for example, in Aceh and Banten
(Reid 1993: 183; Bosra 2003: 91). Muslim jurists had to decide in which
cases Islam was preferred, in which cases local customs were preferred and
in which cases a combination of Islam and local custom were desired (Yakin
2013: 290–314).
Muslim modernists in Java and Sulawesi did not focus on changing the
positions of parawe sara and the parawe ade; to the contrary, at times they
were in conflict with these officials. In Sulawesi, the parewa ade and the
parewa sara came from local nobility (karaeng, daeng) and officials appointed
 int e grat ing shari’ah , adat a nd eu r o p e a n l a ws  | 169

by them. The parawe ade office was in charge of local, general administration,
whereas the religious judge’s office was in charge of religious laws such as
ritual, zakat, mosque, marriage, and inheritance (Noorduyn 1964: 93; Bosra
2003: 248). Muhammadiyah and NU issued fatwas, or opinions of their
owns, without codes of law produced by the judges. They worked indepen-
dently of the parawe sara and the parawe ade.
For reformers such as Ahman Dahlan, legitimate law was superior to
mere local customs, to ensure order and improve social conditions. Adat was
defined as the old, the traditional, the past, to be judged on the basis of new
laws.

Leaders should understand the behaviors, situations, and customs (adat

istiadat) of the people whom they lead, so that they will be able to act
according to their ability, without hurry, and understanding [what is
acceptable and unacceptable behaviour]­. . . Human beings are commonly
reluctant to accept things that seem new [baru] and different from what
has been prevalent for a long time. They think that new [things] will lead
to danger and difficulty, even though they know that others who do the
new [things] appear happy about it . . .We should not rely on customs for
our law (hukum) to determine [what is] good and bad, right and wrong.
Instead, we should use legitimate laws (hukum yang sah) and our pure hearts
(hati yang suci). (Dahlan in Mulkhan 1986: 8–9)

The law that was legitimate (I. hukum yang sah) implies Dahlan’s recognition of
the Dutch laws in the East Indies, while his reference to pure spirit highlights
the importance he placed on Islamic faith and morality. The same reasoning
was applied to the lawfulness of performing in the theatre and displaying
portraits of individuals and pictures in one’s home, a practice increasingly
popular as a result of colonial influence (Pimpinan Pusat Muhammadiyah
1967: 295–7). Dahlan’s fears that the display of his own portrait would lead
to unacceptable veneration proved unfounded. Embracing tajdid, Dahlan
then contended that it was lawful to display a portrait depending on the
purpose. If there was any hint of veneration of a portrait, display would be
prohibited (part of the act of associating partners with God, or shirk), but it
would be permissible for the purpose of teaching and simple demonstration
(Pimpinan Pusat Muhammadiyah 1967: 281).
 170 | i slam and col o nia l is m

Hasyim Asy’ari, the leader of NU, argued that it was an obligation for
Muslims who lacked the capacity to conduct independent reasoning to
follow (taqlid ) the established schools of thought (madhhab). Taqlid was not
merely following without knowing the reason and argument put forward by
such scholar as Al-­Shafi’i. The following of one madhhab was meant to avoid
following only the easy opinions among different schools of thought (in
Masyhuri 1997: 50–1). But this emphasis on taqlid was not regarding Sufi
orders or tariqah. On their sixth annual congress in 1931, NU issued fatwas
judging which tariqahs are legitimate (A. mu’tabarah) and which ones are
not. They considered Sufi orders, such as the Naqsyabandiyyah, Syattariyyah
and Qadiriyyah, which could demonstrate lineage connection to the Prophet
legitimate (in Masyhuri 1997: 81–4).6
Regarding the colonial law, since medieval schools of thought had not
conceived of laws under foreign rule, NU leaders hardly included it in its
fatwas. As discussed in Chapter I, the East Indies was conceptualised as an
Islamic country (negeri Islam), in spite of being temporarily under foreign
rule. Islamic law needed to be applied by Muslims even independently of the
colonial rule and institutions.
However, a number of fatwas were issued concerning aspects of belief,
ritual, and social interaction with kafir or non-­Muslims. Although a fatwa was
issued elaborating different kinds of kafir, some fatwas were concerning kafirs
in general. Another stated that Muslims should believe in the coming of The
Prophet Isa the Messiah at the end of the world, following the shari’ah of the
Prophet Muhammad. A fatwa said that a Muslim who dies as a kafir deserves
no Muslim funeral. Another one said that a kafir who dies reciting ‘There is
no god but God’ (A. Laa ilaa ha illallah) deserves no Muslim funeral either
because he or she was not known for proclaiming Muhammad’s prophet-
hood. Still another fatwa stated that the Jewish and Christian scriptures were
not the same as the ones that the Qur’an recognises and asks Muslims to
believe. In another fatwa, Muslims were prohibited to use a kafir as a witness
in Muslim marriage. Other fatwas addressed the questions of buying things
in a kafir store and reading books authored by a kafir (in Masyhuri 1997: 36,
111, 145–6, 181, 188–9, 194).
 int e grat ing shari’ah , adat a nd eu r o p e a n l a ws  | 171

Conflicting and Integrating Shari’ah and Adat: The Modernists in

South Sulawesi

Unlike Java, Sulawesi recognised no Hinduism and Buddhism before Islam.

Adat was conceived not as Hindu-­Buddhist beliefs, but as the belief in
the one god (B. dewata seuae) and spirits without prophets, as part of the
Pangngaderreng cultural norms. Adat was an Arabic term for local custom, but
its entrance to South Sulawesi was before the coming of Islam in the region
and before Bugis people had long interacted with other Islamised or Arabised
people in other regions. Local custom was rendered also as beccik, laleng or
pabbatang. Rulers, for example, would receive advice from adat officers and
could be removed from rulership due to their violation of adat (Rasdiyanah
1995: 107–9, 149, 217). One of the common rules was that custom could be
used for law (A. al-­adat muhkamah) when there is no clear prohibition in the
Qur’an and the hadith (Al-­Suyuthi (d. 1505)). This involves the process of
making particular ideas and practices adat, which later becomes the object of
one’s judgement based on one’s understanding of the Qur’an and the hadith.
Adat and sha’riah became differentiated and, despite some conflicts,
became generally accepted as a cultural whole in the Pangngaderreng, Bugis-­
Makassarese customary law. South Sulawesi thus seemed to be somewhat
between Java and Sumatra in this regard. Pangngaderreng originally consisted
of ade (adat, customary norms in a narrow sense), bicara (justice norms), rap-
pang (regulation) and wariq (leadership protocols), but from the seventeenth
century sara (shari’ah) was integrated by Muslim rulers of Bone. People gen-
erally recognised the prevailing local custom and Islamic law (Rasdiyanah
1995; Yunus and Ya’kub 1977: 29).
The Bugis who had recognised the belief in one god either contrasted
or integrated the previous belief with the new concept of one God in Islam.
The emphasis on Qur’anic fundamental beliefs among the Muhammadiyah
preachers was often understood as resistance against adat deemed harmful
to the purity of the belief in one God, although local adat was sometimes
included in the modernist curricula (Tanfid Hoofdbestuur Moehammadijah
1931­/2: 124–33). The Muhammadiyah preachers recognised shari’ah as part
of the Bugis-­Makassarese Pangngaderreng cultural system, but they considered
it insufficient in reforming the local elite and the people. A Muhammadiyah
 172 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

preacher, for example, refused an invitation to attend a ceremony to mark the

ruler’s accession to the throne because he believed that the ceremony would
involve appeasing local spirits through paying respects to the royal regalia
(B. arajang) and the sacrifice of buffaloes, which he considered both shirk
(polytheistic) and munkar (evil). He said that to believe in God should mean
to respect Him alone. He based his decision to decline the invitation on his
understanding of a hadith.7
Another Muhammadiyah teacher in Kajang, Sulawesi, refused to accept
the traditional taboo of opening the regalia. The taboo had it that if one
opened the regalia to view, he or she would immediately go blind or even die.
The teacher intended to show that the taboo was false; he opened the regalia
and nothing happened to him. He then became appointed the head (voorzit-
ter) of the Muhammadiyah in Kajang.8
Other Muhammadiyah preachers were critical of invoking the spirits of
trees, although they used sacred and revered Islamic utterances to strengthen
the spell as recorded in local literature (lontara), oral and written. The litera-
ture advised the wood chopper to call the inhabitant of the forest: ‘Hi spirit,
give me your wood. I want to make it a house post. Then utter an Islamic
greeting “Salam” (Peace be with you). When you proceed to feel timber, call
out “my name is Adam, the tree is called Ali (the Muslim caliph), and God
is sublime (Allah ta’ala)”’ (Robinson 1998: 180). They rejected the belief
and practice that the Qur’an and the banners of communities are smeared
with blood to magically strengthen them (cited in Cummings 2002: 54).
The Muhammadiyah believed that Muslims should protect themselves from
beliefs and practices they deem shirk or bid’ah not sanctioned by the Qur’an
and the hadith.
They were also critical of the important position of the traditional healer
called bissu, traditional healer and spirit mediator, who sometimes also served
as Adviser to the rulers and keeper of the regalia. Bissu had the task of per-
forming the rites of passage that the nobles had to undergo during their
lifetime as descendants of gods. Bissus played a central role in maintaining the
existing power structure and they outlived Islamisation. As priests (according
to one of the early Western reports) and male transvestites (calabai), bissu
were shamans, as they became intermediaries between the world of humans
and the world of gods and spirits (Pelras 2010: 343–54). When Muslim
 int e grat ing shari’ah , adat and eur o pe a n l a ws  | 173

reformers came to the region, they criticised bissu for being outside legiti-
mate Islamic sexual categories­– ­Islam, in their view, would not recognise
a third gender as it was against human nature (433). After encounters with
Muslim reformers throughout the centuries, bissu became less central, but
they survived and became a marker of adat identity in an increasingly plural
Bugis society. Some of the bissu tasks performed in the rites of passages were
taken over by qadi and imam. Here the power of Islamic reform and Western
modernity challenged the status of bissu in society (44). Yet, in other cases,
bissu converted to Islam, and some even made the pilgrimage to Mecca, thus
suggesting a case for cultural adaptation and Islamic reform. Reform in tra-
ditional values and practices was made possible through encounters (Lathief
2004: 68–9).
In other cases, Bugis Muslims differentiated but did not separate Islamic
norms and local custom. A religious figure and a bissu coexisted in the adat
ruler’s presence. Also, in a royal wedding, the religious figure blessed the
bride and groom, and the bissu performed a fertility ritual (Andaya 2000:
43). Still in other cases, the ritual specialist blessed the building of a house,
reciting hybrid spells (mantera) containing Islamic and local elements. The
village’s religious figure (imam kampung) also served as the ritual specialist,
panrita bola. When the two functions did not exist in one person, the vil-
lage imam would ask advice from the ritual specialist regarding daily affairs
(Saransi 2005: 39). These cases indicate either integration or assimilation
of Islam and adat, and at the same time suggests the process of drawing a
distinction between what is Islamic and what is customary, one of the ways
of becoming modern.
For another example, Buginese and Makassarese Muslims negotiated a
compromise between shari’ah and adat, such as in the norm of siriq, which
was a Bugis normative concept of two seemingly contradictory meanings:
shame and self-­respect (Andaya 1982: 366–7). They believed that violation
of the siriq norm would bring calamity to the region, such as drought and
severe economic conditions. A runaway couple who married without familial
consent was an example of siriq that should be paid off. The family is made
siri, tomasiriq. To remove the shame, the family would be obligated to kill
the one responsible for causing siriq. The Buginese and Makassarese have a
saying: ‘We Buginese and Makassarese, We declare our oath, to respect each
 174 | i slam and col o nia l is m

other, to show our solidarity’ (Mulia 1988­/9: 11). Siriq became a motivating
and integrating element associated with a sense of dignity and social shame.
But siriq became an object of Islamic modernist understanding, too.
Hamka, a Muhammadiyah activist from West Sumatra who stayed in
Makassar, addressed siriq according to his understanding of Islamic norms.
Hamka realised both the Islamic norm of dignity and the cultural importance
of siriq. In a sermon, Hamka suggested that siriq could be compatible with
Islamic norms. Dignity, he continued, should be based on true faith and
moral moderation. Hamka quoted al-­Ghazali, ‘[T]he best dignity is one that
is moderate’. Siriq became extreme if it meant killing and violence in defence
of dignity. He quoted an Arab poem that suggested the value of respect:
‘If you do not defend your dignity then you undermine it, and others will
undermine it even more; therefore respect yourself and if a place is too narrow
for it, then move to another place where respect is possible.’ Hamka further
explained siriq by discussing some related Islamic terms, such as self-­dignity
(A. maru’ah), courage (A. shaja’ah) and shame (A. haya). An Islamised local
norm of siriq, according to Hamka, was a reflection of individual liberty,
freedom, fear of God only, and trust in God as the greatest protector. Siriq
could also mean respect for women and the dignity of religion, he main-
tained. Hamka then quoted a hadith saying, ‘Whoever is killed in defense
of his property dies a martyr (shahid ); whoever is killed defending his life
dies a martyr; whoever dies because he defends his religion dies a martyr;
whoever dies in defending his family dies a martyr.’ He cited another hadith,
‘[S]hame is part of faith’ (Hamka 1988: 66–74). To further support his inter-
pretation of siriq, Hamka referred to the saying of another Bugis preacher,
Haji Abdullah, who spoke at the congress of the Muhammadiyah in 1932 at
Makassar: ‘To die in the defense of the religion of Allah is to die in the most
honorable way and to idealize the implementation of Islam in the country is
to live meaningfully.’ Hamka said that he was amazed by the bravery of the
Buginese and Makassarese people in facing death over small things, but he
called them to implement the norm of siriq in reaching higher goals, such as
the dignity of country, nation and religion (Hamka 1988: 75–8). In this case,
Hamka differentiated between Islam and custom, but aimed to integrate one
with the other in Bugis-­Makassarese society.9 He was engaged in the process
of Islamising custom and in the process of localising Islamic norm at the same
 int e grat ing shari’ah , adat a nd eu r o p e a n l a ws  | 175

time. Siriq became a tradition that could disappear, but could also survive
Islamisation through reinterpretation.

Adapting to Colonial Law and Foreign Customs

Muslim reformers rejected Western customs deemed un-­Islamic, but they

selectively obeyed or encouraged others to obey the colonial rule of law.
Ahmad Dahlan of the Muhammadiyah was not interested in formalising any
aspect of Islamic law as the constitution of a colonial state, but encouraged
Muhammadiyah members to focus on education, preaching and social ser-
vice.10 He defined the implementation of Islamic laws (hukum-­hukum Islam)
in the East Indies in broad terms, not specifically in legalistic terms. There
is no source to suggest that Dahlan ever confronted Dutch control over civil
law (such as taxation) or criminal law (such as fines and imprisonment) in the
East Indies. He is reported to have said, ‘One who is charged with a crime
would fear prisons.’ He reminded people that they must pay their taxes,
although he realised that it was the Dutch who imposed them: ‘Spend your
wealth when you are in control. A time will come when the Dutch officials
would control all your wealth, through taxes’ (Salam 1963: 68, 70).
A Muhammadiyah author wrote that all the adat that is not in accord-
ance with or in contradiction with the law and command of Islam should
be avoided (Tanfid Hoofdbestuur Moehammadjiah 1938: 23). Other
Muhammadiyah activists encouraged members to keep current with con-
temporary legal conditions. As sons of the soil (bumiputera), he main-
tained, the Muhammadiyah activists should recognise the colonial law that
guaranteed equal rights in establishing associations and holding meetings.
Muhammadiyah writers made reference to literature on Dutch law ilmoe
staatsrechts, using such writings to argue that establishing organisations was
a human right, a right given by Allah and by the law in Hindia Belanda
(the Netherlands Indies) (Mangkoeto 1936: 5–7). Muhammadiyah leaders
encouraged Muslims to follow the law in its broadest sense, including civil
law. They also conducted their meetings following Dutch custom and law.11
They made a general statement that all the heads and consuls throughout the
East Indies should reexamine colonial regulations and local traditions (adat)
in terms of Islamic norms (Tanfid Hoofdbestuur Moehammadijah 1938:
23).
 176 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

Muslim modernists showed their agreement on aspects of Dutch law

that were not in contradiction with Islamic law. For example, an author
asserted that the trade of women and slavery that the Dutch prohibited
in their laws was also against the religion of Islam, against the view of the
religious scholars and against the prevailing law.12 Other Muslim activists
called others to study various sources of law in order to understand the laws
that had prevailed in their own country. If they did not know the current
laws that the Dutch Government applied, they would not be able to lead
and govern others. Learning from various sources was a way to follow the
leadership of Prophet Muhammad who had learned about different sets of
laws. Prophet Muhammad was reported to have applied a Jewish law for dis-
puting Jewish people under his rule in Medina.13 This suggests an awareness
of some parallels between the principles of Islamic law and those of Dutch
law.
Muslim reformers also engaged customs deemed modern or foreign. They
addressed new cultural forms of the time, such as creating sculpture, compos-
ing and playing music, and singing songs. The Muhammadiyah teachers said
that art (D. kunst; I. seni) and culture (D. cultuur; I. budaya) could be good
and valuable in cultivating the heart. In a congress in 1941, one of the speak-
ers emphasised that the Muhammadiyah called for members to pay more
attention to crafts, music and songs and to promote them, as long as these are
not performed contrary to Islamic morality.14 Foreign, Western customs were
examined from within the framework of the practices deemed indigenous,
Eastern or Islamic. The Western customs became seen as law when they came
from the colonial administration, an object for some Muslim reformers to
address. The Dutch law became subject of judgement based on Islam and
local custom.
An illustration of the way in which Muslim reformers could learn about
Islamic ethics even from foreigners can be found in Hamka mentioned ear-
lier. In his work on modern Sufism, concerning the value of ‘being satisfied
with what one has’ (A. qana’ah), Hamka made a reference to the way that
Dutch Queen Wilhelmina taught her princess Juliana about being content
with one’s life. He wrote, ‘As the Queen taught her daughter Juliana about
cooking and sewing, she told her: “Trust no worldly desires; today we are
seduced, tomorrow we will be more seduced; we must be content with what
 int e grat ing shari’ah , adat a nd eu r o pe a n l a ws  | 177

we have now and fear not what will come tomorrow”’ (Hamka 1955 [1939]:
185). Foreigners could teach Muslims about their Islamic values.
Asy’ari and other NU members addressed customary issues that resulted
from colonial and more broadly global encounters, as discussed earlier.
When asked whether wearing a tie, trousers, shoes, coat or hat was religiously
accepted, he replied that it would not be recommended (A. makruh) if the
person intended to imitate or follow the custom of the kafir in order to
spread customs to others, nor was it recommended to wear such clothes
while visiting other houses of worship (in Masyhuri 1997: 25). Another
NU fatwa explained that wearing a cross or closing stores on Sundays were
examples of how a Muslim follows a kafir. But, the fatwa stated, following
good things from a kafir would not be inherently prohibitive (A. haram)­ – ­it
would be contingent on intention, as well as on the impact of the person’s
faith (171–2).

Distinguishing Religious from Cultural and Civil: SI and PSII in Java

Agus Salim, the SI leader discussed earlier, adopted varied attitudes toward
adat, dividing it into three types: familial custom, social custom, and custom
that the Dutch Government integrated into civil or criminal law. Matters
of familial customs related to marriage and inheritance, for example, were
no longer applicable for the modern world and for Muslims. Many customs
that emphasised more specific kinship (suku, keluarga) could jeopardise a
sense of individuality and the faith needed for movements aimed to change
social, economic and political life. Ethnic ties could weaken the national
unity between people of different ethnicities. There were customs imposed by
the authority and the law of the East Indies government that undermined the
law of common responsibility and the right of people to regulate their own
lives. Regarding customs sometimes called native laws (wet-­wet Bumiputera,
hukum Bumiputera), or customary laws (adatrecht) that had been incorpo-
rated by the Dutch Government into civil or criminal laws, Agus Salim said
that they were unfortunately rarely communicated to the people, let alone
understood by the people. Salim urged members of the political party to
be critical against these customary laws that had become civil law owing to
uncertainty of what the crimes or violations were, the hierarchy of the laws
(for example, which laws were superior to others), the court procedure in
 178 | i slam and col o nia l is m

dealing with the matters and the absence of law books in the Indonesian lan-
guage that should contain all political contracts, letters, regulations, notices,
and other legal matters. In principle, in all of these matters, he argued, law
(recht) should be in agreement with the demands of the time. Both the old
and new groups in Indonesia should work together because they faced the
same reality and fate, he asserted (Salim 1954 [1934]: 176–89).
In dealing with the modern government, Muslim reformers also dis-
tinguished the religious from the civil affairs. For example, PSII activists
distinguished religion from civil and customary affairs, and were therefore
critical of colonial interference in the religious affairs of the Muslims, without
promoting the overthrow of the Dutch Government:

Having paid attention to the debate on the regulations of the Colonial

Government concerning Islamic marriage, the control of mosques, and the
surveillance of Islamic education, we maintain that these regulations are
contrary to Dutch Law and the Netherlands Indies Colonial Law regard-
ing the freedom of religion for everyone in both the Netherlands and the
colonies. Those regulations hinder Muslims from performing their religion
according to their belief. The government’s duty of maintaining order and
security should not be carried out by intervening in and undermining the
religious rights of Muslims. Here we would like to pose several questions
to the government. First, what are the reasons for government intervention
in Islamic affairs and for giving adat officials [punggawa] the authority to
do so? Second, what is the nature and limits of this intervention? Third,
given their different religions, can trust between the government and the
people be maintained if the government does not provide full freedom to
the people in matters of religion?15

PSII members pointed to the disparity between the ideal and the reality,
between Dutch laws concerning freedom of religion and the actual policies.
They criticised Dutch interference in what they regarded as internal, religious
affairs, and blamed cooperative adat officials for such interference.
In response to critical Muslim voices, a colonial official­– ­himself a native
Javanese­– ­explained in the local periodical that the colonial administration
was not concerned with enforcing shari’ah. He pointed to the Marriage Law
that gave qadi and penghulu the jurisdiction to register Muslim marriages. He
 int e grat ing shari’ah , adat a nd eu r o pe a n l a ws  | 179

argued that the government aimed only to prevent inappropriate and illegal
fees collected by some Muslim officials. These qadi or penghulu were obliged
to obey Islamic law by registering and guiding the process only, not bless-
ing the marriage, which was the task of the religious authority. He further
reasoned that the marriage fund collected should go to the mosques and to
the payment of qadi and penghulu, not to the colonial treasury.16 For its part,
the colonial government argued that it only regulated the public aspect of
Muslim affairs, namely preventing mismanagement and public disorder.

Conflicting and Integrating Shari’ah and Adat in Malaya

Although these Muslim reformers were concerned about various aspects

of local and foreign customs, they did not seem interested in reforming or
transforming the way that the court system functioned. Furthermore, many
Islamic judges were not directly affiliated with reformist organisations. In
Indonesia, ethnic ties could weaken a greater sense of nationhood, whereas
in Malaya, Malay ethnicity was deemed critical in the Malay nationhood.
In the latter, Islamic identity became closely connected to Malay identity
and culture, supported by the sultan and the British, as discussed earlier.
This became institutionalised in laws. Malay reformers were concerned with
the relationship between Islamic and customary laws and between Islamic,
customary and secular British laws. Some reformers became keen to embrace
and incorporate British law.
There were two main kinds of Malay adat: adat pepateh, the matrilineal
culture confined to the state of Negeri Sembilan in central Malaya, concerned
with land holding, including inheritance, which could be related also to mar-
riage, divorce and adoption; and adat temenggong, which is any other Malay
culture beyond this matrilineal culture. Adat temenggong is thus patrilineal,
primarily represented by written digests, but never applied as legal rules by
past Malay kingdoms. Malay adats are not homogenous as has been gener-
ally assumed (Hooker 1976: 62–92). These two variants of Malay adats were
often defined as distinct and subject of judgement by Muslim reformers as
well as colonial administrators and scholars.
The official conflation of Malay religion and culture did not mean
that there was no tension between the Malay interpretations of Islam and
their views of adat. To become Islamic and modern meant to be critical of
 180 | i slam and col o nia l is m

ideas and practices deemed traditional and contradictory to Islamic norms.

Like Javanese reformers such as Ahmad Dahlan and Hasyim Asy’ari, Malay
reformers such as Tahir Jalaluddin and Tok Kenali were more concerned
about local customary beliefs and practices than about reforming colonial
laws, but, in many cases, Malays received the assistance of both the colonial
government and the sultan in implementing the laws.
Tahir Jalaluddin saw the need to reform Muslim society by avoiding
indigenous and foreign customs that contradicted Islam.

Rectification of religion does not entail changing the very teaching of Islam
neither does it involve the introduction of foreign un-­Islamic elements into
Islam. Rather rectification and reformation of religion is a return to the
original sources of Islam as practiced in the period of the prophet and early
generation of Islam, unadulterated by the customs, practices, and beliefs
that contravened Islam. (Jalaluddin cited in Zakaria 2006: 170)

Yet Jalaluddin interpreted the purification of faith primarily in terms of

condemnation of local customs deemed superstitious, backward and weak.
This local adat was judged on the basis of local understandings of Islamic
moral law. As Hooker has shown, in certain Malay states, notably the matri-
lineal Negeri Sembilan, shari’ah law and Malay adat could clash, such as in
cases of inheritance and succession (Hooker 1975: 112), a situation where
the MAIK served as the Adviser. Malay adat in this instance was therefore
defined as an indigenous practice that could contravene the Malays’ under-
standing of Islamic morality.

Conflicting and Integrating Shari’ah and Adat in Kelantan

Sultan Mansor of Kelantan prohibited the makyong in his court in 1898, and
Hugh Clifford in 1927 told a story about makyong specialists fleeing Kelantan
to Pahang. The established ‘ulama of the MAIK and local religious figures
(tok lebai) issued an fatwa stating that makyong or main peteri healing perfor-
mances linked to supernatural beings and healing practices were prohibited
(haram) and part of the shirk because they called upon the spirits (hantu) and
other supernatural beings rather than upon God. But other Muslim figures
did not see them problematic. A healer (tok peteri or bomoh) recited and
gave reverence to spirits and the unseen creatures (jin) as well as to prophets,
 int e grat ing shari’ah , adat and eur o p e a n l a ws  | 181

saints, and religious grand teachers (shaykh), while also praying to God, in
order to gain more powers in healing the sick. The healing practice could
combine local spells (mantera) with Islamic prayers (do’a). The healer recited
for several hours accompanied by musical instruments. They argued that
the more power they could accumulate the faster the sick would recover.17
The bomoh and the tok lebai could coexist when they played different func-
tions. The healer performed recitations as part of the shamanistic ceremony,
while the religious preacher concluded it by praying to God. They received
due respect from the audience who demanded both functions (Daud 1982:
110–12). In other cases, the same tok lebai was also the healer, acknowledging
both the Qur’an and local spiritual powers (Firth 1974: 205–6). Thus, the
makyong were deemed not necessarily un-­Islamic, and Tok Kenali was known
to be lenient in his attitude toward them (Winzeler 1975: 96). He asked the
makyong to his pondok, inviting them to share a meal prepared by the people,
hear sermons and perform daily prayers. He was more concerned with immo-
rality, such as gambling and drinking (minum arak) (Salleh 1971: 4–5, 141).
Other Kelantanese authors interpreted some customs as being non-­
Islamic by making reference to ‘pre-­Islamic’ practices. For example, a Malay
contrasted people of light and people of darkness: ‘God made three religious
festivals for Muslims: Friday, Eid al-­Fitri, and Eid al-­Adha to remember
God, whereas people in the era of ignorance (jahiliyyah) spent their holidays
participating in playful and wasteful games.’ During the Eid al-­Fitri holiday,
he reminded Muslims to exchange greetings, visit families and neighbours,
shake hands (with those of the same sex), give alms and do good deeds
(khairah), but not to engage in polytheistic, animistic or immoral practices.18
Another author, a graduate from Mecca and of the English School founded
by the MAIK, admitted that many local people still participated in cockfight-
ing, a local custom he found contrary to Islamic morality (Daud 1996: 317).
Between the notions of shari’ah and adat in Kelantan there was often
an aspect of Arabic custom not necessarily regarded as an integral part of
Islam, but nonetheless regarded as beneficial. Malays believed that certain
Arab customs were preferable as a way to emulate the Prophet and his com-
panions. Some sought to differentiate Islamic doctrines and Arabic practices,
but others saw some parallels. Tok Kenali commented on certain aspects
of Malay life­– ­such as dress and social behaviour­– ­that should be distinct
 182 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

from the ways of outsiders who came to visit Malay.19 One issue of dress
concerned the wearing of an Arab turban by Muslim Malay men. The mufti
of Kelantan issued a fatwa stipulating that it was a recommended practice
(sunnah) because it followed the Prophet Muhammad. An article was writ-
ten to support this fatwa, suggesting that it would bring more benefit (A.
maslahah) than harm (A. mafsadah) to the Malays.20 Wearing the Arab’s
turban became part of Islamic Malay tradition, whereas wearing trousers was
considered foreign. Beyond this clothing issue, Tok Kenali, however, encour-
aged Malays to move toward being intellectually and socially higher than the
foreigners, or at least to be equal to them.
Other Malays considered some of the customary laws related to mar-
riage and wedding, dressing, eating, drinking and other everyday practices
deemed contradictory to Islamic ethics.21 In their encounters with the British
and other Asian nations, Malay reformers became concerned not only about
clothing, but also about other issues, such as earning bank interest, eating
pork, and drinking alcohol and the traditional arak.22 They were concerned
about the effects of ‘Western custom’ on Muslims. For them, to be modern
and Islamic was not necessarily to be morally Westernised. At the same time
as addressing and reforming Malay customary laws, they localised Islamic
norms for the Malays. But modernisation also involved borrowing from and
working within the British laws on matters they considered to be not contra-
vening Islamic faith and law.

Conforming to British Law in Promoting Order and Justice

Malay reformers were more critical of local Malay customs and its morality
than of British laws. A kaum tua Malay author in Pengasuh introduced a his-
tory of British law, which he saw as contributing to Britain’s modernity and
global status. He commented that Kelantan and other states under British rule
could learn something beneficial about British law and political science (ilmu
siyasah) such as hukum (law), adl (justice), ummah, hukumah (government),
aristocracy, dimuqhrathi (democracy), republicanism, and administrative law
(hukum dusturi). The author noted that British law had become a model for
legal systems in the US, Australia and other countries, and suggested that
Malay states should follow their steps in order to be modern.23
Malay reformers contended sometimes explicitly and often implicitly
 int e grat ing shari’ah , adat a nd eu r o pe a n l a ws  | 183

that the modernisation of British law coincided with the objectives of Islamic
law, although their rationales may be different. Syed Al-­Hadi maintained that
British law did not prohibit the Malays from improving their life, and urged
them to thank the British because they were better off now that they were
beginning to achieve progress under British protection than when they were
under feudalistic Muslim rulers.24 He condemned the sultans and Islamic
judges instead, who spent time in luxury and playfulness that did not benefit
the nation, while neglecting their obligations.25 It was under British rule,
Al-­Hadi affirmed, that Malay Muslims lived in justice, freedom and peace.
He said that it would be a disaster for them to be left to govern themselves
without the protection of the British because they would not be able to rule
themselves. Quoting a Qur’anic verse (21:105), he said: ‘Before this We wrote
in the Psalms, after the Message given to Moses: My servants, the righteous
shall inherit the earth.’26 This time, he implied, the righteous were Europeans.
Al-­Hadi praised the British scholars and administrators and criticised
the official ‘ulama for not speaking the truth to the sultans. He argued that
Western nations were able to dominate Muslims because they were ignorant,
unjust and arrogant, and that God gave power to those who were deserving­
– ­those who had knowledge and skill.27
Moreover, Al-­Hadi believed that European rationality and modernity
were influenced by Islamic civilisation, so it would make sense for Muslims
to adopt these features as authentically Islamic. The ideas of equality and
justice were European and Islamic, too. Islamic law for Al-­Hadi was divine,
but it was rational and beneficial to human needs. Islam called for equality
(M. persamaan) of humankind and justice (M. keadilan) for all (ruler and
ruled, rich and poor, man and woman, literate and illiterate) in all respon-
sibilities and capacities, quoting the Qur’an and the Prophet’s final sermon.
He believed that Islam protected security and prosperity for all humankind,
criticising the pre-­and non-­Islamic jahiliyyah-­era Arab customs of robbery,
killing, revenge, enmity and wars, and criticised their Arab custom of schism
and conflict even after conversion to Islam (Al-­Hadi 1931: 30–40). Here Al-­
Hadi, an Arab-­Malay descent himself, differentiated between Islamic values
and Arabic customs and made his argument for following the European
values that conformed to Islamic values rather than embracing Arabic and
local traditions that contradicted Islam.
 184 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

More than law in its narrow connotation, morality became the main
concern of Malay reformers because morality was more substantive and uni-
versal. Ethical norms (adab peraturan), for Al-­Hadi, would include telling
the truth, being trustworthy and patient, not getting angry easily, forgiving,
being united not divided, being kind to parents and family, keeping promises,
helping in goodness and being compassionate to the weak, the poor, animals,
women and kafirs who have converted to Islam or are in Muslim protection.
Islam taught that Muslims should strive to work hard. These moral values
did not necessarily differ from the moral qualities of the developed, European
nations, he maintained (51–7). Al-­Hadi also held the view that laws could
change to meet the requirements of society­– o­ nly belief and ritual (ibadah)
was eternal and subject to no change after Muhammad (60–2).

Formalising Shari’ah in Kelantan: MAIK and the British Adviser

Before the colonial era, sultans did not intervene in the judicial process, but
when they became involved, they did so within standard, acceptable legal
channels (Hallaq 2005: 190). In Kelantan, the sultan, the British Adviser
and the mufti played their different regulatory roles, although in many vil-
lages (subordinate to the city of Kota Bharu, but relatively independent),
the mosque imam and the pondok teachers remained the primary contacts
for many ordinary Malays.28 There was no independent or separate office for
customary (adat) affairs as in Java and South Sulawesi due to the Islam-­Malay
identification strengthened by the British, the sultan and the people. The
functions of the sultan and MAIK were deemed to be both in religious and
customary realms. In the domain of law, the British secularised the adminis-
tration of law (see the next chapter) and, consequently, the sultan and ‘ulama
of the MAIK conflated and strengthened religious law and customary law.
In Kelantan, fatwas were not merely fatwas as in Java and South Sulawesi
discussed earlier. Fatwas became laws enacted by MAIK, with the support
of the sultan and the British Adviser. For example, the sultan and the muftis
sought to ensure mosque attendance in Kelantan. The British Adviser made
reference to the Mohammedan Laws Enactment of 1914 that dictated that
any male person of the age of 16 years who, without reasonable cause or
excuse, did not observe the Friday prayer shall be brought to the court and, if
guilty, could be fined of an amount no more than fifty cents. This ruling also
 int e grat ing shari’ah , adat and eur o pe a n l a ws  | 185

stipulated that either dating or meeting unmarried boys or girls (A. khalwat)
could cause one to be imprisoned for a month, with additional labour for the
sin committed for the first time. The punishment would be imprisonment for
three months for the second and subsequent times. Teaching agama without
permission of the sultan or teaching heresy would receive a fine of twenty-­five
cents to be decided by the judge in court.29
As part of the authority allowed by the British and the sultans, the MAIK
issued a mosque and surau regulation in 1916 that dealt with the power of
imam and surau officials of both large mosques and small mosques.30 The regu-
lation stipulated that a surau official should be able to read the Qur’an in an
acceptable manner and should know at least the pillars of the faith to be able
to lead the people competently. It further detailed that the number of officials
should not exceed six persons and should consist of two imams (mosque and
prayer leaders), two khatibs (preachers) and two bilals (callers to prayer). It
also contained that the minimum number of people for a Friday congregation
should be forty, which is in accordance with the Shafi’i madhhab.31
The council entrusted senior imams with a number of duties and respon-
sibilities. At the appropriate time, imams were responsible for collecting the
rice zakat in their districts. The imams had the right to solemnise marriages,
divorces and marriage reconciliations according to regulations and notices; to
lead ceremonies dealing with the death of an individual; to encourage male
Muslims to attend Friday service; and to regulate officials. They could fire
junior imams, khatibs and bilals in consultation with the sultan and with the
knowledge of the mosque chief. The duties and authority of senior imams of
smaller mosques were more limited. They could officiate at funeral ceremo-
nies and oversee the Friday service, but they were not to force or summon
people to pray at the small mosques on Fridays. With the knowledge of the
mosque chief, they could order people to repair the mosque and replace
lower officials. During times of floods, illnesses, harvests, public holidays and
the fasting month, people were exempt from penalty for not attending the
Friday service.32 The surau officials were also told to urge all those reaching
puberty to observe the Friday prayer and to listen to the sermons. Those who
did not follow these instructions were to provide reasons (such as sickness, or
emergency) or face punishment determined by the court, such as carrying a
certain amount of sand from a particular place to another.33
 186 | i slam and col o nia l is m

In 1917, the MAIK issued a decree requiring permission to teach and

preach Islam in Kelantan, which meant greater authority for the sultan in
regard to Islamic ‘orthodoxy and orthopraxy’. In the following quote, we can
see how the sultan reacted against a Sufi practice considered harmful to the
social order of the established Islam in the state. The sultan asked the council
to be the authority in these religious matters and the Religious Court to be in
charge of judging any suspected act for deliberation and punishment.

Because the matters of ritual or worship [A. ibadah] of God the Almighty and
the teaching of religion are crucial, the Sultan hereby issues his decrees before
the Assembly of the State of Kelantan as follows: 1. A Muslim should follow
ways of worship that are correct according to the noble shari’ah and should
avoid ways of worship that are deviant heresy [A. bid’ah dhalalah], such as
reciting the names of God [A. zikir] too loudly or with excessive body move-
ment because that brings harm to the person involved and his neighbors; 2.
The acts of reciting the names of God in mosques, small mosques, in cem-
eteries, and other places at the occasion of the completing the reading of the
Qur’an during the month of Ramadan should not be harmful [mudharat]
and should conform to the ethics of zikir on every occasion; 3. Every person
who wants to give a fatwa or teach Muslims about any subject or teach about
the rituals [ibadah] and beliefs [‘itiqad, aqidah] has to request official permis-
sion from the Religious Council; 4. The Religious Council shall have the
authority to judge an application based on the Law of the Assembly of the
State No.14­/15; and 5. Everyone who violates the Law shall be forwarded to
the Ecclesiastical Court [Mahkamah Shar’iyyah]. If someone is convicted, he
or she shall be punished by being put on public display astride a cow or with
a fine of no more than 200 cents (Strait dollars), or prison for no more than
six months, or both a monetary fine and jail, or, after consultation with the
State, by being deported from Kelantan.34

The sultan and official ‘ulama further sought to regulate the content of
khutbahs. The sultan urged the imams and the preachers to give guidance
to the people in seeking knowledge that was obligatory and useful for their
lives so that they could observe the rituals as commanded by God and his
Messenger and refrain from committing forbidden acts. The sultan asked
imams to guard against other imams or individuals who preached knowledge
 int e grat ing shari’ah , adat a nd eu r o pe a n l a ws  | 187

contradictory to the true path of religion and who performed the forbidden
rituals and acts. The mosque official was to be watchful against those who
taught knowledge contradictory to the path of religion, adhered to rituals and
practices that were at variance with the shari’ah and issued opinions not based
on the scripture.35 The sultan also asked the council’s members not to become
involved themselves in doubtful and clearly un-­Islamic activities.36
The sultan further issued a notice instructing the surau officials to main-
tain social peace and order. If a mosque official spoke or acted in a way that
broke the mandate given by the government, leading to disobedience, hard-
ship and loss, then the people of the district could report it or petition the
MAIK or their qadi.37
The sultan, through the MAIK, also formalised office hours (the office
to be closed on Fridays and public and religious holidays), provided paid
leave for officers on certain days for the pilgrimage to Mecca, supported
the celebration of religious holidays, prohibited drinking intoxicating liquor
(minum arak) and created the rules of fasting during the month of Ramadan.
The regulation stated that a Muslim who is found drinking arak shall be
brought to Islamic court and, if guilty, shall be publicly carried and displayed
in the city or be imprisoned for one month. It stated that a Muslim who
does not fast, who smokes or breaks any rules of fasting during Ramadan will
be brought to court. Anyone found giving a Muslim who is fasting during
Ramadan food in the daytime shall be punished with two weeks of imprison-
ment in jail.38 Imprisonment and fines were not recognised in shari’ah law
before colonialism and here these were introduced (Schacht 1964: 176–207;
Mackeen 1985: 234).
The MAIK regulated the power of these imams in officiating or solemnis-
ing marriages, although the British Adviser could assist the imams when the
latter sought redress.39 This shows that the sultan and the mufti sometimes
made use of British presence in some religious affairs in Kelantan. In other
cases, the British Adviser forwarded requests of religious matters to the sultan
for his approval. For example, on an appointment of an imam who could not
write, a mufti queried the British Adviser on the subject. The British Adviser
replied that a person who could neither read nor write would be eligible to be
an imam if he had an assistant who could read or write for him, but the next
time such an appointment would not be recommended.
 188 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

The MAIK introduced and implemented legislative reforms dealing with

the position of a mufti, who issued religious opinions; with the people’s
conversion to Islam; with the administration of zakat; with the composition
of the council itself; and with other Islamic matters.40 Despite such judicial
authority and autonomy, the council worked with the British Adviser in
certain legal, financial, practical and religious matters. British Advisers were
frequently asked by the mufti, qadi and other officials to provide financial and
administrative assistance. For example, a Malay teacher, Muhammad Hanafi
bin Haji Mahmud, was appointed the assistant to the British Adviser in Kota
Bharu in 1930, working in cooperation with the MAIK.41

Conclusion

The present chapter suggests that Muslim reformers in colonial Indonesia

and Malaya played their role in differentiating between shari’ah and adat and
regarding adat and shari’ah as being conflictual, although they defined them
differently and sought to integrate them in different ways. They drew upon
various concepts in interpreting shari’ah as Islamic law and introduced such
practices of issuing fatwa and enacting regulations. The Muslim reformers
who attempted to negotiate shari’ah in accordance with the demands of their
changing lives framed Islamic law as simultaneously permanent and mutable.
Other Muslim reformers who viewed Islamic law as in conflict with adat
considered the latter to be inferior and subject to moral and legal judgement.
Encounters with colonial law conditioned some Muslims to consider some
aspects of the laws and legal systems to be beneficial and invited others to
learn about and even embrace them.
Muslim reformers focused their activities on mosques, schools and reli-
gious associations, rather than the court system, which they saw as belonging
to the Dutch colonial administrators and native aristocracy. Some tended to
collaborate with the Europeans, while others became exposed to European
cultures that would not harm their moral understanding. Many even appro-
priated adat norms as a source of law. Muslim reformers in Java tended to
see adat and shari’ah as being more in conflict with each other than Muslim
reformers in South Sulawesi. (Thus, Muslims in the latter who did not have a
Hindu-­Buddhist past preserved Pangngaderreng that was inclusive of shari’ah.)
Muslim reformers in Java and Sulawesi, however, became more critical than
 int e grat ing shari’ah , adat a nd eu r o pe a n l a ws  | 189

Muslim Malays in Kelantan towards aspects of their local customs (in the
latter agama and adat were officially more closely intertwined than in the
former despite the existing tension between the two).
With regard to colonial law, Malays did not reject the British secular legal
system as long as they were permitted to preserve or implement Islamic and
customary laws. In Kelantan in particular, the British indirectly contributed to
the preservation of shari’ah and adat. Because of a shared desire for order, jus-
tice and equality, the sultan and Muslim reformers incorporated secular law.
In the East Indies, their fatwas were not legally binding, nor were they directly
connected to the civic or common laws introduced by the Dutch. In Java,
Muslim reformers supported, criticised or became indifferent to colonial laws.
In South Sulawesi, shari’ah-­minded Muslim reformers criticised adat practices
(such as arajang and bissu) and judged some Sufi practices due to their shari’ah-­
mindedness. They, too, were critical of adat and colonial institutions for inter-
ferring in Islamic domestic affairs but, at other times, they coexisted with
the local norm of siriq and healing ritual. In Kelantan, however, some fatwas
(concerning such ritualistic matters as prayer, sermon and Sufi practices) were
part of the formal legislative system overseen by the Council of Religion and
Custom, often with British assistance, although public and criminal laws still
fell under British jurisdiction. In a number of cases, Islamic law coincided with
Dutch and British legal administration in how it dealt with adat. Despite such
intersections and integrations, the various laws became differentiated con-
ceptually and bureaucratically. Civil or common law was for the colonialists,
and domestic law and Islamic moral regulations was for the Muslims. Thus,
Muslim reformers and the sultans contributed to the Islamisation and mod-
ernisation of laws, but also to the accommodation of secular laws in the East
Indies and Malaya. Some Muslim reformers emphasised the substantive values
of Islamic law such as justice and equality whereas other Muslims stressed
the doctrinal and ritualistic aspects of Islamic law. These multiple processes
had an impact on different forms of legal plurality in the region, all of which
contributed to Indonesians and Malays becoming both Islamic and modern.

Notes
  1. My translation. Pimpinan Pusat Muhammadiyah (1967: 276).
  2. My translation. Masyhuri (1997: 171–2).
 190 | i slam and col o nia l is m

  3. For Imam Al-­Shafi’i, qiyas and ijtihad were similar. Some scholars have consid-
ered qiyas as more specific than ijtihad. Pimpinan Pusat Muhammadiyah (1967:
276–8); Abdurrahman (2007: 85–94).
 4. Hoofdcomité Congres Moehammadijah (1937), Boeah Congres Akbar
Moehammadijah, ke 26, 31–2.
 5. The organisational document was first written in 1933. Pasal 5: Madjlis
Departemen Sjariat dan Ibadat. Putjuk Pimpinan PSII 1952: 33–4.
  6. The 2010 edition added that members should study and follow the shari’ah
before following a Sufi practice because ‘tariqah and haqiqah (realisation of
the truth) without shari’ah will not be successful’. Even a saint (wali) should
still follow the shari’ah as commanded in the Qur’an and the hadith or he is
deviant.
  7. The hadith is: ‘[I]f you see the evil, prevent it by your hand (authority); if you
cannot do it by your authority then you should do it by your mouth (words);
and if you still cannot do it, you can at the very least dislike it in your heart,
although the latter is considered the weakest faith.’
 8. Tentara Islam, No. 8, 1932, Year 1.
  9. Contemporary Bugis scholars such as Abu Hamid (d. 2011) have argued that
siriq could become part of religious motivation (niat) for social action. Hamid
(1996: 173–5).
10. Tanfid Hoofdbestuur Moehammadijah (1931­/2, 1938: 18–22).
11. Pemberita Makassar, 5 January 1940.
12. Het Licht, No. 6, August 1931, Year 7.
13. Al-­Wafd, No. 1, January 1933, Year 2.
14. Mr. R. Kasman Singodimedjo, ‘Kata Samboetan Tertoejoe pada Congres
Moehammadijah ke 29 di Djogja’, Adil, No.15, 11 January 1941, 15.
15. President W. Wondoamiseno wrote this letter to the Conference of the Islamic
World in the East Indies (MAIHS) and published it in the journal Soeara PSII
(the Voice of the PSII). Hoofd voor Mohammadansche Zaken, Soeara PSII, No.
1, 25 April 1937, Year I.
16. Djawab dan Sikap Pemerintah terhadap Moetie MAIHS, Soeara PSII, No. 1, 25
April 1937, Year 1; Soera PSII, No. 10, November 1940.
17. An example of the passage contains local terms such as dewa (gods), bomoh
(magician), Sri Mas Raja Jin (the King of ghosts), and the waiting ghosts, as well
as Islamic terms such as bismillah (in the name of God), alhamdulillah (praise to
God), assalamu’alaikum (peace be upon you), Adam, and Muhammad. Awang
A.R. & Hassan 1985: 297–303.
 int e grat ing shari’ah , adat a nd eu r o p e a n l a ws  | 191

18. Haji Idris bin Hasan, Kelebihan Hari Raya dan Hikmah Fitrah, Pengasuh, No.
1, 1918, 3–4.
19. Tok Kenali, Pengasuh, 3 August 1918.
20. ‘Hadari Kelantan, Keterangan dan Nasihat Berkenaan dengan Masalah Serban’,
Pengasuh, nos. 295 and 296, 28 May & 11 June 1930.
21. ‘Pandangan dan Pikiran Kita diatas adat istiadat Nikah Kahwin Bangsa Melayu
ini’, Pengasuh, No. 303, 23 September 1930.
22. ‘Hukuman Orang Mabuk Arak di dalam Negeri France’, Pengasuh, nos. 295
and 296, 28 May & 11 June 1930.
23. ‘Tarikh: Kemajuan pada Peraturan­– ­perundang-­undangan Inggris’, 4 parts,
Pengasuh, nos. 6, 7, 8, 9; 21 September, 6 October, 20 October, and 5 November
1918.
24. Al-­Hadi, Teriak Yang Benar, Al-­Ikhwan, October 1926.
25. Al-­Hadi, Qada dan Qadar, Al-­Ikhwan, November 1926.
26. Al-­Hadi, Teguran, Al-­Ikhwan, November 1926.
27. Al-­Hadi, al-­Sharaf, Al-­Ikhwan, July 1927.
28. Graham, W. A. (1904) Report on the State of Kelantan for the Year August, 1903,
to August, 1904, Bangkok: Government Printer, 16.
29. From the Mufti Kota Bharu, brings for B.A.’s consideration notices as regards
mosque attendance in KB (Kota Bharu), and regulation of religious teaching in
Kelantan, Archive M18, 1914, ANM.
30. Kerajaan Kelantan, Undang-­undang dan Peraturan bagi Masjid dan Surau:
Undang-­undang, No. 10, 1916, ANM.
31. In this enactment, masjid is defined as the house or place endowed to be a
mosque for prayer and other religious purposes. Surau is the house provided
for Friday prayers and other religious services. Nazir is the chief who governs
matters related to mosque and surau and their officials. Pegawai is comprised of
an imam (leading the prayer), a khatib (giving the address), a bilal (calling the
prayer) and a siak (the practical assistant). Anak mukim is the population living
in a district (mukim). Kerajaan Kelantan, Undang-­undang dan Peraturan bagi
Masjid dan Surau: Undang-­undang, No. 10, 1916, ANM.
32. Mosque and Surau Enactment No. 10­/1916, No. 174, file 192­/16, Pejabat
British Adviser Negeri Kelantan 1911–1919 (siri M), ANM; Datok Bentara Setia,
Two notices regarding sembahyang jemaat dan kuasa imam surau kechik which
the British Adviser wanted, BAK 1911–1919 siri M, file 62, 1914, ANM.
33. Datok Bentara Setia, Two notices regarding sembahyang jemaat dan kuasa
imam surau kechik which the British Adviser wanted, BAK 1911–1919 siri M,
 192 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

file 62, 1914, ANM; Fatwa Majlis Ugama Islam Yang Tersiar, Pengasuh, No.
292, 1930.
34. Notes regarding the teaching of Muhammadan Religion: Kerajaan Kelantan 18
November 1917 Dato Bentara Setia, Kota Bharu, 95, 1917, ANM.
35. Mosque and Surau Enactment No. 10­ /1916, No. 174, file 192­ /16, BAK
1911–1919 (siri M), ANM.
36. Enactment concerning the Majlis Ugama Islam dan Adat Istiadat Melayu
Kelantan, in Rahman (2003).
37. Dato Setia, Kota Bharu, notice No. 29­/1916 requiring the mosques and surau
officials to oppress the rayats, No. 204, 226­/16, BAK 1911–1919 (siri M),
ANM.
38. Notice regarding Forbidding Muhammadan from Taking Intoxicating Liquors
and Observance of the rules of Fasting­. . . Kerajaan Kelantan, Notice No.
12­/1915, ANM, 83­/M­/9­/15; State of Kelantan, General Orders, 1 July 1939, 4,
20–3.
39. BAK Tahun 1911 (Kelantan M), 53, file 54­/11, dated 15 February 1911, ANM;
The Mufti Kota Bharu, Imam and their powers to solemnise marriages, 86, file
154­/12, 2­/10­/1912, ANM; Pejabat Kelantan Sekretariat, District Officer, Ulu
Kelantan, Kuasas to the Javanese imamas of the mosques on Kenneth & Take
BAK 1915 (Pejabat Setiausaha Kerajaan: B.A. Kelantan), ANM.
40. Dato Setia Kota Bharu, rules for the officers of the Majlis Ugama dan Istiadat
Melayu, 217, file 239­/16, 17 October 1916, BAK 1911–1919, Siri M, ANM;
Hony. Secy. Majlis Ugama, KB, requests that Mohammadan death in hospital
and prison be brought to the notice of Majelis Ugama, 62, 63­/17, 1917, BAK
1911–1919, Siri M, ANM.
41. Penolong Tubuh Tuan Penasehat, Pengasuh, No. 309, 1 Sya’ban 1349­/21
December 1930.
 VI
Formalising Legal Plurality

If there were a dispute between the religious figure and the adat figure or
between the civil and military judges, the Governor General in Java would
make a final arbitration according to the prevailing law.
(Het Departement van Binnenlandsch-­Bestuur, The Office for the
Native and Muhammadan Affairs, 1920)1

Initally local judges ignored new laws, preferring former customs and per-
sonal interests. As time went on, however, most judges studied the laws and
improved their knowledge of new procedures.
(Millington 1927: 12–13)

B oth bureaucratic organisations and legal systems were important instru-

ments of modernisation in colonial states. Europeans sought to secularise
colonial legal systems by separating the modern from the traditional. In order
to regulate the diverse ‘races’ in their colonies, they promoted modern law as
rational, formal, written, fixed, systematic and practical (Weber in Gerth and
Mills 1946: 220; Moosa 2009: 158). Their accounts and policies emphasised
these aspects of ‘modern law’ in opposition to both religious and traditional
laws, which were deemed outdated, primitive, informal, irrational, impracti-
cal or dispersed (Burns 2004: 47). However, colonial scholars also considered
aspects of customary and Islamic laws to be compatible with modern practices
of law as long as they did not contravene the principles Westerners regarded as
universal. In Indonesia and Malaya, the conceptualisation of shari’ah as a legal
system was also a product of European influence. This chapter examines the
ways in which colonial authorities interpreted laws and attempted to standard-
ise legal institutions in the colonies, while exploring the ways in which these
authorities influenced local Muslim conceptions and practice of law.

193
 194 | i slam and col o nia l is m

Dutch and British scholars and administrators simultaneously formalised

and differentiated among legal systems operating in the colonies (Hooker
1976, 1978a, 1978b). They defined civil or common law as modern law,
shari’ah as Islamic law or hukum and various local customs as adat law. They
studied the integration as well as tensions between shari’ah as Islamic law and
adat. Europeans tended to view native Muslims as heterodox, claiming that
they were so preoccupied by static adat that they did not follow strict Islamic
law in full.
Although European legal scholars and legislators tended to compare
Western legal ideals with local practices rather than equivalent customary
and Islamic legal ideals, they sought to preserve aspects of customary and
Islamic laws by integrating them into the colonial legal systems. In Malaya
the colonial authorities introduced British laws into matters they considered
public and transformed prevailing Malay laws and customs by drawing on
legal sources external to local histories and cultures (Peletz 2002: 17). In
some cases, however, the British assisted on administering Malay justice and
order even when they did not know or disagreed with the content of Islamic
law. The structure and culture of colonial legal authority and the formation
of political and religious hierarchies (colonial, customary and Islamic) thus
became inextricably interwoven despite the autonomy of the varied cultural
systems.
In the East Indies the aforementioned Ethical Policy and the emerging
reformist movements both had an impact on legal discourses and organisa-
tion. In the first place, we see the creation of the volksraad, as discussed
earlier. Second, the Dutch administration introduced a common police court
(D. landgeracht) in 1914 and a unified criminal code in 1918, as well as rules
of criminal and civil procedure (Hooker 1978a: 15, 56–7). These measures
were intended to centralise the various customary laws existing in the East
Indies, but influenced pressing for adjustment to local and Islamic contexts,
and thus pluralisation in many other matters­– ­such as family, economic
transaction and social relations­– ­remained strong.

Favouring European Law and Adat over Shari’ah in the East Indies

European colonialists perceived their law as an automonous, professional,

coherent system and located above politics (Berman 1987: 177). Modern
 forma li si ng leg a l plura l ity  | 195

law was seen not only as distinct, but also as superior to other legal systems,
including the existing customary and shari’ah law (Hooker 1978a: 57), which
they linked to traditional political and religious authorities.
Yet Dutch scholarly opinion was divided: those with an adat focus, such
as ethnologists and anthropologists, were more interested in preserving adat,
while those with an Islamic focus such as Snouck were more focused on the
development of shari’ah (Lev 1972: 17). Although they agreed that Islamic
law and customary law were distinguishable, the Dutch colonial adminis-
tration ultimately favoured adat over Islamic law for two reasons: first, the
Dutch feared political Islam, and, second, the native population did not con-
vert only to Islam. In general, when Islamic and adat officials came into con-
flict the Dutch privileged the latter, even though Muslim officials attempted
to reform adat when it conflicted with Islam.
In this context, the relationship between customary and Islamic law
received particular attention. Although colonial scholars accepted the impor-
tance of adat, they also understood that Islamic law, as well as Islamic theol-
ogy and mysticism, had played a central role in the development of colonised
Muslim societies. On the one hand, colonial scholars knew that shari’ah
law was believed to be sacred and set absolute standards for Muslims as
interpreted and implemented by religious authorities. On the other hand, it
was necessary for Muslim judges to be familiar with customary law as well as
divine law, and in some cases even had to seek advice or further explanations
from the ruler or the mufti. They were aware that different interpretations of
the law were not uncommon, providing ammunition for those who argued
that shari’ah law was not necessarily unified and was amenable to change.
Snouck, however, seemed ambiguous. On the one hand, he maintained the
medievalism of the shari’ah doctrines of slavery, polygamy and holy war. On
the other hand, he asserted that it was possible for Muslims to reinterpret
Islamic law so that it would be compatible with modernity (Snouck 1916:
73, 98–100).
While Dutch administrators understood adat as being primarily oral,
they were aware that customary laws had been written in local languages.
However, these indigenous compilations were viewed as both impractical
and insufficiently systematic for application in a modern society and for
a modern system of justice (Rasdiyanah 1995: 77–8). For the purpose of
 196 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

a­dministration, codification of law in accordance with Western standards

was deemed necessary. Yet even after codification, adat law was not neces-
sarily accessible to qadis, since the documents were either in a local language
or translated into Dutch and stored in colonial offices. At the same time, in
spite of these modifications and changes, colonial administrations helped
preserve aspects of local custom. For example, in South Sulawesi the Dutch
Government facilitated the storing of local sacred objects that were often used
in the swearing of oaths of the seal of an official contract. These objects, which
could take the form of a branch, a weapon or a stone, symbolised the soul
of a local kingdom and of a territorial community (Hooker 1978a: 39–40).
This had implications: when the Muhammadiyah modernist condemned the
veneration of the gaukang, associating it with adat practices that should be
superseded by Islamic judgements, the Dutch saw them as a symbol of local
sovereignty or a religious or sacred object that deserves preservation.
A major controversy regarding adat versus Islamic law concerned inherit-
ance. In 1937, a regulation originally proposed by Snouck led to the crea-
tion of an Islamic Appeals Court (I. Mahkamah Islam Tinggi, D. Hof voor
Islamitische Zaken). The court heard a case in which an adopted son had been
awarded an inheritance that bypassed the nephews and nieces of the deceased.
This was based on the adatrecht from a Hindu village of Blambangan in East
Java, but contravened the accepted tradition of Islamic law that gave no
inheritance to an adopted son. Muslim judges banded together to resist this
earlier decision (Lev 1972: 21–5).
Nevertheless, the Dutch themselves were not always consistent in regard
to the position of Islamic and customary law, and Snouck himself offered
ambivalent views. On one occasion, for example, he claimed that Islamic
law had never really dominated culture nor answered the specific needs of
local societies. Accordingly, he said, among Muslims in the East Indies adat
became more widely practised than shari’ah, although he and like-­minded
scholars recognised that in practice each had its own domains in different
contexts. The supremacy of adat in the East Indies, he believed, imposed
limitations on the influence of shari’ah or hukum. While shari’ah had gained
acceptance in the realms of marital and family law, in almost all other matters
adat had prevailed (Benda 1958b: 338–42; Prins 1951). As a consequence,
Muslim scholars would become less Westernised, leaving the adat elite to be
 formali si ng leg al plurality  | 197

the best candidates for his ‘association’ politics that would integrate natives
into Western civilisation. Snouck said, ‘They are all trained up in the doc-
trine that adat and hukum should take their places side by side in a good
Muhammadan country. A very great portion of their lives is governed by
adat, and only a small part by hukum. These adats are nowhere to be found
set down in black and white’ (Snouck cited in Rigby 1929: 18–19). In other
contexts, however, Snouck noted that Muslims tended to view shari’ah as
separate from culture, but recognised that Islamic legal scholars could derive
regulations based on adat as long as they did not contradict Islam (Snouck
1924: 19). From this standpoint he maintained that adat could be Islamised
or could be integrated with Islam.
Other Dutch administrators reemphasised the supremacy of the ‘nomi-
nal’ Muslim influenced by adat over shari’ah-­orientated Muslims. In late
nineteenth-­century South Sulawesi, Luwu was a stronghold of local culture,
evident in the bissu in the local court, in the ritual surrounding inaugura-
tion of a ruler and in village weddings and other life-­cycle ceremonies. The
Dutch governor claimed that ‘Luwu people were only nominally Islamic;
the Islamic judge in Palopo rarely went to the mosque to lead prayer, despite
the existence of a mosque since 1610’ (Hafid 1992­/3: 42, 52). By the early
twentieth century colonial officials continued to note that shari’ah remained
subordinate to adat, but that religious law and customary law could overlap.
In some cases native government and adat leaders could serve as religious
heads, while in other cases friction occurred between adat functionaries and
religious Muhammadiyah figures who competed for both religious and cul-
tural authority.2 Perceptive observers also understood the ambiguities in the
relationship between adat and Islam, and the shifts that were induced by
changing contexts. Snouck’s student, Hendrik Kraemer, discussed earlier,
was among those who stressed that many ordinary Muslims could not differ-
entiate between which aspects of their tradition were Islamic and which were
not, so that adat may contradict shari’ah, and it may not. In his view, the fact
that ‘ordinary Muslims’ had remained ‘un-­Islamic’ had been the impetus for
renewed efforts of modernist Islamisation (Kraemer 1952 [1928]).
The Dutch introduced a new system, but modified the old system in such
a way that modern, rational bureaucracy and the traditional (adat) elite­– ­that
had parawe ade and parewa sara­– w ­ ould not clash (Chabot 1950: 83–6).
 198 | i slam and col o nia l is m

The traditional patron–client relationship sometime became the context for

newly coming Muslim reformers’ challenging the Muslim qadi representing
the parawe sara, such as in the case of the debate between Haji Abdullah
from Maros and Qadi of Gowa regarding the correct way of performing the
Friday prayer (should the noon prayer, zuhur, be performed after the Friday’s
prayers or not) (Perlas 2010: 421–44).

Preserving Customary Laws (Adatrecht)

Institutionally, the Dutch Government established the Commission of

Customary Law (D. Commissie voor het Adatrecht) for the purpose of research-
ing, compiling, codifying and preserving the customary law of Indonesian
societies. Approved by the Director of Justice and the Council of the Indies
(raad van Indie), the first volume of Adatrecht was published in 1910, con-
taining the early history of the ideas behind this initiative.3
Adatrecht was formally accepted as a permanent part of the Netherlands
Indies’ legal system, but its implementation had been debated among the
Dutch scholars since the late nineteenth century. The doyen of the adat law
school, Cornelis van Vollenhoven, from Leiden University, played a cru-
cial role in opposing the application of Western laws in the East Indies,
and in promoting the research and implementation of customary laws. This
school of legal thought posited a distinction between the laws of various
races and elaborated a methodology for cases of conflicts and the principles
for legal operations inside the colonial state (Hooker 1978b: 15–20). Van
Vollenhoven introduced the formalisation of adatrecht because he saw in it ‘a
body of uncodified rules enforced by sanctions’, meaning rewards and pun-
ishments. For Snouck, adatrecht was adat with legal consequences (59–60).
Colonial officials effectively created a map of social life in East Indies that
privileged the specifics of adatrecht in particular cultures and contrasted them
with ‘Islamic universal values’ (Bowen 2003: 6). However, the assumption of
separation or tension between Islam and local custom requires qualification.
The adatrecht collections contained much that was regarded as Islamic as
practised by different local ethnic groups. Volume 31, for example, contained
categories and information about societies, laws, literature, politics, economy
and religious practices of Minahasa, Gorontalo, Toraja and parts of South
Sulawesi. This volume included aspects of the ‘Mohammedaansche law’ con-
 formali si ng leg al plurality  | 199

cerning marriage and the administration of justice (D. rechtspraak) as they

operated in South Sulawesi.4 What was part of the adatrecht could contain
what was part of Islamic law and practices that had become integrated into
the people’s tradition probably for a long time. This implies that the Dutch
actually played their part in preserving aspects of Islamic legal and cultural
practices in the East Indies.
At the same time, in terms of categorisation, the Dutch referred to ‘reli-
gious law and religious jurisprudence’ (D. godsdienstig recht en godsdienstige
rechtspraak), and this extent reinforced the distinction between shari’ah and
adat. In this complicated and ambiguous interaction colonial administration
influenced the distinction between Islam and local culture, while recognising
in some cases and ignoring in others the integral relationship between the
two. With Dutch adatrecht, despite its inclusion of several aspects of Muslim
laws and traditions, shari’ah became constructed as a distinct entity. The very
processes of formalising and categorising created legal plurality and hierar-
chies that inevitably resulted in tensions that could not always be resolved.

Administering Hierarchical Justice

In 1904, the Ministry of Colonies proposed a unification of civil law because

they saw plurality in existing legal traditions between Natives, Foreign
Orientals, and Europeans. In the Netherlands, two main options were put
forward: one supported unification, arguing for the integration of the East
Indies and the modern world of commerce and civil relation as well as the
Western legal system; and the second, which rejected unification, contending
that the cultural, linguistic and legal plurality of the East Indies were facts
of life. Ultimately, this latter view prevailed, and the proposed unification
never materialised (Hooker 1978b: 187–213). Because this attempt to create
a centralised hierarchy for a colonial legal system failed, the reality remained
pluralistic and disparate (Mutaqin 2012).
Conversely, the Dutch Government did create a new hierarchy in the
justice system. They made legal matters under the Department of Justice,
rather than the Office of Native and Cultural Affairs and the Department of
Education and Religion. First, the European-­style Netherlands Indies Justice
Department was comprised of a High Court Bench, a council of Justice in
Java-­Madura and in the Outer Territories (including Sulawesi), a police or
 200 | i sla m a nd co l o nia l is m

criminal jurisdiction court and a residency court in Java-­Madura. A second

level, the ‘Native Jurisdiction’, included several locally based courts, which
reached down to the village level. The colonial authorities did not intervene
with the third level, the Indigenous System, which had its own autonomous
tribunals and minor assemblies. Finally, religious tribunals were recognised in
different forms throughout the Netherland Indies. These Islamic tribunals, or
‘Priest Courts’ (D. priesterraden), held residual authority, which meant that
they only dealt with matters not clearly within the jurisdiction of other courts
(Burns 2004: 153, 169).
The Dutch term ‘priesterraden’ simplified Islamic legal traditions, which
did not recognise ‘priesthood’ in the Christian sense but had different forms
of religious legal authority: muftis, imams, judges, penghulu or qadi. However,
these ‘priest courts’ working either independently or with the support of local
rulers, were given jurisdiction in family matters such as marriage, divorce and
inheritance. Non-­religious or civil courts (D. landraden) were given jurisdic-
tion in other matters, but they often came into conflict with the qadi and from
the 1920s onwards with Muslim modernists such as the Muhammmadiyah
and the Sarekat Islam. Such tensions were exacerbated because civil courts
could issue orders to execute contested decisions.
Dutch enactments in regard to Islamic judicial administration tended to
reinforce adat authority, which aroused resentment among reformist groups.
For example, in Java and Madura the 1929 Marriage Enactment for Muslims
stipulated that the penghulu or qadi were government officials subject to the
Regent’s control. This strategy was intended to regulate the procedure of the
marriage applications by preventing penghulu acting as unsalaried registrars
from overcharging the registration of marriage, divorce and reconciliation.
Registering one’s marriage was viewed in accordance with the jurisprudential
tradition of the Shafi’i school (Hisyam 2001). Two years later the priester-
raden were replaced by courts where a penghulu (who were often independent
of the local nobility), presided, and thus became the only religious courts.
But the colonial government did not provide for sufficient legal education or
money, and judges were often found to be corrupt. The jurisdiction of inher-
itance was therefore moved from religious courts to the native, civil courts
where claims were to be adjudicated according to adat rather than Islamic
law. Arguably, the most controversial enactment of the colonial period was
 formali si ng leg al plurality  | 201

the abolishment of polygamy in 1937, a move bitterly opposed by some

Muslim activists who considered this an unacceptable intrusion into religious
affairs (Lev 1972: 10–16; Hooker 1978b: 94–7).
Legal institutions thus remained hierarchical, despite the difficulty in
centralisation efforts. The courts were administratively divided into civil, cus-
tomary and religious, with their own ‘jurisdiction’. Similarly, Dutch colonial
authority retained some pre-­colonial positions for Islamic judges, introduc-
ing Dutch terms such as ‘opperpriester’ and ‘rechter’, while retaining qadi and
penghulu. However, administrative changes involved moving the position
of the Islamic judge from the Department of Native and Cultural Affairs to
the Department of Justice. Because of the scarcity of judges and overlapping
tasks, qadi often served several different functions: as judge and Adviser on
Islamic ‘legal’ (fiqh) matters in the secular court (D. Raad van Justitie &
Landraad ), as head of the Religious Council (Raad Agama), as coordinator
of the imams and as registrar of births, marriages, divorces, marital reconcili-
ation and death.5 The governor-­general selected and appointed these judges.
Any unresolved disputes between the ‘ulama and adat ruler or between the
civil and military judges would be referred to the governor-­general, so that
the colonial administration served as the final arbiter of the native disputes,
including the religious-­cultural ones. 6 Thus, shari’ah became ‘Islamic reli-
gious law’, and its position became reorganised within the colonial system.
When shari’ah was applied, it was in ‘domestic’ affairs under separate Islamic­/
religious courts. Penal or criminal law matters (A. hudud ) and political affairs
came solely under the jurisdiction of Dutch law.

Establishing Shari’ah Council (Majlis Sara) in South Sulawesi

In Sulawesi, in the matter of marriage, divorce, and marital reconciliation

for the city of Makassar, the governor and the Hadat Council (previously
parawe ade) issued a resolution with regard to marriage, divorce, and mar-
riage reconciliation. Customary law came to be applied in cases involving
the ‘traditional’ native population, and the printed books of adat that were
compiled became a manual for colonial officials, without requiring them to
have an understanding of the flexibility of the oral versions of such laws. Adat
was administered as a suitable law for the bulk of the native peoples (Hooker
1978a: 20).
 202 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

With the penetration of Islam, conceptually and in practice, adat became

separately defined and, when written down, became more rigid and inflexible.
Institutions such as imam, qadi and the Religious Council, deemed to have
represented some Muslim interests, apart from Dutch-­influenced civil law,
continued to prevail, despite overlap, adaptation and modification.7 Given
the diverse ethnicity of Muslims in the East Indies, the governor granted the
‘ulama some jurisdiction over native Muslims, gave Arab imams jurisdiction
over the Arabs deemed foreign Orientals, and assigned locally born Chinese
imams (imam peranakan) jurisdiction over Chinese Muslims.8
The Dutch colonial administration managed the Shari’ah Council
(Majlis Sara or Raad Igama)­– ­previously parewa sara during the pre-­colonial
time­– ­by employing the existing qadi under the Department of Justice. The
Dutch made the qadi the head of the penghulu and the head of the Shari’ah
Council now as civil servants, advising on Islamic legal matters at the Justice
Council (D. Raad van Justitie) and the Land Council (the Land Raad).
The qadi became the head of the court of the Shari’ah Council, oversaw
the imams and managed the registrations of marriages, divorces, reconcili-
ations, deaths and births that he received from the imams. The qadi would
receive monthly salaries and additional incomes from the registration fees.
The Dutch colonial government made the imams not civil servants, how-
ever. Imams became ‘servants of the religion of Islam’ without governmental
salaries. The imams would receive incomes from their registration services
mentioned above. The Shari’ah Council resolved disputes on marriage, the
determination of the guardian or representative (A. wali) of the bride in
marriage and representative for children in situations where the parents and
other family members were absent, and in questions regarding inheritance,
gifts, wills and other private affairs.9 Thus, the Dutch colonial power was
responsible for legal bureaucratisation in South Sulawesi as in other places
in the East Indies. Shari’ah became defined as primarily ritualistic and legal-
istic rather than as a comprehensive religion governing various religious and
public affairs. Making law distinguishable from other domains of life consti-
tuted a process of secularisation. European bureaucratisation of the justice
system transformed the location and identities of shari’ah and adat through
the process of secularisation but did not necessarily lead to the complete
destruction of Islamic law and customary law in the colony as it accom-
 forma li si ng leg a l plura l ity  | 203

modated some aspects of them (such as marriage and a few other matters)
while leaving all other Islamic matters open to the Muslim groups themselves
through their flourishing production of fatwas, as discussed in the previous
chapter.

Mediating Muslim Disputes in South Sulawesi

There were a number of cases where the colonial administrators, both Dutch
and native, were involved in resolving internal Muslim disputes and schisms,
such as prayer, mosque and school construction, when requested or deemed
necessary. In some cases, Muslim reformist leaders, adat headmen and
Dutch colonial officials were caught up in Islamic disputes that required a
court decision. For example, the qadi of Makassar, Haji Maknun Daeng
Manrangka, came to the Religious Court to charge a Muhammadiyah leader,
Haji Abdullah, of heresy. Haji Abdullah gave part of his Friday sermon in
Buginese and Makassarese, which was considered to challenge the practice of
delivering all parts of the sermon in Arabic. The qadi asked the government
to ban the activities of Haji Abdullah. The Dutch Assistant Resident ordered
all parties to meet in the court, where it was decided that Haji Abdullah
had not contradicted the Qur’an and the hadith and therefore giving his
sermon in Buginese and Makassarese languages did not harm the social order.
Nonetheless, Haji Maknun would not accept the decision and personally
discouraged people from following Haji Abdullah, which meant that the ten-
sion between the Muhammadiyah and the traditional parewa sara remained
(Bosra 2003: 309–10).
In another case the zelf-­bestuurder in Luwu was asked to moderate a reli-
gious debate between the Muhammadiyah and Haji Ramli, the qadi of Luwu
in 1932. The debate concerned issues such as the noon prayer on Friday, the
number of raka’ah (movements during devotions) on tarawih prayers in the
month of Ramadan, the qunut prayer at morning prayer and the recitation
of talkin prayer on a funeral. Haji Ramli argued that the practices mentioned
above were considered good bid’ah (and were therefore not prohibited).
Although the Prophet did not do the qunut, talkin and other acts of ritual,
he did not prohibit them. The Muhammadiyah speaker argued against the
categories, contending that such practices were just bid’ah and never prac-
tised by the Prophet Muhammad. Acting as ‘moderator’, the zelf-­bestuurder
 204 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

official decided that neither argument was conclusive and allowed each group
to practice what they believed (Bosra 2003: 313–16).
Another debate that involved the colonial government in South Sulawesi
concerned the establishment of mosques. In Labakkang, the Muhammadiyah
built a mosque offering religious ritual and services that were different from
the established practice. The qadi called in the police to ban the mosque from
operating. The local Muhammadiyah sent a report to the South Sulawesi
branch of the Muhammadiyah in Makassar, which referred it to the colonial
Central Office in Yogyakarta. From here the matter went to the Office of
Native Affairs mentioned earlier, which laid down that the mosque should be
allowed to operate since it did not violate any governmental regulations. Still
another case concerned the building of a Muhammadiyah school in Soppeng
in 1938. The South Celebes Dutch Resident received a complaint of the pen-
etration of the religious tradition from the Raja of Soppeng and responded
by calling for a meeting attended by all of the parties. After listening to all of
the arguments, the Resident concluded that construction of this school did
not contravene the law (Bosra 2003: 325–30).
The interpretations of Islamic law became primarily related to marriage,
divorce and other family matters whereas the administration of civil and
criminal laws was left to the modernising colonial government. Here there
was legal secularisation in the sense of differentiation between civil and pri-
vate matters, but there was cooperation as well as conflict between Muslim
functionaries, adat figures and colonial offices.

Favouring Western Law and Conflating Adat and Shari’ah in Malaya

In Malaya, British colonialists shaped adat in relation to their understand-

ing of a unified Malay race that followed the Islamic faith. As in the East
Indies, ‘adat’ was seen as indigenous customs that existed even before the
arrival of Indian influences, and were thus ‘pre-­Islamic’ (Hooker 1975:
81–2). For Wilkinson, Muslim law was essentially religious: ‘Law is theology
because the only law that the devout recognise is religious law’ (Wilkinson
1906: 63). Malay laws could be religious and could be non-­religious, but
the Committee of Malay Studies mentioned earlier, for example, did some
research and compiled monographs with titles such as Muslim Law in
Malaya, Negeri Sembilan Customary Law and Negeri Sembilan Adat-­sayings,
 forma li si ng leg a l plura l ity  | 205

and that point to their efforts at differentiating the ‘essences’ of Malay

law.10
Yet it was difficult to study the local jurisprudential system in Malaya,
because it was primarily oral and so diverse that centralised implementation
was difficult if not impossible. In his introduction to the translated Ninety-­
Nine Laws of Perak, Wilkinson wrote: ‘Malay laws were never committed
to writing; they were constantly overridden by autocratic chiefs and unjust
judges; they varied in each State; they did not harmonise with the doctrines of
Islam they professed to follow: (and) they were often expressed in metaphors
or proverbs that seem to baffle interpretation’ (Wilkinson cited in Peletz
2002: 25). Here, Wilkinson implied that if Malays truly followed Islam, they
would have produced a written and uniform system of law­– ­but, regardless
of Muslim influence, judicial decisions remained arbitrary. In his view, the
Perak Laws, mentioned earlier, ‘had never been enacted by any legislative
authority and were always liable to be overridden at the arbitrary will of the
King’ (Wilkinson 1929: 1). Even though the author of the written adat Laws
of Perak, Sayyid Husain, was Muslim, his long family connection in Perak
caused the strict letter of the Laws to be much modified by actual practice
(5). Not only that, Wilkinson contended, the Perak Laws, were ‘very far
from being systematic and complete’, and their impracticality was reflected in
references to camels and lions. Furthermore, he argued, they were ‘not indig-
enous’, since they derived from the Hindu and Muslim ‘grand systems’, and
there was no attempt at systematisation­– ­and a system, he believed, was the
very life of jurisprudence. Even the idea of a Muslim-­based ‘code of Law’ was
contradictory because the Muslim concept of law was based wholly on the
Qur’an and its commentaries, he claimed. A Muslim lawyer who produced a
‘code’ would probably be regarded ‘an infidel and a dangerous revolutionary’
(11–15). Wilkinson thought that Islamic law had never been codified as a
code of law despite the fact that in the earlier times in Arabia such codes had
been produced by Muslim rulers and jurists. He probably understood the
absence of code in the Malay context rather than in other Muslim countries.
Although to a lesser extent than Dutch colonialists, the British were
concerned to deepen their understanding of Islamic law in the Malay context.
For Wilkinson, Islam had introduced both ‘positive’ and ‘negative’ effects to
Malay life, giving them a ‘happier religion than the pessimistic faith of the
 206 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

Hindoos’ as well as literature and a certain amount of knowledge of the ‘great

world’. On the other hand, Islam was intolerant of ‘indigenous cultures’
deemed un-­Islamic or infidel, and thus ‘weakened the force of the Malay
customary law, the great bulwark of the subject against the tyranny of his
chief’ (Wilkinson 1906: 16).
For men like Wilkinson, long a student of Malay culture, some teach-
ings of Islam were inferior to Malay adat. Islamic doctrine of the ‘holy war’,
he affirmed, struck at the very root of all morality and piety by practically
denying human rights to ‘non-­Muhammadans’, by justifying the kidnapping
of aboriginal peoples and by countenancing piracy and murder when the vic-
tims were only ‘infidels whom it was legitimate to slay’ (ibid.). On the status
of women, Wilkinson went on to argue that Islam ‘prejudicially affected the
status of Malay females’, reducing their position, in theory, to ‘one of abso-
lute dependence on the male sex’. He contended that, ‘[W]hen all justice has
been done to the personal teaching of Muhammad, the fact remains that the
Malays are most prosperous, most intelligent and most industrious in those
parts of the Peninsula (such as the Menangkabau States) where they kept to
their traditional customs in opposition to the doctrines of Muhammadan
Law’ (17). The Malays would ultimately become more rational and produc-
tive when they rejected non-­rational aspects of shari’ah.
Wilkinson also contended that the survival of adat was threatened not
only by Islamic law but also by English law. The study of traditional palace
language and the associated ceremonial was dying out, he argued, and the
introduction of a new European element into the sultan’s courts was destroy-
ing the importance of past knowledge (79). Yet although English law chal-
lenged much of Malay customary law, in practice English law could not just
replace Malay customary law, which remained pervasive.
For his part, Richard Winstedt generally agreed with much of what his
colleague Wilkinson said about English law, customary law and Islamic law,
but he strengthened the distinction yet further. In his view the Malay legal
system included belief and politics as part of Malay culture, which he defined
as ‘a body of ideas, practices, and techniques that have been cherished by the
Malays long enough to affect their way of life, a legacy that gives them heart
and interests and saves their minds from inanition as food saves their bodies’
(Winstedt 1947: 1). He further said,
 fo rmali si ng leg al plurality  | 207

Malay culture includes a fear of nature spirits, an instinctive perception of

the ‘unbecoming’ rather than of the sinful and the criminal, the séance of
the shaman, the Hindu ritual of a royal installation, the celebration of the
Muhammadan New Year, the sermon in the mosque, the pilgrimage to
Mecca, Sufi mysticism, the Hamlet of the Malay opera, the curry, football,
the cinema and the mistranslations of the vernacular press. It includes,
indeed, much more, but compared with the (comparatively few) great
cultures of the world it has been derivative, owing ideas and practices to
prehistoric influences of central Asia, to the religion of Persia and Arabia, to
the material civilisations of Portugal, Holland, and Great Britain, and the
remote but compelling fantasies of Hollywood. (Winstedt 1947: 1)

Here we saw Malay culture as eclectic and derivative. He believed that

Malay culture largely derived from foreign cultures, but he did not want to
describe it as ‘fixed and rigid’. The ability of native jurists to adjust to context
was embodied in a legal saying: ‘Every time a flood comes, landing-­places
shift: every time a chief succeeds, custom changes’ (Winstedt 1969a: 149).
This recognition of some degree of fluidity of Malay custom led Winstedt
to explain the Malay legal system in terms of four different kinds of legal
sources: 1) digests and tribal sayings, matriarchal law of agricultural clans,
the adat pepateh, or law of Ministers, cherished by Minangkabau of Sumatera
(part of Indonesia), and their colonists in Negeri Sembilan (part of Malaya);
2) Malay indigenous patriarchal law, the adat temenggong, law of the Minister
for War and Police, mixed with Hindu law and overlaid with Muslim law;
3) digests of maritime law (like those Melaka had developed for Bugis and
Makassar trading-­ships) and 4) Malay translations of Muslim works of the
Shafi’i school (Winstedt 1947: 91–2). Yet here he included Islamic legal
tradition to be part of Malay culture.
This kind of systemisation raised problems, however, because adat digests
were never applied as centralised legal rules. The adat temenggong, for instance,
referred to some fragmentary rules, which were direct expressions of kinship
(Hooker 1975: 145). Problems arose regarding the translation of adat laws
into English administrative and legal organisation. One example was the
Malay term ‘bulat’, meaning the unanimous statement of a resolution of clan
chiefs deciding a point of custom: was it analogous to a legislative statement?
 208 | i slam and col o nia l is m

(153). Although it was an adat practice accepted by the colonial judiciary, the
application was not necessarily clear.
Despite these ambiguities, having read law for a year at New College,
Oxford, Winstedt felt that he was better equipped than some cadets when
he started to administer justice in a magistrate’s court. Once, a Malay was
charged with shooting a female deer and Winstedt fined him ten dollars, but
found out later that it was not a deer but a vermin. In his memoirs he believed
that the decision he made demonstrated a flexibility that the written Indian
Penal Code favoured by the colonial government would not have allowed
(Winstedt 1969a: 42). At the same time, Winstedt also criticised undue reli-
ance on circumstantial evidence that characterised customary law: ‘Customary
law requires signs of guilt; religious law calls for witnesses. When customary
law meets circumstances obscure, it throws wide its net­. . . Crime leaves its
trail like a water-­beetle; Like a snail, it leaves its slime.’ In speaking of Negeri
Sembilan, with its strong connections to Sumatra, Winstedt commented that
‘this flaw in the Minangkabau system contradicts the British law of evidence
which is stricter and more favorable to an accused person­. . . what was cheat-
ing under Minangkabau custom is sometimes a civil offense under English
law. Yet if criminal law in Negeri Sembilan is now British, the law of property
remains matrilineal and hardly affected by the Muslim canon.’ Yet, although
Winstedt made distinctions between Muslim law and customary law in other
places, here he described the laws as having leniency when he noted, ‘sins can
be pardoned in this world with a proper fine’ (Winstedt 1947: 103).
For Winstedt, English jurisprudence highlighted the distinction between
what he saw as Malay constitutional, criminal and civil law. Malay ‘consti-
tutional’ law was generally commensurate with the ruler’s prerogatives in
matters of protocol (108). In matters of land, slavery, interest, inheritance,
almsgiving, marriage and divorce, Islamic law affected customary law, but its
application relied on the qadis and the ruler (110–16). He explained that in
the initial treaty with Great Britain, each ruler reserved for the Malays the
interpretation of their own religion and custom, but the conflict between the
demand for witnesses in Islamic law and circumstantial evidence in custom-
ary law turned out to be a compromise. In addressing this and other conflicts,
Winstedt claimed that the sultans were willing to accept colonial intervention
in affairs relating to religion and custom (117).
 fo rmali si ng leg al plurality  | 209

Winstedt was aware that Muslims believed in the universalism and com-
prehensiveness of shari’ah, but contended this was not in practice in Malaya,
that it was British justice that had universal validity, impartiality, and com-
parative humanity. In this context, only one Malay system of law stood any
comparison: the matriarchal system prevalent in Minangkabau, Sumatra, and
Negeri Sembilan, Malaya. ‘With Minangkabau civil law, neither Muslim nor
British law has interfered.’ On the other hand, in the rest of British Malay,
where the patriarchal system was in force, ‘criminal law­. . . was a tissue of
barbarities, inconsistencies, and class favoritism, three of the most damning
flaws in the administration of justice’ (Winstedt 1948: 98–100).
As can be seen, Wilkinson and Winstedt found Malay laws pluralistic
and eclectic even before the penetration of British law. British law was used
as a standard by which both understood and judged Islamic and customary
laws. In their writings, they addressed tension, contradiction, integration and
overlap among these now distinct legal categories. This, however, is not in
line with the British and sultans’ formal assertation on the close association
of Malayness with Islam, as discussed earlier. I argue that the association
of Islam with Malayness was asserted to serve primarily as a socio-­political
identity marker as a response to perceived and real internal and external chal-
lenges, which does not tell us about the tension as well as integration of the
existing and newly introduced colonial, Islamic and Malay customary laws. I
would further argue that although aspects of customary law contained Islamic
elements they did not become categorised and administered as identical. This
all suggests historical and social constructions of what law is Islamic, what
law is customary and what law is modern in Malaya. Yet, the very construc-
tions of these did occur and influenced the multifaceted, colonial–colonised
relationship in Malaya. In most cases, the British favoured their legal under-
standing and practice over Islamic and customary traditions. The administra-
tion of these distinct laws became even more complex, as will be discussed in
the following.

Administering Hierarchical Justice in Malaya

Like the Dutch, the British used a race-­based justice system in their legal
administration. The British realised it was not practical to introduce English
law in a comprehensive manner, since migration had made the country far
 210 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

more diverse than before and drastic change would undermine the intended
goals. A first concern was to distinguish ethnic groups from one another­–
­people should be identified according to their races and religions.
Like the Dutch, the British narrowed the domains of Islamic law to family
matters, such as marriage, divorce and inheritance. In the Straits Settlements,
English law was introduced to cover all areas except marriage and divorce
where Islamic law prevailed (although there was some practical difficulty
in deciding which schools of Islamic law would be upheld, in most cases
being that of Shafi’i). The British introduced the Muhammadan Marriage
Ordinance in 1880, but amended it in later years (1920, 1923 and 1934)
to deal with matters relating to marriage and divorce. The Islamic law of
inheritance was recognised but it was restricted to property, and English law
was applied to intestacy. In the Federated Malay States, the British also intro-
duced marriage and divorce ordinances, although these focused primarily on
procedures rather than on the substantive content. They also enacted matters
of inheritance and property, but these were more complex than those in the
Straits Settlements because of the matrilineal adat pepateh operating in Negeri
Sembilan. In the Unfederated Malay States, statutory provisions covered the
registration of marriage and divorce (Hooker 1976: 19–23). Comparatively
speaking, Hooker contends that in the Unfederated states, Islamic law was
least affected by the introduction of English law (24), although he also argued
that in all Malay states, Islamic law was always subject to the authority of the
courts that could refuse admission on a variety of grounds, such as ‘the law is
not reasonable’, or ‘contrary to natural justice’ (Hooker 1975: 110).
The British appointed Legal Advisers for the Malay states. In the Federated
Malay States, the Legal Adviser served to advise the Resident-­General, the
federal officers and the Resident by drafting enactments and legal instru-
ments. Malay translations, whether in Roman characters or Arabic script,
had no legal force. In the Un-­federated Malay States, including Kelantan, the
Malay enactment, rather than the English translation, had the force of law.
Proposed legislation was drawn up in English and translated into Malay for
passage by the State Council (Willer 1975: 93–4).
In 1904 the British colonial government also created the Mohammedan
Laws Enactment that applied only to the Federated Malay States, although
it was sometimes invoked by British Advisers in the Unfederated Malay
 formali si ng leg al plurality  | 211

States. A generation later, in 1934, the British also issued the Mohammedan
Offences Bill, which stipulated punishment for certain offences, such as
teaching without permission from the Religious Council, and publishing
books without official letters (Yakoob 1984: 10; Abdullah 2010: 140). Other
offences remained under the jurisdiction of the British-­made Criminal Law.
This, however, suggests the British intervention in matters religious and cus-
tomary in contradiction with the aforementioned Pangkor Treaty of 1874
that stipulated British non-­interference in the affairs of Malay religion and
custom.

Hierarchising Justice in Kelantan

In Kelantan, a separate Chinese court was empowered to resolve civil disputes

as well as questions of marriage and divorce between Chinese. Any appeal
regarding marriage and divorce should be made to the sultan, while cases
relating to civil disputes would go to the High Court. Thus, ‘the Chinese
Court shall decide all matters in accordance with Chinese law and custom
except in so far as such law or custom may be contrary to other law in force in
the State’.11 Europeans became parties to civil cases and, as reported in 1912,
they appeared more frequently than in past years, while European advocates
were permitted to appear on some occasions.12
The British appointed a Legal Adviser; established a unified, yet hierar-
chical, court system (including the Court of Revision); codified Islamic Law;
and enacted a statutory law, which entailed matters deemed public, such as
land reform and commercial transactions. The State Council was the highest
decision-­making body of state government. It consisted of the sultan as the
head, another local aristocrat and the British Adviser. Although the sultan
was the head, the British Resident or Adviser often controlled the agenda
(Talib 2003: 73–4). The State Council attempted to codify Islamic law, espe-
cially Muslim marriage and divorce, and itemised Islamic law offences, and
by so doing they incorporated or associated Islamic affairs, administration
and law within the colonial-­sultan regime.
The British also created different levels of courts: the Residency Court;
the Senior Magistrates Court; the Courts of Magistrates of the First, Second,
and Third Class; the Courts of Qadi and Assistant Qadi; and the Courts of
Penghulus. They also created a Court of Revision, which dealt with criminal,
 212 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

civil and land cases, and, at the highest level, the High Court.13 This admin-
istrative reform restructured the ‘traditional’ hierarchy, formalised rules and
regulations concerning their positions, and centralised commands, although
the interaction was more complex than was apparent in official treaties and
policies.
In their annual reports, the ‘Legislation’ section listed the following:
1) Muhammadan Marriage and Divorce Enactment, 2) Ganja Prohibition
Enactment, 3) Appraisers Enactments, and 4) Vehicles Enactments. This
suggests that Islamic law and Malay law were administratively conflated, but
they concerned only with marriage and divorce enactments, separate from
other matters.14
The British acted in relation to circumstances, such as perceived and real
inefficiencies, delays, corruptions and local demands for British advice. In
some cases, British Advisers were able to say to the State Council or to the
sultan, ‘I can’t interfere in religious matters’, or, ‘Obey the decision of the
Council (Majlis) of Religion.’ In other cases, British Advisers would intervene
in financial matters, for instance, by suggesting that MAIK, discussed earlier,
approve an outstation mosque construction grant or settle a disputed bayt
al-­mal land purchase deal, and would also advise the council about admin-
istrative matters (Willer 1975: 211–12). Why did the British interfere in
some affairs of Malay religion and custom, but not in others? British officials
explained that they understood complaints against the local qadis, and saw
that the absence of standardised criteria of selection and evaluation resulted
in unevenness of judicial competency. Ignorance, misinformation and case-­
by-­case circumstances, colonial administrators argued, required intervention
in religious affairs. When they saw contradictions between English law and
Malay law, they followed the former.
British Adviser in Kelantan, W. A. Graham (1905–9), regarded Islam
and Malay custom as ‘traditional’ and ‘backward’ and attempted to reor-
ganise the traditional administrative system into a more unified system that
would maintain British rule (Talib 2003). On the matter of crime, for exam-
ple, English law should supersede Malay adat in the interests of Law and
Order (Willer 1975: 171). Graham tried to convince the sultan to appoint
judges, build a courthouse and enforce modern rules of legal procedure,
including the establishment of a High Court. The sultan was generally reluc-
 forma li si ng leg a l plura l ity  | 213

tant to take this advice because the initial agreement between the British
and the Malays had specified that matters of religion and custom, which he
believed included the legal system, should fall within the jurisdiction of the
Malay ruler. Graham, on the other hand, was concerned that certain aspects
of the Malay justice system did not align with Western practices. Eventually,
the sultan agreed to establish Graham’s proposed High Court, retaining for
himself the highest office and controlling the Department of Justice and the
lower courts (Yegar 1979: 160).
Graham’s successor in Kelantan, J. S. Mason (1909–19), maintained
this system but also attempted to modify some aspects of shari’ah because he
believed that the existing religious courts were handling cases outside of their
jurisdiction. Matters of land inheritance, previously considered the prov-
ince of the Islamic courts, were transferred to the secular Land Department
(Rahman 1992: 64–5, 70–1). Other differentiated issues concerned crimes,
auction sales, land, gold buyers and royalties, mining, royal lands and Malay
reservations.15 Mason’s reforms included Islamic revenues and expenditures
in the state budget. In 1910, he listed [appointed] two mosque (surau)
inspectors, a second qadi court judge in each district and a Friday judge.
The Kelantan Mufti Wan Musa bin Haji Abdul Samad (1908–16) sought
Mason’s consent to create two new surau inspector positions who would be
remunerated from the ‘Muhammadan Religious Fund’. With the sultan’s
agreement, this request was approved (Willer 1975: 174–5). The secularisa-
tion of what Malays would see as religious issues increased the overlapping
and blurring of British civil, religious and customary laws.
With the support of British Adviser Mason, in 1913, the Sultan of
Kelantan (Muhammad IV) issued ‘the Mohammedan Court Regulation’,
containing rules that required an attorney in every case, witnesses, and, with
the consent of the sultan and the approval of the Mufti or Judge of the
High Court, punishment in the form of imprisonment and­/or fine.16 Matters
under the jurisdiction of the High Court included such issues as inherit-
ances, property of married couples, property of orphans and minor cases of
‘domestic violence’.
As previous chapters have shown, the compromises reached between
British officials and the Malay elite had a significant impact on the religious
status quo and the position of the British. In various activities ­regarding
 214 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

mosques, zakat, court and education, the sultans and imams used their powers,
but in practice they often requested the advice of the British on how to
manage these. In 1926, the Kelantan State Council passed a number of enact-
ments and amendments, including an amendment to the penal code and to
the 1911 Muhammadan Marriage and Divorce Enactment. The initiatives of
Graham and Mason, however, were not necessarily sustained. British Adviser
W. M. Millington (1926–7), for example, was not particularly interested
in the procedures of the Religious Court. However, in collaboration with
the mufti, he did regulate the salaries of qadi and officials, and increased
staff numbers.17 The mufti gained the right to abolish the Religious Court,
although he shared authority in religious matters with the qadi.18 Like other
British advisors, he also had to consider requests for an additional allowance
to the ‘ulama who served as both mufti and qadi.19 Millington observed
that initally local judges ignored new laws, preferring former customs and
personal interests. As time went on, however, most judges studied the laws
and improved their knowledge of new procedures. In consultation with the
British Adviser, the revised court system dealt with criminal and civil appeals
of the decisions of the High Court. The High Court, the Central Court,
the Religious Court and smaller courts at district level shared legal power in
Kelantan. Overlapping cases, such as criminal cases, were dealt with in the
above different courts (Millington 1927: 12–13).
British Residents and Advisers came to Malaya with an understanding
of law, and they were keen to reform the legal system of the colonies. They
defined Muslim judicial theory and adat in terms of the British judicial ideals.
Administratively, the British sought to unify and centralise the legal system,
but they had to recognise and accommodate different systems of law­– ­as
long as these remained in conformity with law and order. The impact of the
British legal reform in Malaya, and in Kelantan in particular, was that Islamic
religion came to be institutionalised in a compartmentalised manner; Islam
became primarily jurisprudential and ritualistic, often in coincidence with
the form of Islam that the kaum tua taught to Malays.
Thus, Dutch and British scholars and administrators emphasised a fun-
damental disparity between Western law and Islamic law (that may be inte-
grated with, or in conflict with, local customs). Many Europeans considered
Islamic law to be medieval and stagnant, in contrast to the legal dynamism in
 formali si ng leg al plurality  | 215

the West.20 Islamic law and customary law were part of the local domain but
many of these were not subject to formalisation efforts.

Conclusion

This chapter discusses the way in which the Dutch and British understood
and administered legal diversity in Indonesia and Malaya. They believed that
to be modern they had to introduce rationality, regularity and practicality
into colonial legal systems. They regarded customary or traditional laws in
the Indonesian-­Malay colonies as irregular, arbitrary, flexible and inefficient.
Colonial administrators privileged Western over customary and religious
laws. Michael Peletz has referred to Weberian and Geertzian ‘rationalization’
and found limitations in them for the study of the modernisation of ‘Islamic
courts’ in Malaysia from the 1890s to the present time (Peletz 2002: 17–19).
Although they criticised prevailing laws, Europeans nevertheless recognised
that non-­Western societies had their own customs and legal precedents that
competed with their civilising mission (Cooper 2005: 131). They preserved
the oral laws by documenting them.
European differentiation between various legal systems was based on
presumed racial distinctions between European and native populations.
Europeans who studied ‘classical and medieval’ Islamic laws regarding slav-
ery, polygamy, holy war and commercial transactions considered Islamic law
to be incompatible with modern Western law. After importing their legal
codes to the Indonesian and Malay colonies, Europeans put narrow limits
on the jurisdiction of shari’ah as Islamic law, ignoring Muslims who believed
in an all-­encompassing shari’ah, but leaving Muslim groups to interpret
and apply many other Islamic matters through their fatwas and other non-­
governmental means. They did, however, integrate some Islamic laws related
to marriage, divorce and inheritance into their colonial laws and retained the
traditional function of qadi and penghulu by moving them into government
departments or by making them more answerable to colonial authority. In
these cases, colonial legal modernisation and Islamic legal reform collided in
their negotiations as to whether local practices should be deemed Islamic or
customary.
Some Europeans had to interfere in some legal disputes between Muslim
reformers and adat leaders. In the East Indies the governor-­general could
 216 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

be the final arbiter in disputes between shari’ah and adat regulations. The
Dutch codified customary law, collecting the formerly diverse and fluid adat
rules into a system that was more rigid. However, because customary law was
strong among the native elite and commoners, colonial and native officials
recognised it in order to judge cases and communicate their judgements more
effectively.
In Malaya, the British argued that English law would override Malay cus-
tomary law when there was contradiction, and left religious and customary
matters to the sultans and the ‘ulama. They recognised that familial aspects of
Islamic law had transformed Malay customary laws. The British saw Islam as a
universal religion and its laws as sacred and eternal, but they maintained that
Islamic law was not really practised among the Malays because of the strong
influence of adat. By overriding the traditional, ineffective laws, the British
sought to reform the legal domain, which had important intended and unin-
tended consequences in Malaya: the gap between the official policy of non-­
interference in the religious and customary affairs and the actual practice; the
disparity between the association of Islam with Malay identity and the actual
tension between Islamic law and Malay customary law; and the coexistence
between European modernisation and religious traditionalisation.
The Dutch and the British secularised the colony by differentiating
between the law and other domains of life in their attempts to modernise
the colonial legal systems in relation to Islamic and customary law. Although
they did not seek to reform Islam, they influenced the way that Muslim
reformers viewed shari’ah and adat. Islam was located between customary
laws and Western, secular laws. The diversification of legal authorities and
the reinforcement of particular interpretations of Islam as a legalistic religion
both contributed to this situation. Religious orthodoxy and orthopraxy also
became reinforced in part due to colonial formalisation of some legal prac-
tices and indifference toward others. Politics and a culture of legal plurality
signified confirmation of conceptual and institutional distinction and paral-
lelism, as well as diversification and hybridisation.
The concept of ‘jurisprudential politics’, described as ‘conflicts over
the preservation, creation, nature, and extent of different legal forums and
authorities’ (Benton 2002: 2, 10), is therefore useful, but it should include
the compromises among different agents and the comparison of legal moder-
 formali si ng leg al plurality  | 217

nities discussed in this chapter and the previous one. In colonial Indonesia
and Malaya, law became ‘reconfigurated’, or ‘transformed’. Despite the asym-
metry of power relations (Asad 2003: 256), the coloniser and the colonised
shaped their legal and normative orders. The internal reform of shari’ah by
Muslims, its toleration by the colonial powers and colonial legal modernisa-
tion were both the precondition and the consequence not only of the secular
processes of power and coercion as Talal Asad has argued, but also of the
Islamic religious processes of making things orthodox or lawful and hetero-
dox or unlawful.
This and the previous chapter suggest some of the similarities and dif-
ferences between the three legal cultures and systems and their multifaceted
interactions, focusing on the colonial context in the formation of moderni-
ties in the Indonesian-­Malay world. Both chapters have demonstrated that
European colonial administrators and Muslim reformers came from different
backgrounds and often conflicted with each other on the notions of rational-
ity and modernity, but they had parallel desires to establish their ideas of
justice and to ensure social order. To become modern, Muslim reformers
sought to serve their God and homelands, whereas Europeans sought to
serve merely their empires. But the Muslims, too, recognised the changes
that occurred in worldly (secular) matters, including legal considerations.
This facilitated their accommodation to many aspects of the European legal
system. Under the liberating and constraining circumstances, they found that
European civil and common laws and punishments were more practical than
stoning adulterers to death or cutting off the hands of thieves, for example.
Comparatively, Muslim reformers, while more critical than European colo-
nial modernisers towards adat, were more receptive to modern Western laws
than were Western colonialists toward Islamic and customary traditions.

Notes
  1. Het Departement van Binnenlandsch-­Bestuur, The Office for the Native and
Muhammadan Affairs, 1920: 91–3.
 2. Beudeker, Memorie van Overgave van de Assistant-­Resident van Makassar, the
period between 1 September 1946 and 12 June 1948, 102–6.
  3. The regions were West Java, Middle-­Java, principal lands, East Java and Madura,
Aceh, Gajo, Minangkabau, South Sumatera, the Malay territory, Bangka and
 218 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

Belitung, Borneo, Minahasa, Gorontalo, South Sulawesi, Toraja, Ternate,

Ambon, Timor, Bali and Lombok. Adatrechtbundel Vol. I, 1910; Keuning
(1961: 223–5).
 4. Adatrechtbundels, Vol. 31: Celebes, 1929, 428–31.
  5. Unlike the official qadi, the imams received their local income from registra-
tion of marriage, divorce and the like. ‘Keringkasan Riwajat Urusan Agama
Islam di Makassar’, Pasal 1: tentang Hal Qadi (Hoofd Penghoeloe)’, Collectie
H.Th. Chabot, 1932–1970, DH 1251, KITLV; ‘Matthes over de Adat van Zuid-­
Selebes (1885)’, Adatrechtbundels, vol. 31: Celebes, 1929, 275.
  6. Het Departement van Binnenlandsch-­Bestuur (1920): 91–3.
  7. W. J. de Klein, ‘Bestuurmemorie van de Onderafdeling Makassar’, July 1947,
KITLV, H 902, 9.
 8. Serie Y, ‘Godsdienstig Recht en Godsdientstige Rechtspraak’, No. 42,
Gewestelijke Regelingen Nopens Mohammedaansche Huwelijken in de
Buitengewesten (1912)’, Adatrechtbundels, vol. 31, Celebes, 1929, 428–30.
  9. ‘Pasal 3: tentang Hal Madjlis Sjara’, ‘Keringkasan Riwajat Urusan Agama Islam
di Makassar’, written at Makassar, 17 March 1942, Collectie H.Th. Chabot, year
1932–1970, DH 1251, KITLV, 2.
10. ‘Memorandum on Malay Studies’, 5 August 1911, ANM.
11. State of Kelantan Notice No. 9­/1923 Notice under Section 2 of the Court
Enactment, 1910, British Adviser Office Notice in Malaya, 1922–1928, D­/Suk
5­/1. ANM.
12. KAR, 1911, D­/Suk 2­/14.1.ANM.
13. KAR, 1911, D­/Suk 2­/14.1.ANM.
14. KAR, 1911, D­/Suk 2­/14.1.ANM.
15. State of Kelantan, Selected Laws 1911–1939 (Singapore: Malaya Publishing
House, Ltd, n.d.), ANM; Government of Kelantan, Enactment No. 5 of 1934,
The Sultanate Lands Enactment, signed by W. D. Barron as the British Adviser
and the Sultan, ANM.
16. ‘The Mohammedan Court Regulation, 1327’, 218­/1913, BAK, 1911–1919 siri
M, ANM.
17. BAK, file 47­/1913, 1913; No. 90­/158­/12, 1912, ANM.
18. ‘H.H. (His Highness) The Sultan asks that the Ecclesiastical Court may be abol-
ished and that the Mufti and Kathi may remain to deal with questions affecting
Muhammadan religion’, BAK, No. 112, file 218­/13, 1913, dated 22 November
1913, ANM.
19. ‘Hj. Wan Mohamad Hakim Mohkamah Sheriah Kota Bharu, informs that he
 formali si ng leg al plurality  | 219

is constantly visiting the office of Majelis Ugama to do the work of Mufti in

addition to his own duties as Judge Ecclesiastical Court and asks that the British
Adviser may grant him a pony allowance’, BAK, 155, 173­/16, 1916, ANM.
20. Borrowing from Snouck, Max Weber called the Islamic tradition of law ‘qadi
justice’, meaning that it was arbitrary and disconnected from rational legal rea-
soning. He used the term for any kind of legal judgement based on common
sense or inherited notions regarding justice and expediency. Weber noted that
what was allowed or not allowed in Islamic law was a fundamentally political
determination. Crone (1999: 249); Benton (2002: 102); Weber (1993 [1922]:
263–4).
 PART IV
MODERNISING
E D U C AT I O N
 VII
Teaching Agama and the Secular

The schools were ‘not intended to cultivate hatred against the government
schools,’ but to teach children about their ‘religion and nation,’ in order to
advance the nation and bring them civilization.
(M. Ask Hidajat, Al-­Wafd, PSII Makassar, 1933)

Who has believed that religious knowledge will benefit us in both this world
and the hereafter, while the knowledge of other things will only benefit us
in this world?
(Aqi, Pengasuh, Kelantan, 1930)

T he religion–secular dichotomy emerges within Muslim contexts, too.

In the early twentieth century, reformers began pushing to establish
more schools, contending that a broad education in a variety of subjects
(belonging to the religious and the worldly) was a path to empowerment
and progress for local Muslims and the nation at large. A teacher in South
Sulawesi, for example, wrote an essay in the journal Al-­Wafd urging his party,
PSII, to establish more madrasah (schools) to serve the towns of Mandar
and Sinjai. He explained that although people in these Muslim communities
‘have attended numerous sermons in the mosques’ they were still ‘without
strong Islamic faith’. To emphasise his point, he quoted the Dutch saying,
‘kennis is macht [knowledge is power]’.1 The goal of Muslim education was
not to re-­establish the Islamic caliphate or promote Islamic political unity;
the goal was to encourage people in the East Indies and in Malaya to be
‘better Muslims’ by teaching, ta’lim or pengajaran. In these efforts, Muslim
reformers, particularly modernist but also traditionalist, were open to new
developments in educational subjects, vocabularies and technology, as long
as they did not see any violation of Islamic principles.

223
 224 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

Distinguishing Ilmu Agama from Ilmu Dunia

Muslim reformers in colonial Indonesia and Malaya distinguished different

types of knowledge and the values that they put on education. It also exam-
ines school organisation, curricula and pedagogy, which combined various
sources of knowledge and practice. Native Muslims from the Jawi land who
travelled to Mecca or Cairo to study tended to focus on religious learn-
ing rather than secular knowledge, a distinction that had existed in Islamic
schools and college-­mosques since before medieval times but that became
reinforced in the colonial context. Upon returning home, these ‘ulama as
educational reformers maintained the broad Islamic division between reli-
gious knowledge (ilmu agama) and worldly knowledge (ilmu dunya). Any
subjects concerning the hereafter, the world to come after death, were con-
sidered religious knowledge. Following categories established by early Islamic
scholars, they divided religious knowledge into topics of faith, worship, and
social relationship. Of these three, they considered the last form of knowl-
edge to be the most flexible and adaptable to changing social contexts. Any
subjects having to do with this world were grouped together as worldly or
general knowledge (called during this time ‘foreign’, ‘modern’, ‘Western’,
or ‘algemene’ [D.]). 2 Worldly matters generally concerned whatever people
needed to know in order to survive, live comfortably and enjoy life. These
classifications sometimes contradicted but often coincided with colonial dis-
tinctions between educational topics (see the next chapter). What Europeans
considered modern, secular or scientific subjects were roughly equivalent to
what Muslim teachers considered worldly topics, while traditional, religious
or socio-­cultural subjects would be considered religious topics.
The Arabic term ‘alim’, meaning ‘a learned person’ (plural: ‘ulama’,
Q.35:28), became defined as ‘religious scholars’, a conceptualisation that
effectively excluded ‘rational scholars’ or ‘scientists’. Islamic teachers in the
colonial era followed this ‘medieval’ system of knowledge so that they saw
only independence and disconnection, rather than integration of the reli-
gious and the non-­religious. However, some Muslim reformers viewed sci-
ence from any origin as being part of the religious or Islamic knowledge that
deserves learning and teaching because they saw all kinds of knowledge as
being essentially from the divine. In Kelantan, for example, the sultan and
 t e achi ng agama a nd the se cul a r  | 225

the Council of Religion and Culture encouraged the teaching of a variety of

‘useful sciences’.3
The distinction became salient when the ‘ulama wanted to emphasise the
identity and value of certain forms of knowledge and when knowledge became
institutionalised. The ‘ulama in colonial Indonesia and Malaya followed a
systematisation or formalisation of knowledge (particularly introduced by al-­
Ghazali and other ‘medieval’ scholars) into tauhid, the science of the Qur’an,
the Qur’anic exegesis, the hadith, fiqh and tasawwuf on the one hand, and the
non-­religious, non-­revealed sciences­– ­grouped under ‘worldly knowledge’­–
­on the other. Each of these fields of knowledge emerged at different times,
but knowledge accumulated and was systematised by a chain of transmit-
ters, representing what historian William Graham calls the isnad paradigm.
Graham’s notion of a sense of connectedness with the past (Graham 1993)
was in this case in order to distinguish between the authentic and the false
and between the valuable and the non-­valuable. In Indonesia and Malaya,
this dichotomy came into shape not only because of textual interpretations
of the Qur’an, the hadith and religious scholarship, but also because of com-
plex relations between the colonial and local authorities. Different networks
retained different ways of connecting to the past, and different readings of
the present shaped how different elements of the past were reconstructed,
emphasised or omitted.
Different types of Islamic schools had existed in the Indonesian-­Malay
archipelago before the twentieth century. The Arabic word for school,
­madrasah, became associated specifically with ‘Muslim schools’ in the East
Indies and Malaya. Muslim boarding schools, called pesantren, originally a
Sanskrit word meaning ‘the place for students’, had already existed in the East
Indies at least since the nineteenth century. Some claim that the pesantren
(and similar forms of schooling in other places) may be influenced by older
Hindu traditions. They have pointed not only to Sanskrit terminology and
the concentration on religious teaching, but also to other similarities between
pesantren and the Hindu education, such as their village setting, unremuner-
ated but highly respected teachers and student solicitation of alms. However,
following Mahmud Junus, Karel Steenbrink argued that the characteristics
of the pesantren were also found in the earlier Islamic tradition of educa-
tion in Baghdad (Steenbrink 1974: 17–20). ‘Medieval’ Islamic colleges also
 226 | i slam and col o nia l is m

displayed some similarities with the pesantren tradition, such as the use of
waqf for support and the focus on Islamic sciences (Makdisi 1981). While
some continuities are evident, the rise and dynamics of Islamic schools in
colonial Indonesia and Malaya are nonetheless quite different from those
in the Arabic lands. The differences also occurred between those in the East
Indies and those in Malaya.
In Malaya, pesantren-­type boarding schools were called pondok, possibly
a local adoption of the Arabic word meaning ‘a place to stay’, or alterna-
tively a local term that subsequently assumed an Arabic form. Despite the
origins and difference in name, pesantren and pondok were not divided up
into separate classes nor were classes organised around formal curricula. Each
teacher set their own schedule for teaching and completing each course of
study and decided which texts to use and how they would be interpreted
(Hashim 1996; Dhofier 1999). Teachers conducted classes informally, were
often inconsistent in showing up to teach and received no regular salaries.
Religious teachers (called kiyai in Java or tok guru in Malaya) nevertheless
played a central role in educating mostly rural communities. In most schools
in the Indonesian-­Malay archipelago they followed the Sunni theology and
the Shafi’i madhhab (with some subordinated lessons on other theologies and
legal thoughts). The religious education they provided in nineteenth-­century
schools may have been new to their students, but it was based on the knowl-
edge that had been developed in ‘medieval’ times. The ‘ulama taught fiqh,
kalam, the hadith and related disciplines, rather than mathematics, botany,
physics and other subjects deemed science (Makdisi 1981: 217–19).
As they saw fit, Muslim teachers pushed to reform the educational sys-
tems in the colonies. They helped establish new schools, provided licence for
teaching (A. ijazah) programmes and strengthened the waqf base to support
their schools. While they were united in this respect, they often disagreed
on pedagogical methods and what topics should be taught. Some appropri-
ated elements of Christian and Western colonial educational systems and
included secular topics in addition to the ‘medieval’ system of teaching reli-
gious knowledge. Muslim teachers followed aspects of adat and used local
languages (such as the Jawi books) to teach about Islam, although in most
cases they did not teach adat as a distinct subject in Islamic schools.
Muslim educational reformers cited sacred texts to justify maintaining
 t e ac hi ng agama a nd the se cul a r  | 227

the distinction between religious and secular topics of study, but also to
explain the inclusion of both in the curricula for Muslim schools.4 Many
Muslims increasingly conflated secular knowledge of the sort usually offered
in colonial and Christian schools with modernity. Some newly established
Islamic schools were also deemed modern when they promoted reason (akal ),
progress (maju) and worldly topics of education in addition to Qur’anic
revelations and the goal of happiness in the hereafter. Traditionalist Muslims
tended to maintain ‘classical and medieval scholarship’ in their schools but
although they did not emphasise ijtihad or the teaching of science as the mod-
ernists did, they did not necessarily denigrate the value of science. In the first
half of the twentieth century, some pesantren, usually associated with the tra-
ditionalists, also began to offer basic courses in mathematics and science and
other skills they considered useful. As I argue in this chapter, education in
both religious and worldly subjects became a way of being simultaneously
modern and Muslim. Although Arabic and Islamic disciplines transmitted
from outside their places were new (thus modern) to these Muslims, it was
science and other worldly skills transmitted from Europe that would become
labelled as modern.

Modernising Schools and Curricula: Muhammadiyah in Java and

Sulawesi

In his historical work on education in the East Indies, Karel Steenbrink

follows his analysis of the traditional pesantren or surau with a discussion of
modernisation, which he sees as occurring first in Sumatera. A Minangkabau
reformer, Abdullah Ahmad (a friend of Malay reformer Tahir Jalaluddin,
mentioned earlier, and Haji Malik Karim Amrullah) who had studied in
Mecca, returned to Minangkabau in 1899, where he established the Sekolah
Adabiyah at Padang Panjang in 1907. Although he was able to obtain a gov-
ernment subsidy through the introduction of features of the Dutch school
system­– ­classroom, blackboard, chairs and tables, and even four Dutch
teachers­– f­or many of his compatriots these innovations went too far. Only
two local teachers were employed, and study of the traditional religious sci-
ences was made secondary. In Java, however, Ahmad Dahlan, as founder of
the Muhammadiyah discussed earlier, oversaw the establishment of modern
schools that were more successful and more widely accepted than was the case
 228 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

for the Sekolah Adabiyah in Sumatra. This was in large measure due to the
Muhammadiyah’s urban location (Yogyakarta), where there were many civil
servants and traders who were already persuaded of the value of a modern
education (Steenbrink 1974: 37–42, 50).
Through the Muhammadiyah, Dahlan focused on the local need for
educating men and women, girls and boys by using any methods he deemed
useful, such as classrooms with chairs and tables and the educational organisa-
tion typical of Dutch governmental and Christian missionary schools (Salam
1963: 46–9; Nieuwenhuize 1958: 45–6). In the simplistic view of Kraemer,
Dahlan, very concerned about illiteracy in Muslim communities in Java,
introduced some aspects of Christian missionary education because he did not
want Muslims to assume that their leaders did not care about their education
(Kraemer 1952 [1928]: 93). Exhorting the younger generation, Dahlan said
‘Muhammadiyah tomorrow will be different from Muhammadiyah today.
So keep going to school, seek knowledge wherever. Be a teacher and come
back to Muhammadiyah. Be a doctor and come back to Muhammadiyah. Be
an engineer, and come back to Muhammadiyah’ (Salam 1963: 70). People
should ‘study religion by using reason’, and talk about religion not only in
churches but also in mosques, Dahlan is reported to have asserted (Kutojo
and Safwan n.d.: 43).
Some modernists saw a conceptual contradiction between ‘Western’ and
‘Islamic education’ simply because the former stressed science while the latter
focused on religion.5 Although worldly goals like finding jobs or advancing
the nation were also evident, the aims of Muslim education were mostly
expressed in religious terms. Beyond the objective of serving the ummah,
reformist goals were articulated in terms of service to the nation without
being necessarily anti-­Western and anti-­modern. For example, one speaker
at a Muhammadiyah congress told the audience that they should strengthen
their sense of nationhood (kebangsaan) but should not forget their religious
obligations (urusan agamanya). The speaker stated, ‘[T]he famous Al-­Azhar
school, a study center for all young Muslims all over the world to seek reli-
gious knowledge, has also experienced some pleasing changes in order that its
graduates be equal, side by side, with graduates from Europe and America.
The effort is to strengthen Arabic and Islamic religion.’6 Educational goals
were expressed also in terms of the spiritual and the physical. Muhammadiyah
 t e ac hi ng agama a nd the se cul a r  | 229

teachers should help students to build healthy bodies (A.­/I. jasmani) as well
as to develop their spirituality (A.­/I. ruhani). The Muhammadiyah teachers
generally gave different, but complementary, values to religious and non-­
religious knowledge, but they considered knowledge about the ‘seeds of
religion’ (I. benih agama) the main subject at all levels of Muhammadiyah
schools.7
By the early twentieth century, in referring to non-­religious knowl-
edge, the Muhammadiyah teachers used such terms as ‘foreign’ knowledge
(ilmu asing), general knowledge (ilmu umum), worldly knowledge (ilmu
dunya), ‘modern knowledge’ (ilmu moderen) and ‘Western knowledge’
(ilmu-­ilmu Barat).8 In dealing with this apparent dilemma, Mas Mansur, the
Muhammadiyah leader from 1938 to 1940, used a mixture of Arabic and
Dutch terms for Islamic knowledge, such as Ilmoe Wetenschap Islam.9
Given these aims, the example of Dutch education wielded considerable
influence. The Muhammadiyah adopted and adapted Dutch names, terms
and organisations, appropriating Dutch names for their subsidised schools
on different levels, such as kweekschool, volkschool and vervolgschool. Yet, for
unsubsidised schools, the Muhammadiyah had to change the terminology,
using a mixture of local and Arabic terms that distinguished them from the
subsidised and fully supported government schools.10 The original Dutch
kweekschool became madrasah, and the other three became sekolah (Rahman
1988: 16–17). Despite these changes, by 1923, the Muhammadiyah had
established 207 Westernised schools and only 88 madrasahs (Muhammadiyah
2010: 71).
An encouragement to combining the two areas of knowledge implied
that they were conceptually distinct. Mas Mansur thus used the phrase agama
Islam for God’s teachings as revealed to the Prophet Muhammad containing
the commands and prohibitions for the well-­being of humankind in this
dunya and akhirah. Religion, for him, comprised both the ‘profane’ and the
‘sacred’, and the world encompassed all matters that had not been debated by
the prophets and had been left to human wisdom. As one hadith put it, ‘You
know about the matters of your world better’ (Pasha et al. 2003: 210–12).
These new Islamic schools usually used a combination of traditional and
modern management practices. The Muhammadiyah leaders were more sys-
tematic, finding a site (usually in an urban area), collecting money, recruiting
 230 | i slam and col o nia l is m

teachers, requesting official recognition, building and opening the school

and finally receiving applicants (Steenbrink 1974: 66). However, when the
Muhammadiyah evaluated their programmes, including education, in their
annual congresses, it became apparent that not all activists and teachers had
been successful. Not only were they faced by a lack of trained teachers, a
shortage of funds and poor facilities, they also found that interest in modern
schooling among villagers was often low. Clearly, the programmes set forth
in the 23rd Congress on ‘schools’ were not met by the Assembly for People’s
Education, one of the Muhammadiyah departments. They needed to revital-
ise their organisation to work more effectively in education, through confer-
ences, production of teaching materials and the establishment of regulations
for schools, teachers and students.11 The teaching of Islam had to adjust
continually to issues such as changes in the system and pedagogical methods.
There was little attempt at standardisation because at this time Islamic organi-
sations did not believe in the effectiveness of unifying all Islamic schools
under one organisational umbrella, such as the Majelis Islam ‘Ala Indonesia
(the Indonesian Supreme Islamic Council) (MIAI) or the Association
of Islamic Teachers and Education.12 Each Islamic organisation estab-
lished and ran their own schools according to their goals, orientations and
resources.

Making Islamic Education Socialist: SI and PSII in Java and Sulawesi

Socialist Muslim activists advocated an Islamic kind of socialism that could

challenge ‘Dutch Western capitalism’ in their schools.13 Nonetheless, while
Tjokroaminoto, the SI leader discussed earlier, recognised this distinction, he
felt that ‘worldly knowledge and Islamic knowledge should not be separated;
and this world and the hereafter should be in balance’ (Amelz 1952: 166–8).
The activists emphasised youth education that covered the integration of
intellectual, spiritual and material aspects of human existence­– a­ ll of which
was aimed at ‘power-­building’ (D. machtsvorming) of the new generation­–
­but stressed that knowledge should be prioritised over politics and worldly
pleasures (I. kesenangan). They emphasised that their programmes were a
means by which ‘a true Muslim and a nationalist who has a big heart and
great confidence’ could be produced.14 Their programmes were ‘not intended
to cultivate hatred against the government schools’, but to teach children
 t e achi ng agama and the secul a r  | 231

about their ‘religion and nation’, in order to advance the nation and bring
them civilisation.15
Tjokroaminoto also joined the discussion, contending that religious
experts should understand non-­religious matters. When he promoted a non-­
cooperative attitude toward the Dutch, he emphasised the distinctiveness of
Islamic educational philosophy vis-­à-­vis the Western one. ‘Our education’,
he argued, ‘may not adopt influence from the non-­Muslims; our education is
non-­cooperative. Our education aims to produce a true, yet modern Muslim.
Our education should not produce ‘ulama who only understand religious
knowledge and are small in number.’16 Instead, Tjokroaminoto urged his
group to make the curriculum comprehensive, and to adjust their teach-
ing in relation to the age and skill levels of their pupils. At the elementary
level, in addition to modern subjects, students should learn the basic Islamic
prayers and study the Qur’an, both in Arabic and in the Indonesian­/Malay
translation. At the secondary level, these subjects should be expanded, and
extended to include Islamic and ‘Indonesian’ history. Students should learn
to speak and write in Arabic in the same way as they learnt Dutch, and should
learn enough grammar so that they could appreciate Arabic literature and
translate and understand the Qur’an. In addition, religious topics, including
the life of the Prophet and his successors, should be taught in such a way
that they would be not only interesting, and even fun, but would also help
students to understand the reasons for Islam’s success. In higher education,
Tjokroaminoto continued, both general and religious knowledge should be
taught at a more advanced level and employing more advanced Arabic. At this
stage, teachers should teach tafsir, the hadith, fiqh and kalam. The goal was to
produce graduates who were sufficiently knowledgeable to become religious
teachers, but who would also be ‘civilized and intelligent in its modern sense
such as in those produced in Western universities’ (Amelz 1952: 169–71).
In Makassar, the PSII established a teacher-­training college for elementary
schools and adopted the curriculum of colonial schools in order to expose
trainees to modern pedagogy. PSII teachers were thus required to learn not
only about basic Islamic religious knowledge, but also pedagogy, zielkunde (D.
psychology), kinderkunde (D. knowledge about children), teaching method-
ologies and the educational systems in colonial and missionary schools.17 PSII’s
eclectic approach to modern education suggests that the cultivation of Islam
 232 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

and nationhood did not always mean anti-­colonialism. In other words, despite
anti-­imperialist and anti-­capitalist ideology, PSII leaders promoted a selective
borrowing of Dutch and Christian educational practices. For them, moderni-
sation required the combination of Islamic religious knowledge and science.

Teaching Islam and Useful Skills to Women and Girls in Java and
Sulawesi

The Muhammadiyah women’s organisation, Aisyiyah, established schools for

girls and hosted courses for women (Rusin 1979: 28–30). The teachers were
not all women­– ­men and women could teach each other. The modernists
accepted the fatwa that stated that neither the Qur’an nor the hadith prohib-
ited women from teaching men or men from teaching women. Muhammad
himself imparted his teachings to women. Modernists did, however, make a
qualification: women could teach men but they should avoid any religiously
prohibited encounter and should keep their emotions and desires in check
(Pimpinan Pusat Muhammadiyah 1967: 288–9). They aimed to increase
awareness about human dignity and equality between men and women since
they admitted that inequality contradicted the Qur’anic message.18
The Aisyiyah movement stressed that the educational goal was not merely
to memorise the Qur’an and religious texts, but more importantly to enable
girls to understand Muslim teachings and apply these in daily life. The cur-
riculum included the doctrines and practices of Islam, such as the children’s
responsibilities for respecting parents, religiously accepted adat, hygiene,
housework and cooking, handicrafts, child-­ bearing and the information
about the Aisyiyah movement. Courses for wives were more practical, includ-
ing instruction in the Indonesian or Malay language, Arabic and Latin, as
well as Islamic teachings and practical matters, such as funeral preparations.
Each branch of Aisyiyah was urged to work for the eradication of illiteracy
through the establishment of kindergartens and elementary schools using the
textbooks provided by the central board.19 Apart from these courses, Aisyiyah
had a two-­year Islamic curriculum with subjects such as the pillars of faith
and pillars of Islam for daily worship, fiqh, adab (A. morality) pertaining to
women’s lives and the memorisation of shorter chapters in the Qur’an so that
they could be recited in prayers.20 Female students were encouraged to wear
the headscarf.21
 t e achi ng agama a nd the se cul a r  | 233

One Aisyiyah course, intended for women preachers, was divided into
two streams: the first was for those who would teach educated, elite and non-­
Muslim audiences, and the second was intended for those teaching Islamic
students and ‘ordinary people’. The syllabus for preachers in the first category
included the pillars of belief, fiqh, tafsir, the hadith, ethics, the history of the
messengers of God and their peoples, colonial administration and govern-
ment regulations concerning the Muhammadiyah and Aisyiyah, knowledge
about other religions, adat, and training in delivering a speech. The curricu-
lum for the second category was similar but it excluded teaching other reli-
gions and local custom.22 Presumably adat was regarded as a distinct subject,
where emphasis was given to its maintenance amid challenges, or reforming
some aspects in light of the reformist ideas. In sum, the new schools of girls
and women concentrated on the basic teachings of Islam and the acquisi-
tion of ‘general knowledge’ and skills, and female teachers also discussed
women’s roles and the importance of education and ‘life-­skills’. They sought
to make ‘a good contribution’ (I. isteri Islam jang berarti) to their family and
society.23
In Sulawesi, the question of education for girls was also debated among
reformists, for, as one supporter asked rhetorically, ‘Do only boys and men
deserve this country? Do only boys and men perform Islam? Is this life
only about men? God has provided girls and women with a wide choice:
political, economic, and social.’24 In Makassar, one of the PSII schools, the
Islamic Institute for Girls (I. Poeteri Islam Instituut), adopted a curricu-
lum that included Islamic studies and Arabic, but also handicrafts and other
useful skills, considered necessary for future mothers. The school opened on
1 October 1932 for girls in the morning and for women in the afternoon.25
The PSII schools of the Pergerakan Isteri (Women’s Movement) aimed to
empower women to maintain a hygienic and well-­functioning household,
promote marriage and health and provide proper funeral arrangements for
women.26 These schools taught Islamic ideas regarding the rights and respon-
sibilities of men and women as given by God. Activists argued that Islamic
views of the woman’s role were unlike those of Western schools, which
promoted the idea of women’s emancipation.27 Schools for both men and
women were similar in that they taught the basic skills of reading the Qur’an,
Arabic and writing, but differed in the educational culture. The emphasis in
 234 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

girls’ schools was on the function of women as mothers and daughters and as
members of society.28

Producing Traditionalist Scholars: Nahdlatul ‘Ulama in Java

One of the objectives of Nahdlatul ‘Ulama when it was formed in 1926

was to preserve and advance the pesantren tradition now confronted by the
modernist challenge. Abdul Wahab Chasbullah, one of the founders, was an
organiser who had experiences and contacts with modernist organisations
(Steenbrink 1974: 68). But the ‘scholar’ founder, Hasyim Asy’ari, who was
educated in a Javanese pesantren and then in Mecca, aimed to reform Javanese
Muslim society primarily through pesantren education. Because ‘ulama are
heirs of the prophets, the objectives of religious education were to reach the
status of a scholar and a noble man; to translate the knowledge acquired into
good action; and to obtain the favour of Allah (Yusoff 2010: 159–60).
Asy’ari’s method of teaching was known as halaqah (A. circling) or
bandongan, meaning that students gathered around a teacher who would
translate Arabic textbooks on different subjects such as tafsir, the hadith,
Arabic and fiqh, and provide some explanation of words and their mean-
ings. Another method commonly used in pesantren education, called soro-
gan, required students to read and translate an Arabic textbook into a local
language (such as Javanese) in front of the teacher who would guide them
and correct their mistakes. Similar methods applied to the bandongan, which
was a larger group, whereas the sorogan was smaller and more personalised.
Asy’ari reportedly refused to change these ‘traditional’ teaching-­learning
methods into a modern classroom or tutorial methods. Such changes had
been proposed by his son Abdul Wahid Hasyim (versed in Javanese, Malay,
English, Arabic and Dutch), who returned from Mecca in 1933. However,
Asy’ari eventually reversed his objection to the inclusion of modern subjects
in the pesantren curriculum; he accepted the teaching of the English and
Dutch languages, Indonesian history and geography advocated by his son
and by his nephew, Moh. Ilyas (Khuluq 2000: 31–7). Ilyas had attended
the Hollands-Inlandse School (HIS), a Muhammadiyah elementary school
teaching primarily general knowledge, Dutch and some religious knowledge.
In the afternoons, however, he studied Islam and attended the pesantren,
thus combining education in the traditional and modern methods. With the
 t e achi ng agama a nd the se cul a r  | 235

approval of Asy’ari, Ilyas included general knowledge such as Latin, geogra-

phy, history, Malay­/Indonesian language, Arabic and Dutch, adopting the
HIS method of teaching that he himself had experienced (Steenbrink 1974:
70–1).
Beyond curricula, some aspects of educational practice became a matter
of religious dispute. People asked if schools could ask tuition fees from par-
ents for their children. NU issued a fatwa suggesting that fees would be con-
sidered a gift to teachers that could either be paid immediately or in regular
intervals, as long as they all had the intention of serving God, not for seeking
the praises of others (in Masyhuri 1997: 52). Others asked whether Muslims
were allowed to study books authored by kafirs used in Islamic schools, such
as the Arabic dictionary that al-­Munjid compiled by the Jewish scholar Louis
Ma’luf. The NU then issued a fatwa stating that the study of works authored
by a non-­Muslim could be permitted for educated Muslims who would be
able to distinguish the false from the true (in Masyhuri 1997: 110). Being
a traditionalist reformer did not mean rejection of modern education and
Western texts.

Reforming Islamic Schools in South Sulawesi

Karel Steenbrink’s extensive history of Islamic education in Java and

Sumatera (1974) left Sulawesi largely unexplored. While education devel-
opments in Sulawesi display connections with the Javanese and Sumatran
networks, the context and local dynamics were quite different. In South
Sulawesi, Javanese and Sumateran teachers coexisted with Buginese and
Makassarese teachers (often called ‘gurutta’) as well as Arab teachers. By
1929, the Muhammadiyah of the Makassar branch managed two schools:
Hollands-Inlandse School (HIS), an elementary school teaching primarily
general knowledge and Dutch and with an additional lesson on religious
knowledge and the Muhammmadiyah ideology; and Munir School, an ele-
mentary school teaching primarily religious knowledge with the addition of
general knowledge. Both HIS and Munir schools were run according to the
Dutch governmental regulations, and teachers were partly of Arab-­descent,
partly Makassarese and partly Javanese and Sumatran (Radjab 1999: 21–2).
Muhammad As’ad, mentioned earlier, founded a halaqah Islamic study
in a mosque in 1928. He then established a madrasah: Madrasah al-­Arabiyah
 236 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

al-­Islamiyyah (Islamic Arabic School) (MAI) in 1930, which followed the

Meccan educational systems of Dar al-­Falah (A. the House of Success) and
Dar al-­Ulum (the House of Knowledge) (Ismail n.d: 6–9). The school later
developed an association called ‘As’adiyyah’. During his time, Muhammad
As’ad emphasised the teaching of Arabic books, but subsequently his students
who became teachers included some modern subjects and classroom-­style
teaching in combination with traditional methods. One classroom session
was held from morning to early afternoon, and a second from late afternoon
to the evening. Both were full-­time, with prayer breaks between sessions
(Nawir 2000 [1999]: 86–7). As’ad found that because students came from
different backgrounds and had different levels of knowledge, they needed to
be classified and tested based on their knowledge of particular Arabic books
(Said 2002: 13).
The madrasah employed primary teachers and senior students as assis-
tants, who usually supervised the study of lower-­level religious books (in
the pesantren) or classes (in madrasah). Occasionally, a senior student was
regarded by the gurutta as knowledgeable enough to be a substitute to teach
upper-­level books or classes.29 As the number of students grew, the school
moved to the mosque (Masjid Jami’ Sengkang), supported by the local ruler,
the students and the community. MAI was able to maintain both an ele-
mentary school (madrasah ibtidaiyyah) and a secondary school (madrasah
tsanawiyyah).30 From the primary to the secondary level, the students stud-
ied tahdhiriyyah (A. basic, three years), ibtidaiyyah (beginner, four years),
i’dadiyyah (preparation, one year), to tsanawiyyah (intermediate, three years).
A special class was held for the training of ‘ulama, because of their intensive
reading of religious Arabic books (Nawir 2000 [1999]: 86–7). The halaqah
system still operated in the mosque and in As’ad’s house, while the classroom
system was assigned to a separate building (Ismail n.d.: 16). The madrasah
retained the halaqah and pesantren system, but adopted the classroom and
some complementary modern subjects. The MAI followed the use of Arabic
terms for religious and non-­religious knowledge: ilmu hisab or ilmu falaq for
astronomy, handasah for technology, ilmu shihhah for medical science and
jugrafiyyah for geography.31 All of these knowledges were new or modern to
them.
As’ad and other teachers managed the school based on volunteerism like
 t e achi ng agama a nd the se cul a r  | 237

other madrasahs. Expenses were met by the waqf, voluntary charity (sadaqah)
and any form of material contribution (infaq) from the community and the
students (Bone 1986: 15–18). As’ad was receptive to the idea of establishing
madrasah out of or apart from the pesantren. In 1932, he and other ‘ulama
held a meeting in South Sulawesi in which they developed plans to establish
a madrasah while continuing the existing traditional system. They allowed
the madrasah to receive funds from the zakat and other sources from the
community. They called for the madrasah to be free from any political sec-
tarianism, and from any legal obligation to follow any particular school of
thought. They also allowed the madrasah to open branches anywhere if the
community so wished, and called on scholars and teachers to avoid disputes
on non-­essential matters.32
One of Muhammad As’ad’s students, Abdul Rahman Ambo Dalle,
would become another prominent teacher and leader in South Sulawesi and
beyond after the Second World War. In the 1930s he continued the As’adiyah
pondok system, even though he attended the Dutch native elementary school
(HIS), used classroom-­style pedagogy and established a new organisation,
Dar al-­Da’wah wal-­Irsyad (the House of Mission and Guidance) (DDI).33
Another As’ad student, Muhammad Nur, attended a Dutch-­Malay elemen-
tary school in Maros before leaving for Mecca, where he studied basic knowl-
edge about Islam and science in Indonesian language.34 Although Ambo
Dalle and Muhamad Nur belonged to multiple Southeast Asian linkages that
incorporated Sunni, Shafi’i networks, Dutch colonial schools, the Javanese
system of education and local Bugis-­Makassarese connections, they were to
become the ‘ulama whose scholarly credentials rested on their mastery of reli-
gious knowledge.35 They represent the new processes by which ‘knowledge’
could be distinguished, so that professions became differentiated between
‘ulama and masters of other knowledge.
Apart from the As’ad network, in another South Sulawesi town, Pinrang,
various teachers, including the principal who had graduated from differ-
ent places (Al-­Azhar, Cairo, Islamic schools in Padang, West Sumatera and
from a Native Teacher Training School (Hollands-Inlandse Kweekschool
(HIK)) in Bandung, West Java), with the support of local nobility and zelf-­
bestuurder, together established a school named Madrasah Al-­Jamiyyah al-­
Islamiyah or the School of the Islamic Association in 1939. The school taught
 238 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

primarily Islamic religious knowledge and Arabic but included the teaching
of basic Dutch and English, history, geography, economics, and political
science. The school emphasised that religious knowledge and general sciences
(D. algemene kennis) were all needed by the youth of the contemporary age.36

Teaching Arabic in South Sulawesi

The Arabic language exercised such influence on the literary cultures of

Islamic South and Southeast Asia that for many Muslims it was no longer
viewed as a foreign language. ‘Arabic­– ­at many levels and in various forms­
– ­emerged as an integral element of Islamic cultures in these regions’ (Ricci
2011: 181). This explains why certain Arabic terms such as munafiq and
kafir were not translated, even though other Arabic terms were rendered in
local languages. Learning and teaching Arabic became the main characteristic
of ‘traditionalist’ reformist schools. It was these schools that produced the
‘ulama, and they regarded Arabic as an instrument (ilm alat) for learning
other Islamic disciplines­– ­nahw (A. grammar), sharf (A. conjugation), bala-
ghah (A. linguistic aesthetics) and tajwid (A. recitation of the Qur’an), some-
times in combination with mantiq (A. logic) (Safwan and Kutoyo 1980­/1:
82). Although at some levels teachers taught Arabic grammar in Arabic, many
pesantren teachers taught the Islamic disciplines using local language as the
medium of instruction (Balai Penelitian Lektur Keagamaan 1983­/4: 15–16).
For example, the Arabic grammar book discusses Arabic verbs, nouns, tenses
and conjugations, but with a Bugis or Makassarese translation (Hamid 1983).
Some schools used both Arabic and Bugis as languages of instruction, but the
ability to read the Qur’an and the hadith in Arabic rather than in transla-
tion was greatly valued. For most Muslims, Arabic was the language of their
faith and even the language of paradise. Arabicisation occurred through this
systematic process of teaching and learning as well as through religious ritu-
als and prayers that used Arabic. The mastery of what was viewed as a holy
language became an important marker of identity of traditionalist students
and scholars and their institutions.
Although the teaching of Arabic became strengthened in the traditional-
ist schools, it was challenged in the modernist and government schools that
had adapted the colonial and Christian missionary teaching methods. While
Arabic was elevated as a religious language and penetrated everyday usage in
 t e achi ng agama a nd the se cul a r  | 239

the Indonesian-­Malay world, it had to face the challenges posed by the intro-
duction of Western scientific and technological terms. As a result, Arabic
(that had in medieval times been the language of philosophy, science and
technology), became associated with the religious, whereas English or Dutch
became associated with with the secular and modern.
The traditionalist–modernist distinction becomes problematic, however,
when we consider a pupil who attended or a teacher who taught at both
traditional and modernist schools. Mustafa Zahri (born in 1914 in Majene,
in Sulawesi), was a Muhammadiyah teacher who previously learnt Arabic
and fiqh from a qadi, studied at a Dutch village school, furthered his knowl-
edge of Islam from Meccan and local teachers in a traditional pesantren in
Salemo (in the Spermonde islands off the coast of Sulawesi), enrolled in the
pesantren of Muhammad As’ad in Sengkang, studied under Hamka and other
Muhammadiyah teachers in Makassar, and finally founded a madrasah in his
village. Contributing further to his fluid educational experiences, he was a
follower of Naqsyabandiyyah, a tariqah that the Muhammadiyah followers
shunned. Another example of a Sufi teacher from Sulawesi who attended a
Dutch village school but never received a pesantren or madrasah education
was Puntung Nuntung. He was a leader of Tariqah Khalwatiyyah Samman
and obtained his Sufi knowledge directly from his father and from studying
at the Sufi centre Pusat Lompo in Maros (Rahman 1988: 20–7).

Distinguishing Ilmu Agama from Ilmu Umum in Malaya

In Malaya, Malay language and culture was juxtaposed with English and
Arabic in schools as the sultans, ‘ulama and the British attempted to modern-
ise education more generally. The distinction between religion and science in
Malaya was similar to that in the East Indies, but Malaya had a close connec-
tion between Islamic and Malay ethnicity.
The Malay reformers Tahir Jalaluddin and Syed Al-­ Hadi believed
that it was Muslim inability to include science, economics, geography and
administration in the ‘religious category’ that had led to the backwardness of
Muslim communities and their subsequent colonisation by European powers
(Bakar 1997: 55–6). Jalaluddin, who criticised Malay backwardness, was a
firm believer in the importance of modern education as a pathway to pro-
gress; indeed, he himself had mastered Islamic astronomy (A. ilm al-­falaq) at
 240 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

Al-­Azhar University in Cairo and encouraged others to study new forms of

knowledge.37 Knowledge could be found from many sources, as his poetic
exhortations to Malays made clear:

O brothers!
The Dignity of Knowledge is Beyond Limit
So high the Degree to the Sky
In this world and in the hereafter Allah keeps.38
The word of Allah our Lord of the universe
In the Qur’an, He has his decree
Are those who are learned the same
As those who are not?
Those who are learned in all ages
They are the ones who bring the world safe
They serve the nation as in the Saying
Loving the nation is part of the faith.39

The goal of acquiring divine knowledge (A. ilmu rabbani), he warned, should
not be to gain status, employment, food or fine clothes, for this reduced
humans to the level of animals. Rather, knowledge should be sought because
it dignified humankind, and modernising education was the key to reaching
progress and social mobility.
In Al-­Hadi’s view, many people, including ‘ulama and rulers, were plainly
ignorant of both the wisdom and the requirements of the religion taught by
Muhammad because they did not seek knowledge except to use it as a tool
for material existence and obtain wealth. Al-­Hadi criticised Malay education,
which he said emphasised memorisation without understanding the meaning.
Al-­Hadi contended that if Muslims had read history they would know that
Islamic teachings were the foundation for European progress and modernity
because it was through Muslim Arabs in Spain that Europeans learned about
Islamic sciences from writings that were translated, edited and circulated.
Therefore, Muslims should study ilmu jiwa (the science of soul, psychol-
ogy), ilmu tuboh (biology), ilmu kedokteran (medical sciences) and ilmu falaq
(astronomy) (Al-­Hadi 1931: 62). At the same time, he criticised Muslims
who studied only Western knowledge, while neglecting Islamic studies. In
his novel, Faridah Anum, Al-­Hadi displayed a critical attitude toward those
 t e achi ng agama a nd the se cul a r  | 241

Muslim students who wanted to study Western sciences rather than Islamic
knowledge (Al-­Hadi 1931: 117, 120). In other words, he positioned Islamic,
rational knowledge above Western sciences, although he stressed the compat-
ibility of Islam and science in general.
Dissatisfied with the existing pondok, madrasah and Arabic schools, Al-­
Hadi proposed an Anglo-­Malay school to teach Malay, English and other
subjects to Muslim children who were unable to attend English schools.40 He
supported the British establishment of schools for girls and called on Malays
to follow this progressive path. The members of the Union of Johor Women
Teachers (Persekutuan Guru-­guru Perempuan Johor) advocated the same
message. The Malay Women’s Training College was founded in Melaka in
1935 as the counterpart of the SITC, in Perak founded in 1922 (Andaya and
Andaya 2001: 238).
Al-­Hadi advocated the establishment of a modern religious school to
teach ‘religious and secular knowledges’ in some of his writings and served
as teachers in different schools in Penang and Malacca until he passed away
in 1934. Later scholars, teachers and administrators were able to establish
Malay Muslim colleges in part because of the influence of Al-­Hadi and other
Muslim reformers (Bakar 1994: 122–3). Al-­Hadi taught in several schools,
including the Madrasah Masyhur Islamiyah, which was sponsored by a lead-
ing Arab community in Penang and he served as the principal of the school
during 1918 and 1919. He invited other teachers, including Jalaluddin, to
support the school and he initiated the building of a mosque and a house
for people’s education. He was able to recruit some tens of teachers and 300
students. The school used the medium of Arabic in instruction and Arabic
textbooks. He employed an English teacher and an Arab descent, who also
taught in the morning at the Anglo-­Chinese School and in the afternoon at
the Madrasah Masyhur Islamiyah. Al-­Hadi tried to secure funds for running
the school, made sure the teachers received their salaries and also gave regular
reports to a board of directors of the school (Bakar 1994: 70–2). In short,
Al-­Hadi established a modern education, complete with a building, a board
of directors, a headmaster, management of finances and salaries and a regular
textbook-­orientated curriculum.
 242 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

Reforming Schools and Curricula in Kelantan

In Kelantan, the pondok school had been around since at least the early
nineteenth century. But the sultan and the MAIK, discussed earlier, sought
to modernise education by establishing a madrasah focusing on Arabic,
and Malay and English schools focusing on general knowledge. In 1917,
the council established the Islamic Kelantan School (A. al-­Madrasah al-­
Muhammadiyah al-­Kelantaniyah) or Ma’had Muhammady. The madrasah
was defined as a newer system of schooling that aimed to produce religious
scholars and public intellectuals (M. cerdik cendikia) who would be more
aware of modern knowledge and institutions than were traditional scholars,
the ‘ulama or tok guru. Assisted by British Advisers, the sultan and the coun-
cil encouraged the teaching of a variety of ‘useful sciences’.41 In the words
of one of its teachers, the school operated ‘according to the progress of the
world today’ (M. secara kemajuan dunia sekarang), even introducing formal
examinations.42
The school offered courses on the twenty attributes of God, prayer,
Islamic history, calligraphy, tajwid (recitation of the Qur’an), writing let-
ters, arithmetic, natural science and English. These initiatives were the result
of a widespread feeling that Malays at large were excluded from various
professions and skilled occupations, whereas ‘foreign people’, such as the
Chinese who had only recently come into Kelantan, had assumed some types
of work previously carried out by Malays, such as building houses. The way
for Malays to move forward was to obtain training that would be relevant,
marketable and attractive to ordinary people, ‘following the will of today’.43
The Ma’had Muhammady also included Malay and English classes in its
religious school, and Roman characters were introduced into the Malay and
religious classes. ‘Modern’ subjects such as geography and hygiene were part
of the syllabus, and some of the traditional religious textbooks were replaced
with others deemed ‘better’.44
The council also established a Malay school with 292 pupils, as well
as providing for the education of four pupils at schools outside Kelantan
(Millington 1927: 10). A number of penghulus in Kelantan supported the
new Malay schools and a few even became teachers. In some cases, they even
tried to convince the people to send their children to Malay schools rather
 t e ac hi ng agama and the secul a r  | 243

than to the pondok. It is evident that some Malays saw the rise of a new Malay
school system as an alternative to the predominant religious schools (Rahman
1998: 45–6).
The reformer Tok Kenali assumed a prominent role in the establishment
of English, Arabic and Malay schools in Kelantan. Some graduates of English
sections went to the Maktab Melayu at Kuala Kangsar, and some managed
to continue their study of law in England. Several graduates of the Malay
section of the school went to Maktab Perguruan Tanjung Malim and others
went to Kolej Pertanian Serdang to learn agriculture. The Arabic section of
the school produced graduates who continued to study in Egypt. Others
became activists, writers (such as Abdul Kadir Adabi and Saad Sukri), officials
and so forth (Al-­Ahmadi 2000: 480–1).
Tok Kenali advocated the teaching of subjects other than religious disci-
plines in Malay schools, such as history, geography, English, mantiq (logic),
literature and trade. His reform-­mindedness contributed to his realisation of
the usefulness of non-­religious disciplines for Malay students (Bakar 1997:
59). In one of the Malay schools, for example, teachers held exams for his-
tory, evaluating students’ comprehension about the Malay law, the sultans of
Kelantan and the different towns in Kelantan.45

Educating Equality among Malay Girls and Women in Kelantan

The question of female education also gave rise to debate and new initia-
tives. In general, pondok students were male, although there were some that
included girls. However, the female presence was more pronounced in the
madrasah, because they specifically promoted education for girls. Many
Malay teachers and writers supported this innovation, arguing that there
should be equal opportunities for both sexes so that all could participate
in public life (Hassan 1980). A significant number of female pupils were
enrolled in Kelantan’s Malay schools, especially after 1904. As time passed,
this trend became more evident, since for some Malay writers to be progres-
sive meant to address women’s problems. From the 1930s to the 1950s,
for example, Pengasuh authors discussed a variety of women’s issues such as
Islamic, customary and interracial marriage and male–female relations more
generally; inheritance for girls and women; girls’ education and study outside
Kelantan; female hospitals; and women’s rights. The author of one article
 244 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

in 1930, reporting on the Indonesian women’s movement, was inspired to

call on Malay readers to follow in their footsteps, especially with respect to
the establishment of girls’ schools in Kelantan. For their part, female Malay
authors noted the ways in which Indonesian women had struggled for gender
equality, and the subsequent advantages: 1) men and women share respon-
sibilities, develop their intellect and receive equal respect; 2) stereotypes and
assumptions about women and their roles are eliminated; 3) women educate
their minds; and 4) Indonesian women, as mothers, also maintain a sense of
being part of a nation. The author called on readers to support the founding
of schools for girls:

O mothers of the Peninsula, raise your awareness! That her children are
shaking [in] our land! That men cannot work without women’s help. That
women’s minds are narrow when [all they do is] clean clothing, maintain
the health of their children and [provide] their food, clean their households
so that they don’t bother the minds of men­. . . We encourage the state of
Kelantan [to] build a school for girls and women because they are respon-
sible for the ummah . . .We support the establishment of a Sultan Zainab
School in Kelantan.46

The Sultan Zainab School was eventually established in 1937 in Kota

Bharu. It was first called The Government’s Girls’ English School for the
daughters of the ruling house and Malay elite. While special attention was
given to topics such as domestic science, handicrafts and art, the conjoining
of ‘Malay and religion’ in the curriculum is significant. Malay teachers taught
Malay subjects, which included reading, writing, oral and written composi-
tion, and used two sets of books in each class, one a Jawi reader and the other
a Romanised reader­– t­he latter itself a statement of modernity. Among the
textbooks used were Cherita Pulau Mas (‘The Story of Pulau Mas’) (in Jawi
script), the biography and plays of Shakespeare (translated into Jawi lan-
guage), various Malay stories (in Rumi), Cinderella (Hikayat Taman Peri in
Rumi) and stories from Alhambra Palace. The religion syllabus for girls was
the same as that for boys: they were taught by a visiting religious teacher, and
their courses contained elementary religious knowledge such as the pillars
of Islam and the obligatory rituals.47 The English syllabus included various
textbooks, such as English through Actions, Picture Lessons from Children’s
 t e achi ng agama a nd the se cul a r  | 245

Education, and stories such as ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ and ‘The Little Red
Hen’. All subjects were taught in English, apart from ‘infant hygiene’ for par-
ents and Malay language and religion, which were in Malay and­/or Arabic.48
This school did not open enrolment to the general population until 1953.
This suggests that in Kelantan during this time only Malay boys had access
to the Malay, English and Arabic schools managed by MAIK as well as the
‘traditional’ pondoks. The school was reserved for the Malay girls of the elite.

Teaching Arabic, Malay and English in Kelantan

MAIK played a crucial role in maintaining the binary categories that associ-
ated Islamic knowledge with Malayness and situated secular knowledge in
a more Westernised environment.49 English-­language schools used English
and Malay terms for non-­ religious knowledge such as geography, his-
tory, mathematics and the sciences, while Malay schools used Malay (both
Romanised and Jawi script), but adopted English idioms for subjects consid-
ered ‘worldly’, such as physiology (Hashim 1996: 43–6). At the same time,
however, Muslim teachers saw Arabic as a noble language, the mother of
languages, the language of the Qur’an, the best language of the best nation
and the key to religious knowledge. A Malay teacher, Muhammad Daud
bin Salam, said that he had heard of some madrasah teachers and writers
who doubted the value of Arabic. In response, he urged such individuals to
develop the teaching and use of Arabic to prevent its disappearance as had
happened to other languages. Daud bin Salam appeared to be among the
kaum tua who sought to maintain Jawi for the journal Pengasuh, seeing the
study of Arabic and Malay as a means of reviving the Malay nation (kaum or
bangsa) and Muslim ummah. Without the unity of language, there would be
no unity of the Malay kaum, and without the unity of the nation there would
be no kemajuan.50
The lessons for Malay Muslims were clear: an author quoted one hadith,
‘ignorance (A. jahl ) is the antithesis of knowledge (A. ilm’ ) and ‘no poverty is
worse than ignorance’.51 Shari’ah knowledge was sacred and ilmu pengetahuan
profane, and yet both should be combined to attain progress and contentment
in this world and happiness in the hereafter. Without religious knowledge, life
would not be good (M. buruk): ‘There is nothing worse than doing a wrong
and bad thing and neglecting the right and good thing.’52 Malays had become
 246 | i slam and col o nia l is m

weak and were left behind because they focused only on Qur’anic reading,
and sometimes even equated secular knowledge with arrogance and religious
indifference.53 One said, ‘[W]ho has believed that the knowledge of shari’ah
would benefit us in both this world and the hereafter, whereas the knowledge
of other things would benefit us only in this world?’54 Pengasuh author told
his readers that once he had recognised the backwardness and laziness that
typified Malays, he understood the need for kemajuan. In a global context,
Malays must strive to catch up with other nations that had established their
supremacy. Only through the pursuit of ilmu pengetahuan that had made
certain nations ‘great’ could Malays, old and young, men and women, achieve
kemajuan.55 With the growing stress on science and vocational skills, Malays
thus came to see religious knowledge as a distinct category.56
In keeping with the growing expectation that education should provide
practical and vocational skills, the Kelantan government established a Malay
Agronomy School (M. Sekolah Pertanaman Semenanjung) in Kota Bharu.
The curriculum included agronomy (M. ilmu perihal tanaman), physics (ilmu
kejadian tabi’i), chemistry (ilmu kimia), bookkeeping (ilmu memegang buku)
and agricultural economics (ilmu bagi pentadbiran hal tanaman)­– a­ll to
be delivered in English for a three-­year course or in Malay for a one-­year
course.57 Sciences were taught in English because there were no suitable
Arabic or Malay books or qualified teachers.
Other Malay schools taught various skills such as basketwork, mat weav-
ing, brick and tile manufacturing and carpentry. Physical training was incor-
porated into the educational programme, and some schools had gardens, with
seeds provided by colonial officers. In the Malay, English and Arabic schools
run by MAIK, administrators modified the syllabus to include instruction
in elementary hygiene and to train Malays in using Roman characters.58
The curriculum of a Malay school in Pasir Mas, not far from Kota Bharu,
taught geography, ilmu alam (science of the nature) and tarikh (history),
the latter focusing on Malay history, geography and literature, including
Hikayat Abdullah and Pelayaran Abdullah (the memoirs and travel accounts
by the well-­known Munshi Abdulalh, scribe Thomas Raffles) and traditional
stories now available in print and used in the Federated Malay States, such
as the Hikayat Si Miskin (Story of a Poor Man). For science and geography,
Malay schools used Romanised Malay, and examinations could ask student
 t e ac hi ng agama a nd the se cul a r  | 247

to locate places on a map, or ask them to explain why Earth is round or why
the Malay Peninsula does not have four seasons.59
The use of Jawi script provided the link between Arabic and a sense of
Malayness, since the British Government encouraged using Rumi, not Jawi,
as a teaching medium for Malay (see further next chapter). The contempo-
rary Malay philosopher Naguib Al-­Attas has argued that the displacement
of Jawi tended to further Malay detachment from Islam (Al-­Attas 1972).
However, the pondok continued to maintain the use and teaching of Jawi as
well as Arabic (Ahmad 1991­/2: 17), and it was therefore pondok teachers and
students who played the most important role in reforming Malay education
while maintaining Arabic and Jawi script.
This is not to say that the ‘ulama were preoccupied with the retention of
Arabic and Jawi script. For instance, Pengasuh urged Malays to learn foreign
languages, especially English, because ‘they will find their life easier’. They
would then be able to read English books and understand English law and
culture, which would be useful to them living under a British administra-
tion. Developing their written and verbal skills in English would also enable
people to adapt more easily to the interests and principles of the colonial
government, and to voice their requests and aspirations to the authorities. It
was thus important for ‘ulama to refute the view that the English language
would necessarily encourage wrong-­mindedness and non-­belief (Ahmad and
Hassan 1983: 124–5).
Malay reformers typically framed their encouragement for teaching
English in terms of progress. The editors of Pengasuh, for example, requested
that the State of Kelantan establish more English schools because ‘English has
become the language of administration, commerce, and the general public
in this world as well as the desired and loved language in Kelantan which is
under the shade and shadow of the British government’. This was apart from
English courses already introduced at MAIK and despite the state’s support
for Malay students studying English abroad. The experience of other nations
had shown the value of instruction in English, deemed both noble (M. mulya)
and crucial (M. penting) in Kelantan’s path to progress. Without knowledge
of English, Malays would continue to be left behind (M. tertinggal ).60
The curricula in governmental and vernacular Malay schools in Kelantan
demonstrate four important points. First, the inclusion of religious ­knowledge
 248 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

in a curriculum focused primarily on general sciences and vocational skills was

based on the belief that the identity of Islam and Malay was intimately inter-
twined. Second, the association of Arabic and Jawi with Islam and Malayness
found its counterpart in the association of English with non-­Muslims and
non-­Malays, but it was still considered a valuable acquisition. Teachers of
secular subjects were different from teachers of Malay and religion, but they
coexisted in the government school system. Religious, Malay and secular
subjects were to be taught in schools for the sake of progress. Third, the
sultan and Malay reformers, including ‘ulama, teachers, and writers for peri-
odicals and newspapers, played an important role in modernising Malay
education. Fourth, together with Islam, knowledge of Malay literature, his-
tory and geography was now considered a significant element in Malay ethnic
and cultural identity in the face of challenges from other identities, notably
the Chinese (and Indian). The British colonial regime helped crystalise this
integration.

Preserving Traditional Pedagogy with Modern Adaptation

In Indonesia and Malaya, many teachers used methods they had learned
while attending schools in Mecca and Cairo. They also particularly used
memorisation and understanding of the Arabic texts, with some questions
and answers and discussion when the teachers felt necessary. In Kelantan,
Tok Kenali encouraged students to purify their souls, since impurities could
hinder their understanding and remembering, and reminded them that the
motivation to learn must come from within. He urged Malays to seek reli-
gious knowledge at its centre, namely Mecca, for that was where they could
benefit from the wisdom of authoritative scholars and from discussions with
colleagues. Before each lesson, he asked students to read books by different
authorities dealing with the topic under discussion in order to compare these
with their teacher’s perspective and to evaluate different lines of reasoning
(Yusoff 2010: 85–6). In one of his poems, Kenali expressed his idea that
learning involved observing and thinking, not merely memorising:

The aim of knowledge is afar

Cannot be hunted with bow and arrows
Cannot also be inherited from forefathers and uncles
 t e ac hi ng agama a nd the se cul a r  | 249

Indeed, knowledge cannot be acquired except by sprawling on the floor of

mosques
Until the floor softens because of the pressure from writing on it
And by observation
As well as by thinking
And by reading and studying oceans of books
(Yusoff 2010: 79)

Kenali’s pedagogical approach, with its combination of memorisation

and reformist thought, may appear paradoxical. However, memorisation was
still fundamental because of the objective of reciting the Qur’an and the
hadith. Simultaneously, he stressed constant exposure to Arabic reformist
ideas, which would enable Malay society to address contemporary social,
cultural and political problems and to make Islamic doctrines relevant in
terms of social change. In Tok Kenali’s school students would recite their
memorised verses or passages from books, while he would listen lying down
or sitting, only giving a sign when the student made a mistake in the recita-
tion. Following correction, the student was required to repeat the entire
verse or passage until it was memorised perfectly (Salleh 2002: 80). For more
advanced audiences Tok Kenali introduced articles from Egyptian reformist
journals such as al-­Ahram (A. the noblest) and al-­Muqattam (A. a town in
Egypt whose name means ‘garbage town’).61
Tok Kenali also encouraged the question-­and-­answer method of instruc-
tion. He assigned his assistants, known as study leaders, to teach lower-­level
religious books to other pupils. The assistant’s task was to answer questions,
and if he was unable to do so he was sent to Tok Kenali for further advice.
He himself enjoyed posing questions to his students and audiences, and he
encouraged them to engage in the discussion by quoting the Qur’anic verse
‘And ask those who know if you do not know’ (Q. 16:43) (83). For him
and other like-­minded teachers, the modernisation of education meant reform
in aspects of teaching methods, the use of classrooms, adoption of sitting at
desks, the classification of students according to levels of knowledge or age
and the use of Arabic, Malay and English according to the different fields of
study. Modernisation could also mean adding ‘science’ and other skills deemed
‘worldly’ in addition to the Islamic disciplines deemed traditional and religious.
 250 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

Conclusion

In their respective studies of Islamic education in the East Indies and Malaya,
Steenbrink and Hashim share the view that Muslims become modernised in
part through their interaction with Dutch and British colonial powers and
in part through their exposure to Islamic reform from outside of the region.
While this chapter has supported their observations concerning Islamic edu-
cational organisation, curricula and pedagogy, it has offered some additional
data. It has also broadened the comparative discussion of the formation and
interaction between Islamic and colonial modernities in the educational
domain as they were played out in the Netherlands East Indies and in British
Malaya.
In this context, Islamic modernity was manifested as a combination of
faith and reason, but also as a mixture of the traditional and the modern.
Muslim proponents of educational reform in the East Indies and Malaya
did not consider Islam to be irrational, unprogressive or antagonistic to sci-
ence. They believed that Islamic teachers could simultaneously guide people
on a spiritual path while also providing the skills and knowledge necessary
to achieve material success. Muslim educators interpreted the Qur’an and
authoritative Islamic scholarship in pressing their view that educational
reform was necessary. They were particularly concerned with changing the
ways in which education was organised and the pedagogy and content of
educational activities. Modernists established new schools (largely in urban
areas) and adopted aspects of European educational systems in modernising
their schools, including curricula, classrooms and other facilities, and instruc-
tion in European languages. Modernisation further included educating girls
as well as boys, and reformers even offered courses for women.
Sacred texts and traditions motivated reformers to modernise the educa-
tional system, while they were careful to ensure that their Muslim students
remained pious. Modernists argued that studying the Qur’an and Arabic
would enable Indonesian-­Malay Muslims to join the global modernity of
Islam. However, they criticised traditionalist ‘ulama for teaching the Qur’an,
the hadith and other ancient texts strictly in Arabic. Modernist reformers
were more practically involved in transmitting foreign languages than tradi-
tionalists. In the East Indies, modernists used Dutch terms for organisational
 t e achi ng agama a nd the se cul a r  | 251

structures and the various sciences in Indonesian language in addition to

Arabic for religious knowledge; in Malaya, Malay and English were used in
addition to Arabic. Local teachers also translated Arabic concepts into local
terms for purposes of communicating with their students effectively. Despite
the long-­standing linguistic connections that bound the Islamic Indonesian-­
Malay world to the Arab heartlands, in comparative terms, Arabic became
more embedded in Malaya than in the East Indies.
Like modernists, traditionalists viewed an Islamic education (includ-
ing the study of Arabic) as essential for modern Muslims, and still felt that
learning about the hereafter was more valuable than knowledge about this
world. Their adoption of modern subjects came later than was the case for
modernists. Traditionalist ‘ulama at rural pesantren and pondok considered
themselves guardians of Islamic religious knowledge. The practice of learning
and teaching the Qur’an and Arabic constituted part of the Islamic tradi-
tion of knowledge, which could successfully confront other forms of knowl-
edge, indigenous and foreign. This religious knowledge tradition survived
the modernisation so evident in the school system because for generations
it had retained its own rationality and self-­sufficiency, and had provided, to
borrow a phrase from Islamic scholar Fazlur Rahman, ‘satisfactory answers
to ultimate questions of worldview’ (Rahman 1984: 46). Yet, some Muslim
reformers in the East Indies and Malaya did not find Islamic knowledge
completely satisfying because they saw the worldly benefits in teaching and
learning the secular knowledge and skills. Rahman, however, is still right
about the outcome: a ‘secularist’ state of mind, that is, the duality of loyalty
to religion and worldly affairs (47).
The dichotomisation of knowledge into the worldly and the religious
and their integration became more explicit in the modernist schools. Islamic
subjects were narrowly defined as ‘religious’ precisely because the reformers
wanted to add ‘secular science’ and other profane subjects to the educational
system. Modernists promoted studying the natural sciences and acquiring
modern technological skills because they would be beneficial for Muslims in
helping them to lead successful lives. Secular knowledge was associated with
the practical issues of this world, whereas religious knowledge was seen as
essential for Muslims preparing for the world to come. Knowledge about the
material was combined with knowledge about the spiritual because each had
 252 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

its power and limitations. These socio-­historical developments impacted the

forms, transmission and meanings of Islamic religious knowledge.
The reform of education in the East Indies and Malaya thus sustained
some traditions and spheres of knowledge, while pushing others aside.
Because being Malay was conflated with Islam, educational reformers in
Malaya promoted the inclusion of classes in Malay language, history and
literature (along with Arabic and English). Meanwhile, adat cultural knowl-
edge, differentiated from Islamic religious and from secular knowledge in
formal schools, became devalued. Adat customs and beliefs continued to be
transmitted orally by families, by elders at home and by the community’s
ritual leaders, but they were not part of the school curriculum.

Notes
 1. Al-­Wafd, Nos 1–3, March–April 1934, Year 10; Al-­Wafd, Nos 11–12, April
1936, Year 11.
 2. Pemberita Makassar, 29 February 1940.
 3. Pengasuh, vol. 3, 8 August 1918.
  4. The Qur’an contains verses that Muslims believe encourage a religious educa-
tion (tafakkuh din). Q. 9:122, for example, reads: ‘Nor should the Believers all
go forth together: if a contingent from every expedition remained behind, they
could devote themselves to studies in religion, and admonish the people when
they return to them, that thus they [may learn] to guard themselves [against
evil].’ Other verses suggest that a worldly education would be useful for achiev-
ing happiness in this life, although it should not be valued over seeking happi-
ness in the hereafter: ‘But seek, with the [wealth] which Allah has bestowed on
thee, the Home of the Hereafter, nor forget thy portion in this world: but do
thou good, as Allah has been good to thee’ (Q. 28:77).
  5. ‘Pekerdjaan Bagi Moejaddid’, Almanak Tahoen 1345, 1926­/1927, 139.
 6. Hasjim (1931), ‘Choetbatoe’l Arasj’, in Almanak Moehammadjiah Tahoen
Hidjrah 1351, DYogyakarta: Pengurus Besar Moehammadijah Taman Poestaka.
  7. Tanfid Hoofdbestuur Moehammadijah (1938), Boeah Congress 23: Mengandung
Poetoesan Congres Moehammadijah Ke 15 sampai ke 23, 2nd edn, Jokyakarta:
Hoofdcomite Congres Mohammadijah.
  8. PSII, for example, used the term ‘ilmu pengetahuan umum’, which can be trans-
lated as ‘general sciences’. Soeara PSII, No. 1, 25 April 1937, Year 1.
 9. Tentara Islam, No. 1, June 1932, Year I.
 t e achi ng agama a nd the se cul a r  | 253

10. Boeah Congress 23: Mengandung, 16–17.

11. Mansoer, H. M. (1936), ‘Chutbatoel-­Arsj’, in Boeah Congres Moehammadijah
Seperempat Abad, Yogyakarta: Hoofdbestuur Muhammadijah, pp.
5–12.
12. ‘Bond van Onderwijs Aan Islamietische Scholen’, Het Licht (An-­Nur), No. 1,
March 1926, Year 2, 19–20.
13. Al-­Wafd, No. 1, January 1933, Year 2.
14. Tjokroaminoto, ‘Moslem National Onderwijs’,1925, in Amelz (1952: 166);
Mansoer (2004: 83); PSII (1952), PSII dari Tahun ke Tahun, Departemen
Penerangan & Propaganda, 1.
15. M. Ask Hidajat, ‘Pemerentah dan onderwijs’, Al-­Wafd, No. 1, January 1933,
Year 2.
16. Tjokroaminoto, in Amelz (1952: 168).
17. Soeara PSII, No. 4, 25 July 1937, Year 1.
18. Aisyiyah, Statuten dan Huishoudelijk Reglement Moehammadijah 1935, 66.
19. Boeah Congress 23: Mengandung, 32–7.
20. Boeah Congres Moehammadijah Seperempat Abad, 25.
21. ‘Boeah Congres Moehammadijah Bahagian ‘Aisjijah’, 34.
22. ‘Boeah Congres Moehammadijah’ 36–7.
23. ‘Qa’idah Moehammadijah Bahagian ‘Aisjijah’, 68; ‘Kedudukan Prampoewan di
dalam Islam’, Het Licht, No. 11, January 1933, Year 8.
24. Al-­Wafd, No. 2, February 1933, Year 2.
25. Similar schools opened in Mangasa, Balangnipa, Majene, Mangkura and other
areas in South Sulawesi. Al-­Wafd, No. 1, January 1933, Year 2; Al-­Wafd, Nos
9–10, September–October 1933, Year 2.
26. When a Muslim dies, Islamic tradition has a procedure of preparing the
deceased body for burial: from washing, praying, clothing and burying it. Male
and female dead bodies are treated somewhat differently. The process required
knowledge and skill that this women’s organisation wished to teach. Soeara PSII,
No. 4, 25 July 1937, Year 1.
27. Soeara PSII, No. 4, 25 July 1937, Year I.
28. Boeah Congress 23: Mengandung, 35.
29. When Muhammad As’ad died in 1952, one of his students, K. H. Daud Ismail,
took over the leadership of the school, and changed the name into Madrasah or
Pesantren As’adiyyah, in honour of the teacher-­founder, As’ad.
30. The school expanded to include the high school (Madrasah Aliyah) in 1955, and
then the Islamic College (Perguruan Tinggi Islam As’adiyah) in 1964. Pesantren
 254 | i slam and col o nia l is m

As’adiyyah also served as a socio-­religious organisation, running conferences and

creating branches with different religious and social activities. Bone (1986: 15).
31. Muhammad Abduh Pabbadja used these terms, but did not have the Arabic
books for these disciplines. Interview with Muhammad Abduh Pabbaja, Sidrap,
9 July 2005; Anwar and Abady (1986­/7: 52).
32. Cited in Bosra, ‘Peranan Kiai Haji Abdurrahman Ambo Dalle dalam Dinamika
Masyarakat Islam Tradisionalist di Sulawesi Selatan’, a paper delivered at the
Commemoration of the Darul Dakwah wa al-­ Irsyad (DDI) Abdurrahman
Ambo Dalle, 23 December 2003, Mangkoso, Barru, South Sulawesi.
33. Interview with Musafir Pababbari, UIN Alauddin Makassar, 21 June 2005;
Darussalam, ‘K. H. Abd Rahman Ambo Dalle’, 1999; Said (2002: 9–10).
34. Mister is from the Dutch Meester in de Rechten, or Master in Law, or from the
English Mister, Interview with Muhammad Nur, Makassar, May 2005.
35. Amal (2003: 199–201); Khalid (2005: 9–18, 54–55, 207); Interview with
Abdurrahman, Universitas Islam Makassar, 20 June 2005.
36. Pemberita Makassar, 29 February 1940.
37. Al-­Edrus, ‘Syeikh Tahir Jalaluddin dan Persoalan Epistimologi Islam’, in Aziz
(2003: 48–57).
38. Jalaluddin, ‘Perasaan Pemerhatian’, in Lubis, in Aziz (2003: 77).
39. Jalaluddin, ‘Perasaan Pemerhatian’, in Lubis, in Aziz (2003: 82).
40. Al-­Hadi, ‘Anglo-­Malay school atau Malay-­English school’, al-­Ikhwan, February,
1930.
41. Pengasuh, vol. 3, 8 August 1918.
42. ‘Pelajaran Ugama di Mesjid Besar Kota Bharu’, Pengasuh, No. 308, 5 December
1930.
43. ‘Pandangan Diatas Pekerjaan dan Pertukangan Melayu’, Pengasuh, No. 289,
1930.
44. Annual Report on Education Department Kelantan, 1935. BAK, 1936, ANM.
45. ‘Periksaan September 1939, Ilmu Tawarikh’, ANM.
46. Wa Binti Encik Awang, ‘Langkah Perempuan Indonesia’, Pengasuh, No. 307,
21 November 1930.
47. ‘Syllabus for the English School Girls’, 15 April 1937, No. 6 in EOK, 154­/37,
ANM.
48. The teacher for religion was a visiting haji. Annually, the number of pupils
averaged ninety-­ five, with three women teachers trained in the Women’s
Training Centre at Melaka. ‘Syllabus for Government Girls’ English School,
 t e achi ng agama a nd the se cul a r  | 255

Jalan Merbau, Kota Bharu, Kelantan’, 15 August 1937, No. 6, E.O.K., 154­/37,
ANM.
49. Pengasuh, No. 6, 21 September 1918.
50. Muhammad Daud bin Salam, ‘Bahasa Melayu dan Bahasa Arab’, Pengasuh, No.
4, 22 August 1918.
51. ‘Pengingat dan Pemimpin2 Melayu’, Pengasuh, No. 13, 3 January 1919, 1–3.
52. Pengasuh, vol. 17, 3 March 1919; Pengasuh, vol. 19, 1 April 1919.
53. Pengasuh, vol. 21, 1 May 1919.
54. Aqi, ‘Pengetahuan Shara’ dan lainnya’, Pengasuh, No. 291, 30 March 1930.
55. Aqi, ‘Lain-­lain Ilmu Itu Bahagian Dari Hajat Kita Yang Besar’, Pengasuh, No.
291, 30 March 1930.
56. ‘Sekolah Tanaman di Serdang’, Pengasuh, No. 305, 28 September 1930.
57. ‘Sekolah Pertanaman Semenanjung’, Pengasuh, No. 302, 8 September 1930;
‘Periksaan May 1939, Sekolah Melayu Padang Garong, Kota Bharu, ilmu
Tanaman’, ANM.
58. Annual Report on the Social and Economic Progress of the People of the State of
Kelantan for 1935, 38–9.
59. ‘Peperiksaan Akhir September 1939 Sekolah-­ Sekolah Melayu Kerajaan
Kelantan’, ANM.
60. Aqi, ‘Kelantan dengan Bahasa Inggris dan Permohonan Kita Pada Mengadakan
Sekolah Bahasa ini’, Pengasuh, No. 283, January–February 1930.
61. The main writers of al-­Ahram (published in Cairo since 1875) were Muhammad
Abduh and Jamaluddin al-­Afghani. Al-­Muqattam was an influential daily in
Egypt founded by two Lebanese expatriates and was said to be pro-­British.
Salleh (1974: 94).
 VIII
Secularising Education

The great colonial schools­. . . taught generations of the native bourgeoi-

sie important truths about history, science, culture. Out of that learning
process millions grasped the fundamentals of modern life, yet remained
subordinate dependents of an authority elsewhere than in their lives.
(Said 1994: 223)

Teaching agama shall be prohibited in governmental schools, but it

is allowed outside regular hours, according to the decision made by the
Department of Education and Religion.
(Departement van Orderwijs en Eeredienst 1919: 5)

The educational system has produced Malays who have taken honours at
Cambridge and have been called to the bar and qualified as doctors and
engineers. Continued social progress will depend on the extension of all
types of education suited to local needs.
(Winstedt 1947: 177)

E dward Said has argued that one of the purposes of colonial education was
to promote the history of Europeans and thus to ‘demote the native his-
tory’ (Said 1994: 223). In this chapter, while Said’s observation is generally
correct, I will discuss the various ways in which Dutch and British colonial
education functioned in the colonies. Europeans expressed a variety of educa-
tional goals, stating that an education assisted people in ‘pursuing happiness’
or ‘fulfilling the powers of the individual mind’, but that it should also ‘fit the
needs of the community’ and help ‘create a better society’. Some colonialists
hoped a good education would ‘bring East and West together’ and ‘soften
the violence of the impact’ of Western norms on native life (Furnivall 1943:

256
 seculari si ng educati o n | 257

4; Steenbrink 2006: 88). Europeans believed that in areas where ‘Eastern and
Western cultures meet’, ‘Western culture’ should be emphasised, but as will
be discussed in the following, they did not neglect ‘Eastern’ languages and
cultures. Said is right about the general tendency, but some qualifications
are necessary depending on the colonial administrators and local contexts.
Nativeness and Islam were not always identical. Local languages such as
Javanese, Buginese and Malay were generally favoured over Arabic by the
European educators due to the latter’s ‘foreignness’ to the local population.
The Europeans generally saw the teaching of Islamic disciplines as medi-
eval with memorisation and indoctrination in contrast to what they saw as
modern science and education.
The Dutch taught Dutch language to the native elite and the willing
ordinary people but they studied and taught some local languages (Javanese,
Buginese and so forth) in the vernacular schools. They generally excluded
Arabic and attempted to regulate the management of Islamic and native
schools at large, but they allowed the teaching of Arabic and Islamic schools
outside the government schools. The British privileged English as a subject in
all governmental schools, but they favoured the teaching of Malay language,
history and culture over Arabic in the vernacular schools. They tolerated the
teaching of Arabic and Islamic knowledge by the sultan and the ‘ulama, even
when they supported the official conflation of Malay identity with Islam.
There were thus a diversity of discourses and policies among colonial scholars
and administrators in their dealings with Western education and with ver-
nacular and Islamic education.

Favouring Western over Eastern Education

Unlike Muslim reformers who sought to cultivate Islamic faith and cul-
ture, colonial officials demanded a Western education for their children so
they would be able to ‘represent Western civilization’ in the East Indies
(Snouck 1994a [1906]: 60, 65). But in establishing educational policies,
the Dutch Government faced a dilemma regarding the type of education
they should provide, and its specific purposes. The Dutch perceived native
peoples as ‘backward and poor’, but did not agree on how to address their
educational needs. There were some policy-­makers who argued that it was
best to concentrate on educating European residents, but others felt called to
 258 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

bring a Western education to selected and willing natives, although there was
disagreement on the degree to which this should accommodate local educa-
tional methods (Brugmans 1938: 2–8, 1961: 152; Geschiere 1966). Snouck
differentiated between ‘our system of education’ and the ‘native system of
education’. He urged the colonial government to develop a Western-­style
educational system for the native population. In his view, however, this
would help assimilate the adat elite, rather than Islamic leaders and populace,
into Western culture, and it would certainly not be embraced by all natives
(Snouck 1994a [1906]: 70–5).
Snouck contended that the West should help willing Muslims adapt
their own forms of education to suit modern contexts. He saw that both
Western nations and the Muslim world were almost equally concerned with
the question of ‘whether a way will be found to associate the Moslim [sic]
world to modern civilization, without obliging it to empty its spiritual treas-
ury altogether’ (Snouck 1916: 123). The West could only hope that ‘modern
civilization would not be so fanatical against Muslims’. Therefore, Snouck
argued, the modern world should not offer Muslims the choice between
giving up their religion or being treated as barbarians, as that would only
lead to war. Instead, the West should allow Muslims themselves ‘to reconcile
the new ideas which they want with the old ones with which they cannot
dispense’, while helping them to adapt ‘their educational system to modern
requirements’ (148). In fact, he was hoping to engage Muslims at large, not
merely the adat ‘traditional’ elite. Regarding a traditional pesantren educa-
tion incompatible with modern scientific education and Western pedagogy,
but recognising that Muslims were often attracted to Western education,
he argued that the West should intervene in modernising Muslim society
but without destroying Islam’s spiritual heritage. In his view, the movement
towards ‘modernity’ was generating its own momentum, for ‘all over Java,
one can observe the pesantren losing ground; today everybody wants to go to
modern schools’ (Benda 1958a: 8–9).
The Dutch colonial government ended up developing a complex
school system to serve different populations within its colony. The Colonial
Department of Education and Religion distinguished between schools for
Europeans, natives, or ‘foreign Orientals’. Dutch colonial schools were
named in accordance with race and social class, subject matter (that is, general
 seculari si ng educati o n | 259

versus vocational), and level (that is, elementary, secondary, higher). There
were European schools. The pupils of the European Elementary Schools (D.
Europeesche Lagere Schools) (ELS) were young European children resid-
ing in the East Indies. The colonial government also established schools for
natives that taught in the vernacular, making Malay (that became the basis of
Indonesian) the primary language of instruction. Under the Department of
Education and Religion, there were schools for the aristocracy (anak bumi-
putera bangsawan) using native languages (Javanese, Sundanese, Madurese,
Malay, Buginese and so forth) or Dutch according to demands and circum-
stances; and there were schools for the ordinary people (anak bumiputera
kebanyakan) using native languages only.1
The number of these native schools increased as demand grew, and
elementary schools (Hollands-Inlandse School (HIS)), junior high schools
(Middlebare Uitgebreid Lagere School Onderwijs (MULO), and senior high
schools (Algemeene Middelbare School (AMS)) could be found in most
cities and provincial towns. These schools were further divided according to
subject matter. There were two kinds of AMS, one of which stressed social
sciences, economics, and languages, while the other emphasised natural sci-
ences. Dutch and native languages were taught in both types of AMS. Hybrid
schools such as the Dutch-­Native School (Hollands-­Inlandse School) taught
both in Dutch and native languages and both natural and social sciences
(Brugmans 1961: 161). The Dutch also established numerous village schools
to provide native children with three years of basic education. The Minister
for Colonies, De Graaff, wanted to expand these schools and make their
teaching programmes relevant to village life, in part through delegating their
supervision to the provincial authorities (Der Wal 1963: 492–507).
Sulawesi stands as a good example of the colonial concern to extended
education. In 1910 there were only 29 native schools and about 95 village
schools, but by 1936 the colonial government oversaw 750 vernacular schools
with 55,785 pupils and 16 Dutch schools with 2,916 pupils. They managed
vocational schools, like those that offered training in medicine, industrial and
commercial skills, as well as training for teaching, for the civil service and
administrative functions, and for the navy.2
The Department of Education sought to reform teacher training schools,
employing Dutch teachers, and then gradually training the natives to be future
 260 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

teachers. They extended the length of the study from four to six years. They
created an advanced training school called HKS (Hoogere Kweekschool) in
1914 and transformed it into HIK (Hollands-Inlandse Kweekschool) in 1927
to reach the standards of the same school in Netherlands, but the 1929­/30
Great Depression diminished the ongoing reform and transformation of the
schools. As a consequence, many of the natives trained in these schools had to
teach in unofficial schools (wilde scholen) in the East Indies (Suwignjo 2012).
In South Sulawesi, Dutch scholar Benjamin Frederik Matthes (who studied
Bugis literature) introduced the first teacher training college (D. kweekschool )
in Makassar to train future teachers as well as other professionals such as doc-
tors, merchants, civil servants, naval officers, and agriculturalists. The school
taught maths, natural sciences, humanities (such as history), social sciences,
arts and other skills (such as drawing and land surveying) (Brugmans 1961:
160). By 1940, as war clouds were looming, the Dutch Government planned
to expand native education by building more new schools, but this also
required teacher training. The proposed programme provided for eight new
normal colleges to be built in 1941 to provide a four-­year training period for
secondary teachers. In 1942 the government was scheduled to establish 1,000
new people’s schools and, in 1945, 250 new secondary-­level schools.3 But
these projects were abruptly halted by the outbreak of World War II and the
Japanese occupation of Malaya and the East Indies in 1941.

Changing Policies toward Islamic Education

The Dutch policies towards the teaching of Arabic and Islamic subjects and
towards Islamic schools and teachers in the colonies change and vary. The
1888 Fundamental Law prescribed the introduction of secular subjects into
the existing pesantren schools in the East Indies, but the colonial administra-
tors rejected the idea of including the pesantren into the colonial educational
system due to the ‘bad tradition of reading and memorizing the Arabic texts
without comprehension’ incompatible with modern education (Steenbrink
1974: 2–3). The 1892 Educational Law further prohibited the teaching of
religious subjects in all the governmental schools, but it allowed the teaching
of religious subjects and Arabic outside regular hours under the considera-
tion of the Department of Education and Religion. The aforementioned law
stipulated the reading and writing of native languages in native scripts and in
 seculari si ng educati o n | 261

Dutch unless the department finds it irrelevant. It also requires the teaching
of reading and writing Malay in Arabic and Dutch, although the Department
of Education and Religion would decide about the value and accessibility of
Arabic and Dutch among the native population.4
The same law also contained information about the school hours.
Schools with the majority Muslim pupils were allowed to reduce the hours
up to two hours on Fridays, and schools with the majority Christian pupils
were allowed to reduce the hours on Sundays. Schools were also closed for
two days during Christian and Islamic holidays. During the Islamic fasting
month of Ramadan, schools in Muslim majority areas were allowed to have
five weeks of holiday, and so the Christian schools had two weeks of holiday
for Christmas. The first and the last dates of the holidays were to be decided
by the school committees.5 It is evident that the Dutch Government recog-
nised the place of Arabic teaching and accommodated the religious needs of
Muslim as well as Christian students under certain situations.
Resistance movements led the colonial government to be more inter-
ventionist in dealing with Islamic schools and teachers in the East Indies.
Colonial administrators in the East Indies feared that a pesantren education
would have a negative impact on Muslim attitudes toward the colonial order.
There were cases in West Sumatera where the heads of pesantrens were dis-
couraged from acting as teachers in governmental village schools due to their
lack of expertise in the subject matters (Der Wal 1963: 142–51). While most
educational policies were directed at government and native schools, the
Dutch Government therefore attempted to regulate pesantren and to some
extent Sufi places of learning. The Teacher Ordinance (D. guru-­ordonnantie)
issued in 1905 was developed following Muslim rebellions like the one in
Cilegon, Java in 1888, which involved returning hajji and religious teach-
ers. The Teacher Ordinance obliged every Islamic teacher to obtain an offi-
cial permit from the native regents before being allowed to teach in public
schools. Permits were only given to teachers who were ‘good’ and whose
teaching was ‘not harmful to the public order’. Teachers had to list the names
of their students and the subjects they taught. If a teacher failed to meet these
requirements, he could be jailed for up to eight days or fined twenty-­five
rupiah (Suminto 1986: 52).
Dutch authorities also issued regulations concerning the teaching of
 262 | i slam and col o nia l is m

Islam. A 1917 regulation in Java (excepting Yogyakarta and Surakarta) stated

that permission had to be obtained from the native regents to teach any form
of Islam in schools or other public places, but private teaching in homes and
mosques was exempt. The application should supply the teacher’s origin,
name, and level of education; where he would be teaching; a description of
the curriculum; and the textbooks or Arabic books to be used.6 An ordinance
issued in 1932, popularly known as the ‘Unoffical Schools or Wild Schools
Ordinance’ (D. Wilde Scholen Ordonantie) applied similar regulations to
unsubsidised private schools and demonstrates that the Dutch Government
also felt the need to bring pesantren under central control, since all would
now have to obtain permission to operate.7
The ordinance stipulated that a teacher had to obtain permission from an
Assistant Resident who could determine whether he or she was a good teacher
and that the teacher should be at least a graduate of a government school or
subsided school or a school recognised by the Department of Education and
Public Service. Faced by an outcry from Islamic and nationalist organisa-
tions, the Minister of Colonies (Welter) argued that the wilde-­scholen should
be fostered, but supervised and guided through a co-­operative approach that
would produce ‘civic-­minded individuals’ (Der Wal 1963: 577). The various
regulations suggest the Dutch colonial state vacillated between interference
and non-­interference with Islamic education as it tried to strike a difficult
balance between freedom of religion for native people and maintaining their
modern standards and public order.

Repercussions and Responses in the East Indies

Modernising the colonial and native educational systems had direct reper-
cussions on native life but had indirect impacts on the wider population.
The local responses to colonial education varied: rejection, competition
and imitation (Steenbrink 1974: 23). As the previous chapter has shown,
the various Muslim responses to the Dutch colonial educational system
cannot be easily categorised as either rejection or imitation. Furthermore,
an increasing number of ordinary people were directly influenced when they
attended colonial or native schools. The Dutch Government allowed local
elites to send their children to colonial schools to further their assimilation
into Western ‘civilisation’ (a contemporary Buginese scholar has called this
 seculari si ng educati on  | 263

‘Belandanisasi’ or ‘Hollandisation’).8 Some nobility sent their sons to colonial

schools hoping that it would preserve and even enhance their own social and
political status, although they knew that they were unable to become the gov-
ernor, the Controller or the Assistant Resident, positions that were reserved
solely for the Dutch. The highest post to which natives could aspire was as
district chief or regent (Poelinggomang 2004: 125–6). For the native people,
colonial schools were thus a path toward relatively better-­paid governmental
posts and this was their chief attraction. Others attended simply because
only governmental schools were available in their area (Furnivall 1943:
38).
Graduates of these schools became known as ‘intelligentsia’ (I. kaum ter-
pelajar), a term that separated them from the ‘ulama, Islamic scholars educated
in pesantren. Kaum terpelajar comprised modernised elite, by virtue of having
been exposed to Western sciences, arts and humanities and having studied
according to a Western pedagogy (Niel 1960; Bertrand 2005). Secularisation
of education led to the diversification of native authority on the basis of
knowledge and education. Colonial education as well as Islamic education
shaped the polarisation of societies (for Javanese, see Ricklefs 2007).
The establishment of European and native schools throughout the East
Indies constituted a modernisation project directed primarily at European
and native elites. In South Sulawesi, some people called it the King’s School
(I. sekolah raja) because it was to be attended by elite natives. Nonetheless,
the existence of these schools eventually provided the rest of the population
(including Muslims) with some awareness if not access to a Western educa-
tion. An increasing number of school-­age children attended colonial schools­
– ­by 1938 perhaps a third of this group. At the same time, more Muslim
teachers became aware of the availability of colonial education in their locali-
ties (Brugmans 1938; Steenbrink 1974: 22).
Dutch schools also had indirect, but significant effects on the identity
of local Muslims. As discussed in the previous chapter, Muslim reformers
adopted aspects of the Dutch educational systems. Modernist reformers
such as Ahmad Dahlan took Dutch colonial schools as a model for their
own institutions. Traditionalist reformers such as Hasyim Asy’ari in Java
and Muhammad As’ad in Sulawesi strengthened their pesantren or madrasah
systems in response to colonial, Christian, and modernist Islamic challenges.
 264 | i slam and col o nia l is m

The impact of colonial education on the formation of Islamic modernist and

traditionalist identities was clearly at work.
Another result of the introduction of Dutch schools was the diversifica-
tion of ideological orientations. It was possible for natives to attend different
types of school at different stages in their lives or at different times of the
day. Muslim parents allowed their sons to attend colonial schools provided
that they were able to study Islam in other schools or during the afternoons.
For example, Muhammad As’ad’s students, Abdurrahman Ambo Dalle and
Muhammad Abduh Pabbaja, mentioned earlier, attended native elementary
schools established by the Dutch in the morning and madrasah in the after-
noon and evening. Ambo Dalle, who would become the leader of the Dar
al-Da’wah wa al-­Irsyad school and association, studied at a village school and
later at the HIS, where he learned some Dutch and Buginese. After graduat-
ing from the HIS, he continued his education at a teachers’ training school
run by Sarekat Islam, before going to Mecca and other Muslim institutions to
continue his Islamic studies (Rahman 1988). The graduates of these schools
became actively involved in the propagation of Islam as well as in the dis-
semination of information and the organisation of new activities.
Agus Salim, the Sarekat Islam leader discussed earlier, was another prod-
uct of Islamic, Malay, and colonial schools.9 He read and wrote in Dutch
about a variety of topics, including Islam, and used Dutch terms to address
Islamic concepts, such as ‘Allah’s godsdienst’ for the ‘religion (din) of Islam’,
‘geloofsbelijdenis’ for ‘proclamation of faith (shahadah)’ and ‘recht’ for ‘hukum’
or law. He was both appreciative and critical of Dutch scholars like Snouck
who wrote about various dimensions of Islam.10 Because of his educational
experience, Agus Salim traversed multiple intellectual worlds: West and East,
local Minangkabau and Islamic Malay, global and nationalistic. He was con-
sidered a member of the kaum terpelajar and a kiyai haji, a modernist religious
scholar. Identity categories became multiplied if not crossed and blurred.
Another indirect impact of colonial and missionary schools was the con-
flation of colonialism with Christianity. Some Muslim parents were suspi-
cious of Dutch schools, because they thought that they served colonial or
Christian interests. In Sulawesi, for instance, there were very few Muslim
Javanese or Sumatran teachers at Dutch-­organised native schools (Safwan
and Kutoyo 1980­/1: 60–3). The fact that many native teachers in these
 seculari si ng educati o n  | 265

colonial classrooms were Christians from Ambon and Manado contributed

to Muslim fears that the schools would attempt to convert their sons to
Christianity.
The British colonial approach toward Islamic education in Malaya was
different from that of the Dutch in the East Indies. In Malaya, in spite of
official non-­interference in Islamic and cultural affairs, the British adminis-
tration supported vernacular education and tolerated the spread of Islamic
education in its own sphere, in some cases in Kelantan supervising it at the
request of the sultans and the council. The British generally excluded Islamic
subjects from colonial and vernacular Malay curricula, but they too toler-
ated teaching Arabic and Islamic knowledge outside the normal hours. By
contrast, arguably in the East Indies the Dutch tightened control over Islamic
and native education (Benda 1958a: 74; Yegar 1979: 258). But this general
difference should not obscure the reality of fluctuation and difference in
British and the Dutch policies towards Arabic, Islamic, and native education.
The different discourses of education and differential impact of colonial edu-
cational policies in these neighbouring regions therefore needs to be specific
and contextual.

Favouring Western over Islamic Education in Malaya

British colonial administrators promoted modernisation of the educational

system by opening English and Malay (vernacular) schools for native elites
while allowing Indian and Chinese private schools to develop independently.
They did not have to use education as an instrument of political control as
much as the Dutch, because Malaya was less demographically diverse than
the East Indies. Both English and Malay were commonly used as the medium
of instruction. Yet British administrators and scholars did develop their own
conception of what a modern education should mean for the native, but
they assumed that the cultural environment of the native was not conducive
to their becoming completely modern. British administrators agreed that
Malays would remain ‘ignorant and superstitious’ unless they were ‘modern-
ised’, and therefore wanted to transport the Malays into the modern world;
conversely, it was commonly believed that this could not be fully achieved
because Malays would never give up their past. In pragmatic terms, most
officials also felt that that educating natives could go too far because these
 266 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

could destroy Malay culture, and to a considerable extent these entrenched

beliefs shaped British policies.
The British generally perceived the typical Malay as backward, illiter-
ate and unskilled. While Raffles sought to ‘diffuse among them the light of
knowledge and the means of moral and intellectual improvements’, most
British hoped that Malays would gain a ‘material advantage’ out of their
education and become ‘better citizens and more useful members of society’
(Stevenson 1975: 57–8). They saw the need for a technical and literary educa-
tion, provided in English, to ‘enable them to take their proper place in the
administrative and commercial life of these states’ (Hashim 1996: 52–4).
Wilkinson, known for his ‘love for and sympathy with the Malay people’
(Roff 1967: 130), seemed to be ambivalent about educating them. In the
1902 report, ‘The Education of the Asiatics’, Wilkinson called for reforming
the education of the Malays by changing their mentality and habits, includ-
ing reading, as well as changing textbooks such as the hikayat, ‘traditional’
histories that were no longer relevant for modern Malay pupils.11
Appointed Inspector of Schools in the Federated Malay States in 1903,
Wilkinson not only established English-­language schools that Malays could
attend, but advocated that Malays should be selected for government employ-
ment solely on their merit. He systematised the system of granting scholar-
ships and educational allowances to Malays and made the scholarships and
allowances tenable in future. He also led the examination of the working
details of the schools such as classes, curriculum, buildings, allowances, and
accommodation (Stevenson 1975: 179–81).
He observed that Englishmen and Malays differed in their views of the
nature of religion. For the former, theology was only one of several branches of
knowledge. For the latter, theology encompassed all knowledges (Wilkinson
1906: 6). Modern Christians had embraced science, and would embrace
scripture, too, but only as two separate sources of knowledge. Wilkinson
contrasted this attitude, and that of modern Christian education, with that
of Muslim schools, which did not teach science despite Islam’s high level
of civilisation in ‘medieval times’. By saying that Muslims only focused on
theology in their schools, Wilkinson meant that they honestly chose to base
‘their reasoning upon God’s word rather than upon the fallible experiments
and observations of men’. And ‘even the well-­read Malay is generally ignorant
 seculari si ng educati on  | 267

or owes his information to English sources. To him history is a branch of

theology­. . . European methods of classifying snakes are far too technical
to be expected of any Asiatic race, however observant.’ On the other hand,
he did not want to criticise ‘too severely this mental attitude; it is bad for
scientific research but has the merit of creating earnest and devoted men’.
The average Malay, he said, would be more interested in traditional medicine,
divination, and black magic because these concerned ‘his health, prosperity,
and wealth more than his intellect’ (Wilkinson 1906: 43, 61–4). For him,
Malay Muslims­– ­who, as outlined in one of his notes, included Indonesian
Muslims, since both were part of the ‘Asiatic’ or, more generally, an ‘Eastern’
race­– ­had no tradition of science and technology, considered a fact radically
different from European Christians.
Although some Malay Muslims were in pursuit of ‘religious knowledge’
as a specialty, Wilkinson argued that they were not interested in science. He
noted that some educated Malays who devoted themselves to the ‘more ortho-
dox studies of religion, Arabic, Malay, and mysticism’, were found in Mecca
or in Cairo and Constantinople. However, there were only a very few centres
of ‘theological study’ in the Peninsula, despite religious teachers with ‘bands
of earnest disciplines’ and controversies between rival mosques (Wilkinson
1906: 78–9). His observation that Muslims were actually directed away from
science conforms to his main argument that European Christian education
with stress on science was essentially secular, whereas that of Muslims was
religious. These differences in attitude could well be a deterrent in any effort
to recruit Britons to teach English, history, and literature to Malays: ‘It is not
too much to say that the average Englishman resident in the Malay Peninsula
would consider it waste of time to attend to what he terms “native preju-
dices”’ (81). For Wilkinson, there was ‘a certain antagonism between the
new schools and the old teaching’ (Wilkinson cited in Hashim 1996: 58–9).
Wilkinson became more optimistic than other British colonial admin-
istrators about the possibility of modernising Malays, arguing that archaic
customs would die out naturally as Malays sought a modern education
(Wilkinson 1925a: 73). In his view, Malays did not have to choose between
modernity and tradition, but could use both in pursuing their objectives of
unity and progress. Wilkinson favoured a vernacular education for primary
schools, but he was responsible for implementing a new federal scheme aimed
 268 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

at producing English-­educated Malays for service in the government that

surpassed anything before it in scope, organisation and vision (Stevenson
1975: 168).
The colonial regime frequently expressed a desire to increase the number
of schools and teachers and improve the curricula and facilities available to
the native population, but cultural and socio-­political obstacles made some
pessimistic about the future. Defending the record of colonial education,
however, Winstedt noted that the modern educational system that began in
Malay elementary schools had ‘produced Malays who have taken honours
at Cambridge and have been called to the bar and qualified as doctors and
engineers’. He also contended that the British encouraged emancipation of
Malay women by education and example, contending that Malay women had
become sufficiently advanced to enter politics, ‘in spite of being Muslims’.
Believing that a secular, modern education readied Malays for ‘the battle of
life’, Winstedt anticipated continuing social progress, but argued that this
would depend upon the extension of ‘all types of education suited to local
needs’ and upon satisfactory political and economic conditions (Winstedt
1947: 176–7).
Thus, British scholars and Advisers exhibited their varied attitudes
toward Malay education. In some cases, they were ‘reluctant modernizers’,
but in other cases, they became keen, serious advocates. While they advocated
the need to bring the native population into the modern world, they saw
a Western-­style education as something that would be beneficial to only a
limited number of Malays. Indeed, Malays themselves did not flock to enter
government schools and, in later years, as Winstedt looked back over his time
in Malaya, he acknowledged that ‘little enthusiasm was shown for the new
learning (Winstedt 1969a: 68).

Teaching English and Malay in Malaya

Similar to the Dutch system, schools were named according to governmental

status, the ethnic origin of the students who attended them (for example,
British or Malay), level (elementary, secondary, higher) and overall subject
matter (academic or vocational). The colonial government made an attempt
to preserve the balance between higher and lower standards of education and
the local educational and employment needs. To this end, they tried to obtain
 seculari si ng educati on  | 269

information concerning the social and economic background of the coun-

tries peopled by ‘three races’: Malays, mostly agriculturalists; Chinese, mostly
industrialists; and Indians, mostly workers mainly on the Rubber States. They
were making preparations also to establish a university in Malaya.12
Throughout Malaya, a primary education was provided in English,
Malay, Chinese, or Indian languages, depending on the school. The Malay
schools were free and maintained by the government. They prepared boys
for entry into English schools and gave those who preferred to remain in the
villages basic instruction in the ‘three Rs’ (reading, writing, and arithmetic),
geography, Malay history, tropical hygiene, gardening, poultry-­keeping, and
general handiwork. Malay girls studied the same subjects with appropriate
modifications. English schools were those in which English was the sole
medium of instruction, although they admitted pupils of every ethnicity, the
majority of whom were Chinese. The government ran most of the second-
ary schools, with the aim of having students pass the Cambridge School
Certificate examination (Winstedt 1948: 133).
In 1900, the government issued a policy on regular attendance for Malay
children at government vernacular schools. The government also issued the
Standards of Examination for a variety of subjects such as Reading, Writing,
Arithmetic, Composition, and Geography. For example, Geography,
Standard III has ‘First ideas of a map. Geography of the Malay Peninsula
and Asia’, and Standard IV and Ex-­Standard has ‘Geography of the World
in general and in Southeast Asia in particular. Map of the Malay Peninsula’
(Stevenson 1975: 208–11).
British and Malay educators collaborated on standardising the curricula
and pedagogy used in English and Malay schools. In primary schools, teach-
ers taught English, arithmetic, geography, history, handwork, hygiene, physi-
cal training, and mathematics. At secondary schools, they taught science,
which comprised physics, biology, and chemistry. They were expected to
teach different subjects using different methods: memorisation and practice
for English and Latin, logic and exercises for mathematics, and observations
and experiments for science (Hashim 1996: 52).
 270 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

Teaching Modernity in Kelantan

Kelantan offers an example of the collaboration between colonial admin-

istrators and their Malay counterparts, for both English and Malay men
were appointed Superintendents of Education. Their job was to oversee the
education of the Malays. The appointment of W. A. Graham as the British
Adviser in Kelantan in 1903 saw the founding of the first government Malay
school, headed by a Malay Muhammad Ghazali. Soon afterwards a govern-
ment grant provided for mixed secular and religious education at the central
mosque. Another British Adviser opened four new Malay schools in Kota
Bharu, with a total enrolment of 1,960 and an average daily attendance of
74 per cent over the following seventeen years. Kota Bharu alone had forty
Malay teachers and thirty-­two Malay schools. Another British Adviser passed
an enactment to make attendance in government schools required, although
in most non-­governmental schools in the state no compulsion was consid-
ered necessary. Funding for government schools and students and salaries
for teachers was also increased.13 In 1927, another British Adviser, W. M.
Millington, observed that the Malays demanded a ‘better education’. Though
he wished to have all government offices staffed by educated Malays, this was
not possible for lack of funds (Millington 1927: 10–11).
In the words of another British Adviser for Kelantan, Reginald Clayton,
in 1930, ‘the peasant be equipped mentally and physically to carry out the
work of his forefathers more efficiently and with better results­. . . [Every
young Malay boy should] do as his father had done and­. . . do it better;
to produce more, to sell it at a better advantage, and to be freed from the
limitations of ignorance, superstition, and disease.’14 In this context, school-
ing could be provided completely in Malay, since (it was argued) English
education for the majority of the inhabitants would not be conducive to the
happiness of the people or the welfare of the state.15
In 1934, another British Adviser, William D. Barron, reported satisfac-
tory progress in all the government-­funded schools, including the English
girls’ schools. By that year, government schools numbered 65, with a total of
3,504 boys and 202 girls.16 In 1935, in collaboration with the British, MAIK
maintained one English class in the morning, one class for Malay language
and religious instructions for children in the afternoon, and also one class for
 seculari si ng educati o n  | 271

Arabic and religious instructions for the adult. This shows that the religious
establishment worked to modernise education in the state, although stand-
ards did not reach those of more established English schools in the Straits
Settlements and the Federated Malay States.17
Regarding primary and secondary schools, the British considered educat-
ing girls a crucial factor in modernising education in Malaya. They estab-
lished separate girls’ schools to that end, but found that progress was much
slower than they had expected. In the Straits Settlements in the 1910s, British
administrators found that ‘compulsory education for girls is considered to
be out of the question, and it is a very slow business and apparently as far
as the Malays are concerned, a hopeless one, to persuade the people into
voluntarily sending girls to school’.18 In Kelantan, in the 1930s, however,
the British administrator realised ‘a growing and most satisfactory readiness
to allow girls to attend vernacular schools’.19 Kelantan then established the
Government English Girls’ School for daughters of British residents and
Malay government officials. The school was intended ‘to train girls to be
alert and quick minded and to become suitable housewife for Malay officers
who have received higher education rather than to seek any high standard of
technical education’ (cited in Guat 1996).

Changing Attitudes toward Islamic Education

Unlike the Dutch, the British did not regulate Islamic schools and teachers,
but ‘advised’ the sultans and Malay administrators when needed or requested.
While this ‘advice’ was in many cases mandated, the British generally kept
their promise of non-­interference with respect to religious education. Arabic
and Islamic subjects were not included in governmental vernacular schools,
since they were considered irrelevant for British modernisation projects,
although they could be freely taught outside.
British scholar-­administrators made sure that their educational pro-
jects in the Straits Settlements and Federated Malay States were thoroughly
secular. They had no desire, and were officially not allowed, to create reli-
gious and Arabic classes. Initially, some Qur’anic and Arabic instruction
was included in some English and Malay schools. One British Adviser even
recommended that those who taught the Qur’an should be given sufficient
compensation to assure their retention and the continuing attendance of
 272 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

Muslim students in government schools. However, when the British intro-

duced secular education, they gave little attention to Qur’anic teachings.
When influential villagers were engaged as Qur’an teachers, it was on the
understanding that they would collect pupils for these novel village schools
(Winstedt 1969a: 67–8). Following his comparison of education policies in
Java and the Philippines, Winstedt in fact recommended that the Qur’an no
longer be taught in Malay schools.20 While advocating compulsory educa-
tion for Malay boys in vernacular government schools, Winstedt proposed
delegating any Islamic instruction to the ‘ulama since ‘the Koran classes were
introduced originally, I believe, to attract pupils; and such inducement is
no longer required’ (Winstedt cited in Hashim 1996: 59–60). As a result,
no Qur’an classes and little or no moral instruction were offered in govern-
ment schools (Winstedt in Ahmad 1991­/2: 13), and Islamic subjects were
not re-­introduced until the Educational Ordinance of 1957 (Shafie n.d.:
4). Although Winstedt held that government money would be better spent
in providing scholarships for students to study in Egypt where the colleges
‘teach a liberal and enlightened form of Muhammadanism’ (Winstedt cited
in Hashim 1996: 60), there was no scholarship given for this purpose. With
the omission of Qur’an classes, Malay vernacular schools thus became more
secular.
Winstedt’s recognition of a reformed Islam at Al-­Azhar University in
Cairo shows that he recognised ‘a liberal kind of Islamic education’, but his
main preoccupation was for Malay governmental schools to remain free from
religion. He regarded Qur’anic study as a serious handicap for a Malay, who
had to strain to learn to read the Qur’an because it was written in Arabic, a
‘foreign language he does not understand’ (Winstedt 1969a: 67). For him,
Arabic was far less important than Malay because the latter was the means for
the Malays to learn how to read and write their own language in both Jawi
and Rumi.
In Kelantan, however, under certain conditions the British allowed non-­
regular religious classes to be conducted. For example, the private Malay
schools were described as ‘religious classes’. In 1935, the five Malay schools
had religious classes from 2.00 p.m. to 5.00 p.m. during school days. The
government paid the teachers, and because the ‘State religion is Islam and
almost all the pupils in the Malay schools are Malays’, the government felt
 secula ri si ng educa ti on  | 273

the need to establish religious classes in the government schools having more
than 100 pupils. 21

Repercussions and Responses in Malaya

British colonial education stressed a distinct ethnic culture (English, Malay,

Chinese, Indian) and helped conserve separate group identities. However,
individuals from these groups attended English courses, and this contributed
to a common experience, especially among the elite. At the same time, educa-
tional administrators such as Wilkinson helped disseminate Malay language
in Latin script accessible to the Chinese and Indians who became increasingly
regarded as part of the Malayan landscape (Andaya and Andaya 2001: 235–7,
240). These convergent and divergent tendencies were the crucial impacts of
the complex, often ambiguous, colonial education. Although Islam­– ­as taught
in the pondok and madrasah, normatively served as a unifying factor among
diverse ethnic groups, the mainstream cultural framework that equated being
Malay with being Muslim was fostered by the British educational system,
either through colonial inactivity (Andaya and Andaya 2001: 240–1) or
through colonial interference in the administration of some aspects of Malay
and Islamic affairs at the request of the Malay rulers themselves.
Like the Dutch, the British educational system brought about the emer-
gence of a new intellectual elite (kaum cerdik pandai) whose background
and interests varied, but they remained the producers of ethnic difference.
The new elite groups included Arab-­educated religious reformers, the largely
Malay-­educated radical intelligentsia, and the English-­educated administra-
tors recruited mainly from the traditional ruling class (Roff 1967: 211). In
Kelantan, some of the Malay and English-­educated students became activists
of clubs and organisations and writers for new periodicals, such as Abdul
Kadir Adabi whom we discussed in Chapter III. New social classes were
formed. But more than the Dutch, the British educational system helped
preserve ethnic polarisation, which was also responsible for an enduring
ethnicity-­based political system.
Malay attitudes toward English and Malay schools differed and were
often ambivalent. There were cases where Malay parents reacted against colo-
nial schools out of fear of Christianisation, and some would only send their
children ‘on condition that the Koran was taught for half a day’ (Stevenson
 274 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

1975: 120–1). In some cases, ordinary Malays showed their distrust of ‘for-
eign education’, especially if this entailed studying under infidel teachers
(although Malays were among the teachers in vernacular schools). They
did not see the relevance of secular education to their rural lives, and the
vernacular education in urban areas was not accessible to many villagers.
However, it is worth noting that the fear of Christianisation was not salient
in Kelantan. Unlike Pulau Pinang (Straits Settlements), which had branches
of the London Missionary Society, the Roman Catholics and the American
Methodists, Kelantan rarely received Christian missionaries and did not
witness the establishment of Protestant or Catholic schools, apart from a
Presbyterian church built in Kota Bharu in 1939 (Guat 1996).
Parents and their children increasingly saw the need for both religious
and secular sciences. Local nobility tended to embrace English education,
either in some part of their schooling or throughout their entire education,
and it could be argued that to some degree this served a self-­interested purpose
of keeping their aristocratic status intact. As an example, in 1931, following
their studies in English schools, two nephews of the Sultan of Kelantan,
Tengku Abdullah and Tengku Indra Petra, were sent to England for further
education. Other Kelantanese boys continued their schooling in Penang and
Singapore.22
There was a demand for more modern education. In Kelantan, the kaum
muda promoted Islamic courses in government schools. As a step towards
progress, Pengasuh urged the Kelantan Government to provide more financial
support for Malay students to go overseas and study in Oxford or Cambridge.
Pengasuh also proposed that any graduate of the prestigious Kuala Kangsar
college be funded to continue his studies in Hong Kong or Europe. In order
to reduce negative perceptions of secular education among Malay parents,
Pengasuh also recommended that religious knowledge be taught in English
government schools (Hassan 1998­/9).
Both internal and external pressures and challenges shaped the mind of
Malay ‘ulama, the youth and their parents. While students were very keen
to study the different branches of Islamic knowledge, the opening of new
government jobs with the prospect of higher incomes and even higher social
status led more and more to seek places in the few available government
schools.23 A new and different kind of modernity was introduced and popu-
 seculari si ng educati o n | 275

larised by the British, but also by willing Malay youth and the Sultan, who
saw no contradiction between Islamic theological and ritual conservatism
and secular progressivism. Malay reformers such as Jalaluddin, Al-­Hadi, and
Kenali, whom we discussed earlier, embraced the pursuit of modern science
and useful skills, justifying this on the basis of Islamic textual doctrines that
condoned the acquisition of worldly as well as spiritual knowledge. Islamic
reformers and colonial modernisers were not necessarily in conflict, despite
some mutual ambivalence. British colonial educational discourse and policies
shaped the diversification of Malay authority and identity on the basis of
education and ethnicity, while encouraging the proliferation of local activities
working for social mobility.

Conclusion

Edward Said’s work and historical studies in the East Indies and Malaya
have tended to regard colonial educational ideas and institutions as focus-
ing on their hegemony over Islamic and indigenous traditions of learning.
This chapter, however, has attempted to explore diversity, compromises and
exceptions among the colonialists toward European, vernacular, Arabic, and
Islamic education. Colonial politics of inclusion and exclusion led to the sec-
ularisation of education in the Indonesian-­Malay world and influenced the
forms of knowledge that would be considered modern and thus worth teach-
ing. Dutch and British educators and Western-­educated intellectuals helped
establish and intensify binary oppositions between Eastern and Western,
native­/vernacular and European, religion­/culture and science, and traditional
and modern. The segregation of different types of knowledge (together with
their associated types of authority and identity) by category was not merely
for convenience in structuring educational curricula. A Western, secular edu-
cation became perceived as modern, while Islamic knowledge was categorised
as religious and traditional. In many instances, however, colonial adminis-
trators vacillated in their policies towards vernacular languages, Arabic and
Islamic religious subjects, from minimising its place and impact on native life
to tolerating its teaching outside colonial education. Some colonials became
‘reluctant modernisers’, while others were more keen, depending on their
interests and local circumstances as they saw them.
To the degree that the colonial educational system influenced the
 276 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

o­rganisation and curricula in Muslim and native schools, it nevertheless

contributed to the overall modernisation processes in the Indonesian-­Malay
archipelago. Colonial promotion of the teaching of girls in schools contrib-
uted to an increased desire among Muslims reformers to also educate their
girls and women.
Edward Said has argued that colonial education promoted European
national histories, while relegating native history and culture and subjugat-
ing the native elite and people. Despite collaboration, European colonialism
preserved the divide between native and Westerner (Said 1994: 223, 264).
This argument is apt, but qualifications should be made. Not all colonial
administrators and educators sought to devalue native history and culture.
Not all colonialists were keen and optimistic about modernising natives. In
many cases, the Dutch and the British helped preserve local languages and
at the expense of Arabic and Islamic subjects in their supported vernacular
schools. They distinguished Islamic and Arabic from local identities, and
differentiated between global history and local history. At the same time,
Muslim reformers demonstrated their agency in promoting modern Islamic
education combining the religious (including Arabic) and the secular or in
maintaining the teaching of Islamic knowledge and Arabic very often inde-
pendently of colonial intervention. The native Muslims did not necessarily
feel subordinated when teaching and learning in their pondoks or madrasahs,
as discussed in the previous chapter. Colonial and Islamic modernities dif-
fered in their relative emphases on religious and local customary knowledge,
but coincided and complemented each other in terms of teaching scientific
or secular forms of knowledge, and in their organisational structure and
vocabularies. European educational policies and Islamic educational reform
became often independent of each other, but in other times became closely
intertwined in modernising the Indonesian-­Malay world. Despite the ambiv-
alences and tensions, colonial and Muslim educators shared a common desire
to improve literacy and overall human well-­being in the modernising world.

Notes
  1. This law was signed on 28 September 1892 by Colonial Minister Van Dedem.
Departement van Onderwijs en Eeredienst (1919), Oendang-­Oendang Sekolah
 seculari si ng educati on  | 277

Jaitoe pada Menjatakan Peratoeran Hal Pengajaran Boemipoetera, Weltevreden:

Drukkerij F. B. Smits.
 2. Indisch Verslag, 1937, Statistisch voor 1936, 1938: 84–5.
 3. Indisch Verslag, 1937, Statistisch voor 1936, 1938: 88–9.
  4. Departement van Onderwijs en Eeredienst 1919: 5, 12.
  5. Departement van Onderwijs en Eeredienst 1919: 15–16.
 6. Het Departement van Binnenlandsch-­ Bestuur (1920), Het Departement
van Binnenlandsch-­Bestuur, Handleiding ten Dienste van De Inlandsche
Bestuursambtenaren op Java en Madoera, No.37­ /O.E., Mohammedaansch-­
Inlandsche Zaken, Batavia: Drukkerij Ruygrok & Co., 1920, 13.
  7. M. Ask Hidajat, ‘Pemerentah dan Onderwijs’, Al-­Wafd, No. 1, January 1933,
Year 2; Iriswati, ‘Nog Eens Over ‘Wilde Scholen Ordonnantie’,’ Het Licht, No.
11, 10 January 1933, Year 8.
 8. Interview with Abu Hamid, 5 July 2005, the Rector of Universitas 45,
Makassar.
  9. Salim cited in Hadler (2008: 87–8).
10. Salim, ‘De Sluiering en Afzondering der Vrouw’, Madjalah Het Licht, Year 2,
1926, in Salim (1954: 167–75).
11. Wilkinson, The Education of Asiatics, 1901­/2, in Special Reports on Educational
Subjects, vol. 8, 687.
12. Sir William McLean, ‘Education and British Colonial Policy: Some Problems of
Malaya’, published for the Bureau of Educational Research, Howard University,
1 July 1946.
13. KAR, 1911–1924, D­/Suk 2­/14.1.ANM.
14. ARK, 1930, 30.
15. ARK, 1930, 31.
16. Government of Kelantan, Enactment No. 5 of 1934, The Sultanate Lands
Enactment, signed by W. D. Barron as the British Adviser and the Sultan,
ANM.
17. The 1935 Annual Report of the Department of Education, BAK, 1936, ANM.
18. Annual Report Straits Settlements and the Federated Malay States 1910, m.290,
ANM; Guat (1996).
19. ARK, 1936, m.43, ANM.
20. BAK, 1914, No. file 329­/1914, Annual Report of 1913, Education Department,
ANM.
21. The 1935 Annual Report of the Department of Education, BAK, 1936, ANM.
22. Government of Kelantan, Enactment No. 5 of 1934, The Sultanate Lands
 278 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

Enactment, signed by W. D. Barron as the British Adviser and the Sultan, ANM,
26–32.
23. ‘Apakah Tujuan Murid Sekolah’, Pengasuh, nos 297 and 298, 15 Shafar 1349
H­/11 July 1930.
 Conclusion

Al-­muhafazah ‘ala al-­qadim al-­salih wa al-­akhz bi al-­jadid al-­aslah. [A.

Retaining the good from the past, adopting a better present.]
(Arabic saying cited by Wahid 1999: 80)

The historical perspective can make an important contribution towards

understanding how modernity’s universalism has been successively trans-
lated in Southeast Asia so that being modern can be paradoxically both
global and local.
(Andaya 1997: 406)

The history of each of our own lives is generally and characteristically

embedded in and made intelligible in terms of the larger and longer histo-
ries of a number of traditions.
(MacIntyre 2007: 222)

I n a keynote address to the International Research Conference on

Muhammadiyah (IRCM) in Indonesia in 2012, Ahmad Syafi’i Maarif,
drawing attention to the tension between Islamic nationalism and Western
colonialism, argued that ‘Islam, as a liberating force, shared the nationalist
ideal of freedom from any alien domination, both politically and militarily’.1
In contemporary Malaysia, British colonialism is seen as being responsible
for Christianisation, cultural imperialism, intellectual warfare, secularism, and
Westernisation (Al-­Attas 1985; Abdullah: 2005). Even the Muslim advocates
of a progressive Islam, such as Abdullah Ahmad Badawi, then Prime Minister
of Malaysia and the chairman of the Organisation of Islamic Conference
(OIC), a grouping of fifty-­seven countries, had to emphasise a long history
of antagonism between Europeans and Muslims. He said, ‘Muslim nations

279
 280 | i slam and col o nia l is m

fell under the European colonial yoke. They lost their sovereignty, and their
people lost their freedom. Their resources were exploited and plundered.’2 The
preceding chapters have demonstrated the multiple ways in which Muslim
reformers and European colonial administrators and scholars differed but also
coexisted in formulating progress and pursuing reform and modernisation in
Indonesia and Malaya. It has been argued that the colonial powers did not
necessarily oppose Islam and local customs, and that Islamic reformers did
not always resist Western colonial rule and the processes of modernisation and
localisation. An emphasis on Muslim agency shows that reformers rarely felt
subjugated as they sought to build ummah, serve the religion and contribute to
the larger Islamic community through organisations, publications, legal opin-
ions, and education. In becoming modern, the Dutch and British modernisers
and Indonesian and Malay reformers often addressed and judged local and
foreign customs in ways that were both contending and coexisting.

Multiple Modernities: Contending and Coexisting

The idea of comparative modernity, or comparative modernisation, provides

a useful departure point for understanding multiple definitions and expres-
sions of being modern in different cultural contexts. Modernity should not
be defined so broadly that it includes every notion of newness, nor so nar-
rowly that it cannot capture all of the diverse meanings that it evokes. Many
Europeans and Asians spoke of modernity as if it were emblematic of a
new epoch, an age of progress or zaman kemajuan. Many Muslim reformers
conceptualised this development as a stage in the linear evolution of worldly
affairs, while others saw it in terms of an Islamic perception of time, as a
progression from a pre-­Islamic or non-­Islamic age of ignorance to a modern
age that would be marked by greater spiritual understanding within the new
organisational, political, legal, and educational circumstances. To native
Muslims, Dutch and English terms and organisations were new and modern,
but to other native Muslims, Arabic, Javanese or even socialist Russian were
new and thus modern.
Modernity has thus been defined in the singular as marking an age pro-
gress and often as a uniquely Western concept especially by the Dutch and
the English colonial administrators and scholars, or­– ­as argued in this book­–
­with manifold connotations as different agencies understand progress toward
 conclusi on | 281

a better future in multiple ways. In other words, modernity becomes singular

when interpreted as a conscious universalising effort, but it becomes plural
when localised in accordance with the dynamics of particular situations. In
the Netherlands East Indies and British Malaya, modernity was first caught
up in the descriptive vocabulary of practice, such as Islam moderen, kemajuan
and ilmu umum, but has since been integrated into the language of analysis
used by contemporary intellectuals, for whom it is associated with new types
of social organisation, technological and scientific advances, and more demo-
cratic forms of government. Modernities are often about making claims,
but it is more than that. It involves programmes of institutionalisation and
bureaucratisation, as well as cultural and social identities and norms pertinent
to one’s dynamic relations with past, present and future.
Europan colonialism and Islamic reform played their role in formulat-
ing and enacting modernities. Comparatively speaking, native populations
demonstrated more diverse notions of the modern than the colonial powers.
The elite and people’s openness and willingness to selectively borrow external
ideas (Arabic, European, other locales) was the key characteristic of their
multiple modernities. People were increasingly eclectic in their sources of
information and activities. The Dutch and the British tended to understand
modernity in particularly ‘Western’ (or even Dutch or English only) terms,
although some recognised the modern in some aspects of Islam and of the
indigenous. Their encounters with the Islamic and the native shaped their
understandings of modernity and projects of modernisation.
In many cases, Europeans and local ethnic groups conflicted or competed
for various reasons. Some religion historians have argued that conflict and
competition were integral parts of the early makings of Jewish, Christian and
Muslim societies due to limited knowledge of the other, a lack of contact,
rejection or fear (Peters 2003). By the late nineteenth century the Europeans’
sense of superiority, which had played a major role in relations with Muslims,
received new responses among Islamic scholars and activists, who called for
unity and reform of the ummah, but who worked in their localities as individ-
uals or groups. In Indonesia and Malaya, the universalising project of colonial
powers collided with Islam’s universalism as Muslim students and pilgrims
returned from Mecca and Cairo to promote da’wah among their compatriots.
In these circumstances, a degree of confrontation was inevitable. Energised
 282 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

by religious zeal, some Muslim reformers perceived Europeans as infidels

(kafirs) and enemies of Islam. Driven by imperial zeal, Europeans perceived
natives or ‘Asians’ as backward and uncivilised. Modernities clashed when
the actors demonstrated superiority of their own religious or racial identi-
ties and when they used or were perceived to have used force or imposition.
Modernities also conflicted when one party felt discriminated by the other
party or when one lost their sense of ownership and belonging due to the
other’s forceful intervention.
Because colonial modernisation was often linked to Christianisation,
Dutch and British administrators and scholars had to position Christianity
in the context of a non-­Christian population. Local Muslims, too, came
to associate Christianity with colonialism. But, although all the Dutch and
British individuals discussed in this book came from Christian backgrounds,
Christianisation was by no means their shared objective. At the same time,
colonial views of Christianity were diverse; for some it was of marginal rel-
evance in the actual implementation of government, while others viewed
Christian values as underscoring the priorities of modernising regimes that
they aimed to establish. Interactions between colonial agents and agendas in
which modernity was informed by a Christianised base became more complex
in the presence of Muslim reformers. A minority of Muslim activists rejected
any compromise with Christianity, which they equated with European colo-
nialism. Others found confrontation unnecessary and even sought to emulate
Western Christian models of health care, legal system, education, and social
welfare. Still others, focusing on Islam and theological, ritualistic and legalis-
tic schools of thought, considered Christianity to be irrelevant.
However, such conflicts, whether perceived or real, were not the only
result of encounters between European Christians and Muslims in Indonesia
and Malaya. Their worlds were often entwined, and their futures were shared
when they sought to reform society. European colonialists and Muslim
reformers did not clash in all situations. Islam and European colonialism
coexisted without confrontation in numerous contexts and in some cases even
collaborated. It is not difficult to track open and tolerant attitudes, mutual
recognition of the rule of law, selective borrowing of languages and organisa-
tional models, and cooperation in working towards the goal of improving the
 conclusi on | 283

basic conditions of life for people. There were also overlaps, ambivalences and
compromises as well as indifference and autonomy.
Opportunities for cooperation arose in part from the diversity of Islamic
populations and the different contexts in which the encounter with Europeans
occurred. By the turn of the twentieth century, Muslims were already divided
by geography, cultural differences and worldwide political and religious strug-
gles. As the Ottoman caliphate declined, European colonial powers carved up
the already fragmented Muslim lands. In practical terms, it became impos-
sible for Muslims to be unified under Islam. The Saudi Government that
controlled Mecca and Medina promoted a puritanist, unifying Islam that
paradoxically divided Muslims even further and exacerbated tensions around
cultural differences in the global ummah. Furthermore, neither the Ottoman
nor Saudi governments offered Muslim communities feasible models for gov-
ernment, politics, law or education. Educated Muslims in Cairo and Mecca
studied authoritative Islamic knowledge, but not science, technology, law,
economy, or administration.
By the time that colonial powers had gained control of predominantly
Muslim lands in the early twentieth century, Muslim traditional leaders felt
little need to confront Europeans administratively, politically, legally or edu-
cationally. In both the Netherlands East Indies and British Malaya local rulers
recognised the need for a government that could respond to the demands of
the times. Muslim students and teachers who became advocates of reform
regarded colonial modernisation projects as necessary for the improvement
of local government, law, education, and the economy. They did not view
modernisation of these domains as likely to cause any fundamental harm
to their religious beliefs and institutions. Muslim leaders, scholars, activists,
writers and teachers felt that they ‘could retain the good from the past and
adopt a beneficial present in order to generate a better future’.3
Islamisation and colonial modernisation were able to coexist more or
less peacefully in many cases. It is evident that in these contexts different
patterns of modernity overlapped rather than conflicted because European
modernisers and Muslim reformers shared certain goals, such as improving
living conditions and bringing order, justice and literacy to local populations.
European colonial powers and Muslim reformers often worked together or
in parallel endeavours. They shared governing responsibilities in councils
 284 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

comprised of both colonisers and representatives of the colonised. In other

cases, the native elite, most of whom were Muslim, served as officials and
advisors in the colonial system. Overlapping authority occurred on numer-
ous occasions; in Kelantan, for example, reformers and the sultan created the
Council of Religion and Custom, working alongside the British-­created State
Council, and Muslims turned to British advisors for technical assistance, in
various public matters, including the religious and the cultural when neces-
sary. In such situations, Europeans worked with local elites to manage the
local population, who were subject to the authority of both the colonial
government and the sultan.
Because of this collaboration, many Muslim reformers under colonial
rule were not preoccupied with jihad as a major pillar of Islam. For some,
certainly it was still defined as war against infidels, but others interpreted it in
terms of da’wah (religious mission), fatwa (legal thought) or ta’lim (teaching).
Muslim reformists also worked in the political domain often interpreting
the Arabic concept of siyasah, sometimes the Dutch and English concepts of
politics. In the East Indies, call for progress was expressed through ‘consti-
tutional’ means by demanding the rights of native peoples. Other Muslims
were involved in politics only to the extent that they were informed about
contemporary issues; they did not participate in political parties. Regional
differences also came into play; in South Sulawesi, local movements either
accepted the Java-­and Sumatra-­based organisations or created their own.
In British Malaya, Anglo-­Malay Sultan alliance helps explain why Muslim
actors were rarely interested in creating community-­based organisations or in
building political parties during this time.
Colonial authorities adapted European forms of government and politics
to local contexts by incorporating certain Islamic and indigenous concepts
and structures. Nonetheless, while they attempted to find compatibility
between the West and the East, or the modern and the traditional, this was
to be on their own terms. For their part, Muslim reformers served Islamic
ummah by establishing community organisations in their localities and by
selectively borrowing Western vocabularies and organisation. The ultimate
goal was always to serve their religion (often using the concepts of agama
or din) and the nation expressed as qawm (kaum) or bangsa as well as the
territoriality-­based watan and negeri. In tolerating and even accepting some
 conclusi on | 285

Western policies, Muslims drew upon earlier Islamic ideas of shari’ah and
ilmu. Although they differed on what exactly law and education meant to
their respective audiences, there was some correspondence with colonial
policies. To be a reformed Muslim was to be scriptural and connected to the
past and imagined religious communities, yet to be adaptable, patriotic and
modern. Muslim reformers thought beyond mere Islamic global unity and
mere nationhood; they envisaged and worked for progress and prosperity
through organisation, social order, justice, literacy and scientific development
in their homelands.
Questions regarding the application of colonial law in a majority Muslim
society also loomed large as colonial bureaucracies expanded. European
colonialists defined Western law as regular, fixed, rational and practical,
but strove to make it work within the diverse and irregular legal systems of
local cultures. The introduction of procedures that replaced, transformed or
augmented existing Islamic legal traditions was particularly evident when
Muslim reformers lacked requisite administrative knowledge and experience.
The development of a hybrid system was made easier because local interpreta-
tions of shari’ah had proved sufficiently broad to incorporate practices that
local cultures valued. Some Muslims accepted the hybrid legal system that
evolved, while others compromised by producing fatwas on socio-­religious
issues, which they expounded in mosques and published in newspapers
and periodicals. In Kelantan and elsewhere in Malaya, British administra-
tors reformed civil and criminal laws, but left local authorities to modernise
other laws. The sultan and official ‘ulama strengthened their authority over
matters deemed religious and customary, such as Islamic teaching, ritual,
marriage and inheritance. The Council of Religion and Custom made the
fatwas binding through enacting punishments such as imprisonment or fines
for committing religious sins. In matters other than the religious and the
customary, Malay Muslims would generally follow colonial laws. In short,
jurisprudential politics was not necessarily confrontational, since Europeans
and Muslim reformers agreed that, to be effective, laws must change accord-
ing to the demands of the times.
In the field of education, also departmentalised, Europeans promoted
the idea that modernity involved schooling that emphasised rational knowl-
edge and scientific understanding. Muslim reformers believed that Islam and
 286 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

s­cience were compatible and that seeking religion (din or akhirah) did not
mean giving up dunya, but admitted that Muslims had been left behind by
the scientific progress of the Christian West. In British Malaya the emer-
gence of modern curriculum in madrasah schools is typically contrasted with
the pondok or pesantren. Although useful, the idea of educational dualism
is complicated by the fact that even traditional schools were changing and
offering opportunities to acquire new skills. Binary divisions between tra-
ditional and modern schools emerged during the colonial time, but are also
more complex in the East Indies, where educational models supplied by
Muhammadiyah and NU and political parties such as PSII were adapted to
local societies. These also became complicated by such eclectic systems as the
vernacular schools, Dutch-­native, Anglo-­Malay, and even Malay and English
schools offering all the languages provided by the sultan and the religious
conservatives.
A feature of the new educational initiatives was the colonial division
between religious and secular concerns. As we have noted, although the place
of religion in society was never rejected, Muslim scholars and activists also
divided the world into dunya and akhirah, concepts that were not fundamen-
tally contradicted by secularising influences. Accordingly, when a modernist
Muslim school was opened, the basic teaching subjects, notably Arabic and
religious knowledge, were retained. Since ‘knowledge is vast while life is short’,
as Islamic scholar Fazlur Rahman says (Rahman 1984: 33), many Muslims­
– ­believing that their future in the hereafter was in the balance­– p
­ rioritised
religious over secular education. In many traditional pondok or pesantren
schools that operated independently and without governmental intervention
only religious subjects were taught. Colonial modernisation thus contributed
to the perpetuation of the association of the Qur’anic concept of ‘ulama with
Muslim religious scholars rather than with scholars who may include the sci-
entists and intelligentsia more generally. As a qualification, however, Muslim
modernists realised that studying secular sciences opened up wider employ-
ment opportunities, whereas those who only possessed religious knowledge
were limited to working in Islamic courts, schools or mosques.
Colonial modernisers and Muslim reformers promoted certain features
indicative of a modern society: rational thinking, literacy and access to print
media, civil engagement, acceptance of the rule of law, material progress,
 conclusi on | 287

and acceptance of beneficial change. Because they regarded ordinary villag-

ers as rooted in the past and their illiteracy and poverty, Muslim reformers
frequently shared goals similar to those embedded in the European notion of
a colonial civilising mission. They also realised the need for effective organisa-
tional tools. While agreeing on some principles, and differing on others, the
news identities­– m ­ odernists and traditionalists­– ­became part of the complex
processes associated with what was seen as a modern age, with all its oppor-
tunities, contradictions, and often unsettling juxtapositions­– ­between true
and false, old and new, indigenous and foreign, private and public, religious
and secular, political and cultural, rational and superstitious, and material
and spiritual.
Modernity can thus be defined more as a process and practice of becom-
ing modern than a definable state of being or form of self-­identification.
Both colonial and Islamic modernities were concerned with reshaping ori-
entations so that they were relevant for the here and now. Muslim reformers
conceptualised modernity as submission to God even as they became more
present-­minded and more involved in worldly matters. The engagement with
the local community through organising, preaching, writing and schooling
was itself inspired by a sense of belonging to a wider community, ummah
or nation, often replacing and sometimes coexisting with the old loyalties
to the sultan or local leadership. Offering Muslims the promise of progress
in this world, while retaining hope for an afterlife in heaven, Islam provided
Muslims with reference points for reorienting their perceptions of how soci-
ety should operate under any regime, including colonial regimes. And while
Muslim reformers used religious sources and reinterpreted religious doctrines
to meet their needs, as Max Weber put it (Weber 1958 [1921]: 270), they
were not opposed to worldly engagement. Islamic modernity can be concep-
tualised in both spiritual and material terms. It is a neither a reaction to nor
a mimicking of European modernity, but the result of a mutual interaction
between the two.
As this book has shown, colonial administrators were involved in cre-
ating new, hybrid forms of government, and with the reshaping of local
societies through education and the introduction of revised legal systems.
However, these projects were not necessarily coherent and not all adminis-
trators were agreed that modernising colonised societies was a realistic goal,
 288 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

especially given limited resources of personnel and finance. Some colonialists

believed in the power of Western ideas and institutions to transform natives
into literate and prosperous world citizens. Anthropologist Talal Asad thus
focuses on the way in which Western modernity has become so powerful that
in the East it means a singular path toward progress (Asad 2006: 291–2).
Many Dutch and British administrators generally saw modernisation as the
ideal aim of the twentieth-­century coloniser. But other European colonialists
were less optimistic and felt that any modernisation project would necessarily
be limited by the lack of resources, the nature of the native populations and
the realities of geographic distance. Indeed, many people ostensibly under a
colonial regime never personally encountered colonial authorities or partici-
pated in colonial institutions. Westernisation was also limited by the fact that
colonial and missionary influences in more remote communities were often
very weak or intermittent, especially in the East Indies (Lombard 1990: 37,
62). Accordingly, colonial modernity had both power and limitations and
had the varying results and differing interpretations of success, depending on
the cultural perspective of its agents (compare with Cooper 2005: 142–7).
Muslim reformers, too, articulated the notions of progress and modernity in
similar and different, and connected and independent, manners.
Edward Said argues that despite collaborations between natives and
Westerners, Western colonial modernisation tended to destroy Islam and
local customs, and colonial education tended to demote native history
and culture (Said 1994: 223, 264). This characteristic can be found among
the Dutch and the British in the East Indies and Malaya. But the relation-
ship is not merely about destruction. The process of making things native,
cultural, traditional or customary was not a monolithic, one-­sided process.
Europeans did not always attempt to destroy Asians and their histories and
cultures. At the same time, the Muslim reformers, not only the native bour-
geoisie that Said mentioned, played their role in making things traditional
or modern, legitimate and illegitimate. Europeans and Asians often shared
interests and projects of dealing with the traditional. This process is an inte-
gral part of becoming modern.
 conclusi on | 289

Adatisation and Modernisation as Conflicting and Entwining

The process of adatisation is the act of rendering certain ideas and prac-
tices traditional, local, vernacular or customary (adat) shared by European
modernisation and Muslim reform alike, albeit differently. Although moder-
nity is often associated with a condition of change that runs against tradi-
tion, they are by no means opposites (Salvatore 2009: 5). On his study of
Buddhist monastic education, Justin McDaniel noted that no overwhelming
and internally consistent colonial ideology attempted to change all modes
of Lao intellectual and religious expression; the French ‘were not trying
to discount the local and the present in favor of the ancient and the pan-­
Asian’ (McDaniel 2008: 42). Historical evidence from the East Indies and
Malaya show multiple powers: tradition, the secular modern and the religious
modern. Traditionalist Muslim reformers continually changed, just as mod-
ernist Muslims cited past traditions to promote progress. Southeast Asian
Muslims never rejected their own past (Andaya 1997), thereby demonstrat-
ing not only the eclectic nature of modernity, but also the hybrid character
of Islam and that of the beliefs and practices subsumed under the term ‘tradi-
tion’. The Arabic word ‘adat’, signifying custom, had already been incorpo-
rated into Malay and other Southeast Asian languages well before Europeans
arrived in the area. Adatisation, then, refers to the complex and convo-
luted ways in which ideas or practices became constructed as customary or
traditional.
One form of adatisation is related to what Wolters called localisation:
foreign ideas, practices or materials (such as books and artefacts) became
localised before being incorporated into new cultural wholes (Wolters 1999:
55–7). Muslim reformers used foreign Arabic terms such as ummah, shari’ah,
and ilm to refer to community organisation, religious law, and religious
knowledge, respectively, as part of new cultural systems. European modernis-
ers localised Dutch terms such as godsdienst and wet or recht (religion and
law) before fitting them into local religious, legal and political systems, some
of which were already Islamised. Muslim reformers also incorporated these
Dutch terms into their vocabularies together with Sanskrit and Arabic-­derived
words such as agama and hukum. Contradictions rarely arose despite varia-
tions in meaning and application of similar terms borrowed from ­different
 290 | i sla m a nd colo nia l is m

languages. In these instances, tradition or local custom served as the frame-

work within which foreign ideas and practices (Islamic, Arabic, European,
and so forth) were evaluated.
A second process of adatisation occurred when an idea or practice that
was already considered part of local adat came under moral scrutiny. In judg-
ing whether certain customs and traditions were permissible or not under
Islam, Muslim reformers often drew on sayings from the Qur’an or Prophet
Muhammad and Arabic concepts such as shirk, bid’ah or haram to justify
their decisions. In Sulawesi a telling example is the survival of the transvestite
bissu, despite modernist opposition. The local norm of siriq was reinterpreted
in light of Islamic norm. In Kelantan, the bomoh performance was judged in
terms of its compliance with the shari’ah and morality. European scholars
sometimes categorised adat practices (such as healing rituals and spirit ven-
eration) in relation to Sunni orthodoxy as well as to their own Western cul-
tural traditions. Muslim reformers (and sometimes European modernisers)
approached local practices from the perspective of normative Islam, which
sought to identify unacceptable accretions.
A third process of adatisation occurred when local customs were assessed
in terms of their compatibility with Dutch or English values and institu-
tions. Nevertheless, even when regarded as incompatible, adat practices were
still regarded as worthy of colonial study, as in the case of adatrechts in the
East Indies and the papers on Malay history and culture in British Malaya.
European colonial administrators worked with local rulers and scholars to
codify local ideas and practices.
Fourth, colonised subjects also assessed Western cultural traditions,
which they labelled as adat Barat and often associated with modern culture
(budaya moderen) in relation to their compliance with Islam and local custom.
The fatwas issued by Muslim scholars drew analogies from the Qur’an, the
hadith or medieval texts to decide whether aspects of adat Barat, such as art,
music and performance, should be prohibited or permitted.
As we have seen, in many cases it was decided that Western or local
traditions could be accommodated so long as they did not harm the faithful
or contradict the fundamental teachings of Islam. The shari’ah, in the words
of Talal Asad, ‘is the process whereby individuals are educated and educate
themselves as moral subjects in a scheme that connects the obligation to act
 conclusi on | 291

morally with the obligation to act legally in complicated ways’ (Asad 2003:
241). Among Muslim reformers, the cultivation of Islamic norms required
authoritative text (the Qur’an) and an exemplary model of the Prophet
Muhammad through the hadith as well as the authoritative literature through
the processes of interpreting for the purpose of judging the normative accept-
ability of foreign and indigenous ideas and practices.
Thus modernities are interpreted within cultural frameworks. Culture is
constitutive of modernity and the latter is linked to cultural difference (Mee
and Kahn 2012: 8–9). But the notion of cultural difference is not exclu-
sively Western. Muslims, too, demonstrate their specific cultural frameworks
in interpreting tradition and modernity. Coloniser and colonised described
tradition in different ways and undertook adatisation processes for different,
albeit not necessarily contradictory, purposes. Some Europeans, assuming
that adat was resistant to innovation or transformation, judged tradition as
good or bad depending upon whether it was supportive or an impediment
to modernisation. Other Europeans saw adat as being more tolerant than
Islam toward Westernisation. Muslim reformers, by contrast, viewed Islam
as a progressive religion and saw relevant elements of tradition as a potential
asset that could motivate local actors and facilitate the work of modern-
ising agents. They attempted to use tradition to move people from what
they saw as cultural divisiveness towards unification under Islam and from
backwardness to advancement. The shifting nature of tradition­– ­that could
be sustained, strengthened, weakened or even destroyed­– (­ MacIntyre 2007:
222), thus became a resource for modernity. Employed to motivate change
and unity, adatisation became embedded in defining and applying Islamic
and European colonial ideas and institutions to Indonesian and Malayan
contexts. European colonisers and Southeast Asian Muslims marginalised
some local customs, but they also conserved, transformed and even glorified
other elements while transposing them to different frameworks, all within the
multifaceted process of becoming modern.
World historian Marshall G. S. Hodgson (1977) argues that the great
Western transmutation so pervasively impacted the Islamic world that the
Muslim agents reacted to it in various different ways. The technicalisation,
central to Western modernity, produced disruption of cultural traditions and
placed pressure on natural resources, he contends. Hodgson further argues
 292 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

that Muslims should employ and adapt their Islamic heritage to contribute
to the modern world by conforming to the ‘modern conscience’ shared by
Westerners and non-­Westerners alike. This contention needs some qualifica-
tions. As argued in this book, first, Western colonial technicalisation did
not always disrupt local custom; in many cases, it transformed and even
reinforced it as an integral part of political and cultural identities. Second,
Westerners also benefited from the knowledge about and experiences with
the native, including Muslims. And, third, European colonialists and Muslim
reformers could work autonomously or could coexist in their understandings
of reform and agendas of modernisation.
Thus, the notion of religion is not entirely and exclusively a Western
phenomenon. Talal Asad has helped understand how religion comes from a
Western, Christian tradition transferred to the rest of the world, including
the Muslims (1993: 27–54). In Indonesia and Malaya, both traditionalist
and modernist Muslims began to use the Arabic term din, the Sanskrit term
agama or the Dutch term godsdienst as a special category distinguishable
from culture, politics, the economy and other matters considered ‘worldly’.
Many Muslims employed theistic understandings of the Dutch godsdienst,
the English religion and the Sanskrit agama, although there were many reli-
gions associated with diverse localities and ethnicities. The Muslim reformers
often saw religion as a private matter although they sought to defend it or
criticise the lack of religious understanding or application, often in relation
to the internal weaknesses and the challenges from within and from without.
Thus, the religious and the rest are always relational, and they are not always
antagonistic.

Secularisation and Islamisation as Conflicting and Coexisting

A crucial aspect of colonial modernisation was the separation of the religious

and the secular. Proponents of secularisation theory, which emerged during
the 1950s, held that since the European Enlightenment the forces of modern-
isation have fuelled an ongoing religious decline, both in society and among
individuals (Berger 1999: 2–3). In line with more recent reformulations of
secularisation theory, which contend that modernisation has not banished
religion from public space (Dubois 2005), I have argued that Muslim reform-
ers were instrumental in preventing any decline in Islamisation. If anything,
 conclusi on | 293

the religious identity of Muslims increased as they served the ummah and the
nation (bangsa and negeri) and as regional interaction and global communica-
tions extended religious networks.
To a considerable degree, however, Islam in Indonesia and Malaya did
undergo structural and subjective secularisation. The former refers to the
institutional differentiation of state and society and the latter to the indi-
vidual understanding and experience of secularising forces (Robinson 1999).
The nature of colonial secularisation in the East Indies was shaped by the dis-
tinction that Dutch scholars had made between political Islam and religious
Islam. This distinction led to government intervention in political Islam,
while colonialists who sought to preserve diverse cultures furthered the secu-
lar agenda by disassociating Islam from ethnic identity. The British variant
of secularisation was also concerned with government and politics, although
direct intervention was more muted than in the East Indies. Since the British
were in charge of secular administration, they collaborated with local elites
so that colonial support reinforced the religious authority exercised by the
rulers and ‘ulama before the British arrival. Unlike the Dutch, British colo-
nial scholars associated religion with ethnicity, specifically associating being
Muslim with being Malay. While the colonial regime offered assistance in
the administration of religious and cultural affairs, British officials avoided
any appearance of open intervention in religious matters, which they saw as
separate from the public domains of government, education, and law. British
secularisation created less tension in the fields of politics, law, and education
than was the case in the Dutch East Indies.
The colonial ideas and policies of secularisation would not work without
the Islamic ideas of the distinction of various domains of life into din and
dunya. Structural secularisation meant the transformation of Islam in both
colonial contexts. Dutch and British colonial administrators worked with
traditional elite and reformers to separate Islam as an agama or din distinct
from other realms (political, legal, economic, and so forth). ‘Religious Islam’
was treated as part of culture and located in the private, non-­political dimen-
sion of life, despite the fact that Islamic activities were part of the public life.
Islamisation, that is, making Muslims more religiously observant, and colo-
nial secularisation, which identified those domains that were not of religious
concern, were not necessarily opposed (see Casanova 1994: 7, for Christian
 294 | i sla m a nd colo n ia l is m

contexts). Contemporary Indonesian scholar Nurcholish Madjid, for exam-

ple, argued that secularisation, in the sense of making the sacred dimensions
of Islam sacred and the profane dimensions of Muslims profane, as an integral
part of modernisation could also be congruent with Islam. Secularism and
secularisation are different: Secularism is an ideology, while secularisation is
a process of liberating development necessitated by the historical growth of
the Islamic community (1989). Along this line of thought, Islamisation and
secularisation were not necessarily contradictory processes and in some cases
were even mutually constituted.
Because of Islamic and colonial legacies in Indonesia and Malaysia, calls
for Islamisation on the one hand and secularisation on the other continue
to occur, although articulations are always diverse. Some reformists empha-
sise the modernisation of Islam and tradition; others call for Islamisation of
modernity and tradition; still others promote the localisation of Islamic and
Western modernities. In these contexts, religion transforms and is trans-
formed by state and society. The public and the private, and the material
and the spiritual, are distinguishable but are not necessarily separate, and
often sustain each other (Kenney and Moosa 2014). Colonial modernity has
its powers, but this influence is tempered by Islamic priorities and by the
cultural heritage. Simultaneously, the definition, practice and significance
of religion in Southeast Asia has been transformed by structural contexts,
theological understanding and communities (DuBois 2009: 1–15), and by
historical experience.
In Jakarta, 22 June 1945, Indonesian leaders wrote a charter that would
become the preamble to the 1945 Constitution. The charter stated that free-
dom is the right of all nations and therefore colonialism (I. penjajahan) in the
world should be eliminated because it contradicts a sense of humanity and a
sense of justice. The Constitution established the Unitary State as a Republics
with the President and Parliament. Malay leaders declared their independence
from the British in 1957 and created their constitution. The Constitution of
Malaysia did not make a specific reference to colonialism but formulated such
‘fundamental liberties’ as the right to life and liberty, freedom from slavery,
equality, and freedom of religion. Malay leaders established the Federation
as a constitutional monarchy with the Yang di-­Pertuan Agong as the Head of
State and the Prime Minister as the Head of Government. Indonesia consid-
 conclusi on | 295

ered Islam both a reality and an inspiration, but did not establish it as the
state’s religion; instead it endorsed Pancasila, the Five Pillars, which consists
of Belief in one God, just and civilised humanity, the unity of Indonesia,
democracy guided by the inner wisdom and deliberations, and social justice
for all of the people. Malaysia, however, declared Islam as the religion of the
Federation, and in 1970 it created Rukun Negara, the Pillars of the State,
consisting of Belief in God, Loyalty to King and Country, Supremacy of the
Constitution, Rules of Law, and Courtesy and Morality.
In the domain of law, Indonesia established civil courts (influenced by
the Dutch civil law) dealing with civil matters and shari’ah courts dealing with
Muslim, private matters, while relegating customary laws as culture. Malaysia
created civil and criminal courts (influenced by the English common law) as
well as shari’ah courts dealing with Muslim, private matters. The Indonesian
Government founded the Ministry of Religious Affairs (influenced by the
Dutch and the subsequent office created by the Japanese administration),
dealing primarily with Islamic affairs, but also other ‘official’ religions, whereas
Malaysia created the Religion Division, as Prime Minister’s Department (the
Division was later upgraded to be the Islamic Affairs Division and then to the
Department of Islamic Development Malaysia). A number of Malay States
established councils of Islamic religion and custom (influenced by the State of
Kelantan discussed in the preceeding chapters). In the domain of education,
Indonesia created the Ministry of Education and the Ministry of Research
and Technology, and had the aforementioned Ministry of Religious Affairs
support Islamic education. Malaysia created the Ministry of Education and
the Ministry of Science, Technology, and Innovation. Malays today con-
tinue to associate Malayness with Islam formally, and to a greater extent
than Indonesians associate Indonesianness with Islam. Had there not been
European colonialism and Islamic reform, the Indonesian-­ Malay world
would have witnessed radically different forms of Islam and modernity.
More recently, scholars have introduced approaches under the framework
of post-­Orientalism that are described as cosmopolitan, interdisciplinary,
classical and contemporary, individual and collaborative. These approaches
emphasise the equal rights of everyone, every ethnicity, and present an
ethos that is projected beyond ideological biases and interests of dominance
(Lawrence, in Ernst & Martin, eds 2010: 305). It is difficult to avoid such
 296 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

biases, but in this book I have attempted to demonstrate resemblances and

differences, connections and disconnections in the colonial past of Indonesia
and Malaysia. I have also tried to show the diversity of agents, interactions,
processes, approaches and institutionalisations emerging through the colo-
nial and Islamic projects of progress and modernisation. Traditions through
which particular ideas and practices are transmitted and reshaped could clash
or coexist because they hardly exist in isolation. The history of each of our
own lives of becoming modern in this world, as moral philosopher MacIntyre
puts it, is ‘generally and characteristically embedded in and made intelli-
gible in terms of the larger and longer histories of a number of traditions’
(MacIntyre 2007: 222).

Notes
1. Ahmad Syafi’i Maarif, ‘The Muhammadiyah and the Roots of Indonesian
Nationalism, Democracy, and Civil Society’, keynote address delivered at the
International Research Conference on Muhammadiyah (IRCM), on the campus
of Malang Muhammadiyah University, 29 November–2 December 2012.
2. An address entitled ‘Islam, Malaysia, and the Wider World’, delivered at the
Oxford Centre for Islamic Studies, United Kingdom, on 1 October 2004, in
Badawi (2006: 32).
3. Abdurrahman Wahid (1940–2009), the leader of the NU and the President
of the Republic of Indonesia (1999–2001) and his contemporary Nurcholish
Madjid (1939–2005) quoted this saying on many occasions.
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 Index

Abduh, Muhammad, 38, 40–1, 57, 59–61, 64, 26, 30–1, 36–8, 40–1, 47–9, 52, 54,
80, 99, 122 56–8, 64–5, 67–9, 77, 86, 93, 95–7,
Adabi, Abdul Kadir, 129, 131–2, 243, 273 100–2, 108–10, 114, 122, 130, 133,
adat, 8, 14, 15, 16–18, 38, 40, 43, 46, 50, 171, 181, 183, 203, 210, 224–9, 231–6,
69, 75, 86–8, 90–1, 101, 109, 145, 148, 238–9, 241–3, 245–52, 254, 257, 260–2,
158, 165–9, 171, 173, 175, 177–81, 184, 265, 271–2, 275–6, 279–81, 284, 286,
188–9, 193–97, 200–5, 207–8, 212–17, 289–90, 292
226, 232–3, 252, 258, 289–91 Asad, Talal, 6–7, 15–6, 134, 141, 159, 217,
adat pepateh, 179, 207, 210 288, 290, 291–2
adat temenggong, 179, 207 As’ad, Muhammad, 12, 26, 47, 50, 56–8, 72,
adatisation, 289–91 119, 235–7, 239, 253
adatrecht, 16, 18, 177, 196, 198–9, 290 As’adiyyah, 236–7, 253–4
adl see justice Asy’ari, Hasyim, 25, 51–2, 54–5, 58, 111, 170,
administration, 2, 4, 5, 10, 24, 42, 49, 53, 65, 177, 180, 234–5, 263
69, 76, 88, 93, 97, 116, 119, 123, 129, authority, 3, 8, 40, 42, 51, 55, 58, 69, 97, 109,
133, 137, 139, 140, 141, 147, 148, 151, 128, 130–1, 134–5, 141, 143, 145, 147,
154, 156–8, 159, 161, 169, 176, 178, 149, 153, 155, 159, 177–9, 185–6, 188,
184, 188–9, 194–6, 199–202, 204, 209, 190, 194, 197, 200–1, 205, 210, 214–15,
211, 233, 239, 247, 265, 273, 283, 293, 256, 263, 275, 284–5, 293
295 Azhar, Al-, 22, 60, 111, 115, 228, 237, 240,
agama, 11, 14–15, 16–17, 26, 28–9, 35, 41, 272
66, 72, 83, 86, 90, 98, 103, 121, 128,
167, 185, 189, 201, 218, 223–5, bangsa,13, 35, 66, 70, 83, 109, 114, 117,
227–9, 231, 233, 235, 237–9, 241, 243, 122–3, 130, 133, 191, 228, 245, 259,
245, 247, 249, 251, 253, 256, 284, 284, 293; see also qawm
292–3 Batavia, 39, 49, 82, 110, 116, 147
Ahl al-Sunnah wa al-Jama’ah, 8, 51, 53–6, 58, belief, 1, 5, 12, 16, 18, 19, 25, 36, 38, 39, 40,
111 41, 44–9, 54, 79, 80, 82, 83–4, 87, 91,
Aisyiyah, 45, 232–3 92, 94, 95, 98, 101, 112, 120, 140, 158,
akal (aql, reason), 27, 40, 63, 66, 122, 227 165, 166, 170, 171, 172, 178, 180, 184,
akhirah, 11, 12, 229, 286; see also din 186, 206, 233, 247, 252, 283, 295
Allah, 7, 9, 12, 63, 87, 99, 109, 112, 113, 121, bid’ah, 18, 41, 52, 54, 57, 82, 94, 168, 172,
126, 153, 165, 170, 172, 174, 175, 234, 186, 203, 290
240, 252, 264; see also Tuhan, God bissu, 172–3, 189, 197, 290
Anglo-Malay collaboration, 93, 241, 284 bomoh, 180–1, 190, 290
aqidah, 186; see also belief Britain, 21, 73, 103, 130, 132, 154, 182, 207,
Arabic, 2–3, 5, 7, 12–13, 15, 17, 20, 22, 24, 208

329
 330 | i slam and col o n ia l is m

British Adviser, 65, 103, 126, 127, 129, 131, Council of Religion and Malay Custom
135, 156, 161, 184, 187, 188, 191, 201, (MAIK), 26, 123, 126–9, 131, 180–1,
211–14, 218–19, 242, 270–1 184–9, 212, 225, 242, 245, 247, 270,
Buddhist, 17, 48, 88, 101, 171, 188, 289 284–5
Bugis, 16, 17, 19, 24, 45, 46–9, 56–7, 119, country, 13, 14, 35, 41, 43, 44, 66, 83, 96,
149, 171, 173–4, 190, 207, 237, 238, 109–15, 117, 119, 121, 123–5, 128, 137,
260 152, 170, 174, 176, 197, 209, 233, 295;
Buginese, 24, 48–9, 139, 173–4, 203, 235, see also negeri
257, 259, 262, 264 Court, 16, 22, 97, 98, 116, 140, 156, 168,
Bumiputera, 135, 175, 177, 259 177, 179, 180, 184–8, 194, 196–7,
199–203, 206, 208, 210–15, 218–19,
Cairo, 4, 22–3, 29, 35, 38, 42, 59–61, 64, 69, 285, 295
80, 85, 94, 110, 111, 115, 122, 224, 237, criminal law, 175, 177, 189
240, 248, 267, 272, 281, 283 culture, 1–6, 9, 12, 14, 16–18, 25, 29–31,
Caliphate (khilafah), 10, 13, 36, 51, 60, 69, 39, 50, 53, 69, 74–6, 82, 84–6, 91, 93,
108, 110, 115, 120–1, 125, 133–4, 143, 96–102, 116, 118, 129, 134, 138, 143,
145, 150–1, 223, 283 149, 158–9, 179, 188, 194, 196–9,
Caliph, 35, 38, 47, 67, 111, 115, 125, 137, 206–7, 216–17, 225, 233, 238–9, 243,
145, 150, 172 247, 256, 257–8, 266, 273, 275–6, 285,
capitalism, 25, 76, 100, 108, 111, 113–15, 288, 290–93, 295
118, 230 custom (local custom), 1–3, 14, 16–18, 21, 26,
Catholic, 21, 77, 145, 274 29, 30, 35, 40, 50, 56, 74, 75, 96, 100,
Catholicism, 20, 80, 140, 142 123–4, 127–9, 148–9, 152, 158, 166,
Christianity, 4, 6, 19, 38, 43, 49, 57, 75, 168–9, 171, 173–4, 176, 177–81, 193–8,
78–80, 83, 86–7, 89–92, 100–1, 140–1, 204, 206–9, 211–17, 233, 252, 267, 276,
264–5, 282 280, 284–5, 289–92, 295
Christian, 6, 11, 15, 20–1, 27, 36, 38, 42, 43, foreign custom 18, 21, 175, 176, 183, 280;
44–5, 49, 54, 61, 69-70, 75–7, 80–3, see also adat
86–7, 89, 91–3, 100–2, 118, 121, 130, customary law, 18, 29, 98, 149, 166, 171,
140, 143–5, 170, 200, 226–8, 238, 261, 177, 179, 182, 184, 189, 194–8, 201–4,
263–7, 273–4, 281–2, 286, 292–3 206, 208–9, 213, 215, 216, 295; see also
Christianisation, 6, 25, 43, 83, 273–4, 279, adatrecht
282
civil law, 2, 175, 177, 199, 202, 208–9, 295 Dahlan, Ahmad, 11, 25, 35, 37–41, 44–5,
civilisation, 21, 77, 82, 89–93, 95, 115, 143, 60–1, 70, 110, 169, 175, 180, 227, 228,
183, 197, 207, 231, 262, 266 263
civilising mission, 92, 215, 287 Dalle, Abdurrahman Ambo, 58, 72, 119, 237,
colonialism, 1–2, 4–5, 10, 14, 27–8, 30, 36, 254, 264
38, 69, 77, 83, 90, 108–9, 116, 123, 127, da’wah, 4, 9–11, 28–9, 35, 37, 41, 43, 45,
137, 143–5, 154, 158–9, 187, 232, 264, 47, 51, 53, 55, 57–9, 61, 63, 65, 67, 69,
276, 279, 281–2, 294 71–3, 264, 281, 284
colonialist, 2–3, 18, 27–8, 44, 74, 77, 100, dar al-harb, 13, 89, 110
107, 189, 194, 204–5, 217, 256, 275–6, dar al-Islam, 13, 89
282, 288, 292–3 Dar al-Da’wah wal-Irsyad, 264
colonisation, 1, 5, 41, 68, 74, 123, 147, 239 democracy, 134, 148, 182, 295, 296
Committee of Malay Studies, 5, 96–7, 204 Department of Education and Religion, 140,
common law, 166, 189, 194, 217, 295 199, 256, 258–62
Congress of Islam (Islamic World Congress), dhimmi, 110–11
111, 115, 120, 150 din, 2, 11, 15, 108, 130; see also agama, religion
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do’a, 181 godsdienst, 15–16, 30, 86, 199, 264, 292; see
dunya, 2, 12, 108, 136, 167, 229, 286, 293 also religion, agama
Government English Girls’ School, 271
East Indies (Dutch East Indies, Netherlands
East Indies), 2, 3, 11, 13, 19, 21, 23–6, Hadat Council, 147–9, 161, 201
36–7, 39–41, 45–6, 48–9, 54, 59–60, hadhrami, 22, 46, 61, 72, 82
64, 66, 69, 74–8, 81, 83, 84, 85, 88, 93, Hadi, Syed Shaykh Al- , 12, 59–64, 67, 107,
97, 100–1, 107, 109, 111–12, 115, 121, 124–5, 183–4, 240–1, 254, 275
123–4, 133–4, 137–9, 143–6, 149–50, Hadith, 7, 9, 12, 16–17, 21, 28, 40–1, 51, 54,
156–9, 166, 168–70, 175–7, 189–90, 57, 58–9, 60, 62, 67, 79, 83, 87, 108,
194, 196–9, 202, 204, 215, 223, 225–7, 113–14, 122, 130, 136, 165, 167–8,
239, 250–2, 260–3, 265, 275, 281, 171–2, 174, 190, 203, 225–6, 231–4,
283–4, 286, 288–9, 293 238, 245, 249, 290–1; see also Sunnah
education, 3, 11, 26, 28, 46, 52, 60, 76, 130, Haji Abdullah, 46, 48, 119, 146, 174, 198,
131, 145, 223, 250 203
Dutch education, 112, 117, 229, 232, 257, Hajj (pilgrimage to Mecca), 7, 61, 82, 121,
260, 263 129, 142, 144–5, 149, 261
English education, 123, 256, 265, 270, halal, 53
273–5 halaqah, 234–6
Islamic education, 2, 11, 178, 224, 225–6, Hamka (Haji Abdul Malik Karim Amrullah),
230–1, 234–5, 251 27, 38–9, 41–2, 48, 103, 120, 124, 174,
vernacular education, 265–7 176–7, 239
scientific education, 99, 258 haram, 18, 53–4, 165, 177, 180, 290
Egypt, 80–1, 88, 122, 243 249, 272 hikayat, 5, 96, 122, 244, 246, 266
equality, 49, 54–5, 65, 90, 114, 116, 183, 189, Hinduism, 15, 17, 19, 48, 81, 87, 88, 95, 98,
232, 243–4, 294 101, 145, 153, 171, 188, 196, 205, 207
Ethical Policy, 23, 35, 37, 76, 116–17, 194 history, 1, 7, 9, 11, 16, 23–4, 28, 30, 67, 70,
85, 93, 96–7, 99–103, 113, 122, 124,
fatwa, 2, 24, 54–5, 60, 110, 126, 146, 167–70, 137, 152, 182, 198, 231, 233–5, 238,
177, 180, 182, 184, 186, 188–9, 203, 240, 242, 243, 245–6, 248, 252, 256–7,
215, 235, 284–5, 290 260, 267, 269, 276, 279, 288, 290, 296
fiqh, 13, 72, 80, 165–6, 201, 225–6, 231–4, Holland, 76–8, 207; see also Netherlands
239 Hollands-Inlandse School (HIS), 234–5, 237,
foreign Orientals, 82, 199, 202, 258 259, 260
freedom, 52, 61, 63–4, 90, 113–15, 117–18, Hollands-Inlandse Kweekschool (HIK), 237,
124, 133–4, 136, 138, 140–2, 149, 260
157, 174, 178, 183, 262, 279, 280 294, hukum, 13, 166, 169, 175, 177, 182, 191,
294 194, 196–7, 264, 289

geography, 234–6, 238–9, 242–3, 245–6, 248, ibadah, 41, 57, 63, 167–8, 184, 186
269, 283 ijma’ , 36, 57, 86–7, 167
Ghazali, Al-, 19–20, 41, 80, 138, 174, 225 ilm (ilmu), 9, 11, 28, 30, 60, 72, 285
God, 7, 11, 15, 16, 21, 30, 40, 44, 48, 54, 58, ilm al-falaq (ilmu falaq), 60, 236, 240
62, 77, 79, 80, 83, 86, 87, 89, 90, 91, 92, ilmu agama (religious knowledge), 28, 224
95, 98, 100, 103, 107, 110, 112, 114, ilmu umum, 224, 229, 239, 246
117, 120, 124, 146, 150, 153, 167, 170, imam, 37, 49, 51, 60, 141–2, 173, 184–7,
171, 172, 174, 180, 181, 183, 186, 190, 191–2, 200, 202, 214
199, 217, 218, 229, 233, 235, 242, 264, Imam, Al-, 60–1, 64, 68, 122
266, 292, 295; see also Allah, Tuhan Iman, 54; see also belief
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imperialism, 5, 23, 25, 89, 91, 111, 113–14, 223–4, 242–8, 265, 270–4, 277, 284–5,
118, 120, 133, 157, 279 295
Indonesia, 1–3, 5–6, 8–9, 10–12, 14–15, 17, Kelantan Club, 131
19, 20, 25–7, 30, 88, 110–11, 133 kemajuan, 9, 26–7, 37, 41, 48, 107, 117, 128,
Indonesian–Malay world (archipelago), 17, 19, 242, 245–6, 280–1
20, 21, 23, 24, 35, 37, 58, 70, 80, 108, Kenali, Tok (Muhammad Yusuf bin Ahmad),
134, 123, 215, 225, 276 26, 31, 35, 64–7, 123, 127, 129–30,
intelligentsia (intellectuals), 70, 132, 263, 273, 180–2, 243, 248–9, 275
281, 286 Kenchana, 25, 68
Irsyad, Al-, 115 kerajaan, 122–3, 127, 191; see also sultan
Islam kolot, 27, 36, 47, 48, 51, 58, 68 Khatib, Shaykh Ahmad, 38, 64
Islam moderen, 36, 48, 51, 281 khutbah, 56, 109, 118, 141, 186
Islamic reform, 8, 11, 35–7, 47, 50, 58, 61, kiyai, 44, 51–2, 55, 226, 264
64–71; see also tajdid knowledge see ilm
Islamisation, 1, 7, 9, 10, 12, 14, 25, 30, 36, religious knowledge see ilmu agama
49, 61, 172, 175, 189, 197, 283, 292, secular knowledge see ilmu umum
293–4; see also da’wah Kota Bharu, 64, 66, 103, 128, 131, 184, 191,
244, 270, 274
Jahiliyyah, 4, 67, 109, 181, 183 Kraemer, Hendrik, 15, 25, 75, 85–93, 101–3,
Jalaluddin, Tahir, 25, 59–61, 72, 123–4, 180, 107, 109, 197
227, 239, 241, 254, 275 kufr, 54, 94
jam’iyyah, 10, 36, 39
Java, 3, 9, 11–12, 15–17, 19, 21–2, 24–5, 37, law, 3–6, 13, 15, 18, 19–20, 28–30, 42–3,
39, 44–8, 51–2, 55–60, 70, 78, 82, 84–5, 54–5, 58–9, 62, 64–5, 80–3, 85, 87,
88, 90, 110–12, 118–20, 132–4, 145–7, 89–90, 92, 96–7, 136, 167, 169, 209,
167–8, 171, 177, 180, 184, 188,189, 212–14, 216; see also adatrecht, common
192–3, 196, 199–200, 217, 226–8, 230, law, civil law
232, 234–5, 237, 257, 261–4, 272, 284 legislation, 84, 139, 154, 156, 210, 212
Jawi script, 20, 22, 24–6, 60, 64, 67–8, 96,
226, 244, 245, 247–8, 272 madhhab, 36, 40, 51–3, 55, 144, 166, 170,
Jesus Christ, 44, 91 185, 226
Jews, 20, 44, 80, 83, 86, 176, 235, 281 Ma’had Muhammady, 242
jihad, 13, 21, 40, 82, 87, 126, 284 Majlis Tarjih, 167–8
Judaism, 75, 80 mantiq (logic), 238, 243
justice, 2, 7, 24, 27, 54, 63, 182, 134, 138, marriage, 12, 19, 22, 49, 54, 128, 141, 156,
153, 166, 171, 182–3, 189, 194–5, 283, 169–70, 178–9, 182, 185, 187, 192,
285, 294, 295 199–204, 208, 210–12, 214–15, 218,
administration of justice, 198–9, 201–2, 233, 243, 285
207–8, 209–11, 217 masjid (mosque), 12, 22, 35–8, 43, 49–50,
53, 56, 60, 61, 64, 70, 77, 95, 97, 109,
kafir, 20, 41, 43–4, 55, 63, 110, 121, 124, 119, 128, 140–1, 153, 158, 169, 178–9,
137–8, 145, 165, 170, 177, 184, 235, 184–8, 191, 197, 203–4, 207, 212, 214,
238, 282; see also kufr 223, 228, 235–6, 241, 249, 262, 267,
kaum muda, 12, 36, 59, 61–2, 64, 65, 69, 109, 301–2
274 madrasah, 22, 56, 131, 229, 235–7, 239,
kaum tua, 12, 36, 62–5, 69, 182, 214, 245 241–3, 245, 253, 263, 273, 276
Kelantan, 3, 7, 12, 19, 25–6, 61, 63–6, 103, Madrasah al-Arabiyyah al-Islamiyyah, 56–7
123, 126–32, 136, 155–6, 159, 161, Makassar, 19, 21–2, 24, 30, 45–9, 56, 71, 77,
180–2, 184, 186–7, 189, 191–2, 210–14, 83, 108, 118–19, 121, 174, 201, 239
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makyong, 180–1 OSVIA, 113

Manar, Al-, 38, 60 Ottoman Empire, 23, 35, 108, 126, 283
Marx, Karl, 114
Marxism, 113 Pabbaja, Muhammad Abduh, 119, 135
Mecca, 19–23, 26, 29, 35, 37, 38, 42, 51–2, Pan-Islamism, 36, 110, 111, 114, 122, 129,
56, 59–61, 64, 69, 77–8, 80, 84, 94, 102, 143–5, 150–1, 289; see also caliphate
111, 115, 121–2, 124, 126, 129, 135, Pangngaderreng, 171, 188
144, 150, 158, 173, 181, 187, 207, 224, parawe ade, 168–9, 197, 201
227, 234, 236, 237, 239, 248, 264, 267, parawe sara, 168–9, 198
281, 283 Partai Komunis Indonesia (PKI), 116
Medina, 19, 22, 56, 86, 115, 176, 283 Partai Sarekat Islam Indonesia (PSII), 111–14,
Misbach, Haji, 116 118–21, 141, 168, 178, 190, 223, 230–3,
modernities 4, 7, 27, 30, 217, 250, 276, 252
280–2, 287, 291, 294 Pengasuh, 7, 25, 30–1, 64, 66–8, 243, 245–6,
modernisation, 1–3, 5–6, 8, 10–11, 14, 17–18, 274, 278
24, 26, 28–30, 58–9, 62, 65, 70, 77, 108, penghulu 147, 155, 166, 178–9, 200–2, 211,
116, 128, 131, 133–4, 137, 140, 148, 215, 242
157, 159, 166, 182–3, 189, 193, 215–17, People of the Book (ahl al-kitab), 20, 44, 63, 86
227, 232, 249–51, 263, 265, 271, 276, Perak Laws, 154, 205
280–3, 286, 288–9, 292, 294, 296 Pesantren, 35, 37, 50, 52–3, 55, 60, 225–7,
modernity, 1–9, 14, 17, 27, 28, 30, 50–1, 234, 236–9, 251, 253, 258, 260–3, 286;
63, 74–5, 82–3, 92–3, 100, 112, 128, see also pondok
134, 148, 151, 173, 182–3, 195, 217, pilgrimage see hajj
227, 240, 244, 250, 258, 267, 274, 279, politics (or politik), 2–5, 9, 13, 15, 28–9, 46,
280–3, 285, 287–9, 291, 294–5 76, 81, 87, 90, 99, 107–9, 113, 115,
mu’amalah, 44 117–18, 121–3, 125, 129–30, 133–4,
Muhammadiyah, 9, 11, 22, 25, 26, 37, 39–60, 137–9, 142–3, 145–7, 151, 153, 155,
70, 78, 88, 89–90, 99, 109–10, 115–16, 157–9, 161, 194, 197–8, 206, 216, 230,
118, 120, 133, 146, 165, 167–9, 171–2, 268, 275, 283–5, 292–3; see also siyasah
174–6, 189–90, 196–7, 203–4, 227–30, polygamy, 81, 195, 201, 215
232–5, 239, 242, 279, 286, 296 pondok, 35, 65, 181, 184, 226, 237, 241–3,
MULO, 259 245, 247, 251, 273, 276, 286
Muslimat, 55 power, 5, 81, 121, 138, 143, 159, 185, 217,
223, 256, 289, 294
Nahdlatul ‘Ulama (NU), 25, 50–5, 72, 165, priyayi, 39, 88, 112
170–1, 174, 177, 234–5 progress, 1–4, 6–11, 24–9, 36–7, 41–3, 45,
nation, 9, 13–14, 115, 121, 128, 143, 287; see 48–50, 55, 61–2, 75, 79–81, 92, 100,
also qawm 107–9, 112–13, 116–19, 122–3, 125,
nationalism, 109, 122, 150, 228, 240, 279 130, 133–4, 146, 152, 158, 165, 183,
nationhood, 25, 111, 113, 115, 179 223, 227, 239–43, 245, 247–8, 250,
negeri see country 255–6, 267–8, 270–1, 274–5, 279–80,
Negeri Islam, 110, 133, 170 284–9, 291, 296; see also kemajuan
Negeri Sembilan, 94, 179–80, 204, 207, Protestantism, 21, 64, 76–7, 80, 86–7, 101,
208–10 119, 120, 140, 142, 274
Netherlands Indies see East Indies Putera Club, 26, 131–2, 135

Office for Native (and Arab) Affairs, 5, 83–4, qadi, 49, 166, 168, 173, 178–9, 187–8, 196,
97 198, 200–4, 208, 211–15, 218–19, 239;
Orientalism, 28, 101, 295 see also penghulu
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qawm 13 115, 284; see also nation, bangsa Snouck Hurgronje, Christiaan, 18, 25, 28, 60,
Queen Wilhelmina, 76, 92, 116, 141, 160, 63, 74–5, 77–86, 101–2, 137–8, 141–5,
176 195–8, 257–8, 264
Qur’an, 9, 11–12, 15–17, 20–1, 28, 39–41, socialism, 108, 114–15, 118, 230
43, 45, 47–8, 51, 56–60, 62–3, 65–7, 79, State Council, 5, 154–6, 210–14, 284
83, 89, 91, 95, 108, 113–14, 120–2, 126, Sufism, 21–2; see also tariqah
167–8, 170–2, 181, 183, 185, 186, 190, South Sulawesi, 15, 19, 22–6, 30, 46–50,
203, 205, 225, 227, 231–3, 238, 240, 55–9, 70, 83, 118–21, 133, 135, 142,
242, 245–6, 249–52, 271–2, 286, 290–1 147, 171, 184, 188–9, 196–9, 201–4,
218, 223, 227, 235, 237–9, 263–4, 284
Rahman, Fazlur, 251, 286 sultan, 2–3, 12, 14, 24, 26, 29, 37, 59–60,
Ramadan, 7, 47, 141, 186–7, 203, 261 62–6, 68, 70, 109, 122, 126–35, 145,
reason, 12, 27, 40–2, 49, 55, 59, 62, 63, 69, 152, 180, 184, 186, 212–13, 274–7,
122, 168, 227; see also akal 287
reasoning, 8, 11, 16, 40 Sultan Zainab School, 244
independent reasoning (ijtihad ) 8, 40–1, Sumatra, 19, 21, 38, 45, 47–8, 60, 76, 98,
60–2, 167, 170, 190, 219, 227 109, 116, 124, 139, 171, 174, 208–9,
religion, 2, 5–7, 10, 12, 14–20, 41, 58, 63–7, 264, 284
75–6, 78–81, 85, 111 Sunnah, 16, 168, 182; see also Hadith
religious holidays, 140, 187 surau, 128, 136, 185, 187, 191–2, 213, 227
Rumi (Roman script), 67, 244, 247, 272
tabligh, 9, 42, 50, 56
Said, Edward, 102, 256–7, 275–6, 288 tafsir, 231, 233–4
Salim, Agus, 15, 26, 30, 82–3, 116–18, 139, tajdid, 8, 35, 39–40, 59, 169; see also Islamic
146, 177, 264 reform
Sarekat Dagang Islam (SDI), 111–12 taqlid, 8, 40, 167, 170
Sarekat Islam (SI), 26, 39, 46, 51, 107, tarikh, 100, 122, 246
111–12, 118–19, 132–3, 145–6, 200, 264 tariqah, 8, 56, 80, 87, 146, 170, 190, 239
Saudi Arabia, 22, 51, 82, 85, 124, 143, 283 tauhid, 48, 225
school see madrasah, pesantren, pondok Tjokroaminoto, H. O. S., 9, 25, 113–16,
science, 2–6, 8–9, 11, 16, 20, 26, 30–1, 230–1
48, 52, 58, 91, 140, 182, 224–8, 232, tomanurung, 48
236–42, 246, 248, 250–2, 256–7, Tuhan, 112
259–60, 263, 266–7, 269, 274–5, 283, Turkey, 51, 68, 85, 108, 110, 122, 126, 151
286, 292, 295
secularisation, 12, 14, 85, 134, 137, 156–8, ‘ulama, 11, 23, 25–6, 29, 37, 50–1, 53, 55,
202, 204, 263, 275, 292–4 59–60, 63, 67, 70, 72, 123–5, 127–32,
secularism, 89, 101, 157, 159, 279, 294 134, 138, 142, 145, 155, 157–9, 165,
Sekolah Adabiyah, 227–8 180, 183–4, 186, 201–2, 214, 216,
Setiawan Belia Club, 131–2 225–6, 231, 234, 236–40, 242, 247–8,
Shafi’i school of thought, 22, 51, 55, 57, 95, 250–1, 257, 263, 272, 274, 285, 286,
97, 111, 144, 170, 185, 190, 200, 207, 293
210, 226, 237 ummah, 4, 10, 13, 35, 39, 48, 61, 68, 90,
Shiratal Mustaqim, 46–7, 71 108–11, 113, 120–3, 123, 133–4, 182,
shirk, 18, 41, 48, 94, 169, 172, 180, 290 228, 244–5, 280–1, 283–4, 287, 289,
siriq, 173–5, 189–90, 290 293
siyasah, 2, 4, 9, 13, 28, 107–8, 111, 113, 115, Uthman, Sayyid, 27, 82
117, 119–23, 125, 127, 129–31, 133,
182, 284; see also politics Volksraad, 117, 121, 138–9, 145, 194
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Wahhabism, 8, 23, 35, 49, 51–2, 80, 111, 137, 149–51, 153–5, 206–9, 256, 268,
150–1 272
Wahyu (revelation), 11, 20, 63, 69, 83, 89, women, 11, 22, 45, 47, 49, 55, 63, 83, 112,
227 121, 131, 174, 176, 184, 206, 228,
waqf, 43, 52, 141, 226, 237 232–4, 241, 243–4, 246, 250, 253–4,
watan, 13, 35, 63, 66, 122–3, 126, 284; see 268, 276; see also Aisyiyah, Muslimat,
also country, negeri Sultan Zainab School
Weber, Max, 107, 139, 193, 215, 219, 287
West (the West), 4, 8, 65, 75, 78–9, 81, 88, Yogyakarta, 37–8, 45, 204, 252–3
90, 100, 112, 124
Westernisation, 4–6, 16, 25, 30, 88, 279, 288, Za’ba (Zainal Abidin bin Ahmad), 70, 99–100,
291 123, 123, 125–6
Wilkinson, R. J., 18, 25, 74–5, 93–7, 99–103, Zakat, 43, 114, 125, 128, 140–2, 153, 158,
150–3, 155, 204–6, 209, 266–7, 273 169, 185, 188, 214, 237
Winstedt, R., 21, 23, 25, 75, 93, 97–103, zelf-bestuurder, 50, 138, 141–2, 147, 203, 237