“To become a servant in the palace does not mean one is well remunerated. Generally, the primary reason for becoming an abdidalem is to obtain inner tranquility and happiness. Others base their service on feelings of thanks for being allowed to live on land owned by the Sultan. Additionally, one wishes to become an abdidalem to procure the Sultan’s blessings (berkah). According to many court retainers, good fortune befalls them and family needs are met after becoming an abdidalem … Abdidalem are people who possess at one and the same time cultural insight, expertise, and a high level of dedication … In the end, being an abdidalem is very meaningful–not only through supporting the mission of [lit., the perpetuation of all the activities in] the palace, but also by upholding traditional ideals of deportment [lit., becoming a fortress of behavior] in fast-changing times.”[1] (Tepas Tandha Yekti 2016).
Court retainers called “abdidalem” (lit. “servants of His Highness”) constitute a large community, numbering in the few thousands, the raison d’être of which is to execute orders originating with the Sultan and/or his administration. Abdidalem are the lifeblood of the palace, a human resource that fuels the everyday and extra-ordinary activities of the Kraton Yogyakarta. Service in the palace has always been voluntary and viewed as a means by which subjects of the kingdom (what I am calling here “traditional Javanese”) can express their loyalty, respect, and esteem (bekti) for the Sultan and the institution of Javanese kingship he embodies. And, as conveyed in the above quote, there are perceived rewards for such service—inner tranquility and happiness, receiving the blessing of the Sultan, living rent-free on property of the Sultan, and so forth. This reciprocal relationship between abdidalem and Sultan, captured in the Javanese terms “kawula – gusti” (“servant – master”), is a personal one, modeled on traditional concepts of mutual respect and responsibility, on the care and love of family ties. (Moetono, p. 14)
Operating a socio-cultural institution such as the Kraton Yogyakarta requires organization and coordination, and reduced to their essences the royalty/administrators and the abdidalem are, respectively, the institution’s organizers and organized. There exists an understood and accepted scaffolding of behavioral norms bolstering the operational paradigm of the palace. Members of the royal family (bangsawan) carry higher social status than the abdidalem but are themselves hierarchically positioned relative to the Sultan by a system of titles that is completely separate from the system marking the relative status of the court retainers. Bangsawan serve as the heads of the palace administrative divisions and offices and are assisted by the highest-ranking abdidalem in carrying out the governing duties and responsibilities of their organizational domains.
Being an abdidalem involves acceptance of a number of conditions that collectively shape their behavior while in palace service. Abdidalem unquestioningly carry out specific tasks assigned to them by the palace administrative unit to which they are affiliated. They are given a hierarchical rank (pangkat) that reflects their social standing both vis-à-vis other abdidalem and as separate from the bangsawan. One’s rank is a status marker and reflects, first and foremost, the time depth of one’s dedication to the Sultan and the Kraton. Following a trial period of up to two years during which a candidate holds the rank of magang (apprentice), he or she advances to the status of abdidalem-ship at the rank of jajar (lit. “in a row” or “equal”). Jajar is the first of about eleven hierarchically-arranged pangkat through which abdidalem may pass during their palace service. While movement through the lower ranks (jajar, bekel enom, bekel sepuh, and lurah) is now relatively fast[2], the pace of promotion slows down significantly for movement through the higher ranks (penewu, wedana, riya bupati, bupati anom, bupati sepuh, and bupati kliwon) and the quality of one’s contribution to the palace increases in importance in promotion considerations. In that the palace has noticeably increased the pace of rank promotion during the thirty-five years I have been following this phenomenon suggests to me that it has come to the realization that this strategy is an effective tool in the recruitment and retention of abdidalem. Abdidalem promotion ceremonies are now held twice a year[3], and it is not unusual for a few hundred retainers to receive their promotion certificates (serat kekancingan) at each[4]. The palace also introduced a fast-track promotion program in about 2012 to entice individuals with university degrees and preferred specializations (including musicians) to skip being a magang and move through the lower abdidalem ranks (jajar through wedana) at a pace of from six months to a year in each pangkat. Before leaving the topic of rank I should mention that there is one further status inflection attached to the pangkat of an abdidalem that acknowledges whether or not the individual descends from royal blood—the rank of an abdidalem whose bloodline can be traced to an earlier sultan will be preceded by the title “radèn,” and for one who cannot (a true commoner) by “mas.”
Along with being assigned a rank, the palace also gives each abdidalem a name (asma paring dalem, lit. “name from the Sultan”) which is assigned them when they become an abdidalem jajar and appears on their serat kekancingan certificate[5]. The palace-given name of an abdidalem often is in some way connected to the area of service he or she provides in the palace.
Humbleness is a quality expected of abdidalem and this character trait is symbolically communicated in a number of ways. Abdidalem wear a distinctive traditional outfit called peranakan while serving in the palace. Peranakan consists of a dark blue and black surjon (top), a bathik kain (wrap-around bottom pleated in front in a specific way) displaying a restricted range of design motifs different from those that are reserved for the kain worn by bangsawan. When one is promoted to the pangkat of bekel enom, one can wear ones kris (ceremonial dagger) as part of their palace uniform.[6] Abdidalem avoid standing erect while in service in the palace. The height of one’s head vis-à-vis those of others in their presence is read as a sign of relative social status in traditional Javanese culture—the head of a person of lower status should never be higher than that of a person of higher status. Abdidalem also always sit on the ground/floor rather than in chairs, which is what people of higher status sit upon. Yet another behavioral habit of abdidalem is the performance of sembah[7] as a gesture of respect to anyone in the palace world that is of higher status than themselves or to anything that is associated directly with the Sultan.
The instrumentalists (niyaga), singers (pesindhèn if female, lebdaswara, if male), and puppeteers (dhalang) who perform on, sing with, or are accompanied by the gamelans of the Kraton Yogyakarta for palace ceremonies are all abdidalem. They are members of the Kawedanan Hageng Punokawan Kridhamardawa (lit. “Office of the Servants of Refined Activities,” rendered here as the “Performing Arts Office”), which in turn is one of five offices of the Kawedanan Hageng Punokawan Parwa Budaya (Division of the Servants of the Cultural Section,” rendered here as “Division of Cultural Affairs”)[8]. For the entire span of my research in the palace, a son of the Ninth Sultan (and a brother of the Tenth Sultan by a different mother)—Bendara Raden Mas[9] Sulaksmono in the 1980s and Gusti Bendara Pangeran Harya[10] Yudhaningrat—has served as the pengageng (head) of Kridhamardawa. Thoughout this period he has had as assistants in charge of all the daily doings of the office lower ranking bangsawan (such as in-laws) and high-ranking abdidalem.
Each palace musician, as is the case with all abdidalem in the Kraton, has a rank (pangkat) and palace name (asma paring dalem) that is conferred upon them by the palace administration. Niyaga (gamelan instrumentalists) are given names of gendhing (gamelan compositions), pesindhèn and lebdaswara (female and male vocalists) the names of sekar (vocal compositions), and dhalang (puppeteers) will have as a component of their names the word “cerma” (“leather,” from which shadow puppets are made).
Some background on two abdidalem niyaga I have known will illustrate, first, how the system of palace ranks and names communicate to members of the palace community in general the identities of individual abdidalem, and, secondly, how the nature of each individual’s service in the palace is shaped by the times during which they serve the institution.
Mas Lurah Lokasari, now deceased, was an abdidalem niyaga I knew in 1982-83, at which time he was around 67 years old (born in 1915). “Mas” indicates that he has no royal blood in his background, “lurah” is the fourth of eleven abdidalem ranks, and “Lokasari” is the name of a gamelan gendhing[11]. Although he attended school only through the fourth grade, Lokasari was always determined to be a musician and started playing at a young age. He joined Kridhamardawa as a magang in 1934 (at age 19) during the reign of the Eighth Sultan, and was advanced to abdidalem status and given the asma paring Dalem Lokasari in 1937. He also was a member of a number of important non-palace gamelan groups[12] between 1934 and 1951, and joined the Yogyakarta branch of the national radio station (Radio Republik Indonesia, or RRI) as a studio musician when it was founded in 1951. In 1957, Pak Lokasari was a member of an Indonesian arts mission to Eastern Europe and, in 1981, he began teaching karawitan at the National Dance Academy (Akademi Seni Tari Indonesia, or ASTI) in Yogyakarta. Throughout all of this outside activity, Lokasari continued performing in the palace. Although a well-rounded musician, he was primarily known both inside and outside the palace as a rebab player. In 1947 he began playing bonang for Sekatèn, and continued in this prestigious musical role up to his death in the early 1990s. Yet, in 1983, after over forty-five years of service in the palace, he had ascended only to the fourth abdidalem rank—an average of more than ten years at each level[13]. His glacial pace of rank advancement was not uncommon for the time (basically, the entire 20th century), and this slow rate of advancement was probably an important factor contributing to the absence of any significant number of younger musicians (under 40 years of age) in the ranks of Kridhamardawa abdidalem in the 1980s.
Radèn Lurah Ngeksibranta, who I know from my two most recent visits to Yogyakarta in 2016 and 2017, entered palace service around 2011 when he was in his early 40s. “Radèn” indicates that he descends from royal blood, “lurah” is the fourth of eleven abdidalem ranks, and “Ngeksibranta” is the name of a gamelan gendhing[14]. He holds a sarjana degree (equivalent to an undergraduate diploma in the U.S.) from ISI Yogyakarta (Institut Seni Indonesia Yogyakarta, a national tertiary educational institution for the arts). Mas Agung, as he is known outside the palace, is known first and foremost as an excellent pengendhang (drummer, or player of the kendhang) for uyon-uyon (concert music), beksa (dance), and kethoprak (a modern form of gamelan-accompanied theatre). He and four other ISI graduates entered palace service together in the “fast-track” promotion program described above and within a few years had already advanced to the rank of lurah. He told me he had never considered becoming an abdidalem niyaga until the fast-track option came into being and he was invited by Kridhamardawa to join. His decision to do so was made easier by the introduction, also around 2012, of higher stipends for abdidalem, made possible by a new national government program to support Yogyakarta as a cultural center. Supposedly a good portion of the funds infused into Yogyakarta by this program has been making its way to the palace, where it has been used to incentivize abdidalem service through meaningful stipends and enhance the physical structures of the palace.
