When Sultanate Heritage Speaks in a Fast-Paced Era

Try to imagine for a moment. You are standing in front of the Yogyakarta Palace, observing the old structure standing firm amidst the hustle and bustle of an increasingly congested city. Outside the gates, online motorcycle taxis zip back and forth, trendy coffee shops are filled with young people on laptops, and the sound of mobile phone notifications never ceases. Yet inside, the gamelan still plays, court retainers (abdi dalem) still walk slowly with solemn respect, and the scent of incense wafts gently. Two worlds that seem not to greet each other, coexisting just a few footsteps apart.

This scene is not merely an interesting contrast for a photograph. Within it lies a deeper question—and one more important than mere visual aesthetics: what does the heritage of the sultanates mean for us today? Is it merely a fading ornament of the past, a mere complement to school textbooks and tourism brochures? Or is there still something alive within it that is worthy—even urgent—for us to champion together?

This question is not just an academic matter. Amidst the identity crisis quietly eroding Indonesia’s younger generation, amidst rampant social polarisation and worsening environmental degradation, the cultural heritage of the sultanates actually offers a perspective we often forget: that our ancestors already grappled with these same great questions and found their own answers.

More Than Just Old Buildings

Many people—especially the current generation—view the sultanates as merely a matter for museums and history books. Understandably so. What is visible is often just that: old buildings, heirloom objects behind glass, and black-and-white photographs of kings in magnificent attire. But if we are a little more patient and dig deeper, what we find is far richer than mere artefacts.

The heritage of the Nusantara sultanates holds value systems that have been tested for centuries. The Yogyakarta Sultanate, for example, bequeathed the philosophy of hamemayu hayuning bawana—a Javanese expression meaning, roughly, “to safeguard the beauty and harmony of the universe.” For the Mataram Islamic sultans of old, a leader was not a ruler who could act arbitrarily. A leader was a servant—a servant to the people, to nature, and even to generations yet unborn. There is no room in this philosophy for personal ambition that sacrifices the common good.

This value is not merely beautiful words carved on palace walls. It is reflected in the spatial layout of Yogyakarta city, designed with a cosmological concept—from Mount Merapi in the north as a symbol of nature’s power, the Kraton at the centre as the point of balance, to the Southern Sea at the edge, believed to be a spiritual guardian. This spatial arrangement is no coincidence. It is a physical manifestation of a worldview that insists humans, nature, and power must exist in a relationship of harmony and mutual respect.

At the eastern end of the archipelago, the Tidore Sultanate and the indigenous communities of Maluku have passed down the Sasi system—customary rules governing when and how communities may harvest marine or forest resources. Before certain seasons, taking marine life from protected areas is strictly forbidden. Violators not only face social sanctions but are also believed to incur misfortune. This way of thinking may sound archaic, but the results are tangible: regions that still uphold the Sasi tradition demonstrably possess healthier marine ecosystems than those that have casually abandoned it.

Environmental researchers from various universities are now beginning to look at systems like Sasi as conservation models worthy of wider adoption. The irony is stark—wisdom that has existed for hundreds of years is only now being acknowledged after scientists arrive with modern research methods and verify it with statistical data.

Meanwhile, in Southeast Sulawesi, the Buton Sultanate bequeathed an ethical concept called Pobinci-binciki Kuli, which literally means “pinching one’s own skin”—or, in simpler terms, feel what others feel before you act. It is empathy, precisely as modern psychology teaches as the foundation of a healthy society. The difference is that the people of Buton were practising it long before the word “empathy” became popular in any self-help book.

Values That Do Not Require a Noble Title to Inherit

Herein lies the most common misunderstanding. Many assume that the heritage of the sultanates is only relevant for those with noble blood, those born within the palace environment, or those who participate in customary ceremonies. As if these values are the exclusive right of a select few.

In fact, the opposite is true. These values were born from the broader life of the community—from farmers who managed the rice fields together, from fishermen who preserved the sea for future generations, from traders who upheld trust as their primary capital. The sultans formulated these values into structured systems, but their roots lie in the lives of ordinary people.

The concept of siri’ na pacce in Bugis-Makassar tradition, for instance, speaks of self-worth and solidarity. Siri’ drives a person to uphold their own dignity and that of their family, while pacce teaches sensitivity to the suffering of others. These two values are not the exclusive property of the Bugis nobility—they are life principles that flow through daily existence, from the way people speak, trade, and resolve conflicts, to how they maintain social relations with neighbours. To this day, this philosophy can still be found alive in the coastal villages of Sulawesi, even if it is not always referred to by name.

The same applies to the merantau (migrating) tradition in Minangkabau culture, which is deeply rooted in the customary systems of the sultanates and kingdoms.