On Bali’s quiet northern coast, where jungle-covered hills descend toward the sea, lie two of the island’s most ancient villages, Sembiran and Julah. Located in Buleleng Regency, about 25 kilometres east of Singaraja and a short drive from the coastal town of Tejakula, these villages are more than just old settlements, they are living sanctuaries of an ancestral memory, ritual practice, and cultural continuity stretching back over a thousand years.
“This is where we began,” says I Ketut Rapet Arsana, a 72-year-old village elder, his voice calm and grounded like the land he calls home. “Our people come from three origins: the Bali Mula, born from this land; the Bali Aga, born from cocoons; and the Majapahit, who arrived later from across the sea.”
Seated in the shade of his home, Ketut recalls a tale passed down through generations.
“Long ago, four cocoons were discovered by wandering seers. Two hatched into boys—they were taken to Julah. The other two girls went to Sembiran. When they reunited, their union gave birth to us.”
Because of this sacred origin –brother to sister, village to village– marriage between the people of Julah and Sembiran remains forbidden to this day. Even the name Sembiran, meaning “fragment” or “splinter,” reflects that ancient separation: a village born of division, yet forever tied to its source.
A Civilisation Born Before History
The story of Sembiran is not just myth it is quite literally embedded in the earth. In the 1960s, archaeologist R.P. Soejono unearthed Paleolithic hand axes here, remarkably similar to those found in Pacitan, East Java. These suggest human activity dating back hundreds of thousands of years, long before Bali’s written history.
While such timelines challenge mainstream archaeology, they mirror the villagers’ own beliefs. Rituals follow rhythms older than the Hindu-Balinese calendar, aligning instead with nature and ancestral memory, echoes of ancient Austronesian heritage.
One morning, Ketut Gede Dony Widhi Ariawan, Perbekel (village head) of Sembiran, invites us to walk the lanes of his village. He begins at a modest alley known as Gang Bali Mula, home to families who trace their bloodline directly to Bali’s earliest inhabitants.
“There,” he says, pointing to a nearby compound, “live those who still carry the old ways.” He introduces Jero Nyoman Sutarmi, a village elder from the Bali Mula generation. At over 80 years old, Sutarmi radiates health and presence.
“People from the Bali Mula line often have a distinct, scaly skin texture. You can see it with your own eyes,” Dony adds.
As we continue our walk, Dony leads us to a small open structure, a faithful replica of an old Sembiran house, built to preserve the memory of ancestral architecture. The modest building features a traditional gate and two primary rooms: one serving as the main room and sleeping quarters, the other designated for kitchen and bathroom use. The layout is a physical memory, echoing the simplicity and practicality of homes of earlier times.
Then, just a short distance away, Dony points out something rarer still, the village’s one remaining original house that still retains the form of old Sembiran architecture. Though its function has shifted over time, reflecting the demands of the modern era, its structure remains a testament to the past. No longer lived in, the structure stands as a quiet bridge between what was and what is.
Not far from the gang, a modest temple used by the Bali Aga community stands quietly beside the path, a silent marker of Sembiran’s layered identity. Here, the spiritual traditions of the Bali Aga, Bali Mula, and Majapahit coexist, each with their own sacred spaces, side by side in the same village.
Temples and Time
Positioned on sacred high ground, Pura Dulu serves as Sembiran’s revered ‘Mother Temple’ and spiritual heart. Within its sanctum lie four sacred stones, believed to date back to the Megalithic era.
These stones are not randomly placed, they are arranged in a meaningful configuration: two at the centre, forming the main axis of spiritual focus, and one stone each to the left and right, symbolically balancing the sacred space. Their placement reflects a deep ancestral cosmology, linking the community to its prehistoric past and the enduring power of the land.
Another temple, Pura Desa, guards a rare prasasti (inscription) that is almost never seen.
“You can only view them during special ceremonies,” says Wayan Widhiarsa, a 41-year-old temple priest from the Bali Mula lineage.
Sembiran’s spiritual landscape is marked by 23 temples, 17 of which exhibit megalithic traits—standing stones, ancestral shrines, and earthbound altars that predate Hinduism. “We don’t have sacred texts,” Wayan says. “Knowledge lives in people. There are no books. You either remember it—or you don’t.”
Other customs differ from the rest of Bali. Inheritance is not always passed down through lineage, it can be a spiritual connection. When Wayan’s grandmother passed, she entrusted her knowledge to her daughter-in-law, not to her children, because she sensed the calling. Wayan’s own path to priesthood came not through study, but through signs. “You don’t choose this path,” he says. “It chooses you.”
Unlike priests in southern Bali who chant Sanskrit mantras, those in Sembiran speak in sesontengan—impromptu, heartfelt prayers in the local tongue:
“Oh Lord, today I come to your home with these humble offerings.
Forgive my mistakes. Thank you for your guidance.
Please walk with me in this life.”
This embodied spirituality echoes Fred B. Eiseman Jr.’s insight in Bali: Sekala and Niskala: “The Balinese universe is a symbolic one, where the visible (sekala) and invisible (niskala) are intertwined. In places like Sembiran, that line is nearly nonexistent.”
Devotion in Every Detail
In Sembiran, spiritual life begins at home. Unlike in other parts of Bali, where offerings are sold at markets, here they must be handmade. Selling them is not only unheard of—it is taboo.
“The materials may look simple,” Wayan explains, “but spiritually, they’re complete. Every leaf, flower, and grain of rice has meaning.”
Life-cycle ceremonies like weddings or naming rituals can require weeks of preparation. Each household becomes a centre of devotion. Even villagers who marry outsiders must undergo a Sembiran Ceremony upon returning—an ancestral reintegration ritual.
“Without it,” Wayan warns, “they often feel unsettled—we’ve seen it.”
Modern archaeology confirms what villagers have long believed. In the 1990s, I Wayan Ardika and Peter Bellwood uncovered Indian ceramics, glass beads, and bronze fragments in Sembiran. Their study, Sembiran: The Beginnings of Indian Contact with Bali, places the village within a vast maritime trade network dating to the 2nd century BCE.
“These materials show Bali’s early participation in long-distance trade,” they write. “Sembiran likely served as a port and cultural crossroads.”
Meanwhile, 20 copperplate inscriptions—split between Sembiran and Julah—contain royal decrees in Old Balinese. They offer rare insights into a world where temples held political power and sacred space governed society. Yet here, these are not museum pieces. They are still guarded in temples, protected by taboo.
Julah, the Spiritual Twin
Just two kilometers east of Sembiran lies Julah—its spiritual twin and cultural mirror. Though close in distance, the villages maintain distinct identities.
“Julah and Sembiran were once one,” says Sugiantini, 25, a Bali Mula native from Julah. “Even the prasasti—the copperplate inscriptions—are divided equally, about ten each.” The oldest prasasti is kept in Pura Desa, the village’s central temple, where it serves as both a spiritual and historical anchor. Julah, like Sembiran, observes strict adherence to sacred boundaries.
“You can’t enter the temple outside of special ceremonies,” Sugiantini explains. “We believe in sebal desa. If someone dies before a major temple ceremony, all preparations are canceled. The entire village is considered spiritually impure.”
Julah’s houses have modernised, but their traditional ulu-teben layout endures—a spatial philosophy where ulu (the upper or sacred side, typically facing south) is reserved for the family shrine, while teben (the lower or impure side) houses more mundane functions like cooking or bathing. Because of this belief, bathrooms are never built inside the home.
Julah diverges sharply from the rest of Bali in its treatment of death. “We don’t cremate,” Sugiantini explains. “We practice mekelin—a traditional form of natural burial where the body is laid to rest unclothed, with the face covered in leaves, just as we entered the world.”
Ngaben, the fiery cremation ceremony common across Bali, is replaced by a natural burial in a bamboo wadah, laid to rest in a coastal cemetery shared with Bondalem. Entry is forbidden unless a funeral is taking place. But not everyone qualifies. Only those who have completed at least half of the 23 life-cycle ceremonies are considered spiritually mature enough to attain ancestral status.
Julah’s offerings also differ.“We don’t use flowers,” says Sugiantini. “Our canang includes betel leaves, lime paste, pinang, banana leaf, and daun limba. That’s what we consider.”
Tourism is approached with caution. Visitors may walk village lanes, but temple access is strictly guided. Four traditional wells—designated for men, women, livestock, and ritual use—still serve the community, preserving ancient water systems. Julah’s weavers still practice their craft, but their numbers are dwindling.
Memory Without Manuscript
Unlike many Bali Aga communities, Sembiran and Julah have never relied on written texts. Their memory is oral. “Our memory is our library,” Wayan says. “When an elder dies, it’s like losing a whole book. That’s why we must listen. We must remember.”
In a world driven by documentation, these villages offer another way of knowing—a living archive held in bodies, gestures, and stories.
Not all histories are meant to be written. Some must be remembered.
As cultural anthropologist Brigitta Hauser-Schäublin observed in Sembiran and Julah – Sketches of History: “To understand these villages is to read a history carved not in stone, but in ritual, space, and silence.”
Sembiran and Julah are not relics but living testaments to Bali’s deepest wisdom. Here, no offering is bought; no prayer recited from a book. Temples whisper, not shout. Ancestry is practice, not theory.
For travellers, seekers and custodians alike, these villages ask not to be toured, but to be listened to—with reverence.
