For people in Bantul—especially those around Wonokromo—KH Muhammad Abdul Muhith is hardly a stranger. Most simply knew him as Mbah Uhith, a name spoken with quiet familiarity and deep respect.
He was a scholar of fiqh, a guardian of Islamic legal thought, and the caretaker of Pondok Pesantren Al-Fitroh in Jejeran, Pleret, Bantul, Yogyakarta. But titles never quite captured who he was.
Born in 1936 in the village of Jejeran, Mbah Uhith grew up in a household steeped in scholarship. His father, KH Nawawi, was a respected cleric in Yogyakarta and had once served as the personal secretary to Sheikh Ihsan of Jampes, the author of Sirajut Thalibin. From an early age, young Muhith absorbed religious knowledge not only from his father but also from scholars across Wonokromo. Later, he continued his studies at the Watucongol pesantren in Magelang under the guidance of Mbah Kiai Dalhar—revered by many as a saintly figure.
Yet what truly set Mbah Uhith apart was not just where he studied, but how. He had a deeply ingrained habit of teaching himself. Left alone with books, he flourished. Nearly every text in his personal library passed through his hands, read with care, revisited with patience. His muthola’ah—that quiet, disciplined practice of studying independently—became something of a legend. Few could match it. Not even his own children.
What he read never stayed on the page. It lived on in his teachings. Whether inside the pesantren or beyond its walls, his kitab kuning sessions carried the weight of a lifetime spent in conversation with classical texts. If ever there was a man who read until his final breath, it was Mbah Uhith.
And he didn’t just read—he wrote. Prolifically. One of his most notable works bears the title Hiyadl ar-Rabihin fi Ma‘rifati Ma‘aniy Riyadl ash-Shalihin—a descriptive rendering of Riyad as-Salihin, the celebrated collection by Imam al-Nawawi. What made his work stand out wasn’t just its content, but its form. He wrote it in Arabic Pegon, using Javanese as the language of explanation.
There was a reason for that choice. He noticed something others often overlooked: classical texts, for all their richness, remained out of reach for many ordinary people attending his study circles. They listened, but didn’t fully grasp. So he bridged the gap. By writing in Pegon Javanese, he opened the door wider—making the teachings accessible, intimate, and grounded in the language people lived in.
His works were never meant for the marketplace. They were printed privately within the pesantren, shared internally, almost like a trust passed from one generation to the next. First published in 1982, his writings spanned 42 sections compiled into four substantial volumes, mirroring the structure of the original text.
In matters of spirituality, Mbah Uhith followed the path of Imam al-Ghazali, while in tarekat, he aligned himself with the Naqshbandi order. His intellectual reach was wide—covering Qur’anic exegesis, hadith, Arabic grammar, and Sufism—but it was fiqh where he truly stood out. When religious leaders across Wonokromo—and even beyond Yogyakarta—faced difficult legal questions, they turned to him. Not out of habit, but out of trust.
Still, his mastery didn’t stop there. Mbah Uhith was also a scholar of hadith. In 1968, he established Majelis Bukhoren, a gathering dedicated to studying Sahih Bukhari during the month of Mawlid. He led it alongside fellow scholars—KH Busyro of Wonokromo, KH Ali Ma’sum of Tegal, and KH Muhyiddin of Jejeran. The tradition lives on to this day, long after his passing.
Two years later, he initiated another spiritual gathering: Majelis Dalail al-Khairat. Here, he served as a mujiz—a guide in the Sufi sense, known more widely as a mursyid. The gathering, held on the 12th of each Hijri month, rotated from one home to another. Locals affectionately called it malem rolasan. Even now, the rhythm continues, carried forward by his son.
For all his influence, Mbah Uhith had little interest in formal positions. Offers came—again and again. He was once asked to serve as Mukhtasyar NU Bantul, even urged to take on a leadership role. He declined, gently but firmly. At one point he was listed as part of the committee, yet remained inactive. The same went for his role in the Jejeran mosque administration.
It wasn’t reluctance. It was clarity.
He chose a quieter path—teaching, guiding, being present as a kiai without the weight of titles. In that simplicity, he found peace.
Mbah Uhith passed away in 2004 at the age of 67, after battling a lung illness. Before his death, he held onto a simple, heartfelt wish: to take his entire family on the pilgrimage to Mecca together. It remained unfulfilled.
But perhaps his true legacy lies elsewhere.
Before he returned to his Creator, he left a message to his son—to continue the pesantren, to care for the gatherings he had built with such devotion. A reminder, perhaps, that while a life may end, its quiet influence can carry on—steady, enduring, and deeply rooted in the hearts of those who inherit it.