Arabic in Context: Celebrating 400 Years of Arabic at Leiden University 9004343032, 9789004343030, 2017009364, 2017016711, 9789004343047

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Arabic in Context

Studies in Semitic Languages and Linguistics Editorial Board A.D. Rubin and Ahmad Al-Jallad

volume 89

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/ssl

Arabic in Context Celebrating 400 Years of Arabic at Leiden University

Edited by

Ahmad Al-Jallad

leiden | boston

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Jallad, Ahmad, 1985- editor. Title: Arabic in context : celebrating 400 years of Arabic at Leiden University / edited by Ahmad Al-Jallad, Leiden University. Description: Leiden ; Boston : Brill, 2017. | Series: Studies in Semitic languages and linguistics ; volume 89 | Papers presented at a colloquium held in November 2013 in Leiden on the theme of "Arabic in Context," organised on the occasion of the 400th anniversary of Leiden's chair in Arabic. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: lccn 2017009364 (print) | lccn 2017016711 (ebook) | isbn 9789004343047 (E-book) | isbn 9789004343030 (hardback : alk. paper) Subjects: lcsh: Arabic language–History–Congresses. | Arabic language–Congresses. Classification: lcc pj6075 (ebook) | lcc pj6075 .a725 2017 (print) | ddc 492.709–dc23 lc record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017009364

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill-typeface. issn 0081-8461 isbn 978-90-04-34303-0 (hardback) isbn 978-90-04-34304-7 (e-book) Copyright 2017 by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill nv incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi and Hotei Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill nv provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, ma 01923, usa. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

Contents Foreword vii Preface x List of Figures xiv List of Abbreviations in Linguistic Glosses and Paradigms List of Contributors xvi

xv

What is Arabic? 1

Arabic in Its Semitic Context 3 John Huehnergard

2

How Conservative and How Innovating is Arabic? 35 Andrzej Zaborski

Arabic in Its Epigraphic Context 3

The ʿAyn ʿAbada Inscription Thirty Years Later: A Reassessment 53 Manfred Kropp

4

Aramaic or Arabic? The Nabataeo-Arabic Script and the Language of the Inscriptions Written in This Script 75 Laïla Nehmé

5

Graeco-Arabica I: The Southern Levant 99 Ahmad Al-Jallad

Classical Arabic in Context 6

Traces of South Arabian Causative-Reflexive Verbal Stem in Arabic Lexicon? 189 Daniele Mascitelli

7

Arabic allaḏī / illi as Subordinators: An Alternative Perspective Lutz Edzard

212

vi

contents

8

Raphelengius and the Yellow Cow (Q 2:69): Early Translations of Hebrew ˀādōm into Arabic ˀaṣfar 227 Jordi Ferrer i Serra

9

Terminative-Adverbial and Locative-Adverbial Endings in Semitic Languages: A Reassessment and Its Implications for Arabic 271 Francesco Grande

10

On the Middle Iranian Borrowings in Qurʾānic (and Pre-Islamic) Arabic 317 Johnny Cheung

Qurʾānic Arabic in Context 11

Traces of Bilingualism/Multilingualism in Qurʾānic Arabic 337 Guillaume Dye

12

A Syriac Reading of the Qurʾān? The Case of Sūrat al-Kawṯar Martin F.J. Baasten

372

Middle and Modern Arabic in Context 13

Orthography and Reading in Medieval Judaeo-Arabic 395 Geoffrey Khan

14

Linguistic History and the History of Arabic: A Speech Communities Approach 405 Alexander Magidow

15

Digging Up Archaic Features: “Neo-Arabic” and Comparative Semitic in the Quest for Proto Arabic 441 Naʿama Pat-El

16

The Arabic Strata in Awjila Berber 476 Marijn van Putten and Adam Benkato Index of Qurʾānic Verses 503 Index of Languages and Subjects

504

Foreword “As far as my knowledge extends, no other people is known to have expended so much toil, effort and industry on refining their language.” So wrote Thomas Erpenius (1584–1624), the professor of Arabic at Leiden University, in his inaugural lecture, ‘On the excellence and dignity of the Arabic language,’ delivered in Leiden on 8 May 1613.1 It is to the efforts of mediaeval Arab scholars in grammar, lexicography and linguistics that Erpenius refers here, continuing by stating that, “An almost countless number of their most distinguished men have written grammar books and diverse grammatical tracts, some of which are in verse and others in prose.”2 Erpenius himself would go on to make Herculean contributions to the study of Arabic in Europe and therefore forms a perfect connection between the theme of this volume and the occasion of the meeting that gave rise to it. The studies presented here represent papers delivered at a colloquium held in November 2013 in Leiden on the theme of “Arabic in Context,” organised on the occasion of the 400th anniversary of Leiden’s chair in Arabic. Bringing together Arabicists, Semiticists, historians, epigraphists and papyrologists, the conference focused on Arabic in its earliest stages. Connecting the study of the history of Arabic to the long and varied Leiden tradition of scholarship on the subject was timely, but the conference’s approach to the topic provided even more relevant linkages. In his lecture Erpenius emphasises that all students, medical doctors, geographers and scientists would do well to learn Arabic in order to be able to read the books of the ancient Greeks and Romans only preserved in their Arabic translations. The Arab achievement in prose and, especially, poetry provide another reason. Most importantly therefore, he adds, scholars and students will, through Arabic, have access to the texts produced in a language which has “more important books on any sort of knowledge than can ever be found anywhere else.”3 In his scholarship and teaching, Erpenius offered a similar broad and interdisciplinary perspective on Arabic language and culture. 1 He had been appointed extraordinary professor of Arabic on 9 February 1613 following a joint decision by the university, the city of Leiden and the governors of the United Netherlands Provinces to institute such a post in 1599. For Thomas Erpenius, see further Arnoud Vrolijk and Richard van Leeuwen, Arabic Studies in the Netherlands. A Short History in Portraits, 1580– 1950 (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 31–40. 2 Robert Jones (tr.), “Thomas Erpenius (1584–1624) On the Value of the Arabic Language,” Manuscripts of the Middle East 1 (1986), 15–25, 19. 3 Jones, “Thomas Erpenius,” 19.

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Erpenius’s grammar was the first of its kind for a European audience and remained the standard for the next two centuries.4 He made editions of historical and grammatical treatises, translated a collection of Arabic proverbs and fables, and also produced a scholarly edition with Latin translations of a Quranic chapter and an Arabic edition of the New Testament. Meanwhile, he planned to produce an historical account of the Muslims, a geographical study, and a linguistic and literary-cultural history of the Arabic language. Appointed professor of Hebrew and other Semitic languages in 1620, he expanded his domain by compiling grammars of Aramaic and Syriac, having planned a grammar of Ethiopic as well. At the university he emphasised the importance of studying Turkish next to Arabic to gain a better understanding of the Arabicspeaking world which at his time was mostly under Ottoman rule. Such extraordinary breadth in disciplinary mastery and scholarly energy can hardly be matched by single scholars today. It is, however, the approach to the Arabic-speaking world and the Arabic language through its various cultural and linguistic dimensions that has been the guiding principle at Leiden University ever since. Indeed, it is through communal scholarly effort, academic meetings and joint projects that such multidisciplinary methodology can be realised. Contextualizing Arabic studies within different disciplines—Semitics, epigraphy, papyrology, dialectology, history and archeology—the conference “Arabic in Context” and the volume that resulted from it show what can be achieved in this way. Two trends can be observed in the field, one methodological, the other chronological, and the essays presented here offer original insights and in many cases new primary material to address them. Documentary sources in the form of inscriptions, papyrus documents, archaeology and material finds give us a fresh view on the development of the Arabic language and script beyond reconstructions of internal developments and theoretical treatises. Incorporating linguistic domains that are not generally studied in conjunction with Arabic offers another “outsider” look. Through the inspired contributions of a growing group of scholars, it is now clear that Arabia has much more in the way of textual resources than was ever expected, making it one of the most literate environments of antiquity. The history of the Arabic language and script, it is now evident, long pre-dates the rise of Islam, with which the language is most obviously connected. This offers interesting perspectives on the way in which religion, ethnicity, language, script, and politics coincided in this region in antiquity. It also shows that

4 Grammatica Arabica, Leiden 1613.

foreword

ix

the appearance of Islam in seventh-century Arabia, while obviously having important long-term effects also for the development of Arabic, should not necessarily be considered a sudden watershed event in the history of the ancient world. This volume shows how fruitful such a long-term view on the history of the Arabic language within its historical and linguistic context is. Ahmad Al-Jallad, the convenor of the conference and editor of this volume should be congratulated on his vision to present the history of the Arabic language in this light. The outcome is an important contribution to Leiden’s long history in the field. Petra Sijpesteijn

Preface In celebration of Arabic’s 400 years of study at Leiden University, the Leiden Institute for Area Studies and the Leiden Centre for Linguistics, with the support of Leids Universiteits Fonds, the Juynboll Foundation, and Stichting Oosters Institute, have organized a conference to study Arabic in its broader historical and linguistic context. The subject was inspired by the keynote address of J. Huehnergard, entitled Arabic in its Semitic Context. The time for such a volume had long been over due. Hebrew, Aramaic, and Akkadian have preceded and benefited from the consideration of their linguistic and philological problems within a wider perspective.1 In the case of Arabic, the need for a wider perspective has never been greater. Interest in Arabic’s linguistic past has steadily been growing, with several recent monographs dedicated to this subject.2 At the same time, an awareness is spreading that the two-dimensional narrative of a progression from Classical Arabic to the modern dialects is not enough to capture the diversity of modern spoken varieties or the ancient epigraphic forms of Arabic. Nevertheless, historical Arabic linguistics has become more isolated over the years, with some of its researchers regarding other fields with suspicion or being wholly unaware of advances in other disciplines that are relevant to the history of Arabic.3 The writing of Arabic’s linguistic history is by definition an interdisciplinary effort, the result of collaboration between historical linguists, epigraphists, dialectologists, and historians. The conference and the present volume therefore seek to catalyse an interdisciplinary dialogue between scholars who are interested in Arabic’s past and to illustrate how much there is to be gained by looking beyond the traditional sources and methods. 1 For Biblical Hebrew, see Fassberg and Hurvitz (eds.) 2006; for Aramaic, Gzella and Folmer (eds.) 2008, for Akkadian, Deutscher and Kowenberg (eds.) 2006. 2 Perhaps the most widely known is Owens 2006/9, but also the recent book of Wilmsen 2014. Diem 2014 concerns itself with the same issues as Wilmsen 2014, but employing a very different approach. For comparative review of both books, see Souag 2016. 3 This is exemplified by Owens 2015. The isolation of traditional Arabic linguistics is perhaps illustrated best in the contribution of El-Sharkawi to the online edition of Brill’s Encylopedia of Arabic Language and Linguistics on the subject of pre-Islamic Arabic. The lemma deals almost exclusively with sources from the 8th and 9th centuries, over a century and a half after the advent of Islam (!), and cavalierly dismisses the pre-Islamic epigraphic evidence as ‘not forthcoming’, citing an article nearly twenty years old. Ignoring the epigraphic evidence for pre-Islamic Arabic, which numbers in the thousands, is not justifiable in any approach, but instead reflects persistence of the myth that Arabic was simply not frequently attested prior to the rise of Islam.

preface

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This book contains sixteen studies divided into five themes. The first What is Arabic contains the keynote lecture of J. Huehnergard. This contribution seeks a purely linguistic definition of Arabic. The linguistic definition of Arabic is a necessary pre-requisite for drawing up ancient Arabia’s linguistic map based on the epigraphic sources, as the identification of the language of an inscription has often been impressionistic or based on non-linguistic criteria. The late A. Zaborski engages with J. Huehnergard’s chapter on the position of Arabic in the Semitic language family. He re-examines some of the features considered to be Arabic isoglosses and makes a case that Arabic is far more archaic than most scholars have admitted. Arabic in Its Epigraphic Context contains studies devoted to the only true witnesses to Arabic’s pre-Islamic past—the epigraphy. M. Kropp returns to the ʿEn ʿAvdat inscription, one of the earliest, if not the earliest, examples of Arabic literary composition. The meaning of this short poetic text, composed in the Nabataean script, has eluded a consensus among scholars, but Kropp’s original approach advances our understanding of its structure and purpose, and provides a compelling new translation. L. Nehmé contributes an essential study on the language of the latest phase of Nabataean writing, the so-called Nabataeao-Arabic inscriptions. Her study attempts to tease apart the two linguistic strata comprising these texts, establishing that Arabic had indeed grown in usage during this latest period. A. Al-Jallad provides a comprehensive study of the pre-Islamic Arabic of the southern Levant as preserved in Greek transcriptions from the region. The picture emerging gives us our first true look at pre-Islamic Arabic phonology, centuries earlier than the Arabic grammatical tradition. Classical Arabic is the variety of Arabic used most frequently in comparative studies of Semitic grammar, owning to both its antiquity and readily available descriptions of it. The studies in Classical Arabic in Context focus on the grammar and lexicon of Classical Arabic, with a special focus on the less-studied parts of its grammar and lexicon. L. Edzard’s chapter investigates subordinator ʾallaḏī, a uniquely Arabic feature, and its modern dialectal equivalent illī, within a comparative Semitics perspective. D. Mascitelli mines the Classical Arabic lexica for evidence of South Arabian influence in the causative stem (IV) of the verb, revealing the classical dictionaries to be an important source for evidence of ancient language contact. F. Grande uses Classical Arabic, especially some peripheral points of its grammar, as the basis for a far-reaching reconstruction of the case system in Semitic. Both J. Ferrer i Serra and J. Cheung provide contributions on the lexicon of Classical Arabic, but from different perspectives. Cheung explores Middle Iranian borrowings into Qurʾānic Arabic, an important source of evidence for cultural contacts and even for the interpretation of

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the text itself, while Ferrer i Serra undertakes an investigation of the semantics of colors in Classical Arabic based on the early translations of Hebrew ʾdm into the language. A separate section is dedicated to the language of the Qurʾān, which is often subsumed under the rubric of Classical Arabic. The two studies comprising Qurʾānic Arabic in Context investigate Qurʾānic Arabic on its own terms. G. Dye examines the vocabulary and grammar of the Qurʾānic texts to reconstruct the multilingual milieu to which Qurʾānic Arabic originally belonged. M.F.J. Baasten casts light on the enigmatic language of Sūrat al-Kawthar through a thorough evaluation of the Luxenbergian hypothesis. Drawing on evidence from Old (epigraphic) Arabic and other Semitic languages, Baasten advances a new interpretation of the text, while also maintaining its Arabicness. Middle and Modern Arabic in Context contains four studies on the postclassical varieties of Arabic. G. Khan examines medieval Judaeo-Arabic on its own terms, breaking with the tradition of viewing it as a substandard form of Classical Arabic. His study outlines the basic linguistic facts of this independent reading tradition. A. Magidow employs a ‘speech-communities’ approach in an attempt to connect the linguistic history of Arabic with the history of its speakers, an important contribution in the way of establishing an interdisciplinary program for the study of the history of Arabic. N. Pat-El makes abundantly clear the distinction between absolute and relative chronology. Her study identifies several features in the spoken dialects of Arabic that continue older Semitic features lost in Classical Arabic, providing yet more evidence that the modern Arabic dialects do not descend monogenetically from the Classical literary register. Finally, Van Putten and Benkato mine the modern Berber language of Awjila for Arabic loans, some of which reflect a spoken dialect no longer present, at least in the region. The history of a language, the attestation of which spans nearly three thousand years, cannot be written in a single volume. It is nevertheless hoped that the studies contained herein will act as an important methodological intervention, encouraging a shift in the way Arabic’s linguistic history is written. Ahmad Al-Jallad

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Bibliography Deutscher, G. and N.J.C. Kowenberg (eds.) (2006). The Akkadian Language in its Semitic Context. Studies in the Akkadian of the Third and Second Millennium bc, PIHANS volume 106. Diem, W. (2014) Negation in Arabic: A Study in Linguistic History. Wiesbaden. Gzella, H. and M. Folmer (eds.) (2008). Aramaic in its Historical and Linguistic Setting. VOK 50. Wiesbaden. Fassberg, S. and A. Hurvitz. (2006). Biblical Hebrew in Its Northwest Semitic Setting: Typological and Historical Perspectives. Jerusalem. Owens, J. (2006/9) A linguistic history of Arabic. Oxford. Owens, J. (2015) Reflections on Arabic and Semitic: Can proto-Semitic case be justified? Kervan – International journal of Afro-Asiatic Studies 19: 159–172. Souag, L. (2016). Book Review of Diem 2014 and Wilmsen 2014. Linguistics 54(1): 223– 229. Wilmsen, D. (2014) Arabic Indefinites, Interrogatives, and Negators: A Linguistic History of Western Dialects. Oxford.

List of Figures 1.1 1.2 1.3 3.1

Geography-based classification of the Semitic languages 8 Linguistic classification of the Semitic languages 9 Classification of Arabic 27 The stone bearing the inscription in situ 1993. Photograph by courtesy of Abraham Negev 57 3.2 Drawing by Ada Yardeni (cf. Negev 1986: 56 + n.*, fig. 1; Yardeni 2000: 305) 58 3.3 Drawing of the ʿAyn ʿAbada inscription, courtesy of Mohammad Maraqten (in Maraqten 2013: 29). 59 4.1 UJadh 330. The text reads {ḥrgz} ʾly / ʾlḥgr / p{ʾ}m.. {l/n}{y}{l/n} / {ʿš} 98 4.2 UJadh 293. The text reads dkyr ḥnny br yhwdʾ / bṭb w l-{k}y{r}dʾ 98 5.1 The southern Levant and North Arabia. Map: A. Al-Jallad and A. Emery 106 14.1 A glottometric diagram of the Torres-Bank Oceanic languages from François (2015) 425 14.2 Levantine Arabic Dialects, based on Magidow (2013), in turn based on Behnstedt (1985) 433

List of Abbreviations in Linguistic Glosses and Paradigms The following grammatical abbreviations are used in this book. 1 2 3 acc adj adv def indef loc m n nom obl par pl s term

first person second person third person accusative adjective adverb(ial) definite article indefinite locative masculine noun nominative oblique paradigm plural singular terminative

List of Contributors Ahmad Al-Jallad Ph.D. (2012) Harvard University, is an Assistant Professor at Leiden University. He has published on the comparative grammar of the Semitic languages, the history of Arabic, and on the epigraphy of Ancient North Arabia. He is the founding director of the Leiden Center for the Study of Ancient Arabia and is co-director of the Landscapes of Survival Archaeological Project in Jordan and the Thāj Aracheological Project in Saudi Arabia. Martin F.J. Baasten Ph.D. (2006) Leiden University, teaches Hebrew philology at Leiden University. Adam Benkato is a Humboldt Postdoctoral Research Fellow at the Freie Universität Berlin, where he is working on a description of the Arabic dialect of Benghazi and teaching Libyan Arabic. He also has done work in Iranian philology. Johnny Cheung is trained as historical-comparative linguist and iranist at Leiden University and at SOAS (London), and is currently holder of an endowed Chaire d’Excellence, which is funded by the Université Sorbonne-Paris-Cité and hosted by the National Institute of Oriental Languages and Civilisations (INALCO) in Paris. His current research consists of collecting, analysing and interpreting the sacred hymns of the Yezidis and the folktales of the Bakhtiaris that may shed more light on the ancient, formative beliefs, world view and customs of these groups with no written historical records of their own. Guillaume Dye is a professor of Islamic studies at the Free University of Brussels (Université libre de Bruxelles, ULB). His main field of research is Qurʾānic and Early Islamic studies. He is cofounder and co-director of The Early Islamic Studies Seminar: International Scholarship on the Qurʾan and Islamic Origins, an academic group of international specialists, working and sharing the results of Their research in the field of Islamic origins. Among his publications: Figures bibliques and Islam, etc. G. & F. Dye Nobilio (Bruxelles-Fernelmont, 2011). Partage du Sacré: transferts, Devotions mixtes, rivalités interconfessionnelles etc. I. Depret & G. Dye (Bruxelles-Fernelmont, 2012), Hérésies: une construction d’ identités religieuses etc. C. Brouwer, G. Dye and A. van Rompaey (Bruxelles, 2015).

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Lutz Edzard is professor of Arabic and Semitic linguistics at the University of ErlangenNürnberg and professor of Semitic linguistics at the University of Oslo. His research interests include comparative Semitic and Afroasiatic linguistics with a focus on phonology, Arabic and Hebrew linguistics, and the history of diplomatic documents in Semitic languages. He is the editor, together with Rudolf de Jong, of the Encyclopedia of Arabic Language and Linguistics online at Brill, and, with Stephan Guth, the editor of the online Journal of Arabic and Islamic Studies. He serves as the Semitics editor for Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft and, with Stephan Guth, as the editor for the series Porta Linguarum Orientalium at Harrassowitz. Jordi Ferrer i Serra (Ph.D., University of Uppsala) is Visiting Research Fellow at the Centre for Middle Eastern Studies at the University of Lund. He focuses his research on problems of linguistic, literary, and historical nature connected, in a wide sense, to the world of the early Arabic poetical tradition. Currently he is conducting studies in the colour system of early Arabic and the history of the kingdom of al-Ḥīra. Francesco Grande (Ph.D. Pisa, 2011) is a Researcher in Arabic Language and Literature at Università Ca’ Foscari, Venice. He has published articles on Arabic and linguistics, and is author of Copula in the Arabic Noun Phrase: A Unified Analysis of Arabic Adnominal Markers (Brill, 2013). John Huehnergard (Ph.D. 1979, Harvard University; D.H.L. 2014, University of Chicago) is Professor of Middle Eastern Studies at the University of Texas at Austin, and Professor of Semitic Philology, emeritus, at Harvard University. He has published books and articles on the grammar of Akkadian, Hebrew, Ugaritic, and other Semitic languages, and on historical and comparative Semitic linguistics. Geoffrey Khan is Regius Professor of Hebrew at the University of Cambridge. His current research projects in the field of Hebrew include two volumes relating to Karaite texts, an edition of texts on the Tiberian reading tradition of Hebrew, and a linguistic analysis of Karaite Hebrew Bible manuscripts in Arabic transcription. Aramaic research concentrates on the North-Eastern Neo-Aramaic dialects, and current work includes a grammar of the Assyrian Christian dialect of Urmi.

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Arabic research concentrates on early Arabic documents, and including a corpus of Arabic documents from Nubia datable to the Fatimid period. Some of his honours include election as Fellow of the British Academy (1998), election as Honorary Fellow of the Academy of the Hebrew Language (2011), election as Fellow of Academia Europea (2014), election as Honorary Member of the American Oriental Society (2015), election as Extraordinary Professor (Honorary) by the University of Stellenbosch (2016), the award of the Lidzbarski Gold Medal for Semitic philology by the Deutsche Morgenländische Gesellschaft (2004) and the award of an honorary doctorate by the Hebrew University of Jerusalem (2017). Manfred Kropp Phil. Diss 1975, Kropp specializes in Ethiopian History and Literature and Semitic epigraphy. He was professor of Semitic Languages (Lund University) 1990–1991, chair of Islamic and Semitic Studies (Mainz University) 1999–2010, Director of the Orient-Institut Beirut (DGIA) 1999–2006, and Chair européenne (then for Coranic Studies) at the Collège de France 2007–2008. Has published on Ethiopian chronicles and the history of Ethiopia in the Middle Ages, on preIslamic North Arabian and South Arabian epigraphy and on Qurʾānic Studies. He is co-editor of the Oriens Christianus and on the scientific board for Journal of Ethiopian Studies and Journal of Semitic Studies. Alexander Magidow is an Assistant Professor of Arabic at the University of Rhode Island. He received his M.A. and Ph.D. in Arabic Studies from the University of Texas at Austin, and has spent time in Syria, Jordan and Morocco. His work focuses on the history of Arabic, both the spoken dialects and the written language. His research interests include the semantics of apparent “free” variation in language, Arabic dialectology, and Arabic pedagogy. He has designed and developed a website for collating Arabic dialect data, http://database-of-arabic -dialects.org. Daniele Mascitelli Ph.D. University of Florence, is now researcher in Arabic Language and Literature at University of Pisa (Department of Civilizations and Forms of Knowledge) since 2012. His main interests are pre-Islamic Arabian history and the Arabic literature related to it. He also works as translator into Italian of Arabic contemporary novels.

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Laïla Nehmé is a senior research fellow at Orient & Méditerranée, cnrs, Paris. She is the codirector of the Madâin Sâlih Archaeological Project and works on the archaeology and epigraphy of the Nabataeans, from Syria to northern Arabia. She has recently published a two-volume monography on the Nabataean tombs of Madâin Sâlih (Les tombeaux nabatéens de Hégra). Naʿama Pat-El is an associate professor of Semitic languages and linguistics at the University of Texas, Austin. She specializes in historical linguistics, especially syntax. Marijn van Putten did his Ph.D. research on the Awjila Berber language, and is currently a postdoctoral researcher working on the linguistic history of early Islamic Arabic. Andrzej Zaborski† Dr. phil.habil., was Professor Ordinarius of the Jagiellonion University in Kraków, where he held the Chair of Afro-Asiatic Linguistics and was head of the Orientalist Committee of the Polish Academy of Sciences. He is the author of The Verb in Cushitic (1975), Dialekt egipski języka arabskiego (1982), Morphology of the Nominal Plural in Cushitic Language (1986), Handbook of the Oromo Language (1990), Wspaniały świat Oceanu Indyjskiego (1998) and over a hundred scholarly articles and reviews. He served as editor of Folia Orientalia for many years. Professor Zaborski passed away on the 1st of October, 2014.

What is Arabic?

∵

chapter 1

Arabic in Its Semitic Context* John Huehnergard

In Memory of Wolfhart Heinrichs During the Enlightenment, some thinkers pondered the original language of humanity, and decided that it must have been Hebrew.1 With the advent of historical linguistics in the 19th century, Hebrew was, in a way, dethroned by Arabic. On the one hand, the simple vowel system of classical Arabic, on the other hand, its rich consonantal inventory, huge vocabulary, complex system of tenses and moods, and seemingly complete system of derived verbs made Arabic seem, to 19th-century European scholars, to be the most archaic and conservative of all Semitic languages; indeed, the earliest comparative studies almost treat Arabic as though it were, in fact, Proto-Semitic.2 But of course Arabic is not Proto-Semitic. The phonology of classical Arabic is indeed very conservative, but there are other, more conservative Semitic

* My sincere thanks are due to Ahmad Al-Jallad for the invitation to participate in the conference “Arabic in Context, Celebrating 400 Years of Arabic” at Leiden University, November 2013, at which the present paper was presented. An earlier version of this paper was read at the 24th Annual Symposium on Arabic Linguistics at the University of Texas at Austin, April 2010, and I wish to thank Kristen Brustad for the invitation to discuss the relationship of Arabic to the rest of the Semitic family at the Symposium. The present version has benefitted greatly from many insights in Al-Jallad’s 2012 dissertation and in several important articles of his, and I am also grateful to him for discussions of many points. I am indebted, too, to the following individuals who offered suggestions for improvement and provided additional references; none, of course, should be held responsible for the views expressed in this paper, or for any remaining errors: Kristen Brustad, Lutz Edzard, Jo Ann Hackett, Michael Macdonald, Alexander Magidow, Naʿama Pat-El, Jan Retsö, Andrzej Zaborski, Philip Zhakevich, and especially my late friend and colleague Wolfhart Heinrichs who, as he was always willing to do, discussed many aspects of the paper and provided a wealth of suggestions and corrections. 1 See, e.g., Olender 1992; Eco 1995: 74–75. Note also Renan 1863, who considered Hebrew to be the most archaic Semitic language. 2 E.g., Wright 1890: 8, citing de Goeje: “En dat van alle Semietische talen het Arabisch het naast staat aan de moedertaal.” Further, Lindberg 1897: v; Müller 1887: 316–317; O’Leary 1923: 5, 16. For Zimmern (1898: 5), Arabic and Ethiopic were the last languages to break away from the common Semitic stock. See also the extended discussion in König 1901: 57–70.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi: 10.1163/9789004343047_002

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phonologies, such as the consonantal inventory of the Ancient South Arabian languages. And Arabic has undergone any number of developments that distinguish it not only from other Semitic languages but, in a great many ways, from the common ancestor of the Semitic languages as well. This paper has several goals: to offer a view of what Arabic is as a Semitic language; to review where Arabic stands within the Semitic family, what its closest relatives are; and to review some of the features that uniquely characterize Arabic. These goals will also, of necessity, involve the ongoing discussion of the relationship between the modern forms of Arabic, the classical language, and the various preclassical forms of the language. That comparative Semitic philology could illuminate and explain aspects of both classical and colloquial Arabic has of course long been known. Even in the nineteenth century, no one really thought classical Arabic was identical with Proto-Semitic. For example, it was recognized that Proto-Semitic had three voiceless sibilants, as in Biblical Hebrew, and that Arabic had merged two of those (*s or *s1 and *ts or *s3; see further below).3 It was also realized that the classical Arabic relative allaðī had to be a secondary development.4 More recent comparative Semitic study has provided other examples, such as the following: 1.

2.

3 4 5 6

The preformative s of Arabic Form X, (i)stafʕala, makes sense when we posit that s was the original—and only—causative marker in Semitic. But an early sound rule that changed pre-vocalic s to h spread throughout much of Semitic;5 thus the simple causative *yusapʕil became first *yuhapʕil and then, with the further loss of the h in Arabic, yufʕil. In the st form *yustapʕil, however, the s was not pre-vocalic, and so it did not undergo the sound change. Arabic yastafʕil thus reflects a very old Semitic form. The original function of the preformative n in Form VII yanfaʕil is seen in Akkadian *(y)ippaʕil, where the base of the form, *paʕil, is the verbal adjective of the basic stem of the root, as is still the case for a few verbs in Arabic, such as fariḥ ‘glad’. For transitive verbs in Akkadian, the verbal adjective is passive resultative, so *paʕil would mean ‘done, made’. The n preformative originally marked a form as ingressive or incohative: *ya-npaʕil meant ‘become, get done, made’.6 E.g., Brockelmann 1908: 128. Wright 1890: 117. Voigt 1987; Huehnergard 2006: 8–9. Conti 1980: 103–107; Lieberman 1986; Huehnergard 1987: nn. 31, 62.

arabic in its semitic context

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We call Arabic a Semitic language because it shares a wide range of features in common with the other languages that we consider Semitic:7 a root structure of three radicals for most content words; a common inventory of consonants that includes pharyngeals and triads of stops and fricatives, each with a voiced, a voiceless, and an “emphatic” member; a common lexicon; morphological features such as contrasting suffix- and prefix-conjugations of the finite verbs; derived verbal stems marked by prefixes related to the pronominal system, such as n and t; nouns with two genders, three numbers, and three cases;8 unmarked word order verb–subject–object; noun–noun modification by a special genitive chain construction (ʔiḍāfa). Those are some of the many ways Arabic is like other Semitic languages. But we are more interested here in the ways in which Arabic is unlike other Semitic languages. What features characterize Arabic within Semitic? Or, more simply, What is Arabic?9 We could simply list features in which Arabic differs from other Semitic languages:10 Arabic has broken plurals, Akkadian and Amharic do not; Arabic has a derived verb stem with prefixed n, Aramaic and Ethiopic do not;11 Arabic has pharyngealized consonants, Ethiopic and Akkadian do not; 7

8

9

10 11

Bateson 2003: 52–54. Edzard 2012 rightly notes that many of these common Semitic features are attested in other language families. What is unique about Semitic, of course, is the aggregation of these features. Reconstructing Proto-Arabic with iʕrāb is required by the comparative method, pace Owens 1998. Since Proto-Semitic and Proto-Central Semitic exhibit the same cases as classical Arabic, Proto-Arabic must likewise have exhibited those cases. This is not altered by the fact that most modern forms of Arabic are caseless and probably descend from caseless ancestors, or by the fact that there were undoubtedly very early, even pre-Islamic, varieties of Arabic in which the case-system had been lost, such as Al-Jallad’s Ancient Levantine Arabic (2012a: 340–343, 384). (Nor, of course, can we reconstruct two types of Proto-Semitic, as Owens proposes, one with a case-system and one without.) The absence of a case-system in the colloquials is clearly the result of loss after the Proto-Arabic period; it may have happened in a single common ancestor, but more likely, it happened in several early forms of Arabic (Blau 2006, esp. p. 80). Loss of the Proto-Semitic case system also occurs over the history of Akkadian, and likewise accounts for various morphological features in ancient Hebrew and Aramaic. See further Hasselbach 2013: 69–70; Versteegh 2010. The same question is asked by Retsö (2013; see especially p. 436). I wish to thank Prof. Retsö for sending me a copy of this paper prior to its publication. Some of the features proposed by Retsö as specifically Arabic will be noted below. See, e.g., Mascitelli 2006: 19. As noted by Retsö (2013), most of Mascitelli’s features are not specific to Arabic. Classical Ethiopic does have an N stem, as in ʔangargara ‘to roll’; but, although it is probably related ultimately to the N of other Semitic languages (see above, n. 6), it no longer had the same semantic force.

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Arabic has compound tenses, like kāna yafʕalu, Hebrew and Akkadian do not. But this approach is not terribly helpful. As already noted, Arabic is not Proto-Semitic. But nor did it descend directly from Proto-Semitic as its own discrete branch, any more than the other Semitic languages did. Arabic is part of a set of ever-smaller, ever more restricted, subgroups of languages that share common ancestors among themselves, ancestors that are not shared with other members of the larger Semitic family. In other words, there are intermediate stages or nodes, intermediate ancestors that Arabic shares with only some of the other Semitic languages. To establish what is specifically characteristic of Arabic, we have to look at its closest relatives, and see how it differs from them; put another way, we have to look at the features in which Arabic differs not from Proto-Semitic, but from its most recent common ancestor. It is those features that uniquely characterize Arabic. But how do we establish which of the languages are more closely related to each other? As we just saw, it is not simply a matter of collecting features in common, or features that are different, and toting them up. For establishing genetic relationships among members of a language family, only one type of feature is diagnostic of a genetic relationship, and that is the “shared innovation.” A shared innovation is a feature that a subgroup of languages exhibits in common because it was inherited from a recent, or immediate, common ancestor in which that feature first arose. Shared innovations are the only features that are significant for genetic subgrouping. As Alice Faber (1997:4) succinctly put it: “The establishment of a linguistic subgroup requires the identification of innovations that are shared among all and only the members of that subgroup.” A clear example of a shared innovation is the use of the suffix-conjugation, the Arabic perfect faʕala, as an active, past tense verb, replacing the earlier Semitic past-tense form yafʕal. In Akkadian and Eblaite, and in the earliestattested form of ancient Egyptian,12 the form *samiʕtā ̆ meant not ‘you have heard’ but rather ‘you are/were heard’; it was a kind of verbless clause, comprised of an adjective, *samiʕ- ‘heard’,13 plus an enclitic pronoun subject *-tā ̆ ‘you’. The development of that form into an active, perfective verb meaning ‘you (have) heard’ was a profound change, a shared innovation that characterizes all of the Semitic languages except Akkadian and Eblaite as a subgroup within the Semitic family, a subgroup that is usually called “West Semitic.”

12 13

On the form and semantics of the Old Egyptian counterpart to Akkadian and Eblaite *samiʕtā ̆, see most recently Allen 2013: 120–121. As just noted, ḳatil ( faʕil) is the basic verbal adjective in Akkadian.

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In most of the West Semitic languages, the original past tense use of yafʕal survived, but only in restricted or secondary usage; in classical Arabic, for example, we see it in lam(mā) yafʕal as a negative past tense.14 The originally tenseless nature of the suffix-conjugation is also preserved in most of the West Semitic languages as a secondary characteristic. In classical Arabic we find it in forms such as optative raḥima ‘may he have mercy’ and epistemic ʕalima ‘he knows’;15 similar uses continue into some of the modern colloquials. Thus, shared innovations are the key. But shared features have several sources and it can be difficult to establish which of those are shared innovations. Some shared features are shared retentions, that is, features that two languages share because they were inherited from a still earlier ancestor, and these tell us nothing about internal relationships within the family; examples include most of the phonetic inventory of the family and the triradical system of roots. Some shared features are the result of what is called “drift” or “parallel development,” usually the result of systemic pressure or an “inner dynamic,”16 as in the non-standard English brang, which arises in many unrelated speech communities as the result of the analogy of sing : sang. Another common phenomenon that results in shared features is diffusion, the areal or wave-like spreading of features as a result of contact between speakers of different dialects and languages.17 Not only individual lexical items, but also phonological features, morphological forms, even whole grammatical categories and constructions may be borrowed through language contact. Recent studies suggest that there are very few linguistic features (if any) that may not be borrowed.18 Because many of the Semitic languages were in frequent contact with one another, diffusion of features is an extremely common phenomenon that we must always keep in mind. Indeed, for a proper evaluation of the what is unique or specific about the origin of Arabic, we must consider both shared innovations, which are the result of a genetic relationship, and diffusion, which results from language contact due to geographical proximity. What, then, are Arabic’s closest relatives? The genetic position of Arabic within Semitic has been the crux of the internal subgrouping of the Semitic

14 15 16 17 18

Also in its interchangeability with the perfect in both the protasis and the apodosis of a conditional sentence; I wish to thank W. Heinrichs for reminding me of this. W. Heinrichs and N. Pat-El remind me that non-past faʕala also appears in conditional clauses. Aikhenwald and Dixon 2001: 3. See the recent study of Babel et al. 2013, who argue “diffusion plays a greater role in language diversification than is usually recognized.” See, e.g., Epps et al. 2013: 210.

8

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family for several generations of Semitists.19 The prevailing view of the internal subgrouping of the Semitic for much of the twentieth century was the following (after Faber 1997):

figure 1.1 Geography-based classification of the Semitic languages

In this view, which was based partly on shared features and partly on geography, there is a three-part division: Akkadian is the sole member of East or Northeast Semitic; the Canaanite languages—Hebrew, Phoenician, and a number of other, sparsely attested, dialects—and Aramaic comprise Northwest Semitic;20 and Arabic, Ethiopian Semitic, the Ancient South Arabian languages, and the Modern South Arabian languages comprise South or Southwest Semitic. The most important features that were said to characterize this South or Southwest branch were: 1. 2. 3.

broken plurals; the form III verb fāʕala; and the change of Proto-Semitic stop *p to fricative f.

19

I do not agree with Retsö (2013: 444) that “The discussion whether Arabic should be classified as Central Semitic or South Semitic is not very meaningful.” For reasons that will, I trust, become clear in what follows, identifying the closest relatives of Arabic is fundamentally important for any linguistically useful discussion of the specific features that constitute Arabic. For Northwest Semitic, see Hasselbach and Huehnergard 2007.

20

arabic in its semitic context

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But the first and second of these are not shared innovations; they are shared retentions. It has been shown that all of the Semitic languages exhibit at least vestiges of broken plurals, and so they must be reconstructed as a feature of Proto-Semitic. Their occurrence in Arabic, Ancient South Arabian, Modern South Arabian, and Ethiopian Semitic is thus a retention from the protolanguage, not the result of an innovation in a common intermediate ancestor. The same is true of the verb form with long first vowel, fāʕala;21 it appears, again as a vestige, in Northwest Semitic, and, as Zaborski (1991: 371) has shown, it appears outside of Semitic elsewhere in the larger Afro-Asiatic family, among the Cushitic languages. So it, too, is a shared retention. The change of common Semitic *p to f is almost certainly the result of diffusion, due to the proximity of some of the other so-called South Semitic languages at various times in the past; but as it is a very common change cross-linguistically, is not really significant.22 Thus, this earlier view has for many Semitists been superseded by a different model, one that was championed especially by the Semitist Robert Hetzron in a number of articles and monographs in the 1970’s.23 This model shows the following branching:

figure 1.2 Linguistic classification of the Semitic languages

21 22 23

On fāʕala, see Danks 2011 and the important review by Waltisberg 2012. A similar change even appears in Northwest Semitic, as is well known, although there it is a conditioned change. E.g., Hetzron 1974, 1976.

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Again, Proto-West Semitic first hives off from the common Semitic ancestor, characterized by the new suffix-conjugation faʕala. But here, from Proto-West Semitic, a branch called Central Semitic breaks off. Central Semitic is characterized especially by a new form of the verb to express the imperfective aspect, *yafʕalu, an innovation vis-à-vis the Proto-Semitic imperfective form *yaḳattal that we find in Akkadian, Ethiopic, and the Modern South Arabian languages.24 The languages in which the Proto-Semitic form has been abandoned and replaced by *yafʕalu must have shared a common ancestor, which is labelled Central Semitic. (The remaining languages of West Semitic, which did not replace yaḳattal with yafʕalu, and which exhibit shared retentions but no significant new common innovations,25 constitute what in biological classification schemes would be termed a “paraphyletic” group, that is, a group that contains its most recent common ancestor, but not all of the descendants of that ancestor.) This model is the consensus among the majority of Semitists today.26 In a paper some years ago I reviewed some fifteen features that are shared by the Central Semitic languages, and only by those languages.27 Of those fifteen, I suggested that at least five could be considered shared innovations, the rest being, probably, the result of diffusion or, less often, shared retentions. This approach to subgrouping thus establishes that Arabic is part of Central Semitic and that its closest genetic relatives are the Northwest Semitic languages and the Ancient South Arabian languages.28 In addition, the diffusion of a number of other features, some of which will be considered below, indicates that Arabic, or at least parts of the early Arabic dialect continuum (along with Ancient South Arabian), also participated in two distinct linguistic areas (or Sprachbunde), probably at different times: the first included some of the Central Semitic languages spoken to the north of Arabic, especially southern forms of Canaanite and of Aramaic (to account, e.g., for the syntax of the definite arti-

24 25 26

27 28

In highlighting this feature, Hetzron was preceded by V. Christian 1919–1920, 1944. See, however, Kogan 2011b: 244–246, who argues that innovations in the lexicon of Ethiopian Semitic mark it as a distinctive genetic subgroup within Semitic. See Rubin 2008 and Huehnergard and Rubin 2011 for surveys of classification schemes. There are still some scholars who prefer the earlier model, for example, Corriente 2012: 1, who blithely dismisses four decades of scholarship that have swayed the majority of Semitists as “a fad.” Huehnergard 2005. Hetzron did not originally include Ancient South Arabian in Central Semitic, but it has since been established that Sabaic also has the yafʕalu form as its imperfective verb; see Nebes 1994.

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cle); the second included some of the nearby non-Central Semitic languages to the south and east of Arabic, the ancestors of the Modern South Arabian languages and of the Ethiopian languages (to account, e.g., for the diffusion of certain broken plural patterns).29 It is from Central Semitic, then, that we will proceed in our attempt to determine what is specifically characteristic of Arabic. In this approach, the question “What is Arabic?” is the same as “What are the innovative features of Proto-Arabic?” or, more explicitly, “What are the innovations vis-à-vis common Central Semitic that are shared by all of, and only, what we call Arabic?” But before we do proceed, we must decide what to count as Arabic. In particular, we must consider the status of the inscriptional varieties that are usually lumped together under the label “Ancient North Arabian” (ANA).30 These have long been very poorly understood. A real problem is that, although there are tens of thousands of inscriptions, most of them are simple graffiti, names with a patronymic or an epithet or a brief prayer. Thus, much of the grammar remains unknown. But there has been some superb work on these dialects of late, especially by M. Macdonald, H. Hayajneh, and A. Al-Jallad. In a fundamental paper, Macdonald (2000: 29–30) emphasizes that the Ancient North Arabian dialects are not the same as Arabic: “it is now clear that Ancient North Arabian represents a linguistic strain which, while closely related to Arabic, was distinct from it.” Hayajneh (2011: 760) refers to the northern Arabian peninsula during the first millennium bce as a “linguistic area [with] several linguistic levels or strata.” More recently, Al-Jallad goes still further, and questions “the validity of ANA as a genetic category,” stating that “there are no shared innovations connecting the languages attested in the ANA scripts together against Arabic.”31 For now, therefore, the Ancient North Arabian material will be left out of consideration as we explore what it is that makes Arabic distinct. We will return to this question at the end of the paper. Even leaving aside Ancient North Arabian, what do we include in the term “Arabic”? It is by now well established that “Classical Arabic”—whatever we include in that term—is just one of many forms of Arabic, and not the ancestor of all of the others.32 Indeed, as is well known, even the grammar of the con29 30 31 32

For a more detailed study of the participation of Arabic in (micro) linguistic areas, see Al-Jallad 2013. We may also note here the various possible attestations of early forms of Arabic in texts in other languages such as Akkadian and Northwest Semitic; see, e.g., Israel 2006. Al-Jallad, this volume; similarly Al-Jallad 2014, esp. n. 12. On the meaning of “Classical Arabic” see, multos inter alios, Retsö 2011, who suggests (783) that the term be restricted to “the explicit system of rules established by the grammarians.

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sonantal text of the Qurʔān (the rasm) differs from that of its vocalization; both of those in turn exhibit features different from those of the various preIslamic Arabic inscriptions, what Macdonald terms “Old Arabic.”33 And none of those can be considered Proto-Arabic, that is, the ultimate ancestor of all the other forms of Arabic.34 A reconstructed Proto-Arabic must, by definition, be ancestral to all of these;35 it must also be ancestral to the many modern forms of Arabic, which also exhibit several features in common that are not found in the classical language.36 J. Owens rightly insists that we should try to reconstruct the ancestors of the modern colloquial dialects without assuming that they are all descended from the classical language.37 The idea is not unprecedented: there have been similar efforts to reconstruct proto-forms of some of the modern Aramaic languages, none of which descends from any of the many written forms of Aramaic at our disposal. Outside of Semitic, a very instructive parallel is offered by the Romance languages. Historical linguists have been working on the reconstruction of Proto-Romance for over a century. And Proto-Romance is not the same as Latin: it has a reduced case system,38 no neuter, a different verbal system. Yet no one disputes that the Romance languages descend from Latin; it is just

33 34

35 36 37 38

Strictly speaking, Classical Arabic is then a variant within the Arabiyya”; “Classical Arabic, or more properly the Arabiyya …, is thus a large complex with considerable variation represented by the language of the old poetry, the Qurʾān, the Classical norm, and Modern Standard Arabic.” W. Heinrichs (email of 22.05.2010) notes that “the classical language” has several uses or meanings: “any non-colloquial fuṣḥā from the beginning of attested literature up till today; (b) the counterpart of ‘pre-classical Arabic’ (Wolfdietrich Fischer), the latter ruling from the beginnings roughly up to the end of the Umayyad period; (c) any pre-modern fuṣḥā.” Macdonald 2000: 61, 2007; Al-Jallad 2014. And the various forms of “Middle Arabic,” whether we mean written Arabic that is intended to be fuṣḥā but that exhibits intrusions of colloquial features, or simply written medieval Arabic more generally. See Blau 2002: 49; Khan 2011: 817; Al-Jallad 2012a: 407. Similarly Al-Jallad 2014, n. 9: “Proto-Arabic must exclusively refer to the reconstructed ancestor of all the varieties of Arabic.” See Larcher 2010; Watson 2011a. Owens 2006: 8–13 and passim. Old French, for example, preserves a two-case system (Pope 1934: 308–314; Cohen 1973: 111–112) which, of course, eventually disappears. On Late Latin and its development into various Romance languages, see Vincent 1988; Posener 1996, especially 104–138. Many modern Germanic languages do not inflect for case (except the genitive), while others do, and yet we do not reconstruct two separate forms of Proto-Germanic, with and without cases.

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not the Latin of Cicero, but rather a continuum of spoken forms of Latin that peek through the later stages of the written language. The modern colloquial forms of Arabic likewise do not descend directly from the classical written language. I cannot, however, agree with Owens that the colloquials derive from an ancestor or ancestors that existed from the Proto-Semitic period alongside the classical language.39 There are undoubtedly several Proto-Neo-Arabics alongside the classical form of the language,40 in a dialect continuum in which—just like today—those that were in contact influenced each other, and each was influenced by, and had its influence on, the classical literary language. But standard comparative-linguistic methodology requires that all of these—the several Proto-Neo-Arabic strains, the classical literary language, the pre-classical poetic language, the forms of Middle Arabic—that all of these various forms of Arabic do descend from a single entity that we can label Proto-Arabic, an entity that itself is a unique descendant of Central Semitic. (Also unlike Owens, I believe that in any reconstruction of Proto-Neo-Arabic, we must also take substrate influence into account, even when we are not sure what that substrate influence might have looked like. A parallel is offered by Akkadian. There are what Assyriologists call peripheral dialects of Akkadian, dialects that were written by individuals well outside the core area in which Akkadian was originally spoken. Some of those may be purely written dialects, but some of them were certainly spoken. But those dialects betray clear evidence of their writers’ native languages, and any features they exhibit that are not in the Mesopotamia dialects might be due to influence from those linguistic substrates, at a much later date than the “proto” period. Thus, we should not include those dialects in any first attempt to reconstruct ProtoAkkadian. We should start, instead, with the dialects where Akkadian originated, in Mesopotamia. I believe that a similar approach will be most effective in reconstructing Proto-Arabic, namely, to start with the dialects that are likely to be those where Arabic first emerged as a distinct language; this will include the Arabic of the peninsula, but equally, as Al-Jallad has convincingly shown, what he terms Ancient Levantine Arabic.41 Even there one undoubtedly has to contend with influence from contact with speakers of Aramaic, with speak39 40

41

Owens 2006: 115. See also above, n. 8. Note, for example, Al-Jallad’s Ancient Levantine Arabic, which, although also later influenced by both the literary language and other spoken dialects, may be considered ancestral to today’s Syro-Levantine dialects; see Al-Jallad 2012a: 379. Al-Jallad (2012a: 379) persuasively argues that “Arabic has a long linguistic history in the Levant prior to the Islamic period,” and that “Arabic moved into the Peninsula during the first few centuries of the Common Era.”

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ers of the various Ancient South Arabian languages, and with speakers of the ancestors of Mehri and the like.42 But those influences are also possible in the classical language, and are near the time period in which we would place our Proto-Arabic.) Before we can examine what this Proto-Arabic looks like, we must first review some of the features that Arabic has inherited from common Central Semitic.43 For the most part, we need not consider features that derive from earlier nodes, common West Semitic, and Proto-Semitic itself, features such as the broken plurals and the fāʕala measure. 1. Tense-Mood-Aspect system. Not only the imperfective verb yafʕalu, but the entire classical Arabic Tense-Mood-Aspect system, with jussive yafʕal, subjunctive yafʕala, and energic forms yafʕalan(na), can be reconstructed to common Central Semitic. All of the forms, and most of their functions, can be found in Ugaritic, in the Canaanite-Akkadian texts from el-Amarna, and in early Biblical Hebrew (Sabaic, too, exhibits most of these forms). A feature that may be characteristic specifically of Arabic is the function of yafʕala as a marked subjunctive form. Apart from the latter, however, the Tense-Mood-Aspect system of the classical language is similar enough to what we reconstruct for Common Central Semitic that it is undoubtedly also a feature of Proto-Arabic. The quite different Tense-Mood-Aspect systems in the modern colloquials must therefore reflect later developments. Since they are so similar to one another, some of those developments may have occurred in one or more common ancestors, even though the actual morphological elements may differ in the individual colloquials (for example, for the new imperfectives), and are therefore not necessarily themselves part of those ancestors. (Alternatively, the similar arrangement may be the result of diffusion.) 2. The first-common-plural independent pronoun *naḥnū ̆ ‘we’ is a Central Semitic innovation. For Proto-Semitic we must reconstruct *niḥnū ̆ with i in the first syllable. The final u of *naḥnū ̆ is inherited from Proto-Semitic, where the 42

43

See, e.g., Holes 2006. We might even add, perhaps, contact with speakers of Akkadian, if the late Babylonian king Nabonidus (ruled ca. 556–539bce), who lived in Taymāʔ for a time and who is mentioned in a few “North Arabian” inscriptions from Taymāʔ (Hayajneh 2001a, 2001b; Müller and al-Said 2002), still spoke Akkadian rather than Aramaic. Holes 2006: 31 also notes a number of possible Akkadian lexical vestiges in the Arabic of the Gulf area. The following paragraphs are a summary of Huehnergard 2005.

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enclitic 1cp element, on the suffix-conjugation, also ended in -ū ̆ ; in other words, the suffix-conjugation 1cp form in Proto-Semitic, and in Proto-Central Semitic, was *samiʕnū ̆ . The accusative form of the 1cp element, on the other hand, had final -ā ̆, as in *naθ̣ ara-nā ̆ ‘he watched us’. Most of the Semitic languages levelled one or the other of these vowels through all cases: ā in Aramaic and Ethiopic, ū in Canaanite. In classical Arabic, of course, ā was levelled everywhere except the independent form naḥnu, while in the colloquial dialects, the levelling has been taken to its conclusion, as in the other languages, so that the independent form likewise usually has final a, as in nəḥna.44 3. In Proto-Semitic the endings of the suffix-conjugation in the first- and second-persons were *-kū ̆ , *-tā ̆, *-tī;̆ it is likely that these were also endings in common Central Semitic, although all of the descendant languages have levelled either t or k throughout. The kaškaša dialects of Arabic are usually thought to be due to contact with Ancient or Modern South Arabian languages. Perhaps, however, Proto-Arabic, like Proto-Central Semitic, retained the heterogenous set of endings, and the levelling occurred as an areal phenomenon across southern Arabic dialects and the other languages. 4. An interesting feature of Central Semitic is the phonotactics of the geminate roots. Forms such as classical Arabic yaruddu ‘he returns’ reflect the operation of a Proto-Central Semitic sound rule that metathesized the second root consonant and the theme-vowel: *yardudu > yaruddu. The forms with the geminated radical were levelled through most of the modern colloquials. Forms of the perfect with a diphthong or long vowel before the suffix, like ḥaṭṭayna ‘we placed’ (Damascus), which are normative in many colloquials, are already attested in pre-classical texts, and similar forms are found in ancient Hebrew;45 the analogical source of these forms is fairly obvious (bánā : banáyna :: ḥáṭṭa : X = ḥaṭṭáyna), however, so we should probably not rush to assign them to common Central Semitic; they may well be parallel developments.46

44

45 46

As the form nǝḥna shows, some Arabic colloquials have forms with i, or a reflex of *i, in the first syllable; these are probably the result of later sound changes, however; see Al-Jallad 2012a: 285–286. E.g., tǝsubbeynā ‘they (f) were surrounding’ < *tatsubb-ay-nā ̆. The opposite seems to have happened in Safaitic, where III-w/y roots are reanalyzed as geminates in the D-stem, thus, ġzy but ġzz, qṣy but qṣṣ, ḥlw but ḥll, etc. (Al-Jallad 2015: § 5.6.1.b).

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5. Another Proto-Central Semitic sound rule is the change of w to y after i. This rule caused a number of roots that were originally III-w to exhibit forms that were III-y; thus, e.g., we find raḍiya rather than the original *raḍiwa. Some Central Semitic languages, such as Ugaritic and Sabaic, show much variability in these roots; in Ugaritic, for example, in the verb that is cognate with Arabic ʔatā ‘to come’, we find suffix-conjugation /ʾatawat/ ‘she arrived’, but prefixconjugation /taʔtiyū/ ‘they (m.) arrived’. In Arabic the conditioned alternation of final root consonants was generally levelled through, leaving only remnants of the original w; thus, raḍiya is consistently III-y, but has a maṣdar riḍwān. (In some roots, the maṣdar also exhibits the y, as in ʔityān, though even here there is a derived noun with w, ʔitāwa.) The colloquial dialects, again, have levelled still further, to fewer types of III-weak root, as has also happened in Aramaic and, to an even greater extent, in Hebrew.47 6. Proto-Central Semitic exhibited a characteristic distribution of vowels in the prefixes of the prefix-conjugation of the G (Form I), known to Hebraists as the Barth–Ginsberg Law: if the theme vowel was u or i, the prefix had a, whereas if the theme vowel was a, the prefix had i: thus, yaktub, yaʔsir, but yirkab.48 Hebrew preserves this distribution only in a number of weak verb types (verbs I-guttural, geminate verbs, and hollow verbs); otherwise, the prefix with i has been levelled throughout the sound verb, as also happened in Aramaic. Only in Arabic do we see the levelling of the a prefix, as in the classical language, although even there we find a few vestiges of the earlier distribution, such as ʔiḫālu ‘I think’ and variant dialectal forms of some I-w verbs, such is tījalu ‘you are afraid’; some modern colloquials, such as Najdi, also preserve this distribution ( yaktib ‘he writes’ vs. yismaʕ ‘he hears’).49 And some early dialects and many modern colloquials exhibit taltala, that is, levelling to i, as in yiktub, like Hebrew and Aramaic.50 7. Internal reconstruction suggests that Proto-Central Semitic had the same relative clause marker as Proto-Semitic. This was a form with the same shape

47

48 49 50

Macdonald (2000: 49, 2004: 509) notes that Safaitic preserves both the final radical of III-weak verbs and, sometimes at least, the original distinction between III-w and III-y verbs. See Hasselbach 2004. More recently, however, Bar-Asher (2008) has argued that this distribution goes back to Proto-Semitic, not to a Proto-Central Semitic innovation. Bloch 1967; Ingham 1984: 20; Behnstedt and Woidich 2005: 13. Rabin 1951: 61; Fischer and Jastrow 1980: 62; Grand’Henry 1990 (my thanks to A. Magidow for the last reference).

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and declension (in the singular) of the classical Arabic word ðū. Only in Arabic does this word develop into a noun meaning ‘possessing, owner of’. But even that development cannot be assigned to Proto-Arabic, because the grammarians tell us that some of the early dialects preserved the form ðū or its genitive ðī in its original function as a relative marker. The relative d of some modern colloquials is probably also a reflex of this old form.51 The classical Arabic relative (a)llaðī was presumably a demonstrative pronoun originally, to judge by the parallel Hebrew form hallāz(e) ‘this/that’. The unusual formation of these words in Arabic and Hebrew—the article plus the asservative particle *la plus the old demonstrative base *ðv̄ —strongly suggests that it is a Proto-Central Semitic innovation. Its use as a new relative particle, however, is a specifically Arabic development, though perhaps not one that can be assigned to Proto-Arabic, in view of the continued use of the earlier ðū in some old (and perhaps modern) varieties of Arabic.52 8. One of the most intriguing developments of the Central Semitic languages is the definite article. Since an article is lacking in Akkadian and in classical Ethiopic, it is clear that Proto-Semitic did not have a definite article. And since some of the Central Semitic languages, such as Ugaritic and the language of the Deir ʕAllā inscription,53 also lack an article, we must conclude that Proto-Central Semitic likewise had no definite article. In the Central Semitic languages that do exhibit an article, it has a variety of shapes: Hebrew: hab-bayit ‘the house’; b-ab-bayit ‘in the house’ Arabic: al-bayt ‘the house’; ar-rajul ‘the man’; li-r-rajul ‘to the man’ Aramaic: bayt-ā (earlier */bayt-aˀ/) ‘the house’ Ancient South Arabian: ⟨BYTN⟩ /bayt-ān/ ‘the house’

51

52 53

On ð- relatives in ancient and modern colloquials, see Behnstedt 1987: 84–85 (north Yemen); Watson 2011a: 861, 865; Al-Jallad 2013: 235. Eksell 2009, however, suggests that dparticles (as genitive exponents) in Syro-Mesopotamian Arabic dialects may be borrowed from Aramaic. In expressions such as man ðā and mā ðā, too, the second element is probably a frozen form of the Semitic relative; see Huehnergard 2005: 186–189; Huehnergard and Pat-El 2007. Al-Jallad (p.c.) suggests that perhaps “the ˀallaḏī forms were typical of the Ḥiǧāzī forms of Arabic, since the only ancient attestation comes from Dadān.” Other Central Semitic languages without a definite article are the Northwest Semitic language of the Zincirli inscriptions and, possibly, the Ancient North Arabian language Hismaic. See Macdonald 2004: 518, Al-Jallad 2014.

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But the article does have a remarkably consistent syntax, and recent studies have made a good case that, despite that variety of forms, the article in those languages descends from a common Proto-Central Semitic ancestor, a presentative particle, probably with the byforms *hā- and *han-, that was originally used to mark nominal attributives.54 Thus, although a definite article per se is not a feature of Proto-Central Semitic, the presentative particle is, as is the beginning of the process that led to an article in the various descendant languages. We are now finally in a position to consider a number of features as possible shared innovations of Proto-Arabic, features found throughout Arabic that are not features of common Central Semitic, that is, that are innovative features of Proto-Arabic vis-à-vis its most immediate ancestor. It should be emphasized that this is not intended as a complete list.55 The features mentioned below are found in the classical language, and usually in the modern colloquials as well, though not in every case. We will then review a few features that are common to the modern forms of Arabic but missing from the classical. The lexicon is absent from both lists; I have not discussed the lexicon throughout this paper, because vocabulary is so easily borrowed, and it is so difficult to establish the lexicon of an ancestral language such as Proto-Central Semitic.56 1. Pronunciation of the emphatic consonants. There is an emerging consensus that the emphatic consonants of early Semitic were not uvularized or velarized,57 as in Arabic, but rather glottalic, as in Ethiopic, in the Modern South Arabian languages, and probably also in Akkadian and early Northwest Semitic.58 Thus, the pronunciation of these consonants in Arabic is atypical, and undoubtedly the result of an innovation.59 Since it is common to nearly all forms of Arabic,60 it can be labelled a Proto-Arabic feature. By the same 54 55 56 57 58 59 60

See especially Pat-El 2009; also Rubin 2005: 72–81; Huehnergard 2005; Hasselbach 2007. Al-Jallad (2014 § 2), e.g., adds to this list “the development of the new subordinating conjunction *tay and the form *ḥattay ‘until’.” But see Kogan 2011b: 242–249 for a strong defense of incorporating the lexicon into the calculus of classification. For this depiction of the Arabic pronunciation of the emphatics, rather than pharyngealized, see Heinrichs 2012. The most recent survey of the evidence is Kogan 2011a: 59–61. See, e.g., Zemánek 1996. W. Heinrichs (p.c.) kindly reminds me that the Arabic of the Ḫarga Oasis in Egypt exhibits ejective [t’] and [q’]; see Behnstedt 1980: 243. In the peninsular dialect of Zabīd, q is sometimes realized as [k’]; see Watson 2011b: 899.

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token, the standard Arabic pronunciation of the reflex of the earlier Semitic velar emphatic, *ḳ, as a voiceless uvular /q/ is also innovative.61 Further, as W. Heinrichs (2012) has recently argued, the voiced pronunciation of q in various modern colloquials, either as a uvular /G/ or, more often, as a velar /g/ (i.e., gāf rather than qāf ), is also probably ancient, and to be explained as simply an alternative development of earlier *ḳ when the emphatics became uvularized (the presence or absence of voicing being subphonemic in the pronunciation of these consonants). 2. The merger of Proto-Semitic *s and *ts (or *s1 and *s3) is also a feature of all forms of Arabic.62 The same merger occurs in late Sabaic inscriptions (Sima 2001, 2004; Stein 2003: 26–27), however, and it is unclear whether these are related phenomena.63 The merger is not found otherwise in the neighboring Ancient South Arabian or Modern South Arabian languages.64 3. Central Semitic preserved two forms of the first singular pronoun from Common Semitic, *ʔanā ̆ and *ʔanākū ̆ . A minor common Arabic feature is the loss of the longer of those forms. This loss is shared with Aramaic, presumably an independent development in each, unless the loss of the longer form in Arabic is the result of contact with Aramaic. 4. The feminine singular demonstrative element t-, as in tilka, hātā, (ʔ)allatī, is found almost nowhere else in Semitic.65 It may be a bizarre remnant from AfroAsiatic, since feminine demonstrative t occurs in ancient Egyptian. More likely, however, it reflects a levelling and reanalysis of the feminine nominal ending -(a)t,66 and is thus an interesting Arabic innovation.

61 62 63

64

65 66

On Arabic /q/ see Edzard 2008. So also Mascitelli 2006: 19. The merger of *s1 and *s3 also appears before the late period in the Amiritic (Haramic) dialect of Sabaic, but there it is probably due to Arabic influence (Sima 2001; Stein 2013: 25–26, 42). The same merger occurred in Safaitic as well as in most of the other Ancient North Arabian dialects; see further below. Proto-Semitic *s and *ts also merged in Proto-Ethiopic, a presumably independent development. M. Macdonald points out (p.c.) that a relative particle t appears in late Sabaic inscriptions; see also Stein 2004: 237; Al-Jallad 2013: 232. Hasselbach 2007: 3; differently Al-Jallad 2012a: 316–317, who suggests that a form *tay was derived by reanalysis from matay ‘when?’. As noted by Al-Jallad (2013: 235), the element tī appears already in ʔallatī in an early Arabic inscription found at Dadān.

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5. In both Akkadian and Sabaic, singular unbound nouns ended in *-m, that is, have mimation, *baytum, while duals and external masculine plurals end in *-n. The same distribution of endings undoubtedly obtained in both Proto-Semitic and Proto-Central Semitic. The presence of nunation—tanwīn—on singular nouns is unique to Arabic,67 and is presumably a levelling of the n of the dual and the plural ending that was inherited from Central Semitic.68 6. In both Proto-Semitic and Proto-Central Semitic the feminine singular marker on nouns had two partly unpredictable allomorphs, *-at and *-t;69 only in Arabic to we find these allomorphs levelled to the former (with very few exceptions, such as bin-t and ʔuḫ-t).70 7. In the perfect of the verb in Arabic, the 3rd feminine plural in -na, faʕalna, is almost unique in Semitic, being found otherwise only in Qatabanic (Ancient South Arabian). Most of the other Semitic languages preserve the original 3fp ending *-ā. The source of Arabic -na is obvious, namely, analogy with the prefixconjugation forms: yafʕalū : yafʕalna :: faʕalū : X, so perhaps it should not be assigned too much weight as a diagnostic feature. (The feminine plural is lost in many modern colloquials, but it is preserved in rural and Bedouin dialects across the Arabic-speaking world.71) 8. The specialization of the form mafʕūl as a passive participle is a specifically Arabic development (and Safaitic; see further below). There are examples of mafʕūl as a passive form elsewhere in Semitic, for example Hebrew maspūnîm, ‘treasures’ < ‘hidden things’, but its use as the paradigmatic passive participle is unique to Arabic.

67 68

69 70 71

The final n of the definite article in Ancient South Arabian is unrelated to tanwīn. Mascitelli (2006: 256) mentions the forms ʔibnum(un) and fam(un), which may also preserve the old mimation. The very early Qaryat al-Fāw inscription (1st century bce?) exhibits a few forms with final -m, at least one of which is almost certainly a vestige of ancient mimation rather than an enclitic -m (as was argued by Beeston 1979). If the inscription is indeed ancient Arabic, then the change to n would not quite be Proto-Arabic. But Al-Jallad (2014) presents cogent arguments that the inscription exhibits no shared innovations that characterize Arabic and, thus, that it should not be considered Arabic. See, however, Steiner 2012, for a proposed historical development to account for the distribution of these allomorphs. Huehnergard 2005: 167–168; see also Al-Jallad this volume §5.2. Diem 1973: 13; Fischer and Jastrow 1980: 119–120; Behnstedt and Woidich 2005: 43.

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9. Arabic is also unique in not having a specific paradigmatic infinitive in the basic stem (Form I),72 instead having a large set of maṣdars. Many of the forms of the maṣdars are attested in the other Semitic languages, but the absence of a paradigmatic form is an interesting development. 10. The G internal passive prefix-conjugation form yufʕal is also common Central Semitic. But the vowel melody of the suffix-conjugation forms, u~i as in fuʕila, ʔufʕila, etc., is specifically Arabic (vs. *ḳuttal in Northwest Semitic; note also the verbal adjective patterns ḳatil/ḳattul in East Semitic). 11. The particle qad, as in qad faʕala, is probably a grammaticalized form of the root qadama ‘to precede’.73 If we compare the classical Ethiopic tandem verb construction ḳadama baṣḥa ‘he arrived first’, it is not difficult to see how the first verb might be grammaticalized as a marked perfective or marked preterite form.74 The semantic grammaticalization was accompanied, as is often the case, by phonetic reduction of *qadama > qad.75 The qad faʕala construction is common in early Arabic, of course; it is also found in a few of the modern colloquials of the peninsula, such as Najdi gid/ǧid, and in some Yemeni dialects.76 It also appears once in a Safaitic text (Al-Jallad 2015: § 5.1.2.b).

72

73 74

75 76

W. Heinrichs suggests (p.c.) that “one might perhaps say that faʕlun is the default infinitive. This is indicated by (a) the fact that faʕlun is normally used with 1st-form denominative verbs (kabadahū kabdan ‘he hit/wounded him in the liver’), and (2) the ism al-marra of the 1st verb stem is faʕlatun (since with derived verb stems the ism al-marra is simply formed by adding the feminine ending -atun to the infinitive [ibtisāmun ‘smiling’ vs. ibtisāmatun ‘one smile’], faʕlatun points to an infinitve faʕlun).” If we accept this, the default usage of faʕl would also be a development; the usual infinitive forms in other Central Semitic languages are faʕāl (Hebrew, Ugaritic; also in Akkadian), fiʕl (Hebrew, Ugaritic), fuʕ(u)l (Hebrew), though we may note also forms such as Hebrew ʔahăbā ‘to love’, a faʕlat form; for Ugaritic, see Tropper 2012: 480–490. Alternatively, as W. Heinrichs reminds me (p.c.), qad may derive from (accusative) qidman, which appears in ancient texts in the same function as qad. Similarly in Syriac, e.g., qaddem w-ḥawwi ‘he showed previously’, qaddemt ʔemret ‘I said beforehand’ (Nöldeke 1898: 262 § 335, 264 § 337A); note also North-Eastern NeoAramaic qǝm-qāṭǝl as a perfective past, with qǝm probably from qdam (Khan 2012: 224– 225). This process was already suggested by de Lagarde 1889, but the grammaticalization aspect is now much clearer. Ingham 1984: 104–107; Holes 2006: 26–27.

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12. As Mascitelli has pointed out (2006: 19), the preposition fī, presumably derived from the noun ‘mouth’, is unique to Arabic (and Safaitic; see further below). 13. Throughout Semitic the third-person pronouns are also used as anaphoric or remote demonstratives, as in Akkadian šarrum šū or Hebrew hammélek ha-hûʔ for ‘that king’. Indeed, it is likely that the anaphoric meaning is the original. Only Arabic and the Modern South Arabian languages do not use these pronouns for remote deixis.77 The non-use of 3rd-person pronouns in this way thus seems to be a Proto-Arabic feature.78 The same feature in Modern South Arabian may indicate an areal phenomenon, or a parallel development, or influence from Arabic. 14. As shown by N. Pat-El (2014), Classical Arabic exhibits innovative morphosyntax in its relative clause constructions (as presented by the grammarians), viz., rajulun raʔaytu(hū) and ar-rajulu llaðī raʔaytu vs. the common Semitic patterns that would yield Arabic rajulu raʔaytu and rajulun allaðī raʔaytu (i.e., {construct plus clause} or {non-construct plus relative pronoun plus clause}).79 Two other typical Arabic features are the relative pronoun allaðī and the form al- for the definite article.80 But neither of these can be assigned to ProtoArabic, since they are not found in all forms of Arabic. As noted earlier, reflexes of the ancient Semitic relative *ðū persist in various ancient (and perhaps modern) forms of Arabic. And it is well known that the article in some Yemeni dialects, both ancient and modern, is am- or an-.81 Further, the assimilation 77

78

79 80 81

Hasselbach 2007 also includes Aramaic and Ugaritic among the languages that do not use the anaphoric pronouns for remote deixis; there are, however, examples in Ugaritic (Tropper 2012: 212–213 § 41.132), and, as she herself notes, examples in various Aramaic dialects. Hasselbach 2007: 16 plausibly suggests that the use of the anaphoric pronoun to express remote deixis is a later development than the use of forms that are based on the forms used for near deixis (such as Arabic ðālika), because the latter are found vestigially in many languages alongside the former. Nevertheless, the demonstrative use of the anaphoric pronouns across all branches of Semitic indicates that it is also a feature of Proto-Semitic, one that was lost in the languages that do not exhibit it. There are exceptions, however, that conform to the common Semitic type; see Retsö 2006: 28. See also the paper of L. Edzard in this volume. Also in Safaitic and, perhaps, Dadanitic; see Al-Jallad 2014. On Safaitic, see further below. Rabin 1951: 34–36, 50–51; Fischer and Jastrow 1980: 121; Beeston 1981: 185–186; Behnstedt 1987: 85–87; Rubin 2005: 78; Al-Jallad 2014. My thanks to N. Pat-El for some of these references.

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of the l to the following consonant is not consistent: it assimilates to all consonants in some dialects, not at all in some ancient dialects, and there are many permutations between these extremes.82 Thus the form of the article in ProtoArabic may have been variable.83 As is well known, the modern Arabic colloquials share a number of features that are not found in the classical language, or found only marginally, and Arabists have discussed these features and their significance at some length.84 Some of the features that are shared by many of the colloquials may be inherited from earlier Semitic,85 and thus they would also constitute part of ProtoArabic even though they do not appear in the classical language. A number of these have already been mentioned, namely: 1. 2. 3.

the taltala forms yifʕul; the kaškaša dialects; and forms such as ḥaṭṭayna.

Other possible examples are the following: 82 83

84 85

See, e.g., Behnstedt 1987: 85; Macdonald 2000: 51; Al-Jallad 2014 §2, this volume §5.5. Another possible feature is the common Arabic negative mā, which is not regularly found elsewhere in Semitic. It probably developed out of the interrogative mā that is found throughout Central Semitic (and occasionally in Akkadian), although the precise path of the development remains uncertain; see Rubin 2005: 50; Al-Jallad 2012b; Pat-El 2012 (pace Faber 1991, who considers mā to be a vestige of an Afro-Asiatic negative marker). As these writers note, however, instances of negative mā(h) are also attested sporadically in Northwest Semitic languages; thus, the development is a Central Semitic one, which Arabic has simply expanded. A. Al-Jallad (email of 30.11.2013) also reports the occurrence of negative m in a mixed Hismaic–Safaitic inscription (KRS 2543). Still other specifically Arabic features are suggested by Retsö (2013: 439–440). Among them he notes form IX ifʕalla as “found only within the Arabic complex”; there are, however, similar forms in Akkadian (the rare R stem) and in Biblical Hebrew (e.g., šaʔǎnan ‘to be at ease’ and adjectives such as *ʔadumm- ‘red’), and so the form must be reconstructed for Proto-Semitic. Similarly the more widespread use of the dual in classical Arabic (on pronouns, adjectives, and verbs) is found not only in Ancient South Arabian languages, as noted by Retsö, but also in Old Akkadian and in Ugaritic. (The discussion of this feature in Watson 2011a: 861 must also be corrected; Classical Arabic forms mirror those of Old Akkadian.) The negative mā is also attested in Safaitic (Al-Jallad 2015: 156). See the summary in Watson 2011: 859–862. See also the paper of N. Pat-El in this volume for additional features. The preservation of earlier features in colloquials is a well-known phenomenon; cf. colloquial English ʾem (as in We found ʾem), a vestige of Old/Middle English him/hem, as an alternative to the standard them, which was borrowed from Norse; see Greenbaum 1996: 167.

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4.

Independent third person pronouns such as Bišmizzen huwwi, hiyyi and Bīr Zēt hūte, hīte, which Al-Jallad (2012a: 283–285) has argued are reflexes of ancient Semitic oblique forms of the pronouns (*suʔāti, *siʔāti). The use of third person independent pronouns as copulas. This construction is possible in the classical language if the predicate is definite, as in ʔulāʔika humu l-kāfirūna ‘those are the unbelievers’; but it does not seem to be common in the classical language, whereas it is common in some of the colloquials, as noted by Brustad (2000: 157–158), in sentences such as (Egyptian Arabic) ʔana huwwa ʔinta ‘I am you’. Such constructions are also common in Northwest Semitic languages and in Ethiopic, and their frequency in the modern colloquials may reflect this earlier Semitic situation rather than an expansion of the classical usage. In a number of colloquials, fī ‘in it’, originally fī-hi, is a particle that expresses existence, ‘there is/are’.86 There are hints of these pseudo-verbs, as Brustad (2000: 151–157) calls them, in classical and pre-classical texts, but they have an exact analogue in classical Ethiopic, where bo or botu ‘in it’ can even be construed with an accusative complement, like kāna. There is also an Akkadian verb, bašûm, that means ‘to exist, be present’, a verb without Semitic cognates unless we derive it from *ba-sū ̆ ‘in it’.87 Thus, the use of ‘in it’ to express existence seems to be quite ancient in Semitic. In some colloquials, the copula verb kān need not agree with its subject;88 similarly, some dialects allow a frozen 3ms pronoun to serve as a copula. This may be an inner-Arabic development. But it is worth pointing out that copula verbs elsewhere in Semitic, for example Hebrew (hāyā), Syriac (ʔit-(h)wā), Sabaic (kwn), and Akkadian (ibašši ‘there is’), also tend to occur as frozen 3ms forms regardless of the gender and number of their subject. Noun–noun modification by means of a genitive exponent. It is well known that the Semitic languages are characterized by ʔiḍāfa, a construct genitive chain for noun–noun modification. But a second construction for noun–noun modification must also be reconstructed for ProtoSemitic, namely, the use of the bound form particle *ðū, as in *baytum ðū baʕlim ‘the house of the lord’;89 in other words, in Proto-Semitic a noun could fill the slot after *ðū as well as a clause. This construction is found in every ancient Semitic language, and is preserved in classical Arabic in

5.

6.

7.

8.

86 87 88 89

Similarly in some Yemeni dialects, beh, boh (negative mā bīš/būš; Diem 1973: 17–18). See, e.g., Rubin 2005: 45–46. Brustad 2000: 260–261. See Bar-Asher Siegal 2013, Pat-El 2014.

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the use of ðū plus genitive in apposition to a preceding noun, imruʔun ðū mālin ‘a man of wealth’, ar-rajulu ðū l-ḥilmi ‘the man of reason’.90 That construction is not perceived as equivalent to the construct chain, however. As is well known, many modern colloquials have a genitive exponent,91 and it may be that this common development reflects a successor to the use of *ðū as such in earlier Semitic. To conclude this paper, we return briefly to the inscriptional Ancient North Arabian material, and ask whether there is any way to decide whether it, or a subset of it, is part of Arabic, that is, whether any part of Ancient North Arabian shares a common ancestor with Arabic, or instead constitutes a separate branch or set of branches of the Central Semitic group. As noted earlier, what has been called Ancient North Arabian is in all likelihood a number of distinct languages that share the same script, but not necessarily any genetic affiliation. According to Macdonald and Al-Jallad, several of these languages—Taymanitic, Thamudic, and Dadanitic—exhibit various peculiarities vis-à-vis Arabic; further study is needed to elucidate those features, and we must, unfortunately, continue for now to leave them out of our consideration of the parameters of what constitutes Arabic. But Safaitic, by far the most commonly attested of these inscriptional languages, is becoming better understood, and Al-Jallad notes that it does share a number of innovative features with Arabic,92 namely: 1. 2.

the preposition f ‘in’;93 mfʕl as a frequent passive participle, though not as widespread as fʕl;94

90 91 92

Fischer 2006: 203 § 391a, 206 § 398.1. See Eksell Harning 1980. Al-Jallad (this volume) also notes that “Ḥismaic and Arabic share several interesting isoglosses”; but he also points to a number of important differences, and so I have felt it best to leave Ḥismaic out of consideration here. Al-Jallad this volume. Macdonald 2004: 517; Al-Jallad this volume. Note that the vocalization of the passive fʕl adjective is sometimes /faʕīl/ and sometimes /faʕūl/ in early Greek transcriptions (see AlJallad ibid. § 5.7); since the paradigmatic passive participle is *ḳatūl in Hebrew and *ḳatīl in Aramaic, both forms must be reconstructed to Proto-Northwest Semitic; the GraecoArabica forms indicate that both forms are to be reconstructed to Proto-Central Semitic as well.

93 94

26 3. 4.

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a feminine demonstrative element t;95 the use of lm yfʕl for past negation.96

These features are admittedly few in number, but they may suffice to indicate that Safaitic shares a common ancestor with Arabic; that, in other words, it is descendent from Proto-Arabic and may be considered a part of the Arabic continuum.97 There are differences between Safaitic and the rest of Arabic, however:98 1.

2.

95 96

97 98 99

100

Although the definite article in Safaitic is occasionally ʔl- or (with assimilation of l) ʔ-, it is usually h-, as in other Ancient North Arabian languages.99 Safaitic exhibits 3ms perfects of middle-weak verbs that, curiously, exhibit a medial w or y, such as ḥwr ‘he returned’ and myt ‘he died’.100

E.g., in ʔrḍ t ‘this land’ and tk h-gml ‘those are the camels’; for these and other examples, see Al-Jallad 2015: § 4.9. Note bġy l-ʔḫ-h f-lm yʕd ‘he sought his brother, but he did not return’ (Maʿani and Sadaqah 2002: 253, text 2; my thanks to A. Al-Jallad for this reference; on lm, see also Macdonald 2000: 49–50, 2004: 521); for another example, see Al-Jallad 2015: §8.1. While preterite yafʕal is inherited from Central Semitic, the construction with lam is otherwise specific to Arabic. Note also the merger of Proto-Semitic *s (s1) and *ts (s3), which occurred in both Arabic and Safaitic (Macdonald 2004: 499), but not, as noted above (n. 64), elsewhere in Central Semitic. The same merger also occurred in most of the other Ancient North Arabian languages (with the possible exception of Taymanitic, for which see Macdonald 1991, Müller and al-Said 2002). The Safaitic analogues of the other innovative features of Arabic outlined above, such as the particle qad, are unfortunately not yet attested. Note that Safaitic also lacks the relative allaðī; see Al-Jallad 2013: 235. See especially Al-Jallad 2014, § 3.1 (h). Macdonald (2000: 51; 2008: 471) suggests that the texts in which ʔ(l)- appear are “Safaeo-Arabic mixed texts,” but Al-Jallad (ibid.; also this volume, n. 28) argues that since “these texts all exhibit common Safaitic features” it is preferable to see in them “a dialect of Safaitic which happens to use an ʔl- article.” Livingstone (1997) has suggested that, in an Akkadian inscription of Tiglath-Pileser III (ruled 744–727 bce), the writing SAL.ANŠE a-na-qa-a-te ‘she-camels’ exhibits a very early example of the definite article; but even if correct, the form of the article is ambiguous, either ha(n)-nāqāti or ʔan-nāqāti < ʔal-nāqāti. Further, Livingstone’s suggestion has been disputed; see Hämeen-Anttila 2009. Macdonald 2004: 509. According to Al-Jallad (this volume), these forms occur alongside forms without the medial w or y, e.g., both myt and mt for ‘he died’. What is curious is

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As Al-Jallad suggests, the most economical way to account for these facts is to see the innovative features of either Safaitic or Classical Arabic as having developed after the Proto-Arabic period.101 In other words, Safaitic would be descendent from Proto-Arabic, but represent an early branching from the rest of Arabic. The form of the definite article is not terribly significant, since, as we have seen above, it was probably variable in Proto-Arabic. In conclusion, we may suggest the following provisional branching for Central Semitic, with Safaitic as an early offshoot from Proto-Arabic:

figure 1.3 Classification of Arabic

References Aikenwald, Alexandra and R.M.W. Dixon, eds. (2001). Areal Diffusion and Genetic Inheritance: Problems in Comparative Linguistics. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Al-Jallad, Ahmad (2012a). Ancient Levantine Arabic: A Reconstruction Based on the Earliest Sources and the Modern Dialects. Ph.D. dissertation, Harvard University.

101

that all of Central Semitic otherwise exhibits the simplification of the original medial triphthong into a single vowel, as in Arabic kāna; see Huehnergard 2005: 176–178. As Al-Jallad suggests, the most economical way to account for these facts is to see the innovative features of either Safaitic or Classical Arabic as having developed after the Proto-Arabic period. Another feature in which Safaitic differs from Arabic proper is the pervasive assimilation of syllable-final n to a following consonant, as in ʔfs1 ‘funerary monuments’ < *ʔanfus. This is undoubtedly an areal phenomenon: it is also a regular feature of Northwest Semitic, and at least a sporadic feature of Sabaic. Indeed only Arabic among the Central Semitic languages does not usually exhibit assimilation of n. (And there are also a few instances in which Arabic does exhibit assimilation of n to a following consonant, as in the poetic form mil- for mina-l-, and muðð(u) for munð(u) [see Rabin 1951: 73, 189], as well as the assimilation of tanwīn to a following word.)

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chapter 2

How Conservative and How Innovating is Arabic? Andrzej Zaborski †

As is well known, some 60 or 70 years ago the majority of Semitists was still convinced that Classical Arabic was the most conservative or archaic and the most typical or classical Semitic language. Then a pendulum effect took place— Akkadian replaced Arabic and Arabic became classified as not conservative and even the most innovating language among the Old Semitic languages. I cannot present a history of the relevant research in this paper and I can only emphasize that both rival interpretations of the relative chronology of the Old Semitic have been developing simultaneously. Let me recall only some of the most important historical events. Edward Hincks, who was one of the first scholars to decipher the cuneiform script and to read ‘Assyrian’ texts, called their language “Sanskrit of the Semitic tongues” (Hincks 1866: 1). In 1878 Haupt (see also Haupt 1889: 252 and 262—at that time Haupt was not quite convinced about the comparison with Sanskrit!) proposed to identify the oldest verbal form in Semitic on the basis of the Akkadian and Ethiopic ‘Present’ interpreted as iqátal and yěqátěl, i.e. with a vowel after the first root consonant and without gemination of the second root consonant since gemination was not always indicated in Akkadian (even in D or qattala forms!) and it was left totally unmarked in Geʿez which was known to 19th century Semitists mainly from written texts. It was Goetze (1942, but see also 1936) who maintained that there had to be regular gemination of the second root consonant in the Akkadian Present and this has been finally accepted by von Soden in his authoritative ‘Grundzüge der akkadischen Grammatik’ (1995, first edition in 1952) becoming one of the basic tenets not only of Assyriology but of comparative Semitics in general. Also the main tradition of reading Geʿez texts according to which gemination occurs regularly in the Present/Imperfect of the G forms (for a later discussion see Voigt 1990) has been generally accepted. Haupt’s idea survived but for several different reasons (e.g. archaic phonology and well preserved case system) Classical Arabic was considered to be the most archaic or conservative Semitic language till about 1950 when gradually it was dethroned under the impact of developments in Assyriology and in Hamitosemitic/Afroasiatic linguistics. The famous paper of 1950 by Otto Rössler (who followed Christian 1919–1920 not to mention Marcel Cohen; Rössler was

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi: 10.1163/9789004343047_003

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soon followed by Joseph Greenberg 1952) on the verb in ‘Semitohamitic’ (cf. sharp but partially unjustified criticism by Klingenheben 1956) was among the decisive influential publications which relegated Arabic, actually Classical Arabic, to the position of ‘young Semitic’ (‘Jungsemitisch’) preceded in the relative chronology not only by Old Semitic Akkadian but also by the ‘first young Semitic stage’ (‘Frühjungsemitisch’) represented, according to Christian and Rössler (followed e.g. by Kienast 2001: 18–20), by Mehri and Geʿez. In the recent big volume on the Semitic languages Weninger (2011) used Classical Arabic data rather sparingly and did not mention Arabic among the Classical Semitic languages in his chapter entitled ‘Reconstructive morphology’ (p. 153) listing only Akkadian, Hebrew, Aramaic and Geʿez although not only Aramaic, but also Hebrew, even in its reconstructed pre-Masoretic version are less conservative than Classical Arabic and both Biblical Hebrew and Aramaic with their innovations are typologically closer to many innovating Neoarabic dialects. It has to be emphasized also that since the beginning the fact the Akkadian texts are by far the oldest records of a Semitic language has been used mainly by philologically and historically oriented Assyriologists as a clear evidence that Akkadian had to be the most archaic Semitic tongue. The fact that Akkadian records are the oldest has been quite overestimated and it has been usually neglected that the old age of records of any language does not automatically mean that its structures are equally ancient. There are many examples of languages with very early records which are less conservative than their relatives recorded much later, e.g. within the Afroasiatic or Hamitosemitic language family Old Egyptian is definitely less archaic than Semitic, Berber and Cushitic at least in the realm of verbal morphology since it must have lost the prefix conjugation.1 Very archaic languages and very innovating languages can coexist at the same time so that today we have very innovating Neoaramaic and some Neoethiosemitic (the latter with some notable archaisms!) and very conservative Modern Semitic of Southern Arabia (= MSSA, usually called ‘Modern South Arabian’ which is misleading) and Ethiosemitic Tigre not to mention several quite conservative modern dialects of Arabic—here I do not mention Modern Literary Arabic since for centuries it has been transmitted not in a natural way, i.e. not as a spoken native language. In case of Indo-European very archaic Lithuanian (especially conservative in its nominal morphology), Icelandic and

1 A hypothesis that prefix conjugations are an innovation of Semito-Berbero-Cushitic is less probable especially when we realize that Egyptian has renewed its independent pronouns and apart from the ‘Pseudoparticiple’ has largely lost second persons t and third persons y morphemes.

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Slavonic languages coexist with Modern Scandinavian and Afrikaans, the latter being the most analytic i.e. inflectionless Indo-European language. The relative chronology of the verbal systems and their components has been decisive in establishing the current idea of the archaism of Akkadian and of the innovating character not only of Classical Arabic but also of Northwest Semitic and ASSA. In this paper I am going to emphasize that Akkadian verbal categories are not only conservative in some realms but also innovative to a considerable extent and that in Classical Arabic there are forms which are equally archaic or conservative. Both languages have retained different archaic features and introduced different innovations. Let us start with innovations: there can be no doubt that the limitation of the Old Preterit (used also as Jussive) iprus/yaqtul to negative and conditional sentences in Classical Arabic and elsewhere is an innovation in comparison with Akkadian. In Akkadian the expansion of the iptaras Perfect resulting in the limitation of the use of iprus Preterit and relegating it mainly to negative sentences took place at a bit later stage (von Soden 1995: 129). Iptaras ‘(Present) Perfect’ has left a number of traces in Classical Arabic (Zaborski 2004a; cf. Kouwenberg 2010: 156 who rejects the idea because he demands full grammaticalization of iptaras as Perfect which is unrealistic), e.g. iktataba means not only ‘to be recorded, registered’ and ‘to enter one’s name’ but first of all ‘to write, to copy’ like kataba. In West Semitic iqtatala Present Perfect has never been fully grammaticalized and it was marginalized by the Perfect of the suffix conjugation. The iptaras Perfect with prefixed t- (later infixed -t-) may be actually of ProtoAfroasiatic origin since it occurs also in Cushitic Beja and in Berber (Voigt 1987 but cf. Kouwenberg 2010: 156; see also Kuryłowicz 1972: 61–62 on the relation between Perfect iptaras and passive but cf. Kouwenberg 2010: 138–141 and 158– 159). Now let us concentrate on Arabic archaisms. Classical Arabic (like some other languages, first of all Ugaritic) has well preserved Modi Energici i.e. the Energetics which have been greatly marginalized in Akkadian in which they were used often, but not always, with verbs of motion (e.g. alk-am ‘come here!’ is an Energetic Imperative) which gave assumption to the theory of the alleged Akkadian ‘Ventive’ which is still widely promoted by Assyriologists who rather unwillingly accept the connection with Energetic (Kouwenberg 2010: 243; Kogan 2012: 309, but cf. Hasselbach 2006) in spite of the justified criticism of Landsberger (1924) already by Christian (1925). Energetic with -an/am can be even of Proto-Afroasiatic origin since there is a cognate in ʿAfar, e.g. Imperfect Probable yaduur-ém takkeh ‘perhaps he may return’ (Zaborski 2004b).

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Classical Arabic has preserved the Subjunctive yaqtVl-a which survived only in some remnants in Old Akkadian, although these remnants are either questioned or passed over by many Assyriologists (Kouwenberg 2010: 224 and 590, but for a confirmation see Hasselbach 2012). That yaqtVl-a goes back to Proto-Semitic is proven by its remnants as Volitive (different from Cohortative which goes back to Proto-Semitic Energetic!) in Biblical Hebrew (Joüon and Muraoka 2006: 353–354) and there are remnants in Amarna Canaanite (Moran 1960) and probably also in Ugaritic. Most probably it has a cognate in the a ending of the Negative Imperfect/Present in Old Cushitic, i.e. in Afar má yaduur-a ‘he does not/will not return’ (Zaborski 2004b). That Presents and Subjunctives can be diachronically related is widely known. The so-called Subordinative (earlier misnamed ‘Subjunctive’) iprus-u of Akkadian is still usually considered to be at the origin of the West Semitic Imperfect, e.g. Classical Arabic yaqtVl-u but actually in Akkadian this is the Proto-Semitic (and Proto-Afroasiatic!) Imperfect or ‘Present’ relegated to subordinate clauses in Akkadian by expanding iparras as explained already by Kuryłowicz (1972: 54, 60; 1961: 52–53, 59–60, cf. Hasselbach 2009: 157 continuing the opposite reconstruction) and recently accepted by Kouwenberg (2010: 228– 229). In many languages Present tenses are relegated to subordinate clauses but an opposite ‘mutation’, i.e. a shift from subordinate to main clauses is very rare at best. Actually the original ‘Present/Imperfect’ *yV-prVs-u has been ousted from the main clauses when the syntactic order changed in Akkadian to S-OV so that *yV-prVs-u lost its distinctive indicative -u ending before the final pause and could not be distinguished from the *yVprVs (iprVs) Preterit. This was the main reason of the Akkadian innovation. In Classical Arabic (and in Northwest Semitic) there was no reason for Imperfect/Present basic i.e. G to be ousted by another form and only later, i.e. in Neoarabic dialects preverbal particles were introduced to reinforce the ‘present’ feature. The ending -u of the indicative has been preserved in positions not before the sentence final pause, i.e. in subordinate clauses. I do not think that Kuryłowicz was right when he said (1961: 60; 1972: 60) that after the final -u of yaqtulu/yaqtil-u had become a morph of the Akkadian Subordinative it was automatically expulsed from the indicative *yaqattal- or that the disappearance of -u in iparras-u was due only to a morphological distribution. Also iparras preserved its original -u in non-final positions and there can be no doubt that the form *yV-parrVs-u was older (Zaborski 2009). Already before the change of the syntactic group order the Old Present/Imperfect *yV-prVs-u must have had a stylistic rival2 going back to Proto=Afroasiatic (see Kouwenberg 2010: 101–102 2 As far as coexistence of rival stylistic forms is concerned, I wish to emphasize that Corriente

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on the coexistence of two ‘imperfective’ forms about which Kogan 2012: 315 is sceptical; it should be emphasized that they do coexist in Berber), i.e. a more expressive (thanks to gemination!) *ya/i-parrVs-u which took over in the sentence final position losing its -u ending but being still well recognizable due to its gemination and the -a- vowel after the first root consonant. The relation of this *ya/i-parrVs-u to the D (‘Multiplicating’, ‘Pluractional’ or ‘intensive’) class forms with gemination but with different vocalization is only indirect (cf. Rundgren 1959: 141–162; 1963 and see also Diakonoff 1988: 106; Stempel 1999: 127–128; Kogan 2008 and 2012: 317). Both yaqattal and uparris verbs had some common features, mainly pluractional and hence iterative and durative features but only uparris < *yuparris was causative/factitive so that semantically they were differentiated quite well. It has been a frequent misunderstanding that Akkadian iparras could go simply and directly to derived D or yuqattilu form. It goes back to nominal stems with gemination, i.e. parras, parris, parrus (Kuryłowicz 1972: 57; Kouwenberg 2010: 283; cf. Rundgren 1959: 126–127) as well as to corresponding West Semitic Perfect qattal-a and Assyrian (von Soden 1995: 143 and 13*) Stative parrus. Another naïve opinion: allegedly iparras disappeared in Classical Arabic and in other West Semitic languages because it was a ‘too similar’ to D or yuqattil(-u) derived forms (the idea repeated quite recently by Porkhomovsky 2013: 182). We have to keep in mind that in so many languages there are numerous examples of different grammatical forms which differ in only one morpheme consisting of one phoneme and this does not necessarily trigger a change. Akkadian G iparras differing from D uparras provides the best proof not to mention forms like Arabic active yuqattil and passive yuqattal! Actually the spread i.e. grammaticalization of Akkadian durative Present with gemination and with vocalization different from D forms can be rather a relative innovation due not only to association with gemination having iterativity as one of its morphological features but also due to a possible shift of stress back in sentence final position (see Diakonoff 1988: 106). Geʿez yǝqättǝl is not really a direct cognate of Akkadian iparras because it goes back to *yuqattil (Rundgren 1959: 53, 129–162; Castellino 1962: 57; Stempel 1999: 133 and 112; Kouwenberg 2010: 117–121) and not to *yaqattal since in Geʿez /a/ has remained /a/! The situation in Berber which lacks D forms with gemination (like Cushitic since Beja Present with -nC- allegedly going back to -CC- is debatable) is differ(2006) followed by myself (2005b) has argued that clear remnants of iparras could be found in Classical Arabic verbs having qattala forms with the same meaning as in the 1st or G class. See Kouwenberg 2010: 101–102 on the coexistence of two ‘imperfective’ forms about which Kogan 2012: 315 is skeptical; it should be emphasized that they do coexist in Berber.

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ent since it is not only gemination which makes Berber Intensive Aorist/Intensive Imperfect (Zaborski 2005b: 16–18): there are actually several morphological processes involved, i.e. gemination, prefixation of t/tt-, ablaut (underestimated by Louali and Philippson 2004), and combinations of different morphological processes, e.g. Tashelhit ‘to do’ sker: skar, ‘to speak’ sawel: sawal, ‘to sue’ serd: srud; ‘to cover’ del: ddal; ‘to die’ mmet: ttemmtat; Tarifit ‘to overstep, to cross’ ssuref : ssuruf Kabyle: ‘change’ (Arabic) beddel: ttbeddil; ‘to laugh’ eDs: ttaDsa, dess; ‘to let’ ejj: ttajja, tejj; ‘to give’ efk: ttak (< *tfak?) as well as many many irregular forms (Naït-Zerrad 2011: 41–42, 115–116, 185). The alleged regularity of the gemination in the Akkadian iparras (for exceptions see Knudsen 1983–1986 who postulates the existence of two complementary Present formations, one with gemination and one without it, the latter continuing the Imperfect yaqtVl-u) is possible (in spite of the fact that it was not always indicated in the cuneiform writing!) but nevertheless it is a bit strange. In many languages innovations usually have some limits, e.g. in English the innovative Present Continuous/Progressive cannot be formed from verbs referring mainly to mental and emotional aspects, like ‘to know’, ‘to want’, ‘to hate’ etc. Perhaps some Assyriologists might try to find some semantic (and other?) constraints in texts in which gemination of the alleged iparras is not written. But I repeat that the most important argument is that Akkadian seems to be the only Hamitosemitic/Afroasiatic language in which the New Present with geminated second root consonant seems to be so radically generalized. It is taken for granted that the traditional pronunciation of the Geʿez ‘Imperfect’ with gemination is original and not due interference with Neoethiosemitic languages. I think that a generalization of the geminated yǝqättǝl could have taken place in Geʿez when it was still a living language but this generalization could be an innovation of Geʿez (Hudson 1979: 103; 1994: 53–55; 2005 and personal communication in January 2014; cf. Rubio 2006: 126) and it is possible that the situation in at least some Neoethiosemitic languages, where there is no gemination in a group verbs in the Imperfect, is older than in Geʿez, i.e. archaic. There is also a problem of L or qātala/yuqātilu class verbs in Geʿez. These verbs are completely lexicalized in Geʿez and no common semantic function can be ascribed to them. I think that there is a possibility that these L class verbs which do not have correspondents in the basic G class not only provide a proof that qattala and qātala had originally been variants3 but also that the

3 Many verbs occur only in D or only in L forms—on D-tantum verbs see Kouwenberg 1997: 312–317; von Soden 1995: 144; in Arabic, Geʿez etc. there are many L/qātala verbs having the same meaning as D and G forms. In Semitic, Berber and Cushitic Beja there are verbs which

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Present/Imperfect *yVqātVl-u played a role in the creation of the New Present of a part of verbs as well, like in a part of verbs in MSSA and perhaps also in at least a part of ASSA. Could Akkadian have possessed both iparras and *ipāras? My conclusion: the generalization or the largely regular, almost exclusive use of iparras in Akkadian is an innovation like, probably, the generalization of yǝqättǝl in Geʿez where it was triggered by the loss of final vocalic endings and the merger of /i/ and /u/. The loss of L or qātala derived forms seems to be another important innovation of Akkadian in comparison with Classical Arabic and several other West Semitic languages. Actually von Soden (1995: 144) says that although Old Assyrian lapputum ‘to write to someone’ (he compares it with Arabic kātaba) could be read also as lāputum since gemination is not indicated in writing, nevertheless he says that it is not recommended to reconstruct a cognate of the “South Semitic” (but there is qōtel also in Biblical Hebrew!) on the basis of this lone verb (see Kouwenberg 2010: 88, footnote 1 supporting this view). Actually in the Somali dialect of Merka there is only one verb continuing the Afroasiatic prefixconjugation (i.e. uwaad—in German ‘im Stande sein’, Lamberti 1986: 101) while in other dialects of Somali there are more such archaic verbs but no more than six. In Cushitic Dhaasanach there are only four prefix-conjugated verbs (Tosco 2001: 199–202). Therefore I think that even on a basis of one case a category can or even must be accepted. Perhaps other examples of lexicalized L/qātala derived forms could be discovered in Akkadian but it must be taken into consideration that the meanings of the L/qātala forms in other Semitic languages are very diversified and elusive so that semantics can be of a limited use in identifying possible remnants in Akkadian. In any case the L or qātala form is not only Proto-Semitic but also Proto-Afroasiatic (pace Weninger 2011: 157) since it is found also in Cushitic Beja where it has a multiplicative, iterative, frequentative meaning and pluractional (‘intensive’) forms are used not only with plural objects like D forms in Akkadian and Arabic but also as regular plural of the basic or G class in the Beja Present (Zaborski 1997b). As is well known, in MSSA

appear only in the ‘intensive’ class but have no ‘intensive’ or pluractional meaning. Also this fact shows that there was no sharp frontier between G and D classes already in ProtoAfroasiatic, the forms were partially derivational and partially inflectional. Rubio 2006: 132, following Greenberg, says that: “In sum, the D stem was perhaps marked first by an /-a-/ infix denoting plurality, which caused the gemination of the following consonant in order to preserve the stress and the vocalic morpheme itself. Eventually, this gemination would have been reanalyzed as the real marker of verbal plurality”. I think that there was -ā- and gemination allomorphs since prehistoric period.

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there is the Present/Imperfect of active verbs going back to qātala (e.g. Mehri yǝtōbǝr ‘he breaks (something)’ (cf. yǝtbōr ‘it gets broken’) which proves that qātala and qattala have originally been variants of the same multiplicative, iterative, frequentative and ‘intensive’ form (Zaborski 2005b, cf. Huehnergard and Rubin 2011: 261). In any case either the lack, i.e. the loss or the utmost limitation of qātala in Akkadian is an Akkadian innovation. Akkadian has also lost the internal passive which must be not only ProtoSemitic (as postulated cautiously by Knudsen 1983–1986: 237–238 and footnote 20) but also Proto-Afroasiatic since it is found in Old Egyptian where śdm could mean not only ‘he heard’ but also ‘it was heard’ (Schenkel 2012: 82, 224–226; Edel 1955–1964: 261, but cf. Reintges 1997) and probably also in Berber in which there are hundreds (Chaker 1995: 65; Mettouchi 2004: 97) of ‘reversible’ or ‘double valency’ verbs which have both transitive and passive or medium meaning; e.g. ekrez means both ‘to plough’ and ‘to be ploughed’ and both yekrez and yetwakrez mean ‘(the field) has been ploughed’ (Allaoua 2011: 440; Galand 2010: 291–294, Naït-Zerrad 2001: 106). With reversible verbs the agent is naturally not mentioned when the verb is used intransitively, e.g. Kabyle teldi tawwurt ‘she has opened the door’ (tawwurt being direct object) and teldi tewwurt ‘the door is opened/the door opened’ (tewwurt being Subject); cf. Galand (2010: 294): iQn ufrux tiflut ‘the boy closed the door’: tQn tflut ‘the door is closed’; cf. also verbs like Kabyle enz and ţţuzenz ‘to be sold’. Is the West Semitic Perfect an innovation, i.e. a development or ‘mutation’ of stative so that the Akkadian Stative (earlier dubbed ‘Permansive’) can be an absolute archaism as is usually accepted (recently by David Cohen 2012: 203)? From a theoretical point of view West Semitic Perfect qatal(a) could be interpreted as a secondary development of the Stative due to the well-known change ‘state > past action’ (Kuryłowicz 1972: 60; Kouwenberg 2010: 181, 191; Zaborski 2003; Vernet i Pons 2013a). There has been a long discussion among Egyptologists and some Semitists (Müller 1984 and 2003; Kammerzell 1990 and 1991; Schenkel 1994 and 2012: 231–232; Satzinger 1999: 29; 2004: 498–499; Borghouts 2001; Oreal 2009 and 2010; Jenni 2007; Reintges 2011) whether the Old Egyptian Pseudoparticiple (called also ‘Old Perfective’ and then renamed ‘Stative’ by many scholars who wanted to emphasize the link with Akkadian) is not related to West Semitic Perfect as well as to the Akkadian Stative or whether there were actually two ‘Pseudoparticiples’ differing in vocalization, one stative, e.g. nfrty ‘she is beautiful’, sfr-w ‘he/it is hot’, tni-kw ‘I have become old’ and another one active, e.g. yry-kw ‘I made’, wd’-kw ‘I placed’, iy-kw ‘I came’ (Edel 1955–1964: 272). The discussion among Egyptologists is still going on but in my opinion there is a good chance that the hypothesis about two Egyptian Pseudoparticiples as cognates of the Akkadian Stative and the West Semitic Perfect (Satzinger

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2002; 2003 and forthcoming) can be accepted; pace Kouwenberg (2010: 191). Indeed most probably there could be two ‘Pseudoparticiples’ with different ablauts (that corresponding to the Akkadian Stative having also -ā- in the 1st and 2nd persons before the pronominal suffixes, cf. Kouwenberg 2010: 183 on the origin of this -ā-) but not well differentiated in writing4 and consequently two ‘suffix conjugations’ should be reconstructed not only for Proto-Semitic (Voigt 2002/2003 and 2013) but also for Proto-Afroasiatic. Theoretically even if there had been only one ‘Pseudoparticiple’, it could combine the functions and meanings of both the Akkadian Stative and the West Semitic Perfect so that Akkadian and West Semitic continued only two different (slightly overlapping!) parts of this broader range of functions and meanings preserved in the Egyptian category. In any case, the evidence from Egyptian (perhaps also a Cushitic suffix ‘conjugation’ of stative verbs) most probably indicates that the West Semitic Perfect is not an innovation of this group of the Semitic subfamily but it goes back to the Proto-Afroasiatic dialect cluster. In such a situation, i.e. in an Afroasiatic perspective, the Akkadian Stative is not an ultimate archaism but it is partially (due to a limitation of its range) an innovation connected with a loss of the suffixed Perfect in Akkadian. The personal endings of the Akkadian Stative, i.e. the mixed system 1 sing. ku, 2nd masc. -ta, 2nd fem. -ti etc. must be archaic as indicated by the evidence of the Egyptian Pseudoparticiple(s). Classical Arabic loss of ʾan-ā-ku ‘I’ (but ʾan-a variant is equally old since ʾa- occurs in the 1st sing. of the ‘prefix conjugations’) is an innovation which must have facilitated the analogical change of its most probable prehistoric -ku ending of the 1st sing. resulting in, e.g. katabtu (< *katab-ku). But in a part of Pre-Classical dialects of Arabic there must have been -ku in the first person singular and in some modern varieties, e.g. in the dialect of Taʿizz there are different groups (‘conjugations’ in the sense of the grammar of Greek, Latin, Romance languages etc.) of verbs: 1. a conjugation with -tu, -ta, -ti etc., 2. a conjugation with -ku, -ka, -ki etc., 3. a conjugation with free variation of -ku/-tu, -ka/-ta, -ki/-ti etc. (Prochazka 1974). It is true that the modern Arabic dialects with -ku, -ka, -ki etc. are spoken mainly in modern Yemen but we cannot attribute this simply to an ASSA substrate, although this substrate might have played a role to some extent. Since the Perfects with -kV have survived for so many centuries after the death of ASSA in spite of the prolonged contact with modern Arabic dialects having -tV Perfect endings, this 4 Von Soden 1995: 122, 300: Akk. Stative 2nd m. sing. has not only -ā-ta but also -ā-ti (Old Assyrian) and -ā-t (later also Neoassyrian -ā-ka); 2 fem. sing. not only -ā-ti but also -ā-t (later Neoassyrian -ā-ki), 1st pl. not only -ā-nu but also -ā-ni (Old Assyrian) which may be relevant for the explanation of Egyptian -j and -w. Cf. Depuydt 1995.

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means that processes of interference and borrowing of morphemes are not easy and simple at all. This is confirmed by the fact that the Amiritic dialect of Sabaic had -t(V) Perfect endings (Stein 2007: 24–25) in spite of prolonged contact with varieties having -k(V) Perfect endings! Amiritic was a typical transitory or intermediate dialect. For different, partially sociolinguistic reasons, there is sometimes a resistance to interference and to borrowing since speakers of a language want to differ from neighbors who speak closely related, partially mutually comprehensible languages, they want to preserve their linguistic identity. Thus speakers of Mehri use -kV Perfect forms when they speak Mehri but use only -tV Perfect forms when they speak a -tV Perfect variety or varieties of Arabic although they must be aware of the relationship of both Perfects (Zaborski 1994: 407). There are remnants of the stative use of the suffix conjugation in Classical Arabic, e.g. niʿma ‘is good’ and biʾsa ‘is bad’, kafarū ‘they are unbelievers’, and there are cases of the perfective/resultative use of Akkadian active stative forms (Kouwenberg 2010: 168–176; Huehnergard 2005: 394–395; Vernet i Pons 2013: 463 and 465), e.g. wald-at ‘she has given birth to’, šami-ā-ta ‘you have heard’ etc.; there are also Stative forms of the verbs of motion, e.g. Old Babylonian ālikat ‘she is going’, wāšib-āku ‘I am staying’ (von Soden 1995: 125) and kašd-āku ‘I came’. Finally it must be mentioned that dual forms of the verbs in Akkadian are limited to third persons which means a loss, i.e. an innovation. There are also several Akkadian innovations in the realm of nominal morphology which I can mention only briefly. The most conspicuous innovation is the virtually total (for a remnant see Huehnergard 1987) loss of internal plurals which are not a South West Semitic innovation as they go back to ProtoAfroasiatic. Dual of nouns was reduced in Akkadian very early (von Soden 1995: 93). There is also the loss of the diptote declension. Mimation in Akkadian has largely lost its grammatical functions (see Rubio 2006: 136–137) while in Classical Arabic its cognate, i.e. nunation has partially preserved the original function of the definite article (cf. also ASSA!) and still retains the morphological function as a secondary indefinite article. My conclusions do not differ substantially from what I said in my 1997a and 1998 papers: it is impossible to consider the Akkadian verbal system as well as its morphology in general as decisively more conservative than the system of Classical Arabic—both systems present both archaisms and innovations. The situation is similar to what we find in Indo-European: neither Vedic Sanskrit nor Classical Sanskrit is tantamount to Proto-Indo-European and both the older and the later varieties of Sanskrit have preserved different archaisms and introduced different innovations. Akkadian and Arabic (first of all Classical

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Arabic with very few archaisms preserved in other varieties) are the most archaic Old Semitic languages and I think that Classical Arabic is per saldo even a bit more conservative not only in its phonology (pace Mascitelli 2006; 51–52, largely following Petráček 1981).

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Oreal, Elsa (2010). “Traces of a Stative-Eventive Opposition in Ancient Egyptian”. Zeitschrift für Ägyptische Sprache 137: 145–156. Petráček, Karel (1981). “Le système de l’arabe dans une perspective diachronique”. Arabica 28 (2–3): 162–177. Porkhomovsky, Viktor (2013). “Afrikanskoye istoricheskoye yazikoznaniye—rekonstrukciya i tipologia”. In: Issledovaniya po yazikam Afriki 4. Ed. by V.A. Vinogradov, A.I. Koval, and A.B. Shluinskiy. Moscow: ID Klyuch-S, pp. 171–189. Prochazka, Theodore (1974). “The Perfect Tense Ending K(-) in the Spoken Arabic of Taʿizz”. Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 37: 459–462. Reintges, Chris (1997). Passive Voice in Older Egyptian. The Hague: Holland Academic Graphics. Reintges, Chris (2011). “The Evolution of the Ancient Egyptian Stative: Diachronic Stability despite Inflectional Change”. Folia Orientalia 48: 7–97. Rössler, Otto (1950). “Verbalbau und Verbalflexion in den Semitohamitischen Sprachen”. Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 100: 461–514. Rubio, Gonzalo (2006). “Eblaite, Akkadian, and East Semitic”. In: The Akkadian Language in Its Semitic Context. Ed. by G. Deutscher, N.J.C. Kouwenberg. Leiden: Nederlans Instituut voor het Nabije Oosten, pp. 110–139. Satzinger, H. (2002). “The Egyptian Connection: Egyptian and the Semitic Languages”. Israel Oriental Studies 20: 227–264. Satzinger, H. (2003). “The Egyptian Conjugations within the Afroasiatic Framework”. In: Egyptology at the Dawn of the Twenty-First Century, Proceedings of the Eighth International Congress of Egyptologists, Cairo 2000, Vol. 3. Ed. by Zahi Hawass and Lyla Pinch Brook. Cairo: The American University in Cairo Press, pp. 392–400. Satzinger, H. (forthcoming). “Semitic Suffix Conjugation and Egyptian Stative—a hypothetic morpho-syntactic scenario of its origin”. Schenkel, W. (1994). “Śčm.t-Perfekt und śčm.t(i)-Stativ: die beiden Pseudopartizipien des Ägyptischen nach dem Zeugnis der Sargtexte”. In: Querentes scientiam: Festgabe für Wolfhart Westendorf. Ed. by Heike Behlmer. Göttingen: Seminar für Ägyptologie und Koptologie, pp. 157–187. Schenkel, W. (2012). Tübinger Einführung in die klassisch-ägyptische Sprache und Schrift. Tübingen: Pagina. Stein, Peter (2007). “Materialien zur sabäischen Dialektologie—das Problem des amiritischen (‘haramischen’) Dialektes”. Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 157: 13–47. Stempel, Reinhard (1999). Abriss einer historischen Grammatik der semitischen Sprachen. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang. Tosco, Mauro (2001). The Dhaasanac Language. Köln: Köppe. Vernet i Pons, Eulalia. (2013a). “Stativität und Perfektivität in den Ost- und Westsemitischen Sprachen”. In: Time and History in the Ancient Near East. Ed. by L. Feliu et al. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, pp. 455–469.

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Vernet i Pons, Eulalia. (2013b). “New Considerations on the Historical existence of a West Semitic ‘yaqattal’ Form”. In: Archaism and Innovation in the Semitic Languages. Ed. by J.-P. Monferer-Sala and W.G.E. Watson. Córdoba: Oriens Academic—CNERU, pp. 145–161. Voigt, Rainer (1987). “Derivatives und flektives t im Semitohamitischen”. In: Proceedings oft he Fourth International Hamito-Semitic Congress. Ed. by H. Jungraithmayr and W.W. Müller. Amsterdam / Philadelphia, pp. 86–107. Voigt, Rainer (1990). “The Gemination of the Present-Imperfect Forms in Old Ethiopic”. Journal of Semitic Studies 35: 1–18. Voigt, Rainer (2002/2003). “Die beiden Suffixkonjugationen des Semitischen (und Ägyptischen)”. Zeitschirft für Althebraistik 15/16: 137–166. English version (2007): “The Two Suffix Conjugations in Semitic (and Egyptian)”. In: Akten des 7. International Semitomitistenkongresses Berlin 2004. Ed. by R. Voigt. Aachen: Shaker Verlag, pp. 433–448. Voigt, Rainer (2013). “Afroasiatic and Hebrew: Linguistic Features”. In: Encyclopedia of Hebrew Language and Linguistics, vol. 1. Ed. by Geoffrey Khan et al. Leiden: Brill, pp. 62–66. Weninger, Stefan (2011). “Reconstructive Morphology”. In: The Semitic Languages—an International Handbook. Ed. by S. Weninger et al. Göttingen: De Gruyter Mouton, pp. 151–178. Zaborski, Andrzej (1994). “Problèmes de classification des dialectes sémitiques méridionaux”. In: Actes des premières journées internationales de dialectologie arabe de Paris. Ed. by D. Caubet and M. Vanhove. Paris: INALCO, pp. 399–411. Zaborski, Andrzej (1997a). “The Problem of Archaism of Arabic”. Sprawozdania z Posiedzeń Komisji Naukowych Oddziału Krakowskiego PAN 41, part 1: 34–35. Zaborski, Andrzej (1997b). “Problems of the Beja Present seven Years Later”. Lingua Posnaniensis 39: 145–153. Zaborski, Andrzej (1998). “Problem archaizmu arabskiego języka klasycznego (The Problem of Archaism in Classical Arabic–English Summary on p. 283)”. In: Z Mekki do Poznania—From Mecca to Poznań. Ed. by Henryk Jankowski. Poznań: Wydawnictwo UAM, pp. 269–283. Zaborski, Andrzej (2003). “The Origin of the Suffix ‘Conjugations’ in Afroasiatic Languages”. Sprawozdania z Posiedzeń Komisji Naukowych Oddziału Krakowskiego PAN 45, part 1: 59–61. Zaborski, Andrzej (2004a). “Traces of iptaras in Arabic”. In: Egyptian and Semito-Hamitic (Afro-Asiatic) Studies in Memoriam W. Vycichl. Ed. by G. Takács. Leiden: Brill, pp. 160–171. Zaborski, Andrzej (2004b). “Energicus and Other Moods in Cushitic”. Studia Orientalia 99: 435–439. Zaborski, Andrzej (2005a). “The Decay of qattala/qātala in Geʿez”. In: Semitic Studies in Honour of Edward Ullendorf. Ed. by G. Khan. Leiden: Brill, pp. 37–50.

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Zaborski, Andrzej (2005b). “Tense, Aspect and Mood Categories of Proto-Semitic”. In: Current Issues in the Analysis of Semitic Grammar and Lexicon I. Ed. by L. Edzard and J. Retsö. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, pp. 11–30. Zaborski, Andrzej (2009). “Akkadian ‘Subjunctive’ i-prus-a, Old Imperfect iprus-u and Energici -am, -anni”. In: Language, science and Culture—Essays in Honor of Profesor Jerzy Bańczerowski. Ed. by P. Łobacz, P. Nowak, and W. Zabrocki. Poznań: Wydawnictwo Naukowe UAM, pp. 379–386.

Arabic in Its Epigraphic Context

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chapter 3

The ʿAyn ʿAbada Inscription Thirty Years Later: A Reassessment Manfred Kropp

Introduction: The Magic of Language(s) and Why Write It Down Gang uz, Nesso, mi miun nessinchilinon, uz fonna marge in deo adra, vonna den adrun in daz fleisk, fonna demu fleiske in daz fel, fonna demo felle in diz tulli. Don’t worry if you have not understood anything. It is the magic of language, precisely said a magical, more precisely an iatromagical formula, against worms to be found in a manuscript of the ninth century originating from the Tegernsee monastery in Bavaria.1 I am sure that even German native speakers will not follow totally the meaning of the text. Thus I may give an English translation: Go out, worm, together with nine young other worms, out of the marrow (of the wound) into the flesh, out of the flesh into the skin, out of the skin into the hoof. I will not insist on details of the magic rite probably to be performed while reciting this formula—touching a sore wound with a hoof of an animal. We will come back to worms during this lecture and thus elucidate the connection— at least created by association—to the subject to be treated here, but for the moment some general remarks will suffice. The first written documents of many languages are either poetry or magical formulas of the kind we heard some moments before. This is true for German. Besides the famous oaths of Straßburg2—an oath is a kind of magical formula, 1 For rapid information see http://de.althochdeutsch.wikia.com/wiki/Wurmsegen. It is a pagan relict written down in Old German as a marginalia in an otherwise Latin liturgical manuscript. The text has made it, by the way, into modern pop music (Band: In Extremo); see http://www .songtexte.com/songtext/in-extremo/pferdesegen-4bdcd7d2.html. 2 For a rapid overview see Wikipedia which offers in its different language versions inter-

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi: 10.1163/9789004343047_004

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it has to do with the magical power of language—there are the magical formulas for healing of Merseburg and Wessobrunn.3 This is true for Italian: some ritornelli—the indovinelli veronesi—written in vernacular on the margin of classical Latin poetry are there the oldest known documents, just to name an example.4 Poetry by form and function is intimately linked to magic and the magical power of the language. Another fact is important and repetitive: these first documents of a language hitherto not written down frequently creep, so to say, in texts of another language. The other language functions as the official written language of culture and tradition, but is different from the spoken language of the actual scribe. This second language is no longer the spoken language, or it never has been the spoken language. The first case is that of the Romance languages: starting from already widely differentiated vulgar Latin they developed till to a stage (between the 6th and 9th centuries roughly said) when written Latin had to be learned as a foreign language and was virtually no longer understandable to an illiterate native speaker. That is exactly the point where a learned scribe or author feels the gap between the linguistic culture of his mother tongue and the tradition of the written language. Writing means to him simultaneous translation for creating new texts, describing the reality of his time. In some very particular cases then he will interrupt this mental translation and let his pen write down what he really has in mind: it comes to the first written expressions of a language which cannot be but tentative with respect to orthography and other details of the use of the scripture originally conceived for another language.5 Let me add here that the described process strictly speaking is typical only for alphabetic scriptures. A pictographic or better said ideographic script can

esting comparative insights in the given subjects demonstrating the national traditions in scholarship: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oaths_of_Strasbourg; http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Serments_de_Strasbourg; http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Straßburger _Eide. 3 See http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Merseburger_Zaubersprüche; http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Merseburg_Incantations; http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wessobrunner_Gebet; http://en .wikipedia.org/wiki/Wessobrunn_Prayer. 4 See http://it.wikipedia.org/wiki/Indovinello_veronese; http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Veronese_Riddle; http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Veroneser_Rätsel; Berschin, W. (1987). “Mittellateinisch und Romanisch”. Zeitschrift für Romanische Philologie 103: 1–19. 5 This a simplification. Alphabetic scripts do more than render the phonemes of a given language, they can demonstrate the morphological background of words and can preserve historical stages; see e.g. Glück, H. (1987). Schrift und Schriftlichkeit. Eine sprach- und kulturwissenschaftliche Studie. Stuttgart.

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well hide the phonetic and other changes in linguistic development for thousands of years thus not even create the necessity to adapt to change in spoken reality—the case of Chinese. The question may arise if a writing system of this kind is not superior and better fit especially for modern times? In fact we live a period of tremendous progress of visual communication to the detriment of (alphabetic) text. A Semitist who in the core of his studies is treating the fascinating history of the invention and development of the alphabet has no choice for an answer: the general idea to represent by individual signs (graphemes) has dominated since its first conception the history of Semitic-speaking people and deeply influenced on every expression of their intellectual activities. Greek, Latin, later European cultures in general adopted very early (8th/7th century bc) the alphabet and is thus part of the same cultural main stream. Be not afraid again, I will not depart for philosophical deliberations about if and how a given writing system can actually influence the way of thinking, only say that alphabetic writing most probably facilitates perceiving change and development in the language, the first step towards historical linguistic science: but then linguistics not only in the sense of cultural studies but as integral part of general anthropology.6 Thus a Semitist cannot always defend himself from the temptation of genuine iconoclasm—perhaps in perfect concordance with the cultures of his studies. After this long and somewhat polemical digression back to the argument, the case of an Old German scribe is somewhat but only gradually different from the discussed case of an Italian. Latin from the beginning is a foreign language of enormous cultural and religious prestige. It has thus to be learned for written expression, and this learning very early is accompanied by didactic instruments: interlinear version, rudimentary vocabularies etc. But significantly enough, even in the sphere of Germanic languages the first preserved original texts are pieces of poetry, magical formulas and traditions of customary law. This added the last important sphere where language has an important, quasi-magical power. To be clear: I mean language in the sense of spoken language “als das Wort lebendig Wort war, weil es ein gesprochen Wort war” to quote Nietzsche. In all these spheres the spoken word is the performance of an action: curse or benediction, praise or satire as their secular counterparts in poetry, sentence in the law. Thus literacy means a deep change in the historical development. On the one hand it is meant as a subsidy for futile human memory in the most important fields for the use of a language. On the other hand during a long dialectic process literacy exactly undermines and finally

6 See e.g. Goody, J.R., ed. (1968) Literacy in Traditional Societies. Cambridge.

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abolishes this magical power of the spoken word: law and sentence becomes valid only when written and (today) published; the grace and benevolence of the divine is assured by written talismans etc. Changes promote reflection: since there are now in the modern world dominated by pictures a lot and good indications that the text, the alphabet will lose its dominant position as a means of communication in modern civilization the mind is ready and sharpened to think over the dramatic change from orality to literacy in history especially the history of our cultures. The following remarks upon the oldest known Arabic text are meant to be a modest contribution to this general reflection. Whereas the Old German magic formulas are nearly incomprehensible to a modern speaker of German, its Arabic counterpart has a good chance to be understood directly in our times thanks to the remarkable phonetic stability of Arabic and Semitic languages in general due to its very low morpheme decay rate. Moreover, the pagan rituals involved in the German magic seems far away, outdated and strange. The intense religious formula of the Arabic text still is acceptable for a contemporary believer. To sum up: past and present could easily meet today in a mosque or in a church and would communicate perfectly well in all aspects: fa-yafʿal lā fidā wa-lā-uṯārā! fa-kun hunā yabġi-nā al-mawt—wa-lā abġā-h! fa-kun hunā adāda ǧurḥ—wa-lā yudid-nā!

The Discovery The inscription was found in 1979 by A. Roones, a member of the Ben-Gurion University Institute for Desert Research at En Mureifiq / En Avdat / Sedeq Boqer in the Negev.7 Afterwards A. Negev visited the place several times, once together with J. Naveh. An adequate photograph, however, of the inscription was made only in 1982.8 The published drawing was made by A. Yardeni.9 It is engraved on a rock just above the gorge of ʿEn ʿAvdat, where the Naḥal Zin falls in a series of steep waterfalls, forming the large wadi of Naḥal Zin. To the South and West open and relatively flat valleys with remains of ancient agricultural terraces 7 X 81 in Wenning (1987). 8 I am most grateful to Prof. A. Negev who kindly sent me his slide and generously gave the permission for reproduction. 9 Cf. Negev (1986: 56 n. *).

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figure 3.1 The stone bearing the inscription in situ 1993 photograph by courtesy of abraham negev

may be seen. The site is 4.5km to the south of Oboda (ʿAvdat); the acropolis of the city is visible from the spot. The large smooth rock, on which the inscription was engraved projects only a little above the ground. The shallow letters were engraved by a flat tool, perhaps a made out of flint, and have been slightly damaged by streams of rainwater. In a later period a short Safaitic inscription was engraved on the left side of the stone, without damaging the original inscription. The measurements may be seen from Negev’s drawing; ca. 65 cm in length, 45 in height, average length of the letters 8 cm. Then the stone with the inscription has been cut out and transferred to the Israel Antiquities Authority, Jerusalem where it is housed now under the inventory no. 90–1256 in the basement and accessible only after transport by forklift to be paid. According to Ambros, an excellent b/w photograph has been made.10 Let us already state here that archaeology once more cannot answer one of the important questions: did this inscription belong to a certain object like a

10

See Ambros (1994: 91). The photograph is available at the IAA, P.O. Box 586, Jerusalem 91004, Israel.

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figure 3.2 drawing by ada yardeni (cf. negev 1986: 56 + n.*, fig. 1; yardeni 2000: 305)

statue, and if so a statue of the god Obodas or, what is more likely according to the ṣlm of a person?11 If this link was there, it naturally influenced the text. There is a new drawing by Mohammed Maraqten based on Negev’s photograph. I am wondering if a squeeze of the stone could be of some help. At least a new drawing based on the better photograph is a desideratum.

Material and Palaeographic Observations The text is written throughout in Nabataean script, but perhaps by two different hands. The language is mixed: introductory formula and protocol—which, it is true, could be understood as written in Arabic as well—are Nabataean; the 11

Ṣlm of a king in C 349; of king and god Obodas in C 354; of a nobleman in the temple in C 164; of a (simple?) man in RES 2117. For statues or symbols of deities the words nṣyb or msgd are more likely (RES 1088; RES 2051, 2052; C 161; RES 83). These objects are made (ʿbd) or erected (hqym) or dedicated (qrb). The tablet with the respective text could be stored in a special place (ʿrkt in RES 86; 411; C 354 mḏqnt?); all examples in Cantineau 1930.

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figure 3.3 Drawing of the ʿAyn ʿAbada inscription courtesy of mohammad maraqten (in maraqten 2013: 29)

rest in line 4–5 is Arabic the variety of which remains to be defined. Till now the disposition of the text in the irregular field offered by the naturally smooth surface of the stone has not been object of consideration and analysis. This is, though, essential for the interpretation.

A Signed Document The Ayn Abada inscription is a signed document, and even signed twice as well as with an authentication. Thus one has to interpret the last two words in line 6. Ketab yadeh does not mean “he wrote it (the inscription) with his own hand”—and thus there is no emendation to kataba bi-yadi-hi to be made—but is a juridical term and formula often to be found in the Nahal Haver documents where it appears after the signatures of testimonies meaning: personal signature, authenticated. We do not know what kind of document was intended here to be signed by its author. Perhaps it has to do with the extraordinary character of the Arabic text in an extraordinary place in Nabataean context. Perhaps religious awe for the magical formula or incantation made the author sign. Anyway, he signed twice as can be seen by the size and the shape in which his name is written twice: first word of line 6 Garmallāhi, first words in line 3 Garmallāhi

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bar Taymall(āhi). The use of two different hands already gives a hint to the complex origin and execution of the text.

Composite Character of the Document First some remarks on the script and disposition of lines and words. The disposition of lines and texts is not well organized. The last word of line 1 is written slightly below the line and in a smaller shape. There are words in interlinea between line 2 and 3. The last word of line 3 is written above in a blank space of line 2 which ends in the middle of the line. As to my judgment the Arabic text lines 4 und 5 is written more carefully, in slightly smaller letter shapes. The name of the dedicant Garmallāhī (bar Taymallāhī) beginning line 3 and 5 visibly is written in larger letters than the rest of the text. According to line 6 this is the personal signature of Garmallāhī in line 5, perhaps also in line 3. To the rather careless disposition of the Nabataean (Aramaic) text in lines 1– 3 corresponds the not well and linear constructed syntax of the phrase. As one possible hypothesis one could think of the following procedure; the argumentation here has to be completed by the analysis of the text, translation and commentary below. A first hand started the text and wrote till the name of the dedicant (and scribe?) line 2 in the middle. Then another hand, Garmallāhī himself (?) started a new line writing his signature. Then the Arabic text lines 4– 5, well organized and written, were added. Line 6 Garmallāhī signed again, followed by the official document mark: ktb ydh, personal signature. This was the moment line 3 had to be completed. Besides the fact that Garmallāhī had written the text, one had to add now that the same person erected a statuette (of himself?) before, in sight of (the sanctuary) of the god ʿAbadah (Obodas). He did that rather clumsily by adding the verb ḥdṯ in linterlinea between line 2 and 3 and completing line 3 by adding “statuette before ʿAbadah the god”, where the last word could only be written above at the end of line 2. But this firsthand analysis could be refined and slightly adapted. For anyone familiar with Nabataean and cognate inscriptions a first look at the stereotype formulas contained in the ʿAyn ʿAbadah document give the right impression, that not only the Arabic text is unusual, but the mixture of two text types in one document. First there is an inscription commemorating the erection of a statue(tte) in sight of the sanctuary of god Obodas (ʿAbada). Its reconstructed stereotype form should run like this: Dnh ṣlmʾ d-ḥdt Garmallāhī lqbl ʿAbadah allāhā “This is the statue Garmallāhi erected before (in sight of) the god Obodas.” Eventually the motif of this dedication could be given as well as the date.

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The second text type is a commemorative inscription, a greeting or an invocation for blessing and favour. This kind of text normally is introduced by dkyr b-ṭb12 “may he be remembered in good”. The person mentioned is the one who writes this formula or has it written. A second person can follow in the general address w-dkyr b-ṭb mn qrʾ “and may whosoever would read (this text) aloud be remembered for good …” We find all the constitutive elements of these two text types in the inscription, but in a rather surprising order and composition. Line 1 starts with the commemorative formula but addressing first the person who in the future will read and recite the text. The line seems to have ended by the word allāhā; the following w-dkyr is clearly added later and slightly beneath the line. Line two adds in second position what normally would stand at the beginning: mn ktb “he who writes / made write”; the following letters are not quite clear; the name Garmallāhi could have been written here. The next consideration is quite speculative but eventually gives a plausible explanation for the complex composition of the text.13 The beginning of the text stresses in an extraordinary manner the role and importance of a recitation. This may be explained by and refer to the equally extraordinary Arabic text, the magic formula and incantation. Could it be that this text, i.e. lines 4 and 5 were written now directly after the not yet finished line 2? These lines are well disposed and seemingly written in one go. The Arabic text stops and is finished at about one third of space left in line 5, indicating clearly the end of the formula. And now this core part of the text is signed by the initiator, the signature even authenticated. Not enough, this person continues writing and hops back starting line 3 with his signature, but leaving to complete the rest of the text with a convenient adaptation of the other constituent passage, describing the erection and dedication of the statue, quite difficult task for the scribe because lack of space. He has only half of line 3 at his disposition and could make use of some elements and space in line 2 not finished. First he completes the father’s name Taymallāhi then continues with the principal issue of his text: ṣlm lqbl ʿbdt “a statue before ʿAbadah”. The word ʾlhʾ “the god” has to be written above the last word in line 3 thus appearing in the register of line 2, but clearly separated by a blank space from the first words in this line. Rereading his phrase the scribe realizes that a verb is required but has no other solution than to add it interlinea above name and signature of the actor: ḥdt “he erected / inaugurated”.

12 13

Cf. Healey (1996). There is another fine example for such a composite inscription in material “disorder” which is to be read jumping between the different lines in Macdonald 2009.

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Preliminary Hermeneutical Considerations The two Arabic lines certainly are a separate piece of text, most probably a citation. It could represent a part of an Arabic liturgical chant in honour of the deified king Obadas (ʿAbadah) as some scholars write in their studies (Macdonald 2010; Bellamy 1990). It could be as well a popular formula invoking divine protection against the dangers of death and wounding. Anyhow, both versions would be of general character and chosen because fitting into the scene and situation when Garmallāhi erects—probably his own—statuette in view of the sanctuary of Obadas. Thus there is no need for continuing the thread of contents in the Nabataean passage. On the contrary, one should look for a separate but in itself coherent unity as far as actors and actions are concerned. Thus introducing Garmallāhi as an actor in the third person (first hemistich) and changing in the following two ones to the first person singular, “I” for finite verbs and “me” for personal suffixes (but there is clearly written -nā “us”!14) does not seem appropriate. The principal actor of such a magic and protective formula is the invoked divinity who is acting upon personified death or fate and on wounding. Protection always is asked by and for generalised believers in form of “us”. If this presupposition holds true, then there is no room as well for dividing the first Arabic phrase from the following two as some scholars proposed. This last remark entails for looking of semantic parallels for the two nouns fidā and aṯar in the subsequent two—most probably conditional—periods.

Dating As soon as the text in line 4 and 5—by the way one may add line 6 as well, because the formula grmʾlhy ktb yd-h could well be Arabic or Aramaic— revealed itself to be written in Arabic, exposing the article ʾl-, the importance for the history of North Arabic became clear—a document written 200 years before the inscription of en-Nemara. For several reasons which are not to be explained here the dating is quite precise between 88 and 125 ad. These dates derive from other Nabataean inscriptions that were found at ʿEn ʿAvdat. After a break in the development of the town which encountered the downfall of the Nabataean kingdom and the creation of the Roman province in this region,

14

Even if Sharon (1997: 193) interprets -nā “as in Aramaic to denote the first person, and not the plural as in Arabic”.

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there was a second flourish and building activity. But all the inscriptions of this period—about 250ad—are in Greek (see Negev 1961 and 1986 for further details). There are palaeographical arguments for a possible dating. According to several scholars the inscription could well be dated much later than its discoverer Negev proposed. Third and even fourth century are proposed on the basis of palaeographical reasons and comparison to the script of other (dated) inscriptions. But there is another consideration to be made. Till when after the downfall of the Nabataean kingdom and its annexion as a province of the Roman Empire did the cult and veneration of the god Obodas continue? It could well be that this cult disappeared rapidly giving place to other local but more widespread cults, independent from political developments.

Latin and Arabic Transliteration The material reading was not very controversially discussed, with exception of the interlinea. Word division in this text can’t be deducted from the ligatures according to the rules of Nabataean script; words are thus divided according to translation and interpretation. Capitals stand for ambiguous letters in Nabataean script: D = r /d; B (initial) = b/n (and similar to y); L (Final) = l/n. Moreover every letter in the Arabic text is pure rasm i.e. can be read with or without diacritical points; exceptions ‫ ت ج ح ف ق‬which are unambiguous because of their distinct shape in Nabataean script. Text in bold is Arabic; some choices for diacritical points, especially ‫ ع‬and ‫غ‬, as well as ‫د‬, ‫ ذ‬and ‫ ر‬are already made and will be discussed below. 1. DkyD bṭb qDʾ qDm ʿbDt ʾlhʾ wDkyD 2. mn ktb [ ]m ʾlhy Interlinea:15 3. gDmʾlhy bD tymʾlhy ṣlm lqbl ʿbDt ḥDt (?) ʾlhʾ 4. fyfʿl lʾ fDʾ w-lʾ ʾtDʾ fkn hnʾ ybʿnʾ ʾlmwt w-lʾ 5. ʾbʿh fkn hnʾ ʾDD gDḥ w-lʾ yDDnʾ 6. gDmʾlhy ktb yDh 15

‫دكير بطب قرأ قدم عبدة ألها ودكير‬ ‫من كتب ] [م الهي‬ ‫جرم الهي بر تيم الهي صلم لقبل عبدة حدت )?( الها‬ ‫فيفعل لا فدا ولا ا ثرا فكن هنا یبعنا الموت ولا‬ ‫ابعه فكن هنا ادد جرح ولا يددنا‬ ‫جرم الهي كتب يده‬

Negev (1986: 56) reads: mn (D) [… hqym] “he who … erected”; Lacerenza (2000: 111): m(n) ʿbDt “da ʿAvdat”. For the reading ḥDt the last two letters are relatively clearly to be read—cf. Lacerenza’s reading ʿbDt—: the verb ḥDt “renew; restore; dedicate; erect” (cf. CantNab II: 94b) fits well into the context and fives a required meaning.

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The Nabataean (Aramaic) Portion Doubtful could be the form qrʾ “the one who recites” which seemingly lacks the Alif for the status emphaticus.16 This could be a haplography, but as the example ṣlm in line 3 shows, even there the Alif is lacking. But status absolutus instead of emphaticus is not infrequent in Nabataean inscriptions.17 The main difficulty lies with the interlinea and how to integrate it into the phrase. The till nowadays only drawing in Negev 1986 (and repeated in the following articles) is not very precise and reliable at this point. The photographs at hand are difficult to read.

Practical Hints for Interpretation 1.

2.

3.

4. 5. 6.

16 17

The medium of the text is a votive tablet. Textual elements to be looked for are: name of deity, name of dedicant, name of person to be favored, requested or bestowed favor. The placement of the tablet, perhaps beneath a statuette, 4.5 km south in in view of the Acropolis and the temple of Obodas, whose name and epithet is given in line 1 and 2; cf. the two Nabataean prepositions (qdm/lqbl = ‘before, in front of’). The very frequent personal Nabataean names Garmallāh and Taymallāh have continuations in Muslim names. Garmallāh is the dedicant and signs the document; the scribe probably was a second person. The introductory formula dǝkīr (bǝ-ṭib) “be remembered (in good memory) = be blessed” is stereotype for votive or commemorative inscriptions. ṣlm ‘statue(tte)’ (line 3) completes the interpretation of the Nabataean text: a statue or an image has been dedicated to the god ʿAbadah. Lines 4–5 are clearly separated from the rest of the text; none of the constitutional Nabataean elements is to be found there. Repetition and formal parallelisms leads to the working hypothesis of a formally bound text (not necessarily poetry).

See CantNab (I 83). Cf. CantNab (I 110): Sur des textes récents, peut-être sous l’influence de l’arabe, on trouve des états absolus là où on attendait régulièrements des états emphatiques.

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Synopsis of the Vocalized Arabic Texts Proposed in the Relevant Articles The main text is the reading proposed by me in this article; divergent readings proposed are given in the notes followed by the bibliographical reference. In several cases the vocalized reading is not explicit and has to be reconstructed according the proposed translation. fa-yafʿal18 lā fidā19 wa-lā uṯrā (āṯārā/aṯarā)20 fa-kun21 hunā22 yabġi-nā23 (ʾa)l-mawt24 wa-lā25 abġā-h26 fa-kun27 hunā28 adāda29 ǧurḥ30 wa-lā31 yudid-nā32

18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32

fa-yafʿalu: Negev (1986); Noja (1989); Bellamy (1990); Snir (1993). fidāʾan: Snir (1993); ( fārr(an)): Ambros (1994); li-ʾūfara: Testen (1996). aṯaran: Negev (1986); Noja (1989); Bellamy (1990); iṯrāʾan: Snir (1993); (ʾāṯir(an)): Ambros (1994); wa-lā ʾūtara: Testen (1996). fa-kin: Noja (1989); fa-kāna: Bellamy (1990); Beeston (1994); faʾin: Snir (1993); ke/in ← ka-ʾin: Sharon (1997). hinaʾ: Noja (1989); hanā: Snir (1993); fī kunhi-nā: Testen (1996). yabġī-nā: Bellamy (1990). al-mawt(u): Negev (1986); Noja (1989); Bellamy (1990); Snir (1993); Testen (1996). lā: Negev (1986); Noja (1989); Bellamy (1990); Snir (1993). ubġā: Knauf (1989); abġi-hī: Snir (1993); Testen (1996). fa-kin: Noja (1989); fa-kāna: Bellamy (1990); Beeston (1994); waʾin: Snir (1993); ke/in ← kaʾin: Sharon (1997). hinaʾ: Noja (1989); hanā: Snir (1993); fī kunhi-nā: Testen (1996). arāda: Negev (1986); aruddu: Noja (1989); Testen (1996) (?); urid: Snir (1993); aridu: Beeston (1994), Sharon (1997); aḏiru: Müller in Beeston (1994); aḏaru: Testen (1996) (?). ǧarḥ(un): Negev (1986); Noja (1989); Bellamy (1990); ǧazḥ(an): Snir (1993); (ǧāriḥ / ǧarrāḥ: Ambros 1994); ǧāriḥ(un): Testen (1996). lā: Negev (1986); Noja (1989); Bellamy (1990); Snir (1993); Testen (1996). yurid-nā: Negev (1986); Snir (1993); yaruddu-nā: Noja (1989); Testen (1996) (?); yurdī-nā: Bellamy (1990); Beeston (1994); yaḏir-nā: Müller in Beeston (1994); yaḏaru-nā: Testen (1996) (?); yarid-nā: Sharon (1997).

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Cracking the Code: The Structure in the Arabic Text

Text Translation Syllables Metrics

fa-yafʿal may he make 3 ⏑––

lā fidā neither victims 3 –⏑–

wa-lā uṯrā (āṯārā/aṯarā) nor produce scars 4 (5) = 10 (11) ⏑–––

Text Translation Syllables Metrics

fa-kun hunā be it here 4 (5)33 ⏑–⏑–

yabġi-nā (ʾa)l-mawt death claims us 4 (5) – ⏑ – (–) –

wa-lā abġā-h he will not allow his claim 4 = 12 (14) ⏑–––

Text fa-kun hunā Translation be it here

adāda ǧurḥ a wound festers

Syllables Metrics

4 (5) ⏑–⏑–

wa-lā yudid-nā he will not let us be eaten by worms 5 = 13 (15) ⏑–⏑––

4 (5) ⏑–⏑–

The text is a carefully constructed “Gesätz” consisting of three kola. The first is a nominal and condensed form of what the next two explain in detail and, formally, in conditional sentences (a kind of thema-rhema relationship, topicalization). Thus fidā corresponds to mawt and, probably, uṯrā to ǧurḥ. The conjuration of the god fa-yafʿal “thus he may do” is repeated twice by the even more assertative fa-kun hunā “be it here that …”. In the same way fa- and lā in the first kolon are echoed: fa- at the beginning of the following two kola; the first lā already in the kolon itself, then each of these two in the respective kolon. The text abounds in formal and stylistic devices. There are several chiasms; e. g. the position of the object-suffix -nā in line 2 and 3; the chiastic distribution of the functional equivalent perfect and apocopate as in conditional sentences in the same lines. Note, however, that the distribution of actors—destiny, god—is linear. As there is clear paronomasy in line 2 for the verb baġā, it seems highly probable to suppose the same for adāda in line 3. Note as a correspondence between semantic and linguistic level that “we” (the human beings) are always objects of divine or fatal acts, never actors.

33

One cannot exclude the reading fa-kāna as an optative perfect.

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Grammatically fa-kun hunā … is a phrase of existence in the future (expressed by the imperative) whose subject is a complete and complex sentence consisting of a conditional clause without conjunction, better: fa-kun hunā is a quasi-conjunction. All this suggests a highly formal speech, as incantations indeed are. But at the same time, in Aramaic as well as in Arabic tradition, there is no quantitative metre for such literary expressions (as Bellamy 1990 tried to prove). One could think of syllable counting parallel to Aramaic tradition, or /and at the same time kola of a given number of accents, while the rest of the line is filled by a varying number of unaccentuated syllables. No attempt has been made to define these accents, which could be a word accent or a sentence accent (in the last case only one per line) or a combination of both.

Use of Apocopate / Jussive without li or Simple Negative Imperative / Jussive? The verbal form yfʿl has been interpreted in several ways. First as an imperfect present yafʿalu “he (Garmallāhi) makes …” Secondly as an apocopate functioning as a positive past: He (man or God?) made … The most simple way is to take it as a jussive “he (the god) may or should make …” Such use without introducing conjunction li- is not unheard of in Arabic, especially in poetry.34 But to recur to this poetic licence—quite natural in a piece of rhythmical and rimed prose—is not even necessary, because the phrase in question is a negative imperative or jussive in rhetorical disguise. Its linear and normal form is: fa-lā yafʿal fidā wa-lā aṯar(an), which is quite regular use of the apocopate. At the same time the elegant rhetorical accent while choosing the absolute parallel lā fidā–wa-lā aṯar(an) becomes evident.

Considerations on the Semantic Value of fidā and aṯar / uṯrā / uṯārā The most intriguing term is fidā which all too hastily has been interpreted as “gift, favour, reward”. Now the basic sense of the word is “ransom” which fits without too much contortion the requested meaning: from death or danger of life a human being has to be saved = ransomed. What is asked for in the

34

Cf. Wright ArGr II, § 17, rem. a, p. 35s.

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formula lā yafʿal fidā can be translated as “then may he not make /create (necessity) of being ransomed (from death)”.

Choosing the Verb in Line 5 Line 4 contains a clear taǧnīs; the verb baġā in different derivations. This makes highly probable that in line there is the same rhetoric device. ʾArāda as a possible verb results in clumsy constructions; other possible candidates— radā, warada, waḏara etc.—do the same. The root DWD has a number of different stems attested in the same sense “to fester”. This makes acceptable to postulate a causative form adāda “to let s.o. be eaten by worms” even if not directly attested in the Arabic dictionaries.

Nabataean wawation or Waw Apodoseis / waw at-taʾkīd? Nearly all scholars accept the reading al-mawt(w) at the end of line 4 and ǧurḥ(w) on line 5. Now, as Ambros (1994: 91) rightly remarks, the ligatures, themselves already not quite clear, between several letters do not coincide with word units. Then the use and function of the Nabataean wawation which continues in Classical Arabic for some diptote proper names is extremely unclear. Suffice it to cite John Healey:35 Nabataean wawation This phenomenon, the seemingly now superfluous waw suffix, reveals itself to a remarkable degree in this inscription (i.e. JS 17). It is extremely well attested in Nabataean inscriptions with personal names, but, this inscription apart, only in a minute number of other nouns (cf. e.g. JS I8). This cannot be the place to rehearse all the various theories concerning Nabataean wawation, none of which in any case would appear to be satisfactory. All one can add after an analysis of wawation in JS I7 is that the phenomenon becomes even more mysterious. There is not ready solution to the problem emerging from an investigation of JS I7, 38 but, since the inscription is unique in the frequency of wawation, a list of its appearances and the relevant circumstances would perhaps be useful.

35

Healey (1989: 82). The argument is not taken up again in Healey (2002).

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l. 1 qbrw—qabrun, an indefinite noun with nunation, nominative case kʿbw—Kaʿbu, personal name without nunation, nominative case l. 3 ʿbdmnwtw—ʿAbdi Manāta, personal name without nunation, genitive case l. 4 ʾlhgrw—al-Hijri, place name with definite article, genitive case l. 7 ʾlqbrw—al-qabra, noun with definite article, accusative case. One has certainly to distinguish between Arabic words in a Nabataean context and texts written in Arabic. In order not to render even more mysterious the use and function of the Nabataean wawation I prefer to interpret wa- as a conjunction opening the apodosis with a special rhetorical accent which agrees perfectly with the general tenor of the text.

No Haplography and no Emendation in Line 6 Several scholars proposed the reading Garmallāhi kataba {bi}yadi-hī as an Arabic verbals phrase. But this is a stereotype and recurring juridical Nabataean (Aramaic) term kǝṯaḇ yaḏ ǝh “personal signature” as it is often found e.g. in the Naḥal Ḥaver documents.

Proposed Translations Detailed discussion of arguments for the translations is not given here, as well as the many partial translations and proposals presented in the other indicated works, and should be looked up in the respective articles. Negev, A. (1986: 57) 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

May he who reads(?) be remembered in good (memory) before Obodas the god, and may there be remernbered who(ever) … Garmallāhi son of Taymallāhi [set up] a statue before Obodas the god. And he acts neither for benefit nor for favor. And if death claim us let me not be claimed. And if affliction seeks, let it not seek us. Garmallāhi wrote this with his own hand.

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Shifman (1988: 118) И будет, если покусвтсн на нас Смерть, пусть не добудет ero. И будет, если захочет ранящий, пусть не ищет вас. Noja (1989: 188, 192) “Und er hat (das) weder zum Vorteil noch als Mahnung gemacht.” Und so hier der Tod uns sucht, im Gegenteil suche ich ihn nicht. Und so hier ich (die Verwundung) ablehne, im Gegenteil lehnt die Verwundung uns nicht ab. Bellamy (1990: 74) 4 For (Obodas) works without reward or favour, and he, when death tried to claim us, did not 5 let it claim (us), for when a wound (of ours) festered, he did not let us perish. Noja (1993: 184–185) And he did not do (this) either as an advantage or as a memorial And thus: death seeks us, (on the contrary) I do not seek it; And thus: I refuse (the wound), (on the contrary) the wound does not refuse us. Snir (1993: 116–120) And he acts neither for preserving himself from misfortune nor for willing to be rich. If death wants me, I do not want it And if I want any gain, it does not want me. Kropp (1994: 171) Thus may He not make victims of death nor produce scars (i.e. calamity, illness etc.)! Be it then that death claims us, He will not allow its claim! Be it then that a wound festers (produces worms), He will not let us be eaten by the worms!

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Testen (1996: 292) And may he act (and He acts) That I may (be made to prosper?) and not (be deprived?) At our proper time seeks us Death, but not I seek him At our proper time I (repel? / let alone?) (my? Assailant?), but not he (repels? / let alone?) us. Sharon (1997: 192) 4. And he does (so) neither for compensation nor for honour. And if here, the death will seek me/us, 5. I shall avoid it; and if here I come to the water, let no affliction befall me/us. Kropp (2002: 113) Möge Er weder (tödliches) Opfer noch (schlimme) Spuren bewirken! Sei es, daß der Tod uns erheischt, Er sein Erheischen nicht erfülle! Sei es, daß eine Wunde in Würmern fault, Er uns nicht von diesen Würmern fressen lasse! Lacerenza (2009: 418) Sia ben ricordato colui che legge innanzi al dio Oboda, e sia ricordato colui che ha scritto, Ǧarmallahi, da ʿAvdat (?): Ǧarmallahi, figlio di Taymallahi, (che) ha fatto il sacrificio per il dio Oboda. E non lo ha fatto per la ricompensa, né per la grazia; e se la morte ci reclama, che non sia richiamato, e se il dolore ci cerca, che non ci trovi. Ǧarmallahi scrisse di suo pugno.

References and Articles on or Treating the Inscription of ʿAyn ʿAbada (ʿEn ʿAvdat) Negev, A. (1986). “Obodas the God”. Israel Exploration Journal 36: 56–60; pl. IIB. Knauf, E.A. (1988). “Arabisch als vorliterarische Sprache”. Heidelberg (unpubl. typescript of a public lecture). ʿEn ʿAvdat inscription pp. 24–25.

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Shifman, I. Sh. (1988). “Novaja nabatejskaja dvyjazychnaja nadpis iz okrestnostej Obody”. Epigrafija Vostoka. 24: 116–117. Noja, S. (1989). “Über die älteste arabische Inschrift, die vor kurzem entdeckt wurde”. In: ḤKMWT BNTH BYTH. Studia semitica necnon iranica. R. Macuch dedicata. Wiesbaden, pp. 187–194. Bellamy, J.A. (1990). “Arabic Verses From The First/Second Century: The Inscription of ʿEn ʿAvdat”. Journal of Semitic Studies 35: 73–79. Hämeen-Anttila, J. (1991). “A note on the ʿEn ʿAvdat Inscription”. Studia Orientalia 67: 33–36. Jastrow, O. (1993). “Briefliche Mitteilung über kān, kun etc. als (Konditional-)Konjunktion im Arabischen” vom 13. 12. 1993. Noja, S. (1993). “A Further Discussion of the Arabic Sentence of the 1st Century A.D. and its Poetical Form”. In: Semitica. Serta philologica Constantino Tsereteli dicata. Torino, pp. 183–188. Snir, R. (1993). “The Inscription of ʿEn ʿAvdat: An Evolutionary Stage of Ancient Arabic Poetry”. Abr Nahrain. 31: 110–125. Ambros, A. (1994). “Zur Inschrift von ʿEn ʿAvdat—eine Mahnung zur Vorsicht”. Zeitschrift für Arabische Linguistik 27: 90–92. Beeston, A.F.L. (1994). “Antecedents of Arabic Classical Verse?”. In: Festschrift Ewald Wagner zum 65. Geburtstag. Bd. 1: Semitische Studien unter besonderer Berücksichtigung des Südsemitistik. (= Beiruter Texte und Studien 54.). Beirut, pp. 234– 243. Kropp, M. (1994). “A Puzzle of Old Arabic Tenses and Syntax: The Inscription of ʿEn ʿAvdat”. Proceedings of the Seminar for Arabian Studies 24: 165–174. Testen, D. (1996). “The Arabic of the ʿEn ʿAvdat Inscription”. Journal of Near Eastern Studies 35: 281–292. Sharon, M. (1997). Corpus inscriptionum arabicarum Palaestinae (CIAP). 1. (Handbuch der Orientalistik / Handbook of oriental studies. Abt. 1. Der Nahe und der Mittlere Osten / The Near and Middle East 30.) Leiden, New York, Cologne. ʿAvdat (ʿAbdah) pp. 190–194; figg. 72 and 73. Lacerenza, G. (2000). “Appunti sull’iscrizione nabateo-araba di ʿAyn ʿAvdat”. Studi Epigrafici e Linguistici 17: 105–114. Yardeni, A. (2000). Documents from the Judaean Desert. Part 1: The Documents. Part 2: The Jewish Cursive script. Appendix: The Nabataean script. Selected Bibliography. Part III: Concordance. Jerusalem. Kropp, M. (2002). “Iatromagie und der Beginn der arabischen Schriftsprache: die nabatäisch-arabische Inschrift von ʿAyn ʿAbada”. Mélanges de l’Université Saint-Joseph de Beyrouth 55: 91–117. Macdonald, Michael C.A. (2005). “Literacy in an Oral Environment”. In: Writing and Ancient Near Eastern Society. Papers in Honour of Alan R. Millard. Ed. by P. Bienkow-

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ski, C. Mee, and E. Slater. (The Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies 426.) Bloomsbury: T&T Clark, pp. 49–118. Mascitelli, Daniele (2006). L’Arabo in epoca preislamica: Formazione di una lingua. (= Arabia Antiqua 4.) Rome. Iscrizione di GRMʾLHY pp. 119–129. Lacerenza, Giancarlo (2009). “L’Arabia preislamica”. In: Storia d’Europa e del Mediterraneo 7, 3. L’Ecumene romana. L’impero tardoantico. Roma, pp. 387–424. Macdonald, Michael C.A. “ARNA Nab 17 and the transition from the Nabataean to the Arabic script” (2009). In: Philologisches und Historisches zwischen Anatolien und Sokotra. Analecta Semitica in Memoriam Alexander Sima. Ed. by W. Arnold et al. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, pp. 207–240. Macdonald, Michael C.A. (2010a). “Arabia and the Written Word”. In: The Development of Arabic as a Written Language. Ed. by M.C.A. Macdonald. Oxford (Supplement to the Proceedings of the Seminar of Arabian Studies 41), pp. 5–27. Knauf, Ernst Axel (2010). “Arabo-Aramaic and ʿArabiyya: From Ancient Arabic to Early Standard Arabic, 200ce–600ce”. In: The Qurʾan in Context. Historical and Literary Investigations into the Qurʾānic Milieu. Ed. by A. Neuwirth, N. Sinai, and M. Marx. (Texts and Studies on the Qurʾan 6.) Leiden: Brill, pp. 197–254. Fiema, Zbigniew T., Ahmad Al-Jallad, Michael C.A. Macdonald, and Laïla Nehmé (2015). “Provincia Arabia: Nabataea, the Emergence of Arabic as a Written Language, and Graeco-Arabica” In: Arabs and Empires before Islam. Ed. by G. Fisher. Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 373–433.

Additional Bibliography and Abbreviations Beeston, A.F.L. (1984). Sabaic Grammar. Manchester. Bösch, H. (1878). “Wundsegen”. Anzeiger für die Kunde der deutschen Vorzeit. N.F. 25: 67. CantNab = Cantineau, J. (1930). Le nabatéen. 2 vols. Paris. CIS = Corpus inscriptionum semiticarum. CRAIBL = Comptes rendus de l’Académie des Inscriptions et des Belles Lettres. Healey, J.F. (1996). “‘May he be remembered for good’: An Aramaic Formula”. In: Targumic and Cognate Studies. Essays in Honour of Martin McNamara. Ed. by Kevin J. Cathcart and Michael Maher. (Journal for the Study of the Old Testament. Supplement Series 230.) Sheffield, pp. 177–186. Healey, J.F. (2002). “Nabataeo-Arabic: Jaussen-Savignac nab. 17 and 18”. In: Studies on Arabia on Honour of Professor G. Rex Smith. Ed. by J.F. Healey and V. Porter. (Journal of Semitic Studies Supplement. 14.) Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 81–90. Healey, John F. and Rex G. Smith (1989). “Jaussen-Savignac 17—the earliest dated Arabic document (A.D. 267)”. Al-Atlal 12: 77–84, pl. no. 46. Ja = Altsüdarabische Inschriften mit den Siglen nach A. Jamme (vgl. Beeston, A.F.L.,

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M.A. Ghul, W.W. Müller and J. Ryckmans (1982). Sabaic Dictionary. Louvain-laNeuve). Kropp, M. (1992). “The Inscription Ghoneim AFO 27. 1980. Abb. 10: A Fortunate Error”. Proceedings of the Seminar for Arabian Studies 22: 55–67. Kühn, Dieter (1987). Ich, Wolkenstein: eine Biographie. Frankfurt am Main. (= InselTaschenbuch. 497.) Biographie des Dichters Oswald von Wolkenstein; Neubearbeitung: Kühn, Dieter 2011 Ich Wolkenstein. Eine Biographie. Erweiterte Neufassung. Frankfurt am Main. Lane, E.W. (1863–1869). An Arabic-English Lexicon. London. Lisān al-ʿArab of Ibn Manẓūr. (Several editions; the lemma is given). Maraqṭen, M. (2013) “Al-ʿArab wa-l-ʿArabiyya: dirāsa fī al-ǧuḏūr at-taʾrīḫiyya li-l-muṣṭalaḥ “ʿArab” wa-l-“ʿArabiyya” fī ḍawʾ al-iktišāfāt al-ḥadīṯa.” ms. 2013. S. 29–31. Negev, A. (1961). “Nabataean Inscriptions from ʿAvdat (Oboda)”. Israel Exploration Journal 11: 127–138; pll. 28–31; 13 (1963): 113–124; pll. 17–18. O’Connor, M. (1986). “The Arabic Loanwords In Nabatean Aramaic”. Journal of Near Eastern Studies 45: 213–229. RCEA = Répertoire chronologique d’épigraphie arabe. 1 ss. Cairo, 1931 ss. RÉS = Répertoire d’épigraphie sémitique. Ṣalāḥ-ad-dīn Al-Munaǧǧid (1972). Dirāsāt fī tārīh- al-ḫaṭṭ al-ʿArabī. Bayrūt. Wenning, R. (1987). Die Nabatäer—Denkmäler und Geschichte. Göttingen. Wright ArGr = Wright, W. (1896–1898). A Grammar of the Arabic Language. 3rd ed. 2 vols. Cambridge (numerous reprints).

chapter 4

Aramaic or Arabic? The Nabataeo-Arabic Script and the Language of the Inscriptions Written in This Script* Laïla Nehmé

The Nabataeo-Arabic inscriptions refer to a group of texts, dated or possibly dated to the 4th and 5th centuries ad,1 the script of which is transitional between the Nabataean script and the Arabic one. This group, which now contains c. 110 texts, most of which come from northwest Arabia while twentyfive were discovered in 2014 in the area of Ḥimā, c. 100 km northeast of Najrān in southern Arabia,2 was initially labelled “transitional”, i.e. transitional between Nabataean and Arabic (Nehmé 2010). Chr. Robin then suggested to label them “Late Nabataean” (Robin 2008: 174), but these terminologies are confusing, the latter because “Late Nabataean” (“tardo-nabatéen” in French) refers, for archaeologists, to the late Nabataean period, i.e. the period immediately before the Roman annexation of the Nabataean kingdom in ad 106 and therefore an interval which includes the second half of the first century ad. As for the former label, “transitional”, it is confusing because it cannot be understood outside the specific context of the transition between Nabataean and Arabic. “Nabataeo-Arabic” has the advantage of referring clearly to a script which is

* I would like to thank warmly Ahmad Al-Jallad for inviting me to present this material in Leiden and for the very stimulating email correspondence which followed. Me being an archaeologist and an epigraphist (not a linguist), he guided my steps into this field with great patience and teaching skills. I have tried to acknowledge whatever comes from him which I would not have worked out by myself, and I hope I have not introduced errors which, of course, remain my own. 1 In this contribution, I have sometimes included in the tables texts from the 3rd century, despite the fact that from the palaeographical point of view, I do not consider them as being written in the Nabataeo-Arabic script. The inclusion of the 3rd century texts is justified by the fact that the first “evolved” characters appear already in them, see next paragraph. 2 Robin et al. 2014, where some of the texts are labelled Palaeo-Arabic. A corpus of the Nabataeo-Arabic texts is desperately needed, especially since quite a few of them are still unpublished. The author of the present contribution is working on it.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi: 10.1163/9789004343047_005

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neither Nabataean nor Arabic but somewhere on its way between the two, whatever the period during which this process occurs.3 From a purely palaeographic point of view, it seems that one can divide the texts dated to the interval between the 3rd and the 5th century into two categories: pre-AD 275 ones (in fact pre-AD 267) and post-AD 275 ones.4 This division is not arbitrary, it is based on the observation of all the formerly called “transitional” texts, especially the dated ones. I have indeed noticed that in the texts which are dated to before ad 275, half of which come from Sinai,5 only a few letters or groups of letters show “evolved” features. These are the y, the h, the ḥ and the g, to which should be added sequences of letters such as ʿny in CIS II 963, lhy in Negev (1967: no. 1), ʿbw and lʿn in JSNab 17, kʿb in JSNab 18, etc., all involving either a ʿ or a y.6 In these sequences, the “evolved” character of the text is given not only by the letters themselves but also by the way they are ligatured. The only occurrence of a possibly evolved ʾ and of a relatively evolved š appear in JSNab 18, presumably dated to ad 267 because it was carved beside JSNab 17 and because it mentions the “builders” of the tomb the epitaph of which is JSNab 17. In this text, although most of the ʾ belong to the “calligraphic” Nabataean form (a circle with a tail), the ʾ in ʾḥbrwhy, at the end of line 2, is made of a vertical stroke (rather than a loop) terminated by a diagonal line bending up to the right. In the second group, post-AD 275, in which there are no more texts from Sinai, the number and variety of the letters which are evolved grow considerably. One text is a clear exception: the so-called Stiehl inscription from Madāʾin Ṣāliḥ (Stiehl 1970), dated to ad 356. It shows “archaic” letter forms one would not expect to find in a mid-fourth century text, along with some of the letters which were identified as “evolved” in the first group of texts ( y, ḥ and the sequences of letters ḥny, ḥg, ny).7 The main characteristics of this second group, the dating of

3 I first suggested to call them Nabataeo-Arabic in my Habilitation thesis in 2013 (see Nehmé 2013: 29–30). 4 For a complete list of texts dated to the interval 3rd–5th century ad, see Nehmé (2010: 65). 5 Texts from Sinai: CIS II 963, 1491, 2666; Negev (1967: 250–252, no. 1 and 2, pl. 48A and B); Negev (1981: 69, no. 9, pl. 10A). Texts from elsewhere: LPNab 41 (Umm al-Jimāl); JSNab 17 and JSNab 18 (Madāʾin Ṣāliḥ); Jaussen et al. (1905: 238, 240, no. 2, copy p. 239 (Avdat)); B 3, for which see Nehmé (2010: 67–68 (Boṣrā)). 6 Photographs and facsimiles of these texts can be found in Nehmé 2010: fig. 23 (CIS II 963), fig. 24 (JSNab 17), and fig. 25 (JSNab 18). 7 Unless otherwise specified, photos and facsimiles of the texts mentioned in this paragraph appear in Nehmé 2010. When it is not the case, a photograph is provided in the present contribution.

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which extends from ad 275 to at least 475 or even a little later,8 are the following: appearance of the ʾ made of a small vertical stroke and of a long diagonal one (the vertical one tending to disappear), of the d with a cupped top, of the circular medial m, of the transitional k, r, š and t, etc.9 Combinations of letters such as m-ʾ in mʾt (line 6) and š-n-t (line 5) in UJadh 309, dated ad 295 or bʾ and m-ʾ in line 4 of the Mābiyāt inscription dated to ad 280 (numbered M 1 in Nehmé 2010), are particularly evolved. Other combinations are also worth drawing the attention to: ʿyn and lym in ARNA.Nab 17, lines 1 and 4, ʾntth and mytt in M 1, the name ʿbydw in UJadh 109, etc. Of course, to these should be added the letters which were already evolved in the first group, i.e. y, h, ḥ and g. All in all, one can see that the number of evolved letters in the texts becomes more important, if not an overwhelming majority. Of course, the description of the two groups given above is very schematic, and should ideally be based on a much larger number of texts. The conclusions drawn from it are therefore given here as a working hypothesis and may turn out to be wrong when new texts are discovered. The main issue, for the moment, is that I prefer, at least provisionally, to restrict the use of the label “Nabataeo-Arabic” to texts which belong to the second group, i.e. to the 4th and 5th centuries. I have demonstrated, during a conference organized in Paris in 2012, the publication of which was unfortunately delayed, that although most of the letter forms which occur in the Nabataeo-Arabic texts from northwest Arabia10 are comparable or identical to the ones which appear in the pre-Islamic inscriptions from Syria (Zebed, ad 512; Usays, ad 529; Ḥarrān, ad 569),11 some letters are still reminiscent of their equivalent in calligraphic Nabataean or are still ‘on their way’ to Arabic. I have therefore suggested that one cannot really speak of an Arabic script in the 5th century ad inscriptions from northwest Arabia, in the sense of a well-defined and systematically used system of letters. These inscriptions and the characters they show lack the standardisation which must have taken place sometime between the end of the 5th century and the end of the 6th century. The area where it occurred—or where it was done—has not been determined yet, although hypotheses in favour of al-Ḥīra, the Naṣrid capital in lower Iraq, and a possible influence of Syriac, have been put forward 8

9 10 11

Because of the dating of the Nabataeo-Arabic inscription from Eilat recently published in Avner et al. 2013, dated by Robin, on solid grounds, to the last quarter of the 5th century. A drawing of the evolved forms of the letters is given in Nehmé (2010: 64). I use this as shorthand but it should be clear that I refer to the script in which these texts are written. For which see Robin (2006), Macdonald (2010b) and Macdonald in Fiema et al. (2015).

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(Robin 2002: 66). There is no doubt, however, that the initial development of the Arabic script from the Nabataean one occurred in northwest Arabia in the 4th and 5th centuries ad, at a time when the political power stopped being in the exclusive hands of Byzantium and started to be held by Arab “kings” who were at the head of local principalities. The personnel of their administrations were part of the elite of the oases in or near which most of the inscriptions were discovered (Ḥegrā/al-Ḥijr, Dūmat al-Jandal/al-Jawf, Taymā, Tabūk, etc.), and the development of the script was probably given an impulse by its use, on soft material, in the chancellery of these princedoms. To understand the problematic of the standardisation of the Arabic script, one should take into account the fact that no inscription dated with certainty to the 6th century has yet been discovered in northwest Arabia, while there is a relatively large number of inscriptions dated to the first century Hijra.12 On the other hand, three texts from Syria are dated to the 6th century ad and only one to the first century of the Hijra.13 In this context, it would be extremely useful to discover inscriptions dated to the 6th century ad in northwest Arabia and to see whether these texts, if they exist, are written in a more standardised form of the Arabic script than the 5th century ones. If we assume that most of them at least were not written by travellers coming from very far away,14 this would also show that the use of writing was continuous in northwest Arabia down to the time of the Prophet Muḥammad. Considering that I have, until now, focused mainly on matters related to the script of the Nabataeo-Arabic inscriptions, I would like, in this contribution, to consider these texts from the point of view of the language in which they are written: is it Nabataean Aramaic or Arabic? In the first century ad, the Nabataeans wrote their inscriptions, such as the legal texts carved on the façades of the monumental tombs at Madāʾin Ṣāliḥ, ancient Ḥegrā, in the Aramaic language.15 It is probable, however, that some or all of them, possibly in varying proportion depending on the region of the Nabataean Kingdom where they lived, spoke Arabic. Arguments for this case were put forward recently by M.C.A. Macdonald (2010a: 19–20). As pointed out by him long ago, the ‘Arabic’ character of the Nabataean personal names

12 13 14 15

Twenty-three are known to Fr. Imbert, to whom I am grateful for sharing this information with me. For published material, see al-Ghabban (2008). Grohmann (1971: 73 no. 23 and fig. 51 p. 85). The people who wrote the graffiti along the Darb al-Bakra seem to have been travelling from Medina to the area of Tabūk, i.e. over a distance of 500km only. These are usefully collected in Healey (1993).

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should be excluded from them straightaway since one cannot deduce from the etymological language of a name the language its bearer spoke (Macdonald 2003: 50). These arguments are summarised below: 1.

2.

3. 4.

5.

16

17 18 19 20 21

The strongest one is given by the presence of Arabic loanwords in the legal papyri from the late first and early second centuries ad found in Naḥal Ḥever. In the Nabataean documents, Aramaic legal terms are followed by their equivalents in Arabic.16 This could suggest that the Nabataeans used Arabic in their legal proceedings, but recorded them in Aramaic. As pointed out by A. Al-Jallad, this, as well as the Greek transcriptions of Nabataean names, leads to consider that Arabic was more widely spoken in the Nabataean kingdom than the distribution of the Arabic loanwords in the Nabataean inscriptions had initially suggested. In the inscription from ʿĒn ʿAvdat in the Negev,17 lines 1, 2, 3 and 6 are in Nabataean Aramaic while lines 4 and 5 are in Arabic. The latter are in a rhetorical style and Macdonald has suggested that they could be part of the liturgy in praise of the deified Nabataean king Obodas.18 If this is correct, it is probable that the author has simply transcribed in Nabataean letters part of the liturgy which he usually heard in Arabic.19 In the late fourth century ad, Epiphanius records that the people in Petra and Elusa sang hymns to their deities in Arabic.20 A. Al-Jallad has recently suggested (forthcoming) that there is more influence of Arabic on Nabataean Aramaic syntax and morphology. However, this influence has not yet been the object of a close examination and the material still needs to be collected.21 A recent and thorough study of the Nabataean names in Greek transcription (Al-Jallad this volume) has revealed that the authors of the transcripFor example, in P. Yadin 2, lines 5–6, five Aramaic terms are followed by three Arabic terms which translate or match three of the preceding Aramaic terms. See Yadin et al. (2002: 220–222). The authors note [p. 222] that in the “Jewish papyri, additional, redundant terms of reference were gleaned from the Jewish tradition to create an impression of all-inclusiveness, whereas in the Nabataean papyri fairly synonymous Arabic terms were added to create the same effect”. Negev (1986); see most recently Macdonald in Fiema et al. (2015). Macdonald (2005: 98–99). This is not surprising if one considers, as Macdonald has pointed out, that religious liturgies tend to be extremely conservative in language. Panarion 51.22.11 (Epiphanius / F. Williams 1994: 51). See Healey (1993: 61) and morphological Arabisms are mentioned in Yadin et al. (2002: 25). A PhD thesis, unfortunately unpublished, was devoted to Nabataean syntax by M. al-

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tions maintained in Greek an Arabic pronunciation of the names, which suggests that they spoke Arabic. Also, several fields and orchards in the vicinity of Petra mentioned in the Petra Papyri had Arabic names (AlJallad et al. 2013: 29–48). One last argument is the presence of Arabic loanwords in the Nabataean inscriptions. In a recently but yet unpublished study I made of the Arabic loanwords in Nabataean,22 I was able to show that the vast majority of the Arabic loanwords occur in two regions of the Nabataean kingdom: northwest Arabia and the Dead Sea region. Among the sixty-seven possible Arabic loanwords in Nabataean that I have listed, thirty-seven appear only in inscriptions, twenty-six appear only in the Naḥal Ḥever papyri, and four appear in both.23 Moreover, among the thirty-seven loanwords which appear in inscriptions, thirty-three appear in inscriptions from northwest Arabia. Only ten loanwords appear in other areas of the Nabataean kingdom: around Petra, in the Ḥismā and in the Ḥawrān. Thus, almost half of the loanwords which were identified in Nabataean or Nabataeo-Arabic inscriptions come from northwest Arabia.

Hamad (2005). In his conclusion, the author says that “Nabataean is similar, in its syntax, to the other Aramaic dialects, with some Arabic influence on syntax and on terminology appearing in some examples due to various factors”. M. al-Hamad notes, for example (p. 198) that w is sometimes used, in the Nabataean inscriptions, as a conjunction introducing the apodosis, and since this is not attested in other Aramaic dialects, he assumes it is the result of an Arabic influence. Al-Jallad has suggested to me (pers. comm.) that this could be the case in the very common Nabataean expression dkyr w šlm, where, as in Arabic, the w may introduce a result clause, to be translated by “so that”, and not be simply the conjunction “and”. This would make sense if one considers that it is the deity who remembers (dkyr) the author of the inscription, and it would be logical, therefore, to assume that security results from the fact that the deity remembers him, i.e. “may Soand-So be remembered so that he may be secure”. When šlm is used without dkyr, it would simply mean “may he be secure”, and in that case, the Arabism would lie only in the use of the suffix conjugation to express an optative force, which exists in Arabic but not in Aramaic. For a lecture entitled “Arabic loanwords in Nabataean Aramaic: a synthesis”, given in Berlin in 2012 in the framework of the ANR-DFG project CORANICA. A. Yardeni published in 2014 a list of the Arabic loanwords which occur in the Nabataean papyri. I intend to do the same for those which appear in the inscriptions.

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Considering that the Nabataeo-Arabic texts, which are almost exclusively graffiti, have a very limited content if one excludes the proper names, it is relatively easy to identify in them the Arabic loanwords. This is what I will examine first. – ʾṣḥbh, in an inscription from Sakākā dated ad 429 (S 1, Nehmé 2010: 71–72): it is the broken plural of the Arabic word ṣāḥib, “a companion, an associate, a comrade, etc.”,24 followed by the personal pronoun -h in the third person masculine. A. Al-Jallad has drawn my attention to the fact that the second letter of this word looks more like a š than like a ṣ, but if we consider the shape of the other š in the text (in ʾl-ʿšrh, ʿšrh and šnt), it is probably better to consider that it is an oddly written ṣ. – ʾly, in one text from Umm Jadhāyidh, UJadh 330 (fig. 4.1 here Nehmé 2013, vol. 2):25 it is the preposition, “to, toward”, known in Aramaic under the form ʾl, while classical Arabic has ʾilā, with alif maqṣūrah. The form with final y suggests that it was pronounced by an Arabic speaker as /ʾilay/, another example of the Arabic dialect where the final diphthong had not collapsed.26 – the particle bly, “yes!”, is used in six Nabataeo-Arabic texts27 but also in a large number of Nabataean ones (Nehmé 2005–2006: 196–197). It does not occur in other epigraphic Northwest Semitic languages and it may be compared to Arabic balā. The Nabataean orthography would simply express an original pronunciation /balay/, where the diphthong is preserved. Another particle, ʾy, is attested in one text only, ARNA.Nab 17, where it starts the text. It has been interpreted by M.C.A. Macdonald (2009: 216) as an “asseverative particle” comparable to bly. Macdonald notes that it occurs only in Nabataean inscriptions found in the Jawf area, in the expression bly w ʾy (al-Muaikil and al-Theeb 1996: no. 2, 5 and 6,28 all written in ‘calligraphic’

24 25

26

27 28

Lane (1863–1893: 1653a). This unpublished text is part of the Darb al-Bakra corpus of inscriptions, the commentary on which was the object of my Habilitation thesis in 2013. The publication of the material is in progress. It is worth recalling, since final y has sometimes been interpreted as representing a long ā (Robin 2006: 339), that in Safaitic and Hismaic, the equivalent for Classical Arabic banā (with alif maqṣūrah), is bny (see Macdonald 2004: 501–502, with other examples, and AlJallad this volume, § 5.1, and forthcoming), and since neither Safaitic nor Hismaic write long vowels, y was a consonant, not a long ā. It is certainly the same here, the y in ʾly being the mark of the diphthong and not a letter representing a long ā. UJadh 3, UJadh 109, UJadh 309, UJadh 375, S 2, MSNab 45.2. Note that the other examples of ʾy said to be attested in al-Muaikil and al-Theeb (1996,

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Nabataean). It apparently occurs also by itself, ʾy šlm … in an inscription from Qāʿ al-Muʿtadil near al-ʿUlā (al-Theeb 2010, no. 470). – the article ʾl-: when used in a Nabataean text, the ʾl- form of the definite article is usually considered to be an Arabic loanword since the normal way of expressing the article in Aramaic is the alif at the end of a word. The ʾl- form of the article appears in a number of Nabataeo-Arabic inscriptions, either in the toponym ʾl-ḥgr (UJadh 330, see fig. 1), as opposed to Aramaic ḥgrʾ, or before substantives: ʾl-mlk, rather than mlkʾ, in ARNA.Nab 17 (Macdonald 2009) and in the Eilat inscription (Avner et al. 2013), also ʾl-ʿšrh in the text from Sakākā (S 1, see above, ʾṣḥbh). A. Al-Jallad (2014) has rightly suggested that because the ʾl- form of the definite article also occurs occasionally in non-Arabic North Arabian languages such as Safaitic and Dadanitic, and is absent in ancient and modern varieties of Arabic, it is linguistically better to explain it as an areal feature. As such, its presence in a text would not be enough to consider the text as Arabic. However, although this is true from a strictly linguistic point of view, we may suggest that when it is used in an inscription written in the Nabataeo-Arabic script, the author of which is likely to have spoken some forms of either Aramaic or Arabic (unless he was bilingual), it is likely that the ʾl- form of the article represents Arabic. – l-: the preposition l-, which is used in both Aramaic and Arabic, occurs in one text, UJadh 343 (Nehmé 2010: 60 and fig. 17), in a context where one would not normally expect it in a Nabataean text,29 i.e. between dkyr and a personal name: dkyr l-ʿmrw. If he was an Arabic speaker, he probably meant “remembrance to”, in which case l- would probably be Arabic rather than Aramaic. In another text, UJadh 293 (fig. 2),30 it is interesting to note that we have dkyr PN br PN bṭb w l-PN, but in this case, as suggested to me by Macdonald, the l- more likely represents “by” and indicates that the last PN wrote the text. One last possible loanword may be the verb šmʿt, which occurs in four Nabataeo-Arabic texts interpreted as prayers to the goddess al-ʿUzzā. These texts, UJadh 313, 345 364, and 368, come from Umm Jadhāyidh and will be published

29

30

no. 17 and 22), are not certain because, as noted by Macdonald (2009: n. 30), the first one is not visible on either the facsimile or the photo and the second is restored. The construction passive participle + l- is common in Aramaic but not in this particular context in Nabataean. al-Hamad (2005: 155 n. 504) gives two examples where l- is used after šlm (CIS II 316 and 1358) but this is not exactly the same since šlm l- means simply “Peace to”. In CIS II 316, the phrase is dkyr bṭb w šlm l-PN. Unpublished text from the Darb al-Bakra (Nehmé 2013).

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with the material from the Darb al-Bakra (see Nehmé 2013). In three of these texts, the verb, which is at the beginning of the graffito, is followed by the preposition l-, “to”, introducing the name of the person the goddess is asked to listen to or accept the prayer of.31 The root S-M-ʿ does not occur in any Nabataean inscription. The formula šmʿt + divine name + l- + personal name is therefore, to my knowledge, used only in texts written in the Nabataeo-Arabic script. According to Fr. Imbert (pers. comm.), this invocation is not known in the Arabic epigraphy either, it does not appear in the long list of invocations of the early Islamic period written in Kufic. In fact, the root S-M-ʿ itself is almost absent from them. Imbert knows of only one example, from ʿĒn ʿAvdat in the Negev, dated to the first or second century Hijra,32 where the author asks God to forgive the sins of So-and-So as well as those of the one who read and of the one who listened. One should bear in mind that samiʿa in Arabic means “to listen” or “to accept”, in some cases followed by the preposition li- (God accepts the praise of).33 This meaning would fit very well the šmʿt of our texts, al-ʿUzzā being asked to accept the prayer of the author. From the grammatical point of view, šmʿt can be interpreted in two ways: a verb in the third person feminine perfect, “she listened/she accepted”, which could be either Aramaic or Arabic, or the same but with an optative force, thus “may she listen/may she accept”. In the latter case, šmʿt would be an Arabism because Aramaic suffix conjugation does not have an optative force whereas the perfect in Arabic is constantly used in wishes, prayers and curses with an optative meaning.34 Since these texts are considered as prayers, the latter is more likely. Note that the root S-M-ʿ is probably used in the perfect with an optative force in a Hismaic text published by G. King.35 These are the only possible loanwords which I could identify in the Nabataeo-Arabic texts and the evidence is therefore relatively scarce. Another way of exploring a possible Arabic influence on the NabataeoArabic texts is to trace in them grammatical or phonological features which are more characteristic of Arabic than of Nabataean Aramaic. I have already

31

32 33 34 35

For example, in UJadh 313, we have šmʿt ʾlʿzy l-mʿ{šr} ʾzm{ʾ} ktb. Note that in this text and the three others, the name of the goddess al-ʿUzzā is written ʾlʿzy, with a final y, which suggests that in the dialect spoken by the persons who wrote them, it was still pronounced /ʿuzzay/. Imbert (2011: P 18), with reference to previous publication of this graffito. Lane (1863–1893: 1427c). Wright (1896–1898, vol. II: 2–3). King (1990: chapter 4, pp. 65–66 of the pdf version on-line, § on Invocations using s¹mʿt, TIJ 312). I am grateful to M.C.A. Macdonald who drew my attention to this attestation in Hismaic.

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alluded to some of these above (use of suffix conjugation with optative force; use of broken plural in ʾṣḥb-h; w used as a conjunction introducing the apodosis; orthography of ʾly and of ʾlʿzy, etc.) but following the stimulating reading of A. Al-Jallad’s works, and a long correspondence with him, it occurred to me that one other such feature could be the treatment of the feminine ending, i.e. whether it is written -h or -t, relating this to the position of the word in which it occurs (in pause or in construct). Indeed, in Nabataean Aramaic, the feminine ending is always written -h in the absolute (ḥṭyʾh, ʾnth, mwhbh, etc.) and always written -t in the construct.36 In the Qurʾānic consonantal text (QCT), the feminine ending is written -h in all positions. In the Arabic dialect which lies behind the QCT, this final -h was however not necessarily pronounced /ah/ in all positions since, according to A. Al-Jallad (pers. comm.), the sound change /at/ > /ah/, which results from a tendency for word final consonants to weaken, occurred only in nouns which are not in construct position (because those constitute a single stress unit with the following noun) and in words other than verbs,37 i.e. just as in Aramaic.38 But, however the feminine ending might have been pronounced, it was written -h, not -t, probably as a result of an orthographic convention which, according to Al-Jallad (pers. comm.), may have stemmed “from the desire to have a single orthography across nouns”.39 The pronunciation of this letter as /at/ in the Arabic on which Classical Arabic is based, made it eventually necessary to adapt the QCT to the pronunciation of Classical Arabic, and hence to add the two dots over the -h of the feminine ending, thus creating the tāʾ marbūṭah. Thus, if one finds, in the Nabataeo-Arabic texts, a feminine word in construct position where the ending is written -h instead of -t, this can be compared with the way the original nominal ending [-at] was written in QCT, i.e. -ah in all positions and not just in pause as in Classical Arabic. In order to try to find one, I have collected, in the table below, all the words which show a feminine ending in the texts dated to the interval 3rd–5th century.40 They are ordered in

36 37

38 39 40

Examples in Cantineau (1930–1932, vol. 1: 91–92). And probably, he adds, in some verbs which did not have an overt subject, and in which, since the verb took stress, the sound change /at/ > /ah/ may have operated (on the contrary, when they have overt subjects, they were proclitic and unstressed, causing the /t/ to surface as a real /t/). See Al-Jallad forthcoming, § on feminine ending. This hypothesis can of course been debated, since it suggests a central authority controlling orthography, for which we have no evidence at this period. I have deliberately included the 3rd century texts, which are however not considered as Nabataeo-Arabic.

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the Aramaic alphabetical order and by date. The feminine personal names are not included in the table because they are irrelevant.41 Note that (df) means “(dating formula)”. The QCT is the Qurʾānic consonantal text (rasm) which is the closest Arabic material to which the NabataeoArabic from northwest Arabia can be compared.

Word Context

State

Inscr. no.

ḥyrh mʾh mʾh mʾh mʾh

determined absolute absolute absolute absolute

S1 ARNA.Nab 17 M1 JSNab 17 CIS II 963

ʾl-ḥyrh šnt mʾh w šbʿyn (df) šnt mʾh w šbʿyn w ḥmš (df) šnt mʾh w štyn w tryn (df) šnt mʾh (df)

Provenance

Sakākā al-Jawf al-Mābiyāt al-Ḥijr Wādī Mukattab (Sinai) mʾt šnt mʾt w tšʿyn (df) absolute UJadh 309 Umm Jadhāyidh mʾ{t} št mʾ{t} w ʿšryn w ḥmš (df) absolute B3 Boṣrā ʿšrh ʾṣḥbh ʾl-ʿšrh determined S 1 Sakākā ʿšrh ywm ʿšrh w tmnh (df) absolute S1 Sakākā šbʿh -ʿšryn w šbʿh (df) absolute? CIS II 333 al-ʿUlā šnt šnt 99 (df) construct RÉS 528 ʿAvdat šnt šnt 126 (df) construct CIS II 1491 ʿAvdat šnt šnt mʾh w štyn w tryn (df) construct JSNab 17 al-Ḥijr šnt šnt mʾh w šbʿyn (df) construct ARNA.Nab 17 al-Jawf šnt šnt mʾh w šbʿyn w ḥmš (df) construct M1 al-Mābiyāt šnt šnt mʾt w tšʿyn (df) construct UJadh 309 Umm Jadhāyidh šnt šnt mʾtyn w ʾḥdy (df) construct JSNab 386 al-ʿUlā šnt šnt mʾtyn w ḥmšyn w ʾḥdy (df) construct Stiehl 1970 al-Ḥijr šnt šnt 323 (df) construct S1 Sakākā šth ywm ʿšryn w šth (df) absolute M1 al-Mābiyāt tmnh ywm ʿšrh w tmnh (df) absolute S1 Sakākā

Date ad 428 ad 276 ad 280 ad 267 ad 206 ad 295 ad 231 ad 428 ad 428 > ad 300? ad 204 ad 236 ad 267 ad 276 ad 280 ad 295 ad 306 ad 356 ad 428 ad 280 ad 428

The table shows that in an overwhelming majority of cases, the feminine ending in the texts written in the Nabataeo-Arabic script is consistent with

41

These are mwyh, in Stiehl (1970) with a re-reading of the name in Macdonald (2009: 214– 215) (ad 356), and rmnh, in M 1 (ad 280), both written with an evolved form of Nabataean final h.

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Aramaic. The differences concern the lines which are highlighted in grey. In UJadh 309, for example, we have šnt mʾt w tšʿyn where one would expect the second word, which is not in construct, to be written with a final -h, both in Nabataean Aramaic and in Arabic, not with a -t (here a Nabataean looped t). The same is true, if the reading is correct, in the inscription from Boṣrā, B 3, where we have št mʾ{t} w ʿšryn w ḥmš instead of šnt mʾh w ʿšryn w ḥmš.42 In S 1, it is obviously normal, because of the use of the ʾl- form of the article, to have ʾl-ʿšrh, and this is exactly what one would expect in Arabic, ʾṣḥbh being a masculine plural referring to rational beings and ʿšrh being therefore feminine in form. Had the text been written in Aramaic, we would simply have had ʿšrtʾ. The last difference, in S 1 again, is that we have a form of the numeral for “eight”, tmnh, which is neither exactly Nabataean, where only tmwnʾ (CIS II 214 and 215) is attested,43 nor Arabic tmnyh (on this variation, see below). Thus, in total, the variations which have been identified in the NabataeoArabic texts regarding the feminine ending are variations from both Nabataean Aramaic and Classical Arabic and, apart from ʾl-ʿšrh in S 1, are not particularly indicative of an Arabic influence and do not provide evidence for the emergence of the orthographic convention of writing the feminine ending with -h. It should be noted, however, that all the words listed in the table except one (ʾl-ḥyrh) appear in the dating formulas, i.e. in a context which is anyway very conservative and which, in JSNab 17 for instance—written in a mixture of Arabic and Nabataean—belongs to the Aramaic parts of the text. Before turning to another aspect of the Nabataeo-Arabic texts, I would like to draw attention to the fact that the form of the final t varies from one text to the other. It is either a calligraphic Nabataean t (sometimes with a loop on the left stroke, as in JSNab 17), or a t which is the ancestor of the Arabic final t. Of course, this variation does not affect the way the letter was pronounced, it only reflects a stage in the development of the script. The distribution of Nabataean calligraphic and Arabic ‘open’ t is given in the following table, in which the texts are ordered chronologically. Forms of final t in substantives and numerals in the texts dated to the interval 3rd–5th century:

42 43

It would be too speculative to draw conclusions from only two examples of a -t feminine ending in pause, one of which (B 3) is not even certain. Note that Aramaic has tmny.

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Word State and context

Inscr. no.

Provenance

Date

šnt šnt

dating formula, construct RÉS 528 dating formula, construct CIS II 963

ad 204 Nabataean calligraphic ad 206 Nabataean with a loop

tltt

construct

ad 206 Nabataean with a loop

mʾ{t} št šnt šnt šnt

absolute construct dating formula, construct dating formula, construct dating formula, construct

šnt šnt mʾt šnt šnt šnt

dating formula, construct dating formula, construct dating formula, absolute dating formula, construct dating formula, construct dating formula, construct

ʿAvdat Wādī Mukattab (Sinai) CIS II 963 Wādī Mukattab (Sinai) B3 Boṣrā B3 Boṣrā CIS II 1491 al-Ḥijr JSNab 17 al-Ḥijr ARNA.Nab al-Jawf 17 M1 al-Mābiyāt UJadh 309 Umm Jadhāyidh UJadh 309 Umm Jadhāyidh JSNab 386 al-ʿUlā Stiehl 1970 al-Ḥijr S1 Sakākā

ad 231 ad 231 ad 232 ad 267 ad 276 ad 280 ad 295 ad 295 ad 306 ad 356 ad 428

Type of t

Nabataean calligraphic Nabataean calligraphic Nabataean calligraphic Nabataean with a loop Nabataean but closed at the bottom ‘open’ ‘open’ Nabataean with a loop ‘open’ Nabataean with a loop ‘open’

What we can see is that the ‘open’ t appears in the texts only from ad 280 onwards and though the Nabataean looped form still occurs later, the majority of the texts have an open t at the end of šnt. It is interesting to note that in UJadh 309, three forms of t occur: ‘open’ in šnt, which is in construct, Nabataean with a loop in mʾt, which is in pause, and ordinary Nabataean calligraphic in other words (ktbʾ, ktb). There is no particular reason why the author should have written šnt with an ‘open’ t. It may be a ‘mistake’ or reflect a hesitation between the different graphemes he knew of to express /t/, but if it is intentional, we may tentatively suggest that it reflects a desire to make a distinction between the feminine ending in construct (šnt, ‘open’ t) and in pause (mʾt, Nabataean t with a loop).44 However, as I have said above, one would normally expect, in Nabataean Aramaic orthography, the word mʾh to be written with a final h. It finally occurred to me that one last way (at least provisionally) of tracing an Arabic influence on the syntax of the Nabataeo-Arabic texts would be the

44

But this would imply that the author was parsing his text as he carved it, which seems unlikely.

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treatment of the numerals written in letters. Indeed, Nabataean Aramaic follows rules which are relatively systematic.45 They concern mainly the way the numerals agree in gender with the noun they are attached to. I have therefore collected in the table below the numerals which occur in the texts dated to the interval between the 3rd and the 5th centuries. They are organised in chronological order.46

Inscr. no

Date

Numeral

Remarks

CIS II 963

ad 206

šnt mʾh

CIS II 963 B3

ad 206 ad 231

tltt qysryn št mʾ{t} w ʿšryn w ḥmš

JSNab 17

ad 267

šnt mʾh w štyn w tryn šnt mʾh w šbʿyn

The formula (syntax and morphology) is identical to the one it would be in Nabataean Aramaic and in Arabic. Idem (Arabic *ṯlṯt qysryn). The word for “hundred”, mʾt, is written with a final t, whereas one would expect, in Aramaic, mʾh w ʿšryn, as in Arabic. In Arabic, the units would be written before the tens, i.e. *snt mʾh w ẖms w ʿšryn. In Arabic, one would have *snt mʾh w ʾṯntyn w styn.

ARNA.Nab 17 ad 276

M1

ad 280

ywm ʿšryn w šth

M1

ad 280

UJadh 309

ad 295

šnt mʾh w šbʿyn w ḥmš ywm ḥd

UJadh 309

ad 295

45 46 47

šnt mʾt w tšʿyn

The syntax and the morphology are identical to what they would be in both Nabataean Aramaic and Arabic. The morphology is identical to what it would be in Nabataean Aramaic and in Arabic, but in Arabic, the units would be written before the tens, i.e. *ywm sth w ʿšryn. Idem (Arabic *snt mʾh w ẖms w sbʿyn). The formula is typically Aramaic since in Arabic, one would have something like al-yawm al-ʾawwal.47 The syntax is identical to what it would be in Arabic. As in B 3, the word for “hundred”, mʾt, is written with a final t whereas one would expect it, in both Aramaic and Arabic, to be written with a final h.

Cantineau (1930–1932, vol. 1: 94–98). I thank my colleague Georgine Ayyoub for her help in dealing with the Arabic numerals. But cf. the name of the first day of the week in Arabic, yawm al-ʾaḥad.

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aramaic or arabic?

Inscr. no

Date

Numeral

CIS II 333

>ad 300?

JSNab 386

ad 306

Stiehl 1970

ad 356

Stiehl 1970

ad 356

S1

ad 428

S1

ad 428

---ʿšryn w šbʿh The morphology is identical to what it would be in Nabataean Aramaic and in Arabic, but in Arabic, the units would be written before the tens, i.e. *sbʿh w ʿšryn if the word before ʿšryn is masculine ( ywm?). šnt mʾtyn w The formula (syntax and morphology) is identical to ʾḥdy what one would expect in Arabic. The gender of “one” is the same in Nabataean and in Arabic (feminine), which is normal, but note the ending -y, which is identical to that of Arabic ʾḥdy, probably pronounced /iḥday/. In Nabataean, one would expect ḥdh. šnt mʾtyn w The morphology is identical to what it would be in ḥmšyn w ʾḥdy Nabataean Aramaic and in Arabic, but in Arabic, the units would be written before the tens, i.e. *snt mʾtyn w ʾḥdy w ẖmsyn. As in JSNab 386 above, note the spelling ʾḥdy for “one”. brt šnyn tltyn brt šnyn is a peculiar way of giving a person’s age in w tmny Aramaic, and it cannot be translated literally into Arabic where one would presumably have *bnt ṯmny w ṯlṯyn snh. Note also the form tmny, which is not attested elsewhere in Nabataean, where we have only tmwnʾ. It is a masculine form here. ʾṣḥbh ʾl-ʿšrh The form ʾl-ʿšrh is Arabic, not Aramaic. In Aramaic, one would of course have ʿšrtʾ. It is here in the feminine, as in Classical Arabic.48 ywm ʿšrh w In Classical Arabic, the units would be written before tmnh the tens, i.e. *ywm ṯmnyh ʿšr. Note also the form tmnh in S 1, which is not attested elsewhere in Nabataean.

48

Remarks

Blachère (1975: 368): the rule according which the numerals from three to ten take the opposite gender to the singular of the noun to which they refer also applies when the numeral follows the noun.

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When the numerals contain tens and units, the texts which are listed in the table preserve the Aramaic syntax, i.e. the units are written systematically after the tens, whereas in Arabic, they would be written before them. In the cases when the numerals contain only hundreds and tens, the syntax is the same in Nabataean and in Arabic (e.g. šnt mʾh w tšʿyn) and therefore these numerals are irrelevant for the question of a possible Arabic influence on the texts dated to the interval 3rd–5th century. In other cases, finally, the numerals are clearly Aramaic, for example ywm ḥdh, in UJadh 309. In some cases, the form of the numerals in the texts is different from what it would be in Nabataean texts. For example, mʾh is spelled twice mʾt whereas one would expect mʾh (B 3 and UJadh 309) but this probably does not reflect an Arabic influence; ḥdh, “one”, is spelled twice ʾḥdy (JSNab 386 and Stiehl 1970), and this may be taken as the equivalent of Arabic ʾiḥdā < *ʾiḥday49 (with the diphthong preserved, thus pronounced /iḥday/); finally, “eight” is spelled once tmnh (S 1, ad 295) and once tmny (Stiehl 1970, ad 356) against Nabataean tmwnʾ. I have asked myself whether this variation between tmnh and tmwnʾ was of the same kind as the variation between the two spellings of the divine name mntw and mnwtw, i.e. *manātū50 and manōtū51/manawatu.52 The variation in mntw/mnwtw results from the monophthongization of original awa both to ā (thus mntw) and to ō (thus mnwtw). In tmnh and tmny versus tmwnʾ, the variation does not result from the monophthongization of a triphthong, awa > ō (the ā in *ṯamān does not result from a sound change) and therefore the two cases are not exactly comparable. The orthography tmnh simply suggests that, in S 1, it was possibly pronounced *ṯamānah, while tmny in the Stiehl 1970 text suggests *ṯamānī or *ṯamānay, i.e. in the dialect both texts reflect, the ā was preserved whereas in the other Nabataean texts, the second ā was probably rounded to ō. It is interesting to note that in the texts dated to ad 295 and ad 356, the orthography of the word for “eight” seems to be closer to the one it would be in Arabic.53 49 50 51 52

53

Cantineau (1930–1932, vol. I: 95–96). Since medial ās are not written in Nabataean orthography. As proved by JSNab 17, where the name is written mnt in the Thamudic D summary and mnwtw in the Nabataean text (where, as a consequence, the w cannot be a consonant). It is possible that in other Nabataean inscriptions (other than JSNab 17), mnwtw reflects the etymological form Manawatu (attested in the Latin inscription from Rumania, CIL III 7954, where the name is spelled Manavatu), but that is impossible to say unless it appears in a bilingual Nabataean/Ancient North Arabian inscription as mnwtw or in Greek. I am very grateful to A. Al-Jallad for suggesting this to me and for explaining to me the matter of the monophthongization. But since it is also closer to Aramaic tmny than Nabataean tmwnh, it is difficult to be sure!

aramaic or arabic?

91

In total, the traces of a possible Arabic influence in the numerals are very scarce and are limited to ʾl-ʿšrh instead of ʿšrtʾ in S 1 and possibly to the spelling ʾḥdy for “one” and tmnh/tmny for “eight”. The conclusion is that the dating formulas and the numerals in the texts dated to the interval 3rd–5th century ad, written either in the Nabataean or in the Nabataeo-Arabic script, are for the most part consistent with what they would be in Nabataean Aramaic. The personal names which appear in the Nabataeo-Arabic texts have been the object of a preliminary study only.54 The Darb al-Bakra corpus, which includes sixty-seven such texts, contains 104 names. Out of these, eighty-one appear only in texts written in that script while twenty-two appear both in ‘calligraphic’ Nabataean and in Nabataeo-Arabic. It is interesting to note that among the eighty-one names which appear only in the Nabataeo-Arabic texts, sixty-nine, i.e. the vast majority (c. 84%) are new to the Nabataean onomasticon55 as known from A. Negev’s index (1991) with regular updating on my part. On the contrary, among the names which appear in texts written in both scripts, the proportion is reversed: out of these twenty-two names, eighteen (c. 80%) are attested in Nabataean and four only are not. This means that most of the names which appear in the texts written in the Nabataeo-Arabic script are not known in the Nabataean onomasticon. This may point to the presence in the area either of a new population (people who came from somewhere else) or of people who did not make a great use of writing before the 3rd century and who were therefore invisible to us. They would simply have started writing, with this particular script, from the 3rd century onwards. Before the names themselves are examined one by one, it is difficult to decide between the two hypotheses. I intend to work on these names in the future, and determine whether they are found in Dadanitic, in other Ancient North Arabian languages or in Arabic. What I can say for the moment is that half of the names of Jewish character which I have identified in the Nabataean and NabataeoArabic inscriptions from the Darb al-Bakra are found only in the NabataeoArabic texts (ḥnny, ḥnnyh, yhwdʾ, ywsp, yʿqwb, nḥmy, ʿzrw).56 Indeed, two names appear in both Nabataean and Nabataeo-Arabic and six are attested only in texts written in Nabataean characters (ʾylyṣr, ḥzyrʾ, ḥnynʾ, ṭbyw, ʿzr, šwšnh). It seems therefore that the distribution of the Jewish names according to the script in which they are written is not particularly significant: the proportion of Jewish names is more or less the same in both categories of script.

54 55 56

Nehmé (2013: 53–55). For instance, names such as ʾbwʿmrw, ʾbwqṭnh, ʾzmh, ʾlgzz, ʾlʿyt, etc. See Nehmé (2013: 60–66).

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Of course, from a statistical point of view, the sample is made of a relatively small number of names and should be considered with caution. Concerning the personal names, I would like to raise one final problem, which is the spelling of the Arabic name Ṯaʿlaba as Ṭaʿlaba in UJadh 298 (for which Nehmé 2010: 80 and fig. 46). The initial letter of the text is without doubt a ṭ, not a t. The name Ṯaʿlaba, which has an Arabic etymology, is always spelled in Arabic with an initial ṯ. The name does not occur elsewhere in the Nabataean onomasticon but it is well known that the Arabic interdental fricative ṯ is usually expressed by a t in Aramaic. In the newly published inscription from Eilat (Avner et al. 2013), which is dated to the interval ad 475–500—and I would not be surprised that UJadh 298 is also a text from the 5th century— the name is written with a form of t which is close to the Arabic one. We therefore have the name Ṯaʿlaba attested in two Nabataeo-Arabic texts, once written with a t (Eilat) and once written with a ṭ (Umm Jadhāyidh). The first one is in accordance with the way one would expect a name with etymological ṯ to be written in the Nabataean script. The fact that the second is written with a ṭ means that there was an inconsistency in the way the name was written and this inconsistency may be indicative of the language the author of the text was speaking. First, it is an argument in favour of the fact that the name was pronounced according to Arabic phonology, i.e. with the interdental fricative ṯ (otherwise it would have been written with a t in both cases). In UJadh 298, however, the author of the text thought that the grapheme for ṭ was more suited to render etymological ṯ than the grapheme for t. But since ʾl-ḥrt in the same text, UJadh 298, is written with a t, it seems that the author was hesitating between two graphemes to express the same phoneme. This may indicate that he was an Arabic speaker trying (inconsistently) to adapt the script he was using to the way his name was pronounced. As demonstrated by A. Al-Jallad (this volume: §3.3 on Interdentals), this fluctuation is also attested in Greek, where ṯ is occasionally spelled with tau instead of theta, particularly in the royal name Ḥāriṯat. This would be explained, according to him, by the fact that “Near Eastern Greek had no equivalent to Arabic [θ]. Thus, scribes were left to choose between [th] = θ and [t] = τ to approximate this foreign sound”. Apart from the Arabic loanwords and the personal names, the NabataeoArabic texts contain two other categories of words: 1) those which are clearly Aramaic, and 2) those which could be either Arabic or Aramaic, and are therefore not diagnostic of the language in which the inscriptions were composed. To the second category belong words such as šnt, ktb, yd-h, ywm, ḥyrh, ʿlm in the expression l-ʿlm, “for ever” (the numerals have been dealt with above). To the first category belong the demonstrative dnh but also dkyr, which cannot be anything else than the Aramaic passive participle (qeṭīl), b-ṭb (in well-being,

aramaic or arabic?

93

ṭb being the Aramaic adjective “good”, used with the preposition b- to form an adverbial expression),57 yrḥ, “month” in the dating formulas and, interestingly, br, “son”, which, as pointed out a few years ago by M.C.A. Macdonald (2010 a: 20, n. 41), is still used in the sixth century instead of Arabic bn. The word khn is also attested in the ad 276 text from al-Jawf and npš for “funerary stele/funerary inscription” is used in ad 306 in JSNab 386. The expression mry ʿlmʾ, “the lord of eternity”, in JSNab 17, is also Aramaic. Concerning the use of šlm in the graffiti, it has been suggested above (n. 22) that it may be an Arabism because the suffix conjugation does not have an optative force in Aramaic, but šlm may also be a substantive meaning “peace”, in which case it could be either Arabic or Aramaic. Thus, dkyr w šlm could either be translated as “may he be remembered and peace” or “may he be remembered so that he may be safe”. The list of Aramaic words is relatively limited and most of them belong to the very formulaic part of the text: the wish (dkyr, šlm, bṭb), the dating formula ( yrḥ), the kin word br and the divine epithet mry ʿlmʾ (in JSNab 17). Because of their extremely widespread use in the Nabataean graffiti, these words, when used in a Nabataeo-Arabic text, may be interpreted as “linguistic fossils used as ideograms”, as suggested by Macdonald,58 and this interpretation is reinforced by the fact that the final m, in šlm and elsewhere, is the only letter which does not develop in the Nabataeo-Arabic texts. It never gets closer to its Arabic equivalent, as if the word was partly considered as a drawing and not as a succession of three letters.59 khn for “priest” in ARNA.Nab 17 (ad 276) and npš in JSNab 386 (ad 306) are however Aramaic words which are not linguistic fossils. The general impression we get from these texts is that we are dealing with people who can be described as follows: they use a form of the script which is a non-normalised form of the Arabic script but which in some places is already a recognisable form of Arabic; they bear names the majority of which do not appear in the Nabataean onomasticon; they use Aramaic words mainly in the formulaic parts of their graffiti; the syntax, as far as it can be detected in such short texts, shows a mixture of Arabic and Aramaic; they spoke a language which was almost certainly Arabic, as shown by the traces of Arabic (loanwords, syntax, morphology, phonology) I have tried to trace in their inscriptions. The environment in which these people lived, in northwest Arabia, was 57 58 59

In the bilingual inscription from Wādī Mukattab in Sinai, CIS II 1044 the Greek equivalent of this expression is ἐν ἀγαθοῖς. Macdonald (2010a: 20). It is true, however, that the initial š develops, but this may be precisely because it is the first letter of the word.

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probably still characterised by a certain bilingualism and the Nabataean heritage was still noticeable, as shown also by the fact that Aramaic was still used in the 4th century, in the ad 356 ‘Stiehl’ inscription. It is a great pity that we do not (yet?) have any texts dated to the 6th c. ce from northwest Arabia. There is indeed a gap of 170 years, possibly slightly less, between the latest Nabataeo-Arabic pre-Islamic text, dated ad 475–500 (Avner et al. 2013), and the earliest Islamic one in the Ḥijāz, dated ad 644 (al-Ghabban 2008). We therefore lack the process through which both the Arabic script and language went in this essential period which probably witnessed the transformation of the Nabataeo-Arabic script into what we think of as the Arabic script and, especially, the progressive use of this script to express only Arabic and, after the conquests, Persian and other languages as well.

Sigla ARNA.Nab Inscriptions published in Winnett, F.V., and W.L. Reed (1970). Ancient Records from North Arabia. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, pp. 139–163, pl. 26–33. B Siglum for the inscriptions discovered in Boṣrā. CIL III Corpus inscriptionum Latinarum. Volume III. Inscriptiones Asiae, provinciarum Europae Graecarum Illyrici Latinae. (1873–1902). Berolini: Königlich Preussische Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin/ Reimer. CIS II Inscriptions published in Corpus Inscriptionum Semiticarum. Pars II Inscriptiones Aramaicas continens. (1889–). Paris: Imprimerie Nationale. JSNab Nabataean inscriptions published in Jaussen, A., and R. Savignac (1909–1922). Mission archéologique en Arabie (5 volumes). Paris: Leroux/Geuthner (Publications de la Société Française des Fouilles Archéologiques 2). LPNab Nabataean inscriptions published in Littmann, E. (1914). Nabataean Inscriptions from the Southern Hauran Publications of the Princeton University Archaeological Expeditions to Syria in 1904–1905 and 1909. Division IV. Section A. Leiden: Brill. M Siglum for the inscriptions discovered in al-Mābiyyāt. MSNab Nabataean inscriptions from Madāʾin Ṣāliḥ recorded during the surveys undertaken since 2002. RÉS Répertoire d’épigraphie sémitique (8 volumes). (1900–1968). Paris: Imprimerie Nationale.

aramaic or arabic?

S ThNUJ

UJadh

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Siglum for the inscriptions discovered in Sakākā. Inscriptions published in al-Theeb, S. (2002). Nuqūš jabal umm jaḏāyiḏ al-nabaṭiyyah. al-Riyāḍ: maktabat al-malik fahd al-waṭaniyyah. Siglum for the inscriptions discovered in Umm Jadhāyidh.

References Avner, U., L. Nehmé, and C.J. Robin (2013). “A rock inscription mentioning Thaʿlaba, an Arab king from Ghassān”. Arabian Archaeology and Epigraphy 24: 237–256. Blachère, R., and M. Gaudefroy-Demombynes (1975). Grammaire de l’arabe classique (morphologie et syntaxe). Paris: Maisonneuve & Larose. Cantineau, J. (1930–1932). Le Nabatéen (2 volumes). Paris: E. Leroux. Fiema, Z.T., A. Al-Jallad, M.C.A. Macdonald, and L. Nehmé (2015). “Provincia Arabia: Nabataea, the Emergence of Arabic as a Written Language, and Graeco-Arabica”. In Arabs and Empires before Islam. Ed. by G. Fisher. Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 373–433. al-Ghabban, A. (2008). “The Inscription of Zuhayr, the Oldest Islamic Inscription (24ah/ad 644–645), the Rise of the Arabic Script and the Nature of the Early Islamic State”. Arabian Archaeology and Epigraphy 19: 209–236. Grohmann, A. (1971). Arabische Paläographie. II. Teil. Das Schriftwesen. Die Lapidarschrift. Denkschriften. Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften. Philosophisch-historische Klasse 94.2. Forschungen zur islamischen Philologie und Kulturgeschichte 2. Graz, Vienna, and Cologne. al-Hamad, M. (2005). Nabataean Syntax, with Special Reference to Other Aramaic Dialects and Arabic. A thesis submitted to the University of Manchester for the degree of PhD in the Faculty of Humanities. Healey, J.F. (1993). The Nabataean Tomb Inscriptions of Madaʾin Salih. Journal of Semitic Studies Supplement 1. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Imbert, Fr. (2011). L’islam des pierres, graffiti arabes des deux premiers siècles de l’Hégire (viie–ixe siècles): corpus et premières analyses. Mémoire d’Habilitation à Diriger des Recherches, Aix-en-Provence. Al-Jallad, A. (2014). “On the Genetic Affiliation of the Rbbl bn Hfʿm grave inscription at Qaryat al-Faw.” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 77 (3): 445–465. Al-Jallad, A. (this volume). “Graeco-Arabica I: The Southern Levant.” Al-Jallad, A. Forthcoming. “The Linguistic Landscape of pre-Islamic Arabia—Context for the Qurʾān.” In: The Oxford Handbook of Qurʾānic Studies. Ed. by M. Shah and M.A.S. Abdel Haleem. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Al-Jallad, A., R. Daniel, and O. al-Ghul (2013). “The Arabic Toponyms and Oikonyms

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in 17”. In The Petra Papyri II. Ed. by L. Koenen, M. Kaimio, J. Kaimio, and R. Daniel. Amman: American Center of Oriental Research, pp. 23–48. Jaussen, A., R. Savignac, and H. Vincent (1905). “ʿAbdeh (suite).” Revue Biblique internationale: 235–257. King, G.M.H. (1990). Early North Arabian Thamudic E. Preliminary Description Based on a New Corpus of Inscriptions from the Ḥismā Desert of Southern Jordan and Published Material. Thesis submitted for the degree of Ph.D., School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London. Available online: http://krc2.orient.ox.ac.uk/aalc/ images/documents/mcam/early_north_arabian_hismaic.pdf [March 2017]. Lane, E.W. (1863–1893). An Arabic-English Lexicon. Derived from the Best and Most Copious Eastern Sources (8 volumes). London: Williams & Norgate. Macdonald, M.C.A. (2003). “Languages, Scripts, and the Uses of Writing among the Nabataeans”. In: Petra Rediscovered. Lost City of the Nabataeans. Ed. by G. Markoe. Cincinnati: Harry N. Abrams and Cincinnati Art Museum, pp. 36–56. Macdonald, M.C.A. (2004). “Ancient North Arabian”. In: The Cambridge Encyclopedia of the World’s Ancient Languages. Ed. by R.D. Woodard. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 488–533. Macdonald, M.C.A. (2005). “Literacy in an Oral Environment”. In: Writing and Ancient Near Eastern Society. Papers in Honour of Alan R. Millard. Ed. by P. Bienkowski, Chr. Mee, and E. Slater. New York, London: T&T Clark, pp. 49–118. Macdonald, M.C.A. (2009). “ARNA Nab 17 and the transition from the Nabataean to the Arabic script”. In: Philologisches und Historisches zwischen Anatolien und Sokotra. Analecta Semitica in Memoriam Alexander Sima. Ed. by W. Arnold, M. Jursa, W. Müller, and St. Procházka, 207–240. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Macdonald, M.C.A. (2010a). “Ancient Arabia and the Written Word”. In: The Development of Arabic as a Written Language, Papers from the Special Session of the Seminar for Arabian Studies held on 24 July, 2009. Ed. by M.C.A. Macdonald. Oxford: Archaeopress (Supplement to the Proceedings of the Seminar for Arabian Studies 40), pp. 5– 28. Macdonald, M.C.A. (2010b). “The Old Arabic Graffito at Jabal Usays: A New Reading of Line 1”. In: The Development of Arabic as a Written Language, Papers from the Special Session of the Seminar for Arabian Studies held on 24 July, 2009. Ed. by M.C.A. Macdonald. Oxford: Archaeopress (Supplement to the Proceedings of the Seminar for Arabian Studies 40), pp. 141–143. al-Muaikil, Kh.I., and S.A. al-Theeb (1996). Al-ʾāṯār wa-ʾl-kitābāt al-nabaṭiyyah fī minṭaqat al-jawf. al-Riyāḍ: Jāmiʿat al-malik saʿūd. Negev, A. (1967). “New Dated Nabatean Graffiti from the Sinai”. Israel Exploration Journal 17: 250–255, pl. 48. Negev, A. (1981). “Nabatean, Greek and Thamudic Inscriptions from the Wadi HaggagJebel Musa Road”. Israel Exploration Journal 31: 66–71, pl. 7B–10.

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Negev, A. (1986). “Obodas the God”. Israel Exploration Journal 36: 56–60, pl. 11B. Negev, A. (1991). Personal Names in the Nabataean Realm. Jerusalem: The Hebrew University (Qedem 32). Nehmé, L. (2005–2006). “Inscriptions vues et revues à Madāʾin Ṣāliḥ”. Arabia 3: 179–225 [text], 345–356 [figs]. Nehmé, L. (2010). “A glimpse of the development of the Nabataean script into Arabic based on old and new epigraphic material”. In: The Development of Arabic as a Written Language, Papers from the Special Session of the Seminar for Arabian Studies held on 24 July, 2009. Ed. by M.C.A. Macdonald. Oxford: Archaeopress (Supplement to the Proceedings of the Seminar for Arabian Studies 40), pp. 47–88. Nehmé, L. (2013). Epigraphy on the Edges of the Roman Empire. A Study of the Nabataean Inscriptions and Related Material from the Darb al-Bakrah, Saudi Arabia, 1st–5th century ad. Mémoire scientifique pour une Habilitation à Diriger des Recherches, Paris, École Pratique des Hautes Études. Robin, C.J. (2002). “L’écriture arabe et l’Arabie”. Pour la Science, hors série 33: 62–69. Robin, C.J. (2006). “La réforme de l’écriture arabe à l’époque du califat médinois”. Mélanges de l’Université Saint-Joseph 59: 319–364. Robin, C.J. (2008). “Les Arabes de Ḥimyar, des “Romains” et des Perses (iiie–vie siècles de l’ère chrétienne)”. Semitica et Classica 1: 167–202. Robin C.J., ʿA.I. al-Ghabban, al-Saʿīd S.F. (2014). “Premières inscriptions dans une forme ancienne de l’écriture arabe provenant de la région de Najran (sud de l’Arabie Saoudite) (années 470 è. chr. et décennies suivantes)”. Comptes rendus de l’Académie des Inscriptions & Belles-Lettres: 1033–1127. Stiehl, R. (1970). “A New Nabatean Inscription”. In: Beiträge zur alten Geschichte und deren Nachleben II, Festschrift für Franz Altheim zum 6.10.1968. Ed. by R. Stiehl and H.E. Stier. Berlin: De Gruyter, pp. 87–90. al-Theeb, S.A. (2010). Mudawwanat al-nuqūš al-nabaṭiyyah fī ʾl-mamlakah al-ʿ arabiyyah al-saʿūdiyyah. al-Riyāḍ: Dārat al-malik ʿabdulʿazīz. Williams, Fr., trans. (1994). The Panarion of Epiphanius of Salamis Books II and III Sects 47–80, De Fide. Nag Hammadi and Manichaean Studies 36. Leiden & New York: Brill. Wright, W. (1896–1898). A Grammar of the Arabic Language. Translated from the German of Caspari and edited with numerous additions and corrections (2 volumes). Third edition revised by W. Robertson Smith and M.J. de Goeje. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Yadin, Y., J.C. Greenfield, A. Yardeni, and B.A. Levine (2002), The Documents from the Bar Kokhba Period in the Cave of Letters. Hebrew, Aramaic and Nabatean-Aramaic Papyri (2 volumes). Jerusalem (Judean Desert Studies). Yardeni, A. (2014). “A List of the Arabic Words Appearing in Nabataean and Aramaic Legal Documents from the Judaean Desert”. Scripta Classica Israelica 33: 301–324.

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figure 4.1 UJadh 330. The text reads {ḥrgz} ʾly / ʾlḥgr / p{ʾ}m----{l/n}{y}{l/n} / {ʿš}.

figure 4.2 UJadh 293. The text reads dkyr ḥnny br yhwdʾ / bṭb w l-{k}y{r}dʾ.

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chapter 5

Graeco-Arabica I: The Southern Levant* Ahmad Al-Jallad

1

Introduction

This paper is the first installment of a series of four articles that will survey the linguistic features of the Arabic material in Greek transcription in the epigraphy and papyri of the Roman and Byzantine Near East.1 This present study focuses on corpora from southern Syria (areas including the Lejā, i.e. Trachonitis, Umm al-Jimāl, Boṣrā, and the Ḥawrān), central and southern Jordan (including areas such as Moab, Edom, Petra, and the Ḥismā), and Israel (areas in the Negev such as Beersheba, Elusa, and Nessana). Evidence for the use of Arabic in these areas in the pre-Islamic period comes from several literary and documentary sources. Even though contemporary writers often referred to the Nabataeans, whose kingdom spanned these regions at various points in its history, as Arabs,2 such labels offer us little insight into the language of its population. The ethnicon “Arab” was used to refer to diverse peoples, many of whom we know very well did not speak a variety of Arabic.3 It is the Nabataean

* This contribution owes much to my friend Michael C.A. Macdonald. Nearly every page has benefited from his corrections and insightful comments, and so I thank him sincerely for his careful attention to my work. I also owe many thanks to Prof. Jérôme Lentin for a stimulating email correspondence between August 6th and August 27th, 2013. His vast knowledge of Arabic dialectology and his uncanny attention to detail have helped improve many aspects of this study. I also thank Holger Gzella, Maarten Kossmann, Adam Strich, and Guillaume Dye for their helpful comments on an earlier draft of this paper from which I have benefited greatly. I also sincerely thank Dr. Laïla Nehmé for the amount of work she put into typesetting this long and complicated paper. This paper was originally going to appear in: Le contexte de naissance de l’ écriture arabe. Écrit et écritures araméennes et arabes au 1 er millénaire après J.-C., Actes du colloque international du projet anr Syrab, edited by F. Briquel-Chatonnet, M. Debié, and L. Nehmé. Louvain: Peeters (Orientalia Lovaniensa Analecta), but was withdrawn due to extreme delays in the publication of that volume. All errors remain my own. 1 The other planned articles are Graeco-Arabica II: Palmyra; Graeco-Arabica III: Dura Europos, Hatra, and Miscellaneous; Graeco-Arabica IV: the Damascus Psalm Fragment. 2 See Macdonald (2009b) and (2009c) for a discussion on the use of the term Arab by outside authors, and especially (2009c: 280 f.) on its application to the Nabataeans. 3 For example, the inhabitants of the southwest corner of Arabia, the ancient Sabaeans, Min-

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi: 10.1163/9789004343047_006

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inscriptions and papyri, rather than the ethnographic accounts contained in literary sources, that provide unambiguous evidence for the use of Arabic in these regions. While the Nabataeans used a form of Aramaic—written in a distinctive cursive script—for official purposes, their particular dialect casts a clear Arabic shadow. Scholars have identified a number of Arabic loanwords in the Nabataean Aramaic material, and the Nabataean legal papyri at Naḥal Ḥever have yielded a trove of Arabic legal vocabulary.4 Beyond the lexicon, some syntactic peculiarities of Nabataean Aramaic betray an Arabic substratum, most notably the optative use of the suffix conjugation.5 Finally, two important Arabic inscriptions in the Nabataean script have been discovered. The first is a votive inscription from ʿĒn ʿAvdat, which is undated but the content of which situates it in the pagan era,6 and the second is the famous Namāra inscription, dated to 328ce.7 In addition to the evidence furnished by Nabataean, tens of thousands of graffiti written in two epigraphic scripts, Ḥismaic and Safaitic, cover the deserts of southern Syria and various parts of present-day Jordan.8 The languages inscribed in the ANA scripts are usually assumed to form a single linguistic

4

5 6

7 8

aeans, Qatabanians, and Hadramites, were called Arabs by Greek authors, even though they did not self-identify as such and were speakers of various Ancient South Arabian languages, not Arabic (Macdonald 2009b: 2). On the Arabic loanwords into Nabataean, see O’Connor (1986), Greenfield (1992), Morgenstern (1999), and Beyer (2004: 23). As Macdonald (2010a: 19) pointed out, one of the most significant aspects of the Naḥal Ḥever finding is that these papyri come from a Jewish community in central Jordan, rather than from Ḥegrā or the Sinai. This suggests that the use of Arabic in Nabataea was not restricted to the southern domains of the kingdom, as the distribution of Arabic loanwords in the inscriptions had previously suggested. On this feature, see Gzella (2004: 242). For a good summary of the Arabic influence on the Nabataean of Madāʾin Ṣāliḥ, see Healey (1993: 60–63). The inscription contains what appears to be an Arabic hymn to the deified Nabataean king Οβοδας; see Mascitelli (2006: 121–129) and Kropp (this volume), for a balanced discussion of the various readings and interpretations of this inscription, and for references. This is probably the most famous pre-Islamic Arabic inscription, and, as such, it has amassed a considerable bibliography. For a selected bibliography, see Mascitelli (2006: 152). There has been an unfortunate tendency to associate these scripts with specific languages and even populations. Macdonald (2009a: 306–307) has convincingly argued that ethnic terms such as “Safaïtes”, “Safaitic Bedouin”, and “Safaitic tribes” are completely baseless. Safaitic is simply a modern term for a northern variety of the Arabian script. The script was used by members of various social groups who occupied the Ḥarra of southern Syria and Jordan, and there is little to suggest that they viewed themselves as belonging to a single, self-conscience community, comparable to the Nabataeans. The same holds true for the authors of the Ḥismaic inscriptions.

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sub-grouping, closely related to Arabic but distinct from it, termed Ancient North Arabian9 (ANA) (Macdonald 2000: 29–30).10 The original basis for the classification of the non-Northwest Semitic languages of North Arabia and the southern Levant into two groups was simply the shape of the definite article, h(n)- in contradistinction to ʾl.11 I have argued in several places re-

9

10

11

This is Macdonald’s term (2000: 29). Other terms can be found in the literature, most commonly Epigraphic North Arabian, Frühnordarabisch, and Proto-Arabic. The last term is the most misleading, as the languages attested in the North Arabian scripts are in no way the common ancestor of Arabic. Ancient North Arabian encompasses (1) Taymanitic (from the oasis town of Taymāʾ); (2) Dadanitic (from the oasis of Dadan in the northwest Ḥijāz); (3) Dumaitic (from ancient Dūmah at the southern edge of the Wādī Sirḥān); (4) Thamudic B–D (from the northern Ḥijāz to the Najd); (5) Southern Thamudic (southern Saudi Arabia, around Nagrān); (6) Dispersed Oasis North Arabian (texts from Mesopotamia and other places which cannot be classified as Taymanitic, Dadanitic, and Dumaitic); (7) Ḥismaic (from southern Jordan into Arabia) and (8) Safaitic; (9) Ḥasaitic (from al-Ḥaṣāʾ in East Arabia) (Macdonald 2000: 29, 2004: 490). This is the most obvious difference between many of the texts written in ANA scripts and Classical Arabic. While the article was recognised as a common feature of the languages attested in the ANA epigraphy as early as Littmann (1904: 114–115), and probably earlier, I believe it was Beeston (1981: 181–182) who first used it as a basis to group the nonAncient South Arabian languages of Arabia into two separate linguistic categories, the h(n)-dialects and the (ʾ)l-dialects. He hypothesised that the h(n) article was native to West Arabia while the ʾl article originated in the east, despite the fact that, as Beeston himself acknowledged, there is no evidence for the ʾl article in East Arabia. The only major corpus of texts from the eastern portion of the Peninsula are the tombstones from alḤaṣāʾ, and these consistently employ the article hn in personal names. While Beeston suggested that the tombstones could belong to an immigrant group of west-Arabians, without any secure attestations of ʾl in the east, this explanation is entirely circular. Besides the article, no one has attempted to demonstrate the genetic unity of ANA against Arabic through the identification of shared innovations. Instead, the linguistic unity of the h(n)dialects against Arabic has been taken as axiomatic, perhaps as an unintentional linguistic holdover from the now abandoned hypothesis of “the unity of the Thamudic (read: North Arabian) script”, see van den Branden (1957). In several places, Macdonald has pointed out other differences between the languages attested in ANA scripts and Classical Arabic, such as the reflex of III-weak verbs and the shape of the feminine singular relative pronoun (Macdonald 2000: 49, 2009c: 312–313), in order to emphasise the linguistic autonomy of the former and to caution against the overreliance on Classical Arabic sources for the decipherment of these ancient texts. In fact, a careful reading of Macdonald’s 2004 overview of ANA clearly shows that there are no shared innovations connecting the languages attested in ANA scripts together against Arabic. Moreover, almost all of the data in his grammatical outline are drawn from Safaitic and Dadanitic. Macdonald recognizes

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cently that this view is overly simplistic.12 The h- article is an areal feature shared with Canaanite and, as such, cannot constitute a shared innovative isogloss of a putative proto-Ancient North Arabian. In addition to h-, several other articles are attested in these scripts, including ʾ, ʾl, hn, and perhaps hl, and the varieties inscribed in the Ḥismaic script appear to lack a morphological means of definition altogether (King 1990: §3, C.6).13 A dispassionate examination of the evidence reveals that the varieties written in the Safaitic and Ḥismaic scripts, conventionally labelled “Safaitic” and “Ḥismaic”, share far more in common with Arabic than the ANA language of the oasis town, Taymāʾ, Taymanitic.14 This observation, I believe, calls into question the validity of ANA as a genetic category. Even the short and often enigmatic Thamudic inscriptions reveal a language rather distinct from the varieties written in other ANA scripts.15 In contrast, Safaitic shares several impor-

12 13

14

15

that the paucity of data for ANA may be responsible for its homogeneous appearance (2000: 31–32). See Al-Jallad (forthcoming b) and Al-Jallad (2014; 2015). Knauf (2010: 207) is certainly correct in stating that the two forms of the article “do not constitute a genetic difference between the two languages or two language groups [Arabic and ANA, my insertion]”, but I cannot agree with his assertion that ANA is Proto-Old Arabic. Knauf does not demonstrate the genetic unity of ANA, but instead lists three features: the merger of *s¹ and *s³, broken plurals, and the prepositive definite article—which he claims demonstrate a “genetic” relationship between Arabic and the ANA languages. These features are of course disputable as they do not constitute shared morphological innovations, but even if we were to assume that they are suitable for genetic purposes, they are not even common to all ANA languages. For example, Taymanitic does not merge *s¹ and *s³ and Ḥismaic does not have a definite article. Taymanitic is characterised by several features unparalleled in Safaitic, Ḥismaic, and Dadanitic, which include the preservation of *s³ [ts] (see Macdonald 1991) or its merger with *ṯ; the realisation of Proto-Semitic *binum as b, possibly suggesting the presence of a syllabic ṇ, perhaps */bṇ/. The assimilation of /n/ is not attested in word boundary position in other cases, for example mn “who” remains mn, and a C-stem verb ʾnkd preserves the /n/; the merger of *ḏ and *z to z; the merger of Proto-Semitic *ṯ̣ with ṣ, both written with ṣ; and the realization of word initial *w as y. In addition to these features, a sizable minority of Taymanitic inscriptions have so far eluded decipherment. On the features of Taymanitic, see Kootstra 2016. Much more work is needed before a linguistic characterisation of the varieties written in the Thamudic scripts is possible. However, even at our current state of knowledge, some striking differences emerge. Unlike the rather phonologically conservative varieties written in Safaitic, Ḥismaic, and Dadanitic, the language(s) written in Thamudic C seem(s) to have merged the voiced interdental ḏ with z, as exemplified by the feminine singular

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tant morphological innovations16 with what is traditionally considered Arabic, including: (1) a G-passive participle mafʿūl; (2) negation with mā and lam; (3) prepositions such as f */fī/ ‘in’,17 ʿnd */ʿend/ ‘at’; (4) a subjunctive verb terminating in /a/ and its syntax (WH 135 f nngy ‘that we may be saved’); (5) t-demonstratives; (6) the independent object pronoun y */(iy)yā/ (AWS 218 wyh brk ‘and may you bless him’); and (7) possible vestiges of nunation (KRS 1551 mḥltn for normal mḥlt ‘dearth of pasture’).18 Finally, the Safaitic inscriptions sometimes exhibit the article ʾ(l), a shared areal isogloss with the Arabic substrate of the Nabataean inscriptions.19 Many Safaitic inscriptions exhibit all of the features typical of Arabic.20

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20

demonstrative zt < *ḏāt-. Thamudic B attests a bizarre reflex of the dative particle, nm. Since most of these texts are rather short, not much in terms of grammar can be said. Nevertheless, the odd Classical Arabic-based translations given in many editions suggest that the vocabulary is quite different from the Arabic contained in the classical lexicons. For example, consider the unlikely interpretation of Eskoubi (1999: #284): bʾlh ʾbtr gzzt nm ḫlṭt as “by the power of ʾlh ʾbtr (I) sheared off (the wool of the sheep). By Ḫlṭt” (Hayajneh 2011: 771). For a bird’s-eye view of Thamudic, see Macdonald (2004) and Hayajneh (2011: 770–772). On the innovations of Arabic, see Huehnergard (this volume) and Al-Jallad (forthcoming b). For example, KRS 3291 reads: rʿy h- ʾbl f- h- nẖl “he pastured the camels in this valley”. This sentence occurs very frequently in the Safaitic inscriptions, although in most cases, the locative is expressed without a preposition: C 2670 rʿy h- ʾbl h- nẖl “he pastured the camels in this valley”. For a detailed discussion of these features in Safaitic and more, see Al-Jallad (2015). These have been called “Old Arabic mixed texts” by Macdonald (2008: 471ff.), but since Safaitic was never a literary language, it is hard to imagine a scenario which would lead an “Arabic speaker” to try and “compose a text in a foreign (written) language [which in our case would be “Safaitic”, my insertion] and filled the gaps in his knowledge with words and phrases from his spoken language [Arabic, my insertion]” (ibid.: 471). This is especially puzzling since the language of these inscriptions is usually identical in all other ways to Safaitic inscriptions with the h- article. The notion of mixed texts assumes that there was an actual dichotomy between “Safaitic” and “Arabic” based on the shape of the article. AlJallad (2014) argues that ʾl was simply a rare variant of the article found throughout the North Arabian epigraphy and cannot be used to delimit Arabic any more than h- can be used to delimit Northwest Semitic. Just to illustrate, consider HCH 194 …. s¹nt ʾs²rq rḍwt ʾl- hdy l- ym{n}t “… the year Rḍwt the leader migrated southward” and KhNSJ 1 w g{l}s¹ mn ʾ- dmt s¹nt mt mlk nbṭ “and he halted on account of the downpour the year the king of Nabataea died”, both my readings and translations. For a complete grammatical outline of the Safaitic inscriptions and further examples, see Al-Jallad (2015).

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The Hismaic script was used to compose two long texts in what is essentially an archaic stage of Arabic before the language acquired the definite article.21 While most of the texts in this corpus are much shorter than their Safaitic counterparts, they too show striking similarities with Arabic, for example: (1) the quasi-suppletive22 form of the imperative ht */hāt/;23 (2) the realisation of III-w verbs with long ā (orthographically ∅), against preservation of the glide in III-y verbs, an asymmetrical distribution paralleled in Qurʾānic orthography, compare Ḥismaic dʿ */daʿā/ to Arabic ‫دعا‬, both from √dʿw, and Ḥismaic bny */banaya/ to Arabic ‫بنی‬, both from √bny; (3) a subjunctive in -a used in a result clause ( f ygzy nḏr -h ‘that he may fulfill his vow’ (Graf and Zwettler 2004)); (4) the vocative forms of the divine names lh and lt, which terminate in -m, h lhm “O Lh!” and h ltm “O Lt!”, cf. Arabic ʾallāhumma (King 1990: §3, C), and several other features outlined in Al-Jallad (forthcoming a).24 An important difference between later forms of Arabic and Safaitic/Ḥismaic

21 22

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On these, see Graf and Zwettler (2004). See Al-Jallad (forthcoming a) for a new analysis and discussion of these features in light of other Old Arabic evidence. This label emerged from a fruitful email correspondence with Prof. Jérôme Lentin. As Prof. Lentin pointed out to me, hāt is not exactly a suppletive imperative, even though it has no indicative counterpart. The imperative form of the normal verb “to give” usually exists alongside hāt. Its syntactic features also differ from the indicative verb. For example, in the Levantine dialects, the verb ʿaṭā can take two direct objects while hāt cannot. Thus, one can say hāt-li yya “give-to-me it” but not **hāt-ni yya “give-me it”, although ʿaṭī-ni yya “give-me it” is possible. Hāt is attested across the modern Arabic dialects, and was equally known to the medieval grammarians, e.g. Egyptian hāt is the imperative of the verb iddi “give” (Hinds and Badawi 1986: 896); in Beirut, hāt is the imperative of ʿaṭā, and hāt is widely attested in Yemen (Behnstedt 2006: 1252). This feature occurs in an unambiguous context in KJC 46: (1) w m ḥll ḍyr -h (2) ht ʿs²w w rs¹l (3) s¹mʿt ḏs²ry w ktby, “(1) and whosoever has washed his wounds (2) give an [offering of] an evening meal and milk (3) that Ḏs²ry and Ktby may hear”. My reading and translation of the first line differs from King (1990), who parses it as w m ḥll ḍy rh “And whoever has encamped, whilst taking refuge, in the low-lying ground”. I, instead, see ḍyr as a single word from the root √ḍyr “to injure” cf. Arabic ḍayr “harm” (Lane: 1812a), with a 3rd singular suffixed pronoun, and connect ḥll here with the sense of the second form in Syriac, namely, “to wash” (Costaz 2002: 104), which is no doubt connected to the basic sense of the root “to purify”. This translation seems more suitable in the present context. Neither reading, however, affects the interpretation of lines 2 and 3. These include the use of the subjunctive in the apodosis of conditional sentences and a reflex of the form *tatafaʿʿala for the prefix conjugation of the tD stem, replacing original *tatfaʿʿala. A full discussion of these here would take us too far afield, and therefore the reader is referred to my forthcoming book.

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is the reflex of original *āy and *āw sequences, which yield /āʾ/ in the former, but y */āy/ and w */āw/ in the latter.25 This variation suggests that forms of Arabic exhibiting the ʾl article sat on a continuum of Old Arabic dialects—some of which exhibit a h- article and others no article at all—stretching from the Syrian Desert into the Transjordan and the Negev, an area covered by our Greek epigraphy and papyri.26 Therefore, we can reasonably attribute the Arabic material in transcription to the Arabic substratum of Nabataean and the varieties attested in the ANA epigraphy of our region. I would propose collectively labelling the dialects situated on this continuum “Old Arabic”, and using script-based terms such as Safaitic and Ḥismaic as a convention to refer to the forms of Old Arabic they usually express. In some cases, the linguistic features of a Greek transcription allow us to identify it with a specific form of Old Arabic. For example, Αβδομαχος (IGLS XIII 9265) transcribes the realisation of the Nabataean name ‫ עבדמנכו‬in a dialect with n-assimilation. The same realisation is attested in Safaitic as ʿbdmk = */ʿabdo-mak(k)/ (Zeinaddin 2000: #7). As we shall see, when the evidence is available, the linguistic features usually agree with the Arabic substratum of Nabataean against the varieties attested in the ANA epigraphy.27 Most of the Old Arabic material in transcription comes in the form of anthroponyms from a non-Northwest Semitic etymological source. These are found in the context of short Greek inscriptions on stelae and tombstones, of which a sizable minority is dated. The Petra Papyri furnish us with many microtoponyms and oikonyms of Arabic origin, and the non-literary papyri from pre-conquest Nessana contain a good number of names and a single Arabic phrase;28 both of these corpora are dated to the 6th century ce. The Greek transcriptions of Arabic lexica offer two advantages that have yet

25 26

27

28

Compare Classical Arabic naǧāʾ with Ḥismaic ngy and ʿašāʾ with ʿs²w (King 1990: §3, C). For a discussion of this phenomenon, see Al-Jallad (2014: 13–15). It is possible, and perhaps likely, that this continuum stretched further south into the northern Ḥijāz and included languages like Dadanitic. This connection, of course, remains to be proven and does not influence the results of our findings here. The reader will see this throughout the article, but to summarise quickly here: (1) the article, when attested, is almost always αλ /ʾal/, as in Nabataean anthroponyms. As just mentioned, this occurs in the ANA epigraphy of this region, but is significantly rarer there; (2) The feminine ending in forms which have not been Hellenised is α /a/ as opposed to the -t /at/ found in the Ḥismaic and Safaitic inscriptions, even in inscriptions containing Arabic isoglosses. The reasons for this are unclear at the current moment. See § 5.3.2.

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figure 5.1 The southern Levant and North Arabia. map: a. al-jallad and a. emery

to be fully exploited by scholars.29 The first is that Arabic anthroponyms were surely not part of scribal training; thus, with the exception of a few cases, their spellings do not reflect a fixed tradition.30 Instead, they are the result of the attempts by scribes to approximate Arabic words, even though Hellenised, 29

30

The single monograph-length study of Arabic from the pre-Islamic period (Mascitelli 2006) made hardly any use of this material. Other discussions on Old Arabic tend to centre on the material collected by the Arab grammarians, who were active in the 8th century ce and later. Although many have assumed that scribes employed conventions in their rendition of Semitic lexica into Greek, I do not believe that this was the case. See n. 39 below for arguments against this view.

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phonetically from diction, and are therefore a much more reliable source of contemporary pronunciation than the fixed orthographic conventions of Semitic chancelleries. This point is brought into relief in bilingual inscriptions. For example, consider the name Ουαβαλας in IGLS XXI/4 141, which is accompanied by a Nabataean inscription in which the same name is spelled [w]hbʾlhy. The archaic Nabataean spelling preserves both the glottal stop of the divine name ʾlh and the final vowel of the genitive case. The name was probably vocalised originally as */wahbu-ʾallāhi/, but the Greek shows that its contemporary pronunciation was /wahb-(ʾ)al(l)āh/.31 Greek transcriptions can also shed light on sound changes not otherwise apparent in the Nabataean script. Consider the transcription of ‫ עבדחרתת‬as Αβδοαρθα (the genitive of Αβδοαρθας) twice at Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī (PTer 21 and 79). This spelling reveals not only that the unstressed short *i in *ḥāriṯah was syncopated, but also that the sound change *at > ah had operated in word final position (see § 5.2.1). The second advantage comes from the Greek script itself. While Greek is illequipped to express the range of Semitic consonantism, it is more than capable of representing the vowel system of Arabic. Thus, Greek transcriptions offer us our only clear view of the vocalism of Old Arabic.32 These facts combined make the Graeco-Arabica an indispensable source for the pre-Islamic stages of Arabic. 1.1 Previous Studies No comprehensive edition of the onomastica from our region exists and so the material is spread across several, sometimes overlapping, editions. An oftconsulted study of the Semitic names in Greek transcription from the Near East and Egypt is Wuthnow (1930), but this work is badly outdated, and must be

31

32

It is unlikely that the original ending i/ī was replaced by ας once the name was Hellenised. In most of our material, Semitic names which terminate in a vowel or vowel + laryngeal are Hellenised by the addition of the nominative -ς to the original v(H)# sequence, where (H) = laryngeal, e.g. Αβδοοβδας < *ʿabdo-ʿobdah; Αρετας < *ḥāriṯah; Αβδουσαρης < *ʿabdḏū-śarey = ḏs²ry, and, in a very similar environment, Ομαβις from ʾumm-ʾabī (Mordtmann 1894: 208). Had the name whbʾlhy terminated with a final vowel in actual speech, we would expect a Hellenised form, Ουαβαλλαης, Ουαβαλλαις or something along those lines. The failure to note gemination of the l is not uncommon, but most transcriptions of this name contain two λ’s. There is no way to determine on the basis of the Greek whether or not the glottal stop was preserved in this position. Cuneiform transcriptions of Arabic material are also helpful, but the vocalic system of the syllabary is not as robust. For instance, there is no unambiguous way of representing diphthongs or the quality [o].

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consulted with great caution on account of its many methodological shortcomings.33 Negev’s 1991 book on the onomastica from the Nabataean realm makes some use of Greek transcriptions, but that work is also undermined by its many critical methodological problems.34 As of 2014, only three superficial studies devoted to the language of the Arabic dialects in transcription exist. The first is Isserlin’s 1969 study of the Arabic of the Nessana papyri. This short survey contains several useful insights, but missing is a proper discussion on the phonology of the Greek of this period and region, a prerequisite for the interpretation of the phonetics of Arabic.35 The second is Westenholz’s 1990 study of the Arabic of the Princeton University Archaeological Expeditions to Syria 1904–1905 and 1909, section III.a. This short article does not go beyond a few obvious remarks on the representation of Arabic phonemes in Greek. The author’s observations are greatly limited too by his assumption that scribes were using conventional spellings of Arabic names.36 Finally, the Arabic of the Petra Papyri was the 33

34 35

36

Wuthnow does not keep apart material from the pre-Islamic and Islamic periods or different regions as far away as Egypt and Palmyra, nor does he separate names belonging to different etymological strata. For a more detailed critique, see Altheim and Stiehl (1966: 48 f.). For an excellent review article, see Macdonald 1999. Despite its analytical shortcomings, the book is still useful for reference purposes. Isserlin (1969: 19) gives a few broad remarks regarding some of the phonological developments of the Greek of this period. It must be stressed, though, that one should not generalise developments which occur in one variety of Greek to all of the Greek from the same period, cf. below n. 40. This assumption is also held by Isserlin (1969). Westenholz (1990: 395) asserts several times that the choice of Greek glyphs to render Semitic phonemes was completely conventional, but does not attempt to demonstrate this or argue as to what kind of scribal training would make this possible. I find it highly unlikely that Greek scribes were acquainted with both the Aramaic and the various ANA scripts and the varieties they express to the extent that they could identify the reflex of Proto-Semitic *ṯ̣ across these languages and then devise conventions to represent its various reflexes with a single Greek glyph. That *ṯ̣ is represented with τ in Aramaic transcriptions as well as in Safaitic-Greek and Arabic-Greek bilinguals only means that τ was the best phonetic match for the reflex of this phoneme in those languages, and not that there was some kind of convention in use. Moreover, the multiple spellings of a given name in single document produced by a single scribe point towards an ad-hoc process of transcription (see, for example, the spelling of Ζοναιν /ẓ́onayn/ in the index of P.Ness. III). Isserlin (1969: 18) attempts to support the idea that transcription conventions for Semitic consonants existed in SyriaPalestine by comparing them to transcriptions in the papyri of Egypt from the Islamic period. He explains the use of π and τ for Semitic /b/ and /d/ in Egyptian Greek against

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subject of an article-length treatment by al-Ghul (2006).37 His study was based largely on an incomplete preliminary analysis of the material and it has been superseded by the study in the edition (Al-Jallad et al. 2013).38

2

Method and Scope

2.1 Identification of Arabic Material Our first task is to isolate the Arabic stratum within the larger context of Semitic material transcribed into Greek. While it is well known that there are many difficulties involved with the use of personal names to diagnose the language or mode of self-identification of their carrier,39 they, nevertheless, contain important information about the language from which they were drawn. Many of the linguistic features of the onomastica in our region indicates that they stem from a non-Northwest Semitic language, which I will conventionally term Arabic, unless more specific information is available to connect them with a variety attested in the Nabataean, Ḥismaic, or Safaitic scripts.40

37 38

39

40

the representation of these sounds by β and δ, respectively, in pre-Islamic Syria-Palestine by appealing to conventional spellings in the latter. To me, this simply suggests that the voiced stops had become fricatives in Egyptian Greek while they remained stops in the pre-Islamic administrative register of the Levant. I have omitted Daniel (2001) since the article does not have, strictly speaking, a linguistic focus. This study contains a very limited linguistic discussion of the material in P. Petr. II 17, with only the goal of justifying our interpretation of the Arabic material. The forthcoming Petra Papyri V is planned to contain a full discussion of the linguistic features of the Arabic material in all of the Petra Papyri. I generally agree with this point, but I think it can be nuanced a bit. We can, for example, learn that Arabic was not spoken natively by Turks based on the phonetic rendition of names with Arabic etymologies by speakers of Turkish. While spelling conventions often hide such variation, phonetic transcriptions in a foreign script can shed light on the way such names were actually pronounced. Thus, the names Μαλεχαθη (PAES III.a 796.1) and Μανεαθη (PAES III.a 109) were likely uttered by a speaker of a form of Arabic in which unstressed short vowels in open syllables were not syncopated. Had a speaker of Aramaic, and not Arabic, pronounced these names, we would expect **Μαλχαθη and **Μαναθη, as his language would have triggered the deletion of the penultimate vowel. A similar phenomenon is witnessed in modern dialects of Arabic which possess this exact rule. For example, the Classical Arabic name /fāṭimah/ is rendered /fāṭme/ for the same reason. The phonetic shape of the Arabic names in our corpora indicates that their original pronunciation was maintained, suggesting that their bearers also spoke a form of Arabic. Several of these features have been outlined by Israel (2006), including the preservation of

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2.1.1 The Diminutive Patterns CuCayC and CuCayyvC The apophonic diminutives are not productive in Northwest Semitic, and while a few frozen forms can be found in Aramaic and Hebrew,41 as a whole, the system has disappeared. Since diphthongs are not normally indicated in the North Arabian scripts, ablaut diminutives are usually undetectable. The diminutive of bi-radical nouns, however, clearly shows that the system was intact, e.g. ʾḫyt < *ʾuḫayyat “little sister”42 in Safaitic. Both patterns are productive in Classical and modern spoken forms of Arabic. 2.1.2 The Elative/ʾaCCaC Pattern Like the diminutive, the pattern ʾafʿal is probably an older feature that survives in Arabic but was lost in Northwest Semitic.43 2.1.3 The Relative-Determinative ḏū The relative-determinative pronoun, *ḏū, *ḏī, *ḏā, etc., has been levelled in Aramaic to *dī, while in Canaanite, it has been replaced by reflexes of *ʾaṯar “place”.44 The few names containing this element in our corpora have an Arabic origin. The Article αλ or α 2.1.4 The definite article rarely appears on onomastica. When it does, a prenominal ʾal, e.g. Αλαβδος (PAES III.a 275), points towards an Arabic origin. Two names in our corpora exhibit a prenominal α, which could reflect the h- or ʾ- article attested in the Safaitic inscriptions or perhaps even the ʾal- article with the assimilation of the coda.45 Such forms can be considered Arabic if they occur on nouns which differ in other significant ways from Northwest Semitic; otherwise, one cannot rule out a Canaanite origin.

41

42 43 44

45

the initial waw, the article ‘al [sic], the diminutive pattern qutayl, and non-etymological word final waw (wawation). These are usually highlighted in the grammars, but see Wright (1955: §269, rem. c.) for examples, such as Hebrew zʿêr “little” or plêṭâ “a band of fugitives” as they compare to Arabic. This occurs in C 893; see Macdonald (2004: 505) for discussion. For relics, see Lipiński (2001: 215). On the etymology of this form and a discussion of past opinions, see Huehnergard (2006). I follow Huehnergard in viewing Hebrew šeC- and Phoenician š and ʾš as reduced forms of ʾašer. For an important counter-argument, see Holmstedt (2007). See Al-Jallad (forthcoming b) for the different forms of the article in both Arabic and the languages written in the ANA scripts.

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2.1.5 Word Final Vowels and Wawation Since most of the anthroponyms in our corpora take Greek declensional endings, it is often impossible to detect whether final short vowels were present. Several compound names preserve a vowel between the first and second term. Since the Northwest Semitic languages are thought to have lost final short vowels around 1000bce (Gzella 2011: 434), these names must have been drawn from an Arabic source. This is especially true of Nabataean basileophoric names, such as Αβδοοβδας /ʿabdo-ʿobdah/, which have a terminus post quem of the reign of the Nabataean monarch on whom the name was based. In addition to these cases, a few names which were not given Greek declensional endings terminate with a vowel ω/ο, which transcribes the final ‫ ו‬of Nabataean names. 2.1.6 The Shape of the Participle The shape of onomastica derived from the C and D-stem participles can also point to an Arabic source. Both stems in Aramaic have a ma prefix, C maktẹb and D makattẹb, in contrast to Arabic muktib and mukatti/ab, e.g. Aramaic Μαζαββανος (PAES III.a 650) vs Arabic Μογεερος (PAES III.a 786.1).46 Even though it is theoretically possible that names of this sort could go back to an ancient Northwest Semitic stratum, it is easier, and more realistic, to explain them by way of Arabic, especially if they contain roots that are unattested in Northwest Semitic. 2.1.7 Phonological Features Forms that exhibit a consonantal reflex of *ṣ́ (= ḍ), usually with σ or ζ, can be interpreted as Arabic. The reflex of *ṣ́ was already realised as an emphatic velar fricative in the Old Aramaic period, represented by q in Old Aramaic orthography. Beyer (2004: 51) suggests that the merger of this sound with ʿ was only completed by 200bce in Aramaic. Regardless of the exact chronology, the transcription of this phoneme with σ would not have been appropriate for any period of Aramaic.47 While names that transcribe the reflex of *ṣ́ with σ could, in theory, have a Canaanite source, in many cases, this representation co-occurs with non-Canaanite features, such as an Arabic derivational pattern or root and the representation of *ā with α. In these cases, we can safely interpret the name as Arabic. The diagnostic value of the consonantal representation of *ḫ and *ġ on the other hand is unclear. These sounds remained distinct from their 46 47

Amorite seems to have had an u-class vowel in the m- prefix. No evidence for the shape of this vowel in Ugaritic has yet come to light. On this development, see Beyer (2004: 51).

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pharyngeal counterparts until rather late and their representation is further complicated by the phonology of the Greek of this period (see § 3.1 and 3.2). Names preserving word initial *w, which shifted to y in Northwest Semitic, are also interpreted as Arabic. The preservation of unstressed short vowels in open syllables, the preservation of *a as a, rather than raising it to e, after a sibilant, and the absence of any epenthesis can point towards an Arabic rather than a Northwest Semitic source: compare Aramaic Ζεβινθου /zebīnt[ā]/ (PTer 146) to Arabic Γαδιμαθος /gadīmat-/ (PAES III.a 283) (cf. n. 42). 2.1.8 Lexicon While the lexicon is not considered a reliable source for language classification/identification, it can, nevertheless, provide useful supporting evidence for the isolation of Arabic material. Names based on roots which are not attested in any of the Northwest Semitic languages and exhibit non-Northwest Semitic morphology can be considered Arabic. 2.2 The Corpora The present study will examine the Old Arabic material, as defined by the criteria above, in transcription based on the following corpora, with due attention to geographic and chronological variation. Below, I have only included collections with considerable Arabic material; other corpora will be cited normally in the text.48 M. Lidzbarski, Ephemeris für Semitische Epigraphik (3 volumes), New York. GIN A. Negev, The Greek inscriptions from the Negev, Jerusalem (Studium biblicum franciscanum, collectio minor 25), 1981. GIPT A. Alt, Die Griechischen Inschriften der Palaestina Tertia westlich der ʿAraba, Berlin (Wissenschaftliche Veröffentlichungen des Deutsch-Türkischen Denkmalschutz-Kommandos 2), 1921. GL W.K. Prentice, Greek and Latin Inscriptions, Part III of the Publications of an American Archaeological Expedition to Syria 1899– 1900, New York, 1908. IGLS XIII/1 M. Sartre, Inscriptions grecques et latines de la Syrie, t. 13, fascicule 1. Bostra, nº 9001 à 9472, Paris (Bibliothèque archéologique et historique 113), 1982.

Eph I–III

48

These include primarily Gatier (1998) from Khirbat as-Samrāʾ, Canova (1954) from Moab, and part II of Meïmaris and Kritikakou-Nikolaropoulou material from Third Palestine (2008).

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IGLS XIII/2 M. Sartre, Inscriptions grecques et latines de la Syrie, t. 13, fascicule 2. Bostra (supplément) et la plaine de la Nuqrah, Paris (Bibliothèque archéologique et historique 194), 2011. IGLS XV/2 A. Sartre-Fauriat and M. Sartre, Inscriptions grecques et latines de la Syrie, t. 15, fascicule 1. Le plateau du Trachôn et ses bordures (Bibliothèque archéologique et historique 194), 2014. IGLS XXI/2 P.-L. Gatier, Inscriptions grecques et latines de la Syrie, t. 21. Inscriptions de la Jordanie, fascicule 2. Région centrale (Amman, Hesban, Madaba, Main, Dhiban), Paris (Bibliothèque archéologique et historique 114), 1986. IGLS XXI/4 M. Sartre, Inscriptions grecques et latines de la Syrie, t. 21. Inscriptions de la Jordanie, fascicule 4. Pétra et la Nabatène méridionale du Wadi al-Hasa au golfe de ‘Aqaba, Paris (Bibliothèque archéologique et historique 115), 1993. PAES III.a E. Littmann, D. Magie, and D.R. Stuart, Publications of the Princeton University Archaeological Expeditions to Syria in 1904–1905 and 1909, Division III. Greek and Latin Inscriptions in Syria, Section A. Southern Syria, Leiden, 1907–1921.49 P.Ness. III C.J. Kraemer Jr., Excavations at Nessana, vol. 3. Non-Literary Papyri, Princeton, 1958. P.Petr. I–IV The Petra Papyri, vol. I–IV, Amman (American Center of Oriental Research publications 4–7), 2002–2013. PTer Y.E. Meïmaris and K.I. Kritikakou-Nikolaropoulou, Inscriptions from Palaestina Tertia, vol. Ia. The Greek Inscriptions from Ghor es-Safi (Byzantine Zoora), Athens (Meletīmata 41), 2005. Wad P. Le Bas and W.H. Waddington, Inscriptions grecques et latines de la Syrie recueillies et expliquées, Paris, 1870. Wetzst J.G. Wetzstein, Ausgewählte griechische und lateinische Inschriften, gesammelt auf Reisen in den Trachonen und um das Haurângebirge, Berlin, 1864. 2.3 Presentation The discussion of each feature is supported by a representative sample of data from our corpora. When possible, a Greek transcription is accompanied by its equivalent or approximate in Nabataean, which is transcribed in Aramaic square letters, Safaitic (S), and/or Ḥismaic (H).50 Dates are also indicated when 49 50

This volume is subdivided into six parts: I: Southern Ḥawrān, II: Umm al-Jimāl (U. alJimāl), III: Boṣrā, IV: Jabal Ḥawrān and Ḥawrān Plain (Ḥawrān J&P), V: Sīʿ, VI: Lejā. For the sake of space, I have not given page number references for the Nabataean and

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available. The normalised form of the Greek transcription is presented between forward slashes. Phonemes which have no equivalent in the Greek script are given in their etymological form: thus, word initial glottal stops are normalised as /ʾ/ and the feminine ending, when transcribed in Greek by α, is normalised as /ah/. Finally, the reflex of the diphthong *ay is conventionally normalised as /ay/ when represented by αι and /ey/ when represented by ε, η, and ει; this is explained in §4.2.4. For the sake of clarity, I have removed the Greek declensional endings from normalised forms. When a Greek ending has replaced an original word final vowel or vowel + laryngeal, I have restored it in the normalisation in square brackets, e.g. Αρετου, the genitive of Αρετας, is normalised as /ḥareṯ[ah]/.

3

Phonology: Consonants

3.1 The Plain Stops *k and *t The Greek transcription of Semitic names in the Roman Near East is characterised by the regular use of the aspirated series χ, φ, θ to denote the plain Semitic voiceless stops *k, *p, and *t in all positions, and by the use of the unaspirated stops κ, τ for the Semitic emphatics *q and *ṭ. Scholars have interpreted this phenomenon in various ways.51 Altheim and Stiehl (1966: 39–58) argued that the use of the aspirated series—which were realised as fricatives in the literary Greek of this period—proves that the plain stops were pronounced as fricatives in all positions in Aramaic. The fact that words of Arabic origin were transcribed identically, e.g. Θαιμ = *taym, suggested to them that the Arabic of these regions was largely Aramaicised, and its plain stops were also pronounced as fricatives, Θαιμ = */ṯaym/.52

51

52

Safaitic names. I have drawn my data from Negev (1991), Harding (1971), King (1990), and the Online Corpus of the Inscriptions of Ancient North Arabia. I thank Michael Macdonald for allowing me access to the in-progress version of the OCIANA. For a presentation and discussion of this practice in the context of NWS, see Kutscher (1965), Altheim and Stiehl (1966), and Elitzur (2004). For a discussion of this phenomenon at Palmyra, see Stark (1971). I am generally convinced by Kutscher’s interpretation. Aramaic was an important literary language in many areas in which it has been assumed that the majority of the population were Arabic speaking. This situation makes the directionality of influence proposed by Altheim and Stiehl unexpected. Instead, one would expect the Aramaic of these regions to have become Arabicised, since it was an artificial register used in official contexts. Indeed, the use of Arabic as a literary and legal language among the Iranians and Turks did not lead to the Arabicisation of their phonology, but

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Altheim and Stiehl’s theory, at least as it pertains to the transcription of Arabic material, is easily refuted by Safaitic-Greek bilinguals, which demonstrate that the Old Arabic stops were not pronounced as fricatives even though they were transcribed by the Greek aspirated series. (1) C 2823–2824 (+ Greek)53 l s²mt … Μνησθῆ Σαμεθος … Macdonald et al. 1996: 485 J1: l hnʾ bn lbʾt … J2: Ενος Λοβαιαθου Safaitic has separate glyphs for Proto-Semitic *ṯ and *t and there is no evidence that they merged in the thousands of Safaitic inscriptions published so far.54 Thus, the transcription of s²mt as Σαμεθος proves that θ in this case transcribes [t] or [th] and not [θ]. In light of the evidence from unambiguous bilinguals, one clearly cannot infer from use of the Greek aspirated series to transcribe the voiceless Semitic stops that the latter were realised as fricatives in all positions. Kutscher (1965: 32ff.) provides an insightful historical interpretation of this transcription practice. When the Greeks took over the Canaanite alphabet (1000–900bce), they used the plain series ‫כ‬-‫פ‬-‫ ת‬to signify their unaspirated stops, producing κ-π-τ. This fact indicates that the Semitic voiceless plain stops were unaspirated in the Canaanite dialect from which the alphabet was drawn. Sometime after this point, the Semitic plain stops became aspirated.55 Once

53 54

55

rather the opposite—Arabic was pronounced according to Persian or Turkish phonology. The Greek text was restored by Milik (1960: 96–98). For Dunand’s copy, see CIS V, pl. LXVI, Dn 285. It has been claimed in the past that Ḥismaic occasionally exhibits the use of ṯ for t; however, each of these cases can be explained in other ways (Macdonald 1986: 135). On the other hand, there is clear evidence for the occasional use of ḏ for d and d for ḏ, especially in the divine name *ḏū-śaray (see King 1990: § 3, A.2). A single unpublished text in the Ḥismaic script from Wādī Ramm exhibits the consistent merger of ḏ and d (Macdonald, personal communication), but it contains no attestations of *ṯ, so it is impossible to determine if the loss of interdentals affected the voiceless series as well, or whether only *ḏ was lost, as in Ugaritic. Note, however, that these changes are in the opposite direction of the one proposed by Altheim and Stiehl for Aramaic, *ṯ > t rather than *t > ṯ. An interesting parallel is found in Mehri which preserves the glottalised realisation of the emphatic series, as probably did the Northwest Semitic languages in this early period. In these languages, Johnstone observes that aspiration of the voiceless plain consonants

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this happened, Greek κ-π-τ were no longer a suitable match for Semitic ‫כ‬-‫פ‬-‫ת‬, which were now realised as [kh], [ph], [th] in all positions. Thus, scribes turned to the Greek aspirated series, χ-φ-θ, to transcribe the plain stops. Kutscher claims that the exact realisation of the Greek aspirated series—whether as aspirated stops or fricatives—would not have affected the situation, as the motivation for this practice was the unsuitability of the unaspirated series κ-πτ for the transcription of the now aspirated Semitic stops. Al-Jallad et al. (2013) argues this from another direction: the primary reason for the association of the unaspirated Greek stops with the Arabic and, more generally, Semitic emphatics was based on the absence of aspiration in both.56 The Semitic emphatics were originally glottalic pressure sounds and, based on the comparative evidence, unaspirated.57 Even after this feature was fronted to pharyngealisation/velarisation, there is no reason to assume that aspiration was introduced. In fact, the Arabic pharyngealised stops also have an unaspirated realisation. Since the voiceless unaspirated stops of Greek were interpreted as emphatics, the aspirated series was associated with the plain stops on the basis of the perceived absence of emphasis. The question as to how χ, φ, θ were phonetically realised in the provincial Greek of the Roman Near East remains open. Provincial dialects can be conservative, and so it is entirely possible that the Greek of peripheral areas, such as Palmyra, Dura, and Provincia Arabia, maintained an older realisation of these consonants as compared to the more progressive mainland dialects.58 I think

56

57

58

plays an important role in distinguishing them from their emphatic counterparts (Rubin 2010: 14). This interpretation could have been made by speakers of a Semitic language or Greek. Semitic speakers would have judged the absence of aspiration in the Greek stops τ and κ as a symptom of “emphasis” and equated those sounds with their glottalised stops, [k’] and [t’]. If the opposite happened, Greek speakers would have interpreted the glottalised stops as κ and τ because they lacked aspiration. A similar phenomenon is perhaps encountered in modern loans into Arabic. For example, the English word “bus” is borrowed into Arabic as /bāṣ/ = [bɔ:sˁ], with an emphatic ṣ. This is probably because of the proximity of English [ʌ] to Arabic [ɔ], which is an allophone of [æ] in the vicinity of emphatic consonants. The presence of this vowel quality in the loanword appears to have signalled to speakers of Arabic the presence of an emphatic consonant. For a balanced discussion on the realisation of the Proto-Semitic emphatic consonants, see Kogan (2011: 59–61). There is a virtual consensus on the reconstruction of the emphatics as glottalised consonants in Proto-Semitic. However, the implications of this reconstruction on the realisation of the emphatic interdental *ṯ̣ and the emphatic lateral *ṣ́ remain a topic of discussion. The chronology of the change of the aspirates to fricatives remains sketchy. Most assume

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117

the evidence favours a stop rather than a fricative realisation of the Greek aspirated series. This is because the distinction between dental and velar stops and fricatives is phonemic in Semitic. Speakers of an Old Arabic dialect in which these phonemes had not merged would more likely identify the stop-fricative opposition in Greek as primary rather than the aspirated-unaspirated opposition, which was not directly phonemic in Semitic.59 Had the Greek aspirated dental stop become an interdental fricative, the Semitic voiceless series would have aligned perfectly with Greek, and we should expect to find the consistent representation of Arabic *t = [t] with τ and *ṯ = [θ] with θ, as in the Damascus Psalm Fragment. Instead, the nearly consistent transcription of Old Arabic [t] and [k] with θ and χ strongly suggests that these sounds remained aspirated stops in Greek and were probably aspirated in the Arabic varieties as well. I will discuss the reflex of *p in §3.5. For obvious reasons, it is impossible to say anything about the realization of the voiced stops, as Greek only had a single voiced series, β-γ-δ. 3.2 *ḫ and *ġ In two recent articles (2005 and 2007), R. Steiner has convincingly demonstrated that the merger of the Proto-Semitic velar/uvular fricatives *ġ and *ḫ with *ʿ and *ḥ did not occur uniformly in all varieties of Northwest Semitic, and that this merger occurred much later than has been usually assumed. Through a close analysis of materials in Greek transcription, Steiner (2005: 266) dated the change *ḫ > ḥ to about 100bce, while the merger of *ġ with ʿ occurred much earlier. The way scholars have gone about detecting these changes is to point out variation in the transcription of words containing etymological *ḫ and *ġ in Greek. The use of χ and γ for *ḫ and *ġ, respectively, indicates that the uvular

59

that this change occurred by the 1st century ce (Brixhe 2010: 235), but this is based on the idea that fricativisation occurred simultaneously in the voiced and voiceless series, and across the labial, dental, and velar stops. There is little evidence to suggest that the aspirated stops were realised as fricatives in the Egyptian papyri (Gignac 1976: 98ff.), even though it is clear that the voiced stops had already undergone the change b > β and g > γ. Another significant way in which the Greek of the Near East differed from its mainland counterpart is in the realisation of η. By the first centuries ce, η was realised as [i] in the mainland koiné (Brixhe 2010: 232), while in the Near East, it retained its [e] quality well into the 7th century. This is clearly indicated in the interchange of ε and η, even in the rendition of Semitic anthroponyms: Ταννε (PAES III.a 628) for Ταννη. By directly phonemic, I mean that no two phonemes are distinguished by aspiration alone. However, since the glottalised stops were not aspirated, the presence of aspiration indirectly signalled the phonemic distinction, plain vs emphatic, cf. n. 58.

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fricatives were preserved, while the absence of any consonantal approximation implies that they had merged with the pharyngeal fricatives. Steiner (2005: n. 154) applied this logic to Isserlin’s (1969: 23) observation regarding the representation of *ḫ in the Nessana papyri, namely, that *ḫ was never represented in the pre-conquest papyri while it was frequently, but not always, represented by χ in the post-conquest documents, thus: Αλα̣φαλλου < *ḫalaf-allāh (P.Ness. III 22, 28; 566ce) vs Χαλεδ < *ḫāled (P.Ness. III 60, 12; 674 ce). Isserlin explained this difference by stating that in the post-conquest period ‫“ خ‬was now being more noticeably pronounced than before”, but Steiner concluded instead that “Nabataean Arabic” had lost *ḫ under the influence of Nabataean Aramaic.60 A single bilingual Safaitic-Greek graffito challenges this claim, in so far as it is based on Greek transcriptions. (2) C 2823–2824 (+ Greek) l s²mt bn ḫlṣ bn ḥddn bn ʿn ḏʾl ḥg Μνησθῆ̣ Σ̣ αμε̣θος Αλ̣ ιζο̣ υ τοῦ Α̣ δδ[ι]δανου Αγγ̣ ̣ ηνος The Safaitic script distinguishes both *ḫ and *ḥ graphically and there is no evidence for a merger of the two in the thousands of published inscriptions. Moreover, since the Safaitic script was used purely for informal purposes,61 one cannot appeal to historical or etymological spellings. Instead, our author simply judged Greek χ to be an unsuitable match for the phonetic realisation of the phoneme ḫ. The same interpretation was probably behind the following bilingual Greek-Nabataean inscription from Umm al-Jimāl (c. 250 ce).62 (3) PAES IV.a 41 ‫… גדימת מלך תנוח‬

… Γαδιμαθου βασιλεὺς Θανουηνῶν … Gadīmat king of Tanūḫ

60

61 62

Steiner (2005: n. 154) argues that the ∅ rendering of *ḫ dates back as early as 200–350 ce based on the dating of a pre-Christian tombstone (by Negev 1991: 130) bearing the name Αλολεφα. While the name could transcribe *al-ḫolayfah, one cannot rule out al-ḥolayfah, based on the root √ḥlf, or even al-ʿolayfah. On the nature of these inscriptions and literacy among the nomads of the Roman Near East, see Macdonald 2009a. See Littmann 1913: 4A.41.

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119

We have no reason to believe that the /ḫ/ of Tanūḫ was ever realised as ḥ, especially since it appears in transcription in scripts which distinguish between the two as ḫ.63 This inscription indicates that Greek χ was again not used to transcribe Arabic ḫ. These facts require us to revisit two perhaps very simplified assumptions, to borrow Steiner’s term, in the historical phonology of Greek and Semitic: the phonetic realisation of Greek χ in the Roman and Byzantine Near East and the phonetic realisation of *ḫ in Old Arabic. As I have argued above, it is not necessary to assume that the Greek aspirated stops had become fricatives in the periphery dialects of the Near East. In fact, if χ did indeed shift to [x], then it is rather difficult to explain why our bilingual author chose not to represent Safaitic /ḫ/ by means of it. This decision suggests that the author judged /ḫ/ closer to the spīritus asper of Greek, which is not noted in the epigraphy, instead of the sound represented by χ. This choice strongly suggests that χ remained an aspirated stop, [kh]. Additionally, I think it tells us something about the realisation of *ḫ. The North Arabian epigraphic evidence only confirms that the two phonemes *ḫ and *ḥ did not merge; this fact, however, does not necessitate that *ḫ was realised as [χ]. While it is often asserted that the original point of articulation of this phoneme was uvular on the basis of “Arabic”, many Arabic dialects have a velar fricative reflex, as did the 8th century Arabic described by Sibawayh.64 It is possible that *ḫ was realised as a front velar fricative in our dialects, or perhaps even as a palatal fricative, [ç]. Either of these sounds could have been judged closer to the spīritus asper than the velar stop [kh].65 63

64

65

A Sabaic inscription (Sharaf 31) from Maʾrib contains the phrase ʾrḍ tnḫ “the land of Tnḫ”, clearly indicating that the ḫ remained distinct from ḥ in this word; on this inscription, see Müller (1974: 155–165). Nabataean ‫ ח‬was polyphonic, indicating both ḥ and ḫ, as it was in other forms of Aramaic and Hebrew (see Steiner 2005: 231ff.). From a structural perspective, one would expect these sounds to be velar rather than uvular fricatives. This is because there was no uvular point of articulation in the phonology of Proto-Semitic. The uvular stop, q, developed only after the loss of glottalisation. Thus, just as Proto-Semitic had a dental stop, a dental fricative, and a glottalised dental stop, one would also expect a velar stop, k, a velar fricative, ḫ, and a glottalised velar, k’. It may seem curious that in Greek transcriptions of Aramaic, post-vocalic ‫ כ‬is consistently transcribed with χ. If ‫ כ‬was spirantised, it is then strange that the sound was never transcribed with zero, as in ḫlṣ = Αλιζου. This fact could imply several things. First, if we maintain that the spirantisation of ‫ כ‬was universal, it could suggest, as I have already stated, that *ḫ in the Old Arabic dialects of our region was not realised as [x], which would be the value of a spirantised ‫כ‬, but as [ç] or something like that. However, Steiner (2007) has brilliantly argued that there is no a priori reason to assume that the entire bgdkpt

120

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The ad-hoc nature of the transcription of Semitic names into Greek, especially in individualised stelae and gravestones, allows for some variation in the interpretation of Greek-Arabic equivalents by individual scribes.66 Indeed, some scribes appear to have had the opposite judgment of the author of C 2823– 2824. Several names containing a reflex of Proto-Semitic *ḫ are transcribed by χ (see below). It is difficult to draw any chronological or geographical conclusions based on our data, as the vast majority of our attestations are undated, unevenly distributed, and certainly the product of multiple scribes. As Isserlin already pointed out, the pre-conquest Nessana documents do not transcribe *ḫ, even though *ġ seems to be represented at least once by γ, Αλγεβ /al-ġebb/ (P.Ness. III 18, 6; 537 ce). Reflexes of both *ḫ and *ġ are attested once in the Petra Papyri where they are transcribed with zero. There are no etymologically transparent occurrences of these phonemes in the epigraphy from Petra.67 In Edom, the phoneme is transcribed once with χ in the name Χαμσα /ḫamsah/ (IGLS XXI/4 129), but the inscription is undated. There are a few dated occurrences of χ-∅ variation in the names *ḫayr and *ḫayrān, but it is impossible to base any firm conclusions on these. Arabic *ḫ is transcribed with χ in the name Χαιρανο = *ḫayrān (PAES III.a 793.9) on a pre-Christian stele erected in honor of the god ʿAwm in the Lejā, dated between 213 and 232 ce.68 A similar name, Ηρανου (PAES III.a 61), is transcribed in an inscription from the southern

66

67 68

series underwent spirantisation at once. The velars were never spirantised in Samaritan Hebrew, and, as he points out, the velars *g and *k are never transcribed as fricatives in Armenian transcriptions of Syriac from the 5th century ce (ibid.: 57). It could very well be the case that in a large majority of Greek transcriptions of Aramaic, post-vocalic χ and γ simply transcribe Aramaic [kh] and [g]. Another curious piece of evidence for the late stop realisation of the velars in all positions comes from Aramaic loans into the Arabic dialect of the Qurʾān. Post-vocalic Aramaic *k is written with ‫ ك‬rather than ‫خ‬, as in ‫ ملـک‬from mlaḵ and ‫ مىكىل‬from mīḵāʾel (I thank my friend Adam Strich for bringing these two anomalies to my attention). The latter name is re-borrowed at a later point into Arabic as ‫ ميخائيل‬/mīḫāʾīl/. The Safaitic inscriptions also attest the presence of an Aramaic without post-vocalic spirantisation. The Semitic name of Palmyra, Tadmur, appears consistently in Safaitic as tdmr rather than tḏmr (see C 663, C 1649, C 1664 and C 1665). This could be compared to the way English speakers, who do not possess a velar or uvular fricative, choose to realise Arabic ḫ. Thus ḫālid is approximated as /haled/ or /kaled/, although the influence of orthography plays a larger role in the case of English. The frequently occurring name Αλφιος and Ολφιος (see IGLS XXI/4, index) could go back to either ḫlf or ḥlf, and could also reflect an Aramaic source rather than Arabic. The stele is securely dated to the first half of the 3rd century. For a detailed discussion of the dating, see PAES III.a: 405–406.

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121

Ḥawrān dated to 327ce, but this could also be interpreted as a transcription of the name ḥayrān, from the root √ḥyr, attested as ḥyrn and ḥrn in Safaitic.69 The short form, ḫayr, is attested even earlier, as the patronymic of a priest of Dusares from Milāḥ iṣ-Ṣarrār (Ḥawrān J&P, see n. 52), Ναγιος Χαιρου, i.e. Nāgī son of Ḫayr, dated to 164ce. This spelling occurs two other times in PAES III.a, but they are undated. Wad 2200 records an undated inscription where the name is spelled Χερο. By far the most common spelling of the short form is Ηρος, attested eight times in PAES III.a, but unfortunately none of these is dated.70 Secure evidence for the rendition of *ḫ with χ in a Christian inscription comes from the Lejā: Ὑιὸς Θ(ε)οῦ Χρ(ιστὀς) Ἰωάννου Χοδαμ (PAES III.a 793.7), where the name Χοδαμ should be connected to the Arabic root *ḫdm, probably *ḫodām or *ḫodam.71 The issue of Arabic versus Aramaic pronunciation should also be considered. One might suggest that the forms without χ reflect Aramaicised renditions of Arabic names containing this phoneme. At first glance, this appears to be a compelling hypothesis, as both *ḫayr and *ḫayrān lack a plene spelling of the diphthong when the χ is absent, correlating nicely with the reduction of diphthongs in the Aramaic of this period.72 However, we find the name spelled with the diphthong and without the χ in the compound name Αιρειηλου /ḫayrī-ʾel/ in PAES III.a 674. The spellings Αιραν- and Αιρ- are also common at Palmyra,73 and then there is Wad 2200 Χερο < *ḫayrō. These facts indicate that the correlation between χ and the αι rending of the diphthong is simply coincidence in Littmann’s corpus. Another important question to consider is: how would an Aramaic speaker pronounce Arabic /ḫ/? If the Aramaic stops had undergone spirantisation, then there is no reason to assume that ḫ could not be pronounced authentically. If, on the other hand, spirantisation had not yet spread to the velar stops, there is still no good reason to assume Arabic /ḫ/ would have been borrowed/pronounced as /ḥ/. Phoenician, which also

69

70 71 72

73

The personal name ḥrn is attested in SIJ 550 and KRS 3167, while ḥyrn is attested once in SIT 40. According to the medieval lexicographers, ḥayrān is a place in which water collects, and ḥyr is a place of pasturage (Lane: 685a–b). It is impossible to determine on the basis of Nabataean spellings which name was intended. These are PAES III.a 330, 335, 365, 448, 459, 468, 487, 797.6, but they could also transcribe ḥr = */ḥayr/. WH 1020 ḫdm could be the same name. I am aware that both αι and η were realised as [e] in the Greek of our period; however, the plene spelling αι of the Arabian diphthong must be considered separately. See below, § 4.2.4.2. See Wuthnow (1930: 15).

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lacked ḫ, rendered Demotic ḫ and ẖ with ‫ כ‬instead of ‫ח‬,74 and the same would have probably been true of an Aramaic with a similar phonological repertoire. Given the distribution of the data, and bearing in mind the aforementioned Safaitic and Nabataean-Greek bilinguals, it is impossible to determine with any certainty if the transcription of /ḫ/ with χ is an older feature, signalling the gradual weakening of this phoneme in our dialects, or simply a less common choice made by some scribes in their attempt to approximate this foreign sound in Greek. The phoneme *ġ is also frequently left unrepresented in transcription. The absence of some type of consonantal representation, again, does not require us to assume a merger with *ʿ; however, we lack confirmation of this practice as no known Safaitic- or Arabic-Greek bilingual inscription contains this consonant. While the reflex of *ḫ was probably compatible with the spīritus asper in both voicelessness and fricativisation, *ġ was voiced, and so scribes were more likely to represent the sound with the voiced γ [g], despite the fact that Greek γ had not yet become a fricative. That it was left unrepresented in many cases could suggest that the Old Arabic reflex was realised as a velar approximant,75 rather than a uvular fricative, and represented in transcription by a hiatus between two vowels or zero in word initial position. To conclude, the use of the Greek aspirated series rather than the unaspirated series to represent the Arabic voiceless stops indicates that the Greek aspirated stops were not yet fricatives and that the Arabic stops were probably aspirated. The Greek script cannot enlighten us with regard to the pronunciation of the unemphatic voiced stop series, *g, *d, and *b. The non-notation of the reflexes of *ġ and *ḫ does not constitute conclusive proof for their loss or merger with *ḥ and *ʿ. On the contrary, the scattered representation of *ḫ with χ and *ġ with γ in the epigraphy and papyri from all regions and time periods does not support the idea that these sounds were lost.

74 75

For a discussion of this phenomenon in the context of spirantisation in Northwest Semitic, see Steiner (2005: n. 5 and n. 153). This sound is found, for example, in Spanish pagar.

123

graeco-arabica i: the southern levant Representation of *ḫ

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

IGLS XXI/4 129 GL 432d PAES III.a 793.9 PAES III.a 706 Wad 1967

Χαμσα Χαλιπος Χαιρανης Χαιρου Χαλδη

/ḫamsah/ /ḫalīp(?)/ /ḫayrān/ /ḫayr/ /ḫaldē/

Edom P. Ḥawrān Lejā Lejā Ḥawrān

– ‫חליפו‬/ḫlf (S) ḫrn (S) ‫חיר‬/ḫr (S) ‫חלדי‬/ḫld (S)

– – – 164ce –

No representation of *ḫ

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

IGLS XIII/2 9574 PAES III.a 139 PAES III.a 757.6 P.Ness. III 22, 22

Ηρανου76 Αλδου Ηρος Αλαφαλλου

S. Ḥawrān S. Ḥawrān Lejā Nessana

Αρβαθ-

Petra

ḫrn (S) ‫חלדי‬/ḫld (S) ‫חיר‬/ḫr (S) ‫חלפאלהי‬/ḫlflh (S) –

327ce – – 566ce

P.Petr. II 17.2, 107–108

/ḫeyrān/ /h̬ ald[ē]/ /ḫeyr/ /ḫalafall[āh]/ /ḫarbat/

Sem

Date

‫עותו‬/ġṯ (S)

– 327ce – 386ce – 537 ce

505–537ce

Representation of *ġ

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Eph II 329.65 IGLS XIII-2 9574 PAES III.a 211 PAES III.a 734 PAES III.a 786.1 P.Ness. III 18, 6

Γαυθος Γιη̣ ου Γεαρου Μογεαιρος Μογεερος Αλγεβ

/ġawṯ/ /ġiyey/ /ġeyyār/ /moġeyyir/ /moġeyyer/ /al-ġebb/

Ḥawrān S. Ḥawrān S. Ḥawrān Sīʿ Lejā Nessana

76

– ‫עיר‬/ġyr (S) mġyr (S) mġyr (S) ġb (S)

When the etymological diphthong *ay is transcribed by Greek ε and η, I have normalised it as /ey/. This is justified in § 4.2.4.

124

al-jallad No representation of *ġ

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

PAES III.a 196 PAES III.a 197 PAES III.a 504 PAES III.a 696

Ανεμος Αυθου Αυθαλλου Μοεαρος77

/ġānem/ /ġawṯ/ /ġawṯall[ah]/ /moġe(yy)ar/

‫ענם‬/ġnm (S) ‫עותו‬/ġṯ (S) ‫עותאלהי‬

mġyr (S)

– 380ce – 372ce

P.Petr. II 17.2, 194–195

Αλεβους

/ġāleb/

S. Ḥawrān S. Ḥawrān U. al-Jimāl Ḥawrān J&P Petra

‫עלב‬/ġlb (S)

505–537ce

3.3 Interdentals There is some indirect evidence for the preservation of the plain voiceless interdental fricative: the occasional transcription of *ṯ with τ. Sartre (1985: 192–193) suggested that this practice reflected the loss of interdentals, but his interpretation is based on the assumption that the Greek of the Near East realised theta as [θ]. Even if Arabic ṯ shifted to t, one would still not expect it to be represented by τ, which was usually reserved for the emphatic dental, ṭ. The fact that *ṯ is sometimes written with τ makes complete sense in light of the discussion in the previous section, namely, that Near Eastern Greek had no equivalent to Arabic [θ]. Thus, scribes were left to choose between [th] = θ and [t] = τ to approximate this foreign sound.

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Eph II 329.65 Eph II 336 M IGLS XIII/2 9527 PAES III.a 350

Γαυθος78 Αουιτος Γαυτος Αυιθου

/ġawθ/ /ġawīθ/ /ġawθ/ /ġawīθ/

Ḥawrān Ḥawrān Boṣrā U. al-Jimāl

77

78

Sem

Date

‫עותו‬/ġṯ (S)

– – 334–335ce –

– ‫עותו‬/ġṯ (S)

–

This name could also transcribe mʿyr, which is attested eleven times in the Safaitic inscriptions, as compared to the over one hundred attestations of mġyr. There is no reason to assume an etymological connection between these two names; the former can be derived from the root ʿyr “to journey” and the latter from ġyr “to change/exchange”. The commonest rendition of this name is Αυθος, attested eleven times with this spelling in PAES III.a, no. 159, 173, 197, 385, 387, 417, 481, 482, 483, 515, 516.

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125

In contrast to the variation above, the representation of *ṯ with τ is dominate in the transcription of the Nabataean royal name, ‫ חרתת‬/ḥāreṯat/. Variation is encountered when ‫ חרתת‬is a component of a basileophoric name, compare Aβδοαρθα (PTer 21) to Αβδαρετας (Eph II 334b). To complicate matters further, several variants of this name are attested in the Safaitic inscriptions, ḥrṯt, ḥrtt, and ḥrt. As already stated, even if we appeal to a merger of *ṯ and *t in some dialects to t, which is suggested by the Safaitic spellings, its nearly consistent notation with τ in Greek is unexpected.79 Cantineau (1978: 38) attributed the spelling of ‫ חרתת‬as Αρετας to folketymologisation, but this is hard to believe. The name was Hellenised rather early, as evidenced by Greek literary texts and coins dated to the 2nd and 1st centuries bce (see below §5.1.2), and its consistent spelling probably reflects a learned tradition, especially considering how popular the name was and its regal background. Nevertheless, the choice to represent /ṯ/ with τ in the first place points to a lack of [θ] in Greek. 3.4 The Problem of *p The existence of an early /p/ in Arabic is suggested by the realisation of /p/ as /f/ in loanwords: e.g. *pars > fars; *παράδεισος > firdaws. Since foreign /p/ was borrowed in the historical period with /b/, the /f/ realisation in these loans suggests that they entered Arabic before the *p > f sound change operated, and, consequently, experienced the shift along with native vocabulary. Since Greek φ was likely still [ph] in our region, it cannot be taken as proof for the /f/ realisation of *p in transcriptions; word-initial *p in transcriptions of Aramaic words is also given with φ. Moreover, Semitic speakers did not seem to consider Greek π the equivalent of Semitic *p, as indicated by the fact that Syriac scribes devised a new glyph to transcribe Greek words containing this sound (Kutscher 1965: 31). The same, it seems, was true in Ethiopic, where its unaspirated nature was realised as glottalisation, and the phoneme was

79

The presence of a final t in the Safaitic form cannot stand as exclusive evidence for the realisation of the name as */ḥāreṯat/ instead of /ḥāreṯa(h)/ Nabataean. In a NabataeanḤismaic bilingual from southern Jordan, the name Zydw in the Nabataean portion is transcribed as zydt in Ḥismaic (Hayajneh 2009: 210). One could hypothesise that some varieties attested in the ANA scripts would sometimes augment words terminating in a final vowel with t. At the same time, this interpretation would imply that the feminine ending was realised as /ā/ rather than /ah/ in the dialect from which it was taken over. The name ḥrt would likely reflect an Aramaic calque of Arabic ʾal-ḥāreṯ, perhaps */ḥārtā/, and in this case, unaugmented by the t. The absence of spirantisation in the dental stops of at least some varieties of Aramaic is clear from other loans into Safaitic; see n. 65.

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represented by a glyph representing aglottalised [p’].80 Given that the Greek φ was still likely [ph], it is impossible to say with certainty what the reflex of Proto-Semitic *p was in Old Arabic. The curious transcription of the Nabataean name ‫ חליפו‬as Χαλιπος (GL 432d) could indicate that the sound had already become /f/, and scribes teetered between φ [ph] and π [p] to represent it, analogous to the fluxuation in the representation of *ṯ. However, the fact that representations of *p with π are much rarer than the representations of *ṯ with τ could suggest that the Old Arabic reflex of *p found a transparent equivalent in Greek φ [ph]. 3.5 The Pharyngeal and Uvular Fricatives The pharyngeal fricatives are probably never represented consonantally in our material. Some scholars have interpreted Wad 2112 (bis)81 Χαρητος as a rendition of the Nabataean royal name ‫חרתת‬. However, in addition to the problematic representation of ḥ, the final vowel of this name is α(ς), reflecting the final feminine ending -a(h), rather than ος.82 Even if one assumes that this transcription reflects */ḥāreṯ/, without the feminine ending, the absence of the article is unexpected. No consonantal representation of etymological ʿ has been attested in our area. Very rarely an extra vowel appears where there is an ʿ, e.g. IGLS XIII/2 9531b Θααμαρη for /taʿmar/. However, this name is almost always attested as Θαμαρη,83 suggesting that the extra α reflects an ultra-short vowel which emerged from the passage from ʿ to m, perhaps something like /taʿămar/, rather than a convention devised to represent the pharyngeal. 3.5.1 ḥ Transcribed by Ὑ One instance of hypsilon is attested at Muʿarribeh, in the name Υφφαλ[ος] (IGLS XIII/2 9698, Ḥawrān J&P), which is accompanied by a fragmented Nabataean inscription: [‫חפל]ו בר[ תימ]ו‬. The Greek indicates that Nabataean ‫ חפלו‬had a high vowel in the initial syllable, probably /ḥuffāl/. The spelling of *u with υ rather than ο probably says little about the realization of the vowel. It seems, instead, that the author wished to approximate consonantal ḥ with ὑ, despite any qualitative mismatch in vowels.

80 81 82 83

The glottalized /p’/ occurs almost exclusively in Greek loanwords. See Kogan (2011: 80) for a discussion of this phoneme. = CIG 4595 = Wad 2114, Eph I p. 335 no. 96. The name Αρετος, however, is known in the papyri of Egypt (Preisigke 1922: col. 506). This spelling is attested six times in IGLS XIII/2, see index, p. 355.

127

graeco-arabica i: the southern levant

Another attestation of the use of word-initial hypsilon for Arabic /ḥ/ is found in P.Petr. III 23, 8 (544ce): Υναυ ελθα[ι]ς /ḥinaw el-tays/. The edition correctly connects the first term to Arabic ḥinw- “the bending part of a valley” (Lane: 661b); however, the final /aw/ is left unexplained (on this, see § 4.2.7).84 3.6 *g The transcription of *g exclusively with γ seems to point away from the Classical Arabic pronunciation ǧ [d͡ʒ], suggesting instead a velar stop [g] as in some contemporary dialects of Arabic. While Greek lacked an exact equivalent to Classical Arabic [d͡ʒ], one encounters several strategies in transcriptions of the Islamic period to approximate this sound, e.g. Γιαφαρ85 */ǧaʿfar/ (Wuthnow 1930: 41); Κλουτζ */ḫlūǧ/ (ibid.: 64); Νεσζιδ */neǧīd/(?) (ibid.: 83). However, the general absence of these types of digraphs makes this difference less significant. From a phonetic perspective, γ, which was likely realised in the Greek of our region and period as [g], is a rather unsuitable match for both [d͡ʒ] and [ʒ]. Instead, just as σ stood for the palatal š [ʃ] in transcriptions of Aramaic, one would expect ζ to signal [d͡ʒ] or [ʒ]. While the absence of any special transcriptional conventions cannot stand as conclusive evidence for the realisation of this phoneme as [g], without evidence to the contrary, there is no reason to assume a change from the phoneme’s original value, [g].

Siglum

Norm

Prov

Sem

IGLS XIII/2 9601 Γοσ̣ αμος IGLS XXI/2 118 Αβγαρ PAES III.a 711 Ζαγλος

/gośam/ /abgar/ /zagl/

‫גשםו‬/gs²m (S) – ‫אבגר‬/ʾbgr (S) 108–109 ce

P.Ness. III 24, 6 P.Petr. II 17.2, 198–199

/al-ʾagrad/ /gannat-/

S. Ḥawrān Madaba Ḥawrān J&P Nessana Petra

84 85

Data

Αλαγραδ Γανναθ-

Date

zgl (S)

315 ce

ʾgrd (S) –

569ce 505–537ce

Note that the use of hypsilon does not necessarily imply that the vowel of the first syllable was /u/ or /o/. Greek ü is equally distant from /i/ as it is from /u/. The use of the ι following the γ was meant to signal the [j] allophone of the sound (Brixhe 2010: 235), which was probably the closest approximate to Arabic /ǧ/ in the Greek of Egypt.

128

al-jallad

3.7 The Emphatic Consonants In addition to a voiced and voiceless series, the Semitic languages possess a third series of consonants—traditionally termed emphatic—which were glottalized. These consonants were by virtue of glottalisation unvoiced.

(4) Voiceless Voiced Glottalized (emphatic) t ṯ ts ɬ k

d ḏ dz l g

t’ = *ṭ ṯ’ = *ṯ̣ ts’= *ṣ tɬ’ = *ṣ́ k’ = *q

It has been assumed that glottalisation was fronted in Arabic to what has been termed variously in the literature pharyngealisation, uvularisation, or velarisation.86 While Greek transcriptions allow us to determine the voice features of this series, it is impossible to decide whether they remained glottalised or if they had already become pharyngealised.87 It is perhaps significant that vowels are not qualitatively affected by adjacent emphatics until the 6th century in Petra. But this may equally indicate that vowels simply had not yet developed lowered allophones, and does not rule out the existence of pharyngealisation. The presence of lowering in the Petra Papyri, on the other hand, does seem to point towards pharyngealisation. For the sake of neutrality, I will indicate the

86

87

Faber has argued that pharyngealisation was a common Central Semitic sound change, based on Hebrew forms such as niṣṭaddāq, but Huehnergard (2005: 165–166) expresses doubts. I will conventionally refer to the non-glottalised realisation of the emphatics as “pharyngealisation” in this paper. Knauf has argued that these consonants remained glottalised in Nabataean Arabic on the supposed equivalence of Nabataean ‫ אלטמו‬with the Greek transcription Ελθεμος. Knauf (1984: n. 15) interpreted the use of θ for Arabian ṭ as sign of glottalisation, but I find this unlikely. As mentioned above with regard to Mehri, aspiration seems to be an important feature of the non-emphatic consonants, meaning that the glottalised consonants were characterised as being unaspirated. Moreover, there is no reason to assume a connection between these two names in the first place. As Knauf states, the name ʾltm occurs in the ANA epigraphy and is a more suitable match. Finally, even if such a connection is correct, this would reflect a minority situation, as the reflex of Nabataean ‫ ט‬is almost always represented by τ in transcription.

129

graeco-arabica i: the southern levant

secondary point of articulation, when unclear, by a subscript dot rather than making a choice between pharyngealisation and glottalisation. 3.7.1 *ṭ The emphatic dental stop *ṭ is consistently represented by τ, indicating that the sound was voiceless and unaspirated.

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

IGLS XIII/1 9215 PAES III.a 94 PAES III.a 372 PAES III.a 399 PAES III.a 785 P.Ness. III 79, 67 GIN 488

Ατρη Χασετος Ατισανου Οταιτου Αμταρης Κοτεμου Χασετου

/ʾaṭr/ /kāseṭ/ /ʿaṭīśān/ /ḥoṭayṭ/ /ʾamṭar/ /qoṭeym/ /kāseṭ/

Boṣrā S. Ḥawrān U. al-Jimāl U. al-Jimāl Lejā Nessana Oboda

‫אטרו‬

– – – – – 601–625ce –

ks¹ṭ (S) ʿṭs²n (S) ḥṭṭ (S) – – ks¹ṭ (S)

3.7.2 The Emphatic Sibilant/Affricate *ṣ The reflex of *ṣ [ts’] is in all but one case represented by σ, indicating that the sound was voiceless. The issue of affrication and the nature of its emphatic realisation are more difficult to determine. Steiner is skeptical about the possibility of an affricated ṣ in early Arabic, but much of his reservations come from a belief that Sibawayh’s description of the sound held true for all the spoken varieties of his time and earlier.89 The material relevant for the realisation of ṣ in the Islamic period has been assembled in Steiner (1982: 75–81). Of this, the rendition of the name Nessāna is of special interest. Steiner (ibid.: 77–79) noticed that the name was spelled Νεσσανα in the pre-conquest documents, while by the late 7th century, its transcription changed to Νεστανα, correspond-

88 89

Negev connects this name with Nabataean ‫קשטו‬, but χ is only very rarely used for this purpose. Steiner (1982: 78–79) treats Sibawayh’s classification of the ‫ ص‬with sīn and zāy as evidence for its realisation as a fricative. However, Sibawayh groups consonants together on the basis of place rather than manner of articulation. For example, he groups ‫ ج‬with ‫ ش‬and ‫ ي‬in a single class, even though the first is an affricate, the second a fricative, and the third an approximant. It could very well be the case that ‫ ص‬was an affricate in the Arabic known to Sibawayh, and that his ‫“ الصاد التى كالسين‬the ṣād which is like the sīn” refers to a deaffricated realisation of this phoneme rather than an “unemphatic” variant.

130

al-jallad

ing to ‫ نصان‬in the Arabic documents. Naturally, this seems to indicate that the the indigenous Arabic dialect of the town did not possess an affricated reflex of *ṣ while the dialect brought in by the Muslim conquerors did. Matters are complicated, however, by the fact that σ is used to render affricates as well. Steiner (ibid.: 60–65) demonstrates that Punic maintained an affricated realization of this phoneme, but still the most common Greek transcription was σ, although both τ and στ were occasionally used. Perhaps the absence of any variation of this sort in our corpora suggests that the phoneme was deaffricated, especially in light of the fact that the digraph στ was available. Evidence for deaffrication might also be gleaned from the Safaitic inscriptions. Authors of these texts render Greek and Latin [s] with both ṣ or s¹: (5)90 KRS 1507 KRS 1507 KRS 3160 AbaNS 656

grgs¹ ʾqlds¹ tts¹ mrṭs¹

Γρηγόρης claudius titus Μύρτος

LP 653 KRS 1023 KRS 1024 KRS 1991

grmnqṣ grfṣ hrdṣ flfṣ

germanicus Ἀγρίππας Ἡρῴδης Φίλιππος

This type of variation could suggest several things. The first possibility is that ṣ and s¹ were essentially identical, with the exception of emphasis, a feature with no counterpart in Greek. This would suggest that *ṣ was deaffricated, but still does not rule out a glottalised secondary articulation, [s’] (see below). On the other hand, it may be the case that s¹ represented a dental sibilant while Greek sigma was realised as an apical s, [s̺], as it is in Modern Greek. This would render neither s¹ nor ṣ the equivalent of plain [s]. As a result, authors fluctuated between the plain and emphatic sibilants in their transcription of the sound. This scenario, however, still admits the possibility that *ṣ was an affricate. The point of articulation of the affricate may have been further back than the dental sibilant, and therefore authors could approximate the sound through point and sacrifice manner with ṣ or through manner and sacrifice point with s¹. That the same variation is found in Latin loans suggests that a similar situation was true of its voiceless sibilant. It is also possible that Latin names entered the Arabic dialects of this region through Greek. The nature of *ṣ’s emphatic feature is even more difficult to determine. If *ṣ was deaffricated, it may have catalysed the development of pharyngealisation. While glottalised s [s’] is attested, glottalised fricatives are rather rare crosslinguistically. Deaffrication might have then fronted the secondary point of

90

I have excluded qṣr = Καῖσαρ as it is very possible that the term entered Safaitic via Aramaic.

131

graeco-arabica i: the southern levant

articulation to the pharynx or uvula, *[ts’] > *[s’] > *[sˁ]. Nevertheless, one cannot rule out the realisation of this phoneme as a glottalised [s’]. The only instance of *ṣ transcribed with ζ occurs in a damaged context in the aforementioned Safaitic-Greek bilingual, C 2823–2824 ḫlṣ = Αλιζο̣ υ. It is hard to draw any conclusions based on a single example, but it could be the case that some of the dialects inscribed in the Safaitic script possessed a voiced reflex of this phoneme. One can rule out the transcription with ζ as an attempt to represent an affricate with [zd], since this sound had long since become [z].91

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

IGLS XIII/1 p. 382 IGLS XIII/1 9260 PAES III.a 64 P.Petr. II 17.1, 87 P.Petr. II 17.l, 177 P.Ness. III 28, Fr2 P.Ness. III 25, 6

Μοσβεος

/moṣbeḥ/

Boṣrā

mṣbḥ (S)

–

Φοσεαθη Aλασσας Φοσεα Ασαφιρ Αλασβι ̣

/foṣeyyat/ /ḫalāṣah/ /foṣeyyah/ /ʿaṣāfīr/ /al-ʿaṣbī/

Boṣrā S. Ḥawrān Petra Petra Nessana

~ ‫פצי‬/ fṣyt (S) ‫חלצת‬/ḫlṣt (S) ~ ‫פצי‬/ fṣyt (S) – ~ʿṣb (S)

– – 505–537ce 505–537ce 572ce

Ολεσου̣

/ḫoleyṣ/

Nessana

‫חליצו‬

569ce

To sum up, it seems that the only thing we can determine with certainty is that *ṣ was voiceless. The absence of any attempt to represent affrication in transcription seems to suggest, although not prove, that the sound was deaffricated. This is further supported by transcriptions of Greek and Latin names in the Safaitic script, which seems to suggest that s¹ = [s] and ṣ were realised identically with the exception of “emphasis”; however, other possibilities exist. It is not possible to determine whether the sound was glottalised or pharyngealised. 3.7.3 *ṯ̣ = ẓ In the vast majority of cases, *ṯ̣ is represented with τ, which indicates that the sound was unaspirated and voiceless, probably [θ̣]. This value is attested in both Safaitic-Greek and Arabic-Greek bilingual inscriptions.

91

The change to [z] seems to have already begun in the 4th century bc (Allen 1968: 56).

132

al-jallad

(6) Harran Inscription (Arabic-Greek bilingual) Σαραηλος Ταλεμου = srḥyl br ṭlmw ‫* سرحىل ىر طلمو‬/śaraḥ(ʾ)el bar ṯạ̄ lemō/92 (7) WH 1860 (= Greek 2) (Safaitic-Greek bilingual) Ουαβαλλας Ταννηλου = whblh bn ẓnʾl */wahballāh ṯạ nnʾel/ This equivalence is also abundantly attested in monolingual Greek epigraphy.

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

IGLS XIII/1 9348 PAES III.a 151 PAES III.a 316 PAES III.a 351 PAES III.a 628

Ναταμος Ταβιαθη Ιατουρος Ταβιαθη Ταννε

/naṯạ m/ /ṯạ byat/ /yaṯụ̄ r/ /ṯạ byat/ /ṯạ nn/

nẓm (S) – yẓr (S) ẓbyt (S) ‫טננו‬/ẓn (S)

– – – – –

Wetzst 152

Ναταμελου

/naṯạ m-el/

Boṣrā S. Ḥawrān U. al-Jimāl U. al-Jimāl Ḥawrān J&P Lejā

nẓmʾl (S)

–

3.7.3.1 *ṯ̣ Transcribed by ζ In the Nessana papyri and the 6th-century epigraphy from the Negev (GIPT); (GIN), *ṯ̣ seems to be consistently transcribed with ζ. The only etymologically transparent case is the name Ζοναιν-, and variant spellings thereof, attested in thirty-two documents in the pre-conquest material and abundantly in the epigraphy. Ζοναιν- is the diminutive of the root √ṯṇ n, *ṯụ nayn, which is attested across various scripts.93 The non-diminutive form is encountered once in a post-conquest document (P.Ness. III 76, 81) as Ζαννος /ẓ́ann/, the equivalent of southern Syrian Ταννος = /ṯạ nn/ (IGLS XIII/2 9815). The consistency of this transcription suggests that *ṯ̣ had a different phonetic quality in the 6th-century Negev than it did in epigraphic material from southern Syria and most of Jordan. The use of ζ makes it unlikely that the sound was realised as [ðˁ], that is, the pharyngealised counterpart of *ḏ [ð], as in Classical Arabic. Such a sound would have surely been represented by δ, just as the

92

93

It is often suggested that br was used as an ideogram in the early Arabic inscriptions, and was actually pronounced as (i)bin. For a recent discussion of this inscription and bibliography, see Mascitelli (2006: 183–187). I believe we owe this identification to Wuthnow.

133

graeco-arabica i: the southern levant

plain interdental ḏ in these documents, e.g. P.Ness. III 24, 3 (569 ce) Αουιδου = */ʿawīḏ/. Instead, ζ suggests another quality altogether, possibly a voiced emphatic lateral fricative, which was probably pharyngealized, ẓ́ = [ɮˁ] or affricate [d͡ɮˁ]. (8) The representation of *ṯ̣ Etymological Safaitic Nabataean S. Syria Nessana *ṯṇ n

ẓnn

‫טננו‬

Ταννος

Ζαννος/Ζοναινος

*ṯụ nayn at Nessana and the Negev

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

GIN 19 GIPT 20 GIPT 57

Αζοναινη94 Ζοναινος Αβου Ζοναινου Ζοναινος

/aẓ́onayn/? /ẓ́onayn/ /ʾabūẓ́onayn/ /ẓ́onayn/

Oboda see (8) Beersheba see (8) Khalaṣa see (8)

576ce 543–544ce 565ce

Nessana

569ce

P.Ness. III 24, 2

Sem

see (8)

Date

P.Petr. III 36, 113 possibly attests the transcription of this phoneme by ζ, if the personal name Αχζαμος reflects the elative of the root √kṯm ̣ , /ʾakẓ́am/. While this root is common in Arabic personal names, it is important to note that the name kzm has appeared in Safaitic, so this connection is only tentative.95 3.7.4 *ṣ́ The traditional transcription of this phoneme in both Arabist and Semiticist literature, ḍ, is regrettable. It has no basis in the phonological description of Arabic by Sibawayh, but instead reflects an artificial medieval and modern pronunciation.96 The Arabic glyph ‫ ض‬signals the reflex of *ṣ,́ the emphatic

94 95 96

The origin of the preformative α in this name, which is the feminine counterpart of Ζοναιν-, is unclear. See WH 2563. Sibawayh describes the point of articulation of this sound as: ‫ل حافة اللسان وما‬ ِ ‫م ِن بين أَّو‬

‫“ يلَيها من الأضراس‬between the front edge of the tongue and the adjacent molars”; see the

134

al-jallad

counterpart of the lateral *ś [ɬ], which was, according to most reconstructions, either [ɬ’] or [t͡ɬ’].97 That its reflex in our dialects was voiceless and not a stop or interdental is clear from its transcription with σ. There is no evidence for the merger of this sound with *ṣ in any variety of Arabic. Therefore, it stands to reason that it remained a voiceless emphatic lateral. Much of what was said in our discussion of *ṣ holds true here. There is no evidence that this phoneme included a dental occlusive onset in our transcriptions. If one adopts the view that *ṣ was deaffricated and pharyngealised, then it is rather unlikely that *ṣ́ did not follow suit. In this case, one could tentatively posit the realization [ɬˁ]. However, if pharyngealisation did not follow deaffrication, then [ɬ’] is also possible, even though it is typologically rare. Whatever might be the case, the realisation encountered here is distinct from the lateral described by Sibawayh and the realisation of this phoneme in several older Arabic loanwords into other languages.98

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

PAES III.a 308 PAES III.a 361 PAES III.a 448 PAES III.a 458 PAES III.a 491

Ρασαουαθος Ρασουα Ρασαουαθος Ρασαουαθος Ρασαουαθος

/raṣā́ wat/ /raṣw ́ āʾ/ /raṣā́ wat/ /raṣā́ wat/ /raṣā́ wat/

U. al-Jimāl U. al-Jimāl U. al-Jimāl U. al-Jimāl U. al-Jimāl

‫רצות‬/rḍwt (S) ‫רצוא‬/rḍw (S) ‫רצות‬/rḍwt (S) ‫רצות‬/rḍwt (S) ‫רצות‬/rḍwt (S)

– – – – –

97

98

Sibawayh Project http://sydney.edu.au/arts/research_projects/sibawiki/demo/bas565.txt .htm. The original lateral quality of this phoneme is not disputed; however, some scholars have provided structural arguments as to why the phoneme should be reconstructed as a lateral affricate, as glottalised laterals are typologically uncommon. For a balanced discussion of the different viewpoints, see Kogan (2011: 71). Even if this is the case, affrication could not have been phonemic, as it did not contrast with other laterals. Instead, it must be treated as a consequence of glottalisation, which formed a minimal pair with its plain counterpart, ś [ɬ]. In loans into Malay and Spanish, the Arabic reflex of *ṣ́ is borrowed as ld, dl, or simply l, perhaps signalling [d͡ɮ’] or [ɮʿ]; see Versteegh (2013). These nicely correspond with the transcription of the deity *Rḍw in the cuneiform sources as ru-ul-da-a-u, probably */ruẓ́aw(u)/, where ẓ́ is a voiced emphatic lateral. This transcription reflects the pronunciation of the deity’s name at ancient Dūmah, whence this idol, along with five others, was captured by Sennacherib in the early 7th century bc. The transcription a-a-u could reflect an attempt to represent the final diphthong /aw/ or /āw/, for which no orthographic convention in neo-Assyrian existed.

135

graeco-arabica i: the southern levant

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

PAES III.a 492 PAES III.a 491 PAES III.a 569 PAES III.a 643

Ρασαουαθος Ρασαουαθου Ρασουου Σοαιφαθη

/raṣā́ wat/ /raṣā́ wat/ /raṣw ́ [ā]/ /ṣó ʿayfat-/

‫רצות‬/rḍwt (S) ‫רצות‬/rḍwt (S) ‫רצוא‬/rḍw (S)

ḍʿf (S)

– – – –

Eph II 330.78

Σαβετος

/ṣā́ beṭ/

U. al-Jimāl U. al-Jimāl Boṣrā Ḥawrān J&P Ḥawrān

ḍbṭ (S)99

–

While no true bilingual Safaitic-Greek inscriptions with a representation of this phoneme have been discovered, it is encountered in a Greek inscription authored by a man who bore a name which has, so far, only been attested in the Safaitic script, Χεσεμαν = kḥs¹mn */keḥsemān/, and who calls himself a Ḍayfite, a social group whose members have produced numerous Safaitic inscriptions.100 Consistent with the above observations, this graffito Hellenises the gentilic form of the tribe ḍf, ḍfy, as Σαιφηνος */śạ yf-/. 3.7.4.1 *ṣ́ as ζ at Nessana and Petra It appears that the reflex of *ṣ́ at Nessana was represented by ζ, suggesting that it had merged with the reflex of *ṯ.̣ This is found in the etymologically transparent name Ζαβεου, which must be a reflex of the common name ḍbʿ and ḍbʿt, attested so far eighty-six times in the Safaitic inscriptions.101 The second occurrence is found in the tribal name Ζαμζαμα, if it should be connected with Ḍamḍam.102 A single attestation at Petra confirms a similar realisation. The toponym Μαζεκα likely reflects an underlying /maẓ́ēqah/ < *maṣī́ qah/, a noun of place derived

99 100 101

102

There is also a name, s¹bṭ, attested in the Safaitic inscriptions. See Macdonald et al. (1996: 483). This statistic comes from the Online Corpus of the Inscriptions of Ancient North Arabia, which is currently in progress and will be published in the near future. I thank M.C.A. Macdonald for giving me access to the pre-published version. The partially published form is available at: http://krcfm.orient.ox.ac.uk/fmi/webd#ociana. Consideration may also be given to the name ẓby; however, since the Safaitic script does not indicate final vowels of any length, this form must reflect a diminutive ẓobayy, which would appear as Ζοβε- or Ζοβαι- in transcription. The detection of this name’s counterpart in Syria is difficult since it would appear as Σαβα/ε-, which could also be interpreted as the name /ṣabāḥ/ or /ṣabeḥ/, “morning”, or even /sabeʿ/ “lion”; see Sartre (1985: 233). See Isserlin (1969: 22) and Kraemer (1958: 354).

136

al-jallad

from the root √ṣý q “narrow”. If P.Petr. III 36, 113 Αχζαμος contains a reflex of the emphatic interdental, then it would appear that the two have merged at Petra as well. Just as with the reflex of ṯ,̣ the use of ζ points towards a voiced lateral realisation. Moreover, the vowel lowering triggered by this phoneme at Petra in the 6th century suggests the presence of pharyngealisation, thus ẓ́ = [ɮˁ]. Two curious Safaitic inscriptions spell the verb “to spend the dry season” qyẓ as ʾyḍ, suggesting not only the merger of *ṯ̣ and *ṣ́ to *ṣ,́ but also the change of *q to ʾ, although the latter development is so far unattested in Greek transcription (Macdonald 2004: 498; Al-Jallad 215:53).103 While the merger of these two phonemes is attested in nearly all modern forms of Arabic, the directionality differs. In the modern Arabic varieties, *ṣ́ merges with *ṯ,̣ which is realised as a voice interdental [ðˁ], and, in dialects which have lost interdentals, a pharyngealised d, [dˁ]. The use of the lateral glyph ḍ agrees with the transcription by ζ, indicating that a lateral quality, rather than an interdental, underlies this ʾyḍ. Interestingly, Andalusian Arabic appears to exhibit the merger of both *ṣ́ and *ṯ̣ to a lateral in the same word, nicayált and cayált “to spend the summer” from *qāyaṯạ (Corriente 1989: 98).

Siglum

Data

P.Ness. III 28, 2 Ζαμζαμα P.Ness. III 37, 30 Ζαβεου P.Petr. II 17 1,155 Μαζεκα

Norm

Prov

/ẓ́amẓ́amah/ Nessana /ẓ́abeʿ/ Nessana /maẓ́ēqah/ Petra

Sem

Date

ḍm (S) ḍbʿ (S) –

572ce 560–580ce 505–537ce

Regardless of how *ṣ́ and *ṯ̣ were realised phonetically, it is clear that in southern Syria the two sounds had not merged and that they remained voiceless. The evidence from Nessana, on the other hand, suggests that both reflexes were voiced, and that they had possibly merged. This distribution most likely reflects a geographic difference in the realisation of this phoneme, as the nearly contemporary Ḥarrān inscription (southern Syria, 568 ce) transcribes Arabic ‫ظ‬ with τ.

103

Curiously, in Mu 113 ʾyḍ < *√qyẓ occurs alongside qbll “reunion” in the same inscription. This may suggest that q > ʾ was originally a conditioned sound change.

137

graeco-arabica i: the southern levant

(9)

Southern Syria Nessana (and possibly Petra) Classical Arabic *ṣ́ Σ = *ṣ́ *ṯ̣ Τ = *ṯ̣

Ζ = *ẓ́ Ζ = *ẓ́

‫[ = ض‬ɮˁ] ‫[ = ظ‬ðˁ]

3.7.5 *q104 The reflex of *q = [k ́] is consistently represented with κ, indicating that the sound was voiceless. While an unaspirated voiced uvular stop [g] could have been intended by the use of κ, especially if γ were on its way to becoming [γ], it is the rare representation of this sound with χ that confirms that it was voiceless, for example, Χαυμος = /qawm/ (PAES III.a 419, U. al-Jimāl).105 Whether the sound remained glottalised or had already shifted to a uvular stop is unclear. There is no evidence for the shift of *q to ʾ, which is attested twice in the Safaitic inscriptions (see §3.7.3), in the Greek epigraphy and papyri. There is one possible case where γ is used in P.Petr. II 17, but other interpretations are possible (see §3.7.4.1).

Siglum

Data

Norm

PAES III.a 642

Μοκιμος

/moqīm/

Prov

Ḥawrān J&P PAES III.a 694 Ζαιδο/zaydo-qīma/ Hawrān κιμα̣[ς] J&P P.Ness. III 21,6 Αλολκαιου /al-ʿolqay/ Nessana P.Ness. III 79, 67 Κοτεμου /qoṭeym/ Nessana P.Petr. II 17.l, 166 Αλκεσεβ /al-qeṣeb/ Petra P.Petr. II 17.2, Αλκουαβελ /al-qowābel/ Petra 96–97

104 105

Sem

Date

‫מקיםו‬/mqm

–

(S) ‫זידקום‬/ zdqm

517 (?) ce

(H) ʿlq (S) – – –

562ce 601–625ce 505–520ce 505–520ce

I hope that the discussion in § 3.1, 3.2, and here has helped answer some of the questions Rodinson (1970: 316–319) raises in his article on the “prononciation ancienne du qaf arabe”. Littmann understood this name as ka-ʾumm-oh “like his mother”. However, this name is unattested in the Semitic inscriptions of this region. It is better to understand it as a rendition of /qawm/, which seems to be attested a few times in the Safaitic inscriptions as qm and in Nabataean as ‫קומו‬.

138

al-jallad

3.7.5.1 Αλγασαγες in P.Petr. XVII Al-Jallad et al. (2013: 37) give two possible interpretations for the microtoponym αλ-Γασαγες in P.Petr. II (17.1, 185). The first is to consider it a broken plural of qaṣqaṣ, “the breast of anything” (Lane: 2527b), which could refer to an elevated area of land or hills. The second is to view it as the Arabic cognate of EthioSemitic gwaṣāgwəṣ, which refers to a “rough or rugged (road)” (Leslau 1987: 206). If the former is correct, then this is the single instance in the entire GraecoArabic corpus from the southern Levant in which *q is represented by γ. 3.8 The Unemphatic Sibilants *s¹, *s² and *z The reflexes of the voiceless sibilants, s = *s¹ and ś = *s², are represented with σ and the voiced sibilant *z is consistently given with ζ.106 It is impossible to determine whether the historic lateral maintained its lateral quality or whether it shifted to an alveolo-palatal sibilant [ʃ], as in later forms of Arabic, on the basis of transcription alone. Unlike the papyri from Egypt in the Islamic period,107 digraphs were not used to distinguish [s] and [ʃ], as indicated by unambiguous Northwest Semitic forms, i.e. Σεμισιααβος = ‫( שמשיהב‬Wuthnow 1930: 107). The Safaitic inscriptions, however, help complete the picture. As Macdonald (2000: 46) has already observed, Aramaic [ʃ] is transcribed with Safaitic s¹. This indicates that s² was not a suitable match for [ʃ]. There is no reason then to assume that it was anything other than a lateral. Macdonald also interpreted the use of s¹ for Aramaic š = [ʃ] as indicating that the North Arabian realisation of this sound was also [ʃ]. I believe that the evidence for this is too weak. The use of s¹ for Aramaic š only proves that s² was not [ʃ], and that speakers/authors interpreted the sound represented by s¹ as the closest match to Aramaic š. Macdonald supported the equation s¹ = [ʃ] further by pointing out that it was more common to represent Greek σ with ṣ instead of s¹ in Safaitic. However, since 2000, several new attestations of σ with s¹ have appeared (see §3.7.2), making this no longer the case. Thus, it is rather uneconomical to assume that Proto-Semitic *s shifted to š at some point in the history of Arabic and then back to s. Instead, the evidence favors the interpretation of s¹ as [s] all along.

106 107

Proto-Semitic *z was probably an affricate but by this late period it was surely a sibilant. Wuthnow (1930: 108) lists several Arabic names from this corpus in which Arabic š [ʃ] is transcribed by the digraph σζ, e.g. Σζεειδ */šehīd/, Σζωειπ */šuʿayb/, etc.

139

graeco-arabica i: the southern levant *s¹ = [s]

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

IGLS XIII/1 9301 Σιθρο IGLS XXI/4 129 Χαμσα PAES III.a 67 Αυσαλλας

/sitrō/ /ḫamsah/ /ʾawsallāh/

– – –

PAES III.a 304 Αλαυσος P.Ness. III 16, 20 Σαδαλλου

/al-ʿaws/ /saʿdall[āh]/

P.Petr. II 17. l, 103 PTer 99

Αλσουλλαμ

/al-sullam/

Boṣrā s¹tr (S) Edom P. – S. Ḥawrān (‫אושלה)י‬/ʾs¹lh (S) U. Jimāl ‫אוש‬/ʾs¹ (S) Nessana ‫שעדלהי‬/s¹ʿdlh (S) Petra –

Σεουδα108

/sewdā/

Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī

411 ce

‫שודיו‬/s¹dy (S)

Date

– 512ce 505–538ce

P.Ness. III records an instance of *s¹ possibly transcribed with ζ, Ζουδανον /zūdān/ (P.Ness. III 79, 47 601–625) < *sūdān(?), but this could be the result of scribal error. It is also possible that this name was derived from the root √zwd. *s² = ś

Siglum

Data

IGLS XIII/1 9292 Ουασειχαθου IGLS XIII/2 Θεμοδουσα9542b ρης PAES III.a 781 Σοραιχος IGLS XV/2 319 Σαιαθη P.Petr. IV 49, 16 Αλσαρκια

108

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

/waśīkat/

Boṣrā

ws²kt (S)

–

/teymo-dūśarey/ /s²orayk/ /śayʿat/ /alśarqiyyah/

Boṣrā

‫תימדושרא‬/ tmds²r (S) s²rk (S) s²yʿ(S) s²rq (S)

–

Sīʿ Lejā Petra

– 316–396 ce 6th cent. ce

This name is probably not Hellenised, as its context requires the genitive -ᾱς: Μνημῖον Σεουδα … “the monument of Seouda”.

140

al-jallad *z

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

Eph II 327.2 IGLS XXI/4 126 PAES III.a 711

Ζαεδος Ζαιδος Ζειεδος

/zāʾed/ /zayd/ /zeyeyd/

–

– – 315 ce

P.Ness. III 36,11

Ζαυανου

/zawʿān/

Ḥawrān Edom Ḥawrān J&P Nessana

/al-lowzah/

Petra

–

P.Petr. II 17.1, 185 Αλλουζα

‫זיד‬/ zd (S) zyd (S)

zʿn (S)

6th cent. ce 505–537ce

3.9 The Glides Both glides are sometimes represented graphically, *w = ου and *y = ι, and other times simply through the presence of a hiatus between two vowels. Gemination of the glides is never indicated. *w

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

IGLS XIII/1 9267 PAES III.a 36 PAES III.a 276 PAES III.a 339 IGLS XV/2 316 GIN 13

Ουαελος Σοουαιδ Ραουαου Αουιεδου Αρουαδος Ουαελου

/wāʾel/ /sowayd/ /rawāḥ/ /ʿawīḏ/ /ʾarwad/ /wāʾel/

Boṣrā S. Ḥawrān U. al-Jimāl U. al-Jimāl Lejā ʿAvdat

‫ואלו‬/wʾl (S) ‫שוד‬/s¹wd (S) ‫רוחו‬/rwḥ (S) ‫עוידו‬/ʿwḏ (S)

ʾrwd (S) ‫ואלו‬/wʾl (S)

– – 223ce – – 293/4ce

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

IGLS XIII/1 9110 Μοαιερος

/moġayyer/

Boṣrā

‫מעירו‬/mġyr

–

IGLS XIII/1 9392 PAES III.a 184 PAES III.a 342 P.Petr. XVII l, 173

/ṯọ bayyat/ /ʾomeyyat/ /ʿayyān/ /al-ḥag(i)yāt/

Boṣrā S. Ḥawrān U. al-Jimāl Petra

(S) ẓbyt (S) ‫אמית‬/ʾmyt (S) ʿyn (S) –

– – – 505–537ce

*y

Siglum

Τοβαιαθη Ομειαθη Αειανου Αλαγιαθ

141

graeco-arabica i: the southern levant *y and *w through hiatuses

Siglum

Data

IGLS XIII/1 9246 Ροεος PAES III.a 183 Zοεδαθος PAES III.a 389

Μοεαρος

Norm

Prov

Sem

/ro(w)eyḥ/ Boṣrā ‫רויחו‬/rwḥ (S) /zo(w)eydat- S. Ḥawrān – / /moġe(yy)ar/ U. al-Jimāl ‫מעירו‬/mġyr (S)

Date – – –

In an undated inscription from Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī, *y is represented by υ, Φοσευαθη (PTer 301) /foṣeyyat-/, which probably points towards the confusion of ι and υ. The name is usually spelled Φοσεαθη, although a single plene spelling is attested at Khirbat as-Samrāʾ as Φοσαιαθη (Gatier 1998: no. 7). 3.9.1

A Note on the Names Γεανου and Μοφαα and the Confusion of Glides There are two possible instances in which the glides, *w and *y, were confused, which sometimes happens in Safaitic. The name Γεανου (PAES III.a 611; 683) probably corresponds to Safaitic gʿn, “starving,” which is derived from the root √gwʿ. The Greek transcription suggests a vocalisation along the lines of /geyʿān/ rather than etymological *gawʿān. P.Petr. II 17 attests Αλμοφαα /almowfaʿah/ which is probably a locative noun based on the root √wfʿ “elevated”, thus “the elevated place, top of a hill”. This root is probably a by-form of the more common √yfʿ, which gives us the word mayfaʿ “the place from which one overlooks of a hill or mountain” (Al-Jallad et al. 2013: 44). The original /y/ is preserved in the name of the ancient town at modern Umm ar-Raṣāṣ, southeast of Madaba, called Κάστρον Μεφαα in mosaic inscriptions and Μηφααθ by Eusebius. 3.10 Glottal Stop There are no independent attempts to represent the glottal stop with an individual Greek glyph. Spellings such as Βοαισαθη /bo_aysat-/ (PAES III.a 281) < *buʾaysat- and Δοεβου /ḏo_eyb/ (PAES III.a 88) < *ḏuʾayb could equally suggest the presence of a glottal stop or a glide. Perhaps less ambiguous are names belonging to the pattern *CāʾiC. While this pattern exists in both Aramaic and Arabic, those beginning with /w/ must be traced back to an Arabian source. In none of these cases is there an overt attempt to represent the glide with ι, suggesting that the hiatus between the α and ε reflects the presence of a glottal stop.

142

al-jallad

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

Eph II 327.2 IGLS XIII/1 9290 PAES III.a 183 PAES III.a 276 PAES III.a 748

Ζαεδος Αεδου Ουαελαθε Ουαελος Ουαελος

/zāʾed/ /ʿāʾed/ /wāʾelat/ /wāʾel/ /wāʾel/

Ḥawrān Boṣrā S. Ḥawrān U. al-Jimāl Ḥawrān J&P

– ʿʾd (S) ‫ואלת‬/wʾlt (S) ‫ואלו‬/wʾl (S) ‫ואלו‬/wʾl (S)

– – 366ce 233ce –

The ε and η in the ultimate syllable of some III-ʾ names suggests the presence of a short vowel, which could also indicate the presence of a glottal stop: Ανεου (PAES III.a 741, Jabal Hawrān); Aνηου (PAES III.a 797.1, Sīʿ) = /hāneʾ/. However, if the glottal stop were lost following the lowering of *i to /e/ in unstressed syllables, these spellings could reflect something like /hānē/. The form Aνιου (PAES III.a 291) could point towards /hāniʾ/, /hānī/, or even /hanīʾ/.

4

Phonology: Vowels

4.1 Short Vowels 4.1.1 Etymological *a The unconditioned realisation of *a is [a], represented by α.

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

IGLS XIII 9265

Αβδομαχος

Boṣrā

ʿbdmk (H)109

–

IGLS XIII 9350 IGLS XXI 12 PAES III.a 275 PAES III.a 291

Ογελαθη Αναμου Αλαβδος Ραδνα

/ʿabdomak(k)/ /ʿogeylat/ /ʾanʿam/ /al-ʿabd/ /radnah/

Boṣrā Petra U. al-Jimāl U. al-Jimāl

– ʾnʿm (S) ~‫עבדו‬/ʿbd (S) –

–

109

208 ce –

This is a rare case in which we can confirm that a Greek transcription renders a Ḥismaic form. The original Nabataean ‫ מנכו‬is presumably a dissimilated form of *malk. The confusion of /n/ and /l/ is rather typical of borrowings into Arabic, cf. ṣlm to Ar. ṣanam and pngl to Ar. fingān, although the l forms persist still in some dialects.

143

graeco-arabica i: the southern levant

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

P.Petr. XVII 1, 50 Αλαχβαρ /al-ʾakbar/ P.Ness. III 22, 22 Αλαφαλλου /ḫalafallāh/

Petra Nessana

–

505–520ce

PTer 82

Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī

‫חלפאלהי‬/ḫlflh 566ce

(S) Αβδαλγης

/ʿabd al-gē/

‫עבדאלגיא‬/

404ce

ʿbdlg (H)

4.1.1.1 *a > e In some pretonic environments, *a is raised to [e], represented by ε. This sound change does not occur evenly across our data, nor can it be explained by a single sound rule. In the material from southern Syria, *a is raised to [e] in unstressed pretonic syllables and only following the voiceless sibilant. This may point towards areal influence from Aramaic. Unfortunately, only one example is dated.

Siglum

Data

Norm

IGLS XIII 425 PAES III.a 297 PAES III.a 457 PAES III.a 481 PAES III.a 519 PTer 99.1–2

Σεειρου Σεουαδος Σεουαδος Σεουαδος Σεουαδος Σεουδα

/s²eʿīr/ /sewād/ /sewād/ /sewād/ /sewād/ /sewdā/

< *s²aʿīr < *sawād < *sawād < *sawād < *sawād < *sawday/āʾ

Sem

Date

s²ʿr (S) ‫שוד‬/s¹wd ‫שוד‬/s¹wd ‫שוד‬/s¹wd ‫שוד‬/s¹wd ‫שודיו‬/s¹dy (S)

– – – – 411 ce

At Nessana, the change is attested only once in the name Αβουειμιν̣/ʾabūyimīn/ (P.Ness. III 31, 24), which should probably be explained as the result of regressive assimilation.110 Pre-tonic a-raising is relatively regular in P.Petr. II 17 (see Al-Jallad et al. 2013: 25), occurring in pretonic unemphatic environments, e.g. Αλμεναμ /al-menām/ 110

The spelling ειμιν is curious, as one would expect ιεμεν for /yemīn/. This form might reflect a mistake on the part of the scribe, or, since these names were probably produced from diction without regard for word boundaries, it might be the case that the glide /y/ was represented by the hiatus between αβου and ειμιν. In this case, ει would simply stand for the /i/ vowel following the glide, thus abū(y)imīn.

144

al-jallad

< *al-manām (P.Petr. II 17.2, 126–127); Βενι /benī/ < *banī (P.Petr. II 17.1, 184). A-raising may be a chronologically shallow development at Petra, given its relative absence elsewhere. 4.1.1.2 Unstressed *a > o before a Labial The Petra Papyri and in several cases at Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī (PTer) sometimes attest an /o/ reflex of unstressed *a when it precedes a labial consonant. This assimilatory change seems to be restricted to the central Transjordan; however, the time gap between the PTer material (mid-4th century and early 5th century ce) and the Petra Papyri (early 6th century ce) is significant.

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

P.Petr. II 17.1, 108 P.Petr. II 17.2, 8; 165 PTer 14 PTer 33 PTer 141

Αλαρομ Κουαβελ

/al-ʿarom/ /qowābel/

< *ʿaram (?) Petra < *qawābel Petra

505–537 ce 505–537 ce

Ασλομου Ασλομου Ασλομου

/ʾaslom/ /ʾaslom/ /ʾaslom/

< *ʾaslam < *ʾaslam < *ʾaslam

355 ce 373ce 434 ce

Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī

Date

4.1.2 Etymological *i The commonest representation of etymological *i is with an e-class vowel, ε and η, suggesting the realisation [e]. Its original quality [i], indicated by ι, is also attested, but far less frequently and mostly in closed stressed syllables. In very rare cases, unstressed *i is represented by ι, but this occurs too rarely— only twice in PAES III.a nos. 661 and 801—to be of significance. *i = [e]

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

IGLS XIII 9084 IGLS XXI/2 148 PAES III.a 370 PAES III.a 800 P.Petr. II 17.1, 166

Ανεμος Αλεσου Εννη Αμερος Κεσεβ

/ġānem/ /ḫāleṣ/ /ḥenn/ /ʿāmer/ /qeṣeb/

Boṣrā Madaba U. al-Jimāl Lejā Petra

‫ענמו‬/ġnm ‫חלצו‬/ḫlṣ (S) ‫חן‬/ḥn (S) ‫עמרו‬/ʿmr (S)

– 179–180ce – – 505–537ce

–

145

graeco-arabica i: the southern levant *i = [i], in stressed closed syllables

Siglum

Data

IGLS XIII 9414 Σιθρο PAES III.a 117 Ουιθρος PAES III.a 651.2 Ιννου

Norm

Prov

Sem

/sitrō/ /witr/ /ḥinn/

Boṣrā ‫שתרו‬/s¹tr (S) S. Ḥawrān ‫ותרו‬/wtr (S) Ḥawrān ḥn (S) J&P

Date – – –

4.1.3 Etymological *u The most common realisation of short *u was [o], represented most frequently by ο:

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

IGLS XXI/4 73 PAES III.a 179 PAES III.a 119 PAES III.a 516 PAES III.a 789 P.Petr. II 17.2, 160–161 P.Ness. III 21,6 PTer 133

Οβοδ[ας] Οσνη Μοσλεμος Ροδενα Σοαδου Αλγοναιναθ

/ʿobodah/ /ḥosn/ /moslem/ /rodeynah/ /soʿād/ /al-gonaynāt/

Petra S. Ḥawrān S. Ḥawrān Boṣrā Lejā Petra

‫עבדת‬/ʿbdt (S) ḥs¹n (S) ms¹lm (S)

–

– 318 ce – – – 505–520ce

Αλολκαιου Οσνης

/al-ʿolqay/ /ḥosnē/

Nessana Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī

– ḥs¹n(?)(S)

562ce 430 ce

‫רדנא‬ ‫שעד‬/s¹ʿd (S)

The [u] quality is sometimes found in stressed closed syllables:

Siglum

Data

IGLS XIII 9324 Ουσνος IGLS XIII-2 9513 Ουββος IGLS XIII-2 9652 Ουμαυατ

Norm

Prov

Sem

/ḥusn/ /ḥubb/ /ʾum(m)ġawwaθ/

Boṣrā ‫חשנו‬/ḥsn (S) Boṣrā ‫חבו‬/ḥb (S) S. Ḥawrān –

Date – – –

146

al-jallad

(cont.)

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

PAES III.a 478 P P.Petr. II 17. 1, 91

Λουβνη Αλσουφλη

/lubn[ē]/ /al-sufley/

U. al-Jimāl ‫לבנא‬/lbn (S) Petra –

Date – 505–537ce

Twice pretonic *u is written with ου. Both of these inscriptions come from Boṣrā and are undated:

IGLS XIII/2 9519 Αλουλαιφ IGLS XIII/2 9541 Νουμερος

/al-ḫulayf/ /Numeyr/

Boṣrā Boṣrā

– –

– –

4.1.3.1 u>i/y Unstressed *u shifted to [i] before the glide y. This is a relatively rare phonetic environment, and due to the nature of our data, it is only observable in the diminutive of II-y roots, such as the diminutive of Taym, *tuyaym, and S²ayʿ, *s²uyayʿ.111

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

PAES III.a 111 PAES III.a 188 PAES III.a 422 PAES III.a 689

Θιαιμος Σιηος Θιημου Θιεμο

/tiyaym/ /s²iyeyʿ/ /tiyeym/ /tiyeym/

tym (S) s²yʿ (S) tym (S) tym (S)

– 415 ce – 372ce

PAES III.a 693

Θιεμου

/tiyeym/

tym (S)

387ce

PAES III.a 701

Θιεμου

/tiyeym/

tym (S)

330 ce

PAES III.a 711

Ζειεδος

/zeyeyd/

S. Ḥawrān S. Ḥawrān U. al-Jimāl Ḥawrān J&P Ḥawrān J&P Ḥawrān J&P Ḥawrān J&P

zyd (S)

315 ce

111

The Arab grammarians remark that the first /u/ vowel is sometimes pronounced as an /i/ when followed by a /y/ (Wright 1955: 270, rem. c.).

147

graeco-arabica i: the southern levant

4.2 Long Vowels 4.2.1 Etymological *ā Etymological *ā is represented by α, indicating that its quality was essentially identical to its short counterpart.

Siglum

Data

Norm

IGLS XXI/2 120 PAES III.a 733

Μοσαλεμου /mosālem/ Ραγελου /rāgel/

P.Petr. II 17.1, 75 Μαλ /māl/ PTer 251 Μοσαλεμου /mosālem/

Prov

Sem

Date

Madaba Ḥawrān J&P Petra Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī

ms¹lm (S) rgl (S)

179–180ce –

– ms¹lm (S)

505–537ce 498 ce

There is no unambiguous evidence for the shift of *ā to /ē/ or /ō/. 4.2.2 Etymological *ī *ī is almost always represented by ι, and rarely by the qualitatively identical ει. These spellings indicate that the long vowel was qualitatively distinct from its short counterpart, [i:] as compared to [e].

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

IGLS XIII/1 9292 Ουασειχαθος PAES III.a 366 Αδιος PAES III.a 642 Μοκιμος

/waśīkat-/

Boṣrā

‫ושיכת‬/ws²kt

–

/ʿādī/ /moqīm/

PAES III.a 694

/moqīm/

U. al-Jimāl Ḥawrān J&P Ḥawrān J&P Petra Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī Ḥawrān

Μοκειμος

P.Petr. II 17.1, 57 αλ-Ραφιδα PTer 123 Αβδαλμιθαβου Wad 2153 Μονιος

(S)

/al-rafīdah/ /ʿabd al-mīṯab/ /moġnī/

‫עדיו‬/ʿdy (S) ‫מקיםו‬/mqm

– –

(S) ‫מקיםו‬/mqm

(S) –

517ce (?)

‫עבדאלמיתב‬

505–537ce 434ce

mġny (S)

–

148

al-jallad

4.2.3 Etymological *ū As in the case of *ī, *ū appears to have been qualitatively distinct from its short counterpart. In almost all cases, it is represented by ου suggesting an original [u:] realisation, as against the realisation of *u as [o].

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

GIPT 57 PAES III.a 52 PAES III.a 314 PAES III.a 508

Αβου Σαουδου Ζαβουδος Δουσαρου

/ʾabū/ /saʿūd/ /zabūd/ /ḏū-sarey/

Khalaṣa S. Ḥawrān U. al-Jimāl U. al-Jimāl

–

565ce – – –

PTer 294

Αλουφαθη

/ḫalūfat-/

Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī

‫שעודו‬/s¹ʿd (S)

zbd (S) ‫דושרא‬/ḏs²ry (H) ḫlf (S)

5th cent. ce

4.2.3.1 Lowering of Long Vowels at Petra There is some evidence in the Petra Papyri for the lowering of stressed *ū and *ī (Al-Jallad et al. 2013: 25–26). Similar lowering occurs in some of the modern dialects from this region, especially in pause (Fischer and Jastrow 1980: 179– 180). This phenomenon is unknown in the epigraphy and in the Nessana papyri.

Siglum

Data

P.Petr. II 17.1, 152 Μεφωρ P.Petr. II 17.1, 155 Μαζεκα

Norm /meḥfōr/ < *maḥfūr /maẓ́ēqah/ < *maẓ́īqah

And possibly in:

P.Petr. II 17.1, 152 Καλεβ

/qalēb/

< *qalīb (?)

The fact that this change seems to occur around the emphatics, including /r/, suggests pharyngealisation. Lowering does not prove that pharyngealisation emerged in the 6th century, but only that vowels began to be affected by the feature in this period. This may be related to the reduction of vowels in general at Petra, which is also not generally witnessed elsewhere in our corpora.

149

graeco-arabica i: the southern levant

4.2.4 Diphthongs 4.2.4.1 Etymological *aw With the exception of one example from P.Petr. II 17, already discussed in 3.9.1, etymological *aw is always represented by αυ, and never by ο or ω.112 Even if the αυ had already become [av], its use for the diphthong proves that the sound change *aw > ō did not operate in the Arabic of this region.113

Siglum

Data

IGLS XIII/1 9289 Λαυδανης PAES III.a 324 Αυσαλλας PAES III.a 793 Αυμου P.Ness. III 5, 3 Αυσω P.Ness. III 36, 11 Ζαυανου

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

/lawḏān/ /ʾaws/

Boṣrā Ḥawrān J&P Lejā Nessana Nessana

‫לודן‬/lḏn (S) ‫אושאלהי‬/ʾs¹lh

– 157ce

/ʿawm/ /ʾaws/ /zawʿān/

(S) ‫עום‬ ‫אוש‬/ʾs¹ (S)

zʿn (S)

213ce 511ce 6th cent. ce

4.2.4.2 Etymological *ay The representation of *ay is far more difficult to interpret. Since the Greek of this period had no equivalent to Arabic /ay/, it is impossible to determine with absolute certainty whether this sound was also preserved in our dialects, although the unambigious preservation of *aw would suggest so. There were two general ways of transcribing the reflex of *ay in Greek. The first was the use of an e-class vowel, either ε or η:

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

IGLS XXI/4 33 PAES III.a 92

Οβεδου Οβεβαθη

/ʿobeyd/ /ḥobeybat-/

PAES III.a 456

Θεμαλλας

/teymallāh/

Petra ‫עבידו‬/ʿbd (S) S. Ḥawrān ‫חביבה‬/ḥbbt (S) U. al-Jimāl ‫תמאלהי‬/tmlh (S)

112

113

Sem

Date – – –

The notation of *aw with ο in Μοφαα is probably related to the sound change a > o /_ C[+labial], which appears to have operated at Petra. This change would have rounded the first mora of /aw/ to /o/, producing /ow/. See Allen (1968: 76) on the historical realisation of αυ.

150

al-jallad

(cont.)

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

PAES III.a 521 Ονηνος P.Ness. III 36, 16 Αλοβεδου

/ḥoneyn/ /al-ʿobeyd/

U. al-Jimāl ‫חנינו‬/ḥnn (S) Nessana ‫עבידו‬/ʿbd (S)

P.Petr. II 17.1, 98 Οσενα

/ḥoseynah/

Petra

ḥs¹nt (S)

Date – 6th cent. ce –

The second strategy seems to have been to parse the diphthong as a sequence of vowel-glide, the former represented by α or ε and the latter by ι. This, in effect, reintroduced a diphthongal value of the old digraph. The reason to think that αι is not simply an attempt to indicate a monophthongised Arabic ē, as has been previously claimed, is that the digraph is never used to transcribe the reflex of *i = [e], while both ε and η are used interchangeably for this purpose. If the diphthongs had indeed collapsed, and the digraph were used to represent [e], then we should expect it to occur at least occasionally in the representation of the qualitatively identical *i [e], especially since length was neutralised. The occasional representation of the diphthong with ει seems to suggest that the onset of the sequence was beginning to experience raising, perhaps under the influence of the glide. It is tempting to view this situation as a progression from αι [ai] > ει [ei] > ε/η [ē]; however, that these representations overlap within documents produced by a single scribe suggests instead that they are all attempts at approximating a sound absent in Greek. This is illustrated most clearly in the Nessana corpus, where the name *ẓ́onayn is spelled Ζονινος (3.24 and 3.45), Ζονειννος (3.24) and Ζονενος (3.27). These exceptions perhaps prove the rule, as the most common spelling by far is Ζοναινος, which is attested in eighteen documents. Had the diphthong contracted to ē, one would not expect this degree of variation, as the sound would have had a transparent equivalent in Greek ε and η. On account of this, I would suggest that reflex of the diphthong *ay had two allophones in free variation, *[ai] and *[ei], and the latter was represented more often with the e-class vowels, ε and η, and occasionally with the digraph ει.

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

IGLS XXI/2 49

Οβαιδος

/ʿobayd/

‫עבידו‬/ʿbd (S)

–

IGLS XXI/4 126

Ζαιδος

/zayd/

Amman Mus. Edom P.

‫זיד‬/zd (S)

–

151

graeco-arabica i: the southern levant

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

IGLS XIII/1 9218 Φαισανος IGLS XIII/1 9239 Οναιναθη PAES III.a 204 Θαιμαλλας

/faysān-/ /ḥonaynat-/ /taymallāh/

PAES III.a 706

/ḫayr/

Boṣrā – Boṣrā ~‫חנינו‬/ḥnnt (S) U. al-Jimāl ‫תמאלהי‬/ tmlh (S) Ḥawrān ‫חיר‬/ḫr (S) J&P Petra – Nessana ~‫חנינו‬/ḥnnt (S)

Χαιρου

P.Petr. II 17.1, 50 Βαιθ P.Ness. III 38,4 Ωναινας

/bayt/ /ḥonaynah/

Sem

Date – – – 164ce 505–537ce 6th cent. ce

These observations of course do not rule out the possibility that the *ay diphthong did collapse in some dialects and was transcribed with ε or η. Such might have indeed been the case at Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī, where ε is used consistently for *ay. However, when these spellings are taken together with the fact that the *aw diphthong was preserved almost everywhere, it becomes rather unlikely that the change *ay > ē was a widespread phenomenon, if it occurred at all. 4.2.5 Vowel Syncope There is limited evidence for the loss of unstressed penultimate vowels in an open syllable when following two open syllables, thus: CvCvCvCv > CvCvCCv. Sequences of this length are restricted to genitive constructions and broken plurals.

Siglum

Data

Norm

IGLS XXI/4 36

Αβδοοβδας

/ʿabdoʿobdah/ /(abi a-)ṯaʿālbah/ /teymoʿobdah/ /ʿabdoḥārṯah/ /ʿabdoḥārṯah/

P.Ness. III 21, 35 Αβιαθα̣λ̣βα P.Ness. III 21, 6 PTer 21

Θεμοοβδ̣[ου] Aβδοαρθα

PTer 75

Aβδοαρθα

< *ʿabdoʿobodah < *ṯaʿālibah < *taymoʿobodah < *ʿabdoḥāriṯah < *ʿabdoḥāriṯah

Prov

Date

Petra

–

Nessana

562ce

Nessana

562ce

Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī

361 ce

Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī

395 ce

152

al-jallad

It is reasonable to assume that the canonical pronunciation of the Nabataean basileophoric names was drawn from the dialects of central Jordan. The basileophoric name Aβδοαρθα has a by-form spelled Αβδαρετας. Since the latter form lacks the o-vowel between its two components, the conditioning environment is lost and no syncope takes place. The operation of this sound change in the toponym Αβιαθαλβα at Nessana suggests that it was a local pronunciation. 4.2.6 Vowel Syncope in the Petra Papryri Unstressed /i/ is syncopated once in an unstressed open syllable.

Siglum

Data

Norm

P.Petr. II 17.2 107–108

Αρβαθ

/ḫarbat-/

< *ḫaribat

Prov

Date

Petra

505–520 ce

Unstressed /a/ in an open syllable is syncopated in P.Petr. III 30, 48 (579–580) δαρ̣γ̣αθ /dargāt/, which is most likely derived from *daragāt “steps, terraces”.114 The same change is witnessed in Αγιαθ (P.Petr. II 17.1, 173), if it reflects *ḥagyāt < *ḥagayāt “water pools”. In both cases, it is possible that /a/ was raised to /e/ in pretonic position before being syncopated. The syncope of high vowels in unstressed open syllables could explain the spelling of the name *ʿobodah as Οβδα (PAES III.a 353, at Umm al-Jimāl). The same name, however, is spelled as Οβοδα at Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī (PTer 63, 391ce), suggesting that Οβδα might reflect a separate derivation, perhaps Nabataean ‫* עבדא‬/ʿobdāʾ/. None of the names based on the active participle with the feminine ending, CāCeCat-, exhibits any syncope, indicating that short high vowels in open, unstressed syllables were generally stable. 4.2.7 Epenthesis and Prothesis There is limited evidence for vowel epenthesis in the Petra Papyri, in the following forms: Νααρ /nahar/ “rivulet” < *nahr and Κεσεβ /qeṣeb/ “irrigation channel” (?) < *qiṣb. For a more detailed discussion, see Al-Jallad et al. (2013: 26).

114

The edition did not explain this word, but the translation I provide is most likely, especially in light of the microtoponym Αλσουλλαμ “the terrace” in P.Petr. 17.1 103, which derives ultimately from “step”, “stair” (Al-Jallad et al. 2013: 48).

graeco-arabica i: the southern levant

153

Epenthesis seems to be behind the form Υναυ in P.Petr. III 23, 8. If this reflects the original etymon ḥinw, then the final cluster was resolved with an epenthetic /a/, producing ḥinaw. Epenthesis may have been a relatively late development, as there are no etymologically clear instances of the phenomenon in the epigraphy. Only one possible example of prothesis seems to be attested in the transcription of the Nabataean names ‫ אמראל‬in IGLS XV/2 180 Αμβριλιος and ‫ אמראלהי‬in IGLS XIII/1 2207 Αμραλλας. The transcription of Arabic ʾmr suggests the vocalization /ʾamr/, indicating that the prothetic syllable contained a genuine glottal stop followed by an /a/ rather than /i/, as in later Arabic. On the other hand, it is also possible that the Nabataean name reflects a combination of the root √ʾmr “to command” or “to say” and the deity ʾl or ʾlh, in which case it would not an example of prothesis.

5

Morphology

5.1 Word-Final *ay (the alif-maqṣūrah) and Triphthongs Classical Arabic collapsed both original *ay in word final (non-construct) position and the triphthongs *aya and *awa to ā. As I have argued in other places (Al-Jallad 2014 and forthcoming b), this was by no means a Proto-Arabic development. The spelling of the reflex of word final *ay and triphthong *aya in the Qurʾānic Consonantal Text with the y glyph, ‫ى‬, e.g., ‫ على‬ʿly “upon” for Classical Arabic /ʿalā/ and ‫ ىىىها‬bnyhʾ “he built it” for Classical Arabic /banā-hu/, indicates that their quality was something other than /ā/. Evidence for the non-ā quality of the word final diphthong is also found in the Jabal Usays inscription, which attests ʿly for the preposition “on”.115 The Graeco-Arabica generally agrees with Qurʾānic orthography.116

115

116

See Mascitelli (2006: 178) for a balanced discussion on the various readings of this inscription and see Macdonald (2010b) for a new reading of the first line. One cannot explain this y as a mater lectionis for ā by appealing to Arabic orthography. We have no reason to believe that this was simply an orthographic convention at this early stage; indeed, orthographic conventions are almost always rooted in an older stage of pronunciation. The Qurʾān itself suggests otherwise, as ‫ ى‬does not rhyme with ‫ا‬. Robin (2001) has suggested that both w and y can stand as matres lectionis for Arabic /ā/. His arguments are, unfortunately, based on a series of misconceptions about historical Arabic and Semitic phonology. See Al-Jallad (2014, n. 47) for a refutation.

154

al-jallad

5.1.1 The Word-Final Diphthong *ay The few attestations of word final diphthongs in the Graeco-Arabica confirm a non-ā reflex. These occur most frequently in the divine name Dusares = */ḏūśaray/, the reflex of which in Ḥismaic, and rarely in Safaitic, ḏs²ry, proves the presence final *ay or triphthong *ayv. This form is consistently Hellenised with the ending ης, that is ḏu:-śarei+s, rather than with ας. The latter ending is typical of names which terminate in -a(h), Αρετας < */ḥāreṯah/, Οβοδας < */ʿobodah/, etc. Its exact pronunciation, however, requires more discussion and will be dealt with in 5.1.2.1. Forms based on the feminine elative, fuʿlay, also confirm a non-ā reflex of this sequence.

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Date

IGLS XIII/1 9266 PAES III.a 508 PAES III.a 706 P.Ness. III 21, 7 P.Petr. II 17.1, 91 PTer 133

Αβδουσαρης Θεμοδουσαρης Δουσαρεος Αλολκαιου117 Aλσουφλη Οσνης

/ʿabd-ḏū-s²arey/ /teymo-ḏū-s²arey/ /ḏū-śarey/ /al-ʿolqay/ /al-sufley/ /ḥosney/

Boṣrā U. al-Jimāl Ḥawrān J&P Nessana Petra Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī

– – 164ce 562ce 505–520 ce 430 ce

5.1.2 Dissimilation of *ay to ā A few of the uninflected diminutive forms terminate in α, which could point towards an underlying ‫ فعيلى‬pattern, in which case the final *ay would have collapsed to ā. However, many of these have a Hellenised twin in which the word final θ is present, e.g Ροδενα (PAES III.a 516, U. al-Jimāl) vs Ροδηναθη (PAES III.a 76, S. Ḥawrān). This observation indicates that such forms go back to a *fuʿaylat pattern rather than *fuʿaylay. Dissimilation of word final *ay to ā following ay, however, can explain the spelling of the name Λελα in P.Petr. II 17, leylā < *laylay. 5.1.2.1 The Divine Name Dusares and the Realisation of *ay# While we can be fairly certain that the divine name Dusares originally terminated in y, such a pronunciation seems to contradict the Nabataean spelling ‫דושרא‬. This spelling is employed even in clear bilingual contexts where tran-

117

This is probably related to Classical Arabic ‫ علقى‬/ʿalqā/ which is the name of a certain plant with tough twigs (Lane: 2135b).

graeco-arabica i: the southern levant

155

scriptions support a non-ā pronunciation. In an altar set up to Dusares at Umm al-Jimāl containing a Greek-Nabataean inscription, ‫ דושרא‬is transcribed as Δουσαρει, the dative of Δουσαρης and not **Δουσαρας (see PAES III.a 238). It is unlikely that the the sequence *ay collapsed to ā in Nabataean Arabic, as the Petra Papyri attest the form Aλσουφλη instead of **Αλσουφλα. These observations seem to suggest that Nabataean ‫ א‬in this word does not signal [a:], in which case it would seem that *ay# collapsed to something like [æ:]. Scribes, then, must have felt that this sound was closer to ‫ א‬when the spelling conventions of Nabataean were fixed. In Greek transcription, this sound was felt to be closer to an e-class vowel, which drew the word into the first declension. An Aramaic calque of the name might also be attested. In this case, the final *ay, either [ey] or [æ], is lost, in line with the expected loss of final long vowels. The Arabic relative pronoun ḏū is replaced by a reflex of Aramaic *dī. As Macdonald (2000: 48) already pointed out, both the native Arabic form and an Aramaicised form are attested in Safaitic. Since Safaitic does not indicate vowels of any length in any position, the two are distinguished simply by the reflex of word initial *ḏ, which is written with d in the Aramaic form and ḏ in the Arabic form. In Ḥismaic, the matter is more complicated. Some varieties written in the Ḥismaic script have merged the voiced dental and interdental fricatives, thus *ḏ > d, and so it becomes impossible to determine if any of these reflect an Aramaic form or simply the loss of *ḏ.118 IGLS XIII/1 9266 Αβδουσαρης /ʿabd-ḏū-śarey/ ḏs²r (S) (10) Arabic: Aramaic: IGLS XIII/1 9300 Αβδισαρ /ʿabddišar/ ds²r (S)119 Note also that in both of these names only one Δ is used to transcribe the sequence d-d or d-ḏ at the boundary between ʿabd and ḏū/dī. This probably indicates that the gemination which was produced at the word boundary was simplified on account of the impermissible cluster of three consonants: /ʿabdḏū-śaray/ > /ʿabḏūśarey/, /ʿabdūśarey/ or /ʿabdīśar/. The Safaitic inscriptions attest one instance of this name where the cluster was simplified to /d/, 118

119

In Ḥismaic, we have ds²r (AMJ 46, JSTham 658 bis, KJC 369); ds²ry (KJC 761 and 762), ḏs²r (AMJ 145, KJB 93, KJC 260, TIJ 430, WA 10386) and ḏs²ry (AMJ 11, 124, 133, 143 and 144). Clearly, the forms with the plain d are far rarer. Macdonald (2000: 46) argues that in the Nabataean Aramaic of the Ḥawrān, ś did not yet merge with s³ [= s]. For this reason, Safaitic transcribed this sound with s² rather than s¹, as in the rendition of Aramaic bʿls¹mn.

156

al-jallad

ʿbds²r; however, it is impossible to tell which of the forms in Greek transcriptions stands behind this example. 5.1.3 The Triphthong *aya (III-y Verbs) = III-y Verbs A III-y verb is attested in a single, yet well-attested, name, pṣyʾl, which Stark (1971: 109) parses as a verbal sentence containing the 3ms pṣy “to open, separate” and the divine name ʾl, “El has opened (the womb)”. Spellings such as Φασαιελη suggest an underlying Arabic form faṣay-ʾel, congruent with both the III-y verbs of North Arabian epigraphy and Qurʾānic spellings.120 The expected Aramaic form, pəṣā-el, is encountered at Palmyra and another Aramaic variant is attested at Moab.121 Curiously, the Nabataean spelling of this name does not reflect the final diphthong suggested by the Greek transcriptions; this is probably to be explained in the same way as Dusares in 5.1.2.1. It is impossible to determine how the Safaitic form was vocalised, but a faṣay-ʾel is certainly a possibility.

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

IGLS XIII 9307 PAES III.a 57 PAES III.a 178 PAES III.a 210 PAES III.a 426 PAES III.a 792.1

Φασηελη Φασηελη Φασηηλη Φασεελη Φασηιλ Φασαιελη

/phaṣey-el/ /phaṣey-el/ /phaṣey-el/ /phaṣey-el/ /phaṣey-il/ /phaṣay-el/

Boṣrā S. Ḥawrān S. Ḥawrān S. Ḥawrān U. al-Jimāl Lejā

‫פצאל‬/ fṣʾl (S) ‫פצאל‬/ fṣʾl (S) ‫פצאל‬/ fṣʾl (S) ‫פצאל‬/ fṣʾl (S) ‫פצאל‬/ fṣʾl (S) ‫פצאל‬/ fṣʾl (S)

– – – – – ~543 ce

5.2 The Feminine Ending *-at Huehnergard identified the levelling of the *-at allomorph of the feminine ending to all environments as a Proto-Arabic innovation. In other Semitic languages, a -t allophone appears alongside -at, although with many of the epigraphic languages, it is impossible to determine whether a vowel was present 120

121

There is no reason to assume that III-weak verbs behaved abnormally in Proto-Semitic and Proto-Central Semitic. Their collapse can be attributed to the areal sound changes, *aya and *awa > ā (Huehnergard and Rubin 2011: 268). The Aramaic calque is attested in Greek transcription at Palmyra, Φασαηλου /paṣā-el/, yet curiously without the reduction of the first vowel. At Moab, we encounter the name spelled as Φασιηλη /paṣī-el/, suggesting an Aramaic form going back to a CaCiya pattern. For a list of variants and references, see Sartre (1985: 242).

157

graeco-arabica i: the southern levant

before the t.122 There is no evidence for the simple *-t reflex in our material; the feminine ending consistently appears as either -αθ- or -α.

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

IGLS XIII 9260 IGLS XIII 9361

Φοσεαθη Σαλεμαθος

/foṣeyyat-/ /sālemat-/

Boṣrā Boṣrā

IGLS XXI/2 122 PAES III.a 183 PAES III.a 330 PAES III.a 796 P.Ness. III 25, 4 PTer 126

Αμερα Ουαελαθε Ουασεαθου Μαλεχαθη Ναμλα̣ Μαλεχαθη

/ʿāmerah/ /wāʾelat-/ /wāseʿat-/ /mālekat-/ /namlah/ /mālekat-/

Sem

~‫פצי‬/ fṣyt (S) ‫שלמה‬/s¹lmt (S) Madaba ‫עמרת‬/ʿmrt (S) S. Ḥawrān ‫ואלת‬/wʾlt (S) U. al-Jimāl ws¹ʿt (S) Lejā ‫מלכת‬/mlkt (S) Nessana – Ghōr ‫מלכת‬/mlkt (S) aṣ-Ṣāfī

Date – – 179–180ce 366ce – – 569ce 424ce

5.2.1 The Sound Change at > ah / _# More complicated to interpret is the realisation of the feminine ending in the unbound state. In so far as one can glean from the few inscriptions in the Arabic script of this region, the sound change *at > ah appears to have operated in unbound forms (i.e. non-construct position). In contrast, the North Arabian inscriptions consistently exhibit a -t, regardless of state.123 Arabic loans into Nabataean are mixed. Names such as ‫ חרתת‬and ‫ עבדת‬suggest that the final /t/ was pronounced when the orthography was fixed; however, loanwords often exhibit a final ‫ה‬, e.g., Naḥal Ḥever 1, 17 ‫“ חליקה‬custom, practice” < Ar. *ḫalīqat-. The evidence from Greek transcription suggests that the final t was lost even in cases where it remained written in Nabataean; Οβοδας, for example, is never written Οβοδαθος. The question then is: when did the sound change at > ah / _# operate in the Arabic of our region? In Nabataean Arabic, the change *at > ah must have operated quite early, as the name of Aretas I (reigned 168bce) is mentioned in 2 Maccabees 5:8 (~124bce) as Αρετον, the accusative of Αρετας, which reflects an original ḥāreṯah. Even on the official silver coins commissioned by Aretas III’s Dam-

122 123

On this sound change, see Huehnergard (2005: 167–168) and Huehnergard and Rubin (2011: 267–268). See Macdonald (2004: 498).

158

al-jallad

ascus mint, the name is given as Αρετου, the genitive of Αρετας.124 Thus, we can establish the second century bce as a terminus ante quem for the operation of this sound change in the national dialect of the Nabataeans. The earliest evidence for this change in the Graeco-Arabica comes from the late 2nd century ce, see above (IGLS XXI/2 122). Most of the material in transcription takes Greek inflectional endings, which are added to the full form αθ, and only rarely to α. It may, then, be significant that the feminine ending is consistently transcribed as α in forms which were not Hellenised. This would suggest that the presence of the t is a symptom of the addition of the Greek vocalic suffix. In other words, speakers interpreted the Greek endings along the lines of other vocalic suffixes, such as the pronominal suffixes, and added them to the construct form of the noun. Thus, this distribution suggests that the sound change at > ah / _# operated generally in these dialects, at least in nouns.125 On this basis, it would seem that this sound change constitutes an interesting isogloss separating the Arabic dialects written by the nomads of the Ḥarrah from the sedentary Arabic varieties transcribed in Greek in Ḥawrān proper, the Edom Plateau, Petra, and the towns of the Negev.

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

IGLS XXI/2 122 PAES III.a 80 PAES III.a 77 PAES III.a 131 PAES III.a 516 P.Ness. III 25, 4 P.Petr. II 17.2, 123 PTer 63

Αμερα Μοσεχα Οχεμα Αλασα Ροδενα Ναμλα̣ Αλσιρα

/ʿāmerah/ /moseykah/ /ḥokeymah/ /ḫalāṣah/ /rodeynah/ /namlah/ /al-ṣīrah/

Madaba S. Ḥawrān S. Ḥawrān S. Ḥawrān Boṣrā Nessana Petra

‫עמרת‬/ʿmrt ms¹kt (S) ~ḥkm (S) ‫חלצת‬/ḫlṣt (S) – – –

– – – – – 569ce 505–537ce

Οβοδα

/ʿobodah/

Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī

‫עבדת‬/ʿbdt (H) 391 ce

124 125

This dates to 87–62bc and reads in full: ΒΑΣΙΛΕΩΣ ΑΡΕΤΟΥ ΦΙΛΕΛΛΗΝΟΣ; see Meshorer (1975). There are no attestations of the 3fs suffix conjugation and so it is impossible to determine if the sound change affected verbs as well.

graeco-arabica i: the southern levant

159

5.3 Final Short Vowels and Case Inflection The case endings in the Arabic of Nabataea were the subject of a close study by Diem (1973), who concluded, based on the distribution of the endings ‫ ו‬and ‫י‬ on Arabic anthroponyms in Nabataean Aramaic inscriptions, that case had disappeared by the first century bce.126 A single undated Arabic inscription from ʿĒn ʿAvdat attests a functioning case system, but this may reflect a liturgical register.127 Further evidence for the question of case is provided by the Graeco-Arabica. Since Greek declensional endings were added to most nouns, it is difficult to determine whether or not final short vowels were preserved on the basis of transcription alone. However, there is no evidence for case inflection in the transcribed Arabic phrases in the non-literary papyri from Petra and Nessana (see §5.3.2). Most basileophoric names consist of a genitive compound and exhibit an o-vowel on the first member of the phrase, i.e. Αβδο, Θαιμο, or Ζαβδο, etc. This vowel is not likely epenthetic in nature as compound names of other sorts do not exhibit this feature, for example: PTer 46 Ουμμαβιη /ʾummʾabī/ (Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī, 384ce); PAES III.a 48 Ουμαυατ /ʾumm-ġawwāṯ/ “mother of Ġawwāṯ” (S. Ḥawrān), and see below §5.3.2. Thus, the most reasonable interpretation of this vowel is as a survival of the nominative case ending which was protected from apocope by its word-medial position. Its presence can suggest one of two things about case: the first is to assume the Arabic in which these names were formed generalised the nominative case on the non-final member of genitive constructions, similar to the generalisation of the accusative /a/ in Geʿez genitive compounds. Its presence, therefore, does not necessitate the existence of a declensional system. On the other hand, the o-vowel could equally reflect a living declensional system at the time these names were coined. For the sake of neutrality, I will simply call these forms “o-compounds.” Basileophoric names are especially helpful in the attempt to locate a terminus post quem for the loss of this feature. Since basileophoric names could not have been coined prior to the rule of the monarch’s name on which they were based, we can establish the earliest possible date for the use of o-compounds and, possibly, the latest absolute date for the survival of case inflection. The basileophoric names attested in our corpora are as follows:

126 127

See Blau (1977: 183) for an important counter-argument to Diem’s views. Negev has dated this inscription, based on its archaeological context, to between 88 and 150 ce. For further discussion, see Mascitelli (2006: 121–128).

160

al-jallad

Siglum

Data

IGLS XIII 9406

Αβδοραββη- /ʿabdo-rabb- Boṣrā λος ʾel/ Αβδοοβδας /ʿabdoBoṣrā ʿobdah/ Αβδοοβδας /ʿabdoPetra ʿobdah/ Αβδομανχος /ʿabdoNegev mank/ Θαιμομαλε- /taymoLejā χος mālek/ Θεμοοβδ̣ου /teymoNessana ʿobd[ah]/ Αβδοαρθα /ʿabdoGhōr ḥārṯah/ aṣ-Ṣāfī

PAES III.a 567 IGLS XXI/2 36 GIN 10 IGLS XV/2 149 P.Ness III 21,5 PTer 21

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

‫עבדרבאל‬

–

‫עבדעבדת‬

–

‫עבדעבדת‬

–

‫עבדמנכו‬

241ce

‫תיממלך‬

–

‫תימעבדת‬

562ce

‫עבדחרתת‬

361ce

Unfortunately, these names do not distinguish between the various Nabataean monarchs with the same name. The attested basileophoric names could in theory span the entire existence of the Nabataean kingdom, since Αβδοαρθας could have been coined during or shortly following the rule of Nabataea’s first king, Aretas I (169–121 bce), while Αβδοραββηλος could refer to Rabbel II Soter, the final ruler of Nabataea before her fall to Rome. Based on this, we can conclude that the o-compounds were operative as late as the mid-2nd century bce. If Αβδοραββηλος refers to the last Nabataean monarch and reflects the contemporary idiom, then these formations survived as late as the 2nd century ce. Supporting evidence for the existence of o-compounds this late comes from a shift in the toponomy of the region around the same period. By the 2nd century ce, toponyms based on genitive compounds begin to exhibit an ovowel on the first term, Βαιτο/Βετο and Βηρο. This phenomenon is unknown from earlier periods (Elitzur 2004: 304). Both Jerome and the Madaba map (second half of the 6th century ce) clearly indicate an awareness that such forms were thought of as later pronunciations: IGLS XXI/2 153–102:

Βηρσαβεε ἡ νῦν Βηροσσαβα Bersabee which is now Berossaba

graeco-arabica i: the southern levant

161

Variants of Βηροσαβα, all exhibiting a medial o-vowel, are found in other contemporary documents (Elitzur 2004: 100, n. 9). With regard to toponyms containing the word bayt, the presence of the o-vowel also corresponds to the irregular transcription of the word’s final t with τ, rather than the expected θ, compare Βεθαβαρα to Βητοανναβα in the Madaba map (IGLS XXI/2 153). Elitzur suggested very cautiously a connection with the rare biblical form ‫ ביתו‬or, more likely in his view, that these forms are an imitation of Greek compounds in which the first component bears an o-suffix.128 However, neither of these explanations accounts for the rendition of *t with τ rather than θ. It seems that one should not treat these forms separately from the Nabataean basileophoric names discussed above. Given that the o-variants are later, it may be the case that they reflect Arabic calques of earlier Canaanite place names. The rendition of *t with τ could indicate that the sound was not spirantised in these forms, in contrast to Hebrew and Aramaic.129 While probably true, this is an unhappy explanation, as θ is used to represent Arabic /t/ in documents containing βετο forms, P.Ness. III 79 (601–625ce) contains both Αλθουεθηλ /al-ṯoweytel/ (51) and Βετομολαχο̣ν̣ (19). Another solution is to attribute the pronunciation to sporadic pharyngealisation, of the sort that sometimes operates in the dialects of this region today. For example, the demonstrative *hāḏā is realised in many Palestinian and Jordanian varieties of Arabic, and elsewhere, as /hāḏ̣ ā/, with the irregular emphaticisation of ḏ.130 A similar process could be at play here.131 It is difficult to determine when these calques were formed. According to Elitzur, the earliest attestation of βετο is found in the Latin of Pliny’s Natural History (V, 70), betholeptephenen. Interestingly, this form seems to exhibit a spirantised/aspirated reflex of *t. Three o-compound forms are found in Eusebius’ Onomasticon (< 325ce), five in the Madaba Map (mid-late 6th century ce), and a few other attestations scattered elsewhere.132 The form Βηροσαβα is only known after the 4th century ce. However, this may simply indicate that it

128 129

130 131

132

The latter solution was suggested to him by Prof. Raanana Meridor (Elizur 2004: 340). This would be consistent with Steiner (2007)’s discussion on the development of spirantisation in the Aramaic and Hebrew of Palestine. He argues that the dentals and labials underwent spirantisation before the velars. See Fischer and Jastrow (1980: 189). The same might explain the spellings of Edomite /t/ at Bostra in the names Κοσματανος and Κουσνατανος (IGLS XIII/1 77). On the other hand, it may be the case that the reflex of *t was unaspirated in Edomite and realised at Boṣrā with an Arabian pronunciation, where unaspirated = emphatic. These names also indicate that o-compounding cannot be attributed to an Edomite stratum. See Elitzur (2004: 100) for a list and references.

162

al-jallad

took longer for the “new” pronunciation to eclipse the biblical form. Septuagint spellings probably also played a role in preserving the original form in writing. As Elitzur points out, there is no obvious geographic correlation between the toponyms with the o-element. I would suggest that these reflect Arabisms, and perhaps point towards a growing presence of Arabic in Judaea. This would have been especially possible following the Jewish revolt of 135ce, where a large part of the population was decimated and Jews no longer formed the majority of the region’s inhabitants.133 It is unknown who repopulated the area, but if such changes in the toponymy reflect linguistic changes, then it could be the case that the new population came from Provincia Arabia. However, this route is not necessary in all cases. The form Βηροσαβα could have originated during the Nabataean occupation of the town, and then gained currency following the Jewish revolt. There are also a few theophoric names formed by o-compounding, but it is impossible to determine when these names were coined.

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

IGLS XXI/2 183 PAES III.a 508 PAES III.a 694 PAES III.a 723

Αβδοομανου Θεμοδουσαρης Ζαιδοκιμα̣[ς] Αβδοβαλου

/ʿabdo-ʿoman/ /teymo-ḏū-śarey/ /zaydo-qīmah/ /ʿabdo-baʿl/

Ḏībān U. al-Jimāl Ḥawrān J&P Ḥawrān J&P

‫עבדעמנו‬ ‫תימדושרא‬ ‫)?(זידקום‬ 134‫עבדאלבעלי‬

A single name, Θειμαδουσαρους = /teyma-ḏū-śarey/ (Eph II 333.20) attests an /a/ vowel in case position. Since this is the only instance known to me of this, it is probably a mistake on the part of the scribe, who heard Old Arabic /o/ as [ɔ]. Interestingly, theophoric names based on the divine name Aλλας or Αλγα never exhibit case endings. This distribution could suggest that the case vowel was simply assimilated to the article αλ after it was no longer analyzable. The notion that the αλ article appeared only after case endings were lost is dis133 134

I thank M.C.A. Macdonald for this excellent suggestion. On the Bar Kochba revolt, see Eshel (2006). The Nabataean inscriptions only attest a form of this name with the article, while such a form is unknown in the Greek epigraphy. The form in transcription clearly reflects a variety of Arabian often attested in the Ḥismaic script without the definite article. A parallel is found in a Nabataean-Ḥismaic bilingual, where the Nabataean name ‫ עבדאלאיב‬is calqued in Ḥismaic as ʿbdʾyb without the article (see Hayajneh 2009: 207).

163

graeco-arabica i: the southern levant

proven by Nabataean spellings which contain a vestige of the genitive ending, for example, ‫עבדאלבעלי‬, and, indeed, by the ʿĒn ʿAvdat inscription itself. One could speculate that, unlike other theophoric and basileophoric names, these names were subject to renewal as the article was always analysable. Thus, their archaic pronunciation, still reflected in Nabataean orthography, was sometimes replaced by a more contemporary idiom, and both show up in transcription.135 This phenomenon is illustrated by the dual pronunciation, archaic and contemporary, of the Nabataean theophoric name ‫עבדעמנו‬, as Αβδοομανου /ʿabdo-ʿomān/ (IGLS XXI/2 183) at Ḏībān and Αβδομανου /ʿabd-ʿomān/ (IGLS XXI/2 141) in the Ḥismā. Unfortunately, neither of these inscriptions is dated.

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

IGLS XIII 9266 PAES III.a 56 PAES III.a 67 PAES III.a 144 PAES III.a 504 PAES III.a 797.8 P.Ness. III 16, 20

Αβδουσαρης Αβδαλγου Αυσαλλας Αβδαλλας Αυθαλλου Αλαφαλλου Σαδαλλου

/ʿabd-ḏū-śarey/ /ʿabd-alg[ā]/ /aws-allāh/ /ʿabd-allāh/ /ġawṯ-allāh/ /ḫalafall[āh]/ /saʿdall[āh]/

Boṣrā S. Ḥawrān S. Ḥawrān S. Ḥawrān U. al-Jimāl Lejā Nessana

‫עבדדושרא‬ ‫עבדאלגא‬ ‫אושאלהי‬ ‫עבדאלהי‬ ‫עותאלהי‬ ‫חלפאלהי‬ ‫שעדאלהי‬

A final issue to consider is the transcription of names containing a suffixed pronoun. The name k-ʿm-h “like his grandfather”,136 which appears in Safaitic, is attested with an -ος ending and there is no indication of a case vowel: Wad 2344 Χααμμος /ka-ʿamm-oh/ (Ḥawrān). If Littmann is correct in his interpretation of {Β}εακκος (PAES III.a 74) as /be-ḥaqqoh/, then this counts as another instance of the absence of case before pronominal suffixes. Neither of these inscriptions is dated, and therefore do not inform our chronology of this feature. The evidence we have surveyed is ambiguous and permits several different interpretations. We can say with certainty that o-compounding was productive 135

136

Renewal is not an unexpected phenomenon, and renewed forms can co-exist with their archaic antecedents. For example, the Lebanese terrorist organisation Hezbollah is sometimes called ḥizbullāh, according to Classical Arabic, ḥizbaḷḷāh, in Modern Standard Arabic, and a renewed form according to the local dialect, ḥezebáḷḷa. All three can be heard in Beirut today. In the northern dialects, this word means “grandfather” and not “paternal uncle”; see Cantineau (1978: 131).

164

al-jallad

as late as the 2nd century bce. This date can be pushed forward to the 2nd century ce if we assume that the Arabised forms of Canaanite place names originated in the period following the third Jewish revolt, but the occasional attestation of such forms earlier also makes it possible that they are older and simply gained traction following changes in demographics. Finally, compounds containing the definite article on the second term never have an o-vowel following the first term. This probably has to do with the fact that the article was always analysable and speakers renewed these forms according to other changes in the language. A phonological explanation is also possible. One could assume that the onset of the article was lost intervocalically, producing the contraction -oʾa- > a, */ʿabdo-ʾallāh/ > /ʿabdallāh/. Compound names from the 4th century do not exhibit the o-vowel, suggesting that the o-compounding was lost by that period. 5.3.1 The Name Αβδαλμιθαβου and Αβδολμιθαβος at Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī A new compound name attested at Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī could suggest variation in case with the definite article. The name is attested twice, once as Αβδαλμιθαβος (PTer 123, 424ce) and once as Αβδολμιθαβος (PTer 48, 385ce).137 The edition cautiously suggests a connection with the Muslim name ʿabd al-muğīb (Meïmaris and Kritikakou-Nikolaropoulou 2005: 148), but I frankly cannot see any linguistic justification for this. Instead, the second element probably transcribes an underlying *mīṯab, a nomen instrumentalis of the root √wṯb, meaning “to sit”. In this form, the word probably means “throne” and signifies the monarch or deity through metonomy.138 The word mīṯab is attested in the Arabic dictionaries, where it is said to mean “a sitter” in the dialect of Ḥimyar (Lane: 2920b). A word for throne derived from this root in the Arabic dictionaries is wiṯāb, and is also attributed to Ḥimyar (ibid.: 2920a). In PTer 48, the vowel of the article is ο, perhaps indicating the elision of the article’s onset and the assimilation of the vowel with the proceeding nominative case vowel. With only one example, however, it is equally possible that Arabic /a/ in this position was simply misheard as [o] by the scribe. At first glance, the spelling of Beersheba in the Madaba Map as Βηροσσαβα eerily resembles the modern Arabic pronunciation, with the assimilation of the coda of the article to the following sibilant, and the contraction of the nominative case vowel and the vowel of the article to o. While the name of the town

137 138

The Nabataean form of this name was found at Boṣrā, and is discussed in Nehmé 1998. Mwtbʾ occurs as a divine name in Nabataean, apparently meaning “the throne” of Dusares (Healey 2001: 158–159). I thank M.C.A. Macdonald for bringing this to my attention.

165

graeco-arabica i: the southern levant

is spelled in very different ways in other documents,139 the Madaba Map is the only one to register two sibilants. In this case, the simplest explanation is dittography. 5.3.2 Case in the 6th Century By the 6th century, there can be no doubt as to the loss of case inflection, at least in Palaestina Tertia. This is indicated by the Arabic phrases transcribed in Greek in the Petra Papyri and a single phrase found in P.Ness. III. Petra Papyri:

P.Petr. III 23, 8

Μ̣αλ ε̣λ-Κουεσιρ “Property of the Qaysarites” P.Petr. III 31, 56 Αιν Μοελα “Spring of Moweylah” P.Petr. II 1, 90 Αραμ αλ-Ασαφιρ “the land markers of the Usfurites” P.Petr. II 1, 98 Μαθ Οσαινα “the land of Hosaynah” P.Petr. II 1, 140 Μαθ Λελα “the land of Leylā” P.Petr. II 1, 174 Μαλ Ορϲιατ “the property of Orsiat” P.Petr. II 1, 175 Μαλ Αμαρ Αλ Ϲαρουα “the property of ʿAmar, of the lineage of āl Sarwah” P.Petr. II 1, 177 Βερ [α]λ-Ασαφιρ “the well of the Usfurites” P.Petr. II 1, 185 Μαθ αλ-Λουζα “the land of the almond tree” P.Petr. II 2, 8 & 165 Αραμ αλ-Κουαβελ “the boundary markers of the Qābelites” P.Petr. II 2, 88–89 Αραμ αλ-Βηρ “the boundary markers of the well”

139

= /māl el-qoweysir/ = /ʿayn moweylah/ = /ārām al-ʿaṣāfīr/ = /māt ḥosaynah/ = /māt leylā/ = /māl Orsiat/ = /māl ʿamar āl Sarwah/ = /be(ʾ)r al-ʿaṣāfīr/ = /māt al-lūzā/ = /ārām al-qowābel/ = /ārām al-be(ʾ)r/

In P.Ness. III, the town is spelled as Βηροσαβα, Βι[ρ]ο[σ]αβης, and Βεροσαβης.

166

al-jallad

(cont.)

P.Petr. II 2, 94–95

αλ-Βερα Μαλ Χαφφα[9]αρ “the tract of land belonging to/of Kaffa …” P.Petr. II 2, 142–143 Χαφφαθ Μαθ Λελα “the grain despository of the land of Leylā” P.Petr. II 2, 184–185 Χαφφαθ αλ-Αουαουερ “the grain depository of the Hawarites”

= /al-berāḥ māl kaffa---------ar/ = /kaffat māt leylā/

= /kaffat al-ḥawāwer/

P.Ness. III 89, 35 (576–625ce): [ἀ]ν̣εκ[ομί]σαμεν ἀπὸ τιμῖς τοῦ καμαιλίου ωπερ ἔλαβα⟨ν⟩οἱ Σαρακενοὶ ὑοὶ Ειαλωδεε̣ιδ Δ. And we discounted the price of the camel which the Saracens, the sons of Eialôdeeid, took, 4 (coins). The name of the Saracen clan should probably be parsed as Ειαλ Ωδεειδ /ʿeyāl ʿodeyyid/. The first term is the broken plural of *ʿāʾilah “family”, while the second is probably a diminutive form of the root √ʿdd, probably ʿadīd. Names belonging to this root are well-attested in Safaitic. Another Arabic phrase, which also lacks case endings, was identified by Littmann in his commentary on PAES III.a 48. The deceased female is identified as Ουμαυατ, which Littmann parses as ʾumm-ʿawaḍ. However, in light of our discussion in §3.2, the second name should probably be understood as /ġawwāṯ/. This finds a parallel in PAES III.a 493, where a certain Θαμαρ is identified as μήτη(ρ) Ρασαουαθου, that is “mother of Raṣā́ wat”. The absence of case endings is also encountered in compound names based on “mother” found primarily in reflexes of the name /ʾumm-ʾabī/, probably “grandmother”.140

140

On this form, see the commentary on PTer 34.

167

graeco-arabica i: the southern levant

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

PAES III.a 95 PTer 46

Ομαβι Ουμμαβιη

ʾomm-ʾabī ʾumm-ʾabī

PTer 242

Ουμμαβιη

ʾumm-ʾabī

S. Ḥawrān – Ghōr – aṣ-Ṣāfī Ghōr – aṣ-Ṣāfī

Date – 384ce 485 ce

5.4 Inflection of the Relative-Determinative Pronoun The relative-determinate pronoun is attested in the name *ḏū-śaray and there is no evidence for case declension, even in names which preserve the case vowel in the antecedent form. This suggests that the relative-determinative pronoun was frozen as ḏū in these forms.

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

IGLS XIII 9266 Eph II 333.20 PAES III.a 508

Αβδουσαρης141 Θειμαδουσαρους Θεμοδουσαρης

/ʿabd-dū-śarey/ Boṣrā /teyma-ḏū-śar[ey]/ Ḥawrān /teymo-ḏū-śarey/ U. al-Jimāl

Sem ‫עבדדושרא‬ ‫תימדושרא‬ ‫תימדושרא‬

5.5 The Definite Article There is no unambiguous evidence for the assimilation of the coda of the αλ article to coronals.142 The status of the onset, whether beginning simply with the vowel /a/ or the syllable /ʾa/, is more difficult to ascertain. That the definite article contained an original glottal stop, and not simply a prothetic vowel, is clear from a Safaitic-Nabataean bilingual in which the Safaitic transcribes the Nabataean name ‫ אמתאלעזא‬as ʾmtʾlʿz. Had the author simply chosen to

141

142

The fact that the name ʿabd-ḏū-śaray never occurs with a case vowel while the name taymo-ḏū-śaray does simply suggests that the former was coined at a later date, following the loss of case inflection. The non-assimilating article was termed the “northern Old Arabic isogloss” by Macdonald (2000: 51). Arguments against this which appeal to orthographic conventions or etymological spellings are unconvincing. The coda of the article in this region remains unassimilated in Greek transcription, and across Nabataean, Safaitic, and Ḥismaic scripts. A unified spelling convention across all of these media and scripts seems incredibly unlikely.

168

al-jallad

calque Nabataean orthography, we would expect a final ʾ in the Safaitic as well. Its absence confirms that a genuine glottal stop was present in the article.143 At the same time, variation in the spelling of names containing the article in Nabataean suggests that the consonantal onset was eventually lost. Alongside archaic spellings which attest the shape ‫אל‬, innovative phonetic spellings attest the article simply as ‫ל‬: ‫ עבדאלבעלי‬vs ‫עבדלבעלי‬. The same variation is also found in the Ḥismaic script: tmlḥwr vs ʿbdʾlʾḥwr (see King 1990: §8, A). The Greek-Safaitic bilingual already mentioned (WH 1860 = Greek 2) indicates that the onset of the divine name Αλλας /allāh/ did not contain a glottal stop in its spoken form: Ουαβαλλας = whblh. In the majority of cases, it is impossible to say whether the article began with a glottal stop or a vowel.

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

IGLS XIII/2 9519 IGLS XXI/4 126 PAES III.a 56 PAES III.a 275 P.Ness. III 21,6 P.Ness. III 79, 51 P.Petr. II 17.1, 186 P.Petr. II 17.2, 122 P.Petr. II 17.1, 91 P.Petr. II 17.2, 103 PTer 164

Αλουλαιφ Αλολαιου Αβδαλγου Αλαβδος Αλολκαιου Αλθουεθηλ Αλσαραμ Αλσιρα

/al-ḫulaif/ /al-ʿolay/ /ʿabd al-g[ā]/ /al-ʿabd/ /al-ʿolqay/ /al-ṯoweytel/ /al-ṣaram/ /al-ṣīrah/

Boṣrā P. Edom S. Ḥawrān U. al-Jimāl Nessana Nessana Petra Petra

– – – – – – –

– – – 208ce 562ce 600–625ce 505–537ce 505–537ce

Αλσουφλη Αλσουλλαμ

/al-suflē/ /al-sullam/

Petra Petra

– –

505–537ce 505–537ce

–

440 ce

Aλολεφαθη /al-Holeyfat-/ Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī

‫עבדאלגא‬

5.5.1 The ελ Article The article is frequently attested in P.Petr. II 17, which is dated between 505 ce and 537 ce, but was probably produced before 520 ce. In this document, the article has a single, invariable form, αλ, which agrees with its realization elsewhere in the region. However, by 544ce the article is attested mostly as ελ in

143

On this text, see Macdonald (2009a: 348).

169

graeco-arabica i: the southern levant

other documents, although αλ sometimes occurs. Based on this evidence, it would seem that the 6th century witnessed the raising of /a/ to /e/ in the article at Petra. This process is perhaps related to other pretonic raising phenomena (see Al-Jallad et al. 2013: 25–26). Despite this change, the coda remained unassimilated.144

Siglum

Data

P.Petr. III 23, 8 ε̣λκουεσιρ P.Petr. III 23, 8 ελθα[ι]ς P.Petr. III 30, 48 ελδαργ̣αθ̣

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

/el-qowesīr/ /el-tays/ /el-dargāt/

Petra Petra Petra

– – –

544ce145 544ce 579– 580ce146

5.5.2 The Elision of the Onset The onset and vowel of the article are not elided in any of the documents published in volumes I–IV of the Petra Papyri (see above § 5.3.2), even following vowels: Χαφφιαλογομ /kaffī al-ʿogom/ (P.Petr. II 17.1, 180). Inventory 98 of the Petra Papyri, which is currently in preparation and will appear in volume V, attests at least two toponyms which begin with a simple λ, suggesting that the vowel had been elided almost completely, as in many contemporary dialects of Arabic. One example cited in volume II is λασελει, which we have interpreted as l-ʿaselī ‘honey-coloured’. This document is undated, but probably rather late. Outside of the Petra Papyri, the only possible attestation of the elision of the onset vowel of the article occurs in the name Αβδολμιθαβος /ʿabd-ol-mīṯab/ (PTer 048) and has already been discussed.

144

145

146

Inventory 98, which is currently in preparation and will appear in volume V of the Petra Papyri, attests at least two toponyms which begin with a simple λ, suggesting that the vowel had been elided almost completely, as in many contemporary dialects of Arabic. One example cited in volume II is λασελει, which we have interpreted as lʿaselī. The edition did not provide an explanation of this toponym, but it seems to me to a plural of /qayṣar/. We would expect a plural of a social group in this position, so probably the qaysarites. On the etymology of this term, see § 4.2.6.

170

al-jallad

5.5.3 The α Article An article lacking the coda is attested in one ambiguous case at Nessana:

Siglum

Data

P.Ness. III 21, 35 Αβιαθα̣λ̣βα

Norm

Prov

/(abi a-)ṯaʿālbah/ < * ṯaʿālibah Nessana

Date 562ce

It is impossible to tell if this name should be normalised as */ʾabī ʾaṯ-ṯaʿālbah/, */ʾabī ʾa-ṯaʿālbah/, or even */ʾabī ha-ṯaʿālbah/.147 The h- or ʾ- article, both of which are attested in the Safaitic inscriptions, is found once in the Greek inscription148 accompanying KRS 2420, which reads: (11) ΑΝΑΜΟΣ ΣΑΔΟΥ ΤΟΥ ΘΑΙΜΑΛΛΟΥ ΑΜΜΑΣΙΧΗΝΟΣ If this renders ʾnʿm bn sʿd bn tmlh h/ʾ-ms¹ky “ʾAnʿam son of Saʿd son of Taymallāh the Ham-Masīkite”,149 then this confirms that the h/ʾ article triggered gemination of the following consonant. Considering the corpus as a whole, it is rather surprising to find such little evidence for the use of the article h-. This suggests that the dialect which stands behind the Old Arabic material in transcription possessed an ʾal article rather than ha-. At Petra, where the article occurs in non-onomastic contexts, this was most certainly the case, but the evidence elsewhere is open to debate. 5.6 Diminutives The diminutive pattern CuCayC(at) is abundantly attested, and there are two attestations of the pattern CuCayyiC.

147 148 149

Another ambiguous attestation of the ʾa- or ha- article is found at Ḥimṣ, IGLS V 2321 Αβδασαμσος (Jalabert et al. 1959), probably vocalised as /ʿabd ha-śams/. This text was originally published in Atallah and al-Jibour (1997), who did not take notice of its most interesting linguistic aspect, the transcription of the article. The name hms¹k, which is just the common name ms¹k with the h article, is attested some eighty-six times in the Safaitic inscriptions, e.g. C 157, C 1560, C 1668, etc.

171

graeco-arabica i: the southern levant CuCayC(a)(t)

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

IGLS XIII 9260 IGLS XXI/2 183 IGLS XXI/4 135 PAES III.a 80 PAES III.a 445 PAES III.a 681

Φοσεαθη Ολε[φ]αθης Χοθαιβος Μοσεχα Γομεμου Οβαιδος

/foṣeyyat-/ /ḥoleyfat-/ /kotayb/ /moseykah/ /gomeym/ /ʿobayd/

~‫פצי‬ ~‫חליפו‬ – ms¹kt (S) gmm (S) ‫עבידו‬/ʿbd (S)

– – – – – –

PAES III.a 781 P.Petr. II 17 2, 160–161 P.Ness. III 16, 3

Σοραιχος Γοναιναθ

/śorayk/ /gonaynāt/

Boṣrā Ḏībān Ḥismā S. Ḥawrān U. al-Jimāl Ḥawrān J&P Lejā Petra

s²rk (S) –

– 505–537ce

Zοναινος

/ẓ́onayn/

Nessana

ẓnn (S)

512 ce

CuCayyiC

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Date

P.Petr. II 17 2, 105 P.Ness. III 89, 35

Αλοραιεμ Ωδεειδ

/al-ḫorayyem/ /ʿodeyyid/

Petra Nessana

505–520ce 576–625ce

5.7 The Pattern ʾafʿal and the Elative The elative patterns *ʾafʿal and *fuʿlay are attested and both yield expected forms. ʾafʿal

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

IGLS XXI/2 118 PAES III.a 199 PAES III.a 391 PAES III.a 801 P.Ness. III 3, 24 P.Petr. II 17 1, 50

Αβγαρ Ασλαμου Ασουαδα Αρουαδος Αλαγραδ Αχβαρ

/ʾabgar/ /ʾaslam/ /ʾaswad/ /ʾarwad/ /al-ʾagrad/ /ʾakbar/

Madaba S. Ḥawrān U. al-Jimāl Lejā Nessana Petra

‫אבגר‬/ʾbgr (S) ʾs¹lm (S) ʾs¹wd (S) ʾrwd (S) – –

108–109 ce – – – 569ce 505–537ce

172

al-jallad fuʿlay

Siglum

Data

P.Petr. II 17 1, 91 Αλσουφλη PTer 133 Οσνης

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

/al-sufley/ /ḥosney/

Petra Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī

– ḥs¹n

505–537ce 430ce

The attestation of the elative of the geminate root, √wdd, indicates that at least some varieties formed these in a similar way to the modern dialects of Arabic, rather than the metathesised form found in Classical Arabic.

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

PAES III.a 71

Αυδαδου

/ʾawdad/

S. Ḥawrān ʾwdd (S)

Date –

5.8 Broken Plurals Broken plurals are a rare find in our corpora of onomastica, but several are found in the toponomy of the Petra Papyri and P.Ness. III furnishes a single example. *CiCāC

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Date

P.Petr. II 17 2, 28 P.Ness. III 89, 35

Εβαδ Ειαλ

/ʿebād/ /ʿeyāl/

Petra Nessana

505–520 576–625

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Date

P.Petr. II 17 l,90

Αραμ

/ārām/

Petra

505–537

*ʾaCCāC

173

graeco-arabica i: the southern levant *CaCāCiC

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Date

P.Petr. II 17, 185 P.Petr. II 17, 84–85

Γαϲαγες Αουαουερ

/gaṣāgeṣ/ /ḥawāwer/

Petra Petra

505–537 505–537

*CaCāCīC > CaCaCīC (?)

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Date

P.Petr. II 17 1, 177 P.Petr. III 23, 8

Ασαφιρ Κουεσιρ

/ʿaṣafīr/ /qowesīr/

Petra Petra

505–537ce 6th cent. ce

The penultimate vowel of this form could have been reduced in Petra. The spelling Κουεσιρ suggests as much, as short /a/ is raised in pretonic unstressed environments while there is no evidence for the raising of /ā/. The presence of the emphatic ṣ in Ασαφιρ /ʿaṣafīr/ perhaps blocked this change. *CuCuC

P.Petr. II 17 1, 180

Ογομ

/ʾogom/

Petra

505–537ce

Γοναιναθ

/gonaynāt/

Petra

505–537ce

Αλαγιαθ

/al-ḥag(i)yāt/

Petra

505–537ce

*-āt

P.Petr. II 17 2, 160–161 P.Petr. II 17l, 173

5.9 Participle G-stem The active participle is abundantly attested in our material and has the expected forms, masculine singular CāCeC and feminine singular CāCeCa(t).

174

al-jallad G-active

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

IGLS XIII 9084 PAES III.a 796 P.Ness. III 24, 6 P.Petr. II 17 2, 194–195 PTer 1

Ανεμου Μαλεχαθη Δαρεβου Αλεβους

/ġānem/ /mālekat-/ /dāreb/150 /ġāleb/

Boṣrā Lejā Nessana Petra

ġnm (S) ‫מלכת‬/mlkt (S) drb (S) ġlb (S)

– – 569ce 505–537 ce

Αμηρος

/ʿāmer/

Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī

ʿmr (S)

309 ce

G-active, II-weak

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

PAES III.a 183 PAES III.a 276 PAES III.a 302 PAES III.a 748

Ουαελαθη Ουαελος Καεμας Ουαελος

/wāʾelat-/ /wāʾel/ /qāʾem/ /wāʾel/

S. Ḥawrān U. al-Jimāl U. al-Jimāl Ḥawrān J&P

‫ואלת‬/wʾlt (S) ‫ואלו‬/wʾl (S) ‫קאם‬/qʾm ‫ואלו‬/wʾl (S)

– – – –

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

/bānen/ /ṯạ̄ nen/

Boṣrā Sīʿ

bnn (S) ‫טננו‬/ẓnn (S)

– –

G-active, geminate

Siglum

Data

IGLS XIII 9392 Βανενη PAES III.a 778151 Τανενου

150

151

The edition interpreted this as ḍārib- “striker”, but, as I have argued above, etymological *ṣ́ was rendered with Greek ζ at Nessana. Instead, I would rather connect this term to Arabic dārib, which signifies an eagle accustomed to chase (Lane: 876a). The same root is attested in Safaitic onomastica (see Harding 1971: s.v.). Also no. 779 and 790.

175

graeco-arabica i: the southern levant G-active, III-y

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

PAES III.a 366 PAES III.a 741

Αδιος Βανι

/ʿādī/ /bānī/

U. al-Jimāl ‫עדיו‬/ʿd (S) Ḥawrān ‫בניו‬ S&P

Date – –

G-passive patterns: CaCīC, CaCūC, and MaCCūC CaCīC

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

PAES III.a 283

Γαδιμαθος

/gadīmat-/

PAES III.a 733

Ουασιμαθου /wasīmat-/

U. al-Jimāl ‫גדימת‬/gdmt – (S) Ḥawrān ws¹mt (S) – J&P Lejā ‫מליכת‬/mlkt (S) –

PAES III.a 801.5 Μ[α]λιχαθος

/malīkat-/

Sem

Date

CaCūC

PTer 17

Αβουβαθη

/ḥabūbat/

PTer 294

Aλουφαθη

/halūfat-/

Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī

ḥbbt

358ce

ḫlf (S)?

–

MaCCūC

PAES III.a 514

Μακσουραθη P.Petr. II 17 1, 152 Μεφωρ

/maqṣūrat-/

U. al-Jimāl –

–

/meḥfōr/

Petra

505–537ce

–

176 5.9.1

al-jallad

Participles of the Derived Stems D-stem

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

IGLS XIII 9003 IGLS XIII 9110 PAES III.a 664

Μοαινος /moʿayyin/ Μοαιερος /moġayyer/ Μοζαιεδηνοι /mozayyed/

PAES III.a 734

Μογεαιρου

Boṣrā Boṣrā Ḥawrān J&P Ḥawrān J&P

‫מעינו‬/mʿyn (S) – mġyr (S) – – 214 ce ‫מעירו‬/mġyr

386ce

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

/mugdeʿ/ /mosbeḥ/

Namara –

– mṣbḥ (S)

– –

/moḥlem/

Boṣrā

‫מחלמו‬/mḥlm

–

/moġayyir/

Date

C-stem

Siglum

Data

Eph II 330.76 Μουγδεου IGLS XIII/1 Μοσβεος p. 362 IGLS XIII/1 9226 Μολεμος

(S) PAES III.a 661

Μονιμος

/monʿim/

Ḥawrān J&P

‫מנעמו‬/mnʿm

178ce

(S)

II-w

PAES III.a 129 PAES III.a 642

Μοιθος Μοκιμος

/moġīṯ/ /moqīm/

S. Ḥawrān mġṯ (S) Ḥawrān ‫מקימו‬/mqm J&P (S)

– –

Μονιος

/moġnī/

S. Ḥawrān mġny (S)

–

III-y

Wad 2153

177

graeco-arabica i: the southern levant L-stem

Siglum

Data

Norm

PTer 251.4

Μοσαλεμος /mosālem/

Prov

Sem

Date

Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī

‫משלמו‬/ms¹lm

–

(S)

5.10 The Gentilic Adjective The so-called nisba ending is given in the masculine with ι and in the feminine with ια, Αλασβι ̣ /al-ʿaṣbī/ (P.Ness. III 28, Fr2, 572ce) and Αλμασια /al-Maʿṣiyyah/ in P.Petr. II.152 P.Petr. IV 49, 16 attests Αλσαρκια /al-śarqiyyah/.153 5.11 Verbal Inflection There are several names which seem to be derived from prefix-conjugation verbal forms, but their linguistic origins are debatable. It is perhaps significant that the sound change *a > e in the preformative prefix does not seem to have operated in many of these, perhaps ruling out an Aramaic origin. 3ms

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

PAES.a 162 PAES III.a 19 PAES III.a 494

Ιασλεμος Ιαλοδος Ιαμαρος

/yaslem/ /yaḫlod/ /yaʿmar/

S. Ḥawrān ys¹lm (S) – S. Ḥawrān yḫld (S) – U. al-Jimāl ‫יעמרו‬/yʿmr (S) –

152

153

Sem

Date

Al-Masia was the name of a slave mentioned in P.Petr. II 17. Al-Ghul (2006) interpreted her name as a nisba adjective of the word diamond, almāz, but this seems highly unlikely. Instead, we have proposed in the edition that the name should be explained as a nisba adjective of the social group mʿṣ, attested several times in the Safaitic inscriptions; the slave was then known simply as the Mʿṣ-ite (Koenen et al. 2013: 114). I thank my friend Robert Daniel for looking this form up for me, as volume 4 was not available in Leiden at the time.

178

al-jallad 3fs

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

Date

PAES III.a 107 PAES III.a 142 PAES III.a 495

Θαμαρη Θοαυει Θοκιμη

/taʿmar/ /toʿāwī/ /toqīm/

S. Ḥawrān ‫תעמר‬/tʿmr (S) – S. Ḥawrān – – U. al-Jimāl – –

Barth-Ginsberg’s law,154 where the vowel of the preformative prefix is /a/ when the theme vowel of the verb is /i/ or /u/ and /e/ when the theme vowel is /a/ may be observed in the name Ιεφλαανου /yeflaḥ-ān/ (PAES III.a 382).155 The fact that the preformative vowel remains /a/ in Ιαμαρος may suggest that this rule was blocked when the first root consonant was a guttural. Rarely, the preformative vowel /e/ is encountered in situations where /a/ is expected, e.g. Ιεκουμος (IGLS XIII 9414, Boṣrā). These forms are attested significantly less frequently than their /a/ counterparts; therefore, any remarks on the grammatical implications would be speculative at best. It is tempting to view these as the beginning of a levelling process which would generalise the iclass preformative prefixes for all categories of prefix conjugated verbs. On the other hand, we may simply be dealing with Aramaic forms of these names. 5.12 Prepositions and Suffixed Pronouns The prepositions Χα /ka/ and Βε /be/ are attested in our corpora:

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

PAES III.a 74

{Β}εακκος

S. Ḥawrān –

–

Wad 2344

Χααμμος

/beḥaqq[oh]/ /ka-ʿamm[oh]/

Ḥawrān

–

154 155

Sem

kʿmh (S)

Date

Huehnergard and Rubin (2011: 271) consider the Barth-Ginsberg law to be a Proto-Central Semitic innovation, while Akkadian probably preserved the Proto-Semitic situation. On the afformative -ān, see Lipinski (1997: 221ff.). In this case, it is probably a diminutive or hypocoristic suffix.

179

graeco-arabica i: the southern levant

If the second declension nominative ending is indicative of a name ending in a o-vowel or o-vowel+largyngeal, then it would seem that the 3rd masculine singular clitic pronoun was realised as /oh/. The 1cs pronoun is attested in the name Ουμμαβιη, which indicates that our dialects maintained the form /ʾabī/, for “my father”, in contrast to many of the modern dialects of this region, which have /ʾabūya/ and /ʾabūy/. 5.13 Wawation The Nabataean termination ‫ ו‬is clearly reflected in two undeclined names and perhaps a single declined name. In theory, this ending could be present much more widely, yet hidden by the Greek masculine singular nominative ending ος, which is the default ending for foreign onomastica in our region. The undeclined forms confirm that wawation was not simply an orthographic device, but was indeed realised vocalically.

Siglum

Data

Norm

Prov

Sem

IGLS XIII 9027 IGLS XIII 9301 PAES III.a 461

Αουαθω Σιθρο Αττρο156

/ġawwāṯo/ /sitro/ /ʾaṭro/

Boṣrā ‫עותו‬ Boṣrā ‫שתרו‬ U. al-Jimāl ‫אטרו‬

Date – – –

Sigla AMJ AWS C

CIS HCH JSTham

156

Inscriptions in W. Jobling’s reports on the ʿAqaba-Maʿān survey. Safaitic inscriptions in Alolow (1996). Safaitic inscriptions published in Corpus Inscriptionum Semiticarum. Pars V. Inscriptiones Saracenicas continens, Tomus 1. Inscriptiones Safaiticae (1950–1951). Paris. Corpus Inscriptionum Semiticarum. Safaitic inscriptions in Harding (1953). Taymanitic, Ḥismaic, and Thamudic B, C, and D inscriptions in Jaussen, A. and R. Savignac (1909–1922). Mission archéologique en

The spelling of this name with two τ’s is probably dittography. It is unlikely that the scribe wanted to express “emphasis” by writing the letter twice.

180

KhNSJ KJB KJC KRS

Lane SIJ TIJ

WA WH

al-jallad

Arabie, 5 vol., Paris (Publications de la Société Française des Fouilles Archéologiques 2). Safaitic inscriptions published in al-Khraysheh, F.H. (1995). “New Safaitic Inscriptions from Jordan”. Syria 72: 401–414. Ḥismaic inscriptions from Wādī Judayyid Site B recorded by G.M.H. King and published in King (1990). Ḥismaic inscriptions from Wādī Judayyid Site C recorded by G.M.H. King and published in King (1990). Safaitic inscriptions recorded by G.M.H. King on the Basalt Desert Rescue Survey and published on the Online Corpus of the Inscriptions of Ancient North Arabia. Lane, E.W. (1863–1893), An Arabic-English Lexicon. Derived from the Best and Most Copious Eastern Sources, 8 volumes. London. Safaitic inscriptions published in Winnett, F.V. (1957). Safaitic Inscriptions from Jordan, Toronto (Near and Middle East Series 2). Hismaic inscriptions published in Harding, G.L. and E. Littmann (1952). Some Thamudic Inscriptions from the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, Leiden. Inscriptions in Winnett, F.V. (1959). “Thamudic Inscriptions from the Negev”. ʿAtiqot 2: 146–149, pl. 22. Safaitic and Greek inscriptions in Winnett, F.V. and G.L. Harding (1978). Inscriptions from Fifty Safaitic Cairns, Toronto (Near and Middle East Series 9).

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Gatier, Pierre-Louis (1998). “Les inscriptions grecques et latines de Samra et de Riḥāb”. In: Fouilles de Khirbet es-Samra en Jordanie, I. La voie romaine, le cimetière, les documents épigraphiques. Ed. by J-B. Humbert and A. Desreumaux. Turnhout (Bibliothèque de l’Antiquité tardive 1), pp. 361–421. al-Ghul, Omar (2006). “Preliminary Notes on the Arabic Material in the Petra Papyri”. Topoi 14: 139–169. Gignac, Francis (1976). A Grammar of the Greek Papyri of the Roman and Byzantine Periods. Milan (Testi e documenti per lo studio dell’antichita 55). Graf, David and Michael Zwettler (2004). “The North Arabian ‘Thamudic E’ Inscription from Uraynibah West”. Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research 335: 53– 89. Greenfield, Jonas (1992). “Some Arabic Loanwords in the Aramaic and Nabatean Texts from Naḥal Ḥever”. Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 15: 10–21. Gzella, Holger (2004). Tempus, Aspekt Und Modalität im Reichsaramäischen. Wiesbaden (Veröffentlichungen der Orientalischen Kommission 48). Gzella, Holger (2011). “Northwest Semitic in General”. In: Weninger et al. 2011, pp. 425– 451. Harding, G. Lankester (1953). “The Cairn of Hani”. Annual of the Department of Antiquities of Jordan 2: 8–56. Harding, G. Lankester (1971). An Index and Concordance of pre-Islamic Arabian Names and Inscriptions. Toronto (Near and Middle East series 8). Healey, John (1993). The Nabataean Tomb Inscriptions of Madaʾin Salih. Oxford (Journal of Semitic Studies Supplement 1). Healey, John (2001). The Religion of the Nabataeans. A conspectus. Leiden (Religions in the Graeco-Roman world 136). Hinds, Martin and El-Said Badawi (1986). Dictionary of Egyptian Arabic. Beyrouth. Holmstedt, Robert (2007). “The etymology of Hebrew ʾašer and šeC-*”. Journal of Near Eastern Studies 66 (3): 177–199. Huehnergard, John (2005). “Features of Central Semitic”. In: Biblical and Oriental Essays in Memory of William L. Moran. Ed. by Agustinus Gianto. Rome (Biblica et Orientalia 48), pp. 155–203. Huehnergard, John (2006). “On the Etymology of the Hebrew Relative šɛ-”. In: Biblical Hebrew in Its Northwest Semitic Setting: Typological and Historical Perspectives. Ed. by S. Fassberg and A. Hurvitz. Jerusalem (Publication of the Institute for Advanced Studies, the Hebrew University of Jerusalem 1), pp. 103–126. Huehnergard, John (this volume). “Arabic in its Semitic Context”. Huehnergard, John and Aaron Rubin (2011). “Phyla and Waves: Models of Classification of the Semitic Languages”. In: Weninger et al. 2011, pp. 259–278. Hayajneh, Hani (2009). “Ancient North Arabian–Nabataean bilingual inscriptions from southern Jordan”. Proceedings of the Seminar for Arabian Studies 39: 203–222.

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Hayajneh, Hani (2011). “Ancient North Arabian”. In: Weninger et al. 2011, pp. 756– 781. Israel, Felice (2006). “Les premières attestations des Arabes et de la langue arabe dans les textes sémitiques du nord”. Topoi 14: 19–40. Isserlin, B. (1969). “The Nessana Papyri. The Greek Transcriptions of Arabic”. The Annual of Leeds University 7: 17–31. Jalabert, Louis and René Mouterde, with Claude Mondésert (1959). Inscriptions grecques et latines de la Syrie, V. Émésène. Paris (Bibliothèque archéologique et historique 66). King, Geraldine (1990). Early North Arabian Ḥismaic. A Preliminary Description Based on a New Corpus of Inscriptions from the Ḥismā Desert of Southern Jordan and Published Material, Ph.D. Thesis, School of Oriental and African Studies, London. Knauf, Ernst Axel (1984). “Zum Vordringen des Arabischen im Libanon vor dem Islam”. Die Welt Des Orients 15: 119–122. Knauf, Ernst Axel (2010). “Arabo-Aramaic and ʿArabiyya. From Ancient Arabic to Early Standard Arabic, 200ce–600ce”. In: The Qurʾān in Context. Historical and Literary Investigations into Qurʾānic Milieu. Ed. by A. Neuwirth, N. Sinai, and M. Marx. Leiden (Texts and studies on the Qurʾān 6), pp. 197–254. Koenen, Ludwig, Jorma Kaimio, Maarit Kaimio, and Robert W. Daniel (2013). The Petra Papyri II. Amman. Kogan, Leonid (2011). “Proto-Semitic Phonetics and Phonology”. In: Weninger et al. 2011, pp. 54–151. Kootstra, Fokelien. (2016). The Language of the Taymanitic Inscriptions & its Classification. Arabian Epigraphic Notes 2: 67–140. Kraemer, Casper J. (1958). Excavations at Nessana, Vol. 3. Non-Literary Papyri. Princeton. Kutscher, Eduard (1965). “Contemporary Studies in North-Western Semitic”. Journal of Semitic Studies 10 (1): 21–51. Leslau, Wolf (1987). Comparative Dictionary of Geʿez (classical Ethiopic). Wiesbaden. Lipiński, Edward (1997). Semitic Languages. Outline of a Comparative Grammar. Leuven (Orientalia Lovaniensia analecta 80). Littmann, Enno (1904). Zur Entzifferung der thamudenischen Inschriften. Berlin. Littmann, Enno (1913). Syria. Publications of the Princeton Archaeological Expeditions to Syria Division 4.A. Leiden. Macdonald, Michael C.A. (1986). “ABCs and letter order in Ancient North Arabian”. Proceedings of the Seminar for Arabian Studies 16: 101–168. Macdonald, Michael C.A. (1991). “HU 501 and the Use of S3 in Taymanite”. Journal of Semitic Studies 36 (1): 11–25. Macdonald, Michael C.A. (1999). “Personal Names in the Nabataean Realm. A Review Article”. Journal of Semitic Studies 44 (2): 251–289.

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Macdonald, Michael C.A. (2000). “Reflections on the Linguistic Map of pre-Islamic Arabia”. Arabian Archaeology and Epigraphy 11 (1): 28–79. Macdonald, Michael C.A. (2004). “Ancient North Arabian”. In: The Cambridge Encyclopedia of the World’s Ancient Languages. Ed. by R. Woodard. Cambridge, pp. 488–533. Macdonald, Michael C.A. (2008). “Old Arabic”. In: Encyclopedia of Arabic Language and Linguistics. Ed. by Kees Versteegh. Leiden, pp. 464–477. Macdonald, Michael C.A. (2009a). “Nomads and the Ḥawrān”. No. II in: Literacy and Identity in Pre-Islamic Arabia. Ed. by M.C.A. Macdonald. Farnham (Variorum Collected Studies Series 906), pp. 303–413. Macdonald, Michael C.A. (2009b). “Arabians, Arabias, and the Greeks. Contact and Perceptions”. No. V in: Literacy and Identity in Pre-Islamic Arabia. Ed. by M.C.A. Macdonald. Farnham (Variorum Collected Studies Series 906), pp. 1–33. Macdonald, Michael C.A. (2009c). “Arabs, Arabias, and Arabic before Late Antiquity”. Topoi 16: 277–332. Macdonald, Michael C.A. (2010a). “Arabia and the Written Word”. In: The Development of Arabic as a Written Language. Ed. by M.C.A. Macdonald. Oxford (Supplement to the Proceedings of the Seminar of Arabian Studies 41), pp. 5–27. Macdonald, Michael C.A. (2010b). “The Old Arabic Graffito at Jabal Usays. A New Reading of Line 1”, In: The Development of Arabic as a Written Language. Ed. by M.C.A. Macdonald. Oxford (Supplement to the Proceedings of the Seminar of Arabian Studies 41), pp. 141–143. Macdonald, Michael C.A., Muna al-Muʾazzin and Laïla Nehmé (1996). “Les inscriptions safaïtiques de Syrie, cent quarante ans après leur découverte”. Comptes rendus de l’Académie des inscriptions et belles-lettres 140 (1): 435–494. Mascitelli, Daniele (2006). L’arabo in epoca preislamica: formazione di una lingua. Roma (Arabia Antica 4). Meïmaris, Yiannis E. and Kalliope I. Kritikakou-Nikolaropoulou (2005). Inscriptions from Palaestina Tertia, Vol. 1a. The Greek Inscriptions from Ghor es-Safi, Byzantine Zoora. Athens (Meletīmata 41). Meïmaris, Yiannis E. and Kalliope I. Kritikakou-Nikolaropoulou (2008). Inscriptions from Palaestina Tertia, Vol. 1b. The Greek inscriptions from Ghor es-Safi, Byzantine Zoora (supplement), Khirbet Qazone and Feinan. Athens (Meletīmata 57). Meshorer, Yaʾakov (1975). Nabataean Coins. Jerusalem (Qedem 3). Milik, Józef T. (1960). “Notes d’épigraphie orientale”. Syria 27: 94–98. Mordtmann, Johann (1894). “Beiträge zur Inschriftenkunde Syriens”. Zeitschrift des Deutschen Palästina-Vereins 7: 119–124. Morgenstern, Matthew (1999). “The History of the Aramaic Dialects in the Light of Discoveries from the Judaean Desert. The Case of Nabataean”. In: Eretz-Israel. Archaeological, Historical and Geographical Studies. Ed. by B.A. Levine, P.J. King, J. Naveh, and E. Stern. Jerusalem (Frank Moore Cross volume 26), pp. 134–142.

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Negev, Avraham (1991). Personal Names in the Nabatean Realm. Jerusalem (Qedem 32). Nehmé, Laïla (1998). “Une inscription nabatéenne inédite de Boṣrà (Syrie)”. In: Études sémitiques et samaritaines offertes à Jean Margain. Ed. by C.-B. Amphoux, A. Frey, and U. Schattner-Rieser. Lausanne (Histoire du texte biblique 4), pp. 63–74. O’Connor, Michael P. (1986). “The Arabic Loanwords in Nabatean Aramaic”. Journal of Near Eastern Studies 45 (3): 213–229. Preisigke, Friedrich (1922). Namenbuch enthaltend alle griechischen, latinischen, ägyptischen, hebräischen, arabischen, und sonstigen semitischen und nichtsemitischen Menschennamen, soweit sie in griechischen Urkunden (Papyri, Ostraka, Inschriften, Mumienschildern usw) Ägyptens sich forfinden. Heidelberg. Robin, Christian J. (2001). “Les inscriptions de l’Arabie antique et les études arabes”. Arabica 48: 509–577. Rodinson, Maxime (1970). “Sur la prononciation ancienne du qaf arabe”. In: Mélanges Marcel Cohen: études de linguistique, ethnographie et sciences connexes offertes par ses amis et ses élèves à l’occasion de son 80ème anniversaire; avec des articles et études inédits de Marcel Cohen. Ed. by David Cohen. The Hague, pp. 289–319. Rubin, Aaron D. (2010). The Mehri Language of Oman. Leiden (Studies in Semitic Languages and Linguistics 58). Sartre, Maurice (1985). Bostra. Des origines à l’Islam. Paris (Bibliothèque archéologique et historique 117). Stark, Jürgen K. (1971). Personal Names in Palmyrene Inscriptions. Oxford. Steiner, Richard C. (1982). Affricated Ṣade in the Semitic Languages. New York (American Academy for Jewish Research, Monograph series 3). Steiner, Richard C. (2005). “On the Dating of the Hebrew Sound Changes (*ḫ > ḥ and *ġ > ʿ) and Greek Translations (2Esdras and Judith)”. Journal of Biblical Literature 124 (2): 229–267. Steiner, Richard C. (2007). “Variation, Simplifying Assumptions, and the History of Spirantization in Aramaic and Hebrew”. In: Shaʾarei Lashon; Studies in Hebrew, Aramaic and Jewish Languages Presented to Moshe Bar-Asher. Ed. by A. Maman, S.E. Fassberg, and Y. Breuer. Jerusalem, pp. 52–65. Versteegh, Kees (2013). “Ḍād”, in L. Edzard and R. de Jong (ed.), Encyclopedia of Arabic Language and Linguistics, online edition, Leiden. Weninger, Stefan in collaboration with Geoffrey Khan, Michael P. Streck, and Janet C.E. Watson, eds. (2011). Semitic Languages: An International Handbook. Handbücher zur Sprach- und Kommunikationswissenschaft 36. Berlin: de Gruyter Mouton. Westenholz, Aage (1990). “A Note on the Pre-Islamic Arabic Dialect of Syria on Basis of Greek Inscriptions”. In: Living Waters: Scandanavian Orientalistic Studies presented to Professor Dr. Frede Loekkegaard on his Seventy-Fifth Birthday, January 27th 1990. Ed. by S.E. Keck, S. Soendergaard, and E. Wulff. Copenhagen, pp. 391–396. Wright, William (1955). A Grammar of the Arabic Language. Cambridge.

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Wuthnow, Heinz (1930). Die semitischen Menschennamen in Griechischen Inschriften und Papyri des Vorderen Orients. Leipzig (Studien Zur Epigraphik Und Papyruskunde I.4.). Zeinaddin, Hussein (2000). “Safaitische Inschriften aus dem Ǧabal al-ʿArab”. Damaszener Mitteilungen 12: 265–289.

Classical Arabic in Context

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chapter 6

Traces of South Arabian Causative-Reflexive Verbal Stem in Arabic Lexicon? Daniele Mascitelli

1

Introduction

There exists an obvious semantic relationship between some Classical Arabic quadriliteral roots which have šīn or sīn as first radical and their twin triliteral roots. This paper is a preliminary survey on these roots in order to explore the possible linguistic phenomena that underlie this correspondence. The working hypothesis is that some of these quadriradical roots may derivate from triradical ones, by adding a s- (or š-) element, to produce a new root. This process may have worked in Arabic in two ways: 1) denominative derivation, when we deal with possible loanwords;1 2) verbal derivation, supposing that a s- (or š-) verbal prefix was active and productive in some ancient stage of the Arabic language, or in some of the ancient dialects which contributed to the formation of Classical Arabic. First, I have compiled a comprehensive list—given here in the appendix— of quadriliteral Arabic roots beginning with šīn (list 1) and sīn (list 2) recorded in Lisān al-ʿArab by Ibn Manẓūr (d.1311/711h)2 which have a twin triliteral root. In these lists the corresponding triliteral roots of both Ancient South Arabian (ASA) and Modern South Arabian (MSA) languages, if existing, have been added for comparison. The choice to compare these Classical Arabic roots with the same roots in ASA and MSA languages is suggested by the following: a) at least since the 2nd century ad Arabic speakers are attested in South Arabia, in those areas where ASA languages were consistently written. It is also reasonable to assume that ancestors of MSA languages speakers used to live in the same general area. This long term geographic contiguity could have given rise to foci of language contact; b) many of both ASA 1 This type of process is not uncommon in Arabic throughout is long history, for example: ʿSKR, from Persian laškar, that gives the verb ʿaskara and the substantive muʿaskar, until recent TLFZ, from (French?) television, that gives the substantive tilfaz. 2 This choice of Lisān is partly casual, partly due to the need of putting a limit to this survey.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi: 10.1163/9789004343047_007

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and MSA languages have a productive s1- prefix verbal stem (though with different phonological realizations).3 As is known, in Classical Arabic the so-called causative stem of the verb (IV stem) is characterized by prefix morpheme ʾa- and sukūn (zero-vowel) on the first radical, while in Ancient South Arabian languages the very same stem is characterized by the prefix s1- (all ASA languages except Sabaic which has h-). In MSA, we find a causative-reflexive stem with a š-4 prefix morpheme, eventually with different syllabic patterns šeCCùC (mainly with a passive meaning) and šeCèCeC (reflexive, reciprocal),5 that is opposite to a causative h- stem in Mehri and ʾ- in Jibbali. This situation is the result of supposed morphological and phonetic evolutions inside the different language families. A phonetic passage s > h > ʾ is commonly reconstructed for Arabic morphemes, as well as a passage s1 > h in Sabaic.6 In MSA languages these verbal morphemes coexist, each one with its own specialization, though it is hazardous to draw conclusions from this, at the moment. Traces of s- (and also h-) verbal prefix have already been recognized in some Arabic roots, either as a morphological productive element or possibly in loans.7 By introducing the concept of zawāʾid or ḥurūf zāʾida (ziyāda) in reconstructing the root of a word, Arab grammarians recognized the possibility that a consonant in a quadriliteral root may be an “extension” of a tri-

3 A similar comparison with repertoires of other languages, such as Ethiopian or Akkadian, may lead to relevant results as well, but at the moment such languages are not taken into account. 4 In this paper, transcription of MSA languages is simplified and adapted to Arabic transcription system, even though the real pronunciation of phonemes is quite different. For example: instead of marking the long and short vowels, I just noted the accented ones; I used q for ḳ, š for s᷉/ç, and so on. 5 See Johnstone ML p. XXXVII, LIX, and Johnstone JL p. XXI, XXV. 6 Such type of diachronic reconstructions presume an evolutionary scheme that takes ProtoSemitic as starting point from which different languages moved in one or more direction and then differentiated between themselves. Being the drawing of that scheme still disputed, I prefer not to discuss this topic. Here I prefer to avoid the issue and just juxtapose data. 7 The recent literature I found on this subject—for example A. Măcelaru in EALL, s.v. “Causative”; Lipiński (1997: 389), stating that this prefix is not productive in Arabic; Fleisch (1979: vol. II, pp. 280–282) always quotes examples taken from Brockelmann 1908 (vol. I, p. 522) and Mez (1906: 250–251). Note that all the examples given only concern roots beginning with sīn, and are mainly focused on three consonantal roots resultant from two consonantal ones (e.g. sabaqa, sakana, saḥaṭa, etc.).

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radical one. The lexicographers often remark that on the nature of the fourth consonant as a sort of extension, especially the second or the fourth radical consonant, particularly raʾ, nūn, mīm, ʿayn, lām, and so on, but they never considered the possibility that a sīn or šīn in first position may be a zāʾida—nor, of course, that it may come out from a derivative verbal stem of a cognate language.

2

Methodology

Before examining the data, I will make a few remarks on the methodology and sources for the compilation s/š-quadriliteral roots with triliteral twins. – for Classical Arabic, beside the Lisān al-ʿArab, I used also the Tāǧ al-ʿarūs by al-Zabīdī (d. 1790/1205h), as well as other more recent dictionaries, but the pairs of roots selected in the lists are only the ones found in Lisān; several other quadriliteral roots with a good semantic relationship with their threeconsonantal twin (e.g.: ŠRDQ, SLQY) have been excluded because they are not recorded in Lisān al-ʿArab; – for Ancient South Arabian: the Sabaic Dictionary by Beeston–Ghul–Müller– Ryckmans, Copeland Biella’s Dictionary of Old South Arabian, Ricks’s Lexicon of Epigraphic Qatabanian, and the Corpus of South Arabian Inscription (CSAI) of DASI database for all the four languages (Hadramitic, Minaic, Qatabanian, Sabaic);8 – for Modern South Arabian languages I used the Johnstone’s lexica for Mehri, Jibbali, Harsusi, and Leslau’s Lexique for Soqotri, this last based mainly on the texts collected by the Südarabische Expedition of the Wien Kaiserliche Akademie der Wissenschaften. From these two lists, I have excluded the following: – roots which are the result of doubling a two-consonantal unit (e.g. šaršar); – roots that are expressly said to come out of loanwords from other nonSemitic languages (mainly from Persian); – roots recorded only for personal names, such as Šanbal or Šanfara, which may yet betray a South Arabian origin.

8 See http://dasi.humnet.unipi.it/index.php?id=42&prjId=1&corId=0&colId=0 (last checked on January 25th 2014); though considering that CSAI is partially still a work in progress.

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On the other hand roots without a visible semantic relation with their three-consonantal twin, where the quadriliteralone may have originated from different insertions or extensions, have been included, though marked with an asterisk. There is indeed a good amount of roots in these lists where the second or fourth consonant is lām or rāʾ or nūn, and this, in my view, points to the possibility that these ones are true quadriliteral roots. Based on this collection, the following observations are offered: 1. The first challenge in identifying correspondences is phonological. The correspondence between Arabic and phonetic systems of the South Arabian languages is not always as clear cut as one might wish, in particular when we deal with MSA languages. This means that, especially when dealing with loanwords, Arabic may have taken over a given word based on its pronunciation rather than its etymological source, and from multiple sources as well. This is apparent when a word has two or more variants. Alternations of s/š and also ṣ are common, as well as ẓ/ḍ, ʿ/ġ/h, q/ǧ, l/r/n, b/m and so on.9 In some cases a pair with both š- and s- are attested. On the other hand some word listed in Arabic repertoires are expressly defined as dialectal words (luġa), and these too are presumed to suffer possibly phonetic shifts as well, since several alternation (s/š, ḍ/š and so on) have been recorded by Arab philologist as affecting sibilants. The question is complicated by the different values of voiceless sibilants in these languages. Epigraphic South Arabian languages have three signs for unemphatic voiceless sibilants (s1, s2, s3): different hypotheses—which cannot be discussed in detail here10—have been proposed about their realization. It is likely that one of them was a lateral (ś), yet in late antiquity, when only Sabaic survived as a written language, the merger of s3 and s1 gradually occurs. Though this feature happens at the very same time Arabic speakers increased their presence in South Arabian society, we cannot conclude definitively if this is the result of Arabic influence. Classical Arabic has only two non-emphatic voiceless sibilants (realized s and š at least since 8th century ad), and etymological correspondences show that Arabic sīn covers ASA s1 and s3, and šīn corresponds to ASA s2. Since the actual pronunciation of the ASA sibilants is unclear, we may permit some variation in the phonological correspondences between ASA and Arabic in loans. 9 10

See for example List 1 n°8, 41 and 43 ŠBRQ/ŠMRǦ/ŠMRQ; list 2 n°41 SLQM/SLǦM/SLʿM, and 46 SMʿǦ/SMLǦ; list 1 n°28 and list 2 n° 25 and 41 ŠLǦM/SLǦM/SLĠM. On this question see for example Beeston (1977); Marrassini (1978); Churchyard (1993); Macdonald (2000); Mascitelli (2006: 198–211).

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On the other hand in MSA languages the situation is the following: etymological s1 is realized š (or s̃), s2 is ś, s3 is[s], but significant variation in the correspondences are attested.11 2. The given lists are distinct in roots beginning with šīn or sīn. The first ones have much more probability to be (influenced by) loans from South Arabian, but only if we suppose that MSA realization of etymological s1 (today closer to Arabic š) was effective in earlier times. If this is the case, the second ones may represent an internal development of Arabic. But we must be careful about this assumption, considering the unclear picture we have about the phonetic realization of the sibilants in the ancient languages. Moreover, in several cases, the lexicographers actually report both variants of the same root, disputing on which one is correct. In addition to this, we have quadriradical roots with a twin triradical that is only attested in Arabic, rather than only in a South Arabian language. This distribution may suggest that the word is a native Arabic one, in turn implying that a verbal s- stem was actually effective in Arabic, possibly in an old stage of its evolution or in some old forms of non-Classical Arabic.12 3. Even when a root is attested in both s-quadriliteral and triliteral roots, a semantic connection that links them is not always apparent. This may be the result of the different genres preserved in the epigraphic material and the Arabic tradition. The Arab lexicographers usually rely on poetry, even ancient poetry, as well as religious literature. On the opposite side, the available texts of Ancient South Arabian languages are exclusively epigraphic ones and, though being quite diverse in terms of genre, they cover only a narrow range of semantic fields. For Modern South Arabian languages too, the lexical repertoires we have at our disposal are the fruit of fieldwork among nomadic or seminomadic communities, whose lexical richness is someway limited to the horizons of their minority enclaves—as well as being under significant Arabic influence. The poetic quality of the terms recorded by Arabian lexicographers is rather evident in these lists. Sometimes we have the impression that even the lexicographers themselves did not really know the exact meaning of the word, and this is the very case of the ġarāʾib (“strange words” used by poets) in 11 12

For example: for number 7 (etymologically beginning with s1) we find š in Jibbali, s in Harsusi, h in Mehri (but š for 70!). Evidence of a s- verbal prefix is of course inside the X stem (istafʿala), also attested in Sabaic.

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poetry. It is surprising, for example, as many words ascribed to these fourconsonantal roots are said to mean “tall” or “big” as a generic adjective for humans or animals. This may point out to some adjectives found in poetry whose meaning was not clear, or maybe it was interpreted just in a generic way, so that we miss the actual meaning that eventually would link it to its triliteral pair. The significant chronological and contextual space between our corpora allows for significant semantic developments to have occurred, and these will be posulated when need to link some quadriliteral roots and their triliteral twins.

3

Discussion of Key Entries

ŠNTQ (List 1, n° 56) The word šuntuqa or šantuqa, as it is said in Lisān al-ʿArab, designates a piece of cloth used by women to secure their veil on their heads. Tāǧ al-ʿarūs specifies that it is like a net made of cotton. The word is supposed to derive from Persian, like šandaq (but the reference is probably to the word-scheme). From the twin triliteral root NTQ we have the verb nataqa, meaning “to shake, to stir, to beat”. This is its meaning in the Qurʾān (sūra al-aʿrāf, VII 171) where God lifts Mount Sinai and throws it. Other words come from this root, but nothing that could be strictly related to the function of šantuqa.13 But in Mehri and Jibbali the same root NTQ takes more specific meaning. The verb netòq means either “to greet” (with hand-shaking), but also “to spread” a sheet or a cloth. Two š- verbal stem are given: šeniteq (“to greet each other”), and šentéq (“to be spread out”). This latter meaning is related to the substantive netqet or netéq which is a length of cloth or fabric.14 It is therefore possible that the term šuntuqa entered in Arabic with its very specific use recorded by lexicographers, as a technical word (a network cloth that women wear on their head), as a borrowing from a more generic meaning “a [spread out] piece of cloth”, which is found in MSA.

13 14

For example: antaqa means “to marry a woman with many children”; nātiq is one of the names of the month Ramaḍān. Johnstone (ML) reports that this word in Mehri is used in poetry.

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ŠʿNB (List 1 n° 3) The meaning of the verb šaʿnaba from which a participle/adjective mušaʿnib is derived, is reported to be related with the horns of ram (kabš) or ibex (tays): it means “twisted, curly, tortuous, tortile” (multawī). Some says it refers specifically to “a horn that is straight and curved at the end”. A twin triliteral root ʿNB cannot be found in Modern South Arabian lexica we have, but of course this may be a coincidence, as MSA speakers usually do not grow vines. The term is found in Sabaic (and widespread in many Semitic languages) with a similar meaning to Arabic ʿinab, that is “grapes”, and also “vine”. It is not difficult to relate tendrils and vine-shoots (which are a common ornamental motives in ancient iconography) to the horns of ram and ibex, these last also common decorative figure in ancient South Arabia. I propose that the original meaning of šaʿnaba should be something like “to be (or become) tendril-shaped”.15 ŠŠQL (List 1 n° 77) The verb šašqala is quoted by Ibn Manẓūr as being a technical term of “Ḥimyarite origin in use among the money-changers of Iraq”; it means “to weigh or measure dinars one by one”. In Classical Arabic, under the twin triliteral root ŠQL, the very technical word šāqūl is recorded, that is the name of a pointed stick used by farmers in Basra to measure land or to fix land-borders.16 Beside this, the verb šaqala, meaning “to weigh” (specifically dīnārs), is obviously a loanword because of its technical use and since it is not a productive root. Actually the corresponding Arabic (and South Arabian) root is ṮQL—as is also shown by the corresponding Aramaic root TQL. This meaning, however, is not found in the South Arabian languages, but in Hebrew, where the meaning of “weigh” is (secondarily) related to currency. If this is the case, šašqala would represent a technical term, possibly from a Yemeni-Jewish dialect which combine a Hebrew word with a South Arabian derivative verbal stem. It only survived in the slang of Iraqi money-changers in Islamic times. Another explanation would point to Akkadian substratum in Iraqi region, but this hypothesis should find a plausible vehicle language that brought this word into medieval Arabic—a language that Arab lexicographers considered to be related to Ḥimyarite.

15 16

Tāǧ reports a variant with ġayn (mušaġnib). This may be too a loan from South Arabian: a term ṯqwl is found in Qatabanic inscription RES 3856, probably meaning a kind of “land enclosure”.

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ŠRFĠ (List 1 n° 70) Ibn Manẓur says šurfuġ is a Yemeni word designating a “small frog”. Many names for animals, especially insects or reptiles, are quadriliteral, just like the generic term for frog (ḍafdaʿ). But the qualification of the word as “Yemeni” points to a possible derivation from a causative-reflexive verbal stem from a twin triliteral root RFĠ. No semantic relation with the twin triliteral root RFĠ in Arabic can be identified, which covers the meaning of any “part of the body in which dirt may concentrate”. We do, however, find in Mehri and Jibbali the verbs ratfeġ and rotfeġ (from the root RFĠ) with the meaning of “bump, trip, stumble over”, and also šerfàġ “to be tripped” and šèrèfeġ “to go on kicking someone”. It can be assumed that these are later developments from a wider semantic field “to jump” covered by this root in South Arabian, or even in a Yemenite South Arabian dialect that is not attested. If this root was simply related to the meaning of “jump”, an s1-verbal stem (s1rfġ), and its derivative adjective, meaning “jumpy”, may be connected to frogs, possibly as an epithet. SLḤF (List 2 n° 34) This case is similar to the one above: sulaḥfā and silaḥfā are the common names for “turtle” (the female one). Compare these with the Arabic root LḤF, which covers the meaning of “to cover”, “to wrap”, “to mantle”, we find the word liḥāf, “mantle, coat, blanket”, and the verb laḥafa, with the corresponding reflexive forms talaḥḥafa or iltaḥafa (V and VIII stems). It is possible that a derivative verbal stem with s- prefix (salḥafa) with a reflexive meaning (“to mantle oneself” in something) would be appropriated for turtles. If we are led to think that the shell of the turtle is its “home”, it is not hard to imagine that some may have considered it its mantle, with which the animal wraps itself to take shelter. Looking at the corresponding Modern South Arabian root, we find evidence for semantic shift. While in Harsusi the basic verb leḥòf is recorded by Johnstone as to mean “to come up”, in Jibbali and Mehri the verb laḥàf means to “snuggle up”, and this too is something that can be easily said about turtles; and beside the derivative verb šelḥéf meaning “to cover something”, just like Arabic laḥafa, it is also recorded the verb šelèḥef : “to keep creeping up to something or near something”, and this too may be referred to the slow motion of turtles.17 Note that the MSA common word for turtle is totally different: ḥoms (male) and ḥemesét (female).

17

Note that this second syllable pattern in MSA is strikingly close to the Arabic scheme of the word sulaḥfā.

traces of south arabian causative-reflexive verbal stem

197

What is remarkable in this case is that we find in Arabic a s-prefix, instead of š- as one would aspect in a loan. It may be assumed that it is not a loan, but a more ancient word from a stage (or dialect) in which a s- prefix verbal stem was still productive, that survived in Arabic. The other possibility is that in the language from which Arabic took the loan the s1-prefix of this word was pronounced in some way closer to a sīn than to a šīn in the ear of an Arabic speaker. SRǦḤ (List 2 n° 78) This root occurs in repertories only quoting the expression: hum ʿalā surǧūḥatin wāḥidatin (“they are on one or the same surǧūḥa”) meaning “they have similar or equivalent constitution” (istawat aḫlāqu-hum). To grasp the real sense of the word surǧūḥa, the related root RǦḤ must be taken into consideration, whose semantic sphere is related to the balance. The verb raǧaḥa denotes, for example, the leaning of the balance, so it means “to weigh more, to be more important”, but also “to weigh (in the hand)”; then we have the substantive raǧāḥa “balance, equilibrium, calmness”, and ruǧǧāḥa “swing or seesaw”, also marǧūḥa, but also the synonymous urǧūḥa “swing” or “see-saw”; this last is sometimes recorded in a quadriradical root ʾRǦḤ, from which the verb taʾarǧaḥa “to swing” is derived. Similar meanings are found in MSA languages, where a verb šergaḥ, meaning “to swing”, is recorded in Jibbali together with šerègaḥ “to keep on swinging”, while in Mehri we find hergeḥ “to dip, to go down”, said probably of the pan of a balance, since the basic verbal stem means “to outweigh”. Thus a surǧūḥa may be understood as a pan of balance, and “being on one surǧūḥa” would mean that actually the weight of what is in one plate is equal to what is in the other. The substantive in this case could come out from a verb sarǧaḥa with a reflexive value (similar to the VIII stem irtaǧaḥa “to swing”) meaning something like “to swing until reaching an equilibrium”, said of a balance pan, which may be so designated as a surǧūḥa. The other possibility is that surǧūḥa is merely a dialectal variant of urǧūḥa, denoting the game, and the expression quoted in Lisān would means “they play the same game”. ŠRMḤ (List 1 n° 73) The adjective šarmaḥ refers to a tall man (opposite to short); the feminine too can refer to a tall slim and long-legged woman. The twin triliteral root RMḤ gives rumḥ, that is the “spear” or “javelin”—the Arab weapon par excellence— and the connected verb ramaḥa, “to throw”. The same root is found in Sabaic and in Mehri (designating both spears and arrows), while in Jibbali the verb

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rī[m]ḥ takes a slightly different meaning, “to kick”, with the reflexive stem šermaḥ (actually passive in this case) meaning “to be kicked”, where the weapon changes, but not the offensive semantic of the root. Assuming that the adjective šarmaḥ derivates from a š-prefix verbal stem, its meaning can be either “as tall and slim as a spear”, or perhaps “thrown up toward heights” and thus “tall”.18 ŠMRḪ (List 1 n° 42) Interpretation of this root may seem a bit contorted. The two words šimrāḫ and šumrūḫ ascribed to this root, indeed, designate a ʿiṯkāl, that is a cluster or bunch, or better a ʿidq, that is what Ibn Manẓūr says to be for the date palm the same of the grape for the vine. But in the cluster called šimrāh the dates are not ripened. No relation is to be found with the twin triliteral root MRḪ either in Classical Arabic or in South Arabian, whose main meaning is “to oil” or “to grease”, being murūḫ an “ointment”. But in Tāǧ al-ʿarūs the word murḫa is recorded as a dialectal variant of rumḫa or rimḫa (with metathesis), in its turn a luġā of Ṭayyiʾ tribe for the more common busra. This last thing is nothing but a date cluster of a palm-tree that does not come to ripen. Actually, it is not recorded to which tribe or dialect the variant murḫa (for rumḫa) is to be ascribed, but the suspect is that it would be a dialect in which a š- prefix was productive, giving a verb *šarmaḫa whose meaning was “not to ripen” referred to a dates cluster, and then, with metathesis, the unique words šimrāḫ and šumrūḫ. SḤBL (List 2 n° 18) The adjective saḥbal means “big” referred to the belly. It can be applied to women (as in a verse by Himyān quoted by Ibn Manẓūr) as well as to men and animals (just like in other anonymous verses); extensively it can be related to a wādī, a bucket, etc. In South Arabian, just like in Arabic, the root ḤBL has a completely different semantic value: it is related to the idea of “binding” and “bonding”, so we have Arabic ḥabl “rope” and ḥabala “to bind”. In Sabaic the same verb means “to sign a pact” or “to make an alliance”, but the substantive also designates “a course of stones or bricks” in a wall (which are stuck together). In MSA languages we find the word ḥòbel which in Harsusi means “hobble” for animals (and then the verb ḥobel “to jump”, just like an animal with hobbled legs does),

18

A semantic parallelism is for example with Italian and French, where the adjective slanciato and élancé (= “slender”) and the verbs lanciare and lancer (= “to throw”) come from the same Latin word lancea (= “spear”).

traces of south arabian causative-reflexive verbal stem

199

while in Mehri it designates a “leather thong”, and in Soqotri a “leather rope” used to climb on palm-trees; both Arabic ḥabl sirrī and Harsusi ḥebelèt designate also the umbilical cord. Only in Classical Arabic we find the intransitive verb ḥabila meaning “to become pregnant”, obviously referred to a woman. The hypothesis is that from this verb a sort of reflexive verbal stem with the s- prefix could give the meaning of “to have a big/full belly” because of pregnancy, and from this would derive an adjective saḥbal literally “pot-bellied” that survived in poetry, not restricted only to pregnant women. SLḤB (List 2 n° 33) The verb of this root is a derivative stem from the quadriliteral root: islaḥabba. Ibn Manẓūr reports firstly the participle muslaḥibb meaning “straight” especially referred to a route; al-Zabīdī adds “flatten, plain, clear, extended”, always referred to a route. No twin root is attested in South Arabian, but in Classical Arabic the words laḥb and lāḥib means explicitly “clear route”, and the verb laḥaba means “to open a path or a route”, beside “to leave a trace” (for example as consequence of a spank, a scratch, etc.). Until a related root LḤB will be attested in some South Arabian or else, this case too must be considered an internal Arabic development from a productive s- prefix, in this case with an active causative value. ŠĠBR (List 1 n° 17) This is a very speculative case: šaġbar is a name of the jackal (ibn āwā) and is disputed whether the right word is šaġbar or šaġbaz; but the verb tašaġbara is referred to a wind whirling or getting entangled (iltawat) when it blows. A possible link with the twin triliteral root ĠBR is in the words ġabara and ġubār, that is “dust” or “dust cloud”, since it is easy to figure that a whirling wind, eventually a tornado, can lift up a dusty and sandy cloud. This explanation would fit except for the prefix š- instead of s- which would point to a South Arabian origin of this word. In fact the corresponding root ĠBR in South Arabian has completely different meanings: attestations in Sabaic are rare and not clear, while in MSA languages the main meaning is “to meet and greet”, and “to give help to someone [with money or else]”, and the reflexive verb šeġbor (in Mehri and Harsusi) and šġebér (in Jibbali) gives the meaning of “to receive help”; the adjective ġeberèr “dusty brown”, “grey” found in Harsusi is possibly an arabism from the word ġebàr “dust”. Nevertheless Johnstone recorded in Jibbali also Ġebreʾ and Ġebrét as the names of an earth jinn (male or female) who can take possession of the body of humans. One may speculate that such jinns appeared as a dusty tornado coming out from earth to ravish

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human bodies and minds. This image could be the link not only between the Arabic verb tašaġbara and the Jibbali jinn name, but also with the epithet of the jackal, since this animal is commonly connected with jinns in folklore.

4

Conclusion

In conclusion, it is noteworthy that lexicographers explicitly defined several of these four-consonantal words as “Yemeni” or “Ḥimyari” luġāt. Whatever they meant with such definitions, it is probably something they related to nonpurely Arabic dialects connected with the southern area of the Peninsula, maybe in some way cognate with some form of Ancient or Modern South Arabian. The first is indeed a clear geographical reference that points to Southern Arabia, while the second is a tribal nisba whose exact meaning is someway less precise. Although only a fraction of this tribe spread all over Arab world during the first centuries of Islam, agreement is found among Arab scholars about its Yemenite origin. Yet many of these scholars were aware of a separate Ḥimyarite dialect—considered non-Arabic—spoken in Yemen even in medieval times. For example in al-Hamdānī (d. 945/334h) description of linguistic Yemen we find not only reference to Ḥimyarite, but also to some “barbarous tongue”, like that of Mahra tribe (i.e. possibly the ancestors of modern Mehri speakers) and that spoken in upper Maʿafir region (Southern Yemen).19 These definitions thus would point to a foreigner, or southern, character of these words. Beside the examples here analyzed, at least 30 % of the entries of both lists (23 out of 78 in List 1; 28 out of 90 in List 2) find a suitable semantic relationship between the two roots of the couple. And this, in my opinion, suggests the possible existence of a s-prefix verbal stem in Arabic. In order to state whether it is due to a foreign (South Arabian or else) interference or just an archaic reminiscence survived in some ancient or medieval dialects, it would be necessary to trace the origin, history and evolution of these Arabic words, that is to say, to find them in clear textual context.

19

Ṣifa, pp. 134–135. The same al-Hamdānī, when tried to read ASA inscriptions, usually called their language “ḥimyarite”, just like many others used to do.

traces of south arabian causative-reflexive verbal stem

201

References Beeston, A.F.L. (1997). “Arabian Sibilants”. Journal of Semitic Studies 22: 222–233. Beeston, A.F.L., M.A. Ghul, W.W. Müller, and J. Ryckmans (1982). Sabaic Dictionary. Louvain-la-Neuve—Beyrouth. Brockelmann, C. (1908). Grundriss der vergleichenden Gramatik der Semitischen Sprachen. Berlin. Churchyard, H. (1993). “Early Arabic siin and šiin in Light of the Proto-Semitic Fricativelateral Hypothesis”. In: Perspective on Arabic Linguistics V. Amsterdam-Philadelphia, pp. 313–342. Copeland Biella, J. (1982). Dictionary of Old South Arabic—Sabaean Dialect. Harvard— Chicago. EALL: Versteegh, Kees, ed. (2005–2009). Encyclopaedia of Arabic Language and Linguistics. Leiden. Fleisch, H. (1979). Traité de morphologie arabe. Beyrouth. Lisān: Ibn Manẓūr. Lisān al-ʿArab. Bayrūt 1955–1956. Johnstone HL: Johnstone, T.M. (1977). Harsusi Lexicon. Oxford. Johnstone JL: Johnstone, T.M. (1981). Jibbali Lexicon. Oxford—New York. Johnstone ML: Johnstone, T.M. (1987). Mehri Lexicon. London. Leslau LS: Leslau W. (1938). Lexique Soqotri. Paris. Macdonald, M.C.A. (2000). “Reflections on the linguistic map of pre-Islamic Arabia”. Arabian Archaeology and Epigraphy 11: 28–79. Marrassini, P. (1978). “Considerazioni sulle sibilanti semitiche: il caso della śin”. Egitto e Vicino Oriente 1: 161–177. Mascitelli, D. (2006). L’arabo in epoca preislamica—Formazione di una lingua. Roma. Mez, A. (1906). “Über einege sekundäre Verba im Arabische”. In: Orientalischen Studien Theodor Nöldeke, vol. 1. Gieszen, pp. 249–254. Lipiński, E. (1997). Semitic Languages—Outline of a Comparative Grammar. Leuven. Ricks, S.D. (1982). A Lexicon of Epigraphic Qatabanian. Ph.D. dissertation presented to the Faculty of the Graduate Theological Union. Berkeley, CA. Ṣifa: al-Hamdānī. Ṣifat ǧazirat al-ʿArab, ed. D.H. Müller. Leyden 1882. Tāǧ: al-Zabīdī. Tāǧ al-ʿarūs min ǧawāhir al-qāmūs. al-Qahira 1888/1306h.

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Appendix table 6.1

Quadriliteral roots beginning with šīn

Quadriliteral root

1* 2*

ŠʿBD šuʿbad, mušaʿbūd ŠʿFR and ŠĠFR

3

ŠʿNB šaʿnab 4* ŠʿṢB 5* ŠBRḎ see ŠMRḎ 6* ŠBDʿ šibdiʿ 7* ŠBRM šubrum 8* ŠBRQ and ŠRBQ see ŠMRQ and ŠMRǦ 9* ŠBRS šibris 10* ŠBZQ

11 12* 13* 14 15*

16*

ŠFLḤ šafallaḥ ŠFLQ šafallaqa ŠFṢL see ŠWṢL ŠFTN šaftana ŠFTR šaftara, ištafarra šaftara, mụštafir ŠǦʿM

Twin or related triliteral root Arabic

South Arabian

ʿBD

ʿBD

ʿFR ĠFR ʿNB

ʿFR ĠFR ʿNB (Sab.)

ʿṢB / BDʿ

ʿṢB / BDʿ (Meh. Jib.)

BRM

/

BRQ

BRQ

BRS

/

BZQ BṢQ BZĠ FLḤ

BZQ (Meh.)

FLḤ (Meh. Jib.)

FLQ

FLQ

FṢL

FṢL (Meh. Jib.)

FTN

FTN

FTR

FTR (Meh. Jib.)

ǦʿM

/

traces of south arabian causative-reflexive verbal stem

Quadriliteral root

17

18 19 20* 21* 22 23 24* 25* 26* 27* 28*

29* 30

31

ŠĠBR and ŠĠBZ šaġbar tašaġbara ŠĠBZ see ŠĠBR ŠĠNB see ŠʿNB ŠHBR šahbara, šahbar ŠHDR see ŠHḎR ŠHḎR šihḏāra ŠHRB šahrab ŠHRZ ŠḤŠR ŠḪDB šuḫdub ŠḪRB šuḫārib ŠLǦM šalǧam see also SLǦM and SLĠM in List 2 ŠLḪB ŠLḪF and ŠLĠF šillaḫf šillaġf see also SLḪF and SLʿF in (List 2, 36 and 24) ŠMʿD and ŠMʿṬ išmaʿadda išmaʿaṭṭa see also ŠMĠD

Twin or related triliteral root Arabic

South Arabian

ĠBR

ĠBR

/

ĠZB (Meh.)

ĠNB

/

HBR

/

HDR

HDR

HḎR

HḎR (Jib.)

HRB

HRB

HRZ ḤŠR ḪDB

/ ḤŠR /

ḪRB

ḪRB (Meh. Jib.)

LǦM

LGM (Meh. Jib.)

LḪB LḪF

/ /

MʿD MĠD MʿṬ MĠṬ

MʿD MʿṮ (Jib.) (?)

203

204

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table 6.1

Quadriliteral roots beginning with šīn (cont.)

Quadriliteral root

Twin or related triliteral root Arabic

32* ŠMʿL see SMĠL (List 2, 49) / 33 ŠMʿṬ see ŠMʿD MʿṬ MĠṬ 34* ŠMḎR MḎR see also ŠMRḎ MHD 35 ŠMHD šamhada šamhad see also SMHD (List 2, 48) 36 ŠMḤṬ MḤṬ šamḥāṭ, šamḥūṭ MʿṬ MĠṬ see also ŠMʿD and ŠMʿṬ 37* ŠMḪR MḪR šummaḫr mušmaḫirr 38 ŠMLQ and ŠLMQ MLQ šamlaq LMQ 39 ŠMRḎ see ŠBRḎ 40* ŠMRḌ MRḌ šamirḍ̣ aḍ MRǦ 41 ŠMRǦ šamraǧa šamrūǧ see also ŠMRQ 42 ŠMRḪ MRḪ šimrāḫ, šmrūḫ RMḪ šamraḫa 43 ŠMRQ see ŠBRQ MRQ 44* ŠMŠL ṂŠL 45* ŠMṢR MṢR 46* ŠMṬL MṬL 47* ŠNʿB see ŠNḪB NʿB

South Arabian / / / /

/

MḪR (Sab.)

MLQ (Jib.)

MRḌ /

/

MRQ / MṢR / NʿB (Sab.)

traces of south arabian causative-reflexive verbal stem

Quadriliteral root

48* ŠNʿF šinʿāf see also ŠNḪB 49* ŠNDF šunduf 50* ŠNDḪ 51* ŠNḎR šanḏar, šinḏār šanḏara 52* ŠNḤṬ see ŠMḤṬ and ŠMʿṬ 53 ŠNḪB and ŠNʿB and ŠNĠB šunḫuba, šinḫāb šunūb šunġub see also ŠNẒB 54* ŠNĠB see ŠNḪB 55 ŠNQF šunquf, šinqāf 56 ŠNTQ šuntuqa 57* ŠNTR 58* ŠNZB 59* ŠNZR šanzara 60 ŠNẒB šunẓub 61* ŠQDʿ 62* ŠRʿB see also SRʿB (List 2, 70) 63* ŠRǦʿ 64* ŠRʿF see also SRʿF (List 2, 71) 65* ŠRBQ see ŠBRQ 66* ŠRBṮ

Twin or related triliteral root Arabic

South Arabian

NʿF

NʿF (Jib. Soq.)

NDF

NDF (Sab. Meh.)

NDḪ NḎR

NDḪ (Meh. Jib.) NḎR

NḤṬ NḪB

/ /

NĠB NQF

NQF

NTQ

NTQ (Jib. Meh.)

NTR NZB NZR

/ NZB (Meh.) /

NḌB

NṬB (?) (Har.)

QDʿ RʿB

/ RʿB (Jib. Meh.)

RǦʿ RʿF

RGʿ (Meh. Jib.) RʿF (Jib. Meh.)

RBQ RBṮ

RBQ RBṮ (Meh. Jib.)

205

206

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table 6.1

Quadriliteral roots beginning with šīn (cont.)

Quadriliteral root

67 68* 69 70 71* 72* 73 74 75* 76* 77 78

ŠRDḤ and ŠRDḪ širdaḥ, širdāḫ ŠRḎL ŠRḎM and SRDM širḏima ŠRFĠ ŠRḤF šarḥāf ŠRǦB ŠRMḤ šarmaḥ, šarmaḥi ŠRNF širnāf ŠRNQ ŠRSF ŠŠQL šạšqala ŠṢLB šaṣlab

table 6.2

2 3 4* 5*

Arabic

South Arabian

RDḤ RDḪ RḎL RḎM RDM RFĠ RḤF

/ RḎL (Meh. Jib.) RḎM (Meh.) RDM (Jib.) RFĠ /

RǦB RMḤ

RGB RMḤ

RNF

/

RNQ RSF ŠQL

/ / /

ṢLB

ṢLB (Jib. Meh.)

Quadriliteral roots beginning with sīn

Quadriliteral root

1

Twin or related triliteral root

SʿBQ sanaʿbuq SʿBR saʿbar SʿRM SBʿR SBĠL

Twin or related triliteral root Arabic

South Arabian

ʿBQ NBQ ʿBR

/ / ʿBR

ʿRM BʿR BĠL

ʿRM (Soq.) BʿR BĠL

traces of south arabian causative-reflexive verbal stem

Quadriliteral root

6* 7* 8* 9* 10 11 12* 13

14* 15 16* 17* 18 19* 20* 21* 22* 23* 24 25 26* 27 28 29

SBHL SBḤL SBKR SBRǦ SBRD sabrada SBRT subrūt SBTL subtul SBṬR sabaṭra sabṭarī SFSQ SĠBL see SRBL SǦHR suǧahirr; isǧaharra SHBL sahbal SḤBL saḥbal SḤFR SḤǦL SḤTN SḤṬR SḪBR SLʿF see ŠLḪF (List 1, 30) SLʿM see SLQM SLʿN SLǦM see SLQM SLĠD sillaġd SLĠF salġafa see also ŠLḪF (List 1, 30)

Twin or related triliteral root Arabic

South Arabian

BHL BḤL BKR BRǦ BRD

BHL / BKR BRG (Sab.) BRD

BRT

/

BTL

BTL

BṬR

BṬR

FSQ / ǦHR

/ / GHR (Jib. Meh.)

HBL

HBL

ḤBL

ḤBL

ḤFR ḤǦL ḤTN ḤṬR ḪBR LʿF LʿM LʿN LǦM LĠD

ḤFR ḤGL / ḤṬR (Meh.) ḪBR (Jib. Meh.) / LʿM (Soq.) LʿN LGM /

LĠF

/

207

208

mascitelli

table 6.2

Quadriliteral roots beginning with sīn (cont.)

Quadriliteral root

30 SLĠM see SLQM 31* SLHǦ 32 SLHM islahamma mushalimm 33 SLḤB muslaḥibb 34 SLḤF sulaḥfā 35* SLḤT sulḥūt 36 SLḪF sillaḫf (also šillaḫf, sillaʿf ) see also ŠLḪF (List 1, 30) 37* SLḪM see also SLǦM and SLṬM 38 SLMḪ samāliḫī 39* SLQʿ 40 SLMQ see ŠMLQ (List 1, 38) 41 SLQM salqam (also salǧam, silʿām) silqima (also abu silʿām) 42* SLTM 43* SLṬḤ 44* SLṬM see SRṬM 45* SMʾL 46 SMʿǦ and SMLǦ samʿaǧ samlaǧ 47* SMDʿ 48* SMHD

Twin or related triliteral root Arabic

South Arabian

LĠM LHǦ LHM

LĠM (Jib.) LHG (Sab.) LHM (Jib. Soq.)

LḤB

/

LḤF

LḤF (Jib.)

LḤT

/

LḪF LʿF

/

LḪM

LḪM

MLḪ

MLḪ (Jib.)

LQʿ

/

LQM LǦM LʿM

LQM (Meh. Jib.) LGM (Meh. Jib.) LĠM (Meh.Jib) LʿM (Soq) / / LṬM (Meh. Jib. Har.) / /

LTM LṬḤ LṬM MʾL MʿǦ MLǦ MHǦ MDʿ MHD

/ /

traces of south arabian causative-reflexive verbal stem

Quadriliteral root

Twin or related triliteral root Arabic

49

SMĠD ismaġadda see also ŠMʿD (List 1, 31) 50* SMĠL 51 SMHR samharī 52* SMḤǦ 53 SMḤQ simḥāq 54 55* 56 57* 58* 59 60* 61* 62* 63 64 65* 66* 67* 68* 69* 70

South Arabian

MĠD

MĠL MHR

MḤǦ MḤQ MḤǦ (?) SMLQ see ŠMLQ (List 1, 38) MLQ LMQ SMRT MRT surmūt SNBK NBK sunbuk SNBT NBT SNDʾ NDʾ SNDB NDB sindāb SNDL NDL SNDR NDR SNḤF and SNḪF NḤF NḪF SNMR NMR sinimmār SNTʾ NTʾ musantaʾ SNTB NTB SNṬB NṬB SNṬḤ NṬḤ SNṬL NṬL SQʿB QʿB SQLB QLB saqlaba

MĠL (Jib.) MHR / MḤQ

MLQ MRT / NBT NDʾ (Sab.) NDB (Sab.) / NDR (Meh. Jib. Soq.) NḤF (Meh. Jib.) NMR (Sab. Qat.) / NTB (Jib.) NṬB / NṬL QʾB (Meh.)

209

210

mascitelli

table 6.2

Quadriliteral roots beginning with sīn (cont.)

Quadriliteral root

71

SRʿB surʿub 72 SRʿF and SRHF sarʿafa, sarhafa surʿūf surʿufa 73* SRBǦ sarbaǧ 74 SRBḪ sarbaḫ 75 SRBL sarbala sirbāl 76 SRDḤ sirdāḥa sardaḥ, sirdāḥ 77* SRHB and SLHB 78 79* 80*

81 82 83* 84* 85 86*

SRǦḤ surǧūḥa SRǦN see also SRQN SRHD musarhad sarhad SRHF see SRʿF SRḤB surḥūb SRMD SRND SRNF see ŠRNF (List 1, 74) SRQʿ serquʿ

Twin or related triliteral root Arabic

South Arabian

RʿB

RʿB (Jib. Meh.)

RʿF RHF

RHF (Jib.) RʿF (Meh.)

RBǦ

/

RBḪ

/

RBL

/

RDḤ

/

RHB LHB RǦḤ

LHB RGḤ (Meh. Jib.)

RǦN

/

RHD

/

RHF RḤB

RHF RḤB

RMD RND

RMD (Soq.) RND (Sab. Qat.)

RQʿ

RQʿ (Meh. Jib)

traces of south arabian causative-reflexive verbal stem

Quadriliteral root

87* SRQN sirqīn 88* SRṬʿ 89* SRṬL 90 SRṬM and SLṬM sarṭam

Twin or related triliteral root Arabic

South Arabian

RQN

/

RṬʿ RṬL RṬM

/ RṬL (Soq.) /

211

chapter 7

Arabic allaḏī / illi as Subordinators: An Alternative Perspective* Lutz Edzard

1

Introduction

It is, of course, a truism that phenomena in Arabic often can be better explained in a wider Semitic or even Afroasiatic perspective, or, to quote the title of the workshop for which this paper was written: “in context”. Previously, I have tried to underline this point in an introductory chapter to the volume Semitic and Afroasiatic. Challenges and Opportunities (Edzard 2012a), part of which also found its way into a contribution to the Festschrift for Andrzej Zaborski (Edzard 2012b). A number of scholars in the 20th and early 21st century, notably Anton Spitaler (1962), Manfred Woidich (1980 and 1989), Gideon Goldenberg (1994), and Werner Diem (2007), have raised the issue that the Classical Arabic relativizer allaḏī or the dialectal Arabic relativizer illi can function as subordinating particles in the sense of “that”/“for that” or even “because”, mainly in positive or negative emotional context. Woidich (1989) plausibly also includes zayy illi ‘as if’ in this context. The phenomenon itself had already caught the attention of scholars like Carlo Comte de Landberg (1920–1942) and Meïr Bravmann (1953), among others. The locus classicus for the phenomenon in question in Classical Arabic is the following example (1): (1) Example of subordinating allaḏī in Classical Arabic ‫ضن َا ٱلل ّٰه ُدِين َار ًا‬ َ ّ ‫ط م ِ َن ّا دِْره َمٌ فعَ َ َو‬ َ َ ‫سق‬ َ ‫ٱْلحم َ ْد ُ ل ِل ّٰه ِ ٱل ّذ ِى‬ al-ḥamdu li-llāhi llaḏī saqaṭa min-nā dirhamun fa-ʿawwaḍa-nā llāhu dināran * For pertinent comments after the oral presentation of this paper I am indebted to John Huehergard, Naʿama Pat-El, Jérôme Lentin, and Bruno Herin. Responsibility for the content remains with the author alone.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi: 10.1163/9789004343047_008

arabic allaḏī / illi as subordinators: an alternative perspective 213

‘Praise be to God for that we lost a dirham and God compensated us with a dinar.’ (Brünnow and Fischer 2008: 20f.; Spitaler 1962: 97) Already this example clearly demonstrates that it is inappropriate to interpret allaḏī as a “relative pronoun”, especially as we are looking at a change of subject (see also below). If at all, allaḏī or its (rare) Biblical Hebrew morphological equivalent hallå ̄zɛ could be labeled a “relative marker”. Better is the characterization as a demonstrative element (cf. already GCK 444, § 138). Indeed, adopting the informal German rendition of allaḏī as “von dem gilt” (“of whom/which is true”), to which I first was introduced as a student, seems to solve most of the hermeneutic problems in this context in that this (admittedly clumsy) translation of allaḏī better reflects the original Semitic morpho-syntax. In the following, I will present some data that illustrate the wider functional range of mā and allaḏī in Arabic, without claiming any monocausality for this array of functions. In principle, one should, however, not forget the following problem: while a relative clause may appear unidiomatic in a European target language, it may well be idiomatic in its Arabic source. As Goldenberg (1994) has highlighted, the Qurʾān features at least three relevant examples of an “infinitival” allaḏī, i.e. allaḏī in a function of introducing a circumstance that could also be expressed by an Arabic maṣdar, in which a anaphoric (resumptive) pronoun (ʿāʾid) is missing. One of these examples (Q 9:69f.) is also regularly cited by the Arab grammarians (see item (3) below). The relevant parts of the following ʾāyāt are marked in bold (2): (2) Examples of “infinitival” allaḏī in the Qurʾān (Goldenberg 1994) Q 9:69

‫كثرَ َ َأْمو َال ًا و َ َأْول َاد ًا ف َاْستَم ْتعَ ُوا ِبخ َل َاق ِه ِْم‬ ْ ‫شَّد م ِن ْك ُْم قوَُ ّة ً و َ َأ‬ َ ‫ن م ِْن ق َب ْلـ ِك ُْم ك َانوُ ا َأ‬ َ ‫ك َال َ ّذ ِي‬ ‫ضو ا‬ ُ ‫ضت ُم ْ ك َال َ ّذ ِي خ َا‬ ْ ‫خ‬ ُ َ ‫ن م ِْن ق َب ْلـ ِك ُْم ِبخ َل َاق ِه ِْم و‬ َ ‫كم َا اْستَم ْت ََع ال َ ّذ ِي‬ َ ‫ف َاْست َم ْتعَ ْت ُم ْ ِبخ َل َاق ِك ُْم‬ َ‫ك ه ُم ُ اْلخا َس ِر ُون‬ َ ِ ‫خر َة ِ و َُأول َئ‬ ِ ‫ت َأعْم َال ُه ُْم ف ِي ال ُد ّن ْي َا و َاْلآ‬ ْ َ‫حب ِط‬ َ ‫ك‬ َ ِ ‫ُأول َئ‬

9:69a 9:69b 9:69c 9:69d 9:69e 9:69f. 9:69g 9:69h

ka-llaḏīna min qabli-kum kānū ʾašadda min-kum qūwatan wa-ʾakṯara ʾamwālan wa-ʾawlādan fa-stamtaʿū bi-ḫalāqi-him fa-stamtaʿtum bi-ḫālaqi-kum ka-mā stamtaʿa llaḏīna min qabli-kum bi-ḫalāqi-him wa-ḫuḍtum ka-llaḏī ḫāḍū ʾulāʾika ḥabiṭat ʾaʿmālu-hum fī d-dunyā wa-l-ʾāḫirati wa-ʾulāʾika humu l-ḫāsirūna

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edzard

‘[You disbelievers are] like those before you; they were stronger than you in power and more abundant in wealth and children. They enjoyed their portion [of worldly enjoyment], and you have enjoyed your portion as those before you enjoyed their portion, and you have engaged [in vanities] like that in which they engaged. [It is] those whose deeds have become worthless in this world and in the Hereafter, and it is they who are the losers.’ Q 42:23

ِ ‫ل ل َا َأْس َألـ ُك ُْم ع َل َي ْه‬ ْ ُ‫تق‬ ِ َ ‫صاِلحا‬ ّ َ ‫ن آم َنوُ ا و َعمَ ِلوُ ا ال‬ َ ‫ك ال َ ّذ ِي ي ُب َش ِّر ُ ال َل ّه ُعِب َاد َه ُ ال َ ّذ ِي‬ َ ِ ‫ذال‬ ّ َ ‫سن ًا ِإ‬ ْ ‫ح‬ ُ ‫حسَنةَ ً نزَ ِْد ل َه ُ فيِ ه َا‬ َ ‫ف‬ ْ ِ َ‫جر ًا ِإ َلّا ال ْموَ َ َدّة َ ف ِي ال ْق ُر ْب َى و َم َْن يقَ ْ تر‬ ْ ‫َأ‬ ٌ ‫ن ال َل ّه َ غ َف ُور‬ َ ٌ ‫شكُور‬

42:23a 42:23aR 42:23b 42:23c 42:23dP 42:23d 42:23e

ḏālika llaḏī yubašširu llāhu ʿibāda-hū llaḏīna ʾāmanū wa-ʿamilū ṣ-ṣāliḥāti qul lā ʾasʾalu-kum ʿalay-hi ʾaǧran ʾil-lā l-mawaddata fī l-qurbā wa-man yaqtarif ḥasanatan nazid la-hū fī-hā ḥusnan ʾinna llāha ġafūrun šakūrun

‘It is that of which Allah gives good tidings to His servants who believe and do righteous deeds. Say, [O Muhammad], “I do not ask you for this message any payment [but] only good will through kinship.” And whoever commits a good deed—We will increase for him good therein. Indeed, Allah is Forgiving and Appreciative.’ Q 6:154 ً ‫يء ٍ و َه ُدًى و َر َْحم َة‬ ْ َ‫لش‬ ِ ْ َ‫ن و َتف‬ َ َ‫حس‬ ْ ‫ب ت َم َام ًا ع َلىَ ال ّ َذ ِي َأ‬ ِ ّ ُ ‫صيل ًا ل ِّك‬ َ َ‫ث ُم ّ َآت َي ْن َا م ُوس َى ال ْك ِتا‬ َ‫ل ّ َع َل ّ َه ُم ب ِل ِق َاء ِ ر َ ّبِه ِْم يؤُ ْم ِنوُ ن‬ 6: 154a

6: 154b

ṯumma ʾātaynā mūsā l-kitāba tamāman ʿalā llaḏī ʾaḥsana wa-tafṣīlan li-kulli šayʾin wa-hudan wa-raḥmatan laʿalla-hum bi-liqāʾi rabbi-him yuʾminūna

‘Then We gave Moses the Scripture, making complete [Our favor] upon the one who did good and as a detailed explanation of all things and as guidance and mercy that perhaps in [the matter of] the meeting with their Lord they would believe.’

arabic allaḏī / illi as subordinators: an alternative perspective 215

Among the grammarians’ examples of mā and allaḏī al-maṣdarīya that Goldenberg (1994) cites in this context are notably the following two. In both examples, the central point is that an anaphoric (resumptive) pronoun is missing (or rather, in a non-normative sense: not present), as in the previous examples from the Qurʾān (3): (3) Sībawayhi and Ibn as-Sarrāǧ on the mā and allaḏī al-maṣdarīya Sībawayhi (cf. Goldenberg 1994: 16) ‫ومن ذلك أيضا ًائتني بعد ما تفرغ فما وتفرغ بمنزلة الفراغ وتفرغ صلة وهي مبتدأة وهي بمنزلتها‬ ‫ن الذي لا يعمل في شىء والأسماء‬ ّ ‫في الذي إذا قلت بعد الذي تفرغ فتفرغ في موضع مبتدإ لأ‬ .‫بعده مبتدأة‬ ‘And to this [phenomenon] belongs also ʾti-nī baʿda-mā tafruġu [‘come to me after you finish’], mā and tafruġu being in the position of al-farāġ [‘the finishing’], and tafruġu is a [dependent] ṣila, which is mubtadaʾ [ungoverned]; it has the same status as allaḏī when you say baʿda llaḏī tafruġu [‘after he finishes’]; there, tafruġu is in the position of a mubtadaʾ [ungoverned word], because allaḏī does not operate on anything and the nouns after it are ungoverned.’ Kitāb, Paris, I: 364

Ibn as-Sarrāǧ (cf. Goldenberg 1994: 22f.) ‫ ما‬:‫ أعجبني ما تضرب أخاك تر يد‬:‫ أعجبني ما تصنع حسنا تر يد ما تصنعه حسنا وكذلك‬:‫وتقول‬ ‫ الذي تضر به‬:‫ أعجبني الذي تضرب أخاك تر يد‬:‫تضر به أخاك فما وصلت ُها في معنى مصدر وكذلك‬ . […]‫ وما أكثر في هذا من الذي إذا جاءت بمعنى المصدر‬،‫أخاك‬ ‫ أنت فينا الذي ترغب ووحدت الذي في‬:‫ فقلت‬،‫ فإن جعلت الذي مصدرا جاز‬:‫قالوا‬ ‫ و يقولون على هذا‬،‫ كخوضهم‬:‫ ۞ وخضتم كالذي خاضوا ۞ ير يد‬:‫ قال عز وجل‬،‫التثنية والجمع‬ ‫ وكذلك المؤنث‬،‫ أنت فينا الذي ترغب وأنتما فينا الذي ترغبان وأنتم فينا الذي ترغبون‬،‫القياس‬ .‫ك ولا ٺثنى الذي ولا تجمع ولا تؤنث‬ َ ُ ‫ أنت فينا رغبت‬:‫ت فينا الذي ترغبين تر يد‬ ِ ‫أن‬ ‘You say: ʾaʿǧaba-nī mā taṣnaʿu ḥasanan [‘it has pleased me that you do good’], intending: mā taṣnaʿu-hū ḥasanan, and likewise (saying) ʾaʿǧabanī mā taḍribu ʾaḫā-ka [‘it has pleased me (or: induced me to wonder) that

216

edzard

you hit your brother’], you intend: mā taḍribu-hū ʾaḫā-ka, and mā and its ṣila are in the meaning of a maṣdar; and like that: ʾaʿǧaba-nī llaḏī taḍribu ʾaḫā-ka [‘it has pleased me (or: induced me to wonder) that you hit your brother’], you intend allaḏī taḍribu-hū ʾaḫā-ka; and mā, when it occurs in the meaning of a maṣdar, is more frequent in this usage than llaḏī […].’ ʾUṣūl II: 351

‘They said: but if you make allaḏī a maṣdar, it is permissible, so that you say ʾanta fī-nā llaḏī tarġabu [‘it is us that you want’], and you make allaḏī singular (when the personal pronoun and the verb are) in the dual or plural. God, to Whom belong might and majesty, said: wa-ḫuḍtum ka-llaḏī ḫāḍū [‘and you have plunged as they plunged’ (Q 9:69)], and they say in analogy to this ʾanta fī-nā llaḏī tarġabu [‘it is us that you (m.sg.) want’] and ʾantumā fī-nā llaḏī tarġabāni [‘it is us that you two want’], and ʾantum fī-nā llaḏī tarġabūna [‘it is us that you (m.pl.) want’], and likewise the feminine: ʾanti fī-nā llaḏī tarġabīna [‘it is us that you (f.sg.) want’] and you mean: ʾanti fī-nā raġbatu-ki, and the allaḏī is not made dual nor plural nor feminine.’ ʾUṣūl II: 353 f.

The important matter here is the stability of allaḏī in the Classical Arabic constructions. Therefore, one should not automatically consider a “frozen” allaḏī a later (let alone “degenerated”) Middle Arabic feature. Winding up this initial survey of non-standard use of allaḏī and returning to the subordinating semantic type (1), one finds plenty of evidence in the modern Arabic dialects. Typical examples of subordinating illi in modern Arabic dialects are the following (4): (4) Examples of subordinating illi in modern Arabic dialects Jerusalem Arabic brāwo ʿalēk illi fakkart fīha! ‘Well done to you for having thought of it!’ (Elihay 2012: 226) Cairo Arabic da kwayyis illi mišyit liḥaddi hina ‘It is good that it [the car] came (“went”) up to here.’ (Woidich 2006: 392) ana ġalṭān illi ṣariḥtik bi xuṭṭitna ‘It was a mistake of mine to have told you honestly about our plan.’ (Woidich 2006: 387)

arabic allaḏī / illi as subordinators: an alternative perspective 217

2

Discussion

2.1 Summary of the Conventional Wisdom The conventional wisdom regarding the question at hand is that “relative pronouns” or “relative markers” in these examples are “re-interpreted” as subordinating markers. An apt summary of this position is found in Diem 2007: 103f., where the hitherto most detailed analysis of the issue at hand is provided (5): (5) Diem’s (2007) analysis (a) Original expression containing relative clauses: al-ḥamdu li-llāhi llaḏī ḥamidtu llāha llaḏī “Praise be to God who” “I praised God who” (b) Re-interpretation of allaḏī as a causal conjunction on the pattern of parallel constructions with semantically explicit syntactic means, the process being due to (a) the relative clause being non-restrictive, (b) verbs such as “to praise” having an inherent complement indicating the cause of praise, (c) the relative pronouns having been reduced to allaḏī, whereby the connection of the relative clause to the head was weakened: al-ḥamdu li-llāhi llaḏī ḥamidtu llāha llaḏī “Praise be to God that” “I praised God that” (c) Generalization of allaḏī for heads expressing positive emotions, by (optional) replacement of ʾan(na) with allaḏī, while the syntactic restrictions typical of (a)–(b) were retained: malīḥ llaḏī (for malīḥ ʾanna) fariḥtu llaḏī (for fariḥtu ʾanna) “It is nice that” “I was glad that” (d) Generalization of allaḏī for heads expressing negative emotions ceteribus paribus as in (c): wayl la-ka llaḏī (for wayl la-ka ʾanna) taʾassaftu llaḏī (for taʾassaftu ʾanna) “Woe is you that” “I regretted that” (e) Generalization of allaḏī for heads not expressing emotions, with allaḏī still having an affective value and retaining its original restrictions as in (a)–(d): ʾaʿlamtu-hū llaḏī “I informed him (of the pleasant/regrettable) fact that”

218

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(f)

Generalization of allaḏī as an unmarked conjunction “that” without syntactic or semantic restrictions: ʿṭāh il-ʿahid illi ma yšūf-hā-š “He made a pledge that he would not see her.” (Tunisian Arabic)

While the internal logic of this careful analysis of re-interpretation and its inherent hierarchical order is flawless in principle, I shall nevertheless endeavor to offer an alternative viewpoint towards the end of this paper. Before doing so, three issues that are relevant in this context shall be commented upon: (i)

the semantic (and, as we will see below, morphological) overlap between relative markers and subordinating conjunctions in Semitic, which is also typologically reflected in other language families; (ii) the issue of allaḏī as a “relative pronoun” being a misnomer in Arabic and Semitic in general; and (iii) the whole issue in the light of comparative Semitic, including the phenomenon of “cleft sentences”. The following passages offer a short discussion of these issues. 2.2

Ad (i): Overlap between Relative Markers and Subordinating Conjunctions in Semitic As noted by Goldenberg (1994), Diem (2007), and others, one can maintain that in certain cases semantic overlap exists in constructions that can be translated in the target language(s) in both a relative and a subordinating sense. Accordingly, one could speak of certain particles as “nominalizers”, in that the clauses following one of the particles in question could be replaced by a maṣdar. Goldenberg (1994) (cf. item (3) above) adduces the following example, where mā ḍarabta ‘that you hit’ could be replaced by ḍarbu-ka ‘your hitting’ (6): (6) An example of mā al-maṣdarīya (Goldenberg 1994) ‫أعجبني ما ضر بت ز يدا‬ ʾaʿǧaba-nī mā ḍarabta Zaydan ‘It induced me to wonder / pleased me that you struck Zayd.’

arabic allaḏī / illi as subordinators: an alternative perspective 219

Again, the circumstance that mā ḍarabta could be replace here by ḍarbu-ka stipulates the use of the term mā al-maṣdarīya. The following Hebrew example from Exodus 18:10 shows the semantic overlap especially well, no wonder in principle in light of the equal subject (God) (7): (7) Example of subordinating ʾăšɛr in Biblical Hebrew ‫ֲאֶשׁר ִהִצּיל ֶאְתֶכם ִמ ַיּד ִמְצ ַר ִים וִּמ ַיּד ַפּ ְרעֹה‬, ‫ָבּרוְּך ְיה ָוה‬

bå ̄rūḵ YHWH ʾăšɛr hiṣṣīl ʾɛṯ-ḵɛm mi-yaḏ miṣrayim ū-miy-yaḏ parʿō(h) ‘Blessed be God who/for that he saved you from (the hand of) Egypt and (the hand of) Pharaoh.’ Again, the last example once more illustrates the importance of not automatically transferring to syntactic-semantic properties of the source language (Hebrew) to the target language (here: English). 2.3 Ad (ii): “Relative Pronoun” being a Misnomer in Arabic and Semitic As is well known, Semitic languages do not feature any real “relative pronouns” (cf., e.g., Lipiński 2001: 522). Rather, the syntax of Semitic relative clauses generally follows the rules of nominal attribution (cf. notably Retsö 2009). As is well known, the head noun + clause construction (relative clause) can also be of the annexation-like type, e.g., yawma xalaqa s-samawāti wa-l-ʾarḍa ‘on the day (that) he created the heaven and the earth’, where the asyndetic relative clause xalaqa s-samawāti wa-l-ʾarḍa determines the head noun yawma (cf. also Reckendorf 1921: 390f. = §190), reminiscent of relative clauses like Akkadian bīt īpušu ‘the house that he built’ (“house.CS he.built-REL”) or Biblical Hebrew qiryaṯ ̄ īḏ ‘the town where David camped’ (“town.CS he.camped David”) ḥå ̄nå ̄(h) ḏå w (Isa. 29:1). Exceptionally, a relative clause can also take the position of an adjective in an adjectival attributive construction (cf. Wright 1967 I, 269–270), e.g., mā ʾanta bi-l-ḥakami t-turḍā ḥukūmatu-hū ‘you are not the judge whose sentence is approved’ (“DEF/REL-is.approved:FEM sentence-his”). In higher registers of Hebrew, a relative participle attached to an indefinite head noun is governed by the definite article as well. Specifically with regard to Arabic, Badawi, Carter, and Gully (2004: 498) plausibly write oncerning this matter: This element [allaḏī] is not a ‘relative pronoun’ in the English sense; that function is performed by the referential pronoun. The purpose of the

220

edzard

allaḏī element is to make the whole clause definite, and it may thus be thought of as a determiner, which completes the adjectival agreement with the def[inite] head: 2.4 Ad (iii): Comparative Semitic Perspective Diachronically and synchronically, the use of demonstrative or locative elements in a subordinative sense—elements which we at first glance associate with a relativizing function—is nothing surprising in Semitic and even less surprising in a comparative typological perspective (cf., e.g., Lipiński 2001: 536 and Goldenberg 2013: 106). Here are a few examples extrapolated from Lipiński 2001 and Goldenberg 2013, demonstrating this morphological overlap, from Akkadian, Biblical Hebrew, ancient and modern Aramaic, modern South-Arabian Mehri, as well as Ethio-Semitic Tigrinya (8): (8) Demonstrative and locative elements in subordinating function in Semitic tammar ša … lā errub-u ‘You will see … that he will not enter.’ (Akkadian) kī higgīḏ lå ̄-hɛm ʾăšɛr hū(ʾ) yəhūḏī ‘Because he had told them that he was a Jew.’ (Biblical Hebrew: Esther 3:4) wə-hēn lå ̄ yəḏīʿ lɛhwē-lå ̄-ḵ malkå ̄ dī l-ēlå ̄hå ̄-ḵ lå ̄ ʾīṯå ̄-nå ̄ på ̄lḥīn ‘And also if not, be it known to you, king, that we will not serve your god.’ (Biblical Aramaic: Daniel 3:18) ettawḥēṯ d-ʿeḇdēṯ ennōn ‘I regret that I made them’ (Syriac Aramaic) ənə xzilij d əhə nəmumkin ijlə ‘I saw that it is impossible.’ (Neo-Aramaic–Urmi) mirre ta daw gōra dīd ʾībe ʾāzil hēš kudyōm ‘He said to that man that he should go the everyday.’ (Neo-Aramaic–Zaxo) ɣalōḳ δə-hē ɣayǧ berék bēt ‘He saw that the man was in the house.’ (Mehri)

arabic allaḏī / illi as subordinators: an alternative perspective 221

mäsälä-tom ze-bəzəḫu məwsad ‘It seemed to them that they will receive something extra.’ (Tigrinya) 2.5 Cleft Sentences Another relevant point in this context are Ethio-Semitic cleft sentences, where exactly the same element is regularly encountered which otherwise serves as genitive exponent and also is found in relative clauses: in the case of Amharic yä- (e.g., man näw yä-mm-innaggär ‘it is who who speaks?’) and in the case of Tigrinya zə- (e.g., män ʾəyyu zə-fäläṭä ‘who is he who knew?’). Here are a few Amharic examples extracted from Appleyard (1995: 9): (9) Relative clauses and cleft sentences in Amharic yä-mäṭṭa-w ʾəbat-e näw / ʾəbat-e näw yä-mäṭṭa-w ‘It is my father who came.’ ≈ ‘My father came.’ man näw yä-mm-innaggär ‘It is who who speaks?’ ≈ ‘Who speaks?’ yä-mmə-tənor-äw ʾaddis ʾabäba näw / ʾaddis ʾabäba näw yä-mmə-tənor-äw ‘It is in Addis Ababa that you live.’ ≈ ‘You live in Addis Ababa.’ yä-säbbärk-äw bərčə̣ qqo-w-n näw / bərčə̣ qqo-w-n näw yä-säbbärk-äw ‘It is the glass that you broke.’ ≈ ‘You broke the glass.’ mäčẹ näw y-ayyäh-aččäw ‘When is it that you saw Him/Her?’ ≈ ‘You saw Him/Her when?’ tənantənna näw y-ayyähuw-aččäw ‘It is yesterday that I saw Him/Her.’ ≈ ‘I saw Him/Her yesterday.’ yä-tägänaññən b-ayroplan näw ‘It is on the airplane that we met.’ ≈ ‘We met on the airplane.’ səläzzih näw wädä ʾitəyoṗṗəya yä-mäṭṭahu-t ‘It is therefore I came to Ethiopia.’ ≈ ‘Therefore I came to Ethiopia.’ The examples clearly show the morpho-syntactic similarity of Ethio-Semitic relative clauses to cleft sentences, whereby I am not claiming that the latter constitute a derivation from the former. Still, it is not my point to deny a

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straightforward logical connection between these two types of clauses. Interestingly, the wh-elements in cleft sentences have also been labeled “indefinite deictics” in the linguistic literature (e.g., Miller 1996). 2.6 An Alternative Suggestion It has, fortunately, become uncontroversial that Arabic dialects do not constitute “degenerated” descendants of Classical Arabic. Rather, features occurring in Arabic dialects can often be considered valuable evidence of Old Arabic and even archaic Semitic features, as recently skillfully demonstrated by PatEl (2012) in connection with features such as the bayt al-muqaddas ‘the Holy House’ construction, which is already attested in the Qurʾān: wa-mā kunta biǧānibi l-ġarbīyi ‘you were not at the Western side’ (Q 28:44). Already in Biblical Hebrew, one finds opposing pairs such as ‫ ַהַשַּׁﬠר ַה ָדּרוֹם‬hå ̄š-šaʿar had-dărōm ‘the south gate’ (Ezek. 40:28) vs. ‫ ַשַׁﬠר ָהֶﬠְליוֹן‬šaʿar hå ̄-ʿɛlyōn ‘the upper gate’ (Ezek. 9:2). Already Vollers (1906) had interpreted “deviant” phonological features (e.g., assimilation and haplological syllable ellipsis) in the Qurʾān along these lines. What I propose in the following is that the Classical Arabic allaḏī or dialectal illi constructions in the examples discussed above actually may represent an archaic feature in Semitic, and not necessarily a “mittel- or neuarabisch” one, the latter terms still being sometimes associated with linguistic “degeneration”. The comparative Semitic evidence supports this point, I think. As Aaron Rubin (2005: 48ff.) has pointed out, the general direction in grammaticalization processes tends to lead from demonstrative elements that also serve as subordinators towards relative elements on the one hand, and from locative elements to relative elements on the other (cf. also Huehnergard 2006). Here are some well-known Semitic examples (10): (10) Demonstrative/determinative markers and relative markers in Semitic Demonstrative/determinative Relative Akkadian Hebrew Aramaic Arabic Gəʿəz

šū (‘that’) zɛ zy > d(ī) δū/δā zə

ša zɛ (also in rare hallå ̄zɛ) d(ī) allaδī za

arabic allaḏī / illi as subordinators: an alternative perspective 223

In a typological perspective, this kind of lexical-functional overlap is wellattested. Various branches of Indo-European feature doublets such as the following (11): (11) Demonstrative/determinative markers and relative markers in Indoeuropean Latin quod quod English that that French que que Italian che che etc. (Goldenberg 1994: 14)

The following chart illustrates the overlap between locative and relative elements in Semitic (12): (12) Locative and relative elements in Semitic Locative Relative Akkadian ašru(m) Hebrew –

ašar ʾăšɛr > šɛ

A classical example, taken from the Gilgamesh epos, which illustrates this point, is the following: imtaši ašar iwwald-u ‘he forgot where he was born’ (Gilgamesh OB, ii5). The original locative function of Hebrew ʾăšɛr can still be seen as in examples such as ham-må ̄qōm ʾăšɛr ʿå ̄maḏ ‘the place where he had stood’ (Genesis 19:27) (cf. Rubin 2005: 49). Again, comparable doublets can also be found in Indo-European (cf. Rubin 2005: 50) (13): (13) Locative and relative elements in Indo-European Greek που που Danish der der Bavarian wo wo

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In Scandinavian Germanic languages, overlap between subordinating elements and relativizers is found as well, for instance, as regards the particle som that serves both as relativizer and as conjunction (14): (14) Multi-functionality of the particle som in Norwegian Norwegian den mannen som kom ‘the man who came’ and som dere kan se forsøker jeg å argumentere for et nytt synspunkt ‘As you can see I am trying to argue for a new perspective.’

3

Conclusion

In conclusion I would like to argue that morphological overlap between deictic subordinating particles on the one hand and relative markers on the other is an age-old phenomenon in Semitic. In a typological perspective, what Goldenberg (1994: 14) and others label “conjunctive pronouns” (i.e. pronominal elements that can take on a subordinating function) are typologically quite wide-spread. Typologically, one finds at least as much morphological overlap between deictic elements and subordinators, cf., e.g., English that and German das/daß, as between relativizers and subordinators. Taking into consideration that Semitic relativizers typically emerge from deictic elements, one does therefore not necessarily have to assume a directionality relative towards subordinating, as is the prevalent position in the literature. Rather, I suggest that the subordinating (or complementizing) function of the originally deictic elements is just as old as the relativizing one.

References Primary Literature Ibn as-Sarrāǧ, ʾUṣūl = ʾAbū Bakr Muḥammad ibn as-Sarrāǧ, Kitāb al-ʾuṣūl fī n-naḥw, ed. ʿAbd al-Ḥusayn al-Fatlī. 3 vols. 3rd ed. Beirut 1988. Sībawayhi, Kitāb = ʾAbū Bišr ʿAmr ibn ʿUṯmān Sībawayhi, al-Kitāb, ed Hartwig Derenbourg. 2 vols. Paris 1881–1889 / ed.ʿAbd as-Salām Hārūn. 5 vols. Cairo 1966–1977.

Secondary Literature Appleyard, David (1995). Colloquial Amharic. A Complete Languages Course. London/ New York: Routledge.

arabic allaḏī / illi as subordinators: an alternative perspective 225 Badawi, Elsaid, Michael G. Carter, and Adrian Gully (2004). Modern Written Arabic. A Comprehensive Grammar. London/New York: Routledge. Bravmann, Meir (1953). Studies in Arabic and General Syntax. Cairo: Imprimerie de l’Institut français d’archéologie orientale. Brünnow, Rudolf and August Fischer (2008), 8th ed. by Lutz Edzard and Amund Bjørsnøs. Chrestomathy of Classical Arabic Prose Literature. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Diem, Werner (2007). “Arabic allaḏī as a conjunction. An old problem and a new approach”. Approaches to Arabic Linguistics: Presented to Kees Versteegh on the Occasion of his Sixtieth Birthday. Ed. by Everhard Ditters and Harald Motzki. Leiden/ Boston: Brill, pp. 67–112. Edzard, Lutz (2012a). “Introduction: Semitic and Afroasiatic: Challenges and Opportunities”. In: Semitic and Afroasiatic: Challenges and Opportunities. Ed. by Lutz Edzard. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, pp. 23–58. Edzard, Lutz (2012b). “Genetische, typologische und religionsvermittelte Sprachverwandtschaft: das Arabische in einer vergleichenden linguistischen Perspektive”. Folia Orientalia 49 (Festschrift for Andrzej Zaborski): 165–178. Elihay, J[ean] (Yohanan) (2012). The Olive Tree Dictionary. Jerusalem: Minerva Publishing. Goldenberg, Gideon (1994). “allaḏī al-maṣdariyyah in Arab grammatical tradition”. Zeitschrift für Arabische Linguistik 28: 7–35. Goldenberg, Gideon (2013). Semitic Languages. Features, Structures, Relations, Processes. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Huehnergard, John (2006). “On the etymology of the Hebrew relative še-”. In: Biblical Hebrew in its Northwest Semitic setting: Typological and historical perspectives. Ed. by Steven E. Fassberg and Avi Hurvitz. Jerusalem: Magnes Press and Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, pp. 103–126. Landberg, Carlo Comte de (1920–1942). Glossaire datînois. Leiden: Brill. Lipiński, Edward (2001, 2nd edition). Semitic Languages. Outline of a Comparative Grammar. Louvain: Peeters. Miller, Jim (1996). “Clefts, particles and word order in languages of Europe”. Language Sciences 18 (1–2): 111–125. Pat-El, Naʿama (2012). “Digging up archaic features: Neo-Arabic and comparative Semitic in the quest for proto-Arabic”. Oslo-Austin Workshop in Semitic Linguistics, August 24, 2012, University of Oslo. Reckendorf, Hermann (1921). Arabische Syntax. Heidelberg: Carl Winter’s Universitätsbuchhandlung. Retsö, Jan (2009). “Nominal attribution in Semitic: Typology and diachrony”. In: Relative Clauses and Genitive Constructions in Semitic (Journal of Semitic Studies Supplement Series 25). Ed. by Janet Watson and Jan Retsö. Manchester: Oxford University Press, pp. 3–33.

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Rubin, Aaron D. (2005). Studies in Semitic Grammaticalization. Winona Lake, Indiana: Eisenbrauns. Spitaler, Anton (1962). “al-ḥamdu lillāḏī und Verwandtes. Ein Beitrag zur mittel- und neuarabischen Syntax”. Oriens 15: 97–114. Vollers, Karl (1906). Volkssprache und Schriftsprache im alten Arabien. Straßburg: Verlag von K. Trübner. (= 1981. Amsterdam: APA—Oriental Press). Woidich, Manfred (1980). “illi als Konjunktion im Kairenischen”. In: Studien aus Arabistik und Semitistik. Anton Spitaler zum siebzigsten Geburtstag von seinen Schülern überreicht. Ed. by Werner Diem and Stefan Wild. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, pp. 224– 238. Woidich, Manfred (1989). “illi ‘dass’, illi ‘weil’ und zayy illi ‘als ob’: zur Reinterpretation von Relativsatzgefügen im Kairenischen”. Mediterranean Language Review 4–5: 109– 128. Woidich, Manfred (2006). Das Kairenisch-Arabische. Eine Grammatik. Harrassowitz: Wiesbaden.

chapter 8

Raphelengius and the Yellow Cow (Q 2:69): Early Translations of Hebrew ˀādōm into Arabic ˀaṣfar Jordi Ferrer i Serra

The year Thomas Erpenius was installed in the chair of Arabic at Leiden, another major event in the annals of Arabic studies took place just a few streets away from the university building. Sixteen years after the death of Franciscus Raphelengius, two of his sons, Frans and Joost, finally published their father’s Lexicon Arabico-Latinum, the first Arabic-Latin dictionary ever to be printed.1 All considered, the dictionary was no small achievement. Raphelengius, who was appointed professor of Hebrew in 1586, never came to master Arabic very well, and the sources that were available in Leiden at the time were few and in many ways inadequate for the task he had set before himself. The great oriental dictionaries had not yet found their way to Europe, and like J.J. Scaliger, W. Bedwell, and others who made similar efforts around this time, Raphelengius had to make do with what he could scrounge up. First and foremost, he based himself on the Mozarabic Latin-Arabic glossary now at the Leiden university library (MS Leiden Or. 231), which he quotes more than two thousand times in the published dictionary,2 and he also made frequent use of Pedro de Alcalá’s Spanish-Andalusian Arabic dictionary printed in 1505.3 The benefit he could draw from these sources was nevertheless limited in face of the richness of the Arabic lexicon, and he was therefore compelled to also take recourse to

1 A. Hamilton (‘ “Nam tirones sumus”: Franciscus Raphelengius’ Lexicon Arabico-Latinum (Leiden 1613)’, in M. De Schepper and F. De Nave (eds), Ex officina Plantiniana: Studia in memoriam Christophori Plantini (ca. 1520–1589), Antwerp 1989, 557–589) offers a detailed account of the background to the publication of this dictionary, from which I in this section of my paper have benefited in more specifics than is practical to indicate in individual footnotes. 2 Raphelengius believed the glossary was from the eighth century. P.S. van Koningsveld (The Latin-Arabic Glossary of the Leiden University Library: A Contribution to the Study of Mozarabic Manuscripts and Literature, Leiden 1976, 65) dates it to the late twelfth century. 3 From time to time he also consulted the never-published dictionary Scaliger was compiling in parallel with him at Leiden (MS Leiden Or. 212), which however, builds on largely the same sources as his own.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi: 10.1163/9789004343047_009

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various texts that were available both in Arabic and Latin (and in some cases also Hebrew or Greek). The two most important of these were the Qurˀān and Saˁadyah Gaon’s (d. 942) translation of the Torah, which had been printed in the Constantinople polyglot (1546). The others were of considerably less importance, though mention should be made of the Genoa polyglot Psalter printed in 1516, the Arabic gospels printed at the Medici press in Rome 1591, and in particular the Arabic text of Avicenna’s Canon (al-Qānūn fī al-ṭibb) printed there in 1593. The dictionary thus grew into a virtual depository of information of such different varieties of Arabic as the language of the Qurˀān, the Classical Arabic of Ibn Sīna and Saˁadyah Gaon, and the Andalusian Arabic of Pedro de Alcalá. More consistently documented, it could even have become a historical dictionary of sorts, particularly if Raphelengius’ intention to include quotations illustrating the usage of the words had been carried through in the published edition. The project of producing a dictionary with these characteristics nevertheless proved overwhelming, and though Raphelengius had begun his work on it already in the early 1570s, he had not brought it to an end when he died almost thirty years later. Scaliger does not seem to have been very keen on taking over were he had left off, and the dictionary, like Scaliger’s own, was therefore probably on the verge of passing into oblivion when Frans and Joost decided to make it one of the last texts to be printed with their father’s Arabic type. When Erpenius in 1612 returned to Leiden from a long journey which had brought him to England and France, where he had studied Arabic, and then to Venice, where he had studied Turkish and collected oriental manuscripts, the dictionary was already in the press. Time was running out, but Frans and Joost, aware that their father’s dictionary in reality was not quite ready for publication, wanted to have him look it over for them before it was put out. The soon-to-be professor of Arabic was well equipped for the task. Unlike Raphelengius, he had a good command of the language, and among the manuscripts he had brought back to Leiden was a copy of al-Qarāḥisārī’s Arabic-Turkish dictionary al-ˀAxtarī (1545), which he now could use to correct Raphelengius’ text together with two other Arabic-Turkish lexicographical sources.4 The work took Erpenius several months; when he finished, he had produced a body of improvements—or ‘observations’, as he called them—which were printed in an appendix to the dictionary running to almost seventy pages.

4 Erpenius’ copy of al-ˀAxtarī is now at Cambridge (MS Gg 6.41). Besides it he also used a copy of Mirqāt al-luġa (Leiden MS Or. 237), the author of which is unknown, and a short, likewise anonymous, Arabic-Turkish wordlist (Cambridge MS Gg 6.39).

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229

Erpenius had with his observations made a major leap forward and, one could say, thereby irrevocably changed the course of European Arabic lexicography. As was to be expected, his successful employment of Arabic-Turkish sources was soon followed by efforts to compile dictionaries based entirely on Arabic/Turkish, Arabic/Persian, Arabic/Syriac, and monolingual Arabic lexica. The first to achieve this was Antonio Giggeo (1632) later followed by Jacob Golius (1653), Georg Freitag (1830–1837), and Edward Lane, whose monumental compilation (1863–1893) still today is the standard bilingual reference for students of Classical Arabic. At the same time, the role of textual attestation was reduced to a minimum and did not make a come-back in any major lexicographic project involving Arabic until in the late nineteenth century—though, as all students of Classical Arabic are painfully aware, a historical dictionary of the language based on actual attestations is still a long way from becoming reality. Raphelengius’ dictionary was due to this development naturally soon forgotten, and with it, the attestations on which it built. Today it is even regularly overlooked in accounts of the history of European Arabic lexicography. The reason I all the same return to it here is that it offers a convenient starting point for discussing a small group of attestations of the colour term χṣfr (ˀaṣfar/ṣafrāˀ/ṣufr),5 which Raphelengius, I will argue, correctly interpreted as translations of Hebrew ‫( ָאד ֹם‬red, brown),6 but which Erpenius brushed aside in correcting his definition of χṣfr. Scholars have ever since treated them in a one-by-one perspective rather than as manifestations of one and the same phenomenon, i.e. as translations of ‫אדם‬, and have therefore struggled to find satisfactory explanations for them.

5 Classical Arabic colour terms of the form ˀafˁal/faˁlāˀ/fuˁl will for convenience henceforth be referred to as χṣfr, χḥmr, etc. 6 The term ‫ ָאד ֹם‬spanned over red and brown both in Biblical and Mishnaic Hebrew, while yellow (which is unattested in BH) at least in later periods was covered by ‫ ָירוֹק‬, a green-withyellow category. The most recent exhaustive of Biblical Hebrew colour terms is A. Brenner, Colour Terms in the Old Testament, Sheffield 1982, but R. Gradwohl, Die Farben im Alten Testament: Eine Terminologische Studie, Berlin 1969 continues to be useful. See also M. Bulakh, ‘Basic Color Terms of Biblical Hebrew in Diachronic Aspect’, Babel und Bibel 3 (2006), 182–216; idem, ‘Basic Color Terms from Proto-Semitic to Old Ethiopic’ in R.E. MacLaury, G.V. Paramei, and D. Dedrick (eds), Anthropology of Color: Interdisciplinary Multilevel Modeling, Amsterdam 2007, 255–256.

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Classical Arabic χṣfr in Earlier Scholarship Raphelengius must have thought he had very solid attestations in support of his definition of χṣfr. Considering how closely he normally follows the Mozarabic glossary and Pedro de Alcalá’s dictionary, one would have expected him to define this term as something like ‘decolor, pallidus’,7 but, as his definition— fulvus (brown, tawny), rufus (red, tawny), citrinus (orange or yellow)—shows,8 in this case he chose to base himself entirely on textual evidence. Raphelengius does not indicate his authorities for making this definition, but through the catalogue Frans and Joost provide of the sources he used we can readily identify the most important ones. The two that interest us the most here are apparent translations from the Hebrew. The first is Q 2:69, where God orders Moses to sacrifice a cow of a clear (intense? bright? unmixed?) χṣfr colour (baqaratun ṣafrāˀu fāqiˁun lawnuhā).9 Raphelengius would naturally have iden-

7 The Mozarabic glossary translates ‘decolor’ as muṣfarr al-lawn (fol. 32a). The Arabic translation ˀaṣfar of the entry ‘fulvus, rufus, splendidus’ on folio 54b is a later addition (almost certainly post-dating Raphelengius). Pedro de Alcalá gives ˀaṣfar (‘azfar’) for ‘amarillo’, a word which appears to have retained the primary meaning of ‘pallid’ into the late Middle Ages (see J. Corominas, Diccionario crítico etimológico castellano e hispánico, Madrid 1980–1991, s.v. ‘amarillo’). Andalusi Arabic χṣfr indeed seems to have been a very light colour. The glossary attributed to Raimon Martí (C. Schiaparelli, Vocabulista in arabico, Florence 1871), defines ‘pallidus’ as χṣfr (while ‘flavus’ is rendered as χšqr). F. Corriente translates it as ‘yellow’ (Dictionary of Andalusi Arabic, Leiden 1997, s.v.). Scaliger’s definition of χṣfr: Leiden MS Or. 212, 200b. 8 J. André (Étude sur les termes de couleurs dans la langue latine, Paris 1949) analyses fulvus as a reddish or brownish dark yellow (pp. 132–134), rufus as a yellowish red (pp. 80–83). The medieval term citrinus, which Raphelengius almost certainly took directly from the translation of Avicenna (see below), does not simply mean lemon coloured (as the translation of Avicenna shows). Bartholomeus Anglicus (De proprietatibus rerum: De accidentalibus) defines it as puniceus, Thomas Aquinas (Sententia de sensu et sensato) identifies it with Aristotle’s ἁλουργόν, which normally is interpreted as purple (and sometimes red: Bartholomew, for instance, has rubeus), and Roger Bacon (De sensu et sensatu) treats it as close to orange (he puts it between glaucus and puniceus). Later authors define it as ‘orange’ and even ‘auburn’; see E.R. Anderson, Folk-taxonomies in Early English, Cranbury 2003, 211 Sometimes, however, it was unambiguously understood as yellow; see e.g. M. Stolberg, Die Harnschau: Eine Kulturund Alltagsgeschichte, Köln 2009, 48. The University of Michigan Middle English Dictionary (http://quod.lib.umich.edu/m/med/) defines the closely related English citrine as ‘(a) reddish or brownish yellow; orange, amber [distinguished from yellow]; (b) orange or yellow’. Old French citrin is poorly attested. 9 The precise meaning of the relatively rare term fāqiˁ is unclear, as is illustrated in the efforts of the mufassirūn to explain Q 2:69; the early poets used it in reference to brownish and dark reddish referents, but later, perhaps due to its collocation with the redefined χṣfr in Q 2:69,

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231

tified the cow in this verse as the red heifer (‫ )ָפּ ָרה ֲא ֻדָמּה‬in Num 19:2 and would thus have understood χṣfr as a translation of Hebrew ‫אדם‬. The second is Saˁadyah Gaon’s rendering of Num 19:2 itself, where the cow is described as baqara ṣafrā[ˀ] ṣaḥīḥa, which offered Raphelengius a direct confirmation that there was nothing idiosyncratic about the way in which the Qurˀān speaks of the colour of the red heifer. Raphelengius thus had two attestations, both translations from the Hebrew, directly evidencing that χṣfr could represent red or brown (rufus, fulvus)—no doubt very reassuring for the Hebrew professor, who made frequent reference to rabbinic sources in his dictionary.10 Even though these two attestations represent our primary concern, however, it deserves to be observed that this was not all. As it happens, the passage that most likely convinced Raphelengius to include citrinus in his definition would also have suggested to him that χṣfr could stretch deep into the red area. The passage in question is Ibn Sīnā’s discussion of the variations in the colour of urine. Ibn Sīnā arranges these along three chromatic scales, one of which runs from straw yellow to saffron red. Raphelengius perhaps noted that Ibn Sīnā does not explicitly designate the first three colours on this scale (al-tibnī, al-ˀutrujjī, al-ˀašqar), as χṣfr, nor the pure red saffron colour (al-zaˁfarānīyu … wa-hwa llaḏī yuqālu lahu l-ˀaḥmaru l-nāṣiˁ) at its end, but this should probably not be given too much importance. A much more striking point, which he most probably did note, however, is that this passage appears to show that he regarded the ‘fire coloured’ hue (al-nārī), ‘which looks like saffron dye’, and which lies between orange (al-ˀaṣfar al-nāranjī) and the pure red saffron colour at the end of the scale, as the deepest or strongest (mušbaˁ) example of χṣfr (Qānūn 68).11

10 11

it was used also of yellow referents. Qurˀān translators have often opted for ‘bright’, ‘vivid’, or ‘intense’ together with ‘yellow’ although these collocations give the cow a rather unusual colour. The Vulgate and Tremellius both have rufus in Num 19:2. Raphelengius defines ṣafrā[ˀ] fāqiˁ as de colore fulvo (s.v. fāqiˁ). Saffron is today often associated with yellow, and this is particularly true of saffron dye, which, dependent on the mordant, is said to yield bright yellow, reddish and dull brownish yellows, and orange. The present passage, however, offers evidence that saffron (or at least zaˁfarān, which is not always to be identified with saffron) in Classical Arabic was thought of as red not only in the abstract (which is both natural and easily documentable) but also as a dye, to which we can lay e.g. ˀAṣmaˁīyāt 61/11 and al-Mutanabbī 1:252, where bloody clothes are described as dyed with saffron. The explanation for this is perhaps that ‘saffron’ often was applied very thickly to the textile (and not intended to be permanent). The lexicographers explain the term mujsad as applying to a garment that has been dyed so thick with saffron that it stands up by itself; the resulting colour is that of a red camel (i.e.

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Erpenius however, sticking to his Turkish sources, corrected Raphelengius’ definition to flavus (yellow, light brown).12 Exactly what this correction was supposed to reflect is not entirely clear—the Latin terms involved were subject to fluctuating definitions at the time, just as they to some extent still are—but a look in the dictionaries of the period leaves little doubt that Erpenius wanted to exclude the red and (darker) brown areas from the referential range of the term.13 This definition quickly established itself as the standard translation of χṣfr, perhaps not due as much to Erpenius’ correction of Raphelengius in itself as to the influence Arabic-Turkish lexicography exerted on the first generations of European Arabic lexicographers. Golius, in his Lexicon Arabico-Latinum (1653), added croceus (saffron coloured) and pallidus (pale, pale yellow or green) as possible translations, but these terms were dropped by Georg Freytag in his Lexicon Arabico-Latinum (1830–1837). The modern consensus translation, which is defined by Edward Lane’s monumental Arabic-English Lexicon (1863– 1893), is ‘yellow’. The fact that an increasing number of authoritative monolingual and bilingual lexicons were used for the compilation of these dictionaries would ideally have put the issue on a much firmer basis than Raphelengius had been able to do with his few attestations. A look at these sources, however, shows that this hardly is the case. The authors of monolingual Arabic dictionaries, who tend to treat the meaning of basic concepts such as colour terms as selfevident, while simultaneously holding on to the idea of describing the increasingly remote language of the desert Arabs around the coming of Islam, do not define χṣfr in the way, say, the Oxford English Dictionary defines yellow as ‘the colour of ripe lemons’. The author of the earliest Arabic dictionary, the Kitāb al-ˁayn (c. 790), passes over the meaning of χṣfr in complete silence. And at the other end of the Classical Arabic lexicological tradition, al-Murtaḍā al-Zabīdī (d. 1791), the author of Tāj al-ˁarūs, describes it as ‘a well-known colour’ (indicating that it needs no explanation) found in animals, plants, and other things, and according to one authority, in water (manifesting the remoteness of its correct usage according to the norms of the poetical tradition, where stagnant

12 13

of a reddish brown colour, perhaps like the characteristic coppery tone of the modern sāḥilī breed; Tāj s.vv. jsd and ḥmr). Erpenius’ Turkish sources translate χṣfr with the terms ṣārūliq and ṣārū. Precisely what Raphelengius and Erpenius meant by their respective terms, which get somewhat fluctuating definitions in early modern (Latin/Dutch, Latin/German, etc.) dictionaries, is of course uncertain, but it is fairly clear that flavus in comparison with fulvus generally was understood as a lighter colour and that it was not thought of as having a significant red component.

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water frequently is described as χṣfr). Lane thus, despite having surveyed the entire Arabic lexicographic tradition, had to content himself with quoting alFayyūmī’s definition of χṣfr as ‘a certain colour, well known, less intense than red [χḥmr]’, which is more suggestive of peripheral red, orange, pink, and perhaps brown than of focal yellow. Such exceptional cases aside, the monolingual dictionaries offer no more than indirect clues to the referential range of χṣfr. al-Zabīdī, the most copious of the Arab lexicographers, thus mentions various locutions and epithets through which it becomes clear that χṣfr can have referents such as saffron, gold, raisins, bile, locusts after ovulation, and bows of nabˁ wood. Reconstructing a colour term from random referents like these is of course extremely dangerous from a principal point of view, and in this case it is also highly debatable whether the referents indeed support defining χṣfr as yellow. Saffron and gold perhaps seem pretty indicative of this colour, but in Classical Arabic they are often associated with red, and al-Zabīdī in fact includes the locution documenting them as possible referents for χṣfr (ˀahlaka n-nisāˀa l-ˀaṣfarān) also under χḥmr, with the colour term substituted.14 This locution is thus arguably more indicative of a term that covers orange (was it from here Golius got croceus?) or (part of) red than one that stretches into yellow. The bilingual dictionaries, on the other hand, offer explicit definitions which in theory could provide important clues about the nature of χṣfr, but these translations are in most cases too young to be of relevance for the early stages of Arabic. And in the few cases they are not, they are difficult to interpret since the colour terminologies of these historical stages of the involved languages are at least as understudied as the Arabic. The Syriac/Arabic lexical tradition, which goes back to the ninth century and thus offers the most relevant evidence, moreover presents the difficulty that it reflects a highly philological approach to an inherited literary language, one very visible expression of which is that the Syriac lexicographers approach the colour terms as a matter of historical reconstruction and not as something intuitively available to them. Yet another factor to take into consideration when dealing with this tradition

14

The question of whether the redness of saffron and gold is grounded in reality (which in the case of saffron also depends on whether it was understood as the stigmata, a cosmetic, a dye, or a food colorant and, in the case of gold, on the alloy) is only part of the issue here. Equally, or more, important is the conceptual links between saffron and gold and redness; cf. A. Wierzbicka’s discussion of the redness of fire (‘On the Semantics of Colour: A New Paradigm’ in C.P. Biggham and C.J. Kay (eds), Progress in Colour Studies. Volume I: Language and Culture, Amsterdam 2006, 1–24).

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is that all the early lexica are Syriac-Arabic rather than Arabic-Syriac, which means that they define the Syriac colour terms rather than the Arabic ones. The closest we come to a Syriac basic colour term for yellow, judging among other things by the evidence from Jewish Babylonian Aramaic, is among the terms of the root yrq, which across the Semitic languages is associated with paleness, greenness, and yellowness. The Syriac terms of this root, too, clearly denote colours in this range, though the translations in modern standard lexica, which reflect this insight, should be regarded as highly approximate. A study dedicated to Syriac colour terminology is still wanting, and there are reasons to suspect that the Syriac terms, in which paleness (and perhaps desaturation) is a significant component, cannot be easily defined in Latin or English categories. The terms in this group at any rate appear not to have been easily translated into Arabic, judging by how their definitions fluctuate from author to author. Bar ˁAli (ninth century), the author of the earliest extant Syriac-Arabic lexiܵ con, defines 焏‫ܪܩ‬熏ܼ‫ ܝ‬as covering both χṣfr and χxḍr (grue).15 Bar Bahlul (tenth century), however, defines this word as χxḍr-χwrq,16 adding that Ḥunayn [ibn ˀIsḥāq] defined it as χṣfr.17 According to some manuscript(s), Bar ˁAli moreover defined the etymologically related term 焏‫ܼܘܩ‬犯‫ ܵܝ‬as a colour combining χṣfr and darkness, adding that it according to some denoted χṣfr as such (al-lawnu al-murakkabu mina l-sawādi wal-ṣufrati wa-yuqālu l-ṣufratu muṭlaqan),18 but, again, Bar Bahlul defines this colour as χxḍr. Elias of Nisbis (Elya Bar Šinaya, d. 1046–1047) defines yet another etymologically related term, 焏‫ܩ‬犯‫ܡܝ‬, as χṣfr.19 The picture that emerges from this is that the affinity Bar ˁAli apparently felt existed between the √yrq terms and χṣfr at most can be translated into ambiguous support for equalling χṣfr with yellow. Playing the devils advocate, one could probably even make an equally strong case for gray. The Syriac lexicographers nevertheless take recourse to χṣfr also to define various other terms, from which the picture clears a little. Bar ˁAli, to begin with, defines 焏‫ܼܘܥ‬犯‫ ܼܿܚ‬as χṣfr.20 This term is associated with safflower (焏‫ܥ‬犯‫)ܵܚ‬, (Carthamus tinctorius), a (typically) orange flower from which two dyes can

15 16 17 18 19 20

Bar ˁAli, Syrisch-arabische Glossen, ed. G. Hoffmann, Kiel 1874, 169 (no. 4433). The term χwrq, a near cognate of the √yrq terms, has the approximate meaning of grey: it is the colour of the ring dove, the wolf, and milk diluted with water. Bar Bahlul, Lexicon Syriacum, ed. R. Duval, 3 vols, Paris 1898–1901, s.v. R. Payne Smith, Thesaurus Syriacus, 2 vols, Oxford 1879–1901, s.v. The word is not found in Hoffmann’s edition. The edition of Obizzino (Bar Šinaya, Thesaurus Arabico-Syro-Latinus, ed. T. Obizzino, Rome 1636), which is plagued by errors, has ‫ܐ‬犯‫ܡܝܩ‬. Bar ˁAli, Syrisch-arabische Glossen, 151 (no. 4046).

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be extracted: one is a volatile water-soluble yellow dye, which washes away in water and easily fades; the other is a more stable, alkaline-soluble red dye (carthamin), which yields highly valued scarlets and pinks. Classical Arabic sources typically compare textiles dyed with safflower to blood, dawn, the setting sun, glowing embers, and the flower of the pomegranate (scarlet). The most interesting aspect of Bar ˁAli’s entry on 焏‫ܘܥ‬犯‫ܚ‬, however, is that he explains this colour as ‘a daqīq [Bar Bahlul: raqīq; Elias of Nisbis: raqīq] χṣfr like straw coloured (tibnī) or lemon coloured (ˀutrujjī)’.21 A focal or near-focal colour like that of lemons would thus in other words represent a pale or light (non-focal) shade of χṣfr. Bar Bahlul, who reproduces all Bar Ali has to say on the just-mentioned term, also translates two other terms as χṣfr: 焏‫ܙܪܕܩ‬, a Middle Persian loan word (zardak), which also is a word for safflower, and 焏‫ܬܢܝ‬熏‫ܫܥ‬, a term derived from ‫ܬܐ‬熏‫( ܫܥ‬wax), which appears to suggest a dull yellow or dull (light) brown colour or perhaps just ‘waxen, pale, sallow’. The standard Turkish translation sari(ǧ) can be traced back to Maḥmūd al-Kāšġarī’s Diwān luġāt al-turk (1070s).22 Erpenius was probably right in thinking that al-Qarāḥisārī with this term meant something close to flavus (which is how Megiser translated it), but it is less certain what al-Kāšġarī may have understood by this term. Early attestations include references to gold, horses, and apricots, which suggests an extended yellow-orange term.23 The earliest extant Arabic-Persian dictionary is al-Zamaxsǎrī’s (d. 1144) Muqaddimat alˀadab, where χṣfr is given the translation zard (s.v.),24 a term which at this time no doubt lay close in meaning to yellow, but which in early periods may have extended closer to red and brown than this translation suggests considering that it is etymologically related to the Middle Persian words zarr (gold), zardālūg, (apricot), zardak (safflower), zardčōbag (turmeric; čōb=wood), and zardag (egg yolk).25 21

22 23 24 25

The form 焏‫ܘܓ‬犯‫ܚ‬, which no doubt represents a corruption of the same word (see C. Brockelmann, Lexicon Syriacum, 2nd ed., Halle 1928, s.v.), is defined again in Bar ˁAli’s glosses (no 4048) as a clear (nāṣiˁ) χṣfr such as straw or lemon colour (nāṣiˁ here has the sense of ‘light’); cf. Bar ˁAli’s definition of ‫ܐ‬焏‫ܢ‬熏‫( ܩ‬The Syriac Arabic Glosses. Part II, ed. R.J.H. Gottheil, 2 vols, Rome 1908–1928, 2:330–331). [Maḥmūd ibn al-Ḥusayn] al-Kāšġarī, Diwān luġāt al-turk, 3 vols, Constantinople 1333–1335 [1915–1917], 312. G. Clauson, An Etymological Dictionary of Pre-Thirteenth-Century Turkish, Oxford 1972, (s.v. ‘Dis. SRǦ’). [ˀAbū al-Qāsim Maḥmūd ibn ˁUmar] al-Zamaxšarī, Muqaddimat al-ˀadab, ed. J.G. Wetzstein, Leipzig 1850 [Arabic title page: 1843], 248. The term was originally a brightness term; see J. Pokorny, Indogermanisches etymologisches Wörterbuch, 3 vols, Bern 1959, 2:429–432 (s.v. ‘ĝhel-’). For the Middle Persian meanings,

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The few studies aiming to explore the colour terminology of Classical Arabic that have been published over the years have unfortunately not made up for the lack of a historical dictionary of the language. The only substantial effort in this field is W. Fischer’s study of the colour lexicon of the early Arabic poets, which, however, unfortunately takes its point of departure in the understanding of χṣfr laid down by European Arabic lexicography. Fischer, it is true, takes the issue a step forward in that he concludes that the semantic range of the term at this stage was somewhat different from that of yellow.26 The problem is, however, that he treats the assumption that χṣfr in essence was equal to yellow (gelb) as an interpretive matrix into which he attempts to fit his attestations as well as he can. Following this method, he concludes that the early poets had something close to yellow in mind when speaking of most attestations of χṣfr, despite finding no referents of an unequivocally near-focal yellow colour but cases such as dawn, cosmetics, wine, angry faces, beards discoloured by smoke, bows of nabˁ wood, and even the legs of the rutting ostrich (!). Fischer thus a priori excludes the possibility that the referential range of χṣfr stretched into, or even was centered in, red, pink, or brown. Consequently, he does not find it necessary to seriously look into the problems posed by his attestions neither from an objective point of view (what is (or was) the colour of dawn, cosmetics, wine, etc?) nor from the point of view of the poetical tradition more generally (how do the poets speak of dawn (cosmetics, wine, etc.), and what are they describing in each individual poem?). He is somewhat more willing to accept that χṣfr could have referents in the areas of the non-primary colours beige, orange and yellowish brown (though not brown as such!), but an attentive reading of his discussion reveals how he in various ways skews the perspective back to the lighter part of this range and in particular to yellow.27 Take for example his discussion of Q 2:69. Fischer prefers to suggest that Muḥammad

26 27

see D.N. MacKenzie, A Concise Pahlavi Dictionary, London 1971. W. Lentz (‘Die nordiranischen Elemente in der neupersischen Literatursprache bei Firdosi’, Zeitschrift für Iranistik und Indologie 4 (1926), 312) notes that Firdawsī uses zard in reference to blood. W. Fischer, Farb- und Formbezeichnungen in der Sprache der altarabischen Dichtung, Wiesbaden 1965. Fischer, Farb- und Formbezeichnungen, 358. Fischer’s skewing χṣfr back to yellow (as compared to what he says in the above quotation) takes both direct and more subtle expressions. The best example of the former is perhaps the figure on page 237 of his study; the latter takes its most important expression in Fischer’s selection of attestations to discuss: despite his inclusion of yellowish dark brown he gives no example of a dark brown referent. Instead, discussing the darker shades he gives examples such as ˀaṣfaru miṯlu l-warsi, which he translates as ‘gelb wie die (orange) Safran’. Unsurprisingly, authors who have accepted his analysis tend to understand χṣfr as a light colour: see e.g. D.J. Stewart, ‘Color

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misinterpreted his source (ultimately Num 19:2) rather than considering that the qurˀānic text speaks of a red, reddish brown, or even a plain brown cow, and though he seems to think of the cow as brownish yellow, he qualifies it simply as yellow. Few would probably feel convinced by Fischer’s explanation (on which, more below), but at the background of how he describes χṣfr it is not very surprising that most translators of the Qurˀān despite the insights his study after all offers still have a yellow cow in this verse. The study that has done most to perpetuate the conventional identification of χṣfr with yellow in recent years, however, is probably Berlin and Kay’s groundbreaking 1969 study on colour terms,28 which predicts that a language with five basic colour terms will have a yellow category focused in a welldefined area of the Munsell array (typically at C9). The conformity of Fischer’s understanding of the colour terminology of early Arabic poetry with Berlin and Kay’s model has most likely contributed greatly to convincing researchers that it is essentially correct. Looking at the issue today, however, it is clear that this conformity does not offer the incontestable support for Fischer’s results as it once may have seemed to give. The scholarly consensus has after a boom in the study of colour terminology now converged around the realisation that although the Berlin-Kay sequence does have something to say about how colour terminologies develop, individual languages not infrequently exhibit unexpected idiosyncrasies with respect to it. The proponents of the BerlinKay paradigm have moreover as a response to insights gained from field-work repeatedly revised their theory, which in its later, significantly relaxed versions allows for scenarios that were not originally considered possible. Much of the understanding that has been gained has direct consequences for how the Classical Arabic colour terminology may have developed. Among the more interesting examples in the present context is that researchers in the BerlinKay tradition now accept that grey, brown, and purple may be encoded ‘out of sequence’,29 and that field workers have documented languages where brown appears as early as before the encoding of yellow (e.g. the Bantu Setswana

28 29

Terms in Egyptian Arabic’, in A. Borg (ed.) The Language of Color in the Mediterranean, ed. Stockholm 1999, 105 (yellow/beige) and S. Procházka, ‘Color Terms’, in Encyclopedia of Arabic Language and Linguistics, ed. K. Verseegh, Leiden 2006–2009 (yellow/light brown). B. Berlin and P. Kay, Basic Color Terms: Their Universality and Evolution, Berkley 1969. R. MacLaury and S. Stewart, ‘Simultaneous Sequences of Basic Color-Category Evolution’, Paper presented at the 83rd Annual Meeting of the American Anthropological Association, Denver 1984; P. Kay, B. Berlin, and W. Merrifield, ‘Biocultural Implications of Systems of Color Naming’, Journal of Linguistic Anthropology 1 (1991).

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and the Nilo-Saharan Dholuo).30 Another is that languages may have two (or more) basic (non-synonymous) red terms,31 often involving a category on the long wavelength border.32 Chinantec offers an interesting example. This Mexican language, which is documented in the World Colour Survey, has two basic red terms (a dark red and light red) and what the authors call a basic yellow term with the highest consensus in orange. Cakchiquel, a Guatemalan language, perhaps has as many as three basic red terms (focal, light, and dark). The Berlin-Kay sequence therefore cannot be used as a template to reconstruct earlier stages in Classical Arabic colour taxonomy, and there is thus more reason than ever to revisit the question of the historical semantics of χṣfr.33 Erpenius was undeniably well-guided in leaning on his Turkish dictionaries to correct Raphelengius, and from today’s perspective it appears quite obvious that his definition of χṣfr, if we are compelled to choose, works better for the Arabic of most classical writers. The point I am making here, however, is that he—perhaps overly eager to replace Hebrew with Turkish as the gateway to the study of Arabic—at the same time became the first to brush aside or overlook a body of evidence strongly suggesting that Raphelengius’ definition could not simply be discarded crowned by three translations of Hebrew ‫אדם‬. First of all, there were Raphelengius’ attestations, Q 2:69 and Saˁadyah Gaon’s translation of Num 19:2, which, though not indicated in the (printed edition of) dictionary must have been well-known to scholars at a time when the Constantinople polyglot and the Qurˀān were the obvious places for any aspiring Arabist to start learning the language (Raphelengius him30

31

32

33

I.R.L. Davies et al., ‘Color Terms in Setswana: A Linguistic and Perceptual Approach’, Linguistics 30 (1992), 1065–1103; D.O. Okombo, ‘The Semantics of Dholuo Colour Terms’, Afrikanistiche Arbeitspapiere 40 (1994), 1–38. W. Schenkel (‘Color Terms in Ancient Egyptian and Coptic’, in R.E. MacLaury, G.V. Paramei and D. Dedrick (eds), Anthropology of Color: Interdisciplinary Multilevel Modeling, Amsterdam 2007, 211–228) proposes this for Coptic. P. Kay, B. Berlin, L. Maffi, and W. Merrifield (‘Color Naming Across Languages’, in C.L. Hardin and Luisa Maffi (eds), Color Categories in Thought and Language, 21–58, Cambridge 1997). Since I presented this paper at the Leiden conference, I have made a detailed investigation of χṣfr in the early Arabic poetry, the first results of which were presented as J. Ferrer i Serra, ‘The Colour Terms in Early Arabic Poetry: The Case of ˀaṣfar’. Paper presented at the 27th Congress of Union Européenne des Arabisants et Islamisants (UEAI 27), Helsinki 2– 6 June 2014. The preliminary conclusion of this investigation at the moment of writing is that χṣfr in this early layer of the language represented a term that is best described either an extended red category or a brown category stretching into red.

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self started with the polyglot). And Erpenius could ironically enough have found evidence of a third translation of this type in al-Qarāḥisārī’s dictionary, the very text he used for making his improvements of Raphelengius’ lexicon.34 The custom of referring to the Romans/Greeks as Banū al-ˀAṣfar al-Qarāḥisārī there documents should not have been difficult to identify as originating in the traditional Jewish identification of Rome with Esau/Edom (‫)ֱאדוֹם‬, Jacob’s ruddy (‫ )ַא ְדמוֹ ִני‬elder brother, who sold his birthright for some red (‫ )אדם‬pottage.35 Erpenius, however, either overlooked this or brushed it aside, and Giggeo, Castell, and Golius later chose to also disregard the tradition al-Fīrūzabādī’s reports in his al-Qāmūs that al-ˀAṣfar was a grandson of Esau in favour of the etiological tale the lexicographer also documents, according to which the origin of the appellation lay in the Arabs’ perception of the fair complexion of the Romans/Greeks. The first to connect the two appellations was probably d’Herbelot, but the name generally associated with this idea is that of Silvestre de Sacy, who argued for it in more detail in two separate communications.36 De Sacy’s explanation nevertheless met with rejection from the scholarly community, mainly because it was deemed impossible that χṣfr

34

35

36

Erpenius, it deserves to be noted, also brushed away al-Qarāḥisārī’s quotations of two Arabic authorities, one stating that χṣfr according to some was closer to black (χswd) than to white (χbyḍ), i.e. a dark colour, and the other, that χṣfr sometimes or often (rubbamā) means ‘black’. The latter assertion, which is repeated in most major Arabic dictionaries, was for a while assimilated into European lexica (notably Golius and Lane), but more recently it has lost ground, presumably because it has been felt that it is unlikely that a yellow term also would include black; see e.g. A. Morabia, ‘Recherches sur quelques noms de couleur en arabe classique’, Studia Islamica, 21 (1964), 75 and 78; Fischer, Farb- und Formbezeichnungen, 363–364. See also e.g. E.M. Badawi and M. Abdel Haleem’s ArabicEnglish Dictionary of Qurˀānic Usage, Leiden 2008, which does not reflect that some mufassirūn interpreted χṣfr as black in Q 2:69 and 77:33. Composite terms joining black and yellow are cross-culturally unattested. The Jewish identification of Rome with Edom was well known to Christian scholars at the time. The Valencian theologian Benet Perera (Pererius), to take one example, shows acquaintance with it in his great Genesis commentary (Commentariorum et disputationum in Genesim, 1601), and Valentin Schindler mentions it in his Lexicon heptaglotton (1612); Scaliger includes the intriguing entry ‘/ṣfr/: ‫ ֱאדוֹם‬Rubrum’ in his Thesaurus linguae arabicae (Leiden MS Or. 212, fol. 200b). B. d’ Herbelot de Molainville, Bibliothèque orientale, ou dictionnaire universel contenant généralement tout ce qui regarde la connaissance des peuples de l’Orient, Paris 1697, s.v. ‘Edom’; A. Silvestre de Sacy, Notices et extraits des manuscrits de la Bibliothèque Impériale 9 (1813), 437–438 note 1; idem, ‘Lettre à M. le rédacteur du Journal Asiatique, Paris 20 février 1836’, Journal Asiatique 1836, 94–96.

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could be a translation of ‫אדם‬. The issue was debated for a while, some alternative explanations were presented, and the scholarly opinion finally settled on reverting to explaining the appellation as a description of the skin colour of the Romans/Greeks. De Sacy’s failure to convince his colleagues was perhaps also partly due to other reasons: he did not offer a very clear picture of the history of the identification of Rome with Edom (he merely refers to Buxtorf, who mainly gives late examples), and he only quoted a few late Arabic and Persian sources in support of his argument. As time has gone by, however, the picture has cleared. Today we know (1) that the Judaic tradition very early—in fact as early as in the immediate aftermath of the destruction of the second temple, if not even earlier37— associated the Romans with Edom and (2) that the redness of Edom/Rome continued to be a living concept in the rabbinic tradition, where Edom unequivocally is described as red, possibly under the influence of the importance of this colour (purpureus was primarily a red-crimson) in Roman culture and imperial symbolism.38 Genesis Rabbah states that Esau’s skin colour was a sign that he would be a shedder of blood and goes on to relate how Samuel on first seeing David’s skin colour (which 1Sam 16:12 describes with the same word Gen 25:25 uses of Esau) thought he was a murderer (GenR 63:8). The same source also describes Esau/Edom as red with regards to his person, his food, his warriors, his clothes, his shields, and his avenger (GenR 63:12; also e.g. TanḥB Wayyišlaḥ 4). Considering how ubiquitous the appellation Edom for Rome was in the Jewish tradition, one would almost expect it to have a reflex in Arabic. The Arabic sources that gradually have become available since de Sacy’s days moreover show that the Arabs themselves already early on connected the two appellations. The earliest evidence of this (if genuine) is found in Kitāb al-tījān, traditionally ascribed to Wahb ibn Munabbih (d. around 730), which speaks of a certain Roman king called Bāhān (or Māhān), whose rather fanciful genealogy

37

38

Rabbi Akiba is the first authority known to have unequivocally identified Edom with Rome, but passages in 4 Ezra and the Book of Jubilees have also been advanced as evidence that the identification may have preceded the destruction of the second temple. The classic study about the identification Edom as Rome is G. Cohen ‘Esau as a Symbol in Early Medieval Thought’ in Jewish Medieval and Renaissance Studies, ed. A. Altmann, Harvard Press, 1967, 19–48. The point nevertheless continues to be discussed: see in particular M. Hadas-Lebel, Jérusalem contre Rome, Paris 1990; L.H. Feldman, Josephus’s Interpretation of the Bible, Berkeley 1998, 322–324. L.B. Jensen, ‘Royal Purple of Tyre’, Journal of Near Eastern Studies 22 (1963), 111. Pliny describes the colour as that of congealed blood (Naturalis historia 9.62), which of course is particularly suggestive in the present context.

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stretches back to Esau (ˁĪṣ) al-ˀAṣġar ibn Yaˁqūb, where ‘al-ˀAṣġar’ apparently is a corruption of ‘al-ˀAṣfar’ (Tījān 231).39 With the swelling literary output a century later, the amount of evidence grows. al-Jāḥiẓ (d. 868) reports that the skin colour of Esau (al-ˁĪṣ) gave rise to the custom of referring to the Romans, his supposed progeny, as Banū al-ˀAṣfar (Burṣān 158),40 and the almost contemporary poet al-Ḥusayn ibn al-Ḍaḥḥāk identifies the Romans/Greeks as the offspring of Esau in a poem composed after the sack of Amorium in 838 (Tanbīh 170). Almost a century later, al-Ṭabarī (d. 923) invokes the authority of a Jewish informant to offer essentially the same explanation as al-Jāḥiẓ (alˀUmam wal-mulūk 1:317–319).41 The clearing picture notwithstanding, however, de Sacy’s idea has not been reconsidered. Giorgio Levi Della Vida, who is the latest author to offer a substantial discussion of the origin of the appellation, instead dismisses the opinion of the Arab historians and explains the justmentioned passage in al-Ṭabarī as an attempt to ‘convey the impression’ that χṣfr could translate ‫ אדם‬on the grounds that ‘it is difficult to understand why “reddish” should have become “yellow.”’42 The current situation is thus that none of Q 2:69, Num 19:2, or the appellation Banū al-ˀAṣfar according to a wide scholarly consensus could exemplify a translation of Hebrew ‫ אדם‬into Arabic χṣfr. As a consequence of this, three very difficult problems arise. Why is the cow in Q 2:69 yellow and not red? What motivated Saˁadyah Gaon to give the heifer in Num 19:2 the same colour, in direct contradiction to the Torah? And how do we explain that the Arabs referred to the (emperors of) the Romans as ‘The Sons of the Yellow One’?

Q 2:69 The puzzling fact that the red heifer in Q 2:69 appears in the shape of a yellow cow—if we are to believe the overwhelming majority of scholars and translators of the Qurˀān—would seem to be an interesting place to look for a clue to

39 40

41 42

The text thus, remarkably, makes Esau the son, and not the brother, of Jacob. The question of whether Esau’s redness referred to his hair or his complexion was already debated in early Hebrew midrashim; see Brenner, Color Terms in the Old Testament, 243, note 4 (quoting Menachem Kasher’s Torah Šelemah/Complete Torah: Talmudic-Midrashic Encyclopedia of the Pentateuch). Compare, however, the baroque description Ibn Qutayba (d. 889) gives of the skin colour of Esau’s son al-Rūm (Maˁārif 38). G. Levi Della Vida, ‘The “Bronze Era” in Moslem Spain’, Journal of the American Oriental Society 63 (1943), 190.

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the relationship between the Qurˀān and the Judaeo-Christian tradition, but almost complete silence reigns around this issue.43 To my knowledge only two explanations have been suggested. Fischer, who addresses the issue in his study of the colour terms of early Arabic poetry, suggests that Muḥammad may have misinterpreted his source as speaking of an antelope.44 The early Arab poets, he admits, do not describe antelopes as χṣfr, but the terms with which they do describe them are according to him hyponyms of χṣfr, and it must therefore have been linguistically acceptable to qualify them with this superordinate term. Fischer here appears to make an almost impossible reading of Q 2:69. The main reason for this is that it is difficult to believe that the miscomprehension Fischer perceives behind it would have had the result that the colour of the red heifer was changed (to accommodate for it being an antelope) while the command that it should not have been used for tilling or drawing water, which is completely alien to the nature of antelopes, was preserved in the text. The great emphasis the qurˀānic narrative places on how the Children of Israel repeatedly ask Moses for more specifications about the cow makes this interpretation even more unlikely, because the answer they get when Moses tells them it should not have been used for tilling and watering is completely meaningless if we suppose that it involved an antelope. Another major problem with Fischer’s reading is that it rests on the highly questionable assumption that the Qurˀān was composed in a cultural setting where (bovine) cattle were completely unknown (since the cow otherwise hardly could have been mistaken for an antelope). The formative setting of Islam scarcely fits this description, however, no matter if we want to think of it as a commercial centre in Arabia engaged in long-distance trade between Syria and Yemen, as the traditional account relates, or a community in Iraq or near the Mediterranean, as some have suggested. Cattle were certainly raised in Syria, the Fertile Crescent, and Abyssinia, and though probably not a very frequent sight in sixth- and seventh-century Arabia as a whole, they no doubt existed in some numbers in peripheral areas, particularly in eastern Arabia, the Asir mountains, and southern Arabia, where they had been present since at

43

44

H. Speyer, Die biblischen Erzählungen im Qoran, 2nd ed., Hildesheim 1961, 345; D. Sidersky, Les origines des légendes musulmanes dans le Coran et dans les vies des prophètes, Paris 1933, 98; H. Hirschfeld, New Researches into the Composition and Exegesis of the Qoran, London 1902, 108. A.I. Katsh, Judaism and the Koran: Biblical and Talmudic Backgrounds of the Koran and its Commentaries, New York 1962, 71–73. Fischer, Farb- und Formbezeichnungen, 364.

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least the late sixth millennium bc.45 Small populations of cows are moreover likely to have been found locally in interior parts of Arabia, which once had been the scene of large-scale cattle breeding.46 The reports by early travellers, such as the Catalan adventurer Domènec Badia i Leblich (Ali Bey), Burckhardt, Wallin, and others, show that cows were present in the Hijaz, and even in the Najd, before the introduction of motorised transport on the peninsula (which in the interior did not happen until in the final years of the 1920s, and then only on a limited scale).47 The Qurˀān moreover reflects an environment where agriculture was an important activity,48 and the cows mentioned in Q 6:144 together with sheep, goats, camels, and pigs can hardly be anything else than domesticated cattle. The prophetic traditions,49 and occasionally other Muslim sources, too,50 make reference to the presence of bovine cattle in the earliest days of the Islamic community, which shows at the very least that the Muslims already in the eighth century found it believable that cows were known to their prophet and existed around him. Fischer’s assertion that antelopes in early Arabic could be described as χṣfr is also problematic. Fischer himself, as already mentioned, admits that χṣfr is effectively unattested in reference to this group of species (except in a verse conventionally referring to woman as a gazelle), but builds his case on the contention that the terms χṣbh and χˁfr, which he documents are used to describe antelopes in the early poetical corpus, are hyponyms of χṣfr. Neither

45

46 47

48 49 50

J. McCorriston and L. Martin, ‘Southern Arabia’s Early Pastoral Population History: Some Recent Evidence’, in M.D. Petraglia and J.I. Rose (eds), The Evolution of Human Populations in Arabia: Paleoenvironments, Prehistory, and Genetics, Dortrecht 2010, 247. M. Rice, The Archaeology of the Arabian Gulf, London 1994, 77. The Hijaz: Ali Bey, Travels of Ali Bey in Morocco, Tripoli, Cyprus, Egypt, Arabia, Syria, and Turkey Between the Years 1803 and 1807, 2 vols, Philadelphia 1816, 2:117; J.L. Burckhardt, Travels in Arabia, 2 vols, London 1829, 1:127. Northern Arabia (al-Jawf): G.A. Wallin, ‘Narrative of a Journey from Cairo to Medina and Mecca’, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society (1854), 148; A. Musil, Arabia Petraea: A Topographical Itinerary, New York 1927 (367; 473). Najd: L. Pelly, Report on a Journey to Riyadh in Central Arabia, Cambridge 1978, 40 (Sadūs, 70km NW of Riyadh, 1865); S.A. Sowayan, Nabati Poetry: The Oral Poetry of Arabia, Berkeley 1985, 117 (al-Šināna, 1904); P.M. Kurpershoek, Oral Poetry and Narratives from Central Arabia. 1: The Story of a Desert Knight: The Legend of Šlēwīḥ al-ˁAṭāwī and Other ˁUtaybah Heroes, Leiden 1995, 303; 309 (200 km south of ˁAfīf, early 1900s). See in particular P. Crone, ‘How Did the Quranic Pagans Make a Living?’ Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 68 (2005), 387–399. A.J. Wensinck, Concordance et indices de la tradition musulmane, 8 vols, Leiden 1936–1988, 1:204–206; G.H.A. Juynboll, Encyclopedia of Canonical Ḥadīṯ, Leiden 2007, index. See e.g. al-ˀUmam wal-mulūk 2:282; al-ˀAzmina wal-ˀamkina 386.

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of these terms, however, is attested to have any referents in common with χṣfr.51 The problem with Fischer’s method is here essentially the same as with his classification of the terms χwrq, χṭḥl, χġbs, and χġṯr under χxḍr. Of these, the first three are used of the wolf, and the last of the lion. Following Fischer’s logic this would allow us to state, with no direct evidence, that these animals in early Arabic could be described as χxḍr. The problem is, however, that this type of reasoning rests solely on the theoretical colour system Fischer himself has constructed. Andrew Rippin and Bertram Schmitz have separately advanced a more attractive idea. They propose that the cow in Q 2:69 could have got its colour under the influence of the story of the golden calf in Exod 32.52 Rabbinic sources in fact state that the red heifer was sacrificed in atonement for the golden calf (NumR 19:8), and it is by no means impossible that this idea also lies behind the qurˀānic text. The various passages in the Qurˀān mentioning the golden calf, however, lends very little palpable support to this view, which leaves us in the realm of conjecture. More seriously, however, there is a linguistic problem with this explanation. The logic behind the identification of the red heifer with the golden calf rests on the fact that gold in Hebrew and Aramaic sources frequently is described as red. Now, early Arabic sources similarly qualify gold as χḥmr,53 which makes it difficult to explain why the ‘translator’ would have opted for a mismatch in terms of colour words. The only type of scenario in which this seems likely is one in which the red heifer, so to say, became so deeply coloured by the golden calf that its original identity was overshadowed or forgotten, but this only makes it more puzzling that the Qurˀān does not more visibly reflect this.

Num 19:2 Saˁadyah’s decision to give the heifer in Num 19:2 the same colour as the cow in Q 2:69 has probably not been very widely known among Arabists during the last two centuries. The question has nevertheless in recent years attracted some attention from scholars who explain it as an expression of Saˁadyah’s depen51 52

53

Also note that al-Ṯaˁālibī (Fiqh al-luġa 118) reports that al-ˀAṣmaˁī and others defined ˁufr as a kind of light red (χḥmr) gazelle (ẓaby). A. Rippin, ‘Colors’, in Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān, ed. J.D. McAuliffe, 6 vols, Leiden 2001– 2006, 1:363; B. Schmitz, Der Koran: Sure 2 Die Kuh: Ein religionshistorischer Kommentar, Stuttgart 2009, 107. Fischer, Farb- und Formbezeichnungen, 361, note 5. See also e.g. Ḥayawān 5:330.

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dency on the Qurˀān.54 Most have understood this as a direct influence. David Freidenreich, however, puts a particular twist to this idea.55 Saˁadyah, he proposes, found the colour of the cow in Num 19:2 unnatural, and since this would imply that God commanded the Israelites to sacrifice a cow that could not exist in reality, he was moved to find another colour for it. The solution he found was to follow al-Ṭabarī in understanding the colour of the cow of Q 2:69 as black (i.e. interpreting χṣfr as black). The idea that Saˁadyah changed the colour of the cow in Num 19:2 to a different one is nevertheless very difficult to believe. Shari Lowin, who is one of its proponents, calls it a ‘shocking’ example of Islamic influence, but precisely because it indeed would be shocking, it is difficult to imagine that it is accurate.56 The head of the talmudic academy at Sura was no doubt, as a number of scholars have pointed out, noticeably influenced by his Muslim environment, but he could hardly be imagined to have tampered with the requirements for the sacrificial animal to be used in one of the most important ritual purifications in Mosaic law. And that on the authority of the Qurˀān! Saˁadyah’s rendering of this verse, if perceived as a change in colour, would almost certainly have given rise to polemic, but while his translation of the Torah quickly gained enormous prestige, no such reaction seems to have occurred. Figures like Dunaš ben Labraṭ and Abraham ibn ˁEzra, who sometimes were outspoken critics of his translations, pass over his choice of colour term in Num 19:2 in silence.57 David Alfasi and Jonah ibn Janāḥ do not mention χṣfr as a possible translation of ‫אדם‬ in their lexica, but neither of them on the other hand takes issue with Saˁadyah, as one would have expected if his translation was thought to violate the meaning of the law.58 The only near-contemporary to Saˁadyah I have found who

54

55 56 57

58

The first to observe the echoing of Q 2:69 in Saˁadyah’s translation seems to have been J. Blau (‘Between Judaeo-Arabic and the Qurˀān’ [in Hebrew], Tarbiz 40 (1972), 512– 514). See also H. Lazarus-Yafeh, Intertwined Worlds: Medieval Islam and Bible Criticism, Princeton 1992, 148. D.M. Freidenreich, ‘The Use of Islamic Sources in Saˁadyah Gaon’s “Tafsīr” of the Torah’, The Jewish Quarterly Review 93 (2003), 353–395. S. Lowin, The Making of a Forefather: Abraham in Islamic and Jewish Exegetical Narratives Islamic History and Civilization, Leiden 2006, 37–38. [ˀAbū ˀIṣḥāq] Abraham ibn ˁEzra, Peruš R. Abraham ibn ˁEzra ˁal ha-Torah, ed. E. Lewin, Jerusalem 1974; Dunaš ben Labraṭ, Sefer Tešubot Dunaš ha-Lewī ben Labraṭ ˁal Rab Seˁadyah Gaʾon, ed. R. Schröter, Breslau 1866. David ben Abraham al-Fāsī, The Hebrew-Arabic Dictionary of the Bible Known as Kitāb Jāmiˁ al-Alfāẓ, ed. S.L. Skoss, 2 vols, New Haven 1936–1945; ˀAbū al-Walīd Marwān ibn Janāḥ, Kitāb al-ˀuṣūl/The Book of Hebrew Roots, ed. Neubauer, Oxford, 1875.

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directly criticises him on this point is Judah ibn Balˁam, who merely rectifies him about the choice of colour term without entering into any theological or juridical quarrel on the issue.59 Freidenreich’s attempt to show that Saˁadyah’s mistranslation is paralleled by other examples where he relied on the Qurˀān and the Muslim tradition is equally unconvincing. While he successfully illustrates that Saˁadyah was influenced by his cultural setting and that his translations often echo of qurˀānic vocabulary and phraseology, he mentions only a handful of cases where he suspects him of relying ‘directly on Islamic sources for specific pieces of information that he is unlikely to have learned simply by living in an Islamic environment, or that he is unlikely to have included in this translation simply because they were well known by his audience’ (p. 372). The two examples where the text of the Qurˀān in itself would have influenced Saˁadyah in this way, Gen 3:5 and Gen 39 (passim), moreover, do not come close to changing the colour of the red heifer. Neither, first of all, is of any legal consequence. Second, Saˁadyah’s translation of ‫ ֱאלוִֹהם‬in Gen 3:5 as malāˀika admittedly parallels Q 7:20 and his rendering of ‫ ֶב ֶגד‬in Gen 39 as qamīṣ (in reference to Joseph’s garment) certainly brings Q 12 to mind, but neither is necessarily inspired specifically by the Qurˀān in the way Freidenreich suggests. The translation of Gen 3:5 has, as Freidenreich himself points out, a direct parallel in Targum Pseudo-Jonathan and was thus already part of the rabbinic tradition, and his choice to call Joseph’s garment a qamīṣ could easily be explained as a general influence from the cultural milieu in which he lived: the word is in fact used several times of Joseph’s robe in the pre-Saˁadyan Torah translation represented by a manuscript at St Catherine’s monastery (MS Sinai Arabic 2, copied in 939/40), which, Ronny Vollandt has pointed out,60 must have existed already in the second half of the ninth century since it is quoted by Ibn Qutayba and al-Ṭabarī. The reason why Saˁadyah would have chosen to give the heifer in Num 19:2 a colour that cannot be explained as a translation of ‫ אדם‬is difficult to perceive. Freidenreich’s explanation that Saˁadyah found the colour of the

59

60

[ˀAbū Zakariyā Yaḥyā] Judah ibn Balˁam, Kitāb al-Tarjīḥ, see Jehuda ben Shmuel ibn Balˁam, Commentary on Numbers and Deuteronomy, ed. and Hebrew trans. M. Perez, [MA Thesis] Bar Ilan University 1970, 31. M. Lindgren and R. Vollandt, ‘An Early Copy of the Pentateuch and the Book of Daniel in Arabic (MS Sinai—Arabic 2): Preliminary Observations on Codicology, Text Types, and Translation Technique’, Intellectual History of the Islamicate World 1 (2013), 49. See also R.C. Steiner, A Biblical Translation in the Making: The Evolution and Impact of Saadia Gaon’s Tafsīr, Cambridge [Mass.] 2010, 52–68.

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cow in Num 19:2 unnatural is conceivable, but it is not very convincing.61 The number of cows that historically had been sacrificed in the way stipulated by Numbers 19 (and thus fulfilled all the requirements stipulated in the Torah) had not been many (nine, according to Tractate Parah 3:5) but at least numerous enough to prove that such animals could be found in existence. More importantly, however, it is difficult to see why we should suppose that Saˁadyah lacked the sensitivity to appreciate that Hebrew ‫ אדם‬not only is the red of blood but also covers parts of brown—just like Arabic χḥmr and χṣfr. Esau’s lentil soup was hardly bright red but brownish; the horses in Zech. 1:8 (and 6:2) probably bay or chestnut; the face of the beloved in Canticles 5:10, certainly not high red. The Talmud speaks of red gold (Yom 4:4) and (in Aramaic) of peeled etrogs with the colour of a red date (Sukk 35b: ‫)אהינא סומקא‬. The same is true of Classical Arabic, where even cows, horses, and camels can be χḥmr. al-Ṭabarī, to take one example, appears to have no problems accepting that cows could be of either colour (al-ˀUmam wal-mulūk 1:213). A more plausible explanation is therefore that Saˁadyah in this instance chose to translate ‫ אדם‬as χṣfr to stress that the stipulated colour was not bright red but another, more natural, shade of the colour range covered by ‫אדם‬. Freidenreich’s suggestion that Saˁadyah chose to make the heifer black is particularly problematic first of all because this change stands in blatant contradiction to the Mishnah (Parah 2:5), where it is stated that the presence of two black or white hairs (‫ )שתי שערות שחורות או לבנות‬renders the animal unsuitable for the atonement ritual. Another problem is that it is very unlikely that Saˁadyah—supposing for the sake of argument that he wanted to change the colour of the heifer to black—would have chosen to convey this by using the term χṣfr. The early poets, it is true, sometimes used χṣfr for very dark referents, but it is very doubtful that this is how Saˁadyah’s readers spontaneously would have understood the term. al-Ṭabarī’s discussion of this possibility in his commentary to Q 2:69 shows that a sizeable part of his Muslim readers did not think of this as the most natural way of interpreting the verse. And

61

The fact that Saˁadyah translates ‫ אדם‬as χḥmr in other places, e.g. in Isa 1:18, hardly shows that he cannot have meant that the heifer in Num 19:2 also was red (or brown), as Freidenreich seems to suggest. Gen 25:30 and Isa. 63:2, which describe the colour of Esau/Edom, may perhaps seem to pose something of a problem, but Saˁadyah had no reason whatsoever to allude to the appellation Banū al-ˀAṣfar, since he was opposed to the idea that Esau was the ancestor of the Romans/Greeks, which he explicitly dismisses in his polemic against Ḥiwi al-Balkhi (see I. Davidson, Saadia’s Polemic against Hiwi alBalkhi, New York 1915, 76–77).

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contrary to what Freidenreich asserts, al-Ṭabarī ends up dismissing it himself, partly on the grounds that black cows, in contrast to camels, were not known by him to be described by this term. Saˁadyah would thus have had to expect his readers to accept his translation solely on the authority of certain Muslim exegetes’ disputed opinion about the meaning of the colour term used in reference to the cow in Q 2:69. Would Saˁadyah’s contemporaries even have recognised this operation? Judah ibn Balˁam certainly does not seem to have had a clue. Given that Saˁadyah expressly states that one of his goals was to produce a clear and precisely formulated translation, it is particularly unlikely that he would have opted for χṣfr. Haggai Ben-Shammai, who has compared the translation Saˁadyah makes in the preserved parts of his commentary to the Pentateuch and Isaiah with his separate translation, makes the interesting point that Saˁadyah was more conservative in the latter (i.e. the one in question here: Saˁadyah does not seem to have written a commentary to Numbers): ‘[i]t seems that Saˁadyah considered the audience for whom the separate translation was edited less sophisticated, less suitable for innovations and innovative thinking. Tradition as such was paramount’.62

Banū al-ˀAṣfar Of the three attestations, the appellation Banū al-ˀAṣfar has created the most debate. Silvestre de Sacy’s explanation was, as mentioned, soon rejected by scholars who ruled out the possibility that χṣfr could be a translation of ‫אדם‬. The first to raise objections was Franz von Erdmann, who suggested that the appellation should be understood as a direct translation of the imperial cognomen Flavius.63 The Italian linguist Graziadio Ascoli also dismissed the idea that the appellation originated in a translation of the characteristic colour of Esau/Edom, though he neither explains his doubts nor offers an alternative explanation.64 Ascoli nevertheless made an indirect contribution to the problem by suggesting that the tradition reported by Ḥamza al-ˀIṣfahānī and other

62

63

64

H. Ben-Shammai, ‘Extra-Textual Considerations in Medieval Judaeo-Arabic Bible Translations: The Case of Saadya Gaon’, Atti del XVI Convegno internazionale dell’AISG (Gabicce Mare, 1–3 ottobre 2002), Materia giudaica 8 (2003), 53. F. von Erdmann, ‘Ueber die sonderbare Benennung der Europaer, Benu-l-asfar (Nachkommen des Gelben), von Seiten der Westasiaten’, Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 2 (1848), 237–241. G. Ascoli, ‘Ueber ‫’بنو الاصفر‬, Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 15 (1861), 143–144.

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(late) Arabic sources that the Romans descended from a grandson of Esau by the name of *Ṣūfar (ṣwfr)/*Ṣafar (ṣfr)/al-ˀAṣfar originated as a corruption of the name ‘Ṣěpō’ (Zepho),65 Esau’s grandson according to Gen 36:11. The origin of the tradition itself was according to Ascoli connected to the legend retold in the Book of Josippon, which narrates how Zepho accompanied Aeneas to Italy (where he was made king, founded a dynasty, and later had a descendant called Romulus, who founded the city of Rome), and the corruption gained hold because the Romans already were known under the appellations Edom and Banū al-ˀAṣfar. Goldziher, on the other hand, supported the explanation that the appellation originated in the Arabs’ perception of the light skin colour of the Romans/Greeks. (This explanation, as mentioned, was already that of Golius, but it has become more closely associated with Goldiher’s name.66) The tradition that the Romans/Greeks descended from Edom was in his view a later etiological explanation based on the Septuagint reading Σωφαρ in Gen 36:11, which developed once the true origin of the appellation had been forgotten. Giorgio Levi Della Vida, finally,67 suggests that the origin of the appellation actually is to be sought in a textual corruption, though not in Josippon but in the Septuagint reading of Gen 36:11, a reading, he points out, which must have reached the Arabs through Christian sources (considering that the Septuagint at an early date was abandoned by the Jews). Erdmann’s suggestion that the origin of the appellation should be sought in the Byzantine emperors’ traditional adoption of the honorific name Flavius is more than anything a conjecture with little to recommend it, except that Latin flavus could be translated as χṣfr. Flavius was indeed an imperial cognomen from Constantine and onwards, and it also gained currency as a status marker among the elite,68 but the mechanisms through which this would have given rise to the appellation Banū al-ˀAṣfar, which seems to reflect a misunderstanding of the nature of this name, are far from clear. At this background it is

65

66

67 68

MS Sinai Arabic 2, copied in 939/40, which, as mentioned earlier, goes back to a translation that must have existed already in the second half of the ninth century (see below), reads /ṣfr/ (image 59). I. Goldziher, Muhammedanische Studien, 2 vols, Halle 1889–1890, 1:268–269. Goldziher, it should be noted, does not repeat this assertion in a later discussion of the question (‘Aṣfar’ in the Encyclopaedia of Islam). G. Levi Della Vida, ‘The “Bronze Era” in Moslem Spain’, 190–191. J.K. Keenan ‘The names Flavius and Aurelius as Status Designations in Later Roman Egypt’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 11 (1973), 33–63; idem, ‘The Names Flavius and Aurelius as Status Designations in Later Roman Egypt (ii)’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 13 (1974), 283–304.

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a serious difficulty that al-ˀAṣfar is an unlikely translation for ‘Flavius’, which as an anthroponym naturally would have been interpreted as meaning blond (i.e. referring to hair colour) rather than yellow (i.e. referring to complexion). Skin colour did not belong to the semiotic registers of the related colour word flavus;69 human hair, on the other hand, has never belonged to the semiotic registers of χṣfr. ‘The sons of Flavius’ would therefore in a linguistically sensitive translation rather have been rendered as ‘Banū al-ˀAṣhab’ or ‘Banū al-ˀAšqar’. Explaining the origin of the appellation through a textual corruption of ‘Ṣěpō’ suffers from the weakness that the last, unmistakably Arabic, link in this corruption chain (*Ṣafar or *Ṣūfar > al-ˀAṣfar), whether oral or scriptural, is very unlikely to have occurred before the custom of referring to the Romans/Greeks as Banū al-ˀAṣfar developed. The appellation is attested as early as in the poetry of ˁAdī ibn Zayd (16/23) around 600 ad, and it was certainly in wide use by the eighth century, when it crops up in prophetic traditions and other historical material.70 Zepho was at this time in the Rabbinic (Hebrew-Aramaic) tradition according to all available evidence no more than a name in Gen 36, while in the Arabic tradition there probably did not even exist a text where he was mentioned, except, perhaps, a version of Gen 36, but even that is very doubtful.71 Zepho does not appear to have become associated with the Romans before the tenth century, prior to which date both Jewish and Muslim sources pass him over in conspicuous silence. Some of the most important rabbinic sources follow the tradition traceable back to the Septuagint (Dan 11:30) of identifying Rome with the Kittīm (‫ ִכִּתּים‬mentioned among the progeny of Japheth in Gen 10:4 (see e.g. Tg Onqelos (Num 24:24), Tg Ps-Jonathan (Num 24:24)); others identify them with Magdiel, another obscure figure mentioned alongside Zepho in Gen 36 (GenR 83:4; PRE 38). The earliest Hebrew source making Zepho the ancestor of the Romans seems to be the Book of Josippon,

69

70

71

E. Laughton, ‘Flavus pudor’, Classical Review 62 (1948), 109–111; idem, ‘Flavus Again’, Classical Review 64 (1950), 88–89; M. Bradley, Colour and Meaning in Ancient Rome, Cambridge 2011, 1–12. The frequency with with Banū al-ˀAṣfar occurs in apocalyptic contexts is remarkable considering that Esau/Edom plays a similar role in Rabbinic writings. The poetic attestations should also be put in this context. ˁAdī ibn Zayd’s verse, though certainly not apocalyptic, nevertheless concerns the destruction of the Roman emperors. ˀAbū Tammām’s invocation of the epithet in the final line of his Amorium qaṣīda could also be understood as having an apocalyptic undertone if we understand it as alluding to the ultimate destruction of the Byzantines. S.H. Griffith, The Bible in Arabic: The Scriptures of the ‘People of the Book’, Princeton 2013, 111–112.

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a work now generally dated to the first half of the tenth century (though not later than 953).72 The case is not entirely clear, however. The dating of Josippon is still the subject of some debate,73 and there is a passage in the TanḥumaYelammedenu relating how Zepho founded Rome which may predate the Josippon,74 though this, too, is very uncertain, particularly since it is found neither in the so-called ‘printed’ Tanḥuma nor Tanḥuma Buber. The Muslim Arabic sources present a similar picture. The earliest authors, as we have seen, identify al-ˀAṣfar with Esau himself or with a son of his called Rūm (Tījān 231; Maˁārif 38; al-ˀUmam wal-mulūk 1:317), and by the late ninth century another genealogy tracing the Romans back to Esau crops up in the sources, where Zepho/al-ˀAṣfar is missing altogether, while Rūm is four generations removed from Esau (Taˀrīx al-Yaˁqūbī 1:164; Murūj 2:32; Muˁjam al-buldān 3:97). The earliest authority to mention (a corrupted form of) Zepho in connection with the ancestry of the Romans seems to be al-Masˁūdī (Murūj 2:32), the extant version of whose world history dates from 947/8 ad,75 followed by Ḥamza alˀIṣfahānī (Taˀrix sinī mulūk al-ˀarḍ 67), who completed his chronicle in 961. The identification of Zepho with al-ˀAṣfar thus bears all the signs of being much later than the appellation Banū al-ˀAṣfar. Levi Della Vida’s opinion that the origin of the appellation is to be sought specifically in the Septuagint reading of Gen 36:11 meets with the additional difficulty that the Christians do not seem to commonly have identified the Romans with Esau/Edom. The dominant tendency among the Christians,

72 73

74

75

See primarily L.H. Feldman, Josephus and Modern Scholarship (1937–1980), Berlin 1984, 62–66 for a detailed overview of the research on Josippon (until 1980). The dating of Josippon to the mid tenth century has more recently been challenged by scholars advancing the idea that the standard text of the Hebrew Josippon (Dönitz) or the Hebrew version as such (Sela) does not represent the oldest recension of the text; see S. Dönitz, ‘Historiography among Byzantine Jews: The Case of Sefer Yosippon’, in R. Bonfil et al. (eds), Jews in Byzantium: Dialectics of Minority and Majority Cultures, 951–968, Leiden 2011; Sh. Sela, Sefer Yosef ben Guryon ha-aravi, 2 vols, Jerusalem 2009; also S. Bowman, ‘Dates in Sepher Yosippon’, in J.C. Reeves and J. Kampen (eds), Pursuing the Text: Studies in Honor of Ben Zion Wacholder on the Occasion of His Seventieth Birthday, Sheffield 1994. See e.g. L. Ginzberg, The Legends of the Jews, 6 vols, Philadelphia 1909–1928, 5:372. Cohen (‘Esau as a Symbol’, 44) regards it as posterior to Josippon. The material in the TanḥumaYelammedenu complex is notoriously difficult to date; see e.g. C. Milikowsky, ‘The Status Quaestionis of Research in Rabbinic Literature’, Journal of Jewish Studies 39 (1988), 201– 211. M. Bregman (The Tanhuma-Yelammedenu Literature: Studies in the Evolution of the Versions, Piscataway [N.J.] 2003), represents a courageous attempt to address this problem. T. Khalidi, Islamic Historiography: The Histories of Masˁūdī, Albany 1975, 155f. Note that this predates Flusser’s dating of Josippon to 953.

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beginning as early as Paul’s interpretation of the conflict between Jacob and Esau in Rom. 9:6–13, was to identify the Jews with Esau, the older brother, and the Church with Jacob, the younger one favoured by God, and the conversion of Rome to Christianity in the fourth century hardly favoured the case for identifying it with Esau.76 Goldziher’s explanation that the appellation originated in the Arabs’ perception of the skin colour of the Romans/Greeks seems immediately unlikely, since ‘The sons of …’, suggests that it originally referred to the offspring of a specific individual. Apparently this was also the way the Arabic tradition understood it, as we can observe in the earliest attestation of it we have, viz. the famous verse by ˁAdī ibn Zayd (wa-banū l-ˀaṣfari l-mulūku mulūku l-rūmi / lam yabqa minhumu maḏkūru, 16/23), where it designates the imperial house, down to the identification of al-ˀAṣfar with Esau, Rūm, Zepho, or an Abyssinian slave (more on all this below). Another problem in this context is that this explanation presupposes that the racial stereotype behind the appellation somehow was forgotten, or disconnected from it, even though the link theoretically should have been fairly obvious to anyone who had the opportunity to see a Byzantine. And this despite that the alternative explanations remained within the realm of skin colour. This leads us to the most serious problem with Goldziher’s explanation, which is that the notion that the Arabs perceived the complexion of the Romans/Greeks as χṣfr is no more than an unfounded supposition.77 Contrary to the assertions of Erdmann, Vollers, and Goldziher himself,78 it is quite clear that 76 77

78

G. Cohen ‘Esau as a Symbol’, 31 ff., though occasional counter-examples do exist: see e.g. Jerome’s interpretation of Is 21:2 (Ginzberg, Legends, 5:272). Yāqūt al-Ḥamawī (d. 1229), as far as I am aware the earliest author to explain the appellation Banū al-ˀAṣfar as referring to their skin colour, represents this as his personal opinion. Interestingly, too, he also finds it necessary to explain that al-šuqratu ˀiḏā ˀafraṭat ṣārat ṣufra (Muˁjam al-buldān 3:98); the skin colour of the Romans/Greeks was apparently even at this point in time not generally understood as χṣfr, even though the term here appears to have shifted its range. F. von Erdmann, loc. cit; I. Goldziher, loc. cit; K. Vollers, ‘Über Rassenfarben in der Arabischen Literatur’, Centenario della Nascita di Michele Amari, 2 vols, Palermo 1910, 1:84–95. Erdmann offers no evidence in support of his claim. Goldziher mainly refers to a passage in the ˀAġānī (5:170), which he erroneously interprets as referring to black (χswd) and white (χṣfr) slave girls. (The correct interpretation is given below.) Vollers merely quotes a passage from al-Ṭabarī’s history in which Muṣˁab ibn al-Zubayr insults his interlocutor by describing his mother as a bitch whelping puppies of colours varying according to the dogs that have mounted her (al-ˀUmam wal-mulūk 6:154). Why χṣfr here would refer to Byzantines is difficult to discern.

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the skin colour described as χṣfr in the first centuries of Islam denoted a darker complexion than that which the Arabs attributed to the Romans/Greeks. To begin with, take Banū al-ˀAṣfar themselves. The report in al-Ṭabarī (al-ˀUmam wal-mulūk 1:317–319) that their appellation originated as a reference to Esau’s tawniness (ˀudma) already shows the erroneousness of Goldziher’s explanation.79 The etiological tale connected to the designation Banū al-ˀAṣfar offers another, something which strangely enough has escaped notice. There are two versions of this tale. al-Fīrūzabādī explains that the designation came about because an army of Abyssinians vanquished the Romans/Greeks and raped their women, who as a result of this gave birth to χṣfr children (this is the tale through which Golius lay the ground for the idea that the designation originated in a racial stereotype). Another (probably late) version, which was noted by Quatremère,80 has it that the designation refers to the offspring of a child conceived through the union of a queen of the Rūm and an Abyssinian slave, who was called al-ˀAṣfar on account of his for a Roman/Greek unusually dark skin colour. The continued misreading of these explanations from Golius and on is quite astonishing, for neither story implies that the complexion of the Romans/Greeks was χṣfr. Quite to the contrary they were clearly fabricated to account for the puzzling fact that (the emperors of) such a relatively fair-skinned people as the Byzantines were called Banū al-ˀAṣfar, which led thoughts to a dark colour. An attentive reading of the final line of ˀAbū Tammām’s Amorium qaṣida (ˀAbū Tammām 2/71) illustrates the same: ˀabqat [al-ˀayyām] banī l-ˀaṣfari l-mimrāḍi ka-smihim / ṣufra l-wujūhi wa-jallat ˀawjuha l-ˁarabi. The poet here speaks of the facial colour of the Banū al-ˀAṣfar, not as a natural trait—it is only their name, not their normal appearance, that indicates sickness—but as something that has been brought about by their defeat: their faces have darkened (lost brilliance, ‘paled to dark’) by shame; those of the Arabs, brightened with glory. The facial colour of the Byzantines is thus here no

79

80

The term χˀdm, when used in reference to people, unequivocally denotes darkness of complexion, as can be verified in the lexicographers (note in particular Fiqh al-luġa 118) and corroborated e.g. in al-ˀUmam wal-mulūk 7:562; ˀAġānī 15:89 (compare 18:84); and Maˁārif 126. (Note also al-ˀUmam wal-mulūk 8:99, where an Arab slave is described as ˀaṣfar ˀilā al-ˀudma.) A caveat: the statement by al-Ṭabarī’s Jewish informant(s) that Esau got the name Edom due to his ˀudma must also be understood at the background of the common practice of using Arabic cognates in the translation of the Torah (on this point see e.g. R. Vollandt, Arabic Versions of the Pentateuch: A Comparative Study of Jewish, Christian, and Muslim Sources, Leiden 2015, 184 ff.). E.M. Quatremère, ‘Mémoire sur l’ ouvrage intitulé Kitab al-agâni [sic] … c’est-à-dire Receuil de chansons’, Journal Asiatique (sér 2, tome 16) 1835, 390–391.

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different than that of the fallen Barmakides in the verses Yaḥyā ibn Xālid directed to Hārūn al-Rašīd (ˁIqd 5:68). One could take this a step further. ˀAbū Tammām starts his poem by mockingly comparing the failed prophesies of the enemy astrologers to the ‘prophecy’ of the Muslim swords; the ending therefore gains considerably in effect if we think of it as implying that the victorious Muslim swords now had revealed the truth about the Byzantines’ puzzling appellation, or as it were, had fulfilled the enigmatic prophecy implied in it. The sources of the first Islamic centuries in fact typically associate χṣfr with darker-skinned people, in particular Abyssinians. al-ˀIṣfahānī gives us a number of illustrations of this. The Meccan singer Ibn Jāmiˁ (fl. late eighth century), he reports, was inspired by his love for a certain slave girl to write some verses comparing her χṣfr colour to the blackness of musk (ˀAġānī 18:70). ˀAbū Ḥanaš, he narrates in another passage, addressed a poem to ˁInān, the famous singing-girl who eventually was bought by Hārūn al-Rašīd, in which he describes χṣfr as the colour of Abyssinian girls: ˀaḥabba l-milāḥa l-bīḍa qalbī wa-rubbamā / ˀaḥabba l-milāḥa l-ṣufra min waladi l-ḥabaš (ˀAġānī 23:86). The biography of Saˁīd ibn Misjaḥ offers a third example. al-ˀIṣfahānī reports that this famous Meccan singer in the early Umayyad period was of black (χswd) skin colour, but he also describes the tone of his skin more precisely as χṣfr (ˀAġānī 3:276ff.). Several individuals of Arab descent are also described as χṣfr (see Burṣān 154ff.); one is ˁAbdallah ibn ˁUmar ibn al-Xaṭṭāb (ˀAġānī 7:285), whom other sources unequivocally describe as being of dark (χˀdm) complexion. People from Oman were according to Ibn Qutayba also typically of χṣfr colour, which, though not very easily interpreted, at any rate hardly can be taken to imply that they were thought to be as fair-skinned as Greeks or Romans (Maˁārif 598). At this point it should be clear that Goldziher misinterpreted the passage in which ˀIsḥāq ibn ˀIbrāhīm al-Mawṣilī gives witness to his father’s role in developing the use of qiyān into a sophisticated institution (ˀAġānī 5:170). The point ˀIsḥāq is making, contrary to Goldziher’s interpretation, is that before ˀIbrāhīm began instructing highly-priced slave girls in the art of singing and entertaining, it was customary only to teach girls of darker skin colour to sing (ˀinnamā kānū yuˁallimūnahu l-ṣufra wal-sūd), but afterwards (in the Abbasid age) the more expensive white girls (often of Byzantine and Spanish origin) came into higher demand as singers.81

81

The prices for white slaves appear generally to have been higher than those for black ones during the centuries following the Islamic expansion, the difference in price increasing somewhat over time due to the diminishing supply of whites; see e.g. E. Ashtor, Histoire

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The association of χṣfr with a light skin tone belongs to later periods, when χṣfr itself had become a yellow category. Even in an author as relatively late as Ibn Sīnā, however, we find evidence that χṣfr was understood as referring to a dark skin colour, something Raphelengius perhaps also took into consideration (Qānūn 42). The moderate heat of spring, Ibn Sīnā explains, reddens the skin (makes it χḥmr) by drawing blood to its surface, whereas the hotter temperatures of summer disperses the blood and increases the bile, thus making it χṣfr. The Galenic model of explanation aside, it is clear that Ibn Sīnā, though writing as late as the tenth century, describes the deeper tan of the summer months as χṣfr. Survivals of the older taxonomy are rare in the modern dialects, but the German explorer of Central and West Africa Gustav Nachtigal has given a valuable account of the skin-colour taxonomy among Arabic speakers in eastern Sahara and Sudan in the 1870s, which, even if it cannot be supposed to be identical with the archaic taxonomy we are concerned with here, at least gives evidence of a system where χṣfr denotes a dark skin colour.82 The Arabic speakers of these areas, he reports, distinguished skin colour along a scale running, from lightest to darkest, as follows: ˀabyaḍ /ˀaḥmar /ˀaṣfar /ˀasmar /ˀaxḍar /ˀazraq̱ /ˀaswad.83 The typical colour of Arabs and Berbers was ˀaḥmar, while the complexion of darker Arabs, ‘very many Qoran, and even many Maba people and Karanga’ was ˀaṣfar, ‘a dirty copper colour’.84

82

83

84

des prix et des salaires dans l’ Orient médiéval, Paris 1969, 58–59; A. Mez, The Renaissance of Islam, 3rd ed., New Delhi 1995, 203–205. S. Reichmuth’s description (‘Die Farbbezeichnungen im Sudanesich-Arabischen Dialekten’, Zeitschrift ḟür Arabischen Linguistik 6 (1981), 59) of the lexical domain of skin colour in Sudani Arabic in the late 1970s offers a picture that is more reminiscent of other modern variants of Arabic; note, however, that even here χṣfr represents a darker category than χḥmr. The χṣfr colour category that underlies the χṣfr skin-colour category seems also to have been quite archaic, though it is unclear whether Nachtigal is referring to Arabic speakers when he writes that ‘most individuals of the areas in question are at a total loss when having to differentiate between the “yellow” of a quince, and a “saffron-yellow”, or become unable to decide whether to call either of them, or both, “green” or “red”’; see B. Saunders, (ed.), The Debate about Colour Naming in 19th Century German Philology: Selected Translations, Leuven 2007, 95–96. Kotelmann’s almost contemporary investigation of the colour vision of 18 Arabic-speaking Nubians in Hamburg in 1879 confirms this. The χṣfr term that can be glimpsed behind the responses of these test subjects seems to have stretched into ‘orange’, ‘brown’, and ‘violet’; ibid., 104. The Arabicness of this colour category could nevertheless, just as with that of Nachtigal, be doubted. G. Nachtigal, Sahara and Sudan, 4 vols, London 1971–1987, 4:170.

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Concluding Remarks The preceding sections have hopefully shown that our current knowledge of the semantic history of χṣfr at best can be described as hazy and that the three attestations of this colour term discussed above cannot be convincingly explained except as translations of Hebrew ‫אדם‬. The detailed study of χṣfr in early Arabic poetry on which I am working will hopefully leave no doubts that this in certain contexts could be a perfectly natural translation. But in anticipation of this I will in the remaining paragraphs of this paper make a few preliminary reflections—in the spirit of Raphelengius, if you will—on what our three attestations tell us about the semantic history of χṣfr, and vice versa. The appellation Banū al-ˀAṣfar, as previously mentioned, is first attested in the poetry of ˁAdī ibn Zayd (c. 600), but there is nothing to prevent us from thinking that it could be significantly older. At ˁAdī’s time the Jewish identification of Edom with the Romans after all had a history of about five or six centuries. The translation fossilised in the appellation thus potentially reflects the signification of χṣfr in a layer of the language from which no other attestations of this term have survived. The question is, therefore, what does χṣfr stand for in this context? The later Arabic tradition gives no evidence that Esau/Edom’s epithet ˀAṣfar was understood in any other terms than his skin colour, but it would probably be a mistake to interpret the origin of the appellation strictly in the light of a simple reading of Gen 25:25. The Jewish tradition, as mentioned earlier, understood Esau/Edom’s colour very much in terms of red, even the red of blood, and if this is not directly reflected in the classical Arabic authors of the Muslim period, it is probably in the first hand because the figure of Esau/Edom plays a very shady role in the Islamic tradition: even someone like al-Ṭabarī, as mentioned, quotes a Jewish informant on this point. The translation behind the colour of the cow in Q 2:69 presents a different problem in that it probably is somewhat less likely to reflect an early stage of the language, but again we are confronted with the problem of how ‫ אדם‬could have been interpreted in this context. The rabbinic sources are curiously uninformative on this point: in Hebrew it is simply ‫אדם‬, in Aramaic ‫סמוק‬. Greek Jewish sources seem to interpret the colour as a somewhat yellowish shade of red. The Septuagint translates ‫ ָפּ ָרה ֲא ֻדָמּה‬as δάμαλιν πυρρὰν, thus preferring πυρρός over ἐρυθρός, which commonly is regarded as the ‘primary’ or ‘basic’ word for red in Ancient Greek.85 The meaning of πυρρός, often translated as red or 85

H.G. Liddell and R. Scott, A Greek-English Lexicon, 2 vols, Oxford 1925–1940, s.v.; M. Platnauer, ‘Greek Colour Perception’ The Classical Quarterly 15 (1921), 153–162; E. Irwin, Colour Terms in Greek Poetry, Toronto 1974.

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tawny, is uncertain, though its occasional collocation with such referents as egg yolk and lions indicates that it extended into relatively close proximity to yellow. Flavius Josephus’ translation is even more striking: he prefers ξαυθός ( Jewish Antiquities 4.6), which is regarded as the primary word for yellow in Ancient Greek, although it is clear that it was a yellow which, as Liddell-Scott puts it, frequently had a tinge of red and sometimes denoted ‘brown’ or ‘auburn’. Josephus himself uses it both of David’s complexion ( Jewish Antiquities 2.2) and the pottage for which Esau sold his birthright ( Jewish Antiquities 6.164). The general rabbinic silence on this point, however, is probably more significant than these translations, since it indicates that ‫( אדם‬and thus χṣfr) could represent any colour common in cows, except white and black. The most interesting aspect of Saˁadyah’s translation of Num 19:2 is that it actualises the question of whether χṣfr could be an acceptable translation ‫אדם‬ even as late as in the tenth century. The referential range of χṣfr undeniably came closer to that of yellow over time, and this process had by Saˁadyah’s age clearly come far, as we can see in the fact that χṣfr at this point regularly took focal or near-focal yellow referents.86 The preceding pages should on the other hand on several occasions have suggested that his translation may not have been quite as deviant from contemporary usage as it at first may seem. Following the course of our discussion we have run into instances such as Ibn Sīna’s discussion of the colour of urine, the explanation of the appellation Banū al-ˀAṣfar a Jewish authority (rightly or wrongly) offered al-Ṭabarī, the Syriac lexicographers’ definition of 焏‫ܘܥ‬犯‫ܚ‬, the employment of χṣfr in describing skin colour in the first centuries of Islam, and the fact that Saˁadyah’s translation of Num 19:2 met with no reaction until after a century (perhaps under the influence of the Spanish-Arabic vernacular). Such instances show that we still today have reason to look also at relatively late attestations of χṣfr with more

86

Evidence that χḥmr in later periods took orange referents is much scarcer. Stewart (‘Color Terms in Egyptian Arabic’, 108), who believes that orange in Egyptian Arabic separated from red, supports himself on a verse where al-Mutanabbī likens blood to oranges and the (by him undocumented) assertion that oranges are termed χḥmr in Mauritanian Ḥassāniya Arabic. The issue, however, is more complicated than this. A. Borg (‘Linguistic and Ethnographic Observations on the Color Categories of the Negev Bedouin’, in idem (ed.) The Language of Color in the Mediterranean, Stockholm 1999, 132) documents that Negev Arabic normally has a yellow+orange category, and J. Watson (‘In Search of the Green Donkey: Changing Colour Terminology in Sanˁani Arabic’, Estudios de dialectología norteafricana y andalusí 8 (2004), 258) finds the same in the Arabic of Sanaʾa. As for Mutanabbī and oranges, some varieties of blood orange have red peel that could be very evocative of fallen enemies.

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of Raphelengius’ mindset than usually is done. Saˁadyah’s employment of χṣfr in translating other Biblical passages, which Freidenreich has dismissed as irrelevant to the question of his translation of Num 19:2, offers a good example of this, with which I will round off this paper. Saˁadyah renders Job 16:16 (‫ ;ָפּ ַני ֳחַמ ְרְמרוּ ִמ ִנּי ֶבִכי ְוַﬠל ַﬠְפַﬠַפּי ַצְלָמ ֶות‬JPS: My face is red with weeping, and on my eyelids is the shadow of death; NIV: My face is red with weeping, dark shadows ring my eyes) as wa-ṣfarra wajhī mina l-bukāˀi wa-ˁalā muqlatayya l-ġabas. The precise meaning of this verse is debated, mainly because the meaning of ‫ ֳחַמ ְרְמרו‬is uncertain (as is ‫ַצְלָמ ֶות‬, though this is of less importance here). The verb ‫ חַמרמר‬is by some interpreted as cognate to the Arabic √ḥmr (to be red) while others connect it to √xmr (to ferment, boil). And to make matters more complicated, LXX reflects a somewhat different text: ἡ γαστήρ μον συνκέκαυται: (my belly is burned with weeping). Saˁadyah’s interpretation of the verse is nevertheless clear inasmuch as he understands the verb in the former way, although he prefers to translate it with the verb iṣfarra rather than iḥmarra. Precisely what he wants to convey with this is of course difficult to tell, but the answer must be sought within the boundaries of how he is likely to have interpreted ‫ֳחַמ ְרְמרוּ‬. The possibility that he wanted to express the idea that Job’s face is paling, in the sense of whitening or yellowing, is therefore not very likely, because even though χḥmr does refer to light-skinned people, becoming χḥmr is not an expression normally used to describe paling. Classical Arabic χṣfr, it is true, can refer to a paling (yellowing, whitening) face, for instance when the poets of the Abbasid age describe the countenance of the lover in terms of the narcissus, the lemon, or a wax candle.87 But the usage of χṣfr in reference to the paling of faces (or vegetation) is not less ambiguous than the English ‘livid’ or ‘pale’. The latter, as used in every-day parlance, refers both to a loss of colour (tone or saturation) but also to the loss of brightness, which is why the setting sun can be described as paling, though it actually gains in colour towards its setting. The Arabic χṣfr, which functions as both a hue- and a paleness term, can in a similar (though not identical) fashion also express the idea of darkening (loss of brightness) of a person’s face, as in the verses of ˀAbū Tammām or Yaḥyā ibn Xālid (both mentioned above), and this has probably 87

The lover’s paleness is a topos also in Graeco-Roman antiquity; it can be traced as far back as Sappho. The pallor (iṣfirār) coming from religious devotion (K. Lewinstein, ‘Making and Unmaking a Sect: The Heresiographers and the Ṣufriyya’, Studia Islamica (1992), 94–95) may be different from that of the lover: the rabbinic tradition associates it with a darkening of the face (A. Melamed, The Image of the Black in Jewish Culture: A History of the Other, London 2003).

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influenced Saˁadyah’s translation. Nobility, moral character, and beauty are in Classical Arabic intimately connected to the image of having a brilliant face, i.e. one radiating light, while lack of nobility or moral character alongside with dejection, humiliation, and shame is connected to having a dark face, i.e. one that does not radiate light. The latter is also true of grief and weeping (Mufaḍḍalīyāt 67/30; Sīra 90; Q 3:106; Q 16:58; Q 39:60).88 The parallelism in Job 16:16 moreover seems to be synonymous rather than antithetical, and it is no coincidence that practically every Bible translator who has understood ‫ֳחַמ ְרְמרוּ‬ in terms of colour has taken it to involve a reddening or darkening of the face. Targum Job, which could have directly influenced Saˁadyah’s choice of words, here reads ‫( אפיי טשטשין מן בכיתא‬lit: My face has been smeared over (muddied) with weeping). Saˁadyah’s employment of χṣfr in translating ‫ָבּ ֶרֶקת‬, one of the gemstones on the priestly breastplate (Exod 28:17 and 39:10), is more difficult to interpret. The following paragraphs should therefore not be taken as more than preliminary observations. One thing, however, is clear: Saˁadyah’s translation can certainly not be dismissed as a failed attempt to translate the name of a green stone. The translation, ˀaṣfar, should almost certainly be understood as yāqūt ˀaṣfar, which was described by al-Bīrūnī under the name of al-yāqūt al-muwarrad alˀaṣfar in a passage which puts χṣfr on a scale that is remarkably similar to that in Ibn Sīnā’s discussion of the colour of urine. The preferred kind of this gemstone, he says, was the one that had such a strong (mušbaˁ) χṣfr colour that it looked similar to the red yāqūt with its pomegranate colour, then came the apricot coloured, then the etrog coloured, then the straw coloured, all the way to white ( Jawāhir 74)̣. Saˁadyah could have had any of these shades in mind, but it seems natural to think that it was one of the more appreciated, darker varieties.

88

D.M. Goldenberg (The Curse of Ham: Race and Slavery in Early Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, Princeton 2003, 94) notes that having a dark face also in Hebrew and Aramaic texts is associated with grief. Grief nevertheless according to Goldenberg (ibid. 281) belongs to a range of physiological and psychological reactions (including hunger, illness, anger, shame, etc.) which in these languages is associated both by a lightening and darkening facial colour. The only example he gives specifically for grief (Symmachus’ Life of Abel 5), however, does not involve this emotion, but wrath (just like in the underlying Gen 4:5); he also offers no evidence for hunger. The meanings of some of the Hebrew and Aramaic words behind these expressions also need to be revisited: note e.g. that ‫נתכרכם‬, which generally is understood as involving paling, in CantR (1:4) unambiguously involves a darkening of the skin and that the redness of the evening sky ‘pales’ (‫ )הכסיף‬to dark in Šabb 34b.

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The Hebrew does not help us much. The meaning of ‫ברקת‬, like most of the other stones in the breastplate is far from clear, wherefore modern attempts to identify it generally are based on the Septuagint (σμαραγδος)89 and the Vulgate (zmaragdus), both being traditionally identified with the emerald. Saˁadyah, however, clearly does not have a green (or blue) stone in mind, which perhaps reflects that the order of the stones varied somewhat before the establishment of the Masoretic text, as can be seen very clearly in the different order the LXX and the Vulgate put the stones in the fourth row (Vulg. onychinus, berillus against LXX βηρυλλιον, ονυχιον). The likeliest would then be that ‫ ברקת‬in reality corresponds to ἄνθραξ (Vulg. carbunculus), a stone which was so called because it appears like a burning coal (ἄνθραξ, carbunculus) when it is held up against the sun, and which Epiphanius of Salamis informs us is of a bright scarlet (puniceus) colour. The rabbinic tradition, which of course is more relevant to the present problem than the original meaning of ‫ ברקת‬or the translations of LXX and the Vulgate, likewise offers a confused picture of the stones in the breastplate. Saˁadyah’s translations of the gem names nevertheless conform well enough with it to allow us to make a fairly good guess at what he may have had in mind when he translated ‫ברקת‬, though it has to be admitted that his translations of some of the names of the more obscure and disputed stones leave room for doubt about whether his translations indeed can be predicted from the obvious places to look. The targumim on a first look do not offer many useful clues. Onqelos has ‫ברקן‬, and Pseudo-Jonathan ‫ברקתא‬, which scarcely is easier to interpret than their original Hebrew cognate. These and other Aramaic gemstone names of the same root, not very surprisingly, are often identified as the emerald, which does not tell us anything about what Saˁadyah had in mind, but it is well worth noting that Bar Bahlul gives the meaning of 焏‫ܩ‬犯‫ ܵܒ‬as ‘the colour of lightening, which they claim is wine-coloured tending to χṣfr’ (al-xamrī ˀilā al-ṣufra) and also as a name for the (brownish-red) carnelian (ˁaqīq).90 The targum to Song of Songs (5:14) has ‫ברקן‬, but R.H. Melamed has in his edition based on Yemenite manuscripts documented the gloss ‫( זעפראן‬saffron) and the readings ‫ זעפראן‬and ‫ברקן זעפראן‬,91 which gives a clear indication that the stone in question was thought to have been orange or deep red. The evidence from the 89

90 91

The traditional identification is with the emerald. J.A. Harrell (‘Old Testament Gemstones: A Philological, Geological, and Archaeological Assessment of the Septuagint’, Bulletin for Biblical Research 21 (2011), 141–172) identifies it as the turquoise or possibly the malachite. Bar Bahlul, Lexicon Syriacum, s.v. R.H. Melamed, ‘The Targum to Canticles According to Six Yemen MSS. Compared with the “Textus Receptus” (ed. Lagarde)’, Jewish Quarterly Review N.S. 12 (1921–1921), 96.

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midrashim offers more complex problems but could also have given Saˁadyah reason to understand ‫ ברקת‬as red. Exodus Rabbah has ‫( דייקינתין‬jacinth). This name is in modern usage applied to zircon, a beautiful reddish or deep amber stone, but the authors of antiquity (e.g. Solenos, Pliny, Epiphanius) speak of the jacinth as a blue or ‘purple’ (or red-crimson) gem, while mediaeval lapidaries speak more clearly of red jacinths. Marbodius, for instance, speaks of pomegranate red; orange, tawny, or yellow (citrine); and water-coloured (evage) jacinths. Saˁadyah himself is most likely to have understood the word in terms of the Arabic yāqūt, with which it discernibly is etymologically related, and we are thus back to al-Bīrūnī.92 Bar Bahlul notes that the Syriac ‫ܘܤ‬狏‫ܐܘܐܩܝܢ‬ (sometimes also ‫ܘܤ‬狏‫ )ܐܘܩܝܢ‬by some was understood as zumurrud, but he prefers the translation yāqut, noting that this also was the opinion of Paul (of Aegina). For the sake of exhaustiveness, Midrash Numbers Rabbah 2:7 should also be mentioned here, though it probably is of marginal interest in this context: here the colour of the stones is said to have corresponded to those of the banners of the tribes of Israel; the third banner/stone is described banded white, black, and red. Saˁadyah’s rendering of Num 19:2 could on the other hand be based on an earlier translation, which also would help explaining that his choice of term to translate ‫ אדם‬was not a cause of polemics.93 Saˁadyah, we know, glanced at earlier Arabic versions of the Pentateuch in making his own translations.94

92

93

94

The unlikely possibility that Saˁadyah understood ‫ דייקינתין‬in terms of the colour of the hyacinth (flower) cannot be entirely excluded. The ‫ דייקינתין‬is not attested to be eponymous with the gemstone in Rabbinic Aramaic, but was at least so in Syriac (‫ܘܤ‬狏‫)ܐܘܐܩܝܢ‬, which strangely enough is overlooked by I. Löw (Die Flora der Juden, Wien/Leipzig 1924–1934, 2:164). The hyacinth of the ancient authors was of a deep red colour, as can be expected from the myth that it grew up from the blood of a young man. Virgil calls it ferrugineus and suave rubens; Ovid, purpureus. Bar Bahlul describes it as deep red or purple (urjuwānī), noting that is sometimes was identified with ḥabb al-nīl, i.e. the indigo plant (Lexicon Syriacum, s.v ‫ܘܤ‬狏‫)ܐܘܐܩܝܢ‬. The flower we today call hyacinth still in the eighteenth century existed only in white, red, and blue varieties; see George Voorhelm, Traité sur la jacinte, Harlem 1752. When the earliest Arabic translation of the Hebrew Bible was made continues to be a matter of dispute. Yosef Tobi thinks it probable that the first Jewish translation was composed in the Arabian Peninsula before the advent of Islam, while S. Griffith on the other hand believes that the earliest Christian translations of portions of the Bible were made in the eighth century and the earliest Jewish ones early in the ninth; see Y. Tobi, ‘Early Judeo-Arabic Biblical Translations’, Religion Compass 6 (2012): 225–235; S.H. Griffith, The Bible in Arabic, 97–126. The existence of Judaeo-Arabic versions of the Hebrew Old Testament prior to Saˁadyah’s

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Evidence for this is nevertheless lacking in the case of Num 19:2. As far as I know, no pre-Saˁadyan fragment with such a translation has yet turned up in the material from the Cairo Geniza, and the already mentioned MS Sinai Arabic 2, to which Saˁadyah’s translation bears similarities, reads baqara ḥamrā.95 al-Ṭabarī’s discussion of Q 2:69 nevertheless suggests that Saˁadyah was not the first to think of the colour of the cow in Num 19:2 as χṣfr. The reason we have to believe this is that al-Ṭabarī mentions that some explained fāqiˁun lawnuhā as signifying that the cow in Q 2:69 should have χṣfr horns and hooves (in addition to its hide). Precisely how this tradition became associated with Q 2:69 is difficult to tell, but there can be little doubt that it ultimately derives from the mishnaic prescription that the horns and hooves of the heifer, if they are black, must be cut off (Parah 2:2). The fact that a mishnaic prescription could influence Muslim exegesis in this way can hardly be explained unless no mismatch in colour was perceived between the cows in Q 2:69 and Num 19:2.

Bibliography of Quoted Works Manuscripts MS Leiden Or. 212 MS Leiden Or. 231 Ms Leiden Or. 237 MS Sinai Arabic 2

J.J. Scaliger, Thesaurus Linguae Arabicae. anon. Glossarium Latino-Arabicum. anon. Mirqāt al-lūġa. http://www.e-corpus.org/notices/105117/gallery/1044265 (accessed 22 September 2013).

Abbreviations of Arabic and Judaeo-Arabic Sources ˀAbū Tammām ˁAdī ibn Zayd

95

Dīwān ˀAbī Tammām, ed. M.ˁA. ˁAzzām, 4 vols, Cairo 1951–1957. ˁAdī b. Zayd, Dīwān ˁAdī b. Zayd al-ˁIbādī, ed. M.J. Muˁaybid, Baghdad 1965.

translation was positively documented through Joshua Blau’s publication of a fragment of Proverbs 16:24–17 from the Cairo Genizah (‘On a Fragment of the Oldest JudaeoArabic Bible Translation Extant’, in J. Blau and S.C. Reif (eds), Genizah Research After Ninety Years: The Case of Judaeo-Arabic: Papers Read at the Third Congress of the Society for Judaeo-Arabic Studies, Cambridge 1992, 31–39). Blau also offered evidence of Saˁadyah’s employment of this, or a similar, version (ibid., 33–34). Since then, a number of other fragments have come to light. Image 206 (accessed 22 September 2013).

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ˀAbū al-Faraj ˁAlī b. al-Ḥusayn al-ˀIṣfahānī, Kitāb al-ˀAġānī, ed. Dār al-kutub/al-Hayˀa al-miṣrīya, 24 vols, Cairo 1992–1994. ˀAṣmaˁīyāt ˀAbū Saˁīd ˁAbd al-Malik b. Qurayb [al-ˀAṣmaˁī], al-ˀAṣmaˁīyāt: Ixtiyār al-ˀAṣmaˁī, ed. ˀA.M. Šākir and ˁA. Hārūn, Cairo 1993. al-ˀAzmina wal-ˀamkina ˀAbū ˁAlī ˀAḥmad b. Muḥammad al-Marzūqī, Kitāb al-ˀazmina wal-ˀamkina, ed. X. al-Manṣūr, Beirut 1996. Burṣān ˀAbū ˁUṯmān ˁAmr b. Baḥr al-Jāḥiẓ, Kitāb al-Burṣān wal-ˁurjān wal-ˁumyān wal-ḥūlān, ed. ˁA.M. Hārūn, Beirut 1990. Fiqh al-luġa ˀAbū Manṣūr ˀAbd al-Malik b. Muḥammad al-Ṯaˁālibī, ed. J. Ṭalba, Beirut 1994. Ḥayawān ˀAbū ˁUṯmān ˁAmr b. Baḥr al-Jāḥiẓ, Kitāb al-ḥayawān, ed. ˁA.M. Hārūn, 7 vols, Beirut 1969. ˁIqd ˀAbū ˁUmar ˀAḥmad b. Muḥammad Ibn ˁAbd Rabbih, Kitāb alˁIqd al-farīd, 7 vols, ed. ˀA. ˀAmīn, ˀI. al-ˀAnbārī, and ˁA. Hārūn, Beirut n.d. Jāmiˁ al-ˀAlfāẓ David ben Abraham al-Fāsī [ˀAbū Sulaymān Dā ˀūd b. ˀIbrāhīm al-Fāsī], The Hebrew-Arabic Dictionary of the Bible Known as Kitāb Jāmiˁ al-Alfāẓ, ed. S.L. Skoss, 2 vols, New Haven 1936– 1945. Jawāhir ˀAbū al-Rayḥān Muḥammad b. ˀAḥmad al-Bīrūnī, Kitāb aljamāhir fī maˁrifat al-jawāhir, ed. F. Krenkow, Hyderabad 1936. Maˁārif [ˀAbū Muḥamad ˁAbd Allāh b. Muslim] Ibn Qutayba, al-Maˁārif, ed. Ṯ. ˁUkāša, Qum 1960. Mufaḍḍalīyāt ˀAbū al-ˁAbbās al-Mufaḍḍal b. Muḥammad al-Ḍabbī, Dīwān almufaḍḍalīyāt … maˁa šarḥ wāfir li-ˀAbī Muḥammad al-Qāsim b. Muḥammad … al-ˀAnbārī, ed. C.J.L. Lyall, 3 vols, Beirut 1921– 1924. Muˁjam al-buldān ˀAbū ˁAbd Allāh Yāqūt b. ˁAbd Allāh, Muˁjam al-buldān, 5 vols, Beirut 1965. Murūj [ˀAbū al-Ḥasan ˁAlī b. al-Ḥusayn] al-Masˁūdī, Murūj al-ḏahab wa-maˁādin al-jawhar, ed. B. de Meynard and P. de Courteille, revised by C. Pellat, 7 vols, Beirut 1966–1979. al-Mutanabbī ˀAbū al-Ṭayyib al-Mutanabbī, Dīwān al-Mutanabbī bi-šarḥ ˀAbī al-Baqāˀ al-ˁUkbarī, ed. M. al-Saqqā, ˀI. al-ˀAbyārī, and ˁA. alŠalabī, 4 vols, 1926–1936. Q The Qurˀ ān Qānūn ˀAbū ˁAlī [al-Ḥusayn b. ˁAbd Allāh] b. Sīna, Kit[ā]b al-qānūn fī al-ṭibb, Rome 1593.

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Sīra

ˀAbū Muḥammad ˁAbd al-Malik b. Hišām, Sīrat sayyidinā Muḥammad=Das Leben Muhammeds, 3 vols, ed F. Wüstenfeld, Göttingen, 1859–1860. Tafsīr al-Ṭabarī ˀAbū Jaˁfar Muḥammad b. Jarīr al-Ṭabarī, Tafsīr al-Ṭabarī: Jāmiˁ al-bayān ˁan taʾwīl al-Qurʾān, ed. M.M. Shākir, 16 vols, Cairo 1955–1969. Tāj ˀAbū Fayḍ Muḥammad Murtaḍā al-Zabīdī, Tāj al-ˁarūs min jawāhir al-qāmūs, ed. ˁA.ˀA. Farrāj, 40 vols, Kuwayt 1965– 2002. Tanbīh ˀAbū al-Ḥasan [ˁAlī b. al-Ḥusayn] al-Masʾūdi, Kitāb al-tanbīh wal-ˀišrāf, Bibliotheca Geographorum Arabicorum 8, ed. M.J. de Goeje, Leiden 1894. Taˀrix sinī mulūk al-ˀarḍ Ḥamza b. al-Ḥasan al-ˀIṣfahānī, Taˀrīx sinī mulūk al-ˀarḍ, ed. I.M.E. Gottwaldt, Leipzig 1844. Taˀrīx al-Yaˁqūbī [ˀAḥmad b. ˀAbī Yaˁqūb al-Yaˁqūbī], Ibn Wadhih qui dicitur alJaˁqubī Historiae, ed. M.Th. Houtsma, Leiden 1883. Tījān Wahb b. Munabbih, Kitāb al-Tījān fī mulūk Ḥimyar, ed. Markaz al-dīrāsāt wal-ˀabḥāṯ al-yamanīya, Sanaʾa 1347 [1927/28]. al-ˀUmam wal-mulūk ˀAbū Jaˁfar Muḥammad b. Jarīr al-Ṭabarī, Taˀrīx al-Ṭabarī, ed. M.A. ˀIbrāhīm, 11 vols, Beirut n.d. ˀUṣūl ˀAbū al-Walīd Marwān b. Janāḥ, Kitāb al-ˀuṣūl/The Book of Hebrew Roots, ed. Neubauer, Oxford, 1875.

Abbreviations of Rabbinic Sources CantR GenR Ḥull NumR PRE Šabb Sukk TanḥB Tg Ps-Jonathan Tg Onqelos Yom

Canticles Rabbah Genesis Rabbah Tract. Ḥullin Numbers Rabbah Pirqei de-Rabbi Eliˁezer Tract. Šabbat. Tract. Sukkah Tanḥuma Buber Targum Pseudo-Jonathan Targum Onqelos Tract. Yomah

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Pascual, J.A., Diccionario crítico etimológico castellano e hispánico, 6 vols, Madrid 1980– 1991. Payne Smith, R., Thesaurus Syriacus, 2 vols, Oxford 1879–1901. Platnauer, M., ‘Greek Colour Perception’, The Classical Quarterly 15 (1921), 153–162. Polliack, M., ‘Arabic Bible Translations in the Cairo Genizah Collection’, in U. Haxen et al. (eds), Jewish Studies in a New Europe: Proceedings of the Ffifth Congress of Jewish Studies in Copenhagen 1994 under the Auspices of the European Association for Jewish studies, Copenhagen 1994, Copenhagen 1998, 595–620. Pelly, L., Report on a Journey to Riyadh in Central Arabia 1865, Cambridge 1978 [originally published as Report of a Journey to the Wahabee Capital of Riyadh in Central Arabia, Bombay 1866]. Pokorny, J., Indogermanisches etymologisches Wörterbuch, 3 vols, Bern 1959. Procházka, S., ‘Color Terms’, in Encyclopedia of Arabic Language and Linguistics, ed. K. Verseegh, Leiden 2006–2009. Quatremère, E.M., ‘Mémoire sur l’ouvrage intitulé Kitab al-agâni [sic] … c’est-à-dire Receuil de chansons’, Journal Asiatique 1835, 385–419. Raphelengius, F., Lexicon Arabicum, Leiden 1613. Reichmuth, S., ‘Die Farbbezeichnungen im Sudanesich-Arabischen Dialekten’, Zeitschrift für Arabische Linguistik 6 (1981), 57–66. Rice, M., The Archaeology of the Arabian Gulf, London 1994. Rippin, A., ‘Colors’, in Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān, ed. J.D. McAuliffe, 6 vols, Leiden 2001–2006, 1:363. Saunders, B. (ed.), The Debate about Colour Naming in 19th Century German Philology: Selected Translations, Leuven 2007. Schiaparelli, C., Vocabulista in arabico, Florence 1871. Schmitz, B., Der Koran: Sure 2 Die Kuh: Ein religionshistorischer Kommentar, Stuttgart 2009. Sela, Sh., Sefer Yosef ben Guryon ha-aravi, 2 vols, Jerusalem 2009. Sidersky, D., Les origines des légendes musulmanes dans le Coran et dans les vies des prophètes, Paris 1933. Silvestre de Sacy, A.I., ‘Lettre à M. le redacteur du Journal Asiatique, Paris 20 février 1836’, Journal Asiatique 1836, 94–96. Sowayan, S.A., Nabati Poetry: The Oral Poetry of Arabia, Berkeley 1985. Speyer, H., Die biblischen Erzählungen im Qoran, 2nd ed., Hildesheim 1961 [1939]. Stewart, D.J. ‘Color Terms in Egyptian Arabic’, in A. Borg (ed.) The Language of Color in the Mediterranean, Stockholm 1999, 105–120. Stolberg, M. Die Harnschau: Eine Kultur- und Alltagsgeschichte, Köln 2009. Tobi, Y., ‘Early Judeo-Arabic Biblical Translations’, Religion Compass 6 (2012): 225–235. Wallin, G.A., ‘Narrative of a Journey from Cairo to Medina and Mecca’, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society (1854), 115–207.

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Watson, J. ‘In Search of the Green Donkey: Changing Colour Terminology in Sanˁani Arabic’, Estudios de dialectología norteafricana y andalusí 8 (2004), 253–263. Wensinck, A.J., Concordance et indices de la tradition musulmane, 8 vols, Leiden 1936– 1988. Wierzbicka, A., ‘On the Semantics of Colour: A New Paradigm’ in C.P. Biggham and C.J. Kay (eds), Progress in Colour Studies. Volume I: Language and Culture, Amsterdam 2006, 1–24. Vollandt, R., Arabic Versions of the Pentateuch: A Comparative Study of Jewish, Christian, and Muslim Sources, Leiden 2015. Vollers, K., ‘Über Rassenfarben in der Arabischen Literatur’, Centenario della Nascita di Michele Amari, 2 vols, Palermo 1910, 1: 84–95. Voorhelm, G., Traité sur la jacinte, Harlem 1752. [ˀAbū al-Qāsim Maḥmūd b. ˁUmar] al-Zamaxšarī, Muqaddimat al-ˀadab, ed. J.G. Wetzstein, Leipzig 1850 [Arabic title page: 1843]. Zucker, M., Rav Saadya Gaon’s Translation of the Torah: Exegesis, Halakha, and Polemics in R. Saadya’s Translation of the Pentateuch [Hebrew], New York 1959.

chapter 9

Terminative-Adverbial and Locative-Adverbial Endings in Semitic Languages: A Reassessment and Its Implications for Arabic Francesco Grande

0

Introduction

This paper proposes a reassessment of the traditional account of the locativeadverbial and terminative-adverbial endings, and argues for the hypothesis that Pre-Classical Arabic attests to relics of locative-adverbial differing from those already known in the literature, as well as to relics of terminative-adverbial, contrary to standard assumptions.1 Section 1 deals with Semitic endings in general. Section 2 addresses the issue of the relation between case endings and locative-/terminative-adverbial endings, and of their reconstruction in the earlier stages of Semitic languages. Section 3 offers an in-depth treatment of the locative-/terminative-adverbial endings in historically documented Semitic languages—Arabic included—by focusing on their distributional and typological aspects, which have been researched very little. In Section 4 a detailed reconstruction of the locative-/terminative-adverbial endings is developed, also on the basis of the Arabic data and Section 5 provides the main conclusions.

1

The Declensional Paradigms: Data, Analyses and Reassessment

1.1 Semitic Languages The traditional description of the Semitic N distinguishes between two main declensional paradigms: a three-case system (u/a/i) and a two-case system (u/i), as illustrated in Moscati et al. (1964) and Hasselbach (2013), respectively. 1 In the writing of this paper I greatly benefited from the suggestions of the audience at the Arabic in Context Congress at Leiden University (November 2013), as well as from the valuable comments by John Huehnergard, Ahmad Al-Jallad and Andrzej Zaborski. I also thank Ahmad Al-Jallad, who kindly suggested to me that Pre-Classical Arabic preserves a terminativeadverbial ending. All the errors are mine.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi: 10.1163/9789004343047_010

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The sg and, whenever present, broken pl Ns fall into the former paradigm, while the sound pl Ns fall into the latter—no matter their (grammatical) gender and degree of definiteness. If we consider that broken pl Ns arise out of (collective) sg Ns (see, among many others, Fleisch 1961: I, 309), the relevant feature governing the N distribution within these paradigms is number. Scholars widely agree that Akkadian and (pre-)classical Arabic2 are the historically documented Semitic languages that have fully productive case systems along the aforementioned lines, while scholars cannot state with certainty that Ugaritic and Old South Arabian belong to this category (see Owens 2006: 86 and the references therein). Accordingly, this paper will primarily discuss the aforementioned declensional paradigms of Semitic languages with regard to Akkadian and (P)CA. (P)CA is traditionally described (cp. Wright 1896) as including a further declensional paradigm, which can be construed as a twocase system (u/a instead of u/i) and encompasses several classes of Ns, including compounds (e.g., the toponym ḥaḍramawt ‘Ḥaḍramawt’). Though insufficient, a necessary feature governing the N distribution within this paradigm is the presence or absence of nunation or a genitive phrase, in the sense that, when co-occurring with these constituents, the Ns that generally take the u/aendings convert them into u/a/i-endings. Finally, according to the traditional description (e.g., Wright 1896: I, 256ff., II, 239), a ‘singleton’ paradigm is found in (P)CA, based on the a-ending, and is entered into by only a small set of Ns, the defining character of which is the compound status, as sometimes diagnosed by phonological reduction (e.g., ḫamsata-ʿašara, ‘fifteen’ and ʾaḥada-ʿašara or ʾaḥada-ʿšara ‘eleven’). Akkadian’s traditional description does not assign it a two-case system u/a but recognizes for it the same a-based and ‘compoundsensitive’3 paradigm encountered in (P)CA, as exemplified by proper names, 2 The term pre-classical Arabic (PCA) refers to a language stage between 300 ad to 800 ad, with the so-called Nemara inscription and the death dates of the first two attested grammarians (Sībawayhi, d. 177/798; al-Ḫalīl, d. 175/791), which serve as terminus a quo and terminus ad quem, respectively. It follows that the linguistic data gathered in the grammatical and/or lexicographical work by Sībawayhi and al-Ḫalīl, as well as by subsequent grammarians and/or lexicographers, who take extracts from such work (e.g., Lisān al-ʿArab), will be classified here as instances of PCA. The vexata quaestio of the authenticity of pre-Islamic poetry has no bearing on the validity of the PCA data used by the Arab grammarians and lexicographers, who adduce poetic lines of the jāhiliyyah as further examples of data already known to them, rather than as exclusive evidence (Rabin 1951: 15). Regarding the term Classical Arabic (CA), it refers to a language stage documented from 800 ad to 1500ad, the death of the polymath al-Suyūṭī (d. 911/1505) being arbitrarily taken here as terminus ad quem for the codification of this language variety. Cp. Grande (2013: 16–19) for further details. 3 In Hasselbach’s (2013: 288) terminology, “two-element names”.

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such as DINGIR-bana, ‘god is beatiful’ (Hasselbach 2013: 37 ff., 288 ff. and the references therein). From an epistemological perspective, an illustrious tradition of describing Semitic case systems has developed a well-established terminology that will, however, not be used in this paper, as it seems to be saddled with some conceptual ambiguities. Although the term ‘triptotic’ for the u/a/i-case system works reasonably well, the term ‘diptotic’ fails to provide a clear-cut distinction between the semantic and phonological levels, as it can refer both to the u/i- and u/a-case systems in the literature (cp. Hasselbach 2013, 16, 44) and thus overlooks the fact that i and a have different phonemic realizations, despite their shared functions. Similarly, when promiscuously employed to define both forms (e.g., ḥaḍramawtu/a and qāḍin/qāḍiyan ‘judge’), ‘diptotic’ might confuse the phonological and phonetic levels, despite the fact that the two-case system of the latter form is a deceiving effect of some phonological transformations that actually target a genuine u/a/i-case system, i.e., the underlying ‘triptotic’ paradigm qāḍiyun/qāḍiyan/qāḍiyin, as alluded to by Hasselbach (2013: 23). The same remark carries over to the terms ‘monoptotic’ or ‘indeclinable’ when associated with a ‘singleton’ paradigm (e.g., ʿaṣān ‘stick’), the underlying forms of which actually are ʿaṣawun/ʿaṣawan/ʿaṣawin.4 On these grounds, the aforementioned u/a/i-, u/i-, u/a- and a-based paradigms will be referred to in the remainder of this paper as A-PAR(ADIGM), B-PAR, C-PAR, D-PAR, respectively, in contrast with the mainstream traditional terminology and according instead to a criterion of increasing morphological complexity, which is non-committal in terms of the diachronic primitivity, synchronic centrality, etc., of one paradigm over another. For instance, the u/ibased paradigm is more complex than its u/a-counterpart due to the lengthening of u/i, as opposed to the unlengthened u/a. This paper also departs from the mainstream traditional view by concentrating on PCA rather than on CA, as it simply seems more methodologically sound to investigate the former language stage than to investigate the latter. Although marginalized within the traditional view, this approach is not novel. In fact, the philologically-oriented research trend known as Arab linguistics (Carter 1988) has long noticed that, from a diachronic perspective, the more archaic variety of Arabic that is described by the first fully-fledged works of Arabic grammar and lexicography

4 Furthermore, the terms ‘monoptotic’ and ‘indeclinable’ sound quite odd in the collocations ‘monoptotic declension’ and ‘indeclinable declension’ that are sometimes encountered in the literature, given that these collocations make no sense from an etymological perspective (‘indeclinable’ = ‘having no declension’).

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(e.g., Sībawayhi and al-Ḫalīl) is not CA, but rather PCA, with its “unclassicallooking forms” (Owens 2006: 39). In a similar vein, Alhawary’s textual research (2003) has recently shown that both of these foundational figures did avail themselves of mature field linguistics techniques (e.g., elicitation procedures) in gathering their materials, which resulted in fairly reliable PCA data; in contrast, the CA data reported in later works are likely to be ad hoc examples (Guillaume 2006). Such a principled focus on PCA has crucial bearing on the definition of the set of data labeled as A-, B-, C-, D-PARs, as it modifies these paradigms’ contents in two main respects. First, none of them will include the du, given the ability of the PCA du-ending ā to intervene between the N-stem and the case ending u/a/i when combined with nunation (e.g., al-ḫalīl-ān-u/a/i ‘the two friends’ apud Fleisch 1961: I, 298). According to Greenberg, this distributional property diagnoses a derivational rather than inflectional morpheme (cp. Greenberg’s Universal #28: “If both the derivation and inflection follow the root […], the derivation is always between the root and the inflection.”). In this regard, it is also pertinent to mention that a paucal pl il-ān-ū/ī ‘some gods’ is found in Akkadian (Moscati et al. 1964: 88), which makes use of the same ending ā combined with nunation in the same derivational environment (cp. -ū/ī) and has a quasi-du meaning, in the sense that the paucal pl cross-linguistically denotes a set whose lower bound oscillates between two and three (Corbett 2000: 23). Second, Reckendorf (1895: 194), Kuryłowicz (1950) and Fleisch (1961: I, 339) observe that the syntactic-semantic environment forces the definite reading of forms, such as yawman (= l-yawma ‘today’), in some PCA expressions, which shows that nunation functioned as an indefinite and definite article in this language stage, with the definite article l- having not totally superseded nunation in its definite meaning.5 We should add that Akkadian mimation behaves in an identical manner, as its definite or indefinite reading depends on the syntacticsemantic environment within which it occurs (Dolgopolsky 1991). The overall picture that can be drawn from the review of both the mainstream and marginalized descriptions of the Arabic and Akkadian case systems, as provided by the traditional scholarship, involves four nominal paradigms, as tabulated below in Table 9.1.6 5 Cp. also the CA relic Zaydun, where n functions as a definite article used pleonastically (as in the English The Hague). Grande (2013: 220–221) proposes a syntactic-typological explanation for the definite/indefinite status of nunation. Both nunation and mimation are etymologically related to pronominal stems (see, e.g., Dolgopolsky 1991: 329). 6 For the sake of completeness, we must also mention the PCA ‘singleton’ paradigm based

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terminative-adverbial and locative-adverbial endings table 9.1

The Akkadian and PCA nominal paradigms

Akkadian šarr, šarrat+ u m a m i m

šarr+ u: Dependent i: Dependent

šarrāt+ u m i m

DINGIR-ban+ a –

muslim+

muslimāt+

ḥaḍramawt+

ḫamsata-ʿašar+

u: i:

u i

u a

a

PCA muslim, muslimat, buyūt+ u n a n i n A-PAR

na na

B-PAR

n n

– –

C-PAR

–

D-PAR

1.2 Afroasiatic The N’s ability of bearing case is a feature that Semitic languages share with other non-Semitic branches of Afroasiatic, such as Berber and Cushitic.7 Under traditional assumptions, this situation is the result of genetic rather than contact-induced relationships,8 which prompts a reconstruction of the original case system out of which the Semitic, Berber and Cushitic families have developed their historical declensional paradigms. Space limitations prevent a full outline of the Berber and Cushitic case systems and the formal and/or semantic correspondences between them and their Semitic counterparts. The interested reader should refer to Hasselbach (2013: 73–80) for details. It will suffice to say here that, in order to express case, the non-Semitic branches of

on the i-ending, which is only entered into by the morphological pattern CaCāCi (cp. the toponym ẓafāri ‘Ẓafār’). However, this paradigm is not relevant for the current study because of its Old South Arabian origin (Rabin 1951: 156). 7 Some scholars also include Omotic languages among the non-Semitic branches of Afroasiatic that share (traces of) declensional paradigms with Semitic languages. However, it is not certain that Omotic languages are a branch of Afroasiatic (see e.g. Hasselbach 2013: 7), so the language family in question and its related features can be left out of discussion here. 8 Recent typological studies confirm this traditional view: according to Matras (apud Grande 2013: 278), it is almost impossible for a natural language to borrow case endings from another.

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Afroasiatic deploy the same vocalic material u/a/i that Semitic language do,9 which has led authoritative scholars (e.g., Satzinger 1999, 2004 and subsequent work) to reconstruct a three-case system u/a/i for Proto-Semitic, if not for its Afroasiatic ancestor.

2

Further Consequences

Returning to Semitic languages, a more careful examination of the nominal paradigms discussed in Sect. 1.1 reveals that some cells of the A-PAR (i.e., Nun/in, um/im), and B-PAR (i.e., N-u:/i:), share the sequence u/iC, especially if we consider that the long component : is functionally equivalent to a C, as shown by the successful substitution test based on pairs such as Akkadian ḫiṭṭ-/ḫīṭ‘sin’ (Moscati et al. 1964: 65). Similarly, the C- and D-PAR share the sequence a# (the symbol # stands for a word-boundary). In Saussurean terms, the very fact that the aforementioned cells of the Aand B-PARs, on the one hand, and of the C- and D-PARs, on the other, have something in common on the level of form (technically speaking, an ‘associative relation’) defines such cells as ‘an associative family’ (‘rapport associatif, famille associative’: Saussure 1916: 174), the diachronic behavior of which is of particular interest in our study. In fact, Saussure (1916: 182) highlights that the associative relation at the associative family’s core (i.e., in this case, the sequence u/iC shared by the cells of the A- and B-PARs, N-um/n/:, im/n/:, or its counterpart a# shared by the relevant cells of the C- and D-PARs) is—along with the syntagmatic relation—a principle of order and regularity (‘motivation’) that a given community introduces at a certain language stage in order to limit the sign’s arbitrariness.10 Therefore, the associative relations observed in the Akkadian and PCA nominal paradigms bear witness that the cells of the A- and B-PARs that share the sequence u/iC formed an independent and moti-

9 10

A more accurate definition would label the set u/a/i as ‘vocoidal’ material, as u/i can function as glides in Berber (cp. Hasselbach 2013: 74 and the references therein). Though the passage under discussion (“la langue repose sur le principe irrationnel de l’ arbitraire du signe […] mais l’ esprit réussit à introduire un principe d’ordre et de régularité”) does not make any explicit reference to the diachronic dimension in which the ‘associative/syntagmatic’ principle of order operates, this dimension is nonetheless clear from the context, as De Mauro (1967: 449) emphasizes in his critical edition of the Saussurean Cours de Linguistique Générale (“paragrafo, così nitidamente delineante una visione storicizzante della dinamica linguistica”).

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vated system of signs (VHIGHC-paradigm henceforth11) at an archaic stage of language, prior to Akkadian and PCA, which will be termed here ‘Early Semitic’ for convenience’s sake. The same formation occurred with the cells of the Cand D-PARs that share the sequence a# (VLOW#-paradigm henceforth12), which yields a sort of ‘dualist’ reconstruction for Early Semitic case endings. As a corollary, the remaining cells of the A-, B-, C-, D-PARs, notably N-an/m (‘triptotic’ N) and N-u (‘diptotic’ N), represent diachronically later developments. Whatever the ultimate reason for their emergence, this discussion falls beyond the scope of this paper. In keeping with a Saussurean framework, it should be noted that the holistic structural relations underlying the aforementioned ‘dualist’ reconstruction are not confined to solidarities such as the associative relation between the cells of the A- and B-PARs, N-um/n/:, im/n/:, via the shared sequence VHIGHC. This state of affairs is shown by the maximum contrast that exists between VHIGHC and its counterpart VLOW# on the level of form, in terms of both V-height vs. V-lowness13 and the presence of C vs. its absence (i.e., #). Another contrast intrinsic to a reconstruction of this kind holds on the level of meaning and concerns the VHIGHC-paradigm, the binary nature of which (um/n/: vs. im/n/:) indicates some kind of opposition between the semantic roles expressed by the case endings—as is particularly clear from the opposition between u: and i: in terms of subjecthood vs. non-subjecthood. What emerges from the discussion above is a ‘dualist’ reconstruction of the Early Semitic system of case endings that immediately raises a crucial question from the perspective of the position of this language family within the Afroasiatic macrofamily: If, and to what extent, is a reconstruction along similar lines that is mainly based on internal structural clues (a method of internal reconstruction) compatible with the reconstruction of the Early Semitic system of case endings, as proposed by some authoritative scholars of Afroasiatic (cp. Satzinger 1999, 2004 and subsequent work), who instead rely on the comparison of the several languages of this macrofamily (a comparative method)? As illustrated in Sect. 1.2, according to such an alternative reconstruction, Early Semitic had a single system of three case endings u/a/i instead of the ‘dualist’ scenario advocated here (VHIGHC-paradigm vs. VLOW#-paradigm), so prima facie we can find no aspect of compatibility between these two reconstructions. However, a closer look

11 12 13

The notation VHIGH stands for both the high Vs u and i, as opposed to the low V a. The notation VLOW stands for the low V a, as opposed to both the high Vs u and i. Or, following an alternative terminology, V-closeness opposed to V-openness.

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at the single system reconstructed by Satzinger (u/a/i) shows that it can actually be split into two more basic systems, namely u/i (= VHIGH) and a (= VLOW), which are opposed in terms of their morphosyntactic environment. According to Satzinger, the a-ending (= VLOW) co-occurred in origin with more than one lexical morpheme, i.e., a phrase,14 unlike the u/i-endings (= VHIGH), which were combined instead with one lexical morpheme, e.g., a vocalized root, as much as they do in the historical stages of Semitic. Therefore, contrary to first impression, the ‘dualist’ reconstruction sketched out in this section converges with Satzinger’s in one pivotal aspect—a binary opposition of the Early Semitic system of case endings in terms of V-height/lowness (cp. discussion immediately above). In addition to Satzinger’s (1999, 2004) reconstruction, the ‘dualist’ system of Early Semitic case endings presented here partially dovetails also with the socalled “Alte Nominalflexion” that Kienast reconstructs for the same language stage (see Hasselbach 2013: 70–71 for detailed references and critical discussion). Kienast argues that the historical declensional paradigms of Akkadian, (P)CA, etc., developed out of a two-ending system u/i, which is highly reminiscent of the aforementioned VHIGHC-paradigm. However, it should be emphasized that Kienast, while sharing the comparative method with Satzinger (1999, 2004), focuses on some data that are touched on only briefly by the latter scholar. This focus includes the system of two local endings that is historically documented in Akkadian and is traditionally known as the locative-adverbial (loc-adv) um and terminative-adverbial (term-adv) iš, where a pair of high Vs u/i—if not a sequence VHIGHC—that is formally identical to what is observable in the case-ending system is in effect palpable. Thus, Kienast’s reconstruction suggests a thought-provoking (and still debated: cp. Weninger 2011: 165) connection between the linguistic facts that are traditionally labeled as ‘case endings’ and ‘locative/terminative-adverbial endings’, which fundamentally affects the current reconstruction, as results from the current investigation of the Akkadian and PCA declensional paradigms through the lens of previously marginalized data (e.g., definite nunation) and internal reconstruction tools (e.g., the Saussurean axiom of motivation). In fact, Kienast’s proposed connection opens the possibility that the sequence VHIGHC that Akkadian case endings and local endings share is but a fragment of a pervading situation going back to Early Semitic, in which the presence of the VHIGHC- and VLOW-paradigms, which we have thus far only reconstructed for

14

Rabin (1969: 201) advances a similar idea, but Satzinger (1999) apparently does not cite him.

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case endings, actually went beyond the latter to also encompass local endings. In other words, a hypothesis of reconstruction along the aforementioned lines calls for a thorough study of local endings, as they are historically documented in Akkadian, PCA and, whenever relevant, in other Semitic languages. The following sections address this study.

3

The Terminative-Adverbial and Locative-Adverbial Endings: Data, Analyses and Reassessment

3.1 Akkadian The mainstream traditional designation of the Akkadian local endings um and iš as loc-adv and term-adv, respectively, clearly indicates their core meanings: one essentially denotes a place complement, and the other essentially denotes a goal complement. Furthermore, such endings can also be defined as an associative family because they share a common element on the level of meaning, notably the expression of space—from which the umbrella term ‘local endings’ is adopted in this study. If we extend the empirical picture of the Akkadian local endings to include more marginalized data—as much as we did with the case endings in Sect. 2—, it seems plausible to ascribe to the same associative family the adverbial ending a, which is found in the repetitive expression aḫa aḫa ‘side by side’ (Hasselbach 2013: 17), because of its spatially distributive meaning.15 In this respect, it is worth observing that increasing the associative family um/iš with a is totally expected from a Saussurean perspective, as an associative family is by definition open-ended (Saussure 1916: 174). From the same perspective, the associative family thus characterized should, in turn, be split into two associative families based on the level of form that have at their core the sequence VHIGHC (cp. um/iš) and VLOW# (cp. the a of aḫa aḫa). In fact, this is a property of the associative family that had already attracted the attention of Saussure (1916: 181), who recognized that the associative family of numbers is itself decomposable into two smaller associative families in French, e.g., simple (vingt) and compound (dix-neuf ) numbers.

15

As shown in the very translation ‘side by side’, spatially distributive expressions also involve the repetition of the N in English. In addition, they insert a P (e.g., from, to, by) before the first instance of the place and/or after the second: from coast to coast, face to face, and the aforementioned side by side. See Haiman (1980: 533, fn. 17) on the interlocked notions of distributiveness and repetition.

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When our investigation of the local endings um/iš/a moves from associative to syntagmatic relations, these endings appear to enter into a structural interplay that is different from the associative family, and can be seen in expressions such as kirīšum ‘into the orchard’ and annīšam ‘hither’ (von Soden 1995: 111–112), in which two local endings (iš and um, or iš and am) descriptively cooccur with a given N, but only one sememe of space is encoded in it (the goal complement). Thus, a synchronic situation of ‘doubling’ emerges, in which the increase in form is not paralleled by an increase in meaning.16 From a diachronic perspective, this state of affairs points to a semantic equivalence between the two morphemes involved in the doubling process, which takes place in order to ensure that a given morpheme that has undergone semantic weakening (in this case, iš: cp. its frequent usage as an adverbial ending, as per Hasselbach 2013: 21) is reinforced by another morpheme that conveys identical, yet unweakened, meaning, i.e., um and am or um and a— setting aside mimation in the case of a, which represents a later innovation, as shown in Sect. 2. This semantic characterization of the doubling process finds its raison d’être in language-specific data, such as the Akkadian PP ina bītum ‘in the house’ (Hasselbach 2013: 20), where the P ina ‘doubles’ the loc-adv iš, due to the latter’s weakening (cp. its unproductivity already “at the earliest attested stages of Akkadian”: Hasselbach 2013: 20). In passing, the typological fact that the semantic equivalence under discussion manifests itself on the syntagmatic axis as a doubling process triggered by semantic weakening provides evidence that, whatever the exact date of its emergence in Akkadian, it must have been preceded by a situation of no semantic weakening prior to Akkadian, such as a given language stage of Early Semitic, in which iš, um, and a were prone neither to doubling nor to concomitant semantic equivalence. However, it would be too strong a simplification to claim that the ending iš is semantically equivalent to um or a in the environment of a syntagmatic relation, such as the doubling process. In fact, if we return to the associative relation, it appears upon closer scrutiny that this environment also allows for iš to be semantically equivalent to um or a. To illustrate this phenomenon, let us consider first the semantic equivalence between iš and um in word-like units šēpiššu and šēpuššu, which are tradi-

16

In kirīšum and annīšam the doubling process triggers the V-lengthening of i: the accumulation of a with iš is conducive to the re-syllabification of the closed syllable Ciš as two open syllables Ci + ša/um, with the subsequent re-accentuation and lengthening of i. In passing, a clear distributional restriction underlies this accumulation: the endings a and um separately follow the term-adv, not vice versa.

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tionally referred to as ‘construct states’ (CS henceforth17) and analyzed as the outputs of a word-juncture rule that also entails the regressive assimilation of the m of um into š (šēpiš+šu > šēpiššu, šēpum+šu > šēpuššu, as per Hasselbach 2013: 21).18 Such endings effectively enter into an associative relation on the level of meaning, based on the common term-adv value, in that, for šēpuššu, the original loc-adv meaning of um (‘at his foot’) co-exists with an unexpected term-adv meaning (‘to his foot’), which is also conveyed, as expected, by iš in šēpiššu ‘id’ (von Soden 1995: 108). However, the term-adv meaning underpinning the associative relation between iš and um is but one aspect of commonality between šēpiššu and šēpuššu. In short, when used synonymously in the sense of ‘to his foot’, both word-like units share the whole content on the level of meaning (i.e., N + termadv + 3sg suffix-pronoun šu), and all content, except one sound (i.e., i vs. u), on the level of form, so they fall exactly into the definition of a single form that exhibits two free variants (cp. Crystal 2008: 198: “the substitutability of one sound for another in a given environment, with no consequent change in the word’s meaning […] called free variants”). This account of the pair šēpiššu and šēpuššu implies a re-conceptualization in terms of a free allophonic variation, which is generally described by linguists as involving two main factors, notably an input-output process linking one variant to the other by means of a phonological rule and the optional application of this phonological rule, depending on the social or stylistic context in which the form potentially targeted by it occurs (the so-called ‘variable-rule’: cp. Crystal 2008: 509). In this interpretive scenario, the following hypothesis can be envisioned: (I)

the i of the input-form šēpiššu is converted into the u of the output-form šēpuššu (cp. Gelb 1969, 90) by a process of regressive V-harmony, (II) the presence or absence of which correlates with the presence or absence of a given social or stylistic context—briefly, regressive V-harmony is a variable rule.

To support the portion of hypothesis in (I), we should stress two properties of šēpiššu: in this expression, the V i of the term-adv iš and the V u of the suffix-pronoun šu that follows it (a) have the same VHIGH status and (b) belong to the same word-internal domain, which are precisely the two conditions

17 18

See Benmamoun (2005) on the word-like status of the CS. On this count, the m of the loc-adv um and that of the case-ending um differ in terms of their retention vs. dropping, respectively, when followed by a suffix-pronoun in the CS.

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required for the application of V-harmony (Crystal 2008: 224–225). The portion of the hypothesis in (II) receives confirmation from a stylistic property of šēpuššu, namely its usage is restricted to the epic genre—‘hymnisch-epischer Dialekt’ in von Soden’s (1995: 108) own terminology—, which explains the lack of application of V-harmony outside this genre (i.e., the unaltered form šēpiššu) as a consequence of its being a variable rule. At this point, we are confronted with two analyses of šēpiššu and šēpuššu that are centered on the phenomenon of associative relation. The traditional analysis considers a relation of this sort as a function of the semantic equivalence between the local endings iš and um in terms of term-adv and has the advantage of also considering the loc-adv value of šēpuššu by interpreting this expression as an assimilated variant of šēpumšu. That said, a major limitation of such an analysis is that it says nothing about the semantic and formal identity of the environment šēp … šu that surrounds both iš and um; the opposite holds for the alternative analysis summarized in (I–II) above— in particular, in construing šēpuššu as a vowel-harmonized variant of šēpiššu, this analysis accounts solely for its term-adv value, while leaving its loc-adv value unexplained. In order to preserve their respective advantages and alleviate their respective drawbacks, these analyses can be integrated through the conceptual mediation of reanalysis, as follows: the input-form šēpiššu, with iš functioning as a termadv ending, undergoes a regressive V-harmony (cp. I–II above), which applies to the word-internal domain iššu and gives rise to the sequence uššu (uš+šu < iš+šu), from which the output-form šēpuššu conveys term-adv meaning; later, the sequence uššu is reanalyzed as arisen from a word-internal domain umšu that is targeted by regressive assimilation (cp. the traditional account) rather than by regressive V-harmony, and is thereby related to the input-form šēpumšu, in which um functions as a loc-adv. In short, reanalysis (on which, see e.g., Esseesy 2008 and references therein) gives rise to the loc-adv meaning of šēpuššu, which originally only conveys term-adv meaning. The import that this investigation of the pair šēpiššu/šēpuššu has for the semantic equivalence between the local endings iš and um is that the ultimate factors responsible for it are the regressive V-harmony that converts the inputform iš+šu into uššu and the reanalysis of the input-form into um+šu. On this count, such a semantic equivalence diachronically originates in the environment of the 3sg suffix-pronoun šu and is subsequently generalized out of it due to the frequent usage of the 3sg in natural languages, including Akkadian. A further diachronic consideration concerning the semantic equivalence between iš and um is that this is a relatively late development because the šēpiššu/šēpuššu forms in which it originally took place exhibit the word-

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juncture rule m+š > š+š, which is not a process that is operational in the early stages of Akkadian, in terms of what can be ascertained from extant documentation (cp. Hasselbach 2013: 21, fn. 20). Having discussed the semantic equivalence holding between the local endings iš and um in the environment of an associative relation, we can now turn our attention to the same phenomenon when it affects the local endings iš and a. This phenomenon occurs in the case in which iš—rather than having the expected term-adv value—shares a spatially distributive meaning with the local ending a, as can be gleaned from a comparison between the aforementioned expression aḫa aḫa ‘side by side’ and the expression ūmišam, which Gelb (1969: 88) renders as ‘day by day’. As discussed at the outset of this section, in aḫa aḫa the spatially distributive meaning is encoded in the local ending a# and diagnosed, inter alia, by the repetition of the N with which this ending co-occurs. Turning to ūmišam, an argument by exclusion would assign its spatially distributive meaning to the non-nominal portion of this expression, i.e., išam.19 However, the distributional fact that ūmišam parallels annīšam in terms of the kind of constituents and their ordering (N + term-adv + am) justifies a semantic analysis of ūmišam along the same lines of annīšam, which has been analyzed above as an instance of doubling, with iš as the real locus of local meaning and a(m) as a late reinforcement of it. Given that the local meaning in question is spatially distributive in ūmišam, the iš of ūmišam proves to convey the same spatially distributive meaning as the a# of aḫa aḫa. In this regard, the semantic distance between the goal marker iš ‘to’ that is traditionally described as term-adv and the marker iš that performs a spatially distributive function, as attested in ūmiš(am), is less pronounced than it appears at first sight, if we consider the fact that, besides the aforementioned ‘day by day’, another English equivalent of the Akkadian spatially distributive expression ūmiš(am) occurs, i.e., ‘from day to day’, which instantiates precisely the goal marker ‘to’ and allows the deletion of the source marker ‘from’ (cp. dayto-day management). Accordingly, in the English day-to-day the spatially distributive semantics (‘from … to’) is expressed elliptically through a goal marker (‘to’), as is indeed the case for the Akkadian ūmiš(am). The only difference is that the Akkadian expression involves, with respect to its English counterpart, a further derivational step, which consists of the deletion of the first instance of the repeated N.

19

Cp. von Soden (1995: 112), who describes the sequence išam that occurs in expressions such as ūmišam as endowed “mit distributiver Funktion”.

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In short, a compositional and cross-linguistic analysis of the expression ūmiš(am) shows that the unexpected status of iš as a marker of spatially distributive function can be rather easily re-conceptualized on cross-linguistic grounds as a totally expected status of term-adv (or: goal-) marker, which cooccurs with a deleted source marker. Therefore, the so-called ‘term-adv’ iš and the ‘spatially distributive’ a# actually have an identical goal-marker meaning, despite their different forms. Under standard assumptions (see e.g., Crystal 2008: 20), this amounts to saying that the semantic equivalence between the local endings iš and a# boils down to a situation of allomorphy. Putting the semantic equivalence between the thus defined iš and a# in its diachronic context, this equivalence likely goes back to Early Semitic. On the one hand, the local ending a of the expression aḫa aḫa that is involved in this semantic equivalence co-occurs both with a lack of mimation and a marked semantic role (i.e., a local function, as opposed to the unmarked object function of the case ending a found in the A-, C-PARs); on the other, the Akkadian and Eblaite theophoric names mentioned in Sect. 1.1, such as DINGIR-bana, the relic-status of which turns out to “reflect older forms of the language”, remarkably attest to the same pattern of co-occurrence: these nouns end with the indeclinable ending a of the D-PAR that in effect both lacks mimation and performs a marked semantic function that is traditionally labeled as ‘predicative’ (Hasselbach 2013: 41, 320).20 We are now in a position to draw the following outline for Akkadian local endings: besides the goal and locative markers iš and um, which are traditionally known as term-adv and loc-adv, respectively, a third marker a occurs, which performs a spatially distributive function. All of iš, um, and a end up being semantically equivalent in Akkadian after establishing a syntagmatic relation in a configuration of doubling that is triggered by their semantic weakening, which entails, in typological terms, that in an archaic language stage prior to Akkadian, such as Early Semitic, in which iš, um, and a were not semantically weakened, neither doubling nor concomitant semantic equivalence arguably occurred among them. The same holds for iš and um when they are semantically equivalent after establishing an associative relation, if we consider that a semantic equivalence of this sort implies a word-juncture rule that was operational in relatively late stages of Akkadian. In contrast, we can 20

It should be stressed that lack of mimation (or nunation) is a necessary, though insufficient, condition for classifying a given Semitic form as archaic. When not co-occurring with the ending a and its marked semantic function, this feature could point instead to the recent character of a given Semitic form, as is the case for the Akkadian Ns from the end of the Old Babylonian period onward (see e.g. Hasselbach 2013: 18).

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plausibly project back into Early Semitic the semantic equivalence that results from the associative relation between iš and a because the latter ending is also part and parcel of a peculiar co-occurrence pattern that in the literature has been ascribed to this language stage on independent grounds (theophoric names). This semantic equivalence consists of the goal-marker status (‘to’) shared by the two different forms iš and a (in which case goal markers iš and a express the same spatially distributive meaning as their English counterpart to in day-to-day) and can be accordingly classified as a situation of allomorphy. In Sect. 2, structural and comparative arguments have substantiated a ‘dualist’ hypothesis of reconstruction of the Early Semitic N, which reduces the Semitic case endings to the VHIGHC- and VLOW-paradigms, whereas an extended version of this hypothesis has been presented at the end of that section, which subsumes the Semitic local endings under the same reconstruction but still requires verification. In this respect, we may wonder whether the above outline of Akkadian local endings verifies such an extended hypothesis of ‘dualist’ reconstruction. Three observations can be made to answer this question: First, according to the aforementioned outline of Akkadian local endings, the term-adv iš and loc-adv um fit the ‘dualist’ reconstruction, due to their sharing the sequence u/iC with the VHIGHC-paradigm—as already alluded to at the end of Sect. 2—, and the ‘spatially distributive’ a also fits this reconstruction, in that it shares the sequence a# with the VLOW-paradigm. Second, the VHIGHC-paradigm, into which local endings iš and um fall, has been found at the end of Sect. 2 to imply a semantic contrast, a situation that undoubtedly incorporates the opposition term-adv vs. loc-adv that is traditionally ascribed to these endings but is clearly at odds with their semantic equivalence, which is established via either a syntagmatic or an associative relation. However, the outline of the Akkadian local endings offered in this section dates this kind of equivalence to a language stage later than Early Semitic, thus eliminating the falsifying power that such an equivalence might have for the ‘dualist’ reconstruction. Third, in defining iš and a as allomorphic, the current outline of Akkadian local endings opposes them on the level of form rather than that of meaning and thus converges with the ‘dualist’ reconstruction, according to which iš and a, qua belonging to the VHIGHC- and VLOW#-paradigms, respectively, enter a formal opposition, based on the contrast between the V-height or Vlowness and the presence or absence of a C (cp. the beginning of Sect. 2). To summarize, it seems safe to maintain that an in-depth study of Akkadian local endings confirms the ‘dualist’ reconstruction developed in Sect. 2.

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3.2 Ugaritic and Biblical Hebrew The linguistic documentation available for Ugaritic local endings seemingly converges with that available for their Biblical Hebrew counterparts in two fundamental respects: on the one hand, the loc-adv is too scantily attested to permit any robust generalization in both languages (Tropper 2000: 324–325, Hasselbach 2013: 25, 34),21 and, on the other, the knowledge of their term-adv is satisfying enough to have deserved the attention of Semitists until recent times (cp. Tropper 2000: 320ff.). Therefore, it is fairly well established among scholars that the goal complement can be expressed in Ugaritic and Biblical Hebrew by the segment h, a state of affairs that provides the empirical basis for its unified treatment as a termadv (see e.g., Speiser 1954 and Tropper 2000: 320 ff.). A practical advantage of this unified treatment is that the vocalism that is associated with the termadv h can be inferred for Ugaritic—the writing of which merely consists of a consonantal ductus—from Biblical Hebrew, which records Vs in its written form thanks to Masoretes’ work. As a result, a more complete representation of both languages’ term-adv is traditionally said to be ah: e.g., the Ugaritic arṣah ‘to the earth’ (Tropper 2000: 324). In contrast, whether to analyze the segment h in ah as phonemic (a proper h) or as graphemic (a mater lectionis standing for the long component :) is still debatable. To illustrate, Speiser (1954: 110) presents arguments in favor of the former interpretation, whereas Joüon (1947: 71, 222) subscribes to the latter. However, a possible solution to this problem lies in reconstructing a diachronic shift ah > a: for the Ugaritic and Biblical Hebrew term-adv, which could reconcile the two aforementioned interpretations by means of a phonological rule h > :, as Tropper (2000: 217) suggests, for instance, for Ugaritic. Raised by the Ugaritic and Biblical Hebrew ah, a more serious problem specifically concerns the ‘dualist’ reconstruction developed in Sect. 2 and revolves around the relationship of this historical term-adv manifestation with the reconstructed Early Semitic a# and with the Akkadian ‘distributive’ ending a#. It is unclear whether one form, which exhibits a C h after the V a, can be harmonized with the other, which lacks this segment in the same position. To solve this problem, the hypothesis is entertained that the termadv ah should be better understood as a sequence a#h, which is decomposable into a word-final, C-less ending a#—which indeed corresponds to the term-adv a# that is reconstructed in Sect. 2 for Early Semitic and to the

21

See also fn. 30 below, which touches upon this kind of loc-adv and its implications for the ‘dualist’ reconstruction advocated here.

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Akkadian ‘distributive’ ending a#—and a phonologically reduced word consisting of the segment h. The diagnostic test of isolability is pertinent to proving such a hypothesis. This test defines any portion of a given sequence that has the ability to occur in isolation as a word (Bloomfield 1933: 178). For example, the (P)CA kalb ‘dog’ and Akkadian māt ‘earth’ arguably have an “analytical” character and can be regarded as words, as Corriente (1971: 47–49) sharply remarks, due to their ability to occur as isolated forms devoid of the case endings u/a/in when found in pause (PCA) or in CS (Akkadian). In contrast, their Latin counterparts can‘dog’, terr- ‘earth’ instead behave as stems, given their inability to occur devoid of the case endings is (canis/*can), a (terra/*terr), etc.22 Bearing this in mind, let us consider the CS bty ‘to my house’, which Tropper (2000: 216) reports for Ugaritic (e.g., lk bt-y ‘come to my home’) and which performs the goal function typically associated with the term-adv, albeit lacking the segment h:. According to Tropper, this situation makes it plausible to (partially) vocalize the first member of the CS as bta, with the V a alone functioning as a termadv (cp. also Speiser 1954: 110 and Joüon 1947: 71 for similar analyses of Ugaritic and Biblical Hebrew, respectively). In compliance with the aforementioned hypothesis, the test of isolability forces us to interpret the sequence N-a as a word, i.e., N-a#, due to its ability to occur as an isolated form compared with the sequence N-ah, which should accordingly be re-conceptualized as N-a#h23 (i.e., arṣ-a#h instead of arṣah).24

22

23 24

For the sake of completeness, we have to mention that dropping the ending an of the PCA A-PAR in isolation is infrequent, as a lengthened ā is found instead (Wright 1896: II, 369). In other words, in the resulting pausal form, the N is not analytical, due to its fusion with ā (N-ā#); without denying the validity of Corriente’s generalization, we should nonetheless consider this instance of N as an exception to it—an issue to which we will return at the end of this paper. The same remarks made in connection with the PCA pausal form N-ā# carry over to the Ugaritic/Biblical Hebrew N-a#h (cp. fn. 22 above). Pardee (2003/2004: 80–81) reconstructs a different vocalization for the term-adv h in Ugaritic, notably a word-final ha (i.e., ha#). Again, in positing a sequence a#, Pardee’s analysis is compatible with the reconstruction of the Early Semitic term-adv as a#, etc., defended here. As regards the h-less term-adv found in Ugaritic, Pardee (2003/2004: 81) rejects its existence by assuming that it is better seen as an “accusative adverbial” a(#). This criticism, however, seems to be a matter of terminology rather than of substance, if we consider that Pardee (2003/2004: 190) himself affirms that “in Biblical Hebrew, the use of the locative morpheme {-h} [= term-adv] and of the adverbial accusative were in something approaching free variation”. In fact, under an accurate definition of free variation (cp. Sect. 3.1), Pardee’s observation amounts to saying that the term-

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In this respect, it is instructive to note that, as far as we know, the Akkadian term-adv iš cannot occur in isolation as i, so no word-boundary can be posited between this kind of V and the segment š—a word-boundary, if any, must instead intervene between the entire sequence iš and the N (i.e., N#is), given the latter’s isolability discussed immediately above.25 However, the test of isolability solves one problem (the compatibility between the Ugaritic/Biblical Hebrew term-adv ah and the reconstructed Early Semitic term-adv a#) but creates another. The different manner in which the Akkadian and Ugaritic/Biblical Hebrew term-advs react to this test (#iš vs. a#h) introduces a subtle—yet real—distributional asymmetry as to the position of the word-boundary in their prosodic structure, which at first sight conflicts with the symmetry traditionally ascribed to these endings that is based on their segments š and h—specifically on the well-known synonymity between these segments when they phonologically realize pronominal forms (Speiser 1954: 112ff., and Weninger 2011: 168). This symmetry cannot be dismissed so easily, for it has been grounded on solid comparative correspondences š/h by traditional scholarship (Hasselbach 2013: 71). It is also implied to a certain degree by Tropper’s aforementioned analysis of the goal-denoting form bt(a) that includes an h-less term-adv a. if, in fact, as traditionally maintained, iš and ah prominently perform a termadv function (‘to’) and include the segments š and h that perform a pronominal function, and the two functions at issue are not etymologically related, in the absence of linguistic evidence to this effect;26 then, by exclusion, the pure term-adv function must be performed by the remaining segment i in iš and a in ah, which is precisely what Tropper argues for the a in ah on the basis of bt(a). Moreover, this symmetry is difficult to dismiss because of its pervasiveness

25 26

adv ah and the putative ‘accusative adverbial’ are actually two variants in which the substitution of one sound (zero C) for another (h) in a given environment (after a) on the level of form, correlates with a shared meaning (goal marker), and, consequently, what underlies the term-adv ending ah and the putative ‘accusative adverbial’ is semantic unity (from which Tropper’s unified analysis of both as different manifestations of termadv springs), not semantic distinction (term-adv ending vs. ‘accusative adverbial’). The latter is arguably a conceptually deceiving effect of the Greco-Latin model of grammar that is imposed on Semitic languages. The accumulation of these endings (cp. kirīšum, annīšam in Sect. 3.1) triggers resyllabification, with concomitant re-accentuation and restructuring of their word-boundaries. Speiser (1954: 113–114) assumes for h, š a shift from a pronominal to a term-adv function via a grammaticalization process pronoun > postposition (“for ‘earth-towards’, or the like, Semitic employed ‘earth-that’”), for which, though, he provides no Semitic or crosslinguistic attestations. Speiser himself concedes that this connection is “speculative”.

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in the system of local endings, which in effect instantiate a form-meaning relation between their final C and their pronominal function that, far from being confined to the term-adv, is also found in the loc-adv, as exemplified by the m in the Akkadian loc-adv um (cp. the end of Sect. 1.1). It can be readily gleaned from these considerations that, once deemed correct, the symmetry between iš and ah that is rooted in the correspondence š/h improves our knowledge of the Semitic term-adv by reducing its Akkadian manifestation iš to a single segment i, thereby realigning this instance of termadv with its other historical manifestations that exhibit the single segment a, as in Akkadian, Ugaritic, and Biblical Hebrew (a result to which we will return at the end of this section). It would thus be desirable to reconcile this kind of symmetry between iš and ah with their asymmetry, as is palpable in the aforementioned contrast #iš vs. a#h. To this end, it seems convenient to invoke the structuralist distinction between ‘lexicon’ and ‘grammar’, which is intended as the component responsible for the lexicon’s arrangement (see e.g., Bloomfield 1933: 162–164). Indeed, the architecture of language thus defined reduces the symmetry between iš and ah to a matter of lexical symmetry (cp. the pronominal etymology of š/h), which does not imply the same for grammar and thus allows a structural asymmetry between them that involves a different arrangement of their constituents relative to the word-boundary (#iš vs. a#h). In pursuing this line of reasoning, we can find an additional structural asymmetry between the Akkadian iš and the Ugaritic/Biblical Hebrew ah by capitalizing on Gelb’s (1969: 91–93, cp. also Pardee 2003/2004: 81) observation that they yield different results when subjected to a substitution test that tries to replace them with case endings. While iš has the ability to replace a case ending, as in the pair sēpim/sēpiš, ah does not and instead co-occurs with a (relic-)case ending, as shown by the Ugaritic šmm(a)h ‘to the heavens’ and the Biblical Hebrew kaśdīmah ‘to the Caldeans’, in which ah follows the (relic-)case ending included in the mimated pl. Gelb ascribes this structural asymmetry in the relative arrangement of iš and ah to a lexical category-based opposition: iš shares a case-ending status with um, while ah has a postposition status. For the time being, focusing on his case-ending analysis of iš and um, the doubling process discussed in Sect. 3.1 partially undermines this analysis: if iš and um were case endings, the doubling process would result in the accumulation of two case endings (cp. kirīšum in Sect. 3.1), a phenomenon that is not attested to for Semitic languages and is also unlikely from a typological perspective (Hasselbach 2013: 22, fn. 28). However, the fact still remains that the case and local endings formally and semantically overlap in Akkadian, especially insofar as their V is concerned, as illustrated by the behavior of i in the pair ina bītim ‘in the house’ and ana

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table 9.2

The grammaticalization process: Adverb > Postposition

Language Structural description

Environment

German Akk Akk BH

P auf ina ana ʾel

N den Berg bīt dār ha-ṣṣāfwōn

CASE(-L) ∅27 u i a

PF = adverb hinauf m š h

German Akk

– –

N den Berg dār

CASE(-L) PF = postposition β ∅ hinauf i š

Akk BH

– –

N kir kaśd

X CASE(-L) PF = adverb īš u m īm a h

α

γ

Akk = Akkadian, BH = Biblical Hebrew, Ug = Ugaritic, CASE(-L) = Case(-like) ending, PF = Pronominal form, X = Adnominal Form dāriš ‘for the eternity’ (cp. von Soden 1995: 111), which makes it possible to at least treat the Vs of the local endings as distributionally equivalent to those of the case endings, regardless of whether this phenomenon is an innovation or a retention. The overlap at issue, combined with the aforementioned pronominal origin of š, h, and m, sheds new light on the Akkadian type ana dāriš, ina bītum, ina bītim etc. (cp. also the Biblical Hebrew counterpart ʾel-haṣṣāfwōnah ‘northward’: Joüon 1947: 224), by re-conceptualizing it as a construction: P + N + case(-like) ending + pronominal form, which, remarkably, is also instantiated by the German type (Er stieg) auf den Berg hinauf ‘he climbed up on the hill’. This construction is tabulated as Environment α in Table 9.2 above. Heine (1997: 57–61) convincingly argues that such a construction is an environment conducive to an adverb > postposition grammaticalization process that targets the pronominal form, which makes it possible to better characterize the form in question as combining the pronominal with an original adverbial status, i.e., as a constituent close to ‘hither’ (cp. hinauf ). On these grounds, the structure-final pronominal forms š, h, and m, in the type ana dāriš, etc., can

27

As opposed to the ending es in (des) Berges ‘of (the) mountain’ etc.

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also all be classified as adverbs—a uniform behavior that enhances their lexical symmetry. Nonetheless, this state of affairs should not obscure the structural asymmetry between iš and ah that is detected by Gelb’s substitution test, which brings us back to his explanation in terms of an opposition case ending iš vs. postposition ah. The adverb > postposition grammaticalization process studied by Heine (1997) threatens the plausibility of the first member of Gelb’s opposition, which—as we have just discussed—is re-assessed as an adverb š, but admits the possibility that its second member is a postposition, to the extent that it occurs in the appropriate grammaticalization environment. While the aforementioned Environment α requires the pronominal form to function as an adverb (‘hither’), the same environment minus the P (cp. the Environment β in Table 9.2) requires the pronominal form to instead function as a postposition, akin to ‘-ward’ in English (cp. hinauf in Er stieg den Berg hinauf ‘he climbed up the hill’). It turns out that, thanks to the total match between the dāriš type (‘for the eternity’: von Soden 1995: 111) and the Environment β, the pronominal form š in iš strictly obeys this requirement to qualify as a postposition (in addition to qualifying as an adverb in the Environment α); however, the pronominal form h in ah does not obey the requirement under scrutiny because ah’s precise ability, noted by Gelb, of following the adnominal form īm in kaśdīmah ‘to the Chaldeans’, etc., results in a clear alteration of the Environment β, which is caused by the insertion of īm in that environment. Therefore, an altered environment, such as kaśdīmah (cp. the Environment γ in Table 9.2), indicates that the pronominal form h in ah is an adverb that, unlike š, has not evolved into a postposition. Upon closer scrutiny, the ability of following an adnominal form goes beyond ah to encompass um as well (e.g., the adnominal form iš in the N kirīšum ‘to the orchard’ that is mentioned in Sect. 3.1), permitting us to generalize Gelb’s distributional observation, which was originally applied to the complex īm + ah to hold for any adnominal form X followed by a local ending, and, consequently, to assign an adverb rather than a postposition status to any pronominal form that occurs in the altered Environment γ (cp. Table 9.2). By virtue of the aforementioned generalization, the pronominal form m in um cannot be assigned a postposition status due to its ability of following the adnominal form iš in kirīšum, so an adverb analysis is the only available one for this pronominal form. In sum, the adverb > postposition grammaticalization process revisits Gelb’s structural asymmetry between iš and ah relative to their co-occurrence with an adnominal form to also consider their structural symmetry (cp. extending his distributional observations about ah to um and the unified adverb analy-

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sis of the segments š, h, and m in iš, ah, and um). This process also reveals that this asymmetry boils down to a structural contrast between (the lexically symmetric) adverbs š, on the one hand, and h and m, on the other, with respect to the presence or absence of the possibility of functioning as a postposition. It should be noted that nothing in a postpositional analysis of š along these lines hinges on the controversial etymological link between the term-adv (i)š and the (alleged?) P IŠ, first proposed by Gelb and criticized by Gensler (apud Hasselbach 2013: 71). Nor does such an analysis assume the problematic existence of an OV-order and related postpositional type for Early Semitic (see Hasselbach 2013: 179ff. for details and references), as, according to Dryer (2013), there are at least 43 languages worldwide in which the VO-order (traditionally reconstructed for Early Semitic) correlates with postpositions and in which such postpositions, far from instantiating a single or predominant type, are “are as common as prepositions”—as much as the postposition š co-existed with Ps in Early Semitic. Concretely, such a revisitation of the Gelbian comparison between the Akkadian iš and the Ugaritic/Biblical Hebrew ah significantly contributes to our understanding of the formal or semantic behaviors of the Semitic term-adv in these language stages. In terms of the Ugaritic/Biblical Hebrew manifestation of the Semitic term-adv as a#h, and especially its semantics, we would stress that the goal and pronominal adverb functions performed by a and h, respectively, lead to a translation in quasi-English as ‘to X, hither’ (e.g., arṣa#h ‘to the earth, hither’), which represents a well-known construction to typologists, in which a given function (e.g., goal-function) is expressed twice with a dedicated marker combined with the N and a pronominal form. Labeled by typologists as a ‘double-marking type’, this construction comes as no surprise to Ugaritic and Biblical Hebrew on comparative and typological grounds. First, in comparative terms, Hasselbach (2013: 229) shows that the double-marking type is well documented for Syriac, a sister language of Ugaritic and Biblical Hebrew: cp. w-ʿal yešuʿ tuḇ hāḵanā kṯiḇ ʿl-aw(hy), lit. ‘and on Jesus further thus written, on him’, i.e., ‘and of Jesus it is further thus written’. In fact, in this example, the constituents w-ʿal yešuʿ and ʿl-aw(hy) parallel arṣa# and h, respectively, in terms of their categorial status (N, pronoun), their arrangement in the linear order (N preceding the pronoun), and shared semantics (the repeated complement of the argument denoted by -ʿ(a)l). Second, from a typological perspective, Hasselbach (2013: 242) finds that the double-marking type in Semitic correlates with languages that display a “reduced or no case system” and “that do not have a definite article”; in her original formulation, the generalization in question applies to Syriac, but it can be easily observed that Ugaritic and Biblical Hebrew also possess both or one,

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respectively, of the parameters that Hasselbach ascribes to the Semitic doublemarking type, so interpreting their sequence a#h as an instance of this pattern (i.e., as a complex term-adv + pronominal adverb) is typologically sound. From a typological perspective, it is equally sound that the Akkadian termadv i co-occurs with a pronominal form š that is capable of behaving as a postposition and, as such, is capable of inhibiting the entire sequence iš from functioning as a double-marking type. This state of affairs is totally expected in the characterization of Akkadian as possessing parameters that are opposite to those that correlate with the double-marking type, i.e., a full-fledged case system and—according to Dolgopolsky (1991)—a definite article (cp. Sect. 2.1). More accurately, the complex iš thus defined represents a reinforced construction (dāriš being translatable in quasi-English as ‘for the eternity for’), which can be ‘cyclically’ reinforced by ana or um, in line with the doubling process that is operational in Akkadian (cp. Sect. 3.1). However, before proceeding, a word of caution is in order. The h-less counterpart of arṣa#h ‘to the earth, hither’, e.g., bta, clearly does not fall into the double-marking type and corresponds instead to (quasi-)English ‘to X’ (‘to home’, etc.). This correspondence is not surprising in typological terms, due to the transitional nature of the double-marking type, which always co-exists with more stable and simpler types of marking. Without entering into details, these non-doubly marked types can omit the pronominal form, as exemplified by Syriac men besr(y) ‘from my flesh’ (Hasselbach 2013: 229), just as bta does. Turning to the form of the Akkadian term-adv iš, the discussion on the subject of the viability of the lexical symmetry between š and h has supported an analysis of iš as a complex term-adv + pronominal form, which means that a morpheme-boundary intervenes between i and š (i.e., #i-š). It is exactly this formal behavior that explains the allomorphy between #i-š and a# that is observed in Akkadian and, what is more, is reconstructed for Early Semitic, as prosodically-conditioned, in that i is followed by a morpheme-boundary and a is followed by a word-boundary. In turn, the rationale behind the allomorphy in question appears to lie in the so-called ‘iconicity’, a principle of order that seeks the maximum correspondence between form and meaning and, as such, constitutes the intrasemiotic counterpart (i.e., it operates within a given sign) of the intersemiotic axiom of motivation that is discussed in Sect. 2 (operating instead among signs), as argued by Haiman (1980). In its aim of realigning form and meaning, iconicity takes the semantic-syntactic cut (cp. Bloomfield 1933: 161) between an NP and an adverb ([arṣato the earth][hhither ], cp. also [den Berg∅] [hinauf ]), as relevant, as opposed to the semantic-syntactic fusion of an NP with a postposition into a single larger phrase (cp. the postpositional phrases [dārifor the eternity š for ]), ([den Berg∅ hinauf ]) to reproduce, on the level of form,

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table 9.3

The Semitic term-adv: Historical manifestations

Type

Structural description

Language

#1 #2 #3 #4 #5

term-adv i i i a a

Akk X X X X

Right-side Environment AdvPF AdvPF +a(m) AdvPF +um None AdvPF

Ug

Examples BH

PCA X

X X

X X

X X

iš īša(m), īka īšum a ah

AdvPF = Pronominal form functioning as an adverb (š, h, k) such a semantic-syntactic cut by means of a word-boundary, which essentially ‘cuts’ the NP and the adverb into two separate words (arṣa#h); likewise, to reproduce, on the level of form, the aforementioned semantic-syntactic fusion by means of a morpheme-boundary, which in effect fuses at least a part of the NP, i.e., the case(-like) ending i, with the postposition into a single word (#i-š).28 To conclude, this section has developed an analysis of the morphosyntax of the Ugaritic/Biblical Hebrew local ending a#h, which has mainly relied on tests of isolability and substitution, to reveal that the a# found in it, along with the #i found in its Akkadian counterpart iš, is a formally and semantically independent unit, which should be identified with the real locus of term-adv, i.e., as a goal marker ‘to’ (cp. Sect. 3.1). This kind of result corroborates the ‘dualist’ reconstruction of the case and local endings of Early Semitic offered in Sect. 2, according to which the term-adv manifested itself as a# (along with iš) in this language stage. Another result from this analysis is a distributional restriction: the constituents right-adjacent to the Ugaritic/Biblical Hebrew termadv a# and the Akkadian #i must be pronominal (cp. š and h in #i-š and a#h, respectively), although an identical lexical nature of this sort does not imply their identical syntactic nature (š being a postposition and h a goal-adverb, i.e., ‘hither’). Taken as a whole, such historical manifestations of the Semitic term-adv yield the taxonomy summarized in the first six columns of Table 9.3 above (which abstracts away from its word-boundaries and postposition function).

28

Recall from Sect. 3.2 that the analytical character of the Semitic N tends to inhibit its fusion with other adnominal forms.

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3.3 Pre-Classical Arabic According to the received view, (P)CA has retained the loc-adv to a very limited extent, in the form of a V u, while it bears no trace of the term-adv at all (see e.g., Hasselbach 2013: 24). In spite of its philological orientation, this view, which has been chiefly elaborated on in the modern Western tradition, has tended to marginalize the textual sources produced by the medieval Arab grammarians and lexicographers, due to a rather biased skepticism toward them (cp. Sect. 1). In the wake of Edzard (2013), who argues for a renewed philological approach to Arabic that is capable of interacting with other linguistic approaches (comparative Semitics, typology, etc.), this section will consider this kind of primary sources in an effort to reassess the received description of PCA local endings and check their reassessed description against the validity of the ‘dualist’ reconstruction of the Early Semitic case and local endings presented in Sect. 2. Due to space limitations and practical considerations, not all analyses, as originally articulated by the Arab grammarians and lexicographers, can be discussed here adequately, and a selective criterion will instead be adopted to deal with them—a criterion that privileges distributional analyses, especially those included in the earlier and original sources (as opposed to the later and compilative ones). Taking the loc-adv as the departure point for a reassessment of the traditional description of PCA local endings, it is traditionally said to be phonologically realized as u (cp. Fleisch 1961: II, 501–502) and to occur in a word-final position, immediately after the third root-C of triconsonantal forms that tend to manifest themselves as CaCC. This generalization is implicit in the placeor time-adverbs ending in u (e.g., qablu ‘before’), as listed by Wright (1896: I, 288) and Fleisch (1961: II, 465–466, 501), which instantiate CaCC in 10 out of 17 cases (59%). Among the forms that do not fit into this generalization, the most notable is (min) ʿalu ‘(from) above’, as the biconsonantal nature of the ʿal form seemingly co-occurs with the loc-adv u, but this exception is only apparent. The u in ʿalu is in effect commutable with i (cp. the PCA form (min) ʿali: Fleisch 1961: II, 466, fn. 1) when preceded by the biconsonantal root ʿ(a)l, and, in doing so, it instantiates a PCA alternation that is typical of an ‘unstable’ glide w/y (cp. Rabin 1951: 89: ʿaṣautu/ʿaṣaitu ‘I stuck’, etc.), which precisely by virtue of its instability, according to Fleisch (1961: II, 402–405, 466, fn. 1; cp. also Weninger 2011: 153), has the status of a radical suffix in the process of evolving into a third root-C and then converting an originally biconsonantal root ʿ L into a triconsonantal root ʿ L W /Y. Fleisch’s interpretation does not necessarily invalidate the more intuitive hypothesis that the segments u and i co-occurring with ʿal might have originally been a loc-adv u and a term-adv i (for more details, see the end of

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Sect. 3.2). The point that we would like to make here is different: this radicallike alternation u/i provides strong distributional evidence that the combination of the biconsonantal root with a local ending originally had a phonological realization other than a bare u or i, and that a phonological realization of this sort is instead the ‘by-product’ of a later reanalysis of the local ending as a third root-C, itself part and parcel of an archaic, more general shift from biconsonantal to triconsonantal morphology.29 Given that reanalysis by definition never involves a drastic change on the segmental level (Esseesy 2008 and references therein) and that the root-morpheme output of reanalysis is a C, there is good reason to think that among the pre-reanalysis properties of the phonological realization of the loc-adv u and term-adv i is a (semi-)consonantal status (w, y)—an issue to which we will return at the end of this section. Thus, the distributional behavior of ʿalu (/ʿali) in the historical stages of PCA proves that it does not violate the generalization inferred from Wright’s and Fleisch’s list of place- and time-adverbs, being an ‘indeclinable’ and triconsonantal place-adverb [ʿalu] rather than a biconsonantal adverb ending in a loc-adv [ʿal] [u]—as also explicitly stated by Fleisch (1961: II, 466). However, the generalization that a segment u immediately follows the third root-C of a form CaCC (CaCC_) does not appear to be whole of the matter in terms of the PCA loc-adv. In fact, al-Ḫalīl also records a PCA form ladun ‘at’ (cp. Fleisch 1961: II, 487–488 and Kitāb al-ʿAyn VIII, 40: ladun bi-maʿnà ʿinda), which—on an intuitive level—looks like an association of the locative meaning with a segment u that occurs immediately after the second root-C (CaC_). We can pursue this intuition by examining the distributional account of this form that Sībawayhi (apud Baalbaki 2008: 155–156) provides, which offers the following points: (a) no u-to-i change (bināʾ) affects the u in ladun when the latter is preceded by min, e.g., min ladun-hu, as shown in the Koran (IV, 40 et passim), which leads Sībawayhi to rule out the interpretation of this instance of u as a case ending; relying on this Koranic data, he also rejects dialectal forms, such as ladan (cp. Fleisch 1961: II, 501), in which u varies with a, as ungrammatical;

29

This shift very likely dates back as far as Early Semitic: a similar place-adverb (/preposition) with a similar alternation is also found in Akkadian, namely elu/eli ‘on, above’ (von Soden 1995: 206).

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(b) the n in ladun is not dropped when followed by a suffix-pronoun in a CS (cp. the above Koranic example), and therefore cannot be analyzed as an instance of nunation; furthermore, (c) the same segment is at once word-final and V-less (majzūm), a bipartite condition that in Sībawayhi’s view instead points to its being a replacive morph that stands for a dropped third root-C w/y (ʾiʿtaqaba l-nūnu waḥarfu l-ʿillati ʿalà hāḏihi l-lafẓah); although Sībawayhi does not explicitly define such a bipartite condition as a replacive morph’s diagnostic criterion, as he simply regards it as a facile principium (Baalbaki 2008: 173), this criterion is inferred in his comparison of the n in ladun and the f-marker of sanatun, which in pause has the same word-final and V-less form (i.e., h) as the n in question (cp. Lisān al-ʿArab V, 4023: qāla sībawayhi … kamāʿtaqaba l-hāʾu wa-l-wāwu fī sanatin lāman). We can make sense of these distributional considerations by placing them in a broader comparative context. On the one hand, the sequence un behaves exactly as the Akkadian loc-adv um in that it can be both preceded by a P (cp. min ladun under (a) with ina bītum in Sect. 3.2) and not dropped when followed by a suffix-pronoun in a CS (cp. ladun-hu under (b) with šēpuššu < šēpumšu, and fn. 18 above). Therefore, in PCA, the relic-forms of loc-adv that ended in u, such as qablu, co-existed with relic forms that ended in un, such as ladun. On the other hand, Sībawayhi’s claim that the n in ladun is a replacive morph of a dropped third root-C is tantamount to saying, in modern terms, that the remaining sequence lad constitutes an archaic biconsonantal form CaC (cp. also yadun ‘hand’) because it has been long recognized, thanks to comparisons between (P)CA and other Afroasiatic languages, that an analysis of this kind is Arab grammarians’ attempt to ‘normalize’ biconsonantal words and accommodate them within a triconsonantal morphological framework (see e.g., Fleisch 1961: I, 254–256). There are three aspects that relate to a reconsideration of the replacive morph n along these lines. First, the n in ladun cannot be classified as a root-C, which means, via an argument by exclusion, that it functions as an ending, which partially confirms the loc-adv analysis of un that has been developed above. Second, the diachronic fact that a biconsonantal form represents an archaism, whereas its triconsonantal counterpart represents an innovation, and the distributional fact that the loc-adv un co-occurs with a biconsonantal form, whereas the loc-adv u co-occurs with a triconsonantal form, show that the former kind of loc-adv is older than the latter. Third, we can reformulate these two patterns of co-occurrence as a generalization that the increase of the bicon-

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sonantal form by one C (CaC > CaCC) correlates with the decrease of its ending by one C (uC > u)—a correlation that suggests the hypothesis that a given element, i.e., a single C, has undergone a change in constituency. Originally, this element was part of the loc-adv—technically speaking, the source constituent—and later became part of the biconsonantal form—the target constituent. Typologists refer to this process as a reanalysis subtype, the so-called ‘rebracketing’ (cp. Esseesy 2008), and impose on it a well-defined environment, namely that the element undergoing the change in constituency occupies, within the source constituent, a structural position adjacent to the target constituent. For instance, in the Middle English expression a napron ‘a tablecloth’, the C n originally belonged to the source constituent/N napron, in which it fulfilled an initial position right-adjacent to the target constituent/article a: [a] [napron]. Subsequently, it was such an adjacent environment that induced Middle English speakers to conceive of the C n as fulfilling a final position within the article a and to change its constituency: [an] [apron]. A direct cue for a similar analysis of the pair ladun/qablu (CaCuC → CaCCu) is provided by the expression min ladni-hi, an accepted Koranic variant of min ladun-hu (Baalbaki 2008: 156) that is characterized by an u-to-i change that affects the u of the loc-adv, to which we will return shortly, and by a metathesis of its n, which causes this C to be right-adjacent to the biconsonantal form lad, thus creating the environment required for rebracketing. More specifically, the latter provides the n in question, which originally was the initial C of the source constituent/loc-adv ([lad] [nu] = [a] [napron]), with the new structural position of the final C of the target constituent/lad ([ladn] [u] = [an] [apron]). Evidence to this effect comes from the aforementioned u-to-i change that is triggered by the P min (cp. the pair l-baytu/min-a l-bayti ‘(from) the house’): while the n belonging to the loc-adv does not tolerate a change of this sort (cp. min ladun-hu), the n functioning as the third-root C of a triconsonantal form CaCC does (cp. bi-ʿayni-hi ‘by himself’). Hence, to summarize, the pattern consisting of a C-less loc-adv u combined with a triconsonantal form CaCC, which is already known to the traditional description, actually develops through metathesis and reanalysis out of a pattern that consists of a loc-adv uC combined with a biconsonantal form CaC, which also ensures that the entire pattern at issue dates back to Early Semitic and, in doing so, validates this language stage’s ‘dualist’ reconstruction worked out in Sect. 2.1, which includes a loc-adv uC. In this regard, it is worth observing that the received view is not totally unaware of this interpretive scenario. On the one hand, a process of reanalysis has been dealt with above in connection with (min) ʿalu, which owes much to Fleisch (1961) and,

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at once, is highly reminiscent of the reanalysis undergone by ladun, as both share the change of a loc-adv into a third root-C and an original biconsonantal environment; on the other hand, Hummel (1957: 88) and Fleisch (1961: II, 61–63) have already proposed the decomposition of the core of the form halumma ‘here’ into a biconsonantal form CaC (hal) and a mimated loc-adv u that corresponds “to Akkadian -um” (Hummel 1957: 88), based on a comparison with Biblical Hebrew halom.30 In short, their analysis of halum(ma) parallels that of ladun invoked here; thus, the former further substantiates the latter.31 Having reassessed the received view on the PCA loc-adv, it is now time to check primary sources against the traditional claim that no trace of the Semitic term-adv has survived in this language, with the caveat that their use in the following discussion will be informed by the selective criterion already stated in connection with the re-examination of the PCA loc-adv. For reasons that will become clear in due course, a reassessment of the assumed lack of term-adv in PCA calls for a case study on the quite nebulous set of idiomatic expressions that end in the sequence ayka, notably dawālayka, ḥaw(ā)layka, hajājayka, and their related forms (e.g., dawālīka, ḥaw(ā)laka, hajāja, etc.).32 Dawālayka and the related form dawālīka have been an object of study since the initial stages of Arabic lexicography. Ibn Buzurj, a contemporary33 of ʾAbū l-Hayṯam (d. 226/840) reports (apud Lane 1863: III, 935) that such idiomatic

30

31

32

33

In passing, halom is among the relic forms that display a loc-adv in this language. Remarkably, the ending at issue exhibits a u-colored V and a final C that comport well with the Early Semitic reconstructed form um, as put forward in Sect. 2. Even more so, if we consider that a word-boundary intervenes between hal and um(ma), i.e., hal#um(ma), as much as it does between lad and u, i.e., lad#un, as shown by the ability of hal to occur in isolation in PCA (cp. Fleisch 1961: II, 62–63). In this respect un and um parallel iš (#iš). Regarding the sequence ma that follows halum, it arguably corresponds, again, to the Akkadian ma (Hummel 1957: 88) and can be accordingly interpreted as an emphatic marker that, in this case, represents the formal correlate of the exclamative force that is associated with the entire expression halumma. Fleisch (1961: II, 62) contends that the function of the imperative verb (‘come!’) that is ascribed to halumma in Arabic lexicography is a late development that might have been favored precisely by this kind of pragmatic property through reanalysis, with the subsequent loss of locative meaning, and the emergence of verbal conjugation. A good English summary of many of these interpretations can be found in Seidensticker (2010: 295–296), who discusses an expression that shares with dawālayka, etc., the puzzling sequence ayka, i.e., labbayka. Cp. also Lane (1863) under the lemmas ḥawālayka, dawālayka, and labbayka. Cp. Lane (1863: I, xxx).

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expressions mean ‘with an affected inclining of the body from side to side’ in PCA, either alone or in combination with the motion verb mašà34 ‘to walk’ ( yamšī dawālayka/dawālīka). Ḥawālayka and the related form ḥawlaka have been investigated by early lexicographers al-Ḫalīl and ʾAbū l-Hayṯam (d. 226/840), who basically reduce ḥawālayka to a CS formed by an N in the du (ay) and a 2sg suffix-pronoun (ka), with the form ḥawlaka corresponding to the sg of ḥaw(ā)layka (waḥawālayka taṯniyatu ḥawlaka taqūlu l-nāsu ḥawlaka ḥawlayka wa-ḥawālayka: Lisān al-ʿArab VI, 4615). Al-Ḫalīl also mentions an allomorph of the du-form ḥawālay, which manifests itself as ḥawālà and occurs when the second member of the CS is an N (e.g., ḥawālà l-dāri) instead of a 2sg suffix-pronoun (ka). Interestingly, he glosses such expressions as ‘two sides’ (taqūlu ḥawālà l-dāri ka-ʾanna-hā fī l-ʾaṣli ḥawālayni ka-qawlika jānibayni:35 Kitāb al-ʿAyn III, 298). AlʾAzharī complements Al-Ḫalīl’s data by adding that the sequence ka can be replaced by the sequence hu/hi in the forms ḥawālayka and ḥawlaka et similia: wa-huwa ḥawlahu wa-ḥawlayhi wa-ḥawālayhi wa-ḥawālahu (Lisān al-ʿArab II, 1055). Finally, the form hajājayka is paraphrased by the lexicographer al-ʾAsmaʿī (d. 213/828) as a pl-form of the verb kaffa/yakuffu ʿan (taqūlu li-l-nāsi ʾiḏā ʾaradta ʾan yakuffū ʿan-i l-šayʾi hajājayka wa-haḏāḏayka: Lisān al-ʿArab VI, 4615), which conveys a (metaphorical) meaning of motion ‘to leave, to refrain from’ in (P)CA (cp. Lane 1863: VIII, 3001). Moreover, an anonymous source (apud Lane 1863: VIII, 2879) informs us that the forms related to hajājayka are hajājayhi and hajāja, which either replace the sequence ka with the sequence hi or drop it; they also both co-occur with the verb rakiba (rakiba hajājayhi/hajāja) to express the meaning of ‘to go at random’, an expression that arguably implies by its own nature a motion from (at least) one place to another.36

34 35

36

In this paper, the symbol à transliterates the (P)CA grapheme ʾalif maqṣūrah. In addition to Kitāb al-ʿAyn III, 298, the passage under discussion is also found in Lisān al-ʿArab II, 1055, which incorporates it through the mediation of al-ʾAzharī’s (d. 370/981) Tahḏīb, except for the phrase ka-qawlika jānibayni. The two modern critical editions of Kitāb al-ʿAyn and Lisān al-ʿArab consulted here crucially differ regarding the vocalization of the consonantal ductus ⟨ḥwāly⟩ occurring in this passage: the edited text of Lisān alʿArab adopts ḥawālà, whereas that of Kitāb al-ʿAyn adopts ḥawālay. The former reading is preferred here over the latter due to the philological principle of lectio difficilior potior, a du-form ending with à being much less expected than one ending in ay. The variant rakiba hajāji has been also transmitted by the same source, but it will not be further discussed here due to the South Arabian origin of the morphological pattern CaCāCi, after which hajāji is modeled. See fn. 6 above.

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On the whole, one common semantic feature appears to cut across these three interpretations of dawālayka, etc., ḥawālayka, etc., and hajājayka, etc.: the idea of ‘motion from one point in space to another’, which is well-defined in the interpretations of dawālayka, etc., and hajājayka, etc., as is inferred from their glosses as ‘to walk from … to’ and ‘to go at random (from … to)’; this idea is less specified in the case of ḥawālayka, etc., denoting only two points in space with no reference to a related process of motion. More accurately, the semantic feature under scrutiny underlies the sequences ay, ī, à, and a in dawālayka, ḥawālayka, hajājayka and related forms, i.e., these forms minus the sequences dawāl, ḥawāl, hajāj and ka, hu/hi, N (e.g., l-dāri), as the first group of sequences is associated with different nuances of the idea of ‘motion from one point in space to another’ (‘to walk’, ‘to go’ or none, respectively) in the sources examined, and the second group of sequences is therein described as an ‘unstable’ set of elements that alternate with each other in a structure-final position (e.g., ḥawālay-ka/hi). To determine whether the interpretations in question are reliable or not, it is helpful to stress that the considerable convergence in results among them— notably, the common idea of motion from one point in space to another— is proof of their reliability because the result obtained by means of a given interpretation is indirectly confirmed by the same result independently arrived at by another interpretation, and vice versa. By this line of reasoning, the lack of convergence of these sources relative to the correspondence between the sequence ka on the level of form and the 2sg on the level of meaning—a result that is confined to the interpretation of ḥawālayka and related forms—makes such a correspondence highly questionable. The correspondence at issue is also falsified by two counterexamples of distributional character. First, Ibn Buzurj (apud Lane 1863: III, 935) describes dawālayka as capable of co-occurring with the article l- (l-dawālayka), which implies that it cannot be parsed as a complex dawālay+ka, i.e., as a CS-head marked for du, followed by a 2sg suffix-pronoun ka, contrary to what the interpretation of ḥawālayka states; otherwise, the CS-head in question would be ungrammatically combined with l-. Second, a substitution test that the Arab grammarians (apud Fleisch 1961: II, 36) originally formulated for the pronominal domain to determine which of the sequences ka/kum denote a 2sg/pl and which do not yields the latter outcome when applied to the ka that occurs in ḥawālayka. For instance, the pronominal form ḏalika/kum ‘that’, which is traditionally referred to as a distal deictic, does not tolerate the substitution of its structurefinal sequences ka/kum with an N, e.g., Zayd (ḏalika/kum → *ḏalizaydin/zaydīna), in sharp contrast with forms that display sequences ka/kum that function as bona fide 2sg/pl in the same structural position (ḍarabtuka/kum ‘I hit you’

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→ ḍarabtu zaydan/zaydīna ‘I hit Z.’). By the same token, the form ḥawālayka does not tolerate the substitution of its structure-final sequence ka with an N such as dār, which instead requires the dedicated form ḥawālà (ḥawālay → *ḥawālay l-dār). The attentive reader will have also noticed that the sequence hi in ḥawālayhi parallels ka in terms of its ability to co-occur with the forms ḥawālay in a structure-final position, so its replacement with an N results, again, in an ungrammatical result (ḥawālayhi → *ḥawālà l-dār) that militates against its analysis as a 3sg suffix-pronoun. All in all, a survey of the lexicographical sources along the aforementioned lines, which concentrates on the set of idiomatic expressions dawālayka, ḥaw(ā)layka, hajājayka, etc., provides a negative definition of their sequences ka, hu and hi (≠ 2/3sg suffix-pronoun), while revealing that a single sequence, such as ay, ī, à, and a, on the level of form expresses two complementary ideas of motion (‘from one place’ and ‘to another place’), which is a diagnostic property of an ‘elliptical’ goal marker, as shown in Sect. 3.2 (cp. to in day-to-day). It follows that a sequence, such as ay, ī, à, and a, is a goal marker and, as a corollary, that the sequence preceding it, such as dawāl, ḥawāl, and hajāj, is an N. That said, the goal-marker status of the sequences ay, ī, à, and a is a necessary— though insufficient—condition for identifying these sequences as instances of term-adv. In fact, it has been clarified at the end of Sect. 3.2 that the other necessary condition for positing a term-adv is that any constituent right-adjacent to it is a pronominal form—specifically a postposition (cp. š) or a goal-adverb (cp. h). Now, the fact that the sequences ka, hu, and hi occupy exactly a rightadjacent position relative to the goal markers ay, ī, and a suggests the hypothesis that they are pronominal forms performing either a postpositional or adverbial function and that these goal markers are instances of term-adv. The burden of proof for this hypothesis rests on an environment different from the nominal forms dawālay, ḥaw(ā)lay, hajājay, etc., within which ka occurs, notably the pronominal form ḏalika, which alternates in PCA with ḏalikum, as alluded to above. Although the received view assumes this alternation to be a function of the opposition sg vs. pl endings a and um of the second-person suffix-pronoun, we can hardly espouse this view, given that the aforementioned substitution test ḏalika/kum → *ḏalizaydin/zaydīna falsifies the analysis of the sequences ka/kum of ḏalika/kum as second-person suffix-pronouns. Instead, the fact that these endings occur in a space-denoting environment (cp. the deictic meaning of ḏalika/kum) highlights that they are local endings, which leads to equating the a in (ḏalik)a with a term-adv and the u in (ḏalik)um with a loc-adv (to which PCA also attests in the form halumma; see the beginning of this section).

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In this light, in the forms ḏalika/kum, the segment a and the sequence um are local endings that separately follow the segment k, very much as the local endings a and um separately follow the pronominal goal-adverb š of the local ending iš in the forms kirīšum and anīša(m) (cp. Sect. 3.1). Such a parallelism supports an analysis of k as a pronominal goal-adverb,37 which has since been reanalyzed, along with a/um, as a non-pausal form of the 2sg/pl suffix-pronoun due to its formal identity with the latter and its obsolete meaning. In turn, this distributional evidence means that the sequences ay, ī, and a that co-occur with ka, and, by extension, with à, can be classified as instances of term-adv; therefore, the traditional claim that (P)CA bears no trace of this local ending should be reassessed accordingly. There are three interesting aspects to this outcome. First, all the instances of term-adv ay, ī, à, and a, as attested in dawālayka, etc., occur within 3 out the 5 environments historically documented for this local ending outside PCA (cp. Table 9.3 above), with the notable exception of ay and à—which is explained in the next section. Drawing on such a striking parallelism between the Akkadian, etc., instances of term-adv and its PCA counterparts, the same considerations made in terms of the former also carry over to the latter to validate the ‘dualist’ reconstruction of Early Semitic developed in Sect. 2.1, according to which this language stage instantiates the term-adv endings iC and a#. Second, because of their commutability with ka in the environments ḥawālay and ḥawla, the sequences hu and hi can be interpreted in the same manner and are thus amenable to a C-less, pronominal goal-adverb h (cp. Ugaritic and Biblical Hebrew) that has been reanalyzed as a 3sg suffix-pronoun because of its obsolete meaning and its formal identity with the equally C-less pausal form of the suffix-pronoun in question. Lastly, the term-adv endings ay and à are in complementary distribution in the related forms ḥawālay and ḥawālà, with one co-occurring with the hi that results from reanalysis and the other with an N. However, it stands to reason that no pattern of this sort existed prior to reanalysis and that these instances of term-adv were instead in free variation because it can be hardly accepted on semantic grounds that a pronominal adverb, such as h, could have entered into an opposition with an N.

37

Cp. also Fleisch (1961: I, 67–68), who likens k to a pronominal adverb based on comparative evidence, such as Biblical Hebrew kō ‘so’. When occurring within the distal deictic ḏalika/kum, etc., the (reinforced) form k(a/um) ‘hither’ might arguably have contributed to the distal meaning, not unlike da ‘there’ in the German deictic das da ‘that’: cp. Fleisch (1961: II, 33 ff.).

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Even if this reconstruction of the free variation ay/à is mainly based on the PCA forms ḥawālà\ay, other forms exist in PCA, such as ladà/laday ‘at’ and ʿalà/ʿalay ‘over, against’, which—just as ḥawālà\ay do—strongly associate it with a goal-function (cp. ʿalà/ʿalay) and/or assign it a pattern of complementary distribution through polarization (e.g., ʿalà + N/ʿalay-hi). Therefore, a case can be made for interpreting the sequences ay/à in ladà/laday, ʿalà/ʿalay, etc., as instances of term-adv that occur within the environment of a biconsonantal root lad, ʿal, etc., (for more, see the discussion about the PCA loc-adv), i.e., as [lad] [ay/à], [ʿal] [ay/à], etc. This fact, combined with the fact that PCA attests to pairs such as raddatu/raddaytu ‘I gave back’ (apud Rabin 1951: 163), in which glide deletion plausibly targets the sequence ay (ay > a) in the environment CaCC, lends credibility to the following hypothesis: The term-adv a that is found in the forms ḥaw(ā)la and hajāja is a prosodically-conditioned allomorph of the term-adv ay and is associated with the environment of a triconsonantal root, in the sense that the biconsonantal environment of ay (e.g., CaC: lad), when expanded through a third root-C (e.g., CaC(ā)C: ḥaw(ā)l, hajāj), undergoes some kind of resyllabification, which in turn is conducive to the re-accentuation and concomitant phonological reduction of ay into a, in the form of a glide deletion. On this count, root morphology plays a crucial role in the diachronic development of the term-adv—even more so, if we consider that the combination of the term-adv ay, consisting of a single C, with the biconsonantal root that diachronically correlates with it ([lad][ay]), results in a prosodic structure of three Cs that, at a later stage, when the triconsonantal morphology emerges, can be easily reanalyzed as a triconsonantal root ([laday]), with the aim of realigning it to the new morphological trend. Language-internal evidence to this effect comes from similar reanalysis processes that have been revealed at the beginning of this section to affect the locative counterpart of the termadv, notably the loc-adv in ladun, (min) ʿalu. The investigation of the form (min) ʿalu has also revealed that, prior to reanalysis, the biconsonantal root cooccurred with a morpheme formally identical to a root-C, i.e., a glide alone, instead of the sequence ay. At the current research stage, we can thus offer two competing reconstructions for the form of the term-adv that co-occurs with a biconsonantal root: either the aforementioned ay ([lad][ay]) or y ([lad][y]), which both go back to Early Semitic (cp. fn. 29 above). Be that as it may, it is evident from a reconstruction along the aforementioned lines that iconicity is the ultimate factor responsible for the glide’s reanalysis as a third root-C, because a reanalysis of this sort places a wordboundary between the N that ends in the term-adv ay or y and the adverb k with which it co-occurs, to reproduce a semantic-syntactic ‘cut’ between them

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on the level of form, as alluded to at the end of Sect. 3.2. It is also evident that the problem of the fusion of an adnominal form, such as the term-adv (a)y, with a Semitic N, in violation of the latter’s analytical character, as noted in the fnn. 22 and 23 above (N-y#k or N-ay#k instead of N#y-k or N#ay-k, etc.), evaporates as soon as this kind of fusion proves to be the result of the aforementioned reanalysis from a term-adv to a third root-C rather than the original condition of the N. After all, the fusion of a given root-C with a biconsonantal N-root within the same word-domain (CC-C#) is a familiar phenomenon to Semiticists and Arabists (cp. the (P)CA alternation damun ‘blood.sg-subj’/dumiyyun ‘blood.pl-subj’, with a Y added to the root D M). More specifically, this process runs along the following lines: first, a biconsonantal N is combined with the term-adv y or ay and the related pronominal adverb k, but the morpheme-boundary intervening between the term-adv and its adverb k is non-iconic, as discussed at length in Sect. 3.2 ([CaC]N#ayk or [CaC]N#y-k); the term-adv is then reanalyzed as a third root-C because of iconicity, with the word-boundary accordingly reshaped as intervening ‘iconically’ between the term-adv and the pronominal adverb ([CaCay]N#k or [CaCy]N#k); finally, when the triconsonantal N supersedes its biconsonantal counterpart, it inherits the new prosodic property in a generalized manner ([CaCCay]N #) and also undergoes glide deletion, as alluded to above ([CaCCa]N #). The conclusion is a sobering one: a close examination of primary lexicographic sources, which privileges earlier and/or distributional accounts, shows that, contrary to the traditional view, PCA retains some relic forms of loc-adv and term-adv that are either formally equivalent to those found in cognate languages (cp. um in halum(ma), ḏalikum and a, ah in hajāja, ḥawlah(u)) or language-specific (cp. the nunation, instead of mimation, in the un of ladun and the term-adv endings ay and à). This examination also reveals the ancestors of these local endings, phonologically realized as w and y, and the role of iconicity in violating the analytical character of the N. Before proceeding to the next section, another remark is in order. Focusing on a phonemic level rather than a graphemic level, the term-adv à in free variation with ay will be transliterated henceforth as ya, in the vein of recent textual research by Owens (2006: 199ff.), primarily based on al-Kitāb, which identifies the PCA grapheme ʾalif maqṣūrah with an on-glide (i.e., falling) diphthong ya.

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Further Consequences

4.1 The Reconstruction of the Terminative-Adverbial In the reassessment of Semitic local endings, we have made significant use of some interpretive tools from language typology, which can be summarized in the following form of simple implicational generalizations (‘if X, then Y’) to further our knowledge of such endings behaviors in the reconstructed Early Semitic stage. Given a Semitic language S,38 (1) if S manifests a marked construction, such as the double-marking type, then S also manifests its non-doubly marked counterpart (cp. Ugaritic bta(y) ‘to (my) house’ vs. arṣa#h ‘to the earth, hither’ in Sect. 3.2); (2) if S does not manifest a case system or manifests a reduced case system, then S will employ a double-marking type that features a pronominal form (cp. the end of Sect. 3.2); (3) if S manifests a local postposition, then S will also manifest a local adverb that functions as a pronominal form in a double-marking type (cp. the adverb > postposition grammaticalization pattern in Sect. 3.2); (4) if S manifests a local postposition and a local adverb, then S will display two different prosodic forms for them that iconically correspond to their semantic functions, i.e., a morpheme-boundary and word-boundary (cp. the end of Sect. 3.2). By virtue of the generalization in (2), the three case endings u, a, and i that are reconstructed for Early Semitic, and distributed into the binary VHIGHCparadigm and singleton VLOW#-paradigm formally constitute—whatever their ultimate function—a case system that is reduced enough to imply a doublemarking type. Because of the reconstructed Early Semitic goal-postposition š, the same type is also implied by the generalization in (3), with the caveat that its goal-adverb could have not been phonologically realized as h, as Weninger (2011: 168) convincingly argues that the pronominal h represents a later (e.g., North-West Semitic) innovation. It is at this point that the generalization in (4) comes into play, by making the pronominal k that is attested in PCA (cp. the case study in the forms ḥawla#ka, ḥaw(ā)lay#ka, etc., in Sect. 3.3) the most suitable candidate for the role of the goal-adverb that correlates with š in Early Semitic, in that the left-environment of k, notably the term-advs a# and

38

This condition is important: the generalizations below are not necessarily valid crosslinguistically.

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ay#—along with its free variant ya# (cp. the end of Sect. 3.3)—include a wordboundary that is iconically opposed to the morpheme-boundary included in the left-environment of š (i.e., the term-adv i-). This reconstruction gains plausibility from a comparative consideration: the pronominal k, unlike its counterpart h, can be traced back as far as Early Semitic (Weninger 2011: 169). Last but not least, the generalization in (1) clarifies that the double-marking type that manifests its pronominal form in the form of k, i.e., N-a/ay/ya#k ‘to N, hither’ (cp. arṣa#h ‘to the earth, hither’), should have co-existed with a non-doubly-marked counterpart, in which no pronominal form occurred, i.e., N-a/ay/ya# (cp. bta(y) ‘to (my) house’). As a first approximation, we can then reconstruct four developmental stages for the Early Semitic term-adv: Stage I:

a biconsonantal morphology is still predominant, and the termadvs ay, ya, or a rather puzzling y (cp. the two competing reconstructions presented at the end of Sect. 3.3) occur, also along with the pronominal form k, to form a doubly-marked type. Stage II: in a transition from biconsonantal to triconsonantal morphology, such endings undergo an ‘iconic’ reanalysis as a third root-C with concomitant restructuring of their word-boundary, along the lines described at the end of Sect. 3.3, with all other things being equal. Stage III: a triconsonantal morphology takes over, and the term-adv a also occurs, along the lines described at the end of Sect. 3.3, with all other things being equal. Stage IV: a sequence iš also occurs, made up of a term-adv i fused with a pronominal š that (also) functions as a postposition.

In this diachronic development, a change k > š is observable, which can be straightforwardly accounted for as a ‘by-product’ of the opposition wordboundary vs. morpheme-boundary. While the former boundary blocks the adjacency of a high vocoid i or y (on which, see fn. 9 above) with k, the latter induces it, which produces the conditions for the palatalization of k into š (cp. the PCA phenomenon of kaškašah: ki ‘you.f’ > ši ‘id.’: Rabin 1951: 126). The diachronic development under scrutiny also includes the free variation ay/ya discussed at the end of Sect. 3.3, the most salient property of which is the ability of the V a to co-occur either before or after the glide y. Another key property of this variation is its increasing sonority: the glide y simultaneously occupies the highest rank in the sonority hierarchy (Clements 1990: 292) and a word-final position (cp. the word-boundary immediately after it), which means

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that a root-C will always precede such a glide and will be always lower than the glide in sonority (C *gu- had occurred. In front of certain consonants, this development already dates back to Middle Persian, e.g. the formations prefixed with *wi- in gumēz- ‘to urinate’, gumān ‘doubt’ (in front of -m), and forms with initial *wir° such as gurg ‘wolf’ (*wirka < *wṛka-), gurdag ‘kidney’ (*wirta < *wṛt(k)a-). As the Manichaean texts from Central Asia, in which we still find the Middle Persian form wnʾẖ, date back around 4–5th cent. ce, we may postulate that the Persian form gunāh was borrowed into preIslamic Arabic in the 5–6th cent. ce, notably in the Muʿallaqah of al-Ḥārith b. Ḥiliza (o. 580 ce), in the bayt: aʿalaynā junāḥu kindata ʾan yaγnama γāzī-himu wa minnā al-jazāʾu ‘Was it ours, say, the blame of it all, when Kindah took your

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booths for a spoil, that of us you claim it?’ (transl. Blunt 1903: 48). Incidently, the realisation of pharyngeal ḥ for Iranian h is not without examples, e.g. (nonQurʾānic) Arabic tabaḥbaḥa ‘to have it good, be prosperous’ (< Pers. bah bah ‘bravo!’), šāḥ (besides šāh) ‘(Persian) king’ < šāh (Eilers 1971: 610), perhaps on account of a labial(ized) vowel? -jund ‘Host, Army, Troop, Force’ This well attested Arabic form is considered to be a borrowing from Persian gund, although it is well established in the Middle Aramaic dialects, e.g. Syr. gwdʾ /guddā/, Mandaic gwndʾ, gwdʾ, Judeo-Babylonian Aramaic gwndʾ ‘troops’. It is attested in a restricted number of apparently neighbouring languages: MP gund, Parth. gwnd, Class. Arm. gund (< Parth.), also Byzantine Greek gounda. The old connection with Sanskrit vṛnda- ‘host, group’, first postulated by the German orientalist de Lagarde (1884), has been accepted by a number of prominent iranists, such as Bailey (1955: 73), and, recently, Rossi (2002). But there are few problems with the assumption of an Iranian or IndoIranian origin of Arabic jund, Pers. gund, etc. as pointed out by Ciancaglini (2008: 135). The Aramaic forms are both frequent and of an early date, which, if they were of Iranian origin, would have gone back to an Imperial Aramaic borrowing from Old Persian (or Arsacid Parthian). An Parthian or Old Persian form *gunda- makes the proposed connection with Sanskrit vṛnda- impossible. Skt. vṛnda- would have called for an Old Persian correspondence *vṛnda- or *vunda- (with loss of vocalic ṛ, similar to kunav- pres. stem ‘make, do’ < *kṛnaw). Not to mention, the sheer isolation of Middle Persian / Parthian gund within the Iranian languages is rather suspicious. Also postulating a Semitic origin, which was suggested by Szemerényi (1980: 232f.), from Semitic gunn, cf. Akkadian gunnu ‘elite troops’, is fraught with phonological difficulties as well, as the suggested “hypercorrect dissimilation” of *nn > *nd is without parallel in (Middle) Persian (or Parthian). Finally, Rossi, l.c., still assumes an Iranian origin, but he considers the ‘host, army’ meaning of gund to be secondary. The meaning would have developed from older ‘globular, round mass’, and thus envisaging an Old Iranian term *gunda-, cf. Avestan gunda- ‘lump of dough’, Khwarezmian γwndyk ‘ball’, Middle Persian gund ‘testicle’ and in many other Iranian languages. The semantic shift is comparable to the meaning of the English military term corps ‘an army unit’, which has developed from, ultimately, Latin corpus ‘body; mass; flesh (of the body, fruit)’.

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-ḥūr Beautiful Maidens in the Hereafter (Usually as ḥūr ʿīn in the Qurʾān), Attested 4 Times One of the enchanting aspects of the afterlife as described in the Qurʾān is that the deceased righteous will be paired to beautiful ḥūr. The traditional etymology is that ḥūr derives from ḥawira, ḥār, cf. Syriac ḥawwar ‘to whiten’, Mand. ḥauar ‘id, wash (off)’, Hebr. ḥiwēr ‘to be white’. It has long been recognized (cf. Haug 1872: LXI; Berthels 1924: 263ff.) though that this Qurʾānic imagery clearly recalls the Zoroastrian depiction of the righteous soul meeting a beautiful girl in paradise, provided that he has performed good deeds during his life. This motif is well attested, notably, in two ancient pre-Islamic Avestan texts, the fragmentary Haδōxt nask and the book Vidēvdād: i. Haδōxt nask 2:11 āat̰ he paiti.aoxta yā huua daēna, azəm bā tē ahmi yum humanō huuacō hušiiaoθana hudaēna yā huua daēna xvaēpaiθe tanuuō, cišca θuuąm cakana auua masanaca vaŋhānaca sraiianaca hubaoiδitaca vərəθrająstaca paiti.duuaēšaiiaṇtaca yaθa yat̰ me saδaiiehi ‘Thus she, being his own vision [i.e. daēna, s.v. dīn], answers him: “I am you, young, with good thoughts, good words, good deeds, and good religion, as I am your own vision. Everyone has loved you for that greatness, goodness, fairness, well-scentedness, victorious might and antidote against hostility, in which you appear to me” ’; ii. Vidēvdād 19.30 hāu srīra kərəta taxma huraoδa jasaiti spānauuaiti niuuauuaiti pasuuaiti yaoxštauuaiti hunarauuaiti …. hā ashāunąm uruuānō tarasca harąm bərəzaitīm āsənaoiti tarō cinuuatō pərətūm vīδāraiieiti haētō mainiiauuanąm ýazatanąm ‘there comes that beautiful one, strong, fair of form, accompanied by two dogs at her sides. She comes over the high Hara and takes the souls of the just over the Činvadbridge, to the ramparts of the spiritual yazatas’. On the other hand, had the deceased person behaved badly during his life, he would have seen the outcome in the appearance of an ugly hag. Consequently, some scholars sought an Iranian origin for ḥūr, including Jeffery. None of the suggested Iranian connections are semantically or phonologically without problems. However, the connection with MP hū ̆ rust ‘well grown’ (preferred by Jeffery) is the most attractive. According to the 9th cent. Ardā Wirāz Nāmag (the well-known Zoroastrian “Divina Commedia”), the maiden

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in the afterlife is described as hū ̆ rust ‘well grown’, with frāz-pēstān ‘prominent breasts’, dēr … angušt ‘long fingers’ and hū ̆ dōšagtar nigērišn abāyišnīgtar ‘a most pleasing and fitting appearance’. In Sūrah 78:33, we find a reference to kawāʿiba atrāban ‘full-breasted [companions] of equal age’, which may describe those ḥūr. Even the “sweet smell” that emanates from this maiden, which is mentioned in the Ardā Wirāz Nāmag (and the Avestan texts), is also a trait of the Qurʾānic ḥūr, according to e.g. the Hadith transmitter Ṣaḥīḥ al-Bukhārī 52: 53 wa law anna amratan min ahli aljannati aṭṭalaʿat ilā ahli al-arḍi lā ḍāʾat mā bayn-humā wa la malaʾt-hu rīḥan, wa la naṣīfu-hā ʿalā raʾsi-hā xayr-min al-dunyā wa mā fī-hā. ‘And if a houri [in the text: amratan] from Paradise appeared to the people of the earth, she would fill the space between Heaven and the Earth with light and pleasant scent and her head cover is better than the world and whatever is in it.’ (transl. Muhsin Khan, http://sunnah.com/bukhari). The meaning of ḥūr as “the White ones” might be considered a folk etymology. However, if Arabic ḥūr were from Middle Persian hū ̆ rust, the final -st would necessitate an explanation. The typical Qurʾānic expression ḥūr ʿīn may give us a clue. This ʿīn is difficult to analyze within Arabic morphology, and many Islamic Qurʾān exegetes have struggled to interpret this form, which seems like a derivation of ʿayn ‘eye’. The plural forms of ʿayn are ʿuyūn and aʿyun. According to the 13th c. lexicographer Ibn Manẓūr (Lisān al-ʿArab XIII: 302b), ʿīn would be the plural of a putative feminine adjectival formation ‘aynā’ ‘large-eyed’, but the interpretation appears to be contextual, rather than rooted in linguistic reality. The form ʿīn is clearly the lectio difficilior, which would, no doubt, have been “grammatically” corrected in profane texts, such as in the famous poem of the Jahiliyya poet ʿAbīd b. al-Abraṣ (VI:24): wa awānisin miθli al-dumā ḥūri al-ʿuyūni qad istabaynā ‘And many damsels fair as statues, with large black eyes, have we taken captive’ (Lyall 1913: 29). In short, the expression ḥūr ʿīn is probably one word. This formation *ḥūrʿīn would go back to an Iranian exocentric compound *hūrōyīn/ m6 ‘of good growth’, which is etymologically related to Middle Persian hū ̆ rust. This *hūrōyīn/ m is perhaps the Middle Persian development of the learned Avestan term (acc. sg.) *hūrauδīm, which has also been borrowed into Parthian, e.g. as the name of the ruler ΥΡΩΔΗΣ /hūrōdēs/ (57–38bce), frequently attested on coins. This expression appears as huraōim in the Zoroastrian catechism Pursišnīhā ‘Questions’, in Question 43. The spelling huraōim is considered to be “wrong” by modern philologists, and has therefore been emendated to “correct” Aves-

6 The exact pronunciation of the final nasal is uncertain.

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tan +huraoiδīm, as by Bartholomae in his Altiranisches Wörterbuch, and subsequently accepted in the critical edition of Jamaspa-Humbach (1971: 64f.). In fact, more likely, huraōim merely reflected the late (Middle) Persian pronunciation, with its typical loss of old post-vocalic -d. Again, huraōim appears in the context of maintaining the Good Religion (dēn). In the whole borrowing process from MP to (pre-Islamic) Arabic, *hūrōyī n/ m would have been rendered as *ḥūrūʿīn, to which secondarily a singular (collective) formation *ḥūrʿīn was created, comparable to sec. sg. bayδaq, baydaq ‘pawn (in chess)’ (from bayādiq < MP payādag ‘on foot; foot-soldier’ = NP piyādah). As for remaining phonological peculiarities, the realisation of pharyngeal ḥ for Ir. h is similar to junāḥ from gunāh, as discussed above. The appearance of ʿayn in front of a high front vowel is somewhat surprising, but phonetically, not without a precedent, viz. a secondary ʿayn can be observed in ʿīrāq, historically, in reference to lower Mesopotamia, from early MP *ērak, (late) MP ērag ‘lower, southern’ (the Arabic form with long -ā- is on account of the association with īrān), and also ʿifrīt ‘demon’ < (early) MP āfrīd/t ‘created’, perhaps via Aramaic/Syriac, and, of course, ʿĪsā Jesus < Syr. yešuʿ, Mand. ʿšu < Hebr. yēšūʿa (cf. LW Gr. Iēsoũs, Sogd. yyšw). -dīn ‘Religion, Profession of Faith’ Arabic dīn is mentioned in the Qurʾān numerous times. The term with this meaning is clearly a loanword from Middle Iranian, either MP or Parthian dēn, which itself is an old learned borrowing from Av. daēnā- f. ‘vision; belief’, possibly via Aram., cf. Syr. d’yn, dyn. There is also the homonym dīn ‘debt’, which is, however, of Semitic origin. - rizq ‘Bounty, Provision’ The term rizq is very frequent in the Qurʾān and is often in the context of a reward. This form is ultimately from early MP rōzīk ‘daily bread, sustenance’, which was subsequently borrowed into Syriac as rwzyqʾ /roziqā/ ‘daily bread, military ration’ (Ciancaglini 2008: 255). The Arabic formation appears to be borrowed via Aramaic. In Arabic it may have been interpreted as a verbal form *ruziqa ‘to be given in support, endowed’ and subsequently modeled after rafada ‘to bestow, support’ (abstr. rifd ‘gif, support’). -rauḍa ‘Well Watered Meadow’, (Later) ‘Luxurious Garden’, Attested Twice This form appears to be from Persian, and on account of the diphthong, it may even be from Old Persian rautah- ‘river’. Eilers (1962: 205) postulated a Middle

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Persian form *rōδaγ from which Arabic supposedly borrowed, does not exist nor can it explain the diphthong in the Arabic form. The voiced, emphatic -ḍ- needs an explanation though, the emphatic feature is perhaps on account of the preceding back vowel, cf. ḍubāra ‘(bundle of) document(s)’ (related to dabīr ‘scribe’), or, this formation may show contamination with Arab. arḍ ‘earth, land’? -zarābī (pl.) ‘Rich Carpets’, (sg.) zirbiyyah, zarbiyyah, Attested Once A Persian origin was first suggested by Georg Hoffman to Fraenkel (1886: 93) in a letter, from zēr-pā ‘under the foot’ (= MP ēr-pāy), but, the suggested semantic shift is difficult to explain. Jeffery adds that not zēr ‘under’, but rather zar(r) ‘gold’ might be the first element. Indeed, in Iranian, we encounter Sogd. zyrnpδʾk, NP zarrīnpāyah ‘golden-legged’, which, however, can hardly refer to a carpet. Jeffery himself rather prefers the possibility that it has an Ethiopic origin, cf. Geʾez zarbet, which was entertained by Noeldeke (1910: 53), but both the Geʾez and Arabic forms are isolated. Rather, the term zarābī may be a qualifying adjective for a special type of Persian carpets, used notably in trade, a zar(r)ābī ‘gold coloured (one), with a golden sheen’, which was already suggested by Eilers (1962: 205). The composition of this formation is comparable to sīm-ābī ‘silver-coloured’, as in čādur-i sīmābī az rōy-i ʿarūs-i ʿālam barkašīdand ‘They lifted the silver-coloured veil from the face of the world’s bride’ (Sindbād-nāmah). -zūr ‘Falsehood’, Attested Four Times Clearly a borrowing from MP zūr ‘falsehood, deceit’ (< OP zūra-), perhaps directly as well. Although zūr is attested in Syriac, but it is only as part of a rare compound zwlrgrd ‘falsified document’ (Ciancaglini 2008: 172 f.). -sijjīl ‘Lumps of Baked Clay (?)’, Attested Three Times The term refers to a punishment from God, viz. the precipitation that is coming down on the town of Lūt and the army of the Elephant respectively. It has traditionally been considered a foreign word, a borrowing from Persian sang ‘stone’ and gil ‘clay’. Indeed, an idiomatic expression sang-u gil ‘stone and clay’ has found its way in Classical Persian literature, notably in ghazal 48 of the famous 14th century Shirāzi poet Ḥāfiẓ: sang-u gil-rā kunad az yumn-i naẓar laʿl-u ʿaqīq har kih qadr-i nafs-i bād-i yamānī dānist ‘Everyone who has known the value of the breath/soul of the Yemeni wind, will turn the stone and clay into ruby and cornelian’. It is, however, both late and rarely found in other Classical works.

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-sirāj ‘Lamp, Torch’, Attested Four Times in the Qurʾān The Arabic form is clearly a loanword, ultimately from Parthian. Parthian čirāγ has been widely borrowed, into: e.g. Arm. črag, MP čirāγ (> NP), Sogd. crʾγ, Syr. šrāġā. The Arabic form may have come from Syriac (cf. Eilers 1962: 205). The origin of the Iranian term, however, is unknown. -surādiq ‘Awning, Tent Cover’, Attested Once This term is mentioned in Sūrah 18:29, where it refers to the fire, “whose awning shall enwrap” the wrongdoers. It has an Iranian origin, with its preservation of intervocalic -d-, as it points to borrowing from (unattested) Parthian *srāδak/g, rather then from Middle Persian srāy (NP sarāy). The Armenian loanword srahak reflects Parthian *srāδak. The Arabic formation is perhaps not a direct borrowing from Parthian, rather via Aramaic, cf. Mandaic sradqa ‘canopy, awning’ (Drower and Macuch 1963: 336f.). -sirbāl ‘Garment’, pl. sarābīl, Attested Three Times in the Qurʾān According to the pre-Islamic sources, sirbāl would have meant a kind of body garment, i.e. a shirt, a shirt of mail. It has generally been acknowledged that it is connected to Pers. šalwār ‘trousers’ (= NP, MP). However, this cannot be the direct source of the borrowing, but it suffices to point out that it has been widely adopted in Aramaic, cf. Syriac šarbālā ‘wide trousers’, Mandaic šaruala ‘baggy trousers’ (Drower and Macuch 1963: 446), Biblical Aramaic srbly-hwn ‘their tunics’ (Daniel 3:21), and Hebrew ṣrblʾ ‘garment, cloak, trousers’. The source of sirbāl needs therefore be sought in the Jewish tradition, as inferred also from the similar imagery of the Day of Judgment in the Qurʾān and in the Bible, cf. i. Sūrah 14: 49–50 wa tarā al-mujrimīna yawma-iδin muqarranīna fī alaṣfādi sarābīlu-hum min qatirānin wa taγšā wujūha-humu al-nārun ‘And you will see the criminals that Day bound together in shackles, their garments of liquid pitch and their faces covered by the Fire.’ ii. Daniel 3:21 ‘Then these great men were bound in their mantles, their turbans, and and their [other] garments and clothes, and were cast into the midst of the burning fiery furnace.’ Daniel 3:27 ‘[the entourage of Nebuchadnezzar] … saw these great men, upon whom the flames had no power, nor was a hair of their head singed, neither were their mantles changed … ’

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As for Persian šalwār, it is ultimately a borrowing from a “Scythian” source, cf. Greek gloss sarábara “loose trousers worn by the Scythians” (e.g. in Antiphanes’ play The Scythians). For a recent discussion of sarábara, see Brust (2005: 584f.). -sard ‘Chain Armour, Links of Armour’, Attested Once The formation is attested in: Sūrah 34:11 ani iʿmal sābiγātin wa qaddir fī al-sardi wa aʿmalū ṣāliḥan innī bimā taʿmalūna baṣīrun ‘Make full coats of mail and calculate [precisely] the links, and work [all of you] righteousness. Indeed I, of what you do, am Seeing’. The term is no doubt identical to zarad ‘armour, cuirass’. The Qurʾānic variant with s- arose from perseveration, due to the preceding sābiγātin ‘coats of mail’. Arabic zarad is probably ultimately from Parthian *zrad (cf. Arm. LW pl. zrah-kʿ, cognate to MP zrēh), perhaps via Aramaic, cf. Syriac zarδā, TalmudicAram. zrdʾ. -sundus ‘Fine Silk’, Attested Three Times Although this word is a cultural Wanderwort, of ultimately non-Iranian origin, it is remarkable that in the three Qurʾānic passages, 18:31, 44:53, 76:21, sundus is mentioned together with istabraq. The direct source of the Arabic form sundus must have been Iranian, being absent in Aramaic. It is indeed attested in the Middle Iranian languages, viz. Parth./MP sndws as a borrowing in a Manichaean Sogd. text. The ultimate origin of this fabric is probably Anatolian, cf. Gr. sánduks ‘a Lydian red fabric; a woman’s cloth’. -ʿabqarī ‘a Kind of Rich Carpet’ This form is attested only once, in the same textual passage with ḥūr ʿīn: Sūrah 55:76 muttakiʾīna ʿalā rafrafin xuẓrin wa ʿabqariyyin ḥisānin ‘reclining on green cushions and beautiful fine carpets.’ The mediaeval philologists had the greatest difficulties explaining this formation, it could be either a place of the Jinn where wonderful things were taking place, or it would be merely an “Arab” approving term of something excellent. It was only in modern times, when the Assyrian scholar-priest Addai Sher considered ʿabqarī of Iranian origin, viz. from a Persian compound āb-kār ‘something splendid’ (Sher 1908: 114), with āb ‘luster, splendour’ and kār ‘work, deed’. As remarked by Jeffery, it is rather an artificial formation that can be constructed ad hoc, not to mention, it is phonologically somewhat problematic. A better explanation of the formation is to consider the segment -qarī as the Persian productive agent suffix -gar ‘maker, doer’ and the relational suffix -ī,

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whereas the part ʿab may reflect Middle Persian abdīh ‘wonder’: Middle Persian *abdīgarī ‘that what is made by a wonder-maker’? The prothetic ʿayn of the Arabic formation may betray the presence of a high vowel (see above), perhaps an umlauted realization *eº? -ʿifrīt ‘Demon, Created’ (Also Dialectical ʿafrīt) This form is attested only once, in Sūrah 27:39 qāla ʿifrītun mina al-jinni anā ʾātīka bihi qabla an taqūma min maqāmi-ka wa innī ʿalay-hi laqawiyyun amīnun ‘A powerful one from among the jinn said, “I will bring it to you before you rise from your place, and indeed, I am for this [task] strong and trustworthy.” ’ It has generally been accepted since Karl Vollers (1896: 646) that ʿifrīt is of Iranian origin, from a Middle Iranian past participle, Middle Persian/Parthian āfrīd ‘created’. The apparent semantic shift of the Arabic form is curious though, perhaps it may be elliptic for *dīw ʿafrīt ‘a demon created’?, cf. Eilers 1971: 620. Considering the final, voiceless -t, the Arabic form may have been borrowed from early MP or Parthian *āfrīt. The initial, prothetic, ʿayn of the Arabic form is, similar to ʿabqarī above, indicative of an umlauted high vowel: [ēfrīt]. -firdaus, pl. firādīs ‘Paradise’, Attested Twice The ultimate origin of this Arabic form is evidently Iranian, cf. Avestan pairidaēza- ‘enclosure’ Greek borrowing parádeisos, Parthian padišt, New Persian palēz, etc. But from which immediate source? The Aramaic forms are: Syriac pardaysā, Mandaic pardasa, pardisa, Biblical Aramaic prds, et al. Jeffrey seeks a Christian origin, whence Syriac. -namāriq ‘Cushions’, sg. numruq, Attested Once This term is found in an early Sūrah 88:15 wa namāriqu maṣfūfatun ‘and cushions lined up’ (in the description of paradise). As mentioned by Jeffery, the famous 9th century philosopher al-Kindī noted it as a loanword from Persian, although it was not considered as such by al-Jawālīqī or al-Suyūṭī. It is fairly frequently mentioned in the early poetry as the cushion on a camel’s back. Similar to zarābī, numruq is probably also a qualifying adjective, with the meaning ‘the soft one’, cf. Persian narm ‘soft’. In this case, it may rather go back to an unattested Parthian formation *namrag < Parth. namr ‘gentle, mild’, suffixed with *-aka. There is also an exact correspondences in another (East) Iranian language, Khwarezmian nmrk ‘soft’. -wardah ‘Rose-Red’, Attested Once The form wardah is in Sūrah 55:37 fa-iδā inšaqqati l-samāʾu fakānat wardatan kal-dihāni ‘and when the heaven is split open and becomes rose-colored like

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oil’. Wardah is no doubt an ancient loanword from Iranian, cf. Avestan varǝda‘rose’, Parthian wār (also Armenian borrowing vard). The Arabic form cannot have been borrowed directly from Persian, which has gul, but rather via Imperial Aramaic(?), cf. Syriac wardā, Talmudic Aramaic wrd, wrdʾ, Mandaic warda ‘rose, flower’. In addition (Middle, New) Persian gul has also entered Arabic too, as the synonym jull (not attested in the Qurʾān).

3

Conclusions

3.1 Assessment of the Iranian Material in the Qurʾān The Iranian forms that can be found in the Qurʾān are not quite numerous, but they have indeed a clear “presence”. Many of these forms may have entered Arabic via an Aramaic intermediary (usually Syriac, but also via Imperial Aramaic): ibrīq ‘water jug’ (Syriac ābrēqā), istabraq ‘silk, brocade’ (Syriac estabr(a)gā), jund ‘host, army, troop’ (an Aramaic “dialect” (*)gund), dīn ‘religion, faith’ (via Syriac dēn?), sirāj ‘lamp’ (via Syriac šrāġā?), surādiq ‘awning, tent cover’ (via Mandaic sradqa?), sirbāl ‘garment’ (Biblical Aramaic srbly), sard ‘chain, links of armour’ (via an Aramaic “dialect” zard), firdaus ‘paradise’ (via Syriac pardaysā?), wardah ‘rose(-red)’ (via an Aramaic “dialect”). On the other hand, several important terms do not have an Aramaic correspondence, which suggests that they have been borrowed directly from an Iranian source. These include forms such as barzax ‘barrier; interval between between the present life and the hereafter’ (Parthian *barzāx), junāḥ ‘guilt, sin’ (early New Persian gunāh), ḥūrʿīn ‘beautiful maidens in paradise’ (Middle Persian (*)hūrōyīm/ n, inferred from the gloss huraōim), rauḍah ‘well watered meadow; garden’ (Old Persian *rautah-?), zarābī ‘rich carpet’ (Persian *zarrābī), zūr ‘falsehood’ (Middle Persian zūr), sundus ‘fine silk’ (Parthian/Middle Persian sndws), ʿifrīt ‘demon’ (early Parthian/Middle Persian *āfrīt), namāriq/numruq ‘cushion’ (Parthian *namrag), ʿabqarī a kind of rich carpet (Middle Persian abdīh + suff. -gar-ī). Finally, arāʾik ‘couch’ may have a different origin altogether, viz. probably from Greek léktron, pl. léktra. Specific phonological criteria can be employed to assess the immediate origin of these borrowings: – Forms most likely from Parthian are: barzax (< Parth. barz ‘high’ vs. Persian bālº), namāriq/numruq (< namr ‘soft’ vs. Persian narm), surādiq (< *srādavs. Persian s(a)rāy)

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– Forms most likely from (Middle) Persian are: junāḥ, ḥūrʿīn ((*)hūrōyīm/ n vs. Parthian hūrōdº) – Arabic forms with initial ʿayn is a prothetic development from an Iranian high vowel in initial position (this high vowel can also reflect the umlauting effect of the following -ī-), in the case of: ʿifrīt (early Middle Iranian *ēfrīt < *āfrīt), ʿabqarī (< Middle Persian *ēbdīº < abdīhº), ḥūr ʿīn (< *ḥūrū īn < Persian huraōim) – Arabic forms with -q are either direct borrowings from Syriac, e.g. rizq, ābrēqā, or from Middle Iranian with voiced g, e.g. istabraq, surādiq, namāriq/numruq, ʿabqarī. – Arabic forms with j from Iranian forms with g probably represented an older layer of borrowing: e.g. junāḥ, jund. – Iranian h, near to a labial vowel, can also be represented by pharyngeal ḥ in Arabic, e.g. junāḥ, ḥūr. 3.2 The Social Context of the Iranian Borrowings The Iranian forms in the Qurʾān are mainly from two semantic fields: – items & products related to luxury and refinement, such as ibrīq, istabraq, surādiq, sirbāl, sirāj, zarābī, sundus, ʿabqarī, namāriq/numruq; – intangible (spritual, religious) ideas, such as barzax, dīn, ḥūr (ʿīn), junāḥ, zūr, ʿifrīt, firdaus ‘paradise’. We may conclude from the Iranian borrowings in the Qurʾān that the contacts between the Jāhiliya Arabs and Iran at the eve of the Islamic era were fairly shallow, being mostly limited to the trade of luxury products. It is well-known that these Arabs were also enlisted as irregular or auxiliary troops to the Sassanian armies, which is also confirmed by the borrowing of jund and sard into Arabic. This occasional recrutement may explain their vague familiarity with the religious and moral customs of their Iranian neighbours.

Bibliography Bailey, Harold W. (1955). “Indo-Iranian Studies–III”. Transactions of the Philological Society 54: 55–82. Berthels, Ernst (1924). “Die paradiesischen Jungfrauen im Islam”. Islamica 1: 263–287. Blunt, Anne (transl.) (1903). The seven golden odes of pagan Arabia, known also as the Moallakat. Done into English verse by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. London: Chiswick Press.

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Brust, Manfred (2005). Die indischen und iranischen Lehnwörter im Griechischen. Innsbruck. Drower, E.S. and R. Macuch (1963). A Mandaic Dictionary. Oxford: Clarendon. Ciancaglini, Claudia A. (2008). Iranian Loanwords in Syriac. Wiesbaden: Reichert. Eilers, Wilhelm (1962). “Iranisches Lehngut im Arabischen Lexikon: über einige Berufsnamen und Titel.” Indo-Iranian Journal 5 (3): 203–232. Eilers, Wilhelm (1971). “Iranisches Lehngut im Arabischen”. In: Actas, IV Congresso de Estudos Árabes e Islâmicos, Coimbra-Lisboa, 1 a 8 de setembro de 1968. Leiden: Brill, pp. 581–660. Fraenkel, Siegmund (1886). Die aramäischen Fremdwörter im Arabischen. Leiden: Brill. Gershevitch, Ilya (1967). The Avestan hymn to Mithra. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Haug, Martin (and Edward William West), transl. (1872). The Book of Arda Viraf. Pahlavi text prepared by Destur Hoshangji Jamaspji Asa. Bombay (etc.): Governmental Central Book Depot. [Repr. Amsterdam: Oriental Press, 1971]. Hübschmann, Heinrich (1895). Persische Studien. Strassburg: Trübner. Jeffery, Arthur (1938). The Foreign Vocabulary of the Qurʾān. Baroda: Oriental Institute. [Repr. Leiden: Brill, 2007]. de Lagarde, Paul (1884). Persische Studien. Göttingen. Lyall, Charles James, ed. (1913). The Diwans of ʿAbid ibn al-Abas and ʾAmir ibn at-Tufail. Leyden: Brill. ibn Manẓūr, Abī al-Faḍl Ǧamāl al-Dīn Muḥammad b. Mukarram (1308 = 1891ce). Lisān al-ʿArab. 20 vols. Cairo: al-Maṭbaʿa al-Kubrā al-Amīriyya. Noeldeke, Theodor (1910). Neue Beiträge zur semitischen Sprachwissenschaft. Strassburg: Trübner. Rossi, Adriano V. (2002). “Middle Iranian gund between Aramaic and Indo-Iranian,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 26: 140–171. Sher, Addai (1908). Al-Alfāẓ al-fārisiyya al-muʿarraba. Beirut. Siddiqui, A. (1919). Studien über die persischen Fremdwörter im klassischen Arabisch. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Szemerenyi, Oswald (1980). “Semitic Influence on the Iranian Lexicon”. In: The Bible World: Essays in Honor of Cyrus Gordon. Ed. by Gary Rendsburg et al. New York: KTAV Publishing House etc., pp. 230–233. Vollers, Karl (1896). “Beiträge zur Kenntniss der lebenden arabischen Sprache”. Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 50: 607–658.

Qurʾānic Arabic in Context

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chapter 11

Traces of Bilingualism/Multilingualism in Qurʾānic Arabic* Guillaume Dye

My aim in this paper is to collect and organize some of the data (most of them well-known, but not always placed in the right perspective) about traces, or evidence, of phenomena related to bilingualism or multilingualism in Qurʾānic Arabic.1 These are, roughly, phenomena of interference. Except for reasons of religious dogma (“the pure Arabic of the Qurʾān,” a meaningless formula from a linguistic and historical point of view), there is no reason to dismiss prima facie the idea that the audience—and even more the author(s)—of the Qurʾān, were to some extant bilingual or multilingual (as was a good part of the

* I would like to express my gratitude to various friends and colleagues who read and commented a first draft of this paper, namely Ahmad Al-Jallad, Emilio Gonzalez Ferrin, EdouardMarie Gallez, Pierre Larcher, Gabriel Said Reynolds, Carlos Segovia, Esma Tengour, and Tommaso Tesei. As usual, my greatest debt is to Manfred Kropp. I am of course responsible for any mistakes which have remained in the text. 1 This topic got more attention these last years, with the publication of Christoph Luxenberg’s The Syro-Aramaic Reading of the Koran. A Contribution to the Decoding of the Language of the Koran (Berlin: Verlag Hans Schiler, 2007), originally in German, Die syro-aramäische Lesart des Koran. Ein Beitrag zur Entschlüsselung der Koransprache (Berlin: Verlag Hans Schiler, 2004, 1st ed. 2000). The way this book has been received in the academic world seems to me unsatisfactory. Luxenberg’s work has sometimes been enthusiastically praised, but also fiercely dismissed, quite often on dogmatic grounds (for a good review of the book, see Daniel King, “A Christian Qurʾān? A Study in the Syriac Background to the language of the Qurʾān as presented in the work of Christoph Luxenberg,” Journal for Late Antique Religion and Culture 3 (2009), 44–71; see also my brief remarks in Guillaume Dye, “Le Coran et son contexte. Remarques sur un ouvrage récent,” Oriens Christianus 95 (2011), 263–267). Clearly, Luxenberg’s method is often faulty, especially because of its disregard of any historical and literary context and, too frequently, its arbitrary use of linguistic evidence. However, Luxenberg offers many suggestions and emendations which should be examined case by case. Some of them are hasty, speculative, or unconvincing, but there are also very interesting and valuable insights (several examples given here owe him much). So the question should rather be: what can be extracted from the mass (and mess) of Luxenberg’s analyses, and be solid ground for a critical examination of the nature of Qurʾānic Arabic?

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Near East at the time2), and especially had some command of (notably) Syriac or another Aramaic dialect such as Christian or Jewish Palestinian Aramaic.3 Such languages were indeed well-known in “Syro-Arabia” (a rather vague label, but it might aptly refer to the area—from the North of the Arabian peninsula to Syria-Palestine—where the Qurʾān came into existence4), and the life of Arab Christians in Late Antiquity was marked by a kind of diglossia: Arabic for daily life, Syriac/Aramaic or Greek for liturgy (but Syriac/Aramaic also worked as a lingua franca). Such a diglossia was obviously not limited to Arab Christians, but it is a decisive element for the understanding of many aspects of the Qurʾān. Moreover, Syriac was the language of religious exhortation in many Eastern Churches, and it was the language of many religious writings, such as sung rhymed homilies (madrāšē), recited rhymed homilies (memrē), or religious dialogic poems (soḡiyāṯā)—all literary genres which have their close counterparts in the Qurʾān.5 “Bilingualism” refers to the fact that the speakers, or some speakers, of a given language, have a command (total or partial, active or passive—in this case, one speaks of “receptive bilingualism”) of another language, generally used in the same area, or in a neighboring one. This is not the same phenomenon as the existence, in any given language, of words and syntactical

2 On bilingualism/multilingualism in Ancient societies, and especially the Near East, see for example Bilingualism in Ancient Society: Language Contact and the Written Word, ed. James N. Adams, Mark Janse, and Simon Swain (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002). 3 For the Aramaic-speaking Christian communities of Sinai, Palestine or Trans-Jordan, Christian Palestinian Aramaic was the dominant language in local churches; for Syria and Mesopotamia, it was rather Syriac. For reasons of convenience, my examples will be mainly related to Syriac, which is better documented—but the corpus of Christian and Jewish Palestinian Aramaic undoubtedly deserves further study. There are also traces of other languages in Qurʾānic Arabic, but most of my examples will concern Aramaic. 4 For some thoughts about the profiles and localisations of the so-called “editors” of the Qurʾān, see Guillaume Dye, “Réflexions méthodologiques sur la ‘rhétorique coranique’,” in Controverses sur les écritures canoniques de l’ islam, ed. Daniel de Smet & Mohammad Ali Amir-Moezzi (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 2014), 167–171 [147–176]. 5 About the homiletic features of the Qurʾān, and especially its relations to the Syriac homiletic tradition, see Gabriel Said Reynolds, The Qurʾān and its Biblical Subtext (London: Routledge, 2010), 232–253. About Q 19 as an Arabic soḡīṯā, see Manfred Kropp, “Résumé du cours 2007– 2008 (Chaire Européenne),” Annuaire du Collège de France. Résumé des cours et travaux, 108e année (2008), 791–793; Guillaume Dye, “Lieux saints communs, partagés ou confisqués: aux sources de quelques péricopes coraniques (Q 19: 16–33),” in Partage du sacré: transferts, dévotions mixtes, rivalités interconfessionnelles, ed. Isabelle Dépret & Guillaume Dye (BruxellesFernelmont: EME, 2012), 64.

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structures, calqued or borrowed from another language. Speaking of bilingualism in this last case would go too far, since a language used in a monolingual context can exhibit linguistic features acquired in the past by contact with another language. Nevertheless, when I refer here to traces of bilingualism, I both mean some particular structures of the language involved (which should be explained by phenomena of language contact and interference), and the linguistic capabilities of some of its speakers. Examination of external linguistic influence on Qurʾānic Arabic has often focused on foreign vocabulary (namely, in most of the cases, loanwords6) and, occasionally, on the use of parallel formulas. However, a loanword can have been borrowed before the Qurʾān. It is not inevitably a sign of bilingualism or language contact at the time when the Qurʾān was composed (even if it sometimes may be). For example, most of the names of Biblical characters are attested in pre-Islamic inscriptions (Arabic or Nabatean),7 and the numerous Aramaic loanwords in Arabic are evidence for the deep penetration of Aramaic culture in the pre-Islamic Arabian sphere.8 Concerning the use of parallel formulas (and the significance of the Syriac background), let’s quote Sydney Griffith: the more deeply one is familiar with the works of the major writers of the classical period, especially the composers of liturgically significant, homiletic texts such as those written by Ephraem the Syrian (c. 306–373), Narsai of Edessa and Nisibis (c. 399–502), or Jacob of Serugh (c. 451– 6 See Arthur Jeffery, The Foreign Vocabulary of the Qurʾān (Baroda: Oriental Institute, 1938). Alphonse Mingana’s seminal paper “Syriac influence on the style of the Kurʾān,” Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 11 (1927), 77–98, focuses also on loanwords. It studies proper names (81–85), religious terms (85–87), and common words (87–90). There are a few remarks on orthography (90–91), and more on historical references (94–98)—a topic which oversteps the linguistic question of style. On the other hand, the section on constructions of sentences (91–93) provides only four examples (two of them, incidentally, dealing more with vocabulary than with syntax). 7 For a brief overview, see Guillaume Dye & Manfred Kropp, “Le nom de Jésus (ʿĪsā) dans le Coran, et quelques autres noms bibliques: remarques sur l’onomastique coranique,” in Figures bibliques en islam, ed. Guillaume Dye & Fabien Nobilio (Bruxelles-Fernelmont: EME, 2011), 175–176, 179–180. 8 See the classical study of Siegmund Fraenkel, Die aramäischen Fremdwörter im Arabischen (Leiden: Brill, 1886). About the inscriptions of pre-Islamic Arabia (except South Arabia), which comprise a good deal of “mixed texts” (Safaeo-Arabic, Nabateo-Arabic, Arameo-Arabic …), see e.g. Michael C.A. MacDonald, “Reflections on the linguistic map of pre-Islamic Arabia,” Arabian archeology and epigraphy 11 (2000), 28–79.

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521), the more one hears echoes of many of their standard themes and characteristic turns of phrase at various points in the discourse of the Arabic Qurʾān.9 Similar turns of phrases might be evidence of the bilingualism or multilingualism of the author(s) of the Qurʾān (and they should be understood accordingly). That they are evidence of a certain degree of bilingualism of the intended audience(s) is less assured, even if possible at times. Before going to the heart of the matter, I would like to provide a few examples (among many) of similar phraseology between, on one side, the Qurʾān, and on the other side, Jewish or Christian liturgical and theological formulas. These examples do not always tell much about the linguistic profile of the Qurʾānic audience(s), but they may highlight the historical context, the sources, and the meaning of some Qurʾānic verses (in a nutshell, they are good evidence of Qurʾānic intertextuality).

Similar Phraseology (in Liturgical or Theological Context) I won’t provide here any detailed argumentation, since these examples are supposed to be well known and have been studied by other scholars. Q 1:2: rabb al-ʿālamīn10 Rabb al-ʿālamīn is a calque of Jewish and Syriac liturgical formulas (Hebrew rabūn ha-ʿolāmīm, Syriac le-ʿolam ʿolemīn). The initial meaning of Hebrew/Aramaic/Syriac ʿolam is temporal (“age, generation”) but Aramaic and Syriac add also a spatial meaning (“world, universe”). This word is also attested in Palmyrenian and Nabatean inscriptions (for example, the Nabateo-Arabic inscription JSNab 17, dated ad 267, found in Hegra, where one reads Nabatean mry ʿlmʾ (*marī ʿālamā), “Lord of the World,” which is, incidentally, the epithet of the god Beʿel Šemīn in Palmyrenian). Moreover, the plural ʿolamīn can also mean “men, human people” (same meaning of al-ʿālamīn in some Arabic sources (e.g.

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Sydney Griffith, “Christian Lore and the Arabic Qurʾān. The ‘Companions of the Cave’ in Sūrat al-Kahf and in Syriac Christian Tradition,” in The Qurʾān in Its Historical Context, ed. Gabriel Said Reynolds (London: Routledge, 2008), 109. Alfred-Louis de Prémare, Les fondations de l’ islam. Entre écriture et histoire (Paris: Seuil, 2002), 437–438, n. 156; Arthur Jeffery, The Foreign Vocabulary of the Qurʾān, 208–209.

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in a poem by Labīd (d. circa 661), see Abū ʿUbayda, Maǧāz al-Qurʾān, I, 22)). So one may wonder if rabb al-ʿālamīn means “Lord of the World(s)” or “Lord of men.” Q 2:255: allāhu lā ʾilāha ʾillā huwa l-ḥayyu l-qayyūm11 The formula “the Living, the Subsisting One” (al-ḥayy al-qayyūm) appears three times in the Qurʾān (Q 2:255; 3:2; 20:111). It is a calque of an Aramaic formula (an echo of Ps 121(120):4) found in the Aramaic Book of Daniel and also in the Palestinian Targum of Ps-Jonathan (Tg. Ps-Jon. on Gen 16:6–16 and 24:62, “The Living and the Subsisting One, who sees and is not seen”). Compare Q 2:255: allāhu lā ʾilāha ʾillā huwa l-ḥayyu l-qayyūm, “God, no God except Him, the Living, the Subsisting One” Dan 6:27: dī huwa êlāhā ḥayyā w qayyām le ʿalēmīn, “this is He the God, Living and Subsisting forever” The Qurʾānic sentence is an almost verbatim translation of the verse in Daniel. It is followed by another almost verbatim translation—of Ps 121(120):4: Q 2:255: lā taʾḫuḏuhū sinatun wa-lā nawmun lahū, “Slumber does not overtake Him, nor sleep” (construction per merismum, very common in Semitic languages, which means: “He is definitely never subject to sleep”), Ps 121(120):4: “He who keeps Israel will neither slumb nor sleep (lō yanūm wǝlō yîšān).” The Throne verse is thus partly made up of two almost literal translations of Biblical verses. Q 5:73: la-qad kafara llaḏīna qālū ʾinna llāha ṯāliṯu ṯalāṯatin12 11

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Alfred-Louis de Prémare, “Les textes musulmans dans leur environnement,” Arabica 473 (2000), 405–406. Most Qurʾānic translations are taken (sometimes with slight modifications) from A.J. Droge, The Qurʾān. A New Annotated Translation (Sheffield, Bristol: Equinox, 2013). Sydney Griffith, “Syriacisms in the ‘Arabic Qurʾān’: Who were those who said ‘Allāh is third of three’ according to al-Māʾida 73?,” in A Word fitly spoken. Studies in Mediaeval Exegesis of the Hebrew Bible and the Qurʾān, presented to Haggai Ben-Shammai, ed. Meir

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“They have disbelieved, those who say that God is third of three” (or, better: “those who say that God is one of three”). The context shows that the question at stake is the divinity of Jesus. But where does this formula—ṯāliṯu ṯalāṯatin— come from? Maybe the only idea that Jesus is one person in the Trinity is a sufficient explanation. Yet Sydney Griffith has suggested that we might have here a calque of Syriac ṯlīṯāyā, which means “third, threefold, triple,” and is often used in Trinitarian contexts, for example ṯlīṯāy qnōmē, “triple of hypostases/persons, three-personed,” or even better, ṯlīṯāyā d-Alāhā, “God’s own treble one” (referring to Christ, also called ṯlīṯāyā, “the trebled one”). In this case, a more accurate translation would be “They have disbelieved, those who say that God is threefold.” Q 96:1: ʾiqraʾ bi-smi rabbika13 One should understand here, not “Read/Recite [you, Muḥammad] in the name of your Lord” (as is generally understood), but “Proclaim/Praise the name of your Lord.” Compare Hebrew qrāḇ-šem Yahwē and parallel formulas (Ps 105(104):1; 116:13, 17) and Syriac qrā ḇ-šem māryā. There are good reasons to see here a calque of such expressions. Other Qurʾānic formulas have a similar meaning: sabbiḥ bi-smi rabbika (Q 56:74; 59:52), sabbiḥi sma rabbika (Q 87:1), ʾuḏkur isma rabbika (Q 73:8; 76:25). From a grammatical point of view, the bāʾ in bi-smi rabbika is a bāʾ zāʾida (therefore, ʾiqraʾ bi-smi rabbika = ʾiqraʾ ʾisma rabbika). I consider the translation of this verse as a kind of shibboleth—a good way to spot historico-critical translations and “traditional” ones. I turn now to some of the linguistic phenomena which display the kind of interference which is often met in bilingual/multilingual contexts. All the examples, of course, may not have the same weight (and I provide here only a brief selection). I leave aside the fields of phonology and orthography, which deserve a whole paper on their own.

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M. Bar-Asher, Simon Hopkins, Sarah Stroumsa and Bruno Chiesa (Jerusalem: The Ben-Zvi Institute for the History of Jewish Communities in the East, Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi and the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2007), 100–108 [83–110]. Among many references: Uri Rubin, “Iqraʾ bi-smi rabbika …! Some Notes on the Interpretation of sūrat al-ʿalaq (vs. 1–5),” Israel Oriental Studies 12 (1993), 213–230.

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Use of Foreign Words Using foreign words is not the same as using loanwords. Of course, a loanword begins its life as a foreign word; with time, it is integrated into the lexicon of the new language. In other words, the use of a loanword is obviously not a case of code-switching, whereas the use of a foreign word is. However, sometimes, the border between loanwords and foreign words is not easy to draw. For example, what should we say about ǧibt? Q 4:51: ʾa-lam tara ʾilā llaḏīna ūtū naṣīban mina l-kitābi yuʾminūna bi-l-ǧibti wa-l-ṭāġūti (“Didn’t you see those who have been given a portion of the Book? They believe in al-ǧibt and al-ṭāġūt.”) Al-ǧibt (a Qurʾānic hapax) comes from Geez gǝbt (amalǝktä gǝbt, “the new and foreign gods”), but contrary to ṭāġūt, it never really entered Arabic language— as far as I know, it has no plural in Arabic. About ṭāġūt, we certainly have an arabization either of Ethiopian ṭāʿot (same sense as gǝbt, namely “new, alien gods, idols”) or Western (Jewish) Palestinian Aramaic, ṭāʿūṯā (“idol”), with the attraction from the root ṭ-ġ-y (“to oppress, to be a tyrant”).14 It is then probably a kind of post-Qurʾānic misinterpretation (or reinterpretation) of a foreign/loanwoard. The most famous example of a foreign word may be: Q 112:1: qul huwa llāhu ʾaḥad Here aḥad seems ungrammatical. Compare Q 112:2: allāhu l-ṣamad, where the epithet is definite. Aḥad is also peculiar for semantic reasons: it means “anyone” (“no one, nobody,” in negative clauses, see Q 112:4), and the meaning “one, unique” normally occurs with wāḥid (see ilāh wāḥid: Q 4:171; 5:73; 12:39, or Allāh waḥdahū: Q 7:70). Variant readings of Q 112:1 even have allāhu l-wāḥid, and this would fit Qurʾānic rhyme perfectly.15 A straightforward explanation

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Manfred Kropp, “Beyond Single Words. Māʾida—Shayṭān—jibt and ṭāġūt. Mechanisms of Transmission into the Ethiopic (Gǝʿǝz) Bible and the Qurʾānic Text,” in The Qurʾān in Its Historical Context, 208–210. In Middle Arabic (a dubious category, but in this paper I refer above all to the corpus of Early Christian Palestinian Arabic, a kind of Arabic which is chronologically, geographically, and thematically very close to Qurʾānic Arabic), the differences between aḥad and wāḥid have become blurred. See Joshua Blau, A Grammar of Christian Arabic based mainly on South Palestinian Texts from the First Millennium, Fasc. 2 (Louvain: Peeters, CSCO Sub-

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is to read the Hebrew proper name e(ḥ)ḥād: see Deut 6:4 and the Shemaʿ Israel (šǝmaʿ Yisrāʾēl, Yahweh elohē-nū Yahweh e(ḥ)ḥād), which could indeed be behind this verse. Such a reading would solve problems of syntactical structure and semantic meaning at once. This explanation is not new, but it has recently been revived by Angelika Neuwirth and Manfred Kropp16—and when such different and opposite scholars agree, maybe this means that there is a true insight lurking behind. There are similar cases elsewhere in the Qurʾān. Some imply a different punctuation of the consonantal skeleton (rasm). Two promising examples of this kind have been suggested by Manfred Kropp.17 Here is another one: Q 38:3: kam ʾahlaknā min qablihim min qarnin fa-nādaw wa-lāta ḥīna manāṣin (“How many a generation We have destroyed before them! They called out, but there was no time for escape.”) To say the least, lāta (another Qurʾānic hapax) is quite hard to explain inside Arabic. It is sensible to see here Syriac layt, “there isn’t,” the alif of lāta being a later addition (this is consonant with the orthography of ancient manuscripts).18

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sidia 28, 1967), 375–376 (§ 255). The Qurʾānic uses of these words, however, do not display such a blurring. Angelika Neuwirth, Studien zur Komposition der mekkanischen Suren (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2nd ed., 2007), 26; Manfred Kropp, “Tripartite, but anti-Trinitarian formulas in the Qurʾānic Corpus, possibly pre-Qurʾānic,” in New Perspectives on the Qurʾān. The Qurʾān in Its Historical Context 2, ed. Gabriel Said Reynolds (London: Routledge, 2011), 250–251. One concerns Q 72:3 (a parallel to Q 112), and a new punctuation of ǧadd, read as an Aramaic word, ḥad (“one, the one”), inside a tripartite anti-polytheistic and anti-Trinitarian formula. See Manfred Kropp, “Tripartite, but anti-Trinitarian formulas in the Qurʾānic Corpus, possibly pre-Qurʾānic,” 259–261. The other concerns Q 85:4 and the word al-uḫdūd, which has no convincing explanation inside Arabic. It seems plausible to suppose something like the Aramaic *gdodā (not attested, but belonging to a root which means “to rise” (about smoke, or flames), which could give ugdūd, to be understood as a “rising flame.” Q 85:5 (an-nāri ḏāti l-waqūd, “a fire full of fuel”) is then convincingly seen as a gloss of a foreign expression. See Manfred Kropp, “Résumé du cours 2007–2008 (Chaire Européenne),” 786–787. Alphonse Mingana, “Syriac influence on the style of the Kurʾān,” 93. As Ahmad Al-Jallad pointed me out, it is certainly the right place to remind that laysa has no internal explanation in Arabic either. It is most certainly an Aramaic loan, which must have entered Arabic at first through a dialect which did not have interdentals.

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Lehnprägung (Loan Shifting), Lehnbedeutung (Loan Extension) Lehnbedeutung usually refers to the idea that an existing native word or loanword gets the semantic value of a cognate foreign term. This is not a replacement, but an extension of the original meaning of the word. It is generally the result of close language contact. Sadly, this phenomenon is often overlooked in the studies of the language of the Qurʾān. Here is one interesting example:19 Q 20:33–34: kay nusabbiḥaka kaṯīran / wa-naḏkuraka kaṯīran Translators understand kaṯīr as a usual Arabic word and translate accordingly: “so that we may glorify You much and remember You much.” Bell and Droge translate by “often.” Such translations are awkward at best. However, if kaṯīr is understood in relation to a phenomenon of Lehnbedeutung, and in relation to the Syriac homonym root k-t-r (which refers to quantity of time, not quantity in general), then we have a much more convincing understanding of the passage: “so that we may glorify You constantly and remember You constantly,” or “so that we persevere in glorifying You and remembering You,” or even better, “so that we do not cease to glorify You and remember You.” No wonder if the Syriac root belongs to the lexicon of paraenesis, and especially refers to perseverance in praying (a significant topic in the Qurʾān, usually expressed with the (Arabic) word ṣabr: see e.g. Q 2:45, 153; 7:126; 103:3). The Pauline motto, “Pray without ceasing” (1Thess 5:17) was taken seriously indeed by the Desert Fathers20 and, of course, in the Syriac piety, which lies behind much of Qurʾānic piety.21 Perseverance in praying was thus called ku(t)tārā in Syriac—a word we find also as kawṯar in the Qurʾān (Q 108:1).22 What is so significant here with kaṯīr is

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Christoph Luxenberg, The Syro-Aramaic Reading of the Koran, 295. One example, among many: “Flee vain glory and pray without ceasing. Sing psalms before and after sleeping and learn by heart the precepts of the Scriptures” (Athanasius, Life of Anthony, in Athanase d’ Alexandrie, Vie d’Antoine, ed. G.J.M. Bartelink (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, SC 400, 1994), 55.3). On this topic, see e.g. John Wortley, “Prayer and the Desert Fathers,” in The Coming of the Comforter: When, Where, and to Whom? Studies on the Rise of Islam and Various Other Topics in Memory of John Wansbrough, ed. Carlos A. Segovia and Basil Lourié (Piscataway NJ: The Gorgias Press, 2012), 109–129. Tor Andrae, Les origines de l’ islam et le christianisme, trans. Jules Roches (Paris: Maisonneuve & Larose, 1955), 130–161. See Martin Baasten’s paper in this volume, refining and emending Luxenberg’s insights (The Syro-Aramaic Reading of the Koran, 292–298).

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that we do not have a borrowing, but a common Arabic word whose meaning has been extended, or specified, in a given context, by the meaning of the cognate Syriac root. Another example: Q 25:18: qālū subḥānaka mā kāna yanbaġī lanā ʾan nattaḫiḏa min dūnika min ʾawliyāʾa wa-lākin mattaʿtahum wa-ābāʾahum ḥattā nasū l-ḏikra wakānū qawman būran (“They will say: Glory to You! It was not fitting for us to take any allies other than You, but You gave them and their fathers enjoyment (of life), until they forgot the Reminder and became qawman būran.”) Q 48:12: bal ẓanantum ʾan lan yanqaliba l-rasūlu wa-l-muʾminūna ʾilā ʿahlīhim ʾabadan wa-zuyyina ḏālika fī qulūbikum wa-ẓanantum ẓanna lsawʾi wa-kuntum qawman būran (“No! You thought that the messenger and the believers would never return to their families, and that was made to appear enticing in your hearts, and thought evil thoughts, and became qawman būran.”) What is the meaning of qawm būr here? Droge translates “ruined people” (note the way kānū/kuntum is translated: “became,” not “were”). Other translators suggest “a people in perdition” (Muhammad Habib Shakir), “a people (worthless and) lost” (Yusuf Ali), “become lost folk” (Pickthall), “became a lost people” (Mohsin Khan). These translations seem to understand wa-kānū qawman būran and wa-kuntum qawman būran as a consequence of the preceding words. Besides, early commentators of the Qurʾān identified the meaning of būr with that of fāsid (“corrupted”), saying that this is the meaning of this word in the language of a specific tribe, the Azd of ʿUmān, whereas in the common speech of the Arabs, būr means “nothing” (lā šayʾ).23 Clearly there is a problem here—the commentators and translators are uneasy and try to guess or enlarge the meaning of būr in relation to its immediate context. Now it seems to me that all makes better sense if wa-kānū qawman būran and wa-kuntum qawman būran are understood as explanations of the behaviour of the people involved (it fits more the rhetoric of the verses), and if

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Referring to dialectical uses is a cheap way to multiply the possible meanings of a word, or rather to find (or guess) a meaning which would suit the context better. From a strictly linguistic point of view, such an appeal to dialects, even if it can be justified in some cases, should be considered with the highest suspicion.

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the meaning of būr is identified with the meaning of Syriac bur, “stupid, ignorant,”24 according (once again) to a phenomenon of Lehnbedeutung. In other words, what the Qurʾān tells us is: look at how these people behaved, and look how stupid and ignorant they had to be to behave in such a way. Accordingly, wa-kānū qawman būran and wa-kuntum qawman būran should be translated: “Indeed, they were ignorant people,” “Indeed, you were ignorant people.” Let’s look now at a further example: Q 30:15: fa-ʾammā llaḏīna ʾāmanū wa-ʿamilū l-ṣāliḥāti fa-hum fī rawḍatin yuḥbarūna (“As for those who have believed and done righteous deeds, they will be made happy in a meadow.”) Q 43:70: ʾudḫulū l-ǧannata ʾantum wa-ʾazwāǧukum tuḥbarūna (“Enter the Garden, you and your wives, you will be made happy!”) Translators understand the passive form of ḥabara as “to be made happy, to be delighted.” This sounds a bit strange. Moreover, there is the Hebrew or Aramaic ḥḇar, “congregate together, be together with, join,” and it gives a better meaning in this context.25 Let’s consider those verses: Q 30:14: wa-yawma taqūmu l-sāʿatu yawmaʾiḏin yatafarraqūna (“On the Day when the Hour strikes, on that Day they [the unbelievers] will be separated.”) Q 43:67: al-ʾaḫillāʾu yawmaʾiḏin baʿḍuhum li-baʿḍin ʿaduwwun ʾillā l-muttaqīna (“Friends of that Day—some of them will be enemies to others, except for those who guard (themselves).”) The rhetoric is clear: the unbelievers will be enemies to each other (and separated from each other and from God), whereas the believers will be brought together—with other believers, or with their wives.26 This is exactly what the Ethpaʿel of the root means in Syriac (eṯḥabbar, “to be intimate, be a companion”). Here we have an Arabic word (an Arabic verb), inflected according to the rules of Arabic—but the most plausible meaning is the meaning of (the 24 25 26

Alphonse Mingana, “Syriac influence on the style of the Kurʾān,” 93. Michael Schub, “The Buddha comes to China,”Zeitschrift für Arabische Linguistik 29 (1995), 77–78; Christoph Luxenberg, The Syro-Aramaic Reading of the Koran, 253, n. 306. The idea of “bringing together,” one way or another, is quite common in the eschatological pericopes of the Qurʾān: see e.g. Q 56:7–16, 49–50, 88–91.

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Ethpaʿel of) the cognate root in Syriac and, more generally, Aramaic (it is not an isolated nor unheard-of phenomenon, in the Qurʾān or elsewhere27). I may add that such a meaning of the root ḥ-b-r is attested in various kinds of Aramaic (Nabatean, Aramaic of the Early Targumim, Palestinian Targumic Aramaic, Palmyrenian), and that there is at least one example of such a use in a similar eschatological context in Late Jewish Literary Aramaic, namely Tg1Chr 4:18 (“who joined Israel to their father in heaven”).28 Here is another interesting example: Q 60:11: wa-ʾin fātakum šayʾun min ʾazwāǧikum ilā l-kuffāri … (“If any of your wives escape from you to the unbelievers …”) Arabic šayʾ is normally supposed to refer to an inanimate being but not to a human being. However, its Syriac equivalent, meddem, can also refer to a human being.29 It seems then that šayʾ follows here the use of its closest Syriac equivalent. However, it would be hasty to conclude that this is an example of a clear influence from Syriac. Indeed, šī, in many modern dialects of Arabic—and not only those with an Aramaic substrate, like Syrian Arabic—, can refer to an inanimate as well to an animate being. So we might suppose, either that there have been some independent similar innovations among the various Arabic dialects or, rather, that šayʾ was already used with this wider meaning in “Old

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In the Qurʾān: see Q 4:171 and lā taġlū fī dīnikum (“do not go too far in your religion”). It might be read instead lā taʿlū fī dīnikum, and understood according to Syriac a ʿli ḇ-ḏīnā, “to err in one’s judgment, to make a mistake.” Luxenberg (“Neudeutung der arabischen Inschrift im Felsendom zu Jerusalem,” in Die dunklen Anfänge. Neue Forschungen zur Enstehung und frühen Geschichte des Islam, ed. Karl-Heinz Ohlig & Gerd-Rüdiger Puin (Berlin: Verlag Hans Schiler, 2005), 136–137) is probably right here. Elsewhere: see the Nabateo-Arabic inscription JSNab 18 (roughly contemporary to JSNab 17, and written next to it), whose third and fourth lines read: dkyr bnyʾ hnʾw w ʾḥbr{w}-/h d{y} bn{w} qbrw ʾm kʿb{w} (“May the builders Hnʾw and his companions, who built the tomb of the mother of Kʿbw, be remembered”). Here we have ʾḥbr{w}h, “his companions,” according the semantics of the Aramaic root, but morphologically, it is an Arabic broken plural. On this inscription, see Laïla Nehmé, “A glimpse of the development of the Nabataean Script into Arabic based on old and new epigraphic material,” in The development of Arabic as a written language (Supplement to the Proceedings of the Seminar for Arabian Studies), ed. Michael C.A. MacDonald (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2010), 69– 70. More references on the Comprehensive Aramaic Lexicon Project, available online (http:// cal.huc.edu). Alphonse Mingana, “Syriac influence on the style of the Kurʾān,” 92.

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neo-Arabic dialects” (viz., the Arabic dialects spoken in the Arabian Peninsula and the Fertile Crescent before the Arab conquests). The existence of such phenomena should make us open to another possibility—which I will not study here—, namely, the semantic calques, a phenomenon akin to a translation technique, or a “mental translation,” where words in the source language are assigned equivalents in the target language on the basis of their most common meaning, while the word in the target language is also used to translate the other meanings of its equivalent in the source language.30

Syntactical Structures Interference, however, is not limited to the meaning of isolated nouns or verbs. It also concerns syntactical structures. My favorite example pertains to the syntax of kull (a quite complicated topic31), with the syriacism min kulli + singular indefinite noun, which means “all kinds of”—see Syriac men kol, “any sort of”:

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The most famous and striking example is Syriac šubḥā (“glory”), used to translate Greek δόξα when it has this meaning, but also when δόξα means “opinion” (see Daniel King, “A Christian Qurʾān?,” 53, n. 28). A possible candidate in the Qurʾān is Arabic faṣṣala vs. Syriac praš/parreš. The Syriac root means “to separate, to select,” but also “to explain, to interpret”—a meaning which suits perfectly the Arabic root f-ṣ-l in most of its Qurʾānic contexts. Parallel semantic developments between Syriac and Arabic, however, are not excluded, and are even a plausible explanation. Another example, with interesting theological consequences, could be Arabic yassara, possible calque of Syriac paššeq, “to make easy or easier” but also “to explain, to annotate” and “to translate.” Luxenberg (The SyroAramaic Reading of the Koran, 123–124) has some interesting suggestions, even if I am not sure that the calque follows the meaning “to translate” and not “to explain.” Here again, further analyses are needed. A promising example (since parallel semantic developments, in this case, are implausible) is Arabic naqama vs. Syriac tḇaʿ (Q 85:8). See Manfred Kropp, “Résumé du cours 2007–2008 (Chaire Européenne),” 787–788. There is a recent paper on this topic by Thomas Bauer (“The Relevance of Early Arabic Poetry for Qurʾanic Studies Including Observations on Kull and on Q 22:27, 26:225, and 52:31,” in The Qurʾān in Context. Historical and Literary Investigations into the Qurʾānic Milieu, ed. Angelika Neuwirth, Nicolai Sinai, and Michael Marx (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 699– 732). This study provides some interesting parallels with pre-Islamic poetry, but it is marred by useless polemics against Luxenberg—whereas Syriac lurks sometimes behind the Qurʾānic syntax of kull.

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Q 31:10: wa-baṯṯa fīhā min kulli dābbatin (= Q 2:164) (“and [God] scattered on it all kinds of animals”). Q 17:89: wa-laqad ṣarrafnā li-l-nāsi fī hāḏā l-qurʾāni min kulli maṯalin (= Q 18:54; 30:58; 39:27) (“We have displayed all sorts of parables (examples) for men in this predication”). There is another interesting, but far more complicated, case. Let’s look at these two passages: Q 3:52: qāla man ʾanṣārī ʾilā llāhi qāla l-ḥawāriyyūna naḥnu ʾanṣāru llāhi (“He [Jesus] said: Who will be my ʾanṣār ʾilā llāh? The disciples said: We will be the helpers of God”). Q 61:14: qāla ʿīsā bnu maryama li-l-ḥawāriyyīna man ʾanṣārī ʾilā llāhi qāla lḥawāriyyūna naḥnu ʾanṣāru llāhi (“Jesus, son of Mary, said to the disciples: Who will be my ʾanṣār ʾilā llāh? The disciples said: We will be the helpers of God”). The syntax of ʾanṣārī ʾilā llāhi is awkward (why such a use of ilā?) and the commentators generally understand “my helpers [in the path] of God” (Droge translates quite literally, “my helpers to God”). Yet the answer of the disciples does not follow the construction of the question. They only answer: we are, or we will be, the helpers of God. If the question was supposed to be understood as it usually is, we should read the following answer: naḥnu ʾanṣāruka ʾilā llāh, “we are your helpers [in the path] of God.” The underlying meaning of the question, addressed to the disciples, is certainly: who are my helpers and therefore the helpers of God? The sequel of Q 61:14 confirms this interpretation: “One contingent of the Sons of Israel believed [these are the helpers of God, also Jesus’ helpers], and (another) contingent disbelieved [the Jews]. So We supported those who believed against their enemy, and they were the ones who prevailed.” A pun with naṣāra, “Christians,” is not excluded. We might translate ʾanṣārī ʾilā llāhi by “my helpers of God”—an expression which sounds a bit awkward, like in Arabic. A structure *ʾanṣārī (A)llāh is not possible in Arabic, and a literal translation of the underlying meaning of the question would be quite long, whereas the Qurʾān clearly aims at concision in this context. However, it seems possible to see here a kind of calque of a well-known structure expressing membership in some neighboring Semitic languages, namely:

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Noun 1- pronominal suffix 3rd pers. + particle-Noun 2 This is indeed the hypothesis of Manfred Kropp, who compares ʾanṣārī ʾilā llāhi to a structure in Geez, with the particle lä (“to, toward, for, to the advantage of, with regard to, according to”).32 For example: ardǝʾǝt-u lä-Ǝgziʾabǝḥeri: literally, “helper-his to God = God’s helper,” bet-u lä-nǝgus: “the king’s house.” The passage from lä to ilā is maybe not the most natural one (la was more expected as a datival preposition), but it is not impossible. But there is a significant difference: as far as I know, the Semitic structure I referred to works with 3rd pers. There is thus a Qurʾānic innovation with ʾanṣār-ī (1st pers.). There are, however, similar constructions in Levantine Arabic dialects with Aramaic substrates, for example: bēt-o la-Yūsef, “Joseph’s house.”33 And this is not surprising, since there is the same structure in Aramaic: bayteh d-X (exactly as in Geez, except that the particle here is the demonstrative d-). For example: Syriac bayteh d-Šemʿūn, “Peter’s house” (literally, “his house, that of Peter”). A plural suffix is also possible: Allāh-hūn d-kristyānē, “the God of the Christians.” In some cases, bayteh d-X and bayta d-X are used interchangeably. However, bayteh d-X has some specific uses. For example, it is never used when the second member describes the first (ḥaṣā d-maškā, “loincloth (made) of skin,” but not *ḥaṣeh d-maškā). Bayteh d-X is used only when “the referent of the first member belongs in some way to the second.”34 So bayteh d-X is regular when the first member refers to parts of the body, or members of the family, and it is frequent too when the second member is a known individual. If one understands ʾanṣārī ʾilā llāhi as a syntactical invention based on a preexisting Semitic (foreign) structure, then we get what I believe is the intended meaning: “my helpers and God’s helpers.” Of course, ʾanṣārī ʾilā llāhi might be a spontaneous syntactical invention, without any influence from neighboring languages, but an influence from Geez or Aramaic seems to me more plausible.

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Manfred Kropp, “Äthiopische Arabesken im Koran. Afroasiatische Perlen auf Band gereiht, einzeln oder zu Paaren, diffus verteilt oder an Glanzpunkten konzentriert,” in Schlaglichter. Die beiden ersten islamischen Jahrhunderte, ed. Markus Groß & Karl-Heinz Ohlig (Berlin: Verlag Hans Schiler, 2008), 403–405. Manfred Kropp, “Äthiopische Arabesken im Koran. Afroasiatische Perlen auf Band gereiht, einzeln oder zu Paaren, diffus verteilt oder an Glanzpunkten konzentriert,” 405, n. 26. Jan Joosten, The Syriac language of the Peshitta and old Syriac versions of Matthew: syntactic structure, inner-Syriac developments and translation technique (Kinderhook: Brill, 1996), 50.

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Another significant example concerns the formula Ibrāhīm ḥanīfan (Abraham the ḥanīf ). Q 4:125: wa-man ʾaḥsanu dīnan mimman ʾaslama waǧhahū li-llāhi wahuwa muḥsinun wa-ttabaʿa millata ʾibrāhīma ḥanīfan wa-ttaḫaḏa llāhu ʾibrāhīma ḫalīlan (“Who is better in religion than one who submits his face to God, and follow the creed of Abraham the hanif ? God took Abraham as a friend.”) There is a similar construction of Ibrāhīm ḥanīfan elsewhere (Q 2:135; 6:161). Most of the time, translators (rightly) understand ḥanīf as an epithet, and not as an accusative of state. Such an understanding is confirmed by the following verse: Q 3:95: qul ṣadaqa llāhu fa-ttabiʿū millata ʾibrāhīma ḥanīfan (“Say: God has spoken the truth, so follow (plural) the creed of Abraham the hanif”). If ḥanīfan is an accusative of state, then it should be in the plural. On the other hand, if it is an epithet, it should have the definite article al-. Here Luxenberg’s explanation—one should not read ḥanīfan, an indefinite accusative, but ḥanīfā, the final -ā being the mark of the emphatic case in Syriac—is certainly insightful.35 Ibrāhīm ḥanīfā, or maybe rather millata Ibrāhīm ḥanīfā, appears as a fixed formula calqued on Syriac. Syriac mellṯā, “word, covenant,” stays behind Arabic milla; moreover, Arabic ḥanīf comes in all probability from Syriac ḥanpā, which is normally a pejorative world (“pagan, idolater”)—but not always! Indeed, in the Pəšīṭtā, it translates also sometimes Greek ἐθνικός (Mt 6:7; 10:5; 18:17; 1Co 5:1; 10:20; 12:2), or Ἕλλην (Mk 7:26; Jn 7:35; Ac 18:4; 18:17). In short: Abraham is a Gentile, not bounded by the Jewish Law, but at the same time, he is not an idolater (mušrik). Are there other cases of the mark of the Syriac emphatic case later understood as an Arabic indefinite accusative? According to Luxenberg, yes: Q 6:161: qul ʾinnanī hadānī rabbī ʾilā ṣirāṭin mustaqīmin dīnan qiyaman millata ʾibrāhīma ḥanīfan (“Surely my Lord has guided me to a straight path, a right religion, the creed of Abraham the hanif.”)

35

Christoph Luxenberg, The Syro-Aramaic Reading of the Koran, 55–57; Devin J. Stewart, “Notes on Medieval and Modern Emendations of the Qurʾān,” in The Qurʾān in its Historical Context, 238–240.

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As Nöldeke himself acknowledged,36 this construction is very strange. Since dīnan qiyaman millata … cannot be accusative of state, it should be in the genitive, following ilā, like ṣirāṭin mustaqīm. Luxenberg explains the Arabic ending of dīn(an), qiyam(an), and so on, as a rendering of Syriac’s emphatic state (-ā), which cannot be inflected.37 This is an interesting explanation, but certainly a bit hazardous (and it implies more than the use of a fixed formula like Ibrāhīm ḥanīfā). Anyway, the matter is complex (grammarians might appeal to various devices, often far-fetched, to solve the problem), so I will not go into details here. Let’s note, however, that in Middle Arabic, nouns governed by prepositions may terminate in -an,38 moreover, “in nouns governed by prepositions there is a tendency to put the more remote members in the ‘accusative’.”39 So what looks like incorrect Classical Arabic (a category maybe as unclear as Middle Arabic) rather looks like, let’s say, “correct” or usual Middle Arabic.40 This reference to Middle Arabic makes an apt transition to my next point. Q 7:160: wa-qaṭṭaʿnāhumu ṯnatay ʿašrata ʾasbāṭan (“We divided them into twelve tribes”).

36 37 38

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Theodor Nöldeke, Neue Beiträge zur Semitischen Sprachwissenschaft (Strasbourg: Trübner, 1910), 11. Christoph Luxenberg, The Syro-Aramaic Reading of the Koran, 53–54. Joshua Blau, A Grammar of Christian Arabic based mainly on South Palestinian Texts from the First Millennium, Fasc. 2, 342 (§ 226.5). For example: fa-lammā raʾā Yasūʿ ilā ǧumuʿan kaṯīratin maʿahu [Mt 8:18], “when Jesus saw great multitudes around him.” Joshua Blau, A Grammar of Christian Arabic based mainly on South Palestinian Texts from the First Millennium, Fasc. 2, 342–343 (§ 226.6). For example: ʿalā minbarin munīfin mutaʿāliyan, “on a throne high and lifted up.” Luxenberg’s motto is that we often have in the Qurʾān, not incorrect Arabic, but correct Syro-Aramaic (The Syro-Aramaic Reading of the Koran, 53), which is another point. There is, of course, a vexing question: what does tanwīn alif represent in Middle Arabic texts, and in such Qurʾānic verses—living usage (related or not to inference with Aramaic), or pseudo-corrections? A detailed examination of this topic exceeds by far the limits of this paper (but see Joshua Blau, The Emergence and Linguistic Background of JudaeoArabic. A Study of the Origins of Middle Arabic (2nd ed., Jerusalem: Ben-Zvi Institute for the Study of Jewish Communities in the East, 1981), 167–212). If one follows Luxenberg about Q 6:161, it would be natural to translate: “Surely my Lord has guided me to a straight path, the right religion, the creed of Abraham the hanif” (I do as if dīn and milla should be translated as “religion” and “creed,” which is probably not the case, but this is not the point here).

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According to the rules of Classical Arabic, one would except sibṭan. This is indeed an exception in the Qurʾān—the agreement with numerals is almost always regular. See for example, in the same verse: fa-nbaǧasat minhu ṯnatā ʿašrata ʿaynan (“and there gushed forth from it twelve springs”). A second exception is: Q 18:25: wa-labiṯū fī kahfihim ṯalāṯa miʾatin sinīna wa-zdādū tisʿan (“They remainded in their cave for three hundred years and (some) add nine (more)”). Another example of irregular agreement, but not with numbers: Q 2:31: wa-ʿallama ʾādama l-asmāʾa kullahā ṯumma ʿaraḍahum ʿalā l-malāʾikati (“And He taught Adam the names of all of them, then He showed them [the beings] to the angels.”) According to the rules of Classical Arabic, one should read ʿaraḍahā—as we read kullahā a few words before. The agreement in ʿaraḍahum, “He showed them (the beings, the animals),” on the other hand, would not be surprising in Middle Arabic41 (nor in some pre-Qurʾānic inscriptions). The cases of irregular agreement in number, gender or case (from the point of view of the grammar of Classical Arabic) are indeed not exceptional in the Qurʾān (see e.g. Q 2:177; 4:162; 5:69; 11:69, 72; 20:63; 75:14). These considerations bring us to a new and more general point, which is partly related to bilingualism, namely, the nature of Qurʾānic Arabic.

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Joshua Blau, Handbook of Early Middle Arabic (Jerusalem: Max Schloessinger Memorial Foundation, Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2002), 45 (§80); ibid., A Grammar of Christian Arabic based mainly on South Palestinian Texts from the First Millennium, Fasc. 2, 278 (§ 177.2): “as a rule, the more remote a word referring to a collective noun be from the noun, the more likely it is to stand in the plural.”

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More General Thoughts Scholars have noticed the many peculiarities of Qurʾānic style and grammar, and even the possible linguistic errors.42 In fact, there may be three different phenomena. First: linguistic errors. What I mean is that there are some irregularities— especially concerning iʿrāb—in the Qurʾān. In several cases, the best explanation is to suppose a mistake at some point in the transmission of the text.43 The early Arabic script is extremely ambiguous, and there are some good arguments suggesting that the language represented by the consonantal skeleton (rasm) of the Qurʾān had no iʿrāb.44 Thus, such errors are certainly “post-qurʾānic” (pos-

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About linguistic errors, see John Burton, “Linguistic Errors in the Qurʾān,” Journal of Semitic Studies 38-2 (1988), 181–196. About grammar and style, see e.g. Theodor Nöldeke, Neue Beiträge zur Semitischen Sprachwissenschaft, 23–30, Rafael Talmon, “Grammar and the Qurʾān,” Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān, ed. Jane Dammen McAuliffe, volume 2 (Leiden, Boston: Brill, 2002), 345–369, Claude Gilliot and Pierre Larcher, “Language and Style of the Qurʾān,” Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān, ed. Jane Dammen McAuliffe, volume 3 (Leiden, Boston: Brill, 2003), 109–135, and also Karl Vollers, Volkssprache und Schriftsprache im alten Arabien (Strasbourg: Tübner, 1906), especially 175–185. Marginal remark about the history of Qurʾānic studies in the 20th Century: it is very surprising (and depressing) to realize how some of the most insightful contributions of the early 20th Century—for example Vollers’ book, Paul Casanova, Mohammed et la fin du monde (Paris: Geuthner, 1911–1924, 3 vol.), or Henri Lammens, “Qoran et tradition: comment fut composée la vie de Mahomet,” Recherches de Science Religieuse 1 (1910), 25–61—, and also of the 19th Century (Aloys Sprenger still remains a mine of insights), have so easily been dismissed (often with quite weak arguments) or simply ignored by many scholars. The situation in the late 20th Century was not really better. Other explanations are also possible sometimes, see below. There may also be other kinds of transmission mistakes, like errors in the adding of the diacritical dots and vowels, which are placed correctly most of the time, but not always. In other words: there was no oral tradition, at least not a sound and uninterrupted one, which could guarantee the perfect transmission of the text. See Manfred Kropp, “Résumé du cours 2007–2008 (Chaire Européenne),” 787, whose methodological reflections I share without reservation. Here I side with Karl Vollers, and his stress on Volkssprache. Several works by Pierre Larcher (“Arabe préislamique, arabe coranique, arabe classique: un continuum?,” in Die dunklen Anfänge, 248–265; “Qu’est-ce que lʿarabe du Coran? Réflexions d’un linguiste,” Cahiers de linguistique de l’INALCO 5 (2003–2005 [volume number year], published in 2008), Linguistique arabe, ed. Georgine Ayoub & Jérôme Lentin, 27–47) give additional arguments for not “classicizing” Qurʾānic Arabic. Indeed, it is not Qurʾānic Arabic which influenced the grammar of Classical Arabic (as is so often claimed): it is rather the reverse, as Pierre Larcher aptly wrote me in a personal message (email, 23/01/2014):

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terior to the writing of the rasm), and were made by the scribes who added dots and vowels to the consonantal skeleton.45 In other words, it does not seem necessary to suppose pseudo-corrections (especially hypercorrections) at the level of the composition of the text. Second: grammatical specificities (here again, I leave out here phonology and orthography, including, therefore, the famous question of the hamza). The Arabic of the Qurʾān is certainly not identical with Classical Arabic (which I take more as a socio-linguistic label than as a strictly historical one), and some aspects of its grammar which strike us as a bit strange may simply reveal linguistic usage, not always congruent with the later standardization of Classical Arabic grammar (even if Qurʾānic Arabic, as we know it, is partly the result of the standardization of the language represented by the rasm), in some part of the Arabic-speaking world, at a particular time. Some instances of this phenomenon are occasionally called, rightly or wrongly, “ḥiǧāzisms.”46

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“C’ est la grammaire arabe qui a influencé la langue du Coran, en la classicisant [GD: I would add, en la standardisant] au-delà de ce que le rasm autorise.” Another incidental remark: it is sometimes thought that Nöldeke had a decisive, or at least strong argument, against Vollers, with the absence of non-iʿrāb traces in the transmission of the Qurʾān (Talmon, “Grammar and the Qurʾān,” 359). I am not convinced, for several reasons. First, there are certainly traces of neo-Arabic in the Qurʾān. Second, even in the complete absence of such traces, this argument would work only if the transmission of the Qurʾān, as we know it, had begun very early. This supposes, roughly, that the Qurʾān was ready at the time of Muḥammad’s death, and that it was well-known enough to be transmitted on a large scale—and it is surely sensible to doubt these two points. Third, there is evidence of readings of the Qurʾān without case endings. See Paul E. Kahle, The Cairo Geniza (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1959²), 141–149, 345–346; id., “The Arabic Readers of the Koran,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 8–2 (1949), 65–71; and Jonathan Owens, “Idġām al-Kabīr and history of the Arabic language,” in “Sprich doch mit deinen Knechten Aramäisch, wir verstehen es!” 60 Beiträge zur Semitistik für Otto Jastrow zum 60. Geburstag, ed. Werner Arnold & Hartmut Bobzin (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2002), 503– 520. Among the few examples studied by Burton, see e.g. Q 2:177: wa-l-mūfūna bi-ʿahdihim iḏā ʿāhadū wa-l-ṣābirīna fī l-baʾsāʾi wa-l-ḍarrāʾi (“and those who uphold their contract when they have made one, and those who are patient under violence and hardship”). Almūfūn is in the nominative and al-ṣābirīn is not, whereas both words are coordinated by wa. However, sometimes, such anomalies could indicate, not a grammatical error, but an interpolation. See my commentary about Q 9:31 and wa-l-masīḥa in The Qurʾan Seminar Commentary / Le Qurʾan Seminar. A Collaborative Study of 50 Qurʾanic Passages / Commentaire collaboratif de 50 passages coraniques, ed. Mehdi Azaiez, Gabriel Said Reynolds, Tommaso Tesei, and Hamza Zafer (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2016), 134. Two examples, related to the grammar of negation: mā as a nominal negator (Q 12:31: mā

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We should also remember that Qurʾānic Arabic may not necessarily be as homogeneous as generally assumed—and this should be no surprise. Qurʾānic Arabic, of course, is the Arabic of the Qurʾān—a tautology, which should not hide, however, two significant points. First, there is a probable hiatus between the language represented by the rasm (closer, at least in part, to the vernacular), and the language represented by the qirāʾāt, which display the influence of the poetic language. Moreover, the Qurʾān, strictly speaking, is not a book, but a corpus, namely, the gathering of relatively independent texts, which belong to various literary genres and are, in several ways, somewhat heterogeneous (for example, the style and vocabulary—see the numerous hapax legomena—of the many “oracular suras” at the end of the Qurʾānic corpus are quite different from those of the other parts of the Qurʾān; more generally, the literary and stylistic quality is uneven). And since I mentioned Sprenger earlier, it is probably the right place to quote him: Im Qoran kommen ungefähr 1700 Wurzeln vor, und es gibt schwerlich ein Buch von selben Umfange [GD: even more since the Qurʾān is very repetitive] in irgend einer Sprache, welches eine so grosse Zahl verschiedener Wörter enthält; das kommt daher, dass Moḥammad die Sucht hatte, nach ungewöhnlichen Ausdrücken zu haschen. Viele hat er selbst gemacht, viele hat er von verwendten Sprachen entlehnt.47 Muḥammad’s lexical creativity is a possible explanation at times, but the idea of a collective work, spread over time (more than usually thought), with various layers, seems the most natural and straightforward account. Of course, evidence from epigraphy, as well as from linguistic reconstructions of “old neoArabic,” might be of some interest here. Third: stylistic peculiarities. Here, the idiosyncrasies lie in the common use of this kind of Arabic, and therefore in the linguistic habits and tastes of the audience, but also, if not more, in the stylistic, rhetorical and linguistic choices of the author(s) of the Qurʾān. For example, the Qurʾān is quite fond of anacolutha. Moreover, it goes without saying that the constraints of the saǧʿ, and the importance of pause and rhyme, explain many aspects of the text—but not all.

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hāḏā bašaran, “this is not a man”); ʾin as a negative particle (Q 11:51: ʾin ʾaǧriya ʾillā ʿalā llaḏī faṭaranī, “my reward is not due except on the One who created me”). “Review of Mohammad nach Talmud und Midrasch, nach J. Gastfreund,” Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 28 (1875), 656–657.

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The frontiers between these phenomena are not always easy to draw (but a blurred frontier does not mean no frontier at all).48 Yet I would like to ask the following question: concerning the grammatical and stylistic peculiarities of Qurʾānic Arabic, what can be explained within the parameters of interference and language contact? Indeed, behind such peculiarities may lurk sometimes phenomena of interference with other languages. This is a huge topic which deserves much more than a single paper. Of course, interference is only one of the possible explanations: it is not supposed to explain everything, and at times, several competing explanations are more or less plausible. So I have more questions than answers (as so often with the Qurʾān). Let us look at a few examples. 1) There are many cases (around 600) in the Qurʾān where the subject precedes its verbal predicate. This order is quite unusual in Arabic. It is much more common in Biblical Hebrew (the “casus pendens,” or yiḥūd) or in Aramaic, where the order of the words displays more freedom. Should we explain this massive use of topicalisation49 by rhetorical and stylistic reasons, as evidence for phenomena of interference (in living usage), or as a will to mimic the style of Jewish or Christian religious works (in Hebrew or Syriac)? 2) In the same vein, the Qurʾān sometimes employs impersonal verb constructions. For example: Q 27:17: wa-ḥušira li-sulaymāna ǧunūduhū mina l-ǧinni (“Solomon gathered his armies of jinns”—literally, “his armies of jinns were gathered for Solomon”). This is quite unusual in Arabic (but not completely unheard-of). On the other hand, such constructions are not rare in Aramaic, in the Pǝšiṭtā or by the

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One example, with a famous verse. Q 20:63 reads, according to the majority (four) of the seven canonical qirāʾāt: ʾinna hāḏāni la-sāḥirāni (“there are two magicians”). From the point of view of the Classical Arabic grammar, this is simply incorrect: we should have an accusative, hāḏayni, and not a nominative, following ʾinna (Abū ʿAmr’s reading corrects accordingly). How should we interpret this anomaly? Does it reflect a living usage where there are no more cases, at least in the dual? Is this a rhetorical and stylistic effect highlighting an internal rhyme hāḏāni/sāḥirāni? Or does it pertain to a “linguistic error,” to be understood either from an historical viewpoint (as evidence of an evolution under way) or a socio-linguistic one (pseudo-correction)? See Pierre Larcher, “Arabe préislamique, arabe coranique, arabe classique: un continuum?,” 257. On this topic, see Yehudit Dror, “Topicalisation in the Qurʾān: A Study of ʾištiġāl,” Acta Orientalia Academiae Scientiarum Hung. 65-1 (2012), 55–70.

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Syriac Fathers.50 Could the ideas of style imitation or interference be good explanations? 3) In a suggestive paper,51 Yehudit Dror has highlighted a specific function of the particle bal in the Qurʾān. This particle has usually three functions. It can rectify or amend a previous statement (e.g. Q 3:169); after an affirmative proposition, or a command, it can denote turning away, or digressing, from the previous statement (e.g. Q 2:259); it can also denote turning from one intention or topic to another one (e.g. Q 23:62–63). Dror suggests that in five Qurʾānic verses (Q 2:116; 4:49; 13:31; 34:27; 38:2), bal is not used in any of these ways, but rather as an emphasis particle. Therefore, it should be translated as “only” (Q 4:49; 34:27), or “indeed” (Q 2:116; 38:2).52 I am not really convinced by the first two examples, where “but” seems a good translation. But there is at least one example where Dror is clearly right: Q 38:1–2: ṣ (ṣād) wa-l-qurʾāni ḏī l-ḏikri / bali llaḏīna kafarū fī ʿizzatin wašiqāqin (“(ṣād) By the predication with the reminder / Indeed, those who disbelieve are in false pride and defiance.”) This emphatic usage of bal is similar to the cognate particle aval in Biblical Hebrew, which means “but,” but has also an assertive use (“verily,” see for example 1K 1:43). In her abstract, Dror says that “the idea that the particle bal in the Qurʾān has also an emphatic usage came from the Biblical Hebrew, in which the particle aval which is parallel to the Arabic particle bal has also this usage.”53 It is hard to tell if she only means that the examination of the uses of aval gave her insights for her analysis of bal, or if she claims that the use of Qurʾānic bal is sometimes influenced, or even deliberately modeled, on Biblical Hebrew. This last claim seems to me doubtful, or at least unprovable. The meaning of such particles fluctuates—much depends on contexts. Just one example, outside Arabic: Syriac gēr has normally the meanings of Greek γάρ, “so, then, therefore,” but sometimes it should be translated by “but.”54 In short, the move from adversative to assertive/emphatic use can go both ways. And, as Beck noticed,

50 51 52 53 54

See the examples given in Theodor Nöldeke, Compendious Syriac Grammar, trans. James A. Chrichton (London: Williams & Norgate, 1904), 199–202 (§254). “Some Notes about the Functions of the Particle bal in the Qurʾān,” Ancient Near Eastern Studies 49 (2012), 176–183. Q 13:31 can fall in either category. Yehudit Dror, “Some Notes about the Functions of the Particle bal in the Qurʾān,” 176. Edmund Beck, “Grammatisch-syntaktische Studien zur Sprache Ephräms des Syrers,” Oriens Christianus 68 (1984), 9–12.

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“Man weiß von den alten Sprachen her, welche Schwierigkeiten das genaue Erfassen des Sinnes kleiner Partikeln bereiten kann”55 … One should mention here Nabatean bly, with an assertive meaning, “indeed, verily,” as well as Arabic balā (same sense). Therefore, we probably have a case of parallel development. 4) I would like to conclude with a very interesting phenomenon, namely the Qurʾānic use of the particle wa as start of an apodosis. Luxenberg devotes a good deal of pages to this issue,56 and his insights should be pursued further. There are several examples of such a use (Q 12:15; 18:47–48; 37:103–104; 85:6– 7—the list does not claim to be exhaustive). Here are two simple and salient ones. Q 12:15: fa-lammā ḏahabū bihī wa-ʾaǧmaʿū ʾan yaǧʿalūhu fī ġayābati lǧubbi wa-ʾawḥaynā ʾilayhi (“When they had taken him [Joseph] away, and agreed to put him in the bottom of the well, We inspired him”). Protasis: fa-lammā ḏahabū bihī wa-ʾaǧmaʿū ʾan yaǧʿalūhu fī ġayābati lǧubbi Apodosis: wa-ʾawḥaynā ʾilayhi Q 37:103–104: fa-lammā ʾaslamā wa-tallahū li-l-ǧabīni / wa-nādaynāhu ʾan yā-ʾibrāhīmu (“When they both submitted, and he had laid him face dow, / We called out to him: ‘Abraham!’”)57 Protasis: fa-lammā ʾaslamā wa-tallahū li-l-ǧabīni Apodosis: wa-nādaynāhu ʾan yā-ʾibrāhīmu The particle wa is not required by Arabic syntax. It might even sound strange: it often drives translators into misunderstandings because they do not recognize a protasis/apodosis structure, or because they do not understand when the apodosis begins (the two cases shown here are easy, but Q 18:47–48 is another matter). How should we explain this use of wa? In Biblical Hebrew, this particle is very often used at the start of apodoses. In the Pǝšiṭtā, most of the time, it is not translated—no surprise, since Syriac syntax does not normally require it. Yet, sometimes, it is also translated. One may say that these are cases of Hebraisms in the Pǝšiṭtā, but as we will soon see, things are a bit more complicated. 55 56 57

“Grammatisch-syntaktische Studien zur Sprache Ephräms des Syrers,” 1. Christoph Luxenberg, The Syro-Aramaic Reading of the Koran, 153–157, 166–213. I follow here the usual understanding of v. 103, but the meaning of some terms, especially ʾaslamā, is not so clear—the root s-l-m being a good candidate for an analysis in terms of loanshifting from Aramaic. Such questions, however, are besides my point here.

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In what is certainly the most comprehensive review of Luxenberg’s book, Daniel King has dismissed Luxenberg’s ideas on this topic: “Nöldeke has made quite clear elsewhere (Grammar §339) that ‫ ܘ‬does not mark apodoses in Syriac except in rare cases of Hebraisms in the Peshitta—it was not carried over thence into Syriac literature and to find such a construction here in Arabic is indeed a great leap of the imagination, and is certainly not proven by any evidence Luxenberg adduces.”58 Maybe Luxenberg did not add enough evidence, but such a dismissal is unduly dogmatic. First, at least in some Qurʾānic verses, reading wa as only indicating the beginning of an apodosis (and so leaving it untranslated) makes much sense. Second, there is evidence of such a use in Aramaic and Syriac— and also in Arabic. In fact, Nöldeke’s claim should be qualified. It seems that Syriac wē is more used in popular writings (note the socio-linguistic factor!), as Nöldeke himself acknowledges: “In volkstümlichen Schriften scheint dies‫ ܘ‬gern zu stehen.”59 The waw of apodosis is also not unheard of in other Aramaic dialects, for example Egyptian Aramaic.60 Moreover, we have significant examples of wē as a starting word in apodoses in the major Syriac writer, namely Ephraem, whose style is a remarkable mix of high sophistication and, at the same time, popular and accessible expression. The topic has been aptly studied by Edmund Beck,61 so it is not necessary to be too long here. I need only to highlight a few points. Of course, Ephraem often does not use wē at the beginning of apodoses (as expected, since it does not belong to the regular construction), but sometimes, he uses it (there are tens of examples). Moreover, apodoses beginning by wē appear in all kinds of literary genres— in hymns as well as in prose. In a few cases, wē is used to provide the right number of syllables between two periods, but most of the time, its use is not constrained by metrical or syllabic reasons. In other words, wē is then certainly used for rhetorical or stylistic reasons.62

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Daniel King, “A Christian Qurʾān?”, 55. “Review of Kalila und Dimna. Syrisch und Deutsch von Friedrich Schultheß,” Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 65 (1911), 579, n. 2 (Nöldeke provides a few examples). Takamitsu Muraoka and Bezalel Porten, A Grammar of Egyptian Aramaic (Leiden: Brill, 1998), 327 (§ 84r). Edmund Beck, “Grammatisch-syntaktische Studien zur Sprache Ephräms des Syrers,” 16– 25. Which reasons exactly is besides my point here: anacoluthon, congruence with popular language, rhythm of the sentence? Maybe one of the uses of ‫ ܘ‬in the Pǝšiṭtā version of

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I did not check how far this grammatical construction is widespread in Syriac literature, but Ephraem’s works were largely known, and his Hymns were sung by all cantors and monks of Syriac culture in the Late Antique Near East. Therefore, they were certainly well-known in the scribal milieu responsible for at least a part of the composition of the Qurʾān. Moreover, if such a use of wa is extremely unusual in Classical Arabic, it is not rare at all in Middle Arabic. Blau provides many examples,63 which do not pertain only to the introduction of a conditional clause. There are, indeed, instances of anacoluthon; there are also cases where wa calks the particle καί used in a Greek Vorlage; sometimes, such a use of wa marks a nuance like suddenness.64 And this is not true only of Middle Arabic. Let’s consider the two lines in Arabic (lines 4–5) in the famous bilingual inscription (NabateanArabic) of ʿAyn ʿAbada (usually dated between 88 and 125 ad). I follow the reconstruction of Manfred Kropp:65 fa-kun hunā yubġinā l-mawtu wa-lā abġāh(ū) (“Be it then that death claims us, He will not allow this claim!”) fa-kun hunā adāda ǧurḥ(un) wa-lā yudidnā (“Be it then that a wound festers, He will not let us be eaten by worms!”) We read, in these two lines (which are an incantation, and display a highly formal speech, which is however not poetry—it is rather similar to the style of a soothsayer), a wa which introduces the apodosis, but should be left untranslated. In short: there are several Qurʾānic verses where is used a “wa apodosis,” a syntactical construction which is exceptionally rare in Classical Arabic, but

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the Psalms should be mentioned here: whereas the Hebrew Psalter normally juxtaposes the two stichs of a verse, the Pǝšiṭtā Psalter often uses ‫ ܘ‬to coordinate them. See Ignacio Carbajosa, The Character of the Syriac Version of Psalms. A Study of Psalms 90–150 in the Peshitta (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 38. Joshua Blau, A Grammar of Christian Arabic based mainly on South Palestinian Texts from the First Millennium, Fasc. 2, 450–454 (§ 346). For example: kullu-man lā yaʿmalu l-birr waannahu laysa min Allāh (1 Jn 3:10): “whosoever does not do righteousness, is not of God.” For example: wa-fīhā kuntu qāyim fī ṣallātī wa-haḏā l-raǧul Ǧibrīl ʾatānī (Dan 9:21): “and while I was standing in prayer, that man Gabriel came to me” (Joshua Blau, A Grammar of Christian Arabic based mainly on South Palestinian Texts from the First Millennium, Fasc. 2, 453 (§ 346.6)). See his paper in this volume.

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present in various stages of Arabic, before and after the Qurʾān. Even if the ʿAyn ʿAbada inscription features a bilingual context, and if the examples in Middle Arabic given above come from a (translation) corpus mostly written by bilingual speakers, it would be too hasty to conclude that the wa apodosis is a kind of syntactical loan from Aramaic: it is not so easy to recognize the “real borrowings” between Aramaic and vernacular Arabic, since what looks like as an “aramaism” in Arabic may often be understood as a parallel development.66 On the other hand, it would also be hasty to exclude a loan, given the antiquity and depth of the contacts between Aramaic and Arabic. When Luxenberg writes that wa apodosis constructions “should be understood (…) syntactically on the basis of a sentence construction that is also attested in part in the Syro-Aramaic translation of the Bible under the influence of Biblical Hebrew,”67 he is right, in a way—this is without a doubt how some Qurʾānic verses should be understood and translated. However, it is farfetched to look for close or direct influences from Biblical Hebrew, or from the few Hebraisms of the Pǝšiṭtā. The explanation is more straightforward. Indeed, since it is rather implausible that the Qurʾān itself had any direct influence on Early (Christian) Middle Arabic, and since the corpus of Middle Arabic referred to above is attested later than the Qurʾān, we should suppose that the affinities (not limited, as we saw, to this use of wa) between Qurʾānic Arabic (by which I mean, first and foremost, the language represented by the rasm) and Middle Arabic have deeper roots— and the most natural explanation is that they reflect aspects of some kind(s) or register(s) of Arabic, as spoken roughly (with variants) in Syria, Palestine, Jordan and the north of the Arabian Peninsula, in Late Antiquity (before and after the conquests). Which kinds and registers is another matter.68 Let us, however, highlight a significant point, which could be a good beginning for further analyses. With the wa apodosis, we have an instance of linguistic variation, namely a case when

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Francisco del Río Sánchez, “Influences of Aramaic on dialectal Arabic,” in Archaism and Innovation in the Semitic Languages. Selected Papers, ed. Juan Pedro Monferrer-Sala & Wilfred G.E. Watson (Cordoba: CNERU—DTR, Oriens Academic, 2013), 129. Christoph Luxenberg, The Syro-Aramaic Reading of the Koran, 157. Alan Jones has compared the Qurʾānic register to those of the ḫaṭīb, the kāhin, and the qaṣṣ, hence putting the Qurʾān between the register of poetry and that of the dialects. See e.g. Alan Jones, “The Oral and the Written: some thoughts about the Qurʾānic text,” The Arabist. Budapest Studies in Arabic 17 (1996), 57–66. As far as one wants to highlight the relations between the Qurʾān and Early Arabic literature, this seems to me a very sensible approach.

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a linguistic item has alternate realizations which are linguistically, or grammatically, equivalent. In Classical Arabic, it is normally excluded to begin an apodosis by wa—it is seen as a deviation from the norm, whereas in Qurʾānic Arabic and in Middle Arabic (and in other kinds of Arabic too), it is perfectly possible, but not mandatory. The choice of one variant form instead of another can depend on many factors, and is not necessarily deliberate. Without further precise information about the author(s) of the text, it is therefore futile to suggest a precise explanation. All we can say is that such choices are related to the verbal and phraseological repertoire of the author (not necessarily limited to Arabic), his stylistic taste, his spiritual and homiletic background and intentions, and also the constraints of pragmatic communication with an audience. The careful reader has certainly noticed two things. First: with the formula “linguistic variation,” we enter the field of sociolinguistics, or rather historical sociolinguistics (since we are dealing with written texts). Many traditional studies of Qurʾānic Arabic, albeit insightful, are very descriptive and formal, and pass over silence the social function(s) of Qurʾānic Arabic in the context and life of the communities which used it. The problem, of course, is that the more we go back in time, the less we know about such functions—and the main jeopardy would be to retroject on the situation of the 7th Century what we know about later times. Yet we need a more realistic view of Qurʾānic Arabic, and we will not get it if we study it out of its social context.69 Second: I have regretted the absence of precise information about the author(s) of the text. This is not only because I think we know only very few things about Muḥammad’s life. It is also because there are, to my mind, good reasons to dismiss the idea that the Qurʾān is simply a record of Muḥammad’s ipsissima verba, or the work of his only circle of scribes, whose profile does not match enough the profile of the redactors of many suras.70 In other words, we should

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Several interesting studies, examining Biblical, Classical or Qumran Hebrew with the tools of historical sociolinguistics, have been published these last years. They could be a good source of inspiration. See the pioneering studies of William M. Schniedewind, “Qumran Hebrew as an Antilanguage,” Journal of Biblical Literature 118 (1999), 235–252, id., “Prolegomena for the Sociolinguistics of Classical Hebrew,” Journal of Hebrew Scriptures 5 (2004–2005), Article 6. Online: http://www.jhsonline.org/Articles/article_36.pdf [DOI: 10.5508/jhs.2004.v5.a6]. Recent and useful synthesis in Dong-Hyuk Kim, Early Biblical Hebrew, Late Biblical Hebrew, and Linguistic Variability. A Sociolinguistic Evaluation of the Linguistic Dating of Biblical Texts (Leiden: Brill, 2013), especially chapter 3. For some references and arguments, see Guillaume Dye, “Réflexions méthodologiques sur la ‘rhétorique coranique’,” particularly the concluding section; id., “Lieux saints communs,

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acknowledge the role of scribes, or professional clerics—for some, working after Muḥammad’s death—, in the composition and transmission of the Qurʾān, and not only in a so-called “collection” (their work, of course, did not come out of nothing, and could be based, in part, on preexisting prophetical logia and liturgical texts). Since we know much less about the historical background of the Qurʾān than is generally thought, at least by traditionally-minded scholars (for example, I do not see any convincing reason to stick to the Meccan/Medinan chronology71), then we should proceed the other way around—namely, we should aptly describe the nature of the texts under scrutiny and then draw the profile of their authors. The topic is too large for this paper, but we can already notice some key points. From a literary point of view, we should talk of Qurʾānic Psalms, as well as Qurʾānic madrāšē, memrē, and soḡiyāthā.72 I do not mean that the texts I am inclined to call Qurʾānic Psalms, madrāšē, and so on, are a servile borrowing of Syriac literary traditions—far from that: they are adapted, not without creativity, to the context of Arabic language and literature (e.g. Syriac verse is based on syllabic count, contrary to Arabic poetry and Arabic saǧʿ). But—and this is crucial—, they share compositional features with their Syriac/Aramaic homologs, they draw from them a good part of their verbal, phraseological and thematic repertoire, and, also, they play a similar role: they are suited for narrative or paraenetic compositions, and they are used in homiletic or liturgical settings. Indeed, a good number of Qurʾānic pericopes look like Arabic ingenious patchworks of Biblical and para-Biblical texts, designed to comment passages or aspects of the Scripture, whereas others look like Arabic translations of liturgical formulas. This is not unexpected if we have in mind some Late Antique religious practices, namely the well-known fact that Christian Churches followed the Jewish custom of reading publicly the Scriptures, according to the lectionary principle.

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partagés ou confisqués: aux sources de quelques péricopes coraniques (Q 19: 16–33)”, 112– 113. See Guillaume Dye, “Le Coran et son contexte,” 256–259. See note 6 above concerning madrāšē, memrē, and soḡiyāthā. Concerning Qurʾānic Psalms, one could mention Q 55 with its characteristic refrain, or Q 96, which owes so much to Psalms 49 and 95 (see Michel Cuypers, “L’analyse rhétorique face à la critique historique de J. Wansbrough et G. Lüling,” in The Coming of the Comforter, especially 363– 365). Concerning the Fātiḥa as shaped by the patterns of responsorial, antiphonal or alternative-singing psalms, see Guillaume Dye, “Réflexions méthodologiques sur la ‘rhétorique coranique’,” 155–158.

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In other words, people did not read the whole of the Scripture to the assembly, but lectionaries (Syriac qǝryānā, “reading of Scripture in Divine Service,” etymon of Arabic qurʾān), containing selected passages of the Scripture, to be read in the community. Therefore, many of the texts which constitute the Qurʾān should not be seen (at least if we are interested in their original Sitz im Leben) as substitutes for the (Jewish or Christian) Scripture, but rather as a (putatively divinely inspired) commentary of Scripture.73 And since this Scripture was not in Arabic, we understand better the role of the Qurʾān, and we also understand better why it insists so much on Arabic (Q 12:2; 13:37; 14:41; 16:103; 26:195; 39:28; 41:3, 44; 42:7; 43:3; 46:12): stressing that there is an Arabic qurʾān supposes that there might be non-Arabic scriptures. These reflections, and all the examples studied above, suggest that we are dealing with a language, or sociolect (i.e. Qurʾānic Arabic), which was spoken and used in a multilingual context (with all the consequences of such a situation), where Aramaic was a prevalent language (a fortiori in religious matters). Even more: the people behind the compositions of such Qurʾānic Psalms, madrāšē, and so on (see for example suras 3, 5, 18, 19, 96 …), were certainly scribes with a high literacy in Arabic and Aramaic.74 And since, as we saw, we have in Qurʾānic Arabic many phenomena related to bilingualism, interference, and language contact (and there are many more, a fortiori if we allow changes in the punctuation of the rasm), that is to say, loanwords, Lehnprägung, Lehnbedeutung, semantic calques, uses of foreign words (namely, insertions), influence of foreign syntactical structures (congruent lexicalization)75—in other words, code-switching and code-mixing—, then it seems that studying such aspects of the Qurʾān with the tools of translation technique may be very promising.

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See e.g Jan M.F. Van Reeth, “Le Coran et ses scribes,” in Les scribes et la transmission du savoir, ed. Christian Cannuyer, Antoon Schoors & René Lebrun, Acta Orientalia Belgica 19 (2006), 67–82. Just one reminder: the source of Q 18:83–102 is a written Syriac text, the Alexander Legend, composed in 629–630. See Kevin van Bladel, “The Alexander Legend in the Qurʾān 18:83– 102,” in The Qurʾān in Its Historical Context, 175–203; Tommaso Tesei, “The Prophecy of Ḏū l-Qarnayn (Q 18:83–102) and the Origins of the Qurʾānic Corpus,” Miscellanea arabica (2013–2014), 273–290. There is still the last aspect of bilingual situations, namely alternance (shift from one language to the other). There is no alternance in the Qurʾān, but there is certainly some behind the original Sitz im Leben of some of its parts, as argued above.

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Kropp, M. (2008), “Résumé du cours 2007–2008 (Chaire Européenne),” Annuaire du Collège de France. Résumé des cours et travaux, 108e année, pp. 783–801. Kropp, M. (2008), “Beyond Single Words. Māʾida—Shayṭān—jibt and ṭāġūt. Mechanisms of Transmission into the Ethiopic (Gǝʿǝz) Bible and the Qurʾānic Text,” in in The Qurʾān in Its Historical Context, ed. Gabriel Said Reynolds, London, Routledge, pp. 204–216. Kropp, M. (2008), “Äthiopische Arabesken im Koran. Afroasiatische Perlen auf Band gereiht, einzeln oder zu Paaren, diffus verteilt oder an Glanzpunkten konzentriert,” in Schlaglichter. Die beiden ersten islamischen Jahrhunderte, ed. Markus Groß & KarlHeinz Ohlig, Berlin, Verlag Hans Schiler, pp. 384–410. Kropp, M. (2011), “Tripartite, but anti-Trinitarian formulas in the Qurʾānic Corpus, possibly pre-Qurʾānic,” in New Perspectives on the Qurʾān. The Qurʾān in Its Historical Context 2, ed. Gabriel Said Reynolds, London, Routledge, pp. 247–264. Kropp, M. (2017), “The ʿAyn ʿAbada Inscription Thirty Years Later: A Reassessment,” in Arabic in Context: Celebrating 400 Years of Arabic at Leiden University, ed. Ahmad Al-Jallad, Leiden, Brill, pp. 372–392. Lammens, H. (1910), “Qoran et tradition: comment fut composée la vie de Mahomet,” Recherches de Science Religieuse 1, pp. 25–61. Larcher, P. (2005), “Arabe préislamique, arabe coranique, arabe classique: un continuum?,” in Die dunklen Anfänge. Neue Forschungen zur Enstehung und frühen Geschichte des Islam, ed. Karl-Heinz Ohlig & Gerd-Rüdiger Puin, Berlin, Verlag Hans Schiler, pp. 248–265. Larcher, P. (2003–2005), “Qu’est-ce que lʿarabe du Coran? Réflexions d’un linguiste,” Cahiers de linguistique de l’INALCO 5 (2003–2005 [volume number year], published in 2008), Linguistique arabe, ed. Georgine Ayoub & Jérôme Lentin, pp. 27–47. Luxenberg, Ch. (2004², 2000), Die syro-aramäische Lesart des Koran. Ein Beitrag zur Entschlüsselung der Koransprache, Berlin, Verlag Hans Schiler. Luxenberg, Ch. (2005), “Neudeutung der arabischen Inschrift im Felsendom zu Jerusalem,” in Die dunklen Anfänge. Neue Forschungen zur Enstehung und frühen Geschichte des Islam, ed. Karl-Heinz Ohlig & Gerd-Rüdiger Puin, Berlin, Verlag Hans Schiler, pp. 124–147. Luxenberg, Ch. (2007), The Syro-Aramaic Reading of the Koran. A Contribution to the Decoding of the Language of the Koran, Berlin, Verlag Hans Schiler. MacDonald, M.C.A. (2000), “Reflections on the linguistic map of pre-Islamic Arabia,” Arabian archeology and epigraphy 11, pp. 28–79. Mingana, A. (1927), “Syriac influence on the style of the Kurʾān,” Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 11, pp. 77–98. Muraoka, T. and Porten, B. (1988), A Grammar of Egyptian Aramaic, Leiden, Brill. Nehmé, L. (2010), “A glimpse of the development of the Nabataean Script into Arabic based on old and new epigraphic material,” in The development of Arabic as a written

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language (Supplement to the Proceedings of the Seminar for Arabian Studies), ed. Michael C.A. MacDonald, Oxford, Archaeopress, pp. 47–88. Neuwirth, A. (2007², 1981), Studien zur Komposition der mekkanischen Suren, Berlin, De Gruyter. Nöldeke, T. (1904), Compendious Syriac Grammar, trans. J.A. Chrichton, London, Williams & Norgate. Nöldeke, T. (1910), Neue Beiträge zur Semitischen Sprachwissenschaft, Strasbourg, Trübner. Nöldeke, T. (1911), “Review of Kalila und Dimna. Syrisch und Deutsch von Friedrich Schultheß,” Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 65, pp. 578– 588. Ohlig, K.-H. & Puin, G.-R. (2005), Die dunklen Anfänge. Neue Forschungen zur Enstehung und frühen Geschichte des Islam, Berlin, Verlag Hans Schiler. Owens, Jonathan (2002), “Idġām al-Kabīr and history of the Arabic language,” in “Sprich doch mit deinen Knechten Aramäisch, wir verstehen es!” 60 Beiträge zur Semitistik für Otto Jastrow zum 60. Geburstag, ed. Werner Arnold & Hartmut Bobzin, Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, pp. 503–520. de Prémare, A.-L. (2000), “Les textes musulmans dans leur environnement,” Arabica 473, pp. 391–408. de Prémare, A.-L. (2002), Les fondations de l’islam. Entre écriture et histoire, Paris, Seuil. van Reeth, J.M.F. (2006), “Le Coran et ses scribes,” in Les scribes et la transmission du savoir, ed. Chr. Cannuyer, A. Schoors & R. Lebrun, Acta Orientalia Belgica 19, pp. 67– 82. Reynolds, G.S. (ed.) (2008), The Qurʾān in Its Historical Context, London, Routledge. Reynolds, G.S. (2010), The Qurʾān and its Biblical Subtext, London, Routledge. del Río Sánchez, F. (2013), “Influences of Aramaic on dialectal Arabic,” in Archaism and Innovation in the Semitic Languages. Selected Papers, ed. Juan Pedro Monferrer-Sala & Wilfred G.E. Watson, Cordoba, CNERU—DTR, Oriens Academic, pp. 129–136. Rubin, U. (1993), “Iqraʾ bi-smi rabbika …! Some Notes on the Interpretation of sūrat alʿalaq (vs. 1–5),” Israel Oriental Studies 12, pp. 213–230. Schniedewind, W.M. (1999), “Qumran Hebrew as an Antilanguage,” Journal of Biblical Literature 118, pp. 235–252. Schniedewind, W.M. (2004–2005), “Prolegomena for the Sociolinguistics of Classical Hebrew,” Journal of Hebrew Scriptures 5, Article 6. Online: http://www.jhsonline.org/ Articles/article_36.pdf [DOI: 10.5508/jhs.2004.v5.a6]. Schub, M. (1995), “The Buddha comes to China,” Zeitschrift für Arabische Linguistik 29, pp. 77–78. Segovia C.A., and Lourie, B. (2012), The Coming of the Comforter: When, Where, and to Whom? Studies on the Rise of Islam and Various Other Topics in Memory of John Wansbrough, Piscataway NJ, The Gorgias Press.

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Sprenger, A. (1875), “Review of Mohammad nach Talmud und Midrasch, nach J. Gastfreund,” Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 28, pp. 654–659. Stewart, D.J. (2008), “Notes on Medieval and Modern Emendations of the Qurʾān,” in The Qurʾān in its Historical Context, ed. G.S. Reynolds, London, Routledge, pp. 225– 248. Talmon, R. (2002), “Grammar and the Qurʾān,” Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān, ed. Jane Dammen McAuliffe, volume 2, Leiden, Boston, Brill, pp. 345–369. Tesei, T. (2013–2014), “The Prophecy of Ḏū l-Qarnayn (Q 18:83–102) and the Origins of the Qurʾānic Corpus,” Miscellanea arabica, pp. 273–290. Vollers, K. (1906), Volkssprache und Schriftsprache im alten Arabien, Strasbourg, Tübner. Wortley, J. (2012), “Prayer and the Desert Fathers,” in The Coming of the Comforter: When, Where, and to Whom? Studies on the Rise of Islam and Various Other Topics in Memory of John Wansbrough, ed. C.A. Segovia and B. Lourié, Piscataway NJ, The Gorgias Press, pp. 109–129. Comprehensive Aramaic Lexicon Project, available online (http://cal.huc.edu).

chapter 12

A Syriac Reading of the Qurʾān? The Case of Sūrat al-Kawṯar* Martin F.J. Baasten

1

Luxenberg’s Syriac Reading of the Qurʾān

The publication of Christoph Luxenberg’s study entitled Die syro-aramäische Lesart des Koran1 provoked rather mixed reactions, ranging from uncritical acclaim to scathing dismissal.2 The author indeed presented a rather unorthodox view on the early history of Islam, more specifically on the textual history of the Qurʾān and its historical and linguistic context. He contends that the Qurʾān originated as a Christian lectionary, and that it was written in a sort of AraboAramaic mixed language, that was soon misunderstood due to the fact that the earliest manuscripts are unpointed, thus leaving considerable uncertainty about the correct reading of many consonants and hence the basic meaning of numerous words, phrases and passages. Luxenberg’s far-reaching thesis concerning the original text and context of the Qurʾān should obviously not be believed or ridiculed, but confirmed or refuted on the basis of scholarly arguments. By far the most thorough, instructive and balanced treatment of the Luxenberg hypothesis so far was * I am grateful to Ahmad Al-Jallad, Henk Jan de Jonge, Paul Noorlander and Benjamin Suchard for their critical remarks on an earlier draft of this article. 1 Chr. Luxenberg (ps.), Die syro-aramäische Lesart des Koran. Ein Beitrag zur Entschlüsselung der Koransprache (Berlin 2000), henceforth quoted as SLK. The book was translated into English in a revised and enlarged edition as The Syro-Aramaic Reading of the Koran. A Contribution to the Decoding of the Language of the Koran (Berlin 2007), henceforth SRK. The German adjective syro-aramäisch was possibly chosen to avoid the ambiguity of syrisch. In an English context, however, ‘Syro-Aramaic’ is an unhappy choice; there is no reason to abstain from the usual ‘Syriac’ (as against ‘Syrian’). 2 For a useful summary of scholarly reactions to Luxenberg’s book, cf. Daniel King 2009, esp. 72–74. In his discussion of my own review of SLK (published in Aramaic Studies 2/2 [2004] 268–272), however, King partly misrepresents my position as being supportive of ‘the liturgical reading of Sura 108’ (emphasis mine), whereas I merely stated that Luxenberg’s Syriac reading ‘yields an understandable text, which would fit perfectly within the context of an emerging religion’.

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written by Daniel King. On the basis of meticulous philological research he concludes that Luxenberg’s method is severely lacking in many areas, although he may on occasion have hit upon a useful emendation. Thus although the hypothesis as a whole is faulty, the individual textual suggestions ought to be treated on a caseby-case basis.3 In other words, Luxenbergs sweeping and exceedingly self-confident statements on the Qurʾan as having originated as a Christian lectionary and having been written in an Arabo-Aramaic mixed language are largely unfounded and his philological method contains many serious and demonstrable flaws—as we shall also see below. Yet, in concrete cases he may have come up with valuable ideas and suggestions for plausible readings of the text of the Qurʾān. What is needed, therefore, is for each and every one of Luxenberg’s philological proposals to be carefully examined and critically evaluated, to see whether on closer consideration there is some value in them.4 The present paper offers a detailed philological analysis of Luxenberg’s treatment of Sūrat al-Kawṯar, pointing out strengths and weaknesses of his approach, with special attention to the Qurʾānic context of this sūrah and the question to what extent a ‘Syriac reading of the Qurʾān’ is a helpful concept.5

2

The Case of Sūrat al-Kawṯar

Sūrat al-Kawṯar as a whole is treated by Luxenberg in a separate chapter.6 The text as it is traditionally read is presented below, alongside the English rendering by Bell:7 (٣) ُ َ‫ك ه ُو َ ٱۡلَأبتۡ ر‬ َ َ ِ‫شانئ‬ َ ‫ن‬ ّ َ ‫( ِإ‬٢) ۡ َ‫ك و َٱۡنحر‬ َ ِّ ‫ل لرِ َب‬ َ َ ‫( ف‬١) َ َ‫كو ۡثر‬ َ ۡ ‫ك ٱلـ‬ َ َٰ‫ِإ َن ّـآ َأۡعطَي ۡن‬ ِّ ‫ص‬

3 King 2009: 44. 4 An important contribution to the discussion is made by Guillaume Dye in the present volume, pp. 337–371. Whereas King (2009: 55–61) negatively evaluates Luxenberg’s view on the waw of apodosis in Qurʾānic Arabic, Dye actually makes a convincing case for its plausibility. 5 King (2009: 66) considers Luxenberg’s re-reading of Sūrat al-Kawṯar ‘not unappealing … It deserves further consideration and research’. 6 SRK, 292–301; SLK, 271–275. 7 Bell 1939, II: 681.

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1. innā aʿṭaynāka l-kawṯar Verily, we have given thee abundance; 2. fa-ṣalli li-rabbika wa-nḥar So pray to thy Lord, and sacrifice. 3. inna šāniʾaka huwa l-abtar. Verily, it is he who hateth thee who is the docked one. It is fair to say that modern exegetes are just as much at a loss in making sense of this short passage as their medieval fellows.8 In order to give an impression of the problems and exegetical challenges that this texts presents, we shall quote Bell’s concise commentary in full: V. 1 al-kauthar, properly and adjective, ‘full’, ‘abundant’ (N.S., i, p. 92, note 4). According to some, ‘much wealth’; according to others ‘many followers’. It is sometimes said to be the name of a river in Paradise. Nöldeke suggests that the beginning of the surah has been lost; it may possibly be a fragment from somewhere else, but it is difficult to suggest a context. V. 2 inḥar, ‘sacrifice’, only here in the Qurʾān; it seems improbable that Muhammad would have taken part in the sacrifices of the Pilgrimage in the Meccan period of his activity. Hence this exhortation is probably Medinan, at the introduction of the sacrifices of the ʾaḍḥā (?). V. 3 shāniʾaka, ‘the one who hates you’, is interpreted as referring to a definite individual who had called him ʾabtar, ‘mutilated’, ‘tailless’, i.e. having no son; see N.S., i, p. 92 for the persons mentioned. It certainly looks as if an individual were referred to, though other authorities interpret it as referring to a class.9 8 For an overview of traditional exegesis of this sūrah, see Birkeland 1956: 1–140, esp. 55–99. Birkeland concludes ‘that the legendary picture of Muhammed formed as early as in the last quarter of the first century has prevented Muslim interpreters from a historically correct understanding of Surah 108’ (p. 99). 9 Bell 1939 II, Surahs xxv–cvix, 591. The German translation by Paret (1979) equally reflects the exegetical problems: ‘Im Namen des barmherzigen und gnädigen Gottes. 1. Wir haben dir die Fülle gegeben. 2. Bete darum zu deinem Herrn und opfere! 3. (Ja) dein Hasser ist es, der

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The main questions concerning the interpretation of these lines are to what the ‘abundance’ is supposed to refer, how the act of sacrifice fits in the social context of early Islam, why the enemy is called ‘the docked one’ and, finally, what the connection between these elements could be so as to yield an understandable text and Sitz im Leben of this particular sūrah. 2.1 Luxenberg’s Reading of Sūrat al-Kawṯar In Luxenberg’s Syriac reading, however, the passage runs as follows: 1. innā aʿṭaynāka l-kawṯar 2. fa-ṣalli li-rabbika wa-nǧar

We have given you the (virtue of) constancy; so pray to your Lord and persevere (in prayer); 3. inna šāniʾaka huwa l-abtar. your adversary (the devil) is (then) the loser. Luxenberg’s conclusion is that most of the allegedly difficult words are actually Syriac. Indeed, according to him, there is hardly a single genuinely Arabic word to be found in this sūrah.10 It must be admitted that as for the general meaning and context of this sūrah, Luxenberg’s reading is attractive. Nothing remains of the enigmatic, opaque nature of the traditional text. In its new interpretation we are not dealing with a fragment from somewhere else, but with a clear-cut passage conveying a plausible message. The text seems to comprise a straightforward exhortation to steadfastness in piety against the adversary, whose final defeat is predicted. Such a passage, moreover, would fit rather well within the context of an emerging religion. The question remains whether Luxenberg’s Syriac reading will hold against close scrutiny. 2.2 ‫ أعطى‬aʿṭā ‘to Give’ as a Syriac Loanword Concerning the expression aʿṭaynāka ‘we have given thee’ in verse 1, Luxenberg considers the Arabic verb ‫ أعطى‬aʿṭā ‘to give’ to be a dialectal, secondary formation—by means of a shift from hamz to ʿayn and an ensuing emphatisation of ‫ ܬ‬t—from Syriac ‫ܝ‬狏‫ ܐܝ‬ayti ‘to make arrive, bring’: *ʾaʾtā > *ʾaʿtā > aʿṭā.11 As an additional argument for this etymology he adduces the fact that the root ‫ عطى‬ʿaṭā—which Luxenberg claims to have no cognate in any other Semitic

10 11

gestutzt (oder: schwanzlos, d.h. ohne Anhang(?) oder ohne Nachkommen?) ist. (Oder (als Verwünschung): Wer dich haßt, soll gestutzt bzw. schwanzlos sein!)’. Cf. also Paret, 21977, ad loc. SRK, 298. SRK, 298–299.

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language—is used much less frequently in the Qurʾān than ‫ اتى‬atā, which, he believes, is also derived from Syriac ‫ ܐܬܐ‬eṯā. From a linguistic point of view, however, Luxenberg’s Syriac derivation of ‫ أعطى‬aʿṭā ‘to give’ is seriously flawed for several reasons. First of all, it requires two ad hoc sound changes ʾ > ʿ and t > ṭ.12 The causative derivation of I-hamza roots is commonly attested in Arabic without any sort of dissimilation: ‫آكل‬ ākala < *ʾaʾkala ‘to feed’, ‫ آتى‬ātā < *ʾaʾtā ‘to bring’. There is also no phonological reason why pharyngealization should spread from ʿayn to adjacent nonemphatic consonants: ‫ أعذب‬aʿḏab ‘more punishing’ (not *ʾaʿḏ̣ ab). Secondly, it is not true that the root ‫ عطى‬ʿaṭā is unique to Classical Arabic. The verb is attested in Dadanitic (= Lihyanite) in the 5th–4th c. bce, a time and place where it is hard to posit a strong Aramaic adstratum. The same root is also known from Safaitic proper names. On these grounds, too, it is unlikely that ‫ عطى‬ʿaṭā should have been borrowed from Syriac.13 Thirdly, the mere fact that ‫ أتى‬atā is more frequent than ‫ عطى‬ʿaṭā is in itself no argument in favour of the alleged Syriac origin of the latter.14 In other words, there is no reason to doubt the ‘Arabicness’ of the verb ‫أعطى‬ aʿṭā ‘to give’ and hence there is just as little reason to assume any influence from Syriac at this point in Sūrat al-Kawṯar. Since even Luxenberg’s interpretation of ‫ أعطى‬aʿṭā as a Syriac loanword does not yield a better or indeed a different meaning, it seems that the whole exercise is done just in order to strengthen Luxenberg’s claim that hardly a word in Sūrat al-Kawṯar is genuinely Arabic. 2.3 ‫ كوثر‬kawṯar ‘Constancy’ The enigmatic expression ‫ كوثر‬kawṯar is traditionally taken to be derived from the root kṯr ‘numerous’ and translated as ‘abundance’ or, alternatively, explained as a reference to one of the rivers in Paradise.15 Luxenberg, however, identifies it with the Syriac noun ‫ܬܪܐ‬熏‫ ܟ‬kuttārā ‘awaiting, persistence, stability, duration’. Also in the light of his re-reading of wa-nǧar in verse 2 (see below, §2.5), this seems an excellent suggestion that yields a plausible meaning.

12 13

14

15

Fassberg (2005: 243–256, esp. 249–250) is critical of a general shift from glottal stop to ʿayin. Needless to say, even if ‫ عطى‬ʿaṭā had been unique to Arabic, that still would not have been a sufficient reason the deem it suspect. The well-attested Hebrew root ʿåśå ‘to do, make’ is a case in point. In addition, Luxenberg’s claim that Egyptian Arabic əddīnī ‘give me’ is also derived from Syriac ayti, is equally unlikely. Iddī is most probably a denominal verb from the word id ‘hand’, as in hand me X = give me X. See Birkeland 1956: 57–70.

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The root ktr is well attested in Syriac, with derivations of nouns, adjectives ܿ ܿ and adverbs: ‫ܬܪܐ‬熏‫ ܟ‬kuttārā ‘staying, remaining’, ‫ܪ‬狏‫ ܟ‬kattar ‘to wait for, perܿ ܿ sist, remain’, ‫ܪ‬狏‫ ܐܬܟ‬eṯkattar ‘to remain, dwell’, ‫ܪܘܬܐ‬狏‫ ܡܟ‬mḵattruṯā ‘conܿ ܿ tinuance’, 焏‫ܪܢ‬狏‫ ܡܟ‬mḵattrānā ‘lasting, stable, enduring’, ‫ܬܐ‬熏‫ܪܢ‬狏‫ ܡܟ‬mḵatܿ trānūṯā ‘abiding, existence’, 狏‫ܝ‬焏‫ܪܢ‬狏‫ ܡܟ‬mḵattrānāʾiṯ ‘permanently’.16 Moreover, as Luxenberg pointed out, the same basic meaning of ‘constancy’ is equally plausible in Q 20:33,34 ‫ كي نسب ّحك كثيرا ونذكرك كثيرا‬kay nusabbiḥaka kaṯīrā wa-naḏkuraka kaṯīrā ‘that we may constantly glorify Thee and make constantly remembrance of Thee’.17 The Arabic diphthong aw for Syriac u possibly has its origin in a graphic reinterpretation18 of the written form ‫كوثر‬, just as ‫توراة‬/‫ تورٮة‬tawrā most probably derived from tōrā19 and ‫ قسورة‬qaswara in Q 74:51 might have come from a Syriac form qāsōrā for ‫ܐ‬犯‫ܣ‬熏‫ ܩ‬qusrā ‘donkey’.20 On the other hand, one must count with the possibility that this Qurʾānic lexeme did not come from Syriac, but from some other Arabic dialect strand. Hence is it certainly possible, but not certain that ‫ كوثر‬kawṯar ‘constancy’ is a Syriac loanword. 2.4 ‫ صل ّى‬ṣallā ‘to Pray‘ Luxenberg mentions in passing that the verb ‫ صل ّى‬ṣallā ‘to pray’ in verse 2 is a Syriac loanword. This does not seem to be controversial or new.21 2.5 ‫ نجر‬naǧara ‘to Persevere’ For wa-nḥar in verse 3 Luxenberg proposes to read ‫ وانجر‬wa-nǧar—that is, a single dot should be added to this rasm—and to take the verb ‫ نجر‬naḥara ‘to persevere’ as a loanword from Syriac 犯‫ ܢܓ‬nḡar ‘to persevere, persist’. It is indeed

16 17 18

Sokoloff 2009: ss.vv. SRK, 295. See also the contribution by Dye in the present volume. Even though the oral tradition of the Qurʾānic text may prove to be less unreliable than Luxenberg suggests (SRK, passim), there are strong indications for actual misreadings of a written word in manuscripts. To mention only two examples: The form ‫ م ُع َّقبِ ٰت‬muʿaqqibāt in Q. 13:12 appears in the Codex Ibn Masʿūd as ‫ م َعاَ قيِ ب‬maʿāqīb; both forms can be explained as different readings of one and the same unpointed rasm ‫معڡٮٮ‬. The same is true

19 20 21

for Q 13: 31 ‫س‬ ِ َ ‫اي ٔ ۡـ‬ ْ َ ‫ ي‬yayʾasi, for which the Codex Ibn Masʿūd has ‫ ;يـَت َبيَ ّۡن‬both forms go back to an unpointed rasm ‫ٮٮٮٮں‬. Cf. Jeffery 1937: 50–51. Much further research is needed here. SRK 85–88. SRK, 60, 63. SRK, 297. Cf. Jeffery 1938: 198–199.

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attractive to read a form of ‘to persevere’ here, especially also in the light of ‫كوثر‬ kawṯar ‘constancy’ in verse 1. However, even though the Syriac verb is unproblematic, it is not absolutely necessary to assume a Syriac influence here either. As the root nǧr is attested in Safaitic inscriptions, too, one may also assume linguistic influence from there. Thus, in KRS 598 l ḥmy w ngr {ẓ}lm b- ḥm ‘By Ḥmy and he ngr miserably by/in the heat’,22 it is conceivable that this verb should be translated as ‘and he endured (suffered?) miserably in the heat’. While Luxenberg’s interpretation of verse 2 deserves acclaim, the use of the verb naǧara ‘to persevere’ does not necessarily support a Syriac provenance of Sūrat al-Kawṯar. 2.6 ‫ شانئ‬šāniʾ ‘Adversary’ Luxenberg takes the phrase ‫ شانئك‬šāniʾaka ‘your adversary, the one who hates you’ to be a ‘further adapted transcription form Syro-Aramaic ‫ܟ‬焏‫ ܣܢ‬sānāḵ’. He further believes this to be a reference to Satan, since ‘[i]n the Christian Syriac terminology, Satan is referred to, among other things, as a “misanthrope”— hence and “adversary”—in contrast to God’. Taking the phrase šāniʾaka as a transcription of Syriac, however, is problematic. Luxenberg forgets to explain why the Arabic form has retained the etymologically correct š (i.e. /s2/), while Syriac has s due to the merger of both phonemes in Aramaic. This makes a Syriac origin of the phrase unlikely. Moreover, Luxenberg’s interpretation of šāniʾ ‘adversary’ specifically in the sens of ‘Satan’ seems to be due to his exclusive interest in a Syriac Christian origin of the Qurʾān and hence forms part of a circular argument: the idea that šāniʾ should mean ‘Satan’ originates in his hypothesis of the Qurʾān as a Christian lectionary, while at the same time it forms a confirmation of this hypothesis. (See also §5 below.) Furthermore, the interpretation of šāniʾ as ‘Satan’ is unnecessary in view of the fact that the more general meaning ‘adversary, enemy’ is also clearly attested in Biblical Hebrew ‫ שׂ ֵנא‬śoneʾ,23 as well as in Safaitic šnʾ.24 As we shall see below (§3.3), there are good reasons to assume that šāniʾ in verse 2 has the more general meaning of ‘adversary’. Therefore, in this case, too, there is no reason to assume any specific influence from Syriac in Sūrat al-Kawṯar.

22 23 24

All Safaitic examples are quoted according to Al-Jallad 2015, ‘Appendix of inscriptions’. Koehler and Baumgartner 1994–2000: s.v. ‫ שׂ ֵנא‬śoneʾ. Al-Jallad 2015: ‘Dictionary’, s.v. s²nʾ.

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2.7 ‫ أبتر‬abtar Derived from Syriac 犯‫ ܬܒ‬tḇar? As regards the elative form ‫ أبتر‬abtar in verse 3 Luxenberg states that its Arabic root ‫ بتر‬batara ‘to cut off, to amputate’ is derived from Syriac 犯‫ ܬܒ‬tḇar ‘to break’ through metathesis.25 Hence he reads al-abtar as ‘the loser’. Even though Luxenberg’s interpretation of abtar admittedly yields an attractive meaning within the context of Sūrat al-Kawṯar, his linguistic analysis of the form is highly implausible in view of the fact that the root btr, with the basic meaning of ‘to cut’, is clearly attested in several Semitic languages. Biblical Hebrew has ‫ ָבַּתר‬båṯar ‘to cut in pieces’ and ‫ ֶבֶּתר‬bεṯεr ‘piece (of sacrificial meat)’,26 in Geʿez we find በተረ batara ‘to cut, to hit’ and በትር batr ‘stick, rod’,27 and even in (Jewish Palestinian) Aramaic—though apparently not in Syriac— one finds the noun ‫ בתר‬btr ‘portion’.28 In order to maintain that Arabic batara is derived from Syriac tḇar, Luxenberg would have to suppose that all Semitic languages concerned must have borrowed this root from Aramaic,29 after which in each language metathesis occurred independently—which is highly improbable. An alternative explanation would be that the root tbr first became btr due to metathesis in Aramaic, after which btr was borrowed in all languages concerned. In that case, however, Luxenberg should explain, first, why the original Aramaic tbr remained in use alongside the allegedly metathesised root btr and, secondly, why this metathesised form subsequently all but disappeared from Aramaic. Yet Luxenberg does not seem to be aware of the linguistic complications he has raised by his proposal, or at least fails to account for them. We may conclude, therefore, that there is no reason to assume Syriac or Aramaic influence in the case of Arabic batara ‘to cut off’. As the root is attested in various other Semitic languages as well, it can be considered genuinely Arabic; its meaning ‘to cut off’ is wellestablished.30

25 26 27 28 29 30

SRK, 297–298: ‘Finally, the root ‫ بتر‬batara (to break off, to amputate) … is a metathesis of the Syro-Aramaic 犯‫( ܬܒ‬tḇar)’. Koehler and Baumgartner 1994. vol. I, p. 167b. Dillman 1991: s.vv. batara and batr I. Cognate lexemes are found in various modern EthioSemitic languages. Sokoloff 199o: 116. The attested plural form ‫ ביתרין‬bytryn /bitrīn/, a nominal qiṭl pattern, suggests that we are not dealing with a loanword from Hebrew in this case. Obviously not from Syriac, since at least in the case of Biblical Hebrew this would be chronologically impossible. In addition to the traditional abtar ‘having the tail cut off’, Lane (1863–1893) also mentions the Arabic lexemes batara ‘to cut off’, inbatara ‘to become cut off’, bātir ‘sharp sword’.

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Since al-abtar in verse 3 is indeed problematic, we must assume that it is not the root btr that is suspect, but the reading al-abtar is. Somewhat surprisingly, Luxenberg does not suggest to actually read al-atbar—a possible alternative reading of the same unpointed rasm—thus taking the word as a direct loan from Syriac tḇar and saving himself the trouble of explaining the alleged metathesis of batara. This is all the more remarkable, as the root tabara is attested elswhere in the Qurʾān: Q 71.29 tabār ‘destruction’, Q 25.41 tabbara ‘to break in pieces’, Q 17.7, 23.41 tatbīr ‘utter destruction’, Q 7.135 mutabbar ‘destroyed, broken up’.31 However, one reason why Syriac tḇar does not provide a good source for Luxenberg’s interpretation of our verse—‘your adversary is the one who loses’—is that this verb does not simply mean ‘to lose’; its basic meaning is ‘to break’ in a transitive sense. The only evidence Luxenberg provides for the meaning ‘to lose’ is that in Mannā’s dictionary the verb tḇar in its second meaning is rendered as ‫ انسحق‬insaḥaqa ‘to be crushed’, ‫ انكسر‬inkasara ‘to get broken, be defeated’, and in its third meaning as ّ ‫ فر‬farra ‘to flee, escape’, ‫ انهزم‬inhazama ‘to be defeated’.32 But in Syriac the meaning ‘to lose’ could only be construed from the use of this verb in passive stems (peʿil, etpeʿel or etpaʿʿal, as in ‫ܝ‬犯‫ܬܒܝ‬ 焏‫ ܠܒ‬tḇiray lebbā ‘shattered of heart’). On the other hand, in view of the fact that Lane also mentions an Arabic verb tabira ‘to perish’, the reading al-atbar cannot be entirely excluded.33 A possibility that I propose here, is to read ‫ الأثبر‬al-aṯbar ‘the one who loses’—a reading that also requires nothing other than repointing the traditional rasm. This yields the same meaning as Luxenberg proposed, but I deem it linguistically more probable. The Arabic verb ‫ ثبر‬ṯabara does have a basic intransitive meaning ‘to perish’34 an it is well-attested, also in the Qurʾān. There is an adjectival participle ṯābir ‘suffering loss; erring; going astray; perishing’, of which aṯbar would be the regular elative. In the Qurʾān we also find ṯubūr ‘perdition, becoming lost’ (25:14–15) and maṯbūr ‘overcome, made to lose’ (17:104).35

31 32

33 34 35

Luxenberg surprisingly does not refer to Schall 1984–1986: 371–373, esp. 371–372, who already suggested an Aramaic origin for mutabbar. Mannā 1900: 829a. It is difficult to understand why Luxenberg does not mention Mannā’s rendering of the first meaning of tḇar: ‫ تبر‬tabara ‘to destroy’, ‫ هلك‬halaka ‘to perish’, ‫فني‬ faniya ‘to perish’. Lane 1863–1893, s.v. Lane 1863–1893: 330b-c s.v. ‫ثبر‬. In addition, Lane mentions a transitive meaning: ‫ثبره‬ ṯabarahū ‘he caused him to fail of attaining his desire’. On account of the expression ‫ ثا بر عليه‬ṯābara ʿalayhi ‘he applied himself perseveringly [!]

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Further corroborative evidence supporting the reading al-aṯbar ‘the one who perishes, loses’ may be gathered from the use of ṯbr in Safaitic, cf. NST 3 h-ṯbrn ‘the warriors (ṯabbārīn?)’.36 In conclusion, the traditional al-abtar in verse 3 is suspect. Even though the reading al-atbar ‘the loser’ cannot be ruled out—in which case we would be dealing with an Aramaic loanword—a more probable reading is possibly alaṯbar ‘the loser’. If this is correct, there is no reason to assume any influence from Syriac in this case.

3

Qurʾānic Parallels to Sūrat al-Kawṯar

We may conclude that Luxenbergs proposal to interpret kawṯar ‘constancy’ as a Syriac loanword is a good one (§2.3). The phrase wa-nǧar ‘and persevere’ should indeed be interpreted as Luxenberg suggests, but even though an influence from Syriac and nḡar ‘to persevere’ is possible, influence from Safaitic or the possibility of a rare Arabic noun cannot be excluded (§ 2.5). The verb ṣallā ‘to pray’ is clearly a Syriac loanword (§2.4). In the case of aʿṭā ‘to give’ and šāniʾ ‘adversary’, however, there is no reason whatsoever to assume any Syriac influence (§§2.2, 2.6). Finally the form al-abtar should probably be read as alaṯbar, in which case no Syriac influence could be assumed, but it is possible that the phrase should be read as al-atbar, in which case we are dealing with a Syriac loanword. In sum, we then arrive at the following reading of Sūrat alKawṯar: (٣) ُ َ‫ك ه ُو َ ٱۡلَأثبۡ ر‬ َ َ ِ‫شانئ‬ َ ‫ن‬ ّ َ ‫( ِإ‬٢) ۡ َ‫ك و َٱۡنجر‬ َ ِّ ‫ل لرِ َب‬ َ َ ‫( ف‬١) َ َ‫كو ۡثر‬ َ ۡ ‫ك ٱلـ‬ َ َٰ‫ِإ َن ّـآ َأۡعطَي ۡن‬ ِّ ‫ص‬ 1. innā aʿṭaynāka l-kawṯar Verily, we have given thee constancy. 2. fa-ṣalli li-rabbika wa-nǧar So pray to thy Lord, and persevere. 3. inna šāniʾaka huwa l-aṯbar. Verily, it is thy adversary who will perish. Our next task is to investigate to what extent the interpretation proposed would fit within the wider context of the Qurʾān and whether it is possible to find parallel passages conveying the same idea, both for single verses as for

36

to it’ mentioned by Lane, it is even possible that we are dealing with a subtle pun in our sūrah: ‘then the enemy is the loser (and we’ll see who will last longest)’. But this latter point is obviously mere speculation. Cf. Al-Jallad 2015: ‘Dictionary’, s.v. ṯbr.

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the whole sūrah. Even though in some isolated cases Luxenberg does refer to Qurʾānic parallel verses,37 in this respect he could have done much better. 3.1 Qurʾānic Parallels to the First Verse If understood in the sense proposed by Luxenberg, the first verse of Sūrat alKawṯar, ‫ إن ّا أعطين ٰك الـكوثر‬innā aʿṭaynāka l-kawṯar, is to be translated as ‘Verily, we have given thee (the virtue of) constancy/perseverance’. As such the verse conveys the idea that it is God who bestows the virtue of endurance or perseverance upon the believers. This precise notion is demonstrably not foreign to the Qurʾān, as it is also expressed—albeit in different words—in Q 7:126 ‫ر ب ّنا أفرغ‬ ً ‫ علينا صبرا‬rabbinā afriġ ʿalaynā ṣabran ‘O our Lord, pour out upon us patience’. There can be little doubt that the noun ṣabr ‘patience’ is used here as a plain Arabic synonym for the otherwise unattested expression kawṯar.38 3.2 Qurʾānic Parallels to the Second Verse The second verse of Sūrat al-Kawṯar according to its new reading (‘So pray to thy Lord and persevere’) shows a close connection between prayer and endurance. This particular motif, too, is found elsewhere in the Qurʾān, e.g. 2:153 ‫ يأّيها الذين ءامنوا استعينوا بالصبر والصلوة‬yā-ayyuhā llaḏīna āmanū staʿīnū bi-ṣ-ṣabri waṣ-ṣalāt ‘O ye who have believed, seek help in patience and the Prayer’. Again, ṣabr ‘patience’ is used as a synonym for kawṯar. Three other close parallels to verse 1, in which the close connection between acts of piety and endurance become explicit, are already referred to by Luxenberg: Q 20:132 (Ṭāhā) ‫و َأ ۡم ُۡر‬ ‫صطَبرِ ۡ ع َليَ ۡه َا‬ ۡ ‫صل َاة ِ و َٱ‬ ّ َ ‫ك باِ ل‬ َ َ ‫ َأه ۡل‬wa-ʾmur ahlaka bi-ṣ-ṣalāti wa-ṣṭabir ʿalayhā ‘Command thy household to observe the prayer and endure patiently in it’; Qurʾān 19:65 ۡ ‫ ف َٱۡعب ُۡده ُ و َٱ‬fa-ʿbudhu wa-ṣṭabir li-ʿibādatihī ‘So serve Him (Maryam) ِ ‫صطَبرِ ۡ لعِ بِ َٰ د َت ِه‬ and endure patiently in His service’; Q 70:22–23 (al-Maʿāriǧ) ‫ن ه ُۡم‬ َ ‫صل ِّينَ ٱل َ ّذ ِي‬ َ ُ ‫ِإ َلّا ٱل ۡم‬ َ‫صل َاتِہ ِۡم د َٓإِٮموُ ن‬ َ َ‫ ع َلى‬illā l-muṣallīna llaḏīna hum ʿalā ṣalātihim dāʾimūn ‘Except those ٰ who pray, those who at their prayer continue long’. In view of these Qurʾānic parallels to verse 2, there are good reasons to assume that Luxenbergs interpretation of this verse is the correct one.

37 38

Luxenberg himself does refer to Q 20:132, 19:65 and 70:22–23 quoted below (§3.2). The other parallel passages I shall discuss in §§ 3.2–3.4 he does not mention. On the relation between the two terms kawṯar and ṣabr, see below (§5).

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3.3 Qurʾānic Parallels to the Third Verse The first question to be asked in relation to our third verse is what the šāniʾ ‘adversary’ is actually aiming at within the context of Sūrat al-Kawṯar. An instructive Qurʾānic passage is 5:2 (al-Māʾida): ‫ب‬ ِ ‫شدِيد ُ ٱل ۡع ِق َا‬ َ َ ‫ن ٱل َل ّه‬ ّ َ ‫جدِ ٱۡلح َر َاِم … ِإ‬ ِ ‫س‬ ۡ َ ‫ن ٱل ۡم‬ َ ‫انُ قوَ ٍۡم َأۡن‬ َ ‫يج ۡرِم َن ّك ُۡم‬ َ ‫و َل َا‬ ِ َ ‫صُّدوك ُۡم ع‬ َ ٔ َ ‫شن‬ wa-lā yaǧrimannakum šanaʾānu qawmin an ṣaddūkum ʿani l-masǧidi lḥarāmi (…) inna llāha šadīdu l-ʿiqāb And let not the hatred of a people,39 in that they have debarred you from the Sacred Mosque, incite you to provoke hostility … Allah is severe in punishment. The use of the noun šanaʾān ‘hatred’ is especially enlightening. There can be little doubt that šanaʾān denotes the emotion that the šāniʾ ‘adversary’ has. It is expressed in an attempt to keep the faithful away from the mosque. This forms an exact parallel to Sūrat al-Kawṯar, where the faithful are encouraged to counter the adversary’s attempt by keeping on with their prayer (v. 2). Another important parallel to verse 3 is Q 2:109 (al-Baqara): ِ‫حسَدًا مّ ِۡن عِن ۡدِ َأنف ُس ِه ِم مّ ِۢن بعَ ۡد‬ َ ‫كَّفار ًا‬ ُ ‫ب لوَ ۡ يرَ ُ ُدّون َك ُم مّ ِۢن بعَ ۡدِ ِإ يم َٰن ِك ُۡم‬ ِ َٰ‫كت‬ ِ ۡ ‫ل ٱلـ‬ َ ّ‫و َ َد‬ ِ ۡ ‫كثيِ ر ٌ مّ ِۡن َأه‬ ‫م َا ت َبيَ ّنَ ل َه ُم ُ ٱۡلح َُّق‬ wadda kaṯīrun min ahli l-kitābi law yaruddūnakum min baʿdi īmānikum kuffāran, ḥasadan min ʿindi anfusihim min baʿdi mā tabayyana lahumu lḥaqq Many of the People of the Book would like if they might render you unbelievers again after your having believed, because of envy on their part after the truth has become clear to them. Here, too, the enemy is described as trying to prevent the faithful from performing their acts of piety. The noun used to denote his emotion is ḥasad ‘hatred, envy’, which should clearly be considered a synonym for šanaʾān in Q 5:2 quoted 39

Paret’s translation of this phrase (21977, ad loc.) as ‘der Haß, den ihr gegen (gewisse) Leute hegt, …’, taking qawmin as a genitive of object, is probably incorrect. The reference is to the hatred that the adversary feels towards Muslims.

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above. In Q 113:5 (al-Falaq) the enemy is called ḥāsid, an active participle precisely parallel to šāniʾ ‘adversary’. In other words, the content of verse 3 according to its new reading is confirmed by other Qurʾānic passages. 3.4 Qurʾānic Parallels to the Sūrah as a Whole So far we have seen some parallels to separate verses of our sūrah according to its new interpretation. In order to corroborate the plausibility of the gist of this sūrah as a whole, it now remains to see whether it is possible to find Qurʾānic parallels to the entire passage. Four different themes may be distinguished: (a) the call to endurance and patience; (b) the expression of piety, especially through prayer; (c) the presence of an adversary; (d) a prediction of victory or defeat (‘we will win, they will lose’). On closer consideration, the Qurʾān proves to contain at least six concise passages that constitute precise parallels to these same four themes found in Sūrat al-Kawṯar according to its new reading and hence have the same gist: A first parallel is found in Q 3:120 (Āl ʿImrān): If, however, ye endure (taṣbirū) and act piously (tattaqū) their cunning (kayduhum) will not harm you (lā yaḍurrukum) at all; verily Allah comprehendeth what they do (inna llāha bi-mā yaʿmalūna muḥīṭ). In this passage the acts of piety are expressed by the verb tattaqū, which does not necessarily imply prayer, but does denote a way of behaviour according to Muslim rules. The adversary is present in the phrase kayduhum, and the motif of victory and defeat fact that ‘we’ will win (lā yaḍurrukum) and ‘they’ will lose—that is, they will not escape their final punishment (inna llāha bi-mā yaʿmalūna muḥīṭ)—is equally apparent. The second Qurʾānic parallel appears in Q 7:126 (al-Aʿrāf ): And thou takest vengeance upon us (tanqimu minnā) only because we have believed in the signs of Our Lord (āmannā bi-āyāti rabbinā) when they came to us; O our Lord, pour out upon us patience (afriġ ʿalaynā ṣabran), and call us in (at our death) as Moslems (tawaffanā muslimīn). In this case, the reference to endurance is present in the desire to be bestowed with patience (afriġ ʿalaynā ṣabran; see also above, § 3.1), whereas the idea of piety is expressed by the fact that Muslims have come to believe (āmannā biāyāti rabbinā). The presence of the adversary is implicit in the call for

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vengeance (tanqimu minnā) and the fact that ‘we’ will die still being Muslims, clearly implies that the Muslims in the end will have succeeded in their attempts to remain faithful (tawaffanā muslimīn). The third Qurʾānic parallel to Sūrat al-Kawṯar that deserves to be mentioned is Q 76:23–26 (al-Insān): 23Verily it is We who have sent down to thee the Qurʾān actually; 24so wait patiently ( fa-ṣbir) for the decision of thy Lord (li-ḥukmi rabbika), and obey not from amongst them any guilty or unbelieving one (āṯiman aw kafūran); 25But remember the name of thy Lord, morning and evening, And part of the night; 26do obeisance to Him ( fa-sǧud lahu), and by night give glory to Him (sabbiḥhu) long. The motif of perseverance is expressed by the phrase fa-ṣbir, a verb of the same root as the noun ṣabr that we saw before. The theme of piety is clearly present in two explicit references to prayer ( fa-sǧud lahu; sabbiḥhu). As for the ultimate fate of the adversary (āṯiman aw kafūran), there can be little doubt concerning the content of God’s final verdict (li-ḥukmi rabbika). The fourth Qurʾānic parallel to Sūrat al-Kawṯar can be found in Q 52:45–49 (aṭ-Ṭūr): 45Leave them then ( fa-ḏarhum) until they meet their day on which they will be stunned ( yuṣʿaqūn); 46The day when their stratagem will not avail them (kayduhum) at all, and they will not be helped (wa-lā hum yunṣarūn). 47For those who have done wrong is a punishment this side of that, but most of them do not know. 48And endure patiently (wa-ṣbir) till the decision of thy Lord (li-ḥukmi rabbika), for thou art under Our eyes ( fa-innaka bi-aʿyuninā), and give glory (wa-sabbiḥ bi-ḥamdi rabbika) with praise of thy Lord when thou arisest. 49And during the night give glory to Him ( fa-sabbiḥhu), and at the withdrawal of the stars. In this case the exhortation to perseverance is not only expressed in a call for patience (wa-ṣbir), but a further connotation of endurance is also mentioned: one must not react violently ( fa-ḏarhum). Instead, one should rather stick to prayer as an expression of piety (wa-sabbiḥ bi-ḥamdi rabbika; fa-sabbiḥhu). Whereas the enemy (kayduhum) awaits a dire fate ( yuṣʿaqūn; wa-lā hum yunṣarūn), the Muslims will ultimately be safe ( fa-innaka bi-aʿyuninā). A fifth close parallel to the entire sūrah in its new reading may be found in Q 2:109–110 (al-Baqarah):

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Many of the People of the Book (kaṯīrun min ahli l-kitābi) would like if they might render you unbelievers again after your having believed, because of envy (ḥasadan) on their part after the truth has become clear to them; so overlook and pay no attention ( fa-ʿfū wa-sfaḥū) until Allah interveneth with His affair (bi-amrihī); verily Allah over every-thing hath power. Observe the Prayer (wa-aqīmū ṣ-ṣalāta) and pay the Zakāt (…). The element of patience is expressed here in a similar way as in the previous example: one should not react violently ( fa-ʿfū wa-sfaḥū). Not only are the pious Muslims encouraged to persevere, but this perseverance now turns out to also consist in refraining from a violent or aggressive reaction. Here, too, the reference to prayer is explicit (wa-aqīmū ṣ-ṣalāta). The enemy (kaṯīrun min ahli l-kitābi) cherishes hatred (ḥasadan; see also § 2.6) and will eventually be punished in God’s verdict (bi-amrihī). The sixth and final Qurʾānic parallel passage is Q 5:8–10 (al-Māʾida): O ye who have believed, be steadfast (kūnū qawwāmīna) witnesses for Allah in equity, and let not the hatred of a people (šanaʾānu qawmin) incite you not to act fairly; act fairly that is nearer to piety; show piety towards Allah (wa-ttaqū llāha), verily Allah is aware of what ye do. Allah hath promised those who have believed and done the works of righteousness (that) for them is forgiveness and a mighty hire (maġfiratun waaǧrun ʿaẓīmun). But those who have disbelieved and counted Our signs false (wa-llaḏīna kafarū wa-kaḏḏabū)—they are the people of the Hot Place (asḥābu l-ǧaḥīm). As we saw in the previous parallels, the Muslims are encouraged to persevere (kūnū qawwāmīna) and remain pious (wa-ttaqū llāha). The enemy (wa-llaḏīna kafarū wa-kaḏḏabū), who cherishes hatred (šanaʾānu qawmin), will ultimately lose and be punished (maġfiratun wa-aǧrun ʿaẓīmun; asḥābu l-ǧaḥīm). A systematic overview of the corresponding elements between Sūrat alKawṯar and the six passages discussed above is found in the table on p. 387. In conclusion, then, we may say that the general interpretation of Sūrat alKawṯar as proposed by Luxenberg is plausible, since it is corroborated by the text of the Qurʾān itself. When read in this new way, Sūrat al-Kawṯar turns out to be a coherent text that fits well within the rest of the Qurʾān.

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Perseverance

Piety

Adversary

Victory & defeat

al-Kawṯar (108:1–3) Āl ʿImrān (3:120) al-Aʿrāf (7:126) al-Insān (76:23–26) aṭ-Ṭūr (52:45–49)

al-kawṯar; inǧar

ṣalli li-rabbika

šāniʾaka

huwa l-aṯbar/atbar

taṣbirū

tattaqū

kayduhum

ṣabran

āmannā bi-āyāti rabbinā isǧud lahu; sabbiḥhu wa-sabbiḥ biḥamdi rabbika; fa-sabbiḥhu

tanqimu minnā

lā yaḍurrukum; Allāha … muḥīṭ tawaffanā muslimīn

āṯiman aw kafūran

li-ḥukmi rabbika

kayduhum

al-Baqara (2:109–110) al-Māʾida (5:8–10)

iʿfū wa-sfaḥū

wa-aqīmū ṣ-ṣalāta ittaqū llāha

kaṯīrun min ahli l-kitābi; ḥasadan šanaʾānu qawmin; allaḏīna kafarū wa-kaḏḏabū

yuṣʿaqūn; wa-lā hum yunṣarūn; li-ḥukmi rabbika; fa-innaka bi-aʿyuninā bi-amrihi

4

iṣbir fa-ḏarhum; iṣbir

kūnū qawwāmīna

maġfiratun wa-aǧrun ʿaẓīmun; aṣḥābu l-ǧaḥīm

A Development in Qurʾānic Phraseology?

The question that remains is why, for instance, next to the possible—but not certainly so, cf. §§2.3, 2.5 above—Syriac loanwords kawṯar ‘endurance’ and naǧara ‘to persevere’ purely Arabic synonyms such as ṣabr, ṣabara and dāma were used, or, why next to rare words such as šāniʾ ‘adversary’ and šanaʾān ‘hatred’ we find ḥāsid ‘enemy’ and ḥasad ‘hatred’. I would suggest that the Syriac loanwords reflect an earlier strand in Qurʾānic liturgic phraseology, whereas the Arabic synonyms came to be used in a later phase. Another possibility, of course, is that there is no chronological development, but that we are dealing here with simultaneous different strands of liturgy. A parallel may be found in early Christian religious terminology. Thus, for instance, the originally Aramaic term ‫ משיחא‬məšīḥā ‘anointed one’ was adopted as a loan word into Greek, the language of the new religion: Μεσσίας. But since this expression lacked a literal meaning in Greek, the term was also translated into genuine Greek as χριστός ‘anointed’ or ὁ Χριστός ‘the Anointed One’.

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The same phenomenon may have taken place in Qurʾānic phraseology, where a loanword was used (either from Syriac or other languages, such as Safaitic) or a less common Arabic root used as a calque (as in the case of šāniʾ, see §2.6), which were later suppleted with more common Arabic terms, according to the table below:

Christian phraseology Origin ‘anointed’

məšīḥā

‫משיחא‬

Loanword

Equivalent

Μεσσίας

ὁ Χριστός

Qurʾānic phraseology Origin ‘constancy’ ‘to persevere’ ‘adversary’ ‘hatred’

‫ܬܪܐ‬熏‫ܟ‬ 犯‫ܢܓ‬ 焏‫ܣܢ‬

kuttārā nḡar sānē/ šnʾ šnʾn

Loanword / calque

Equivalent

kawṯar naǧara šāniʾ šānaʾān

ṣabr ṣabara, dāma ḥāsid ḥasad

It may be pointed out that a similar argument could be valid for the Qurʾānic technical term ‫ أوحى‬awḥā ‘to convey hidden knowledge’, which Luxenberg, following a suggestion by C. Brockelmann, plausibly explains as a metathesis of Syriac ‫ܝ‬熏‫ ܚ‬ḥawwi ‘to inform’.40 In that case awḥā would reflect the earlier use of the loanword, whereas the genuinely Arabic terms nazzala or anzala were subsequently used alongside it. This neatly concurs with Tilman’s findings, who pointed out that the notion of ‘conveying knowledge from the hidden realm’ is expressed by two roots, wḥy and nzl, while in the Meccan sūrahs the use of wḥy is predominant.41 But if indeed the earlier terminology, such as kawṯar, naǧara and aṯbar/ atbar, was indeed so strange and rare, the question is legitimate why they survived at all and why they were not replaced by less problematic terms, as elsewhere in the Qurʾān? In the case of Sūrat al-Kawṯar the answer seems 40 41

SRK, 125. Cf. C. Brockelmann 1928: s.v., 220a. Cf. Tilman 1996: 59–68, esp. 63.

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389

obvious. These three problematic terms were all part of the end rhyme and hence could not have been replaced without destroying the literary structure of the text.

5

Christian Epistolary Literature in the Qurʾān?

After having presented his Syriac reading of Sūrat al-Kawṯar (see above, § 3.1), in a separate section entitled ‘Christian Epistolary Literature in the Koran’42 Luxenberg resolutely states: ‘This brief Sura is based on the Christian Syriac Liturgy’. From this sūrah, he informs us, ‘arises a clear reminiscence of the wellknown passage also used in the compline of the Roman Catholic canonical hours of prayer, from the First Epistle General of Peter’ according to the Pšiṭṭa version: 1Peter 5:8–9 8 Wake up (Brothers) and be vigilant, because your adversary, the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour: 9 Whom resist steadfast in the faith.43 Luxenberg believes the parallel between Sūrat al-Kawṯar and this New Testament passage to be so strong as to warrant his speaking of the ‘first evidence of Christian epistolary literature in the Koran’. Accordingly, he claims that this text ‘is without a doubt pre-Koranic’ and as such was part of the matrix out of which, in his view, the Qurʾān was originally constituted as a Christian liturgical book. In this case, however, Luxenberg seems to draw far-reaching conclusions on the basis of extremely tenuous evidence. We are obviously not dealing with a verbatim quotation from the New Testament in the Qurʾān, so in order to demonstrate his claim of a Vorlage from the New Testament, Luxenberg should have argued the supposed parallelism in detail. However, as I have argued in §§2.6–7 above, the shāniʾ in verse 3 is probably not a reference specifically to the devil; it should rather be understood as a generic reference to the opponents of the newly-founded religion. Luxenberg’s argument at this point is clearly circular:44 he first takes shāniʾaka in Q 108:3 as

42 43 44

SRK, 300–301. SRK, 301 (italics by Luxenberg). To be sure, a circular argument does not necessarily contain an false statement. The

390

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a specific reference to the devil on no other ground than the fact that this is the case in the Syriac Christian texts,45 and subsequently uses this alleged Qurʾānic reference to the devil as proof of a parallelism between Q 108 and 1 Peter 5:8–9 in the Pšiṭṭa, where the devil is indeed referred to as ‘your adversary’.46 In other words, the New Testament passage quoted by Luxenberg is no parallel at all. The only common feature between this New Testament passage and Sūrat al-Kawṯar is a call for steadfastness in faith against the enemy. Whatever one’s stance on the possibility of pre-Qurʾānic passages in the Qurʾān, the alleged parallel between 1Peter 5:8–9 and Sūrat al-Kawṯar is not specific enough for this New Testament passage to be considered a textual Vorlage for our sūrah. Sūrat al-Kawṯar, therefore, is not necessarily a pre-Qurʾānic passage. Whether it was part of an originally Christian liturgical book, remains hypothetical. In any case, Luxenberg’s firm conclusion that Sūrat al-Kawṯar constitutes the ‘first evidence of Christian epistolary literature in the Koran’ is as yet unfounded.47 In §3 above we have seen that Sūrat al-Kawṯar, when interpreted according to its new reading, has much more precise parallels within the Qurʾān itself.

6

Conclusion

On the basis of a comparison with other Qurʾanic passages, there is reason to assume that Luxenberg’s general interpretation of Sūrat al-Kawṯar—with some minor modifications I proposed in the foregoing—is probably the correct one and he is to be credited for that achievement. Sūrat al-Kawṯar is not an enigmatic or fragmentary text and it does not generate any problems pertaining to its historical and religious context that could only be solved by assuming it to be a later Medinan intrusion. It is a clear-cut adhortation to steadfastness against the enemy and as such fits perfectly within the context of an emerging religion and has the hallmarks of belonging to a genuine strand of the text of the Qurʾān.

45 46 47

proposition that (parts of) the Qurʾān started off as a Christian lectionary is not necessarily untrue, but the case cannot be argued in this way. ‘In the Christian Syriac terminology, Satan is referred to (…) as a misanthrope—hence an adversary’, SRK, 297 sub 3. It may be pointed out that the Syriac phrase ‘your adversary’ in 1Peter 5:8 is not sānāḵ— the cognate expression of šāniʾaka—but ‫ܢ‬熏‫ܒܒܟ‬煟‫ ܒܥܠ‬bʿeldḇāḇḵon. King (2009: 66–67) comes to a similar negative evaluation of Luxenbergs claim of Sūrat al-Kawthar having its origin in Christian liturgy.

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391

As for the concept of a ‘Syriac reading of the Qurʾān’, however, things are different. Luxenberg correctly pointed out that there is possibly more Aramaic in Sūrat al-Kawṯar than was previously believed: kawṯar ‘constancy’, naǧara ‘to persevere’. But at the same time our sūrah contains less Aramaic than Luxenberg claims. There is no reason to assume that Arabic aʿtā ‘to give’ and šāniʾ ‘adversary’ are derived from Syriac ayti ‘to bring, present’ and sāneʾ ‘adversary’ respectively. And even though the enigmatic abtar could be read as the Aramaic loanword atbar, it is more probably to be read as aṯbar, a genuinely Arabic word, which proposal is possibly corroborated by Safaitic epigraphic texts. Our conclusion, therefore, must be that Luxenberg has correctly understood the gist of Sūrat al-Kawṯar, but there is no reason to speak of a specifically Syriac reading of the Qurʾān.

Bibliography Al-Jallad, A. (2015). An Outline of the Grammar of the Safaitic Inscriptions. Leiden. Bell, R. (1937–1939), The Qurʾān. Translated, with a Critical Re-arrangement of the Surahs. 2 vols. Edinburgh. Bell, R. (1991). A Commentary on the Qurʾān II, Surahs xxv–cvix. (Journal of Semitic Studies Monograph 14.) Manchester. Birkeland, H. (1956) “The Lord Guideth. Studies on Primitive Islam”. In: Skrifter utgitt av det Norske Videnskaps-Akademi i Oslo, II. Historisk-filosofisk klasse, 2. Bind. Oslo, pp. 1–140. Brockelmann, C. (1928). Lexicon Syriacum. Halle. Dillman, A. (1865). Lexicon Linguae Aethiopicae. Leipzig. Fassberg, S.E. (2005), “Lexical Investigations in Jewish Palestinian Aramaic: Is there a Shift of ʾaleph to ʿayin?” (Hebr.) In: Samaritan, Hebrew and Aramaic Studies. Presented to Professor Abraham Tal. Ed. by Moshe Bar-Asher and Moshe Florentin. Jerusalem, pp. 243–256. Jeffery, A. (1937). Materials for the History of the Text of the Qurʾān. The Old Codices. Leiden. Jeffery, A. (1938). The Foreign Vocabulary of the Qurʾān. Baroda. (Repr. Leiden 2007). King, D. (2009). “A Christian Qurʾān? A Study in the Syriac Background to the Language of the Qurʾān as presented in the Work of Christoph Luxenberg”. Journal for Late Antique Religion and Culture 3: 44–75. Koehler, L., and W. Baumgartner (1994–2000). The Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the Old Testament (5 vols.; revised ed. by M.E.J. Richardson). Leiden. Lane, W. (1863–1893), An Arabic-English Lexicon (8 vols.). Beirut. Leslau, W. (1991). Comparative Dictionary of Geʿez (Classical Ethiopic). Wiesbaden.

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Luxenberg, Chr. (ps.) (2000). Die syro-aramäische Lesart des Koran. Ein Beitrag zur Entschlüsselung der Koransprache. Berlin. Luxenberg, Chr. (ps.) (2007). The Syro-Aramaic Reading of the Koran. A Contribution to the Decoding of the Language of the Koran. Berlin. Mannā, J.E. (1900). ‫عربي‬-‫ قاموس كلداني‬/ Vocabulaire chaldéen-arabe. Mossoul. (Repr. with a new appendix by R.J. Bidawid, Beirut 1975.) Paret, R. (²1977). Der Koran. Kommentar und Konkordanz. Stuttgart. Paret, R. (1979). Der Koran. Übersetzung. Stuttgart. Schall, A. (1984–1986). “Coranica”. Orientalia Suecana 33–35: 371–373. Sokoloff, M. (1990), A Dictionary of Jewish Palestinian Aramaic of the Byzantine Period. Ramat-Gan. Sokoloff, M. (2009). A Syriac Lexicon (A Translation from the Latin, Correction, Expansion, and Update of C. Brockelmann’s Lexicon syriacum). Winona Lake, IN/Piscataway NJ. Tilman, N. (1996), “Medinensische Einschübe in mekkanischen Suren: ein Arbeitsbericht”. In: The Qurʾan as Text. Ed. by S. Wild. (Islamic Philosophy, Theology and Science. Texts and Studies, 27.) Leiden, pp. 59–68.

Middle and Modern Arabic in Context

∵

chapter 13

Orthography and Reading in Medieval Judaeo-Arabic Geoffrey Khan

Judaeo-Arabic texts from the pre-modern period constitute an important source for the history of the Arabic language. Pre-modern written JudaeoArabic is understood here to refer to Arabic written by Jews in Hebrew script. Written Judaeo-Arabic has been investigated thoroughly in its medieval (Blau 1980; 1999; 2006; Wagner 2010) and post-medieval (B. Hary 1992; 2009; Khan 1991; 1992; 2006) manifestations. The vast majority of this philological work has been based on unvocalized orthography without any access to the oral reading of the texts. In the history of Muslim Arabic it is clear from the lack of correspondence between the orthography of the Qurʾān and the oral recitation of the Qurʾān in a number of linguistic details that orthography does not necessarily reflect the way a text is read. At the time of the Islamic conquests various dialectal differences existed among the Arabic speaking tribes of the Arabian Peninsula, details of some of which were recorded in the writings of the early grammarians. They largely consisted of differences in vocalic patterns internal to the word and the pronunciation of hamza, most of which would be invisible in unvocalized script. The phonological patterns standardized for the recitation of the Qurʾān tended to conform to those of the dialect group of Eastern Arabia more than that of Western Arabia (i.e. the Ḥijāz). There were numerous different reading traditions (qirāʾāt) of the Qurʾān in the early Islamic period. The diversity of these readings was reduced in the course of time, due in particular to the activities of Ibn Mujāhid (d. 324/936). The fact that the orthographic text of the Qurʾān has continued to be read in various ways down to modern times reflects the inadequacy of the orthography as a source for establishing details of phonology and morphology. Some of these variations in reading may go back to ancient dialectal differences, e.g. the reading mathulāt ‘exemplary punishments’ in Q 13.6 was identified by the early scholars as Ḥijāzī whereas the variant muthlāt was said to be Tamīmi, and likewise for the variants ṣaduqāt and ṣudqāt ‘dowries’ in Q 4:4 (Talmon 2001). It is not clear, however, whether the phonological and morphological profile of any reading tradition corresponded fully to a vernacular spoken dialect of Arabic. The purpose of the present paper is to examine a number of medieval Judaeo-

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi: 10.1163/9789004343047_014

396

khan

Arabic manuscripts in which the scribes have added Hebrew vocalization signs to reflect the way the texts were read. We shall investigate the background of the reading tradition reflected by the vocalization and address the following questions: (i) to what extent does the reading tradition reflect the vernacular spoken Arabic dialect of the scribe? (ii) Is this type of reading tradition of a written text unique to Judaeo-Arabic or are there parallels with non-Jewish traditions of reading Arabic? The main comparative sources that will be utilized with regard to the second question include medieval Greek and Coptic transcriptions of Arabic. The Greek transcription is that of the Arabic translation of Psalm 77 that was discovered in the Umayyad mosque in Damascus and first published by Violet (1901). Most scholars have dated the manuscript to the 2nd/8th century, but a paleographical analysis of recently rediscovered photographs suggests a late 3rd/9th or early 4th/10th century date (Mavroudi 2008). This would be roughly contemporary in date with many of the vocalized Judaeo-Arabic manuscripts. The Coptic transcription is the manuscript datable to the 13th century published by Casanova (1901) and Sobhy (1926), and analysed by Blau (1979). The vocalized Judaeo-Arabic manuscripts discussed here come from the Cairo Genizah collections. These are datable to the High Middle Ages, as is the case with the bulk of the Genizah manuscripts. They are vocalized with Tiberian Hebrew vowel signs.1 The vocalized Judaeo-Arabic texts that are datable to the medieval period are written with what has come to be known as ‘Classical Judaeo-Arabic orthography’.2 This is a system of spelling that was the norm in Judaeo-Arabic manuscripts from the 10th century until the Mamluk period and so is the orthography that is found in most of the Genizah material. It is characterized by a close imitation of the orthography of Classical Arabic. A conspicuous feature that is taken over from Arabic orthography is the regular spelling of the definite article with aleph + lamedh even before ‘sun’ letters, to which the /l/ of the article is assimilated in pronunciation, e.g. (1) ‫‘ ַאלֲסְמ ַואתּ‬the heavens’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 14r = assamawāt ‫)السموات‬ This imitation of Classical Arabic orthography of the definite article is also found in the Greek transcription of the Violet fragment, e.g. ελσαμα ‘heaven’

1 For a description of the phonetic vowel of these signs in the Judaeo-Arabic texts see Khan (2010). 2 See Blau and Hopkins (1984).

orthography and reading in medieval judaeo-arabic

397

(23, = CA as-samāʾi), ελραβ ‘the Lord’ (21, = CA ar-rabbu), Violet: οελναρ ‘and fire’ (21, = CA wan-nāru). Another distinctive feature of Classical Judaeo-Arabic is the spelling of ḍād and ẓāʾ by a ṣadhe and a ṭeth with a superscribed dot, in imitation of the Arabic letters ‫ ض‬and ‫ظ‬, e.g. (2) ‫‘ וֻּתַפֿ ִ֗צְל ַנא‬you give preference to us’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 14r = utufaḍḍilnā ‫)وتفضلنا‬ These features are not found in the earlier Judaeo-Arabic texts, which spell the language phonetically according to a Hebrew and Aramaic type of orthography.3 In these texts, which are unvocalized, the lamedh is not written in the article if it is assimilated in pronunciation. The ḍād, furthermore, is represented by daleth, this being felt to be the closest corresponding consonant phonetically, e.g. (3) ‫‘ אשמס‬the sun’ = aššams (‫)الشمس‬ (4) ‫‘ אלארד‬the ground’ = alʾarḍ (‫)الارض‬ It does not follow that Judaeo-Arabic texts written with an orthography conforming to that of Classical Arabic were read with the phonological form of Classical Arabic. This is clearly demonstrated by the vocalization of the texts, which reflects numerous non-Classical features. Most of these features are disguised by the orthography and so the vocalized texts are valuable in demonstrating the gap between orthography and pronunciation of medieval Judaeo-Arabic texts. In some cases the dialectal pronunciation conflicts with the orthography. This applies to the 3ms. suffix, which is regularly pronounced with its dialectal form -u although it is normally spelt with heh in imitation of Classical Arabic, e.g. (5) ‫‘ ]ג[לוֻּסה ְוִקַאֻמה ְוַמִסי ֻרה‬his sitting, his standing and his travelling’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 14V = julūsu waqiyāmu wamasīru) (6) ‫‘ וַּבַﬠד ַמוֻּתה‬and after his death’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 14v = CA wabaʿda mawtihi) (7) ‫‘ ַמֻﬠה‬with him’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 15r = CA maʿahu)

3 See Blau and Hopkins (1984).

398

khan

In medieval Judaeo-Arabic texts this conflict between orthography and pronunciation of the 3ms. suffix is occasionally resolved by spelling it with waw or with a waw combined with the heh.4 In many cases the orthography is ambiguous with regard to the phonological form and could in principle be read with that of Classical Arabic (henceforth CA) or with a phonological form that is characteristic of modern Arabic dialects. The vocalization signs indeed reflect numerous features characteristic of the dialects. Examples of this include the following. The vocalization of most texts reflects a reading without the final short vowels of CA, e.g. (8) ‫‘ ַמא ַאְﬠַ֗טם ְוַאְכַבּר ְוַא ַגל ִמ ְנַהא‬what is mightier, greater and more majestic than them’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 14r = CA mā ʾaʿẓamu waʾakbaru waʾajallu minhā) In a vocalized Judaeo-Arabic poetic text the lack of final short vowels is also reflected by the quantitative poetic metre, e.g. (9) ‫‘ ַט ְרֿף‬edge’ (T-S Ar.30.313, scanned as one syllable ṭarf = CA ṭarfa) (10) ‫‘ ַאְלֻמְשַׁתַּהר‬famous’ (T-S Ar.30.313, scanned as – – ⏑ – almuštahar, = CA almuštaharu). The loss of final short vowels is reflected also in the transcription of the Violet fragment, e.g. ελραβ ‘the Lord’ (21, = CA ar-rabbu); ρυγζ ‘anger’ (21, = CA rujzun), ελσιχεβ ‘the clouds’ (23, = CA as-saḥāba accusative); ιεκ.διρ ‘he can’ (20, = CA yaqdiru); λιδέλικ ‘therefore’ (21, = CA li-ḏālika). This is also the case in the Arabic text in the Coptic transcription, e.g. wexarej ‘and he went out’ (= CA wa-ḵaraja, Blau 1979: 224), yet’eharrek ‘it will move’ (= CA yataḥarraku, Blau 1979, 224), belharek’et ‘by movements’ (= CA bi-l-ḥarakāti, Blau 1979: 224), fi eljebel ‘in the mountains’ (= CA fi l-jibāli, Blau 1979: 235). In the canonical reading traditions of the Qurʾān, the pronunciation of the final short inflectional vowels (ʾiʿrāb) is obligatory. There are, however, early traditions embedded in some of the surviving works on Qurʾān recitation (tajwīd), attributed to the prophet and his companions, which exhort readers to use ʾiʿrāb in their recitation. This has been interpreted by Kahle as evidence that in the early Islamic period some people read the Qurʾān without ʾiʿrāb.5

4 Cf. Blau (1980: 59). 5 Kahle (1947: 79–84, 115–116; 1948). Similar traditions can be found in tajwīd manuals that are

orthography and reading in medieval judaeo-arabic

399

In some cases the occurrence of a final vowel is not marked in the Classical Judaeo-Arabic orthography but is indicated in the vocalization: (11) ‫‘ ֻה ֵו‬he’ (T-S Ar. 3.1, r—CA huwa) The pronominal suffixes have dialectal forms, which are invariable for case. In addition to the 3ms. suffix -u, which is discussed above, note also: (12) ‫‘ ִמן ַמ ְדַּחְךּ‬of your praise’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 12v = CA min madḥika) (13) ‫‘ ִפי ֻמְלַכּךּ‬in your kingdom’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 12v = CA fī mulkika) (14) ‫‘ ִמן ַי ְדֻּהם‬from their hand’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 12v = CA min yadihim) Dialectal forms of pronominal suffixes are reflected also in the Violet fragment, e.g. βη κουετυ ‘by his strength’ (26, = CA bi-quwwatihi); φη οασατ γ.ασ.κερ.ὑμ ‘in the midst of their camp’ (28, = CA fī wasaṭi ʿaskarihim); χαυλ χη.εμ.ὑμ ‘around their tents’ (28, = CA ḥawla ḵiyāmihim). This is also reflected in the Coptic transcription, e.g. befekrak ‘in your thought’ (= CA bi-fikrika, Blau 1979: 219), men koddemak ‘in front of you’ (= CA min quddāmika, Blau 1979: 222), ieresadak ‘is lying in wait for you’ (= CA yurāṣiduka, Blau 1979: 222), fekroh ‘his mind’ (= CA fikruhu, Blau 1979: 220), t’erek’oh ‘he left him’ (= CA tarakahu, Blau 1979: 224). There are numerous reflections of the raising of a vowels by the process of ʾimāla. This is found with long /ā/, e.g. (15) ‫‘ ֲﬠֵלי ִﬠֵבּא ַדּךּ‬on your servants’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 16v = CA ʿalā ʿibādika) (16) ‫‘ ְוַאלאעֵלא‬and the highest’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 16v = CA walʾaʿlā) (17) ‫‘ ַאְל ֻד ְנ ֵיא‬the world’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 15r = CA addunyā) It is also often found with short /a/, e.g. (18) ‫‘ ְוֵלם‬and not’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 22v = CA wa-lam) not mentioned by Kahle, e.g. al-Qurṭubī, ʾAbū ʿAbdillāh Muḥammad, al-Jāmiʿ li-ʾAḥkām alQurʾān, ed. ʿAbdallāh ibn ʿAbd al-Muḥsin al-Zakī, Beirut: Al-Resalah, 2006: 41–46. I am grateful to Shady Nasser for drawing my attention to these and other sources relating to Qurʾānic reading traditions.

400

khan

It is especially common with the vowel of tāʾ marbūṭa in word final position, which is prone to raising by ʾimāla in various Arabic dialects, e.g. (19) ‫‘ ַאְלֲאִכֿי ֵרה‬final’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 12v = CA alʾaḵīra) (20) ‫‘ ַאְלִחְכִּמה‬wisdom’ (T-S Ar. 53.12, fol. 1r = CA alḥikma) (21) ‫‘ נהא ֵיה‬end’ (T-S NS 91.12, 1b = CA nihāya) The occurrence of ʾimāla of long /ā/ and short /a/ is widely reflected in the Violet fragment, e.g. φασέλετ ‘and it flowed’ (20, = CA fa-sālat), λιδέλικ ‘therefore’ (21, = CA li-ḏālika); ελσιχεβ ‘the clouds’ (23, = CA as-saḥāba accusative); σεμιγ ‘he heard’ (59, = CA samiʿa), αφ.σέλ ‘he despised’ (59, = CA ʾafsala). This is also reflected in the Coptic transcription, e.g. adeh ‘custom’ (= CA ʿāda, Blau 1979: 218), belharek’et ‘by the movements’ (= CA bilḥarakāt, Blau 1979: 219), seha ‘hour’ (= CA sāʿa, Blau 1979: 222), kit’ēl ‘fighting’ (= CA qitāl, Blau 1979: 222). Various other type of vocalism characteristic of dialects are found in the vocalized Judaeo-Arabic manuscripts, e.g., (22) ‫‘ ִי ְר ַגע‬he returns’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 14v = CA yarjiʿu) (23) ‫‘ ַחֵתּי ִיְפַתח‬until he opens’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 15v = CA ḥattā yaftaḥa) The vocalization also reflects the interpretation of a form as having dialectal morphology where the orthography is ambiguous between the dialectal and the CA form. This applies, for example, to the reading of a CA 4th form verb as a 1st form as in: (24) ‫‘ ְוַתְחִסן ְל ַנא‬and you do good to us’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 14r = CA watuḥsinu lanā) Some parallels are found in the Arabic text in Coptic transcription, e.g. ieresadak ‘is lying in wait for you’ (= CA yurāṣiduka, Blau 1979: 222) It is important to note that the vocalization of these texts does not systematically reflect a purely dialectal form of Arabic. The extent to which they reflect dialectal features varies across the texts. The vocalization of some manuscripts reflects features that are unequivocally CA, such as the occurrence of final short inflectional vowels, e.g. (25) ‫‘ ]אל[חר ֻץ ראס אלַפְק ִרי‬covetousness is the root of poverty’ (T-S Ar.51.29v = CA alḥirṣu raʾsu lfaqri)

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(26) ‫‘ ַאַללֻה ַרֻבֵּך‬God your Lord’ (T-S Ar. 3.1r = CA allāhu rabbuka) (27) ‫‘ ִמן אלִפַֿצִה ואלַֿדַהִבּ‬of silver and gold’ (T-S Ar. 3.1r = CA min al-fiḍḍati waḏḏahabi) It is particularly significant that most texts, including those with a high degree of dialectal features, exhibit pseudo-Classical features in the reading reflected by the vocalization. A recurrent feature, for example, is the retention of a vowel in an initial syllable with hamzatu al-waṣl after a word ending in a vowel. This vowel is elided not only in dialectal Arabic but also in the standard reading of CA. The retention of the vowel is attested, for example, in the definite article: (28) ‫‘ ַפֲﬠֵלי ֵה ִדיה ַאלֻאמוּר‬and on these matters’ (T-S Ar. 8.3 fol. 14r = CA faʿalā haḏihi lʾumūri) (29) ‫‘ ִפי ַאלִחְכִּמה‬in wisdom’ (T-S Ar. 53.12 1v = CA fi lḥikmati) This reflects the treatment of the hamza in the reading tradition as hamzatu al-qaṭʿ rather than hamzatu l-waṣl, i.e. the syllable is not treated as prosthetic. This occurrence of hamazatu l-qaṭʿ after a preceding vowel in contexts where hamzatu l-waṣl is elided after a vowel in Classical Arabic is reflected in the Violet fragment, e.g. οα αβ.τε.λευ ‘and they tested’ (56, = CA wa-btalaw), φα αν.κα.λε.βου ‘and they turned away’ (57, = CA fa-nqalabū), μαρ.μαροῦ ελίλέὑ ‘they became bitter against God’ (56, = CA marmaru l-ʾilāha), βη κουετὑ ελ.γασιφ ‘by his might the storm’ (26, i.e. bi-quwwatu ʾel-ʿāṣif = CA bi-quwwatihi l-ʿāṣif ). Note, however, φιλ.βαχερ ‘among men’ (60, = CA fi l-bašari), where the hamza is elided. The replacement of hamzatu l-waṣl by hamzatu l-qaṭʿ is found also in the 13th century Arabic text in Coptic transcription, e.g. weest’aǵfer ‘and ask forgiveness’ (= CA wa-staġfir, Blau 1979: 235), fe. eshfi ‘and heal!’ (= CA fa-šfī, Blau 1979: 218), weazrab ‘and perform!’ (= CA wa-ḍrib, Blau 1979: 235), hede. eljebel ‘this mountain’ (= CA hāḏa l-jabalu, Blau 1979: 235), fi eljebel ‘in the mountains’ (= CA fi l-jibāli, Blau 1979: 235), hale eššeioux ‘to the elders’ (= CA ʿala š-šuyūḵi, Blau 1979: 235), When, however, a short particle containing one consonant precedes the definite article, the transcription generally reflects elision of the hamza, e.g. belhijar ‘with stones’ (= CA bi-l-ḥijāri, Blau 1979: 236), k’el=adeh ‘according to custom’ (= CA ka-l-ʿādati, Blau 1979: 236).6

6 For similar phenomena reflected by the orthography of early Christian Arabic texts see Blau (1966: para. 27.1.1.).

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The same phenomenon is reflected by vocalized Judaeo-Arabic texts from later periods, such as the Genizah fragment T-S Ar. 54.63, which is datable to the Ottoman period, e.g. (30) ‫‘ וֵּאְסַמע‬and listen’ (Ar. 54.63, fol. 2r = CA wasmaʿ) (31) ‫‘ ַה ַדּא ֵאל ַכּאֵפר‬this disbeliever’ (Ar. 54.63, fol. 1v = CA hāḏa lkāfir) If the aleph is not written in the orthography, however, the hamzatu al-waṣl is elided in this text and the two forms are also joined in the orthography, e.g. (32) ‫‘ ֵבָה ֶדּל ָכַלאם‬with this speech’ (Ar. 54.63, fol. 3v) The lack of elision of hamzatu l-waṣl after vowels in phrases is heard in modern educated spoken Arabic, e.g. hāza ʾal-kitāb ‘this book’ (Egyptian). It is not a phenomenon that is documented in medieval manuals of Qurʾānic reading (tajwīd), except as an unacceptable form of pause.7 Another phenomenon that may be considered a pseudo-classical feature is the occurrence of an /a/ vowel in a number of contexts where CA has an /i/ without there being any clear dialectal background for the /a/. It appears that the scribe is aware that CA has /a/ in many situations where vernacular dialects have /i/ and in his attempt to give the language an appearance of CA substitutes /a/ for /i/ by hypercorrection even where /i/ is the norm in CA. Examples: (33) ‫‘ ַא ְנַמא‬only’ (T-S Ar. 8.3 fol. 16v = CA ʾinnamā) (34) ‫‘ ַקד ַא ְנַכַּסר ַקְלִבּי‬my heart has been broken’ (T-S Ar. 8.3 fol. 16v = CA qad inkasara qalbī) (35) ‫‘ ַאְסַתּיק֗טת‬I woke up’ (T-S Ar. 54.11, fol. 1r = CA istayqaẓtu) The same phenomenon in found in the Violet fragment, e.g. ανκαλεβου ‘they turned away’ (57, = CA inqalabū). Where CA has hamzatu l-waṣl the hamza in such cases is read has hamzatu l-qaṭʿ, as we have seen in examples such as φα αν.κα.λε.βου ‘and they turned away’ (57, = CA fa-nqalabū), οα αβ.τε.λευ ‘and they tested’ (56, = CA wa-btalaw).

7 E.g. al-Dānī, ʾAbū ʿAmr ʿUṯmān ibn Saʿīd, at-Taḥdīd fī al-ʾItqān wa-t-Tajwīd, ed. Ghānim Qaddūrī Ḥamad, Ammān: Dār ʿAmmān, 2000, p. 175.

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Similar pseudo-Classical replacement of /i/ by /a/ is found in later vocalized Judaeo-Arabic manuscripts, such as in T-S Ar. 54.63 from the Ottoman period: (36) ‫‘ ַא ְנַסאן‬person’ (Ar. 54.63, fol. 2r = CA insān). When case endings are indicated by the vocalization, they are sometimes not given the correct CA form. In (30), for example, the accusative case is required according to CA after the existential negator (lā linafyi ljins) but the word is vocalized with the nominative: (37) ֻ ‫‘ ְוֵלא ֻמִﬠין‬there is no helper’ (T-S Ar.30.313= CA lā muʿīna) The conclusion that emerges is that the vocalized Judaeo-Arabic manuscripts from the Middle Ages reflect a far more vernacular reading of a written text than is found in the reading of Classical Arabic as preserved in the canonical reading traditions of the Qurʾān. Some features of reading that deviate from Classical Arabic, however, such as the replacement of hamzatu l-waṣl by hamzatu l-qaṭʿ, do not have obvious correlations with vernacular dialects. This profile of non-Classical Arabic reading is not unique to Judaeo-Arabic but has close parallels to medieval Christian traditions of reading Arabic that are reflected by Arabic texts transcribed into Greek and Coptic.

References Blau, Joshua (1966). A Grammar of Christian Arabic, Based Mainly on South-Palestinian Texts from the First Millennium. Louvain: Secrétariat du CorpusSCO. Blau, Joshua (1979). “Some Observations on a Middle Arabic Egyptian Text in Coptic Characters”. Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 1: 215–262. Blau, Joshua (1980). A Grammar of Mediaeval Judaeo-Arabic. 2nd ed. Jerusalem: Magnes. Blau, Joshua (1999). The Emergence and Linguistic Background of Judaeo-Arabic: A Study of the Origins of Middle Arabic. 3rd ed. Jerusalem: Ben-Zvi Inst. Blau, Joshua (2006). Dictionary of Medieval Judaeo-Arabic Texts. Jerusalem: Academy of Hebrew Language, Israel Academy of Science and Humanities. Casanova, M.P. (1901). “Un Texte Arabe Transcrit En Caractères Coptes”. Bulletin de l’Institut Français D’archéologie Orientale Au Caire, pp. 1–20. Hary, Benjamin (1992). Multiglossia in Judeo-Arabic: With an Edition, Translation, and Grammatical Study of the Cairene Purim Scroll. Études Sur Le Judaïsme Médiéval. Leiden: Brill.

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Hary, Benjamin (2009). Translating Religion: Linguistic Analysis of Judeo-Arabic Sacred Texts from Egypt. Leiden: Brill. Kahle, Paul Ernst (1947). The Cairo Geniza. Schweich Lectures of the British Academy. London: Cumberlege [for the British Academy]. Kahle, Paul Ernst (1948). “The Qurʾān and the ʿArabīya”. In: Ignac Goldziher Memorial Volume. Ed. by Samuel Löwinger and Joseph Somogyi. Budapest: Globus, pp. 1: 161– 182. Khan, Geoffrey (1991). “A Linguistic Analysis of the Judaeo-Arabic of Late Genizah Documents and its Comparison with Classical Judaeo-Arabic”. Sefunot 20: 223–234. Khan, Geoffrey (1992). “Notes on the Grammar of a Late Judaeo-Arabic Text”. Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 15: 220–239. Khan, Geoffrey (2006). “A Judaeo-Arabic Commercial Letter from Early Nineteenth Century Egypt”. Ginzei Qedem 2: 37*–59*. Khan, Geoffrey (2010). “Vocalised Judaeo-Arabic Manuscripts in the Cairo Genizah”. In: “From a Sacred Source”: Genizah Studies in Honour of Professor Stefan C. Reif. Ed. by Ben Outhwaite and Siam Bhayro. Leiden-Boston: Brill, pp. 201–218. Mavroudi, Maria (2008). “Arabic Words in Greek Letters: The Violet Fragment and More”. In: Moyen Arabe Et Variétés Mixtes De L’arabe À Travers L’histoire: Actes Du Premier Colloque International (Louvain-La-Neuve, 10–14 Mai 2004). Ed. by Jérôme Lentin and Jacques Grand’Henry. Louvain-la-Neuve: Université catholique de Louvain, Institut orientaliste, pp. 321–354. Sobhy, G.P.G. (1926). “Fragments of an Arabic MS in Coptic Script in the Metropolitan Museum of Art”. In: The Monasteries of the Wâdi ʾn Natrûn, I, New Coptic Texts from the Monastery of St. Marcus. Ed. by Hugh Gerard Evelyn White. New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art. Talmon, Raphael (2001). “Dialects”. Encyclopedia of the Qurʾān. Brill. Violet, Bruno (1901). “Ein Zweisprachiges Psalmfragment Aus Damaskus”. Orientalistische Literaturzeitung 4: 384–403, 425–441, 475–488. Wagner, Esther-Miriam (2010). Linguistic Variety of Judaeo-Arabic in Letters from the Cairo Genizah. Leiden: Brill.

chapter 14

Linguistic History and the History of Arabic: A Speech Communities Approach Alexander Magidow

In trying to understand the history of Arabic, with its many dialects and variants, we are confronted by the difficulty of how exactly we deploy the tools of historical reconstruction. A traditional, tree-based model of a ‘proto-language’ differentiating into distinct daughter languages is difficult to apply to a language whose dialects have been in constant and complex contact for thousands of years. Consider the dialects of the Levant. Ancient Levantine inscriptions, such as the Namāra epitaph, suggest that the dialects of the Levant originally had a feminine singular demonstrative tVː.1 Today, the dialects in this area instead have significantly different feminine singular demonstratives (usually of the form *haːðiː), and those forms have a significantly different development history than the tVː demonstratives. This and other evidence suggests that there was actually a process of population replacement, where speakers of the tVː demonstrative dialects eventually shifted to using the *haːðiː-type dialects. There are, however, traces of tVː demonstratives grammaticalized as relatives (in Cypriot Arabic) or in frozen phrases (in a Lebanese dialect). The process, then, was akin to two dialects merging together, probably over a long period of time, but retaining aspects of the original underlying dialects, and undergoing later innovations.2 How can we handle these dialects in a model where we understand languages as unitary entities which split and differentiate, but which rarely merge? How can we model the processes of contact between these languages, which clearly were so deep and significant that they became interwoven to a degree where it is difficult to identify a ‘donor’ and ‘recipient’ language? Moreover, the example above treats only a single variable—the ‘dialects’ that underwent this change also had other innovations diffusing in different areas of their grammar, whether from other Arabic dialects, or from other Semitic languages such

1 All linguistic forms are transcribed using IPA. Names of places and people are transliterated. 2 We will return to this particular example in greater detail below, but see also Magidow (2013) for much more detail on the development of Arabic demonstratives.

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as Aramaic.3 If we define languages in historical linguistics primarily by the innovations that they undergo, how can we model and understand cases that innovations would place into contradictory and cross-cutting groupings? Another set of questions has to do with how we handle data which is not strictly relevant to the enterprise of reconstructing the geneology of Arabic dialects (or of any language). Take for example the papers by Dye (this volume) and Baasten (this volume). Baasten’s paper shows convincingly that sūrat alkawṯar should be understood as containing a great deal more Syriac content than was understood by Quranic exegetes. Dye’s talk shows the complex and subtle influences that might be expected if the speech community which gave rise to the Quran had strong proficiency in Aramaic and associated that language with liturgical practice. Though these papers tell us very little about the early linguistic forms of Arabic in the traditional sense of historical linguistics, they tell us a great deal about the audience of the Quran. Surely this information is relevant to the history of the Arabic language, if only to a specific geographical and chronological part of its history. Similarly, we might ask why we discard information on contact when reconstructing languages. Contact is treated as noise which obscures the genetic signal, as ‘areal spread,’ contrasted to ‘genetic inheritance,’ the true focus in reconstructing a language’s history. Forms which are said to be shared via contact or areal spread are excluded from consideration in most reconstructions and are treated as categorically different than forms which are inherited genetically (Al-Jallad 2012; Huehnergard 2011). For certain types of reconstruction, this is a reasonable approach, but certainly this ‘noise,’ when viewed within the right framework, can be its own signal, telling us a great deal about pre-historic interrelations between languages. The tools we normally employ for genetic reconstruction were not designed for languages such as Arabic, with relatively shallow time-depth, a long history of contact, and plentiful modern attestations.4 Moreover, we need to be able to inquire into a specific historical period in the history of Arabic, that is to say the era immediately prior to the Islamic conquests—one of the primary goals of the Arabic in Context conference. The reconstruction of ultimate linguistic ancestors is not, I will argue, an ideal framework to reconstruct this specific historical moment in the development of Arabic.

3 See for example, Borg (2004; 2006) on Aramaic influence on Cypriot Arabic. 4 The same has been claimed for Nuclear Indo-European (Garrett 2006), for Indo-Aryan languages with an approximately 500 year time-depth (Toulmin 2009) and for several Oceanic language continua (François 2011; 2015; Ross 1997).

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This article argues that we need to add to our conceptual categories and vocabularies in order to understand the history of languages like Arabic. It suggests an approach aimed at reconstructing detailed information about the ‘repertoires’ of chronologically, geographically and socially situated ‘speech communities.’ This is not meant as a replacement, but as an addition to the model current in historical linguistics of ‘sub-grouping’ attested ‘languages’ according to their ultimate ancestors. I will then give examples of how this approach can be of great value for contextualizing the early history of the Arabic language, and show that it can provide an excellent tool for synthesizing the many different approaches to that history explored in the Arabic in Context conference and in this volume.

1

Traditional Reconstruction and Subgrouping

It is helpful to begin by reviewing how subgrouping is traditionally performed in historical linguistics. First, the object of analysis is typically a group of ‘languages’ or ‘dialects,’ idealized metaphorical units which subsume the linguistic behavior of an idealized population past or present. Once it is established that these languages are indeed related, a ‘proto-language’ ancestor is reconstructed. The proto-language is generally assumed to have been essentially homogeneous, with variant forms normally explained away as being historical developments of one another, with varying degrees of evidence. In other words, variation is only diachronic and little or no synchronic variation is allowed in reconstructed proto-languages. Once a proto-language is reconstructed, researchers can then begin subgrouping the languages used initially for the reconstruction. Forms which are innovated vis-à-vis the proto-language, but which occur in a subset of the languages are seen as indicative of “a period of exclusively shared prehistory, during which [dialects] are in close contact with one another, but not with the rest of the [family]” (Hock 1991: 578–579). The languages descended from that prehistoric period are then treated as cousins of the other languages which were excluded from that period of contact. The traditional approach to subgrouping has celebrated many successes in understanding how languages are related to one another, but the method has not been without controversy and a great deal of debate has focused on how to address its shortcomings (recent literature on the subject includes Croft 2000a; François 2015; Garrett 2006; Harrison 2003; Joseph and Janda 2003; Magidow 2013). In this article, I take the view that traditional reconstruction approaches tend to be most successful in specific circumstances, typically the

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reconstruction of high focused languages to a deep-time depth, and in this the approach is most similar to Garrett (2006). However, when it comes to reconstructing diffuse languages to a short time depth, this article argues that there are two issues with traditional approaches to subgrouping: First, the metaphor of ‘language’ obscures heterogeneity and implies monolingualism, and second, traditional reconstruction sometimes discards meaningful data about contact between languages since it has no framework for modeling that data.

2

Homogeneity and Heterogeneity

Human communication is varied, complex, and extremely difficult to model coherently, since it is not necessarily cohesive. Speakers’ command over linguistic resources are extremely variable from speaker to speaker and even at different phases of their lifetimes. Communicative resources must be sufficiently coherent between speakers that communication can be achieved, but misunderstandings, misinterpretations of the same word, and other linguistic breakdowns all point to the fundamentally complex nature of how communication happens. 2.1 Language as a Conceptual Metaphor One of the most successful conceptual metaphors for abstracting away from this complexity is that of a ‘language,’ a metaphorical unit of analysis which could be defined loosely as the set of related communicative resources that co-occur with one another within the communication of a single group or community.5 This unit of analysis reflects speakers’ and researchers’ intuitions about divisions between groups being reflected in language use, and indeed it is extremely difficult to define ‘language’ without making some reference to a specific group of people situated at a specific place and time. Bloomfield (1926: 155), for example, defines a language as ‘the totality of utterances that can be made in a speech-community.’ However, the ‘language’ metaphor often becomes unmoored from the speech communities used to define it. Instead, linguists normally treat a ‘lan5 Note that ‘language’ here is used in approximately the same meaning as the term ‘lect’ proposed (though not defined) by Ross (1997) to subsume the categories of both language and dialect. However, throughout the text I will use both ‘language’ and ‘dialect’ according to the conventions of the field—hence, French will be referred to as a ‘language’ while Arabic consists of ‘dialects’ but my critique is aimed at both levels of analysis.

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guage’ as a collection of systems which interact with one another, without making explicit reference to the actions of speakers. Linguists make statements along the lines of, ‘a language develops,’ ‘a language splits,’ ‘a change diffuses throughout a language,’ ‘a language is a head-final language,’ ‘languages are acquired by age 8.’ All of these are useful metaphors, though languages have no true agency. It is human beings who, though they may be constrained by the building blocks of language available to them, change their behavior in certain ways. ‘Language’ can be an extremely valuable metaphor for abstracting away from chaotic details to make broad statements about human communication. The ‘language’ metaphor productively allows us to speak about a certain type of language (agglutinating, synthetic, left-branching, etc.) since by knowing only one or two characteristics of that language, we can adduce a number of other characteristics. Indeed, linguistic typology is a more productive field when focusing on languages rather than on the social communities that make use of them. Efforts to link community typology (large-scale industrial vs. hunter gatherer, etc.) to linguistic typology have not revealed strong correlations between social organization and linguistic behavior (Bowern et al. 2011; Bowern et al. 2011; Epps et al. 2012). On the other hand, the metaphor of ‘language’ carries with it strong assumptions of homogeneity and thus does a poor job of modeling speaker variation, whether ‘internal’ variation in the use of a given language, or ‘external’ variation where speakers make use of multiple ‘languages.’ Languages are normally seen as homogenous entities with perhaps some internal variation. They are clearly distinguishable from other languages. These entities can come into ‘contact’ with one another in varying degrees, but except in very rare cases, remain the same entity in the mind of a linguist (and perhaps, to the speakers of that language). To use the terminology of LePage and Tabouret-Keller (1985; as summarized in Trudgill 1986: 85–86), languages are normally conceived of as being: [O]f the focused type: the language is felt to be clearly distinct from other languages; its ‘boundaries’ are clearly delineated; and members of the speech community show a high level of agreement as to what does and does not constitute ‘the language.’ However, many ‘languages’ (if they can even be called this) do not correspond to this ideal: In other parts of the world, however, this may not be so at all, and we may have instead a relatively diffuse situation: speakers may have no very

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clear idea about what language they are speaking; and what does and does not constitute the language will be perceived as an issue of no great importance. The origin of the metaphor ‘language’ can be traced to the rise of nationalist movements in European nations that sought to create a one-language, onenation link (see Makoni and Pennycook 2006 for many more references on this subject).6 Nationalist ideologies and educational systems then further focused those languages, so that boundaries of linguistic usage came to coincide with European geopolitical borders, even porous ones (Auer 2002). In fields like Semitic, where many of the attested languages are no longer spoken, it is also easy to consider the relatively limited corpora of attestations found in inscriptions and manuscripts as constituting a single ‘language,’ especially when the language had a standardized scribal tradition.7 It is in these situations, where we have a focused national language, or even better a closed corpus of textual attestations, when the traditional notion of ‘language’ is most fruitful in informing our historical reconstructions.8 6 Note that the objection here to the ‘language’ metaphor is primarily practical and utilitarian, not political. While the reification of languages was certainly a part of both colonial and nationalistic projects, it hardly seems reasonable to abandon the valuable analyses that the language metaphor makes possible simply because this tool has been abused. Moreover, the association of the ‘language’ metaphor solely with modern colonial projects seems to ignore other historical contexts. Most language communities make linguistic divisions between self and other, and it is not a huge conceptual leap to speak of one large group’s way of speaking against another’s (see esp. Mufwene 2004 for a critique of situating colonial practices solely in “modernity”). As such, I consider ‘language’ a ‘convenient fiction’ for certain types of inquiry, but the argument here is that there are other, more convenient fictions available for certain types of inquiry. 7 The treatment of the product of a scribal tradition as representative of the entire repertoire of a community is the source of the endless debates in Arabic linguistics about the diversification of the dialects from the apparently homogeneous Classical Arabic. Clearly the attestations from Classical Arabic are extremely misleading as to the actual linguistic behavior of speakers in the early Islamic era, as evidenced by papyri and Greek transcriptions of Arabic words (Al-Jallad forthcoming; Hopkins 1984). Lüpke and Storch (2013: 48–49) warn against assumptions of monographia, that there is a ‘one-to-one link between spoken and written language,’ whereas there is often a complex language ecology involving multiple spoken and written languages. 8 The ‘language’ metaphor also seems to capture native speaker intuitions that groups of people can be classified according to their linguistic behavior. However, many cultures do not actually have a term which corresponds to the level of analysis which ‘language’ tends to delineate. Mühlhäusler (2000: 358) goes so far to state that “the notion of ‘a language’

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These concerns are not simply philosophical in nature, but must be confronted when conducting research on the history of languages. The comparative method, and subgrouping procedures in particular, require linguistic input which is sorted into distinct groupings, usually ‘languages.’ In the case of highly focused European languages and languages with a closed corpus of attestation, it is relatively straightforward to choose a unit of analysis, which is typically equated with a ‘language.’ In this case, history, rather than the linguist, has chosen what the input will be for the comparative method, though even in the case of European languages, ongoing processes of erasure contribute to an illusion of focus and homogeneity (Irvine and Gal 2000). When languages are less focused, however, it is extremely difficult for a researcher to choose a cohesive, focused grouping that could be called a ‘language’ as a unit of linguistic analysis. This is particularly true in the case of Arabic. Consider, for example, the complex and frankly bizarre Ethnologue codes for Arabic, which are used for a variety of purposes but which contain many different and sometimes conflicting levels of analysis. Codes exist for North Levantine Spoken Arabic (apc) and South Levantine Spoken Arabic (ajp) but not for any of the more traditional divisions of urban versus rural versus Bedouin Levantine varieties which crosscut some North-South divides.9 In contrast to this broad and somewhat contradictory level of analysis, the Syrian dialect atlas of Behnstedt (1997) includes nearly 500 data points, each representing a single village. A researcher is therefore hard pressed to identify a ‘language’ as such that could be used as input for any kind of linguistic analysis, but especially for the comparative method. is a recent culture-specific notion associated with the rise of European nation states [and] the notion of ‘a language’ makes little sense in most traditional societies (cited in Makoni and Pennycook 2006: 18).” This certainly seems to be true of Indonesian and many African languages (Makoni and Pennycook 2006: 13–14) and in the Arabic grammatical tradition, the term luġa originally referred to much smaller differences in speech (within what we could call ‘Arabic’ today), not to significantly separate linguistic systems as such (Iványi 2011) (but lisān existed as well, which referred to what were actually different languages, fārisī, rūmī, etc.). 9 Indeed, the author recently received a questionnaire about numeral systems which asked for information on any of the Arabic varieties which have an independent code in the Ethnologue system, including several that arguably should be subsets of one another, such as Algerian Spoken Arabic (arq) and Algerian Saharan Spoken Arabic (aao), Gulf Spoken Arabic (afb) and Shihhi Spoken Arabic (ssh). These contradictory and confusing levels of analyses must complicate significantly a typological project such as this, since two ‘independent sample points’ could be quite close or quite far from one another, and the distance is difficult to assess for a non-expert.

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‘Proto-languages’ reconstructed through the comparative method are also treated like monolingual, homogeneous entities. The reconstructed ‘protolanguage’ is defined as “a uniform language” (Bloomfield 1933), that is to say it has none of the dialectal or social variation characteristic of all real languages. While there has been some debate about whether it is absolutely necessary for a proto-language to be viewed as uniform (Dyen 1969; Pulgram 1959; Pulgram 1961), the view held by Hockett (1958; quoted in Dyen 1969: 502) is often reflected in practice: When we wish to employ the comparative method we are forced to make a potentially false working assumption: that the distinct languages which we are comparing trace back not merely to a single parent language, but to a single language free from dialect variation. (emphasis original). For example, only if we assume a homogenous proto-language model would we need to rely on tools like the ‘majority wins’ principle: given two forms which could equally have been a part of the proto-language, we reconstruct only one, the one mostly widely attested (Campbell 2004: 131–135). We only need to eliminate this variation if we require the proto-language to be uniform. Otherwise, we could reconstruct both forms as existing side-by-side in the proto-language, one part of the complex variation characteristic of all languages. For an example from Semitic, Hasselbach (2007) feels obliged to reconstruct only a single proto-form *ʔul- for the common Semitic plural demonstrative, though both *ʔul- and *ʔil- forms are attested. However, the evidence for either of these as the proto-form is extremely weak, and both are actually attested in Arabic, which she uses as her ‘tie-breaker,’ treating it as a language only with *ʔul-. A preferable explanation would be that both forms were present in the protolanguage, that is to say, not forcing ourselves into the untenable position that proto-languages must be free of variation. 2.2 Language and Monolingualism An assumption of monolingualism also accompanies the ‘language’ metaphor, which may be due to the historical association of the ‘language’ metaphor with highly focused language use, especially in a European context. Speakers of these highly focused languages may have control over more than one language, to whatever degree of proficiency, but these languages are still viewed by the linguist (and perhaps the speaker) as separate from one another, even if they were to co-mingle in a single utterance. One language is typically described as dominant, acquired by the children directly from their parents and taking precedence over any other languages learned.

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However, this notion too breaks down in diffuse societies. In many African countries, for example, speakers operate in a language ecology of radical multilingualism where speakers acquire and reinforce complex linguistic repertoires throughout their lifetimes none of which covers all or even the vast majority of domains of use (Coetzee-Van Rooy 2012; Lüpke and Storch 2013).10 Language acquisition can and does occur via peer groups, even at a young age, obscuring the notion of ‘intergenerational language transmission’ that is central in many theories of language acquisition and change (Lüpke and Storch 2013: 308). Nor does the ‘language’ metaphor do a very good job of capturing and modeling this kind of complex domain-divided multilingualism. Is a speaker or community who uses some linguistic material only within a limited domain using that ‘language’ or only pieces of a ‘language,’ and how can we delineate those boundaries? 2.3 Languages, Boundaries and Change Treating languages as separate, and clearly separable, entities can also obscure the mechanisms of language change. The metaphor of ‘language’ creates an artificial distinction between the ‘external’ diffusion of language material between languages and the ‘internal’ diffusion of features ‘within’ a language. The reality of language change is that groups of speakers, connected in various ways, must adopt a ‘change’ for this change to ‘diffuse’ throughout their community (see Croft 2000a; Enfield 2003; François 2015: sec. 3.1; Mufwene 2001: chap. 6). This change could circulate within a group of people who are monolingual, speaking in a similar manner, or among extremely multilingual communities who use a variety of languages. In some cases, even if speakers are very sensitive to linguistic boundaries, changes will diffuse regardless. In Amazonian speech communities which practice linguistic exogamy, there are strong social constraints against code-mixing, but the languages which are involved in that practice show strong signs of morphosyntactic convergence (Aikhenvald 2003; Epps 2005). Dividing diffusion into ‘internal’ and ‘external’ change therefore obscures the underlying unity of process, whereby speakers’ decisions slowly accumulate to cause a change in their speech behavior.11 10

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Lüpke and Storch (2013: 272) even argue that the notion of a single language which functions in most domains, what might be called a community language, ‘should be discarded for most African contexts […] where no language ever comes close to the idealized, fully fledged prototype that only monolinguals can imagine.’ There are of course different probabilities of outcomes of this process depending on the type of languages involved and how closely they resemble one another (see the Journal of Language Contact vol. 6, 2013 devoted to the topic of contact between closely

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From Language to Speech Communities

The ‘language’ metaphor, therefore, divorces researchers from the social realities of language. The metaphor of ‘language’ carries with it assumptions of homogeneity and monolingualism which do not match the realities of many languages and which create artificial boundaries that may exist only in the minds of linguists, not of speakers. I propose that we reconsider this metaphor, and replace it with another, that of ‘speech communities.’ In doing so, we actually return full circle—as discussed previously, it is almost impossible to define a language without some reference to an underlying speech community. From Bloomfield’s definition of language as the “totality of utterances that can be made in a speech-community,” we simply remove the abstracting layer of language and return the focus to the group of speakers themselves. This approach is very much in line with recent approaches to historical linguistics and contact linguistics which seek to move away from essentializing approaches that apply analytical metaphors to objects of inquiry; instead, these approaches call for a shift in focus to the emergent properties of complex human systems (Croft 2000b; François 2015; Matras 2009; Ross 1997).12 The speech communities approach to historical linguistics has been pioneered by the Oceanist Malcolm Ross (1997; 2005) with some other researchers making use of this approach in recent work (François 2015; François 2011; Toulmin 2009) and others taking a less language-centric approach to reconstruction, even if they do not use the speech community model per se (Drinka 2013; Garrett 2006). This represents an important and meaningful shift in how we are conducting historical linguistics, but the analytical category of ‘speech community’ is still in an early stage of development. This section of the paper seeks to develop a strong, empirically sound model of the speech community. Ross (1997: 214; 2005: 177) notes that speech community is rarely defined and when it is, the definition is rarely satisfactory. However, he actually relies on a fairly simplistic definition for speech communities from Grace (1996: 172):

12

related languages). However, it is largely accepted that there is no difference in possible outcomes—generally speaking, the same types of contact-induced change may occur in both closely and very distantly related languages, and this is because the same process produces changes in both situations. Of course, ‘speech communities’ itself is necessarily a metaphor and also somewhat essentializing, but one which I hope is better situated within a strongly empirical literature on how changes diffuse through linguistic communities, and which avoids many of the issues which accompany the ‘language’ metaphor. For a considered analysis of the necessity for essentializing analytical models, see Omoniyi (2006).

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A speech community consists of those people who communicate with one another or are connected to one another by chains of speakers who communicate with one another. This approach basically defines a speech community as groups of speakers linked within a social network in the sense of the work by James and Leslie Milroy (J. Milroy and Milroy 1985; J. Milroy 1992; L. Milroy 1980; L. Milroy 2008). Certainly, strong sociolinguistic evidence has shown that the diffusion of language change moves along social networks, and that different kinds of network ties (more or less strong, more or less dense) do influence how changes diffuse. However, humans are not simply dumb nodes in a network, and they do not act as such. For example, Henderson (1996) discusses an African-American couple which, though integrated into a middle-class, white social network, continued to use a non-white realization of short /a/ since they felt that they were treated both as different and inferior by their white colleagues. Clearly these speakers were not simply the products of their network position, but active agents whose linguistic behavior is moderated by their sense of belonging and community.13 Furthermore, while Ross’ definition avoids tying speech communities to a particular language, or even a shared set of utterances (in contrast to Bloomfield’s, where the members of a community must share the same understanding of the utterances in their language), it does not model multilingualism in a principled way, or really address it at all. If we want to get away from the metaphor of language, we must develop a way to model the multiple codes used within a multilingual community.14

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A close reading of Ross (2005) shows that his actual analysis relies on at least some sense of speaker belonging. He tries to reframe Andersen’s (1988) conception of endocentric (bound by bonds of linguistic solidarity) vs. exocentric (less bound by solidarity) as a reflection of network structure, but he is still forced to make regular reference to speaker attitudes, and even this remapping of Andersen’s social dichotomy to a network dichotomy is not, in this author’s view, entirely successful. Mufwene 2001 (chap. 6) suggests an alternative to speech communities, treating language like a biological species, and individual ideolects as members of that species. While an interesting approach, it is not clear how easily we can model historical groups within that approach. It also carries with it the risk of the biological metaphor obscuring the intended referent, as cautioned by Enfield (2003).

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3.1 Speech Communities Defined We need a definition of speech communities which can handle the realities of social networks while also providing for the individual agency of speakers, and which includes a powerful model for understanding multilingual behavior. I therefore offer the following definition for speech community, and I will show support for this definition in the remainder of this section: A speech community is a group of people bound by social network ties as well as a sense of social allegiance, and having at least some part of their linguistic repertoires in common. 3.1.1 Social Networks Social networks tie together speakers who communicate with one another. The ties between these speakers may be strong (i.e. frequent interaction) or they may be weak, and a speaker may have many ties or may have few. The model of a social network is basically identical to that treated in the work by the Milroys discussed above, and extended in Ross’, both quoted above, and so it is unnecessary to go into great detail. Note that social networks have no defined size. Indeed, any social network will have overlapping components of greater density, while a sufficiently permissive definition of ‘connected’ could include speakers who have many intermediate connections, but who might never meet and communicate face to face. Social networks are recursive as well, with anything but the smallest network containing within itself other networks. This may seem a weakness of the social network model, but it is actually a strength. All of these same characteristics are also true of languages—there are no straightforward ways to differentiate different sizes of language, from register to dialect to language to language area, nor are these levels discrete from one another with no overlap, as any dialect atlas will show. Social networks accurately model these properties of human language, and have strong empirical support. Certainly, different sized groups have somewhat different properties, and often allow for different research methods. Smaller groups, often called communities of practice, tend to be analyzed via a participantobserver approach (Meyerhoff 2004), while larger speech communities are typically analyzed with random sampling extrapolated via statistical methods (Patrick 2002). In truth, since this article proposes that we use speech communities as a unit of historical analysis, it is unlikely that any historical signal will be sufficiently strong to mark out any group smaller than what would correspond to a ‘dialect’ within the language metaphor framework. We can certainly pick out

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larger groupings also—‘language areas’ certainly are detectable from historical analysis and do reflect a large social network which has relatively clear external boundaries, even if it might encompass an area as large as Europe (Haspelmath 1998). The size of the speech communities which we are actually able to reconstruct will depend ultimately on the ‘resolution’ of our data and our analysis. 3.1.2 Allegiance There is overwhelming evidence that a speaker’s allegiances influences their linguistic behavior and influences long-term linguistic change, and thus this is an essential component of any definition of a speech community. Individual speakers make, or fail to make, accommodation to their interlocutors. They try to be part of the groups that surround them, and change their linguistic behavior accordingly (Eckert 2000; Giles, Taylor, and Bourhis 1973; LePage and Tabouret-Keller 1985). This influences how linguistic changes diffuse throughout society—those groups which share allegiances with one another will adopt a change as it comes through their social networks, while individuals and groups which do not feel that allegiance are less likely to change (as in the example from Henderson 1996 above). The accumulation of these changes will eventually subsume larger and larger entities, creating a split between varieties that are large enough to be detected by historical linguists. Group boundaries are demarcated in many ways, but primarily through the deployment of symbolic resources which mark group insiders in opposition to outsiders. Almost any act or item can be “grist to the symbolic mill of cultural distance” whether it is a matter of “dialect, dress, drinking or dying” (Cohen 1985: 118), and these symbols are often multiple or overlapping. In Eckert’s study of Michigan high school students, both “dress” and “dialect” covary—the length of students’ jeans correlates with their realizations of linguistic variables. These are both of course simply convenient symbols—what kinds of jeans you wear does not influence your vowel system (no matter how short, or how cold the weather is in Michigan) but they both correlate with one another since they are part of the symbolic demarcation of group boundaries. Using language to mark one’s social position is what LePage and Tabouret-Keller (1985) refer to as ‘acts of identity.’ Speaker perceptions of group boundaries, and hence linguistic boundaries, do not necessarily follow a linguist’s own perceptions of which groups speak mutually intelligible languages. Wolff (1959) documents numerous examples of language pairings where the speakers of those languages have significantly different intuitions about intelligibility than (non-native) linguists working on those languages. These intuitions are not always symmetrical either: One group

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considers another’s language unintelligible, while the other group thinks both of the languages are similar. Considering a language intelligible or unintelligible therefore seems to be more of a linguistic attitude than a fact of language structure, though of course linguistic structure will influence the type and degree of influence of languages on each other. Moreover, as long as speakers view another language as opaque, they are unlikely to draw on its linguistic material in any meaningful way. This has implications for historical linguistics—simply because we, as researchers, conceive of languages as being ‘distinct’ that does not mean that they were distinct in the lived experience of speakers of those languages. Modern Arabic dialects provide an example of this phenomenon. Western Arabic dialects are treated by speakers of eastern dialects of Arabic as unintelligible, while Western Arabic dialect speakers are often expected to understand a wide range of eastern dialects (Sʾhiri 2003). This is partly due to differences in exposure to media, particularly Cairene media, but also do to extremely strong linguistic ideologies which regard Western Arabic dialects as unintelligible and difficult to understand (Hachimi 2013). Ideology seems to interpose itself and prevent the kind of understanding that should occur given even a basic good faith effort. Hachimi gives the example of ħalqi ˈmy throatˈ in Tunisian Arabic (identical to the realization in Standard Arabic) not being understood by an educated Egyptian interlocutor, who apparently requires ħalʔi instead (2013: 279). The communicative effort required to understand this variant is minimal, especially given the congruence between the Tunisian and the Standard Arabic form of the word—the misunderstanding seems to be due to ideology shaping expectations of understanding, rather than linguistic distance (see also Preston 2013). Moreover, a researcher unfamiliar with the ideological background might assume total mutual intelligibility in this instance. This is not to say that every piece of linguistic material used by a speaker is consciously symbolic of their identity. Labovian sociolinguistics (Labov 2001: 196–197) recognizes three levels of awareness of variables which begin as internal changes (“change from below”): ‘indicators’, used by particular social groups, are below the level of social awareness. Once they acquire social recognition they become ‘markers’ and are detectable in style shifting behaviour. Finally, if they are sufficiently socially relevant they become ‘stereotypes’, the topic of meta-linguistic comment and judgment. All three of these designations, however, presuppose some social association, that is to say even indicators, though below the level of perceptual salience, are associated with some group, that is to say that it marks out a speech community (in Labov’s research, typically a social class). Therefore, at every stage in the diffusion of a feature, conscious or unconscious notions of identity and group allegiance dictate the

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uses of language by an individual speaker, and by the communities in which they are embedded. The crucial test of this theory is whether these micro-level variations and markers of identity can cause larger-scale language change which fissures along group identity lines. There is strong evidence for this from many different areas. Sectarian differences are well known as lines of fissure in Arabic (Blanc 1964; Holes 1983). In the United States, African American ethnic groups have maintained significantly different varieties of English than Anglo-Americans (Wolfram 2003), whether on the level of a single family surrounded by white speakers (as in Ocracoke, see p. 309), or on the level of large scale communities. In Europe, even porous national boundaries have changed language behavior (Auer 2002), and sociolinguistic studies are showing that speakers converge and diverge with one another based on their allegiance to a particular nationality (Llamas 2007; Llamas 2010; Watt, Llamas, and Johnson 2010). Growing political divisions between Old Castillian Spanish and Medieval Portuguese speakers were reflected in language through what Malkiel (1989) calls ‘excessive selfassertion,’ i.e. the deliberate change of language through an accumulation of acts of identity (see also Penny 2004: sec. 3.1.5ff.). In all of these cases, speakers must have been connected with speakers of different varieties by close social network ties. The barriers that arise are attitudinal, not breaks in the social network.15 Speakers’ changing political, ethnic, religious divisions, or changes in how important those divisions are, lead to relatively rapid linguistic change that causes even closely related languages to split apart. 3.1.3 Repertoire Speech communities, whether on the level of individual speakers or the larger community, cannot be easily characterized as speaking a given language. One language could potentially be dominant, but even in very monolingual communities there are often linguistic varieties or materials which diverge significantly from everyday speech and which are linked to specific contexts. A languagebased model for discussing variation within a speech community is far too simplistic: [B]ilingualism is not in itself an adequate basis for a model or theory of the interaction of language and social life […] Bilingualism is neither a unitary phenomenon nor autonomous. The fact that two languages 15

Social network ties and attitude are not entirely independent variables, however. One’s allegiances will often be reflected in one’s ties, and even a person’s available repertoire is influenced by their social relations.

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are present in a community or are part of a person’s communicative competence is compatible with a variety of underlying functional (social) relationships. hymes 1972: 38

As an alternative model, Hymes suggests instead the idea of a ‘linguistic repertoire’ which encompasses all of the ways of speaking within a community. Bilingualism or even multilingualism would therefore just be a “special, salient case of the general phenomenon of linguistic repertoire” (ibid.). These ‘ways of speaking’ could be anything from distinct languages to different codes to simply different vocabularies associated with different events, and thus register variation and code-switching can be seen as different ways of utilizing speaker repertoires. On an individual level, Blommaert (2014: 4) defines a repertoire as: The collective resources available to anyone at any point in time […] Repertoires are biographically emerging complexes of indexically ordered, therefore functionally organized resources. Repertoires include every resource used in communication—linguistic ones, semiotic ones, sociocultural ones.16 This is to say that repertoires include the entire set of communicative resources available to a given speaker, and that they acquire these resources over their lifespan. These resources are usually in a functional distribution, with a given resource normally associated with a range of functionally appropriate uses. A ‘community repertoire’ can be defined as the available communicative resources deployed in a given speech community. Obviously, individuals within a community will differ in terms of their individual repertoires, precisely because repertoires are biographically emergent, but the overall community will have common repertoires to which most members of that community will have access. For example, in Coetzee-Van Rooy’s (2012) study on the complex and diverse repertoires in a South African community, she finds that the linguistic repertoires of Southern Sotho dominant and Zulu dominant speakers differ in patterned ways (see esp. Tables 1–6), as do those of speakers who report Southern Sotho or English as their strongest vs. their second strongest language. This is to say that, though individuals within those communities report differ-

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See Blommaert and Backus (2013) for an analysis of one individual’s repertoire and how it is related to his biography.

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ent language competencies, their general community repertoires are focused. This is true even in a relatively ‘diffuse’ linguistic environment. In order for speakers to be part of the same community, they must share some aspect of their repertoires. This can shift rapidly over time, since repertoires are biographically emergent per Blommaert’s definition—two distinct speech communities can come into contact, and the first generation raised in that environment can acquire a larger repertoire than that of their parents. Not having any repertoire in common makes it extremely difficult for linguistic material to diffuse between the speech communities, so it is a prerequisite for a speech community to be united. How much command one must have over the material within their repertoire is both a social and linguistic consideration. In some communities, having even the most basic command of a repertoire may allow for inclusion in that community. For example, in Dorian’s (1982) work on communities with GaelicEnglish repertoires, even those speakers with little competence in Gaelic were included socially as members of the speech community. In her words, “any definition of speech community which implied productive control of the language in question would eliminate these apparent members of the East Sutherland Gaelic speech community” (p. 31), which clearly runs counter to the emic definition of that speech community. The repertoire view has the advantage over a language view in this respect, with the former’s attendant assumptions of monolingualism, since the latter more naturally handles shifts to larger repertoires. In contrast, the language view often assumes that any merging of speech communities with different ‘languages’ will eventually lead to a shift. In studying the history of Arabic, alSharkawi (2010) and Versteegh (1984) assume that two speech communities coming into contact necessarily leads to a catastrophic speech event. For Arabic, this is hardly evidenced from the linguistic outcomes of that contact and there is little reason to think that speakers did not simply expand their repertoires when possible (Abboud-Haggar 2006; Diem 1979). Speakers of Coptic, Aramaic and Berber may have followed the model in the West African examples from Lüpke and Storch (2013: 308), where child acquisition of language is from peers more than from the previous generation (similar patterns have been found in China, see Stanford 2008). Children socializing with one another, or even working in trade, may well add significantly to their repertoires without endangering the other components of that repertoire. This is certainly true today in many Arab countries in tourist areas, and similar practices probably existed in the early Islamic empires. On the other hand, having, or lacking, access to a particular part of a community’s repertoire can result in exclusion from that speech community. In

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some cases, control of that repertoire can be very high stakes, as in the ability to control the standard register—not having this ability can limit social and economic opportunities, or risk social censure. In Classical Arabic literature, there are numerous examples where incorrect production of correct fuṣḥā Arabic resulted in ridicule, though in many Arabic speaking communities of that same era, any productive control of fuṣḥā Arabic might have entirely lacking. Thus, speech communities must be defined as sharing some part of their repertoire, but what ‘sharing’ entails exactly will be dependent on the context in which those speech communities existed. It is the researcher’s job to determine exactly how the repertoire operated in the historical speech community that they are reconstructing.

4

Chronology and Goals in Reconstruction

Traditional reconstruction and subgrouping is concerned with only the oldest common ancestors of attested languages, i.e. proto-languages. Proto-languages represent, in this model, Hock’s “period of exclusively shared prehistory.” Focusing on the oldest ancestors is obviously essential to some reconstruction projects, particularly those that aim at great time depth or which are concerned with large scale comparisons of language families (Campbell 2003; Garrett 2006). However, focusing only on the oldest periods of shared history can lead us to discard valuable evidence about the history of languages. Consider for example the attempt at reconciling the so-called ‘tree’ versus ‘wave’ models in Huehnergard (2011). In this article, he gives the isoglosses which argue, in his view, for a Central Semitic branching (see Huehnergard 2005), and treats those as genetic signals “arising in a shared common ancestor” (p. 265). The existence of two other innovations (loss of feminine -t and reduction of tripthongs) which link Hebrew, Phonecian, Aramaic and Arabic, however, “suggest an areal diffusion according to a wave model.” (p. 268) How exactly this contrasts to the process of innovations arising in a common ancestor is unclear. The attested languages all had a period of ‘exclusively shared prehistory’ per Hock, excluding Ugaritic and Sayhadic. That period simply occurred later than the period of exclusively shared prehistory which gave rise to the Central Semitic grouping. Privileging only the oldest period of shared history amounts to discarding some of the most interesting information about pre-history that languages give us. Why is it that these changes diffused among only those languages? How were they linked, and what do those links tell us about the people of that era?

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Indeed, overlapping periods of shared history may be the norm rather than the exception, especially within short time depths. Languages becoming entirely isolated from one another is extremely rare. Even when languages are literally located on separate islands surrounded by ocean, there is still ongoing contact between them, as in Oceania, and different languages may be in different types of contact at different times in their histories. François (2015), working on Oceanic languages, proposes an alternative model to the traditional tree model. Instead of only representing the oldest periods of shared diffusion, his model charts multiple overlapping innovations among language varieties which have been long in contact with one another. The model, based on a large database of innovations, produces a ‘glottometric diagram,’ shown in Figure 14.1.17 Here, groups which are most cohesive and are most strongly associated as a subgroup share the bright, thick lines, as for example the HiwLtg pairing. Even that pairing, which appears to have ‘branched’ from the other languages at some point, continued to exchange linguistic materials across what we would traditionally consider a ‘linguistic divide.’ A speech communities approach, in contrast to a ‘language’ approach, treats all instances of diffusion as equally important data. Since any linguistic material which diffuses must necessarily be constrained by speech community boundaries, the extent of diffusion maps the contours of the speech communities involved. We can map the extent (temporal and geographic) of the spread of a linguistic feature (what Toulmin 2009 calls a ‘propagation event’), and in doing so we can reconstruct the temporal and geographic extent of a particular speech community.18 The sum total of the features in a dialect can give 17 18

The author would like to thank Alexandre François and Siva Kalyan for providing a high quality copy of this figure and for providing the permission to use it. Note that I avoid here the word ‘innovations.’ While innovations are more easily shown to be diagnostic of speech communities, there is nothing in principle which excludes a ‘retention’ (the definition of which is hardly straightforward—retained relative to which language state, exactly?) from acting as a marker of community. Consider the two variables which were mobilized in Martha’s Vineyard to mark social boundaries—AU and AI (Labov 1963). One of the realizations of this variable was ‘retentive,’ attested to the 16th century in England, while the other was an innovation. However, both were innovative vis-à-vis the speech community on Martha’s Vineyard, showed by the age-grading of the change, and both were equally implicated in the system of demarcating social boundaries. Moreover, innovations or retentions can propagate at multiple times. Consider the propagation of the ha: prefix in demonstratives in Arabic dialects (Magidow 2013). There are clearly multiple chronologies of propagation—among dialects of the interior Levant, this prefix was attached to the demonstrative pronouns early, likely before the Islamic era. In contrast, dialects which came into the Levant later, likely post-Islamically, lacked this

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us a detailed map of its history of speech community membership. Instead of asking only about the oldest reconstructable period where varieties exchanged innovations, we ask instead about all of the speech communities that a modern speech community has belonged to over its history, as indicated by the scars and wrinkles on its body linguistic. This changes reconstruction from an exercise in subgrouping to one in forensic sociolinguistics, almost an archaeology of pre-historic speech communities. This approach allows us to contextualize the development of language, since speech communities can be easily historically situated. In contrast, protolanguages are notorious for including structures that developed at quite different eras, combining older and newer features into a single structurally homogeneous but temporally heterogeneous whole. Andersen (1996: 184) summarizes the situation for Proto-Slavic, though (Toulmin 2009: 28–30) makes a similar statement about proto-Indo-Aryan: Proto-Slavic […] cannot be correlated with a single point in time. […] The substantival declension has a more archaic appearance than ProtoSlavic [verb] conjugation […] and when we consider the lexicon, it is very obvious that Proto-Slavic includes lexemes of widely different age. Proto-languages correlate with no particular point in history, and are akin to a “museum in which diet coke cans share with coats of chain mail a single vitrine marked ‘Planet Earth. 1000–2000 Christian Era’ ” (Joseph and Janda 2003: 56). The lack of a historically situated unit of analysis is at the heart of the long debates over the origin of Arabic (summarized in Abboud-Haggar 2006). Classical Arabic has long been taken, conveniently, to represent the proto-language which gave rise to the modern colloquial dialects, and which was historically situated as the language of the Arabs prior to the Islamic expansions. It is now clear that assumption is untenable, and the other papers in this volume as well as volumes such as Owens (2006) argue strongly against it. However, the new unit of analysis proposed by Owens, ‘pre-diaspora Arabic’ is also not detailed enough to account for the complex chronology and geography of Arabic speakers and their linguistic behavior prior to the Islamic expansions. Though his model allows for diversity in the proto-language, it reconstructs variants without a great deal of attention to their situation in space or time, in much the prefix, and even in the modern dialects of Palmyra and Soukhne ha:-prefixed demonstratives have not entirely diffused throughout the demonstrative paradigms. Thus, the same ‘innovation’ is diffusing in very different ways and at different times, and through different processes.

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figure 14.1 A glottometric diagram of the Torres-Bank Oceanic languages from François (2015)

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same way as a proto-language. A speech communities approach can help to diagnose which speech communities existed in the pre-Islamic era and can attempt to characterize their repertoires, both Arabic and non-Arabic. The speech communities we reconstruct are not an undifferentiated ‘pre-diasporic Arabic’ but communities which have unique and divergent repertoires and relationships to other speech communities. Speech communities also provide a principled way to link linguistic and extra-linguistic data. Speech communities reflect communities, in their structure, in their geography, and in their allegiances. Political changes, shifting patterns of domination and alliance, changes in trade-routes and directions of contact are all extra-linguistic factors that have profound linguistic consequences. By changing our unit of analysis from ‘language,’ which is abstracted away from its context, back to ‘speech communities,’ we are forced to consider the historical, social and political contexts in which language change occurred.

5

Contextualizing Arabic through Speech Communities

The foregoing discussion has been very theoretical and abstract, and it may be difficult to see how exactly the speech communities approach can be applied. One example we considered in the introduction was that of the repertoire of the early Islamic speech community to which the Quran was addressed— Dye and Baasten’s papers give us strong evidence for a community with a multilingual repertoire that included considerable elements from Aramaic. Indeed, a speech communities approach should be used to reframe the debate about the extent of diglossia in the pre-Islamic community into a broader set of questions about the repertoire of pre-Islamic speech communities. More importantly, the speech communities approach can move beyond simple questions of repertoire to address more complex questions about the history and context of how Arabic developed. One of the major questions in Arabic linguistics is what the linguistic features were of the Arabic of the Islamic conquests, and how far we can trace these dialects back to pre-Islamic communities. The speech communities approach links social and linguistic history, and so provides an important tool for answering that question. In this section, I will use the speech communities approach to link linguistic data from modern Arabic dialects, particularly their demonstrative pronoun paradigms, with data about the history of Arab migrations in order to demonstrate the applicability of the speech communities approach.19 19

Arabic demonstratives are a particularly useful variable since they are paradigmatic (thus

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First, it is important to understand how we are able to extrapolate any data from modern dialects at all. Certainly, nearly 1500 years after the Islamic conquests, there must be sufficient population movement to erase any traces of early speech communities. There are of course instances where this has happened, but as a general principle, linguistic practice tends to endure over time except in exceptional circumstances. This is referred to by Labov (2001: 504) as the ‘principle of first effective settlement,’ the notion that the initial settlement in an area typically determines the cultural and linguistic practices in that area.20 Other groups that move into that area are likely to shift to the language of the initial populating group. Population density appears to be a prime factor in linguistic vitality, with high density areas or groups more resistant to shift than less densely populated areas (Buchheit 1988; Ostler 2005).21 Thus, in instances of extreme depopulation, the principle no longer holds, and whatever group repopulates an area tends to act in turn as new ‘first effective settlers,’ as seen in the depopulation and repopulation of North America, resulting in the extinction of many indigenous languages. This principle allows us to link the Islamic conquests quite directly to modern dialect distributions, since the conquests are precisely when the first effective Arabic speaking settlements were established in many countries. Indeed, the conquering armies were fastidious about establishing ʾamṣār, independent autonomous settlements which were primarily settled by Arabic-speaking military personnel and their families. These settlements provided a linguistic

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changing in predictable ways), they are extremely diverse, and they can often preserve previous language states, since many dialects will borrow only the most frequent demonstratives (either proximal or singular forms), preserving older demonstratives in some parts of the paradigm. For non-Arabist readers, Arabic demonstrative pronouns also act as demonstrative adjectives, they distinguish two distances (proximal and distal), two genders, and two (in Classical Arabic, three) numbers, singular, (dual) and plural. In many dialects, distal demonstratives are derived directly from the singular by the addition of a suffix -(a)k(a), so normally only the proximate forms are given in the discussion here. The dialect of Chadian Shuwa Arabic provides a very simple example of Arabic demonstratives: Proximal: m. sg. daː, f. sg. diː, m. pl. doːl, f. pl. deːl, Distal: m. sg. daːk, f. sg. diːk, m. pl. doːla(ː)k, f. pl. deːla(ː)k (Kaye 1976). For more on Arabic demonstratives, see Fischer (1959) and Magidow (2013: chap. 5, 6). The principle was originally formulated in Zelinsky (1992); Magidow (2013: sec. 1.3.4, ff) discusses this principle at greater length with regards to Arabic. It is not clear, however, how this principle operates at deep time-depths, since many of the most fertile and densely populated areas are also what Nichols (1992) refers to as ‘spread zones,’ while less densely populated areas in difficult terrain tend to preserve linguistic enclaves.

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beachhead for Arabic speakers in these new territories, and any newcomers to these financially and politically powerful cities would have been expected to add Arabic to their repertoires in order to assimilate to local linguistic norms. These settlements each grew into the primary major Arabo-Islamic centers in their area, and were likely one of the major engines of Arabicization of the conquered territories.22 These principles would seem to imply that we could simply link the literature from the Arabic grammar of attributing linguistic variants to specific tribes (Al-Jundī 1983; Rabin 1951), to the accounts of the early Islamic conquests which reference the same tribes (Donner 1981). However, in many cases, this is not tenable. Most of the tribal names found in the grammatical or even historical tradition reference vast tribal confederations, which while they might share a group allegiance, were probably not sufficiently linked into the same social networks to be considered a single speech community (see Magidow 2013: chap. 2). In principle, a sufficiently small tribe should act as a self-contained speech community, but in practice it is rare to find such a case. Luckily, one such case does present itself. The dialect that has now become Cairene Arabic, probably based on the original dialect of al-Fuṣṭāṭ, likely had the following demonstratives originally: m. ðaː, f. ðiː m. pl. ðoːl f. pl. ðeːl.23 This demonstrative set is almost unattested today outside of the Nile Valley and points south, except in northern coastal Yemen in the city of al-Ḥudayda, and it seems to have been largely erased in the surrounding hinterlands by a later migration from a different dialect group (Magidow 2013: 385–386). At the same time, historical sources report that one of the major colonizing groups of alFuṣṭāṭ were members of the relatively small tribe of ʿAkk, whose territories were said to include al-Ḥudayda in the pre-Islamic era (Caskel 2012; Kennedy 2007: 147). The numbers involved—we are told that the initial colonizing group of ʿAkk members numbered around 4,000—are well within the size of a small speech community, especially since they all come from a single geographical area. Thus, we can with some confidence use the notion of speech community to link linguistic and extra-linguistic data, and make a fairly strong claim about

22

23

Note that this works best for densely populated urban and rural areas. Areas with very low population densities, such as steppe lands, are easily repopulated, and this is why Bedouin dialects are often quite divergent from rural and urban dialects, since they represent much more recent strata of settlement. Similarly, it is difficult to reconstruct the history of countries like Tunisia which have been repeatedly resettled. The feminine plural was likely lost due to contact with other urban areas that had no feminine plural. It is preserved in Upper Egyptian and Chadian varieties of Arabic (Magidow 2013: sec. 6.3).

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the Arabicization of Eygpt: A group of settlers, largely from the tribe of ʿAkk in north-west Yemen, moved in the early seventh century into Egypt, where the established the first effective Arabic settlement whose linguistic features are still used today. In contrast to the situation in Egypt, the Arabicization of the Levant is significantly more complex, and requires a much more detailed account. In contrast to Egypt, Iraq and Tunisia, there were a few ʾamṣār-type settlements in the Levant, none of which were long-lasting (see Magidow 2013: 175–179). The primary settlement pattern of Arabic speakers was to occupy the quarters of conquered cities abandoned by refugees fleeing the war. Evidence from sociolinguistics suggests that unless these settlers were able to maintain very strict separation between themselves and their Aramaic speaking neighbors, they would be in grave danger of shifting to Aramaic rather than maintaining Arabic.24 Of course, we have strong evidence that Arabic was spoken earlier and more widely in the Levant prior to Islam than previously believed (Al-Jallad forthcoming b; Macdonald 2009), but there must still have been huge numbers of Aramaic speakers in the Levant, particularly in the fertile valleys of the Oran valley and in the major cities, i.e. those areas most resistant to language shift. How then did Arabic speakers manage to impose their language on the Levant when they did not take the same steps towards linguistic success and vitality that were taken in other regions? It seems the answer is simply that they were in the right place at the right time. As discussed above, the advantage of high population can be obviated if the original settling population (in this case Aramaic speakers) suffer a massive depopulation, or are overwhelmed by an incoming group “an order of magnitude greater than the extant population” (Labov 2001: 504). The Arab conquests certainly do not fit that bill—if anything, the conquering Arab populations must have been much smaller than the resident, primarily Aramaic speaking population of the Levant. However, a major depopulating event struck the Levant at the same time as important Arabic-speaking populations moved into the area. Starting in 542 ce with the Plague of Justinian, the Levant was wracked by plague. This of course precedes the Islamic conquests by nearly 80 years, but plagues continued to strike the Levant repeatedly until 749ce, which the final year of plague was also marked by a massive earthquake (Conrad 1981; MacAdam 1994; Tsafrir and Foerster 1992).

24

That is not to say that they did not attempt to segregate themselves from their neighbors. The Pact of ʿUmar appears to have been one attempt to do so, though it is not clear how effective it was (Noth 2004; Tannous 2010).

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It would seem that such traumatic, depopulating events must surely have affected Arabic speakers as much as Aramaic speakers, but this is not the case. As mentioned previously, Arabic speakers were primarily located at the margins of fertiles areas of the Levant, many practicing nomadic pastoralism. Plagues and earthquakes tend to impact high populous areas more heavily than less populous areas, and pastoralists tend to escape relatively unscathed from plagues. Plagues do open up agricultural lands to pastoralists dependent on agricultural goods, and so they tend to settle on those lands as agriculturalists (Finkelstein and Perevolotsky 1990: 71). This suggests a scenario in which formerly densely populated, Aramaic-speaking agricultural areas in the interior Levant were devastated by plague. The most likely group to repopulate these areas would be resident Arabic-speaking nomadic or semi-nomadic pastoralists who would settle on the abandoned agricultural areas, and eventually become the sedentary rural population of the Levant. We thus have clear details on the communities which must have Arabicized the Levant, but we would like to better understand them in terms of their behavior as speech communities. By analyzing the distribution of dialects in this region today, and combining it with our scenario for the Arabicization of the Levant, we can start to understand the linguistic behavior of those pre-historic speech communities. As we can see in Figure 14.2, we can, based on the forms of the demonstrative pronouns, distinguish two distinct groups of dialects in Syria, along with one group of hybrid dialects. The two primary groups are what Magidow (2013: chap. 5) refers to as the ‘haːk’ group of dialects, those dialects which initially innovated a demonstrative of the type haːk for a common distal demonstrative, and the (haː)ðoːla dialects, which innovated a form ðoːl in the plural proximal demonstrative. The haːk group of dialects was susceptible to a number of possible analogical innovations, and these happened in many places in approximately the same way (i.e. parallel development), but most of the dialects of the inland Levant are ultimately traceable to this type. The (haː)ðoːla dialects, in contrast, represent a clearly independent development, and have a closer affinity to dialects in Egypt, Yemen, and the Arabian Peninsula. As for the hybrid dialects, they were originally a subtype of haːk dialects which had common plural proximate demonstratives hawla ‘these’ and distal hawka ‘those.’ Through contact with dialects that had (haː)ðoːl as the common plural proximate demonstrative, they innovated a new distal demonstrative haːdoːka via four part analogy: hawla : hawka :: haːdoːla : X = haːdoːka. These hybrid dialects force us to reconsider how the cities were Arabicized. A priori, we do not expect the cities to have been colonized at the same time as the countryside, since the plagues would not have given Arabic speakers any

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advantage over the already resident Aramaic speakers. The hybrid city dialects are clearly based on dialects of the haːk-speech community, the community which originally colonized the countryside. Thus, the Arabicization of the cities must have taken place in part by the urbanization of rural Arabic speakers, but there must have been significant influence from the (haː)ðoːla speech community, present now primarily in urban and steppe areas. The fact that the haːk-speakers did not simply adopt the (haː)ðoːla forms wholesale also may tell us something about their view of themselves relative to these later newcomers—it suggests that they tried to preserve their linguistic (and hence social) distinctiveness.25 Though it goes beyond the level of detail appropriate to the discussion here, the underlying haːk dialects must have been at a stage of development which is no longer generally attested in the Levant, suggesting too that this hybridization process is quite old (Magidow 2013: sec. 5.4.4.1, 6.2.3). A striking absence from this map are the dialects which have a reflex of the feminine (epigraphic) ty demonstrative found in pre-Islamic inscriptions, such as the Namāra epitaph, discussed briefly in the introduction to this article.26 These dialects, what Magidow (2013) refers to as consonant-alternating dialects since they mark gender distinctions via consonant alternations, are found today almost exclusively in Yemen, but there are important traces of these forms in some haːk type dialects in the Levant. Cypriot Arabic uses taː as a relative marker and the Lebanese dialect of Baskinta preserves taː with what appears to be traces of an original demonstrative meaning, though it has relative uses (Abu-Haidar 1979: 80, 116; Borg 2004: 194). Some Palestinian dialects show pronouns of the type huta and hita and these may be derived from an original construction with a pronoun followed by a demonstrative, similar to Classical Arabic (haː) huwa ðaː (Magidow 2013: 362; Shachmon 2013).

25

26

Note too that the influence goes the other way also—the (haː)ðoːla dialects are by and large haːðoːla dialects, but clearly acquired the haː-prefix relatively late. The dialects of Soukhne and Palmyra have clearly borrowed the haː-prefix from neighbouring dialects, and are still slowly apply it to demonstratives throughout the paradigm. Even the dialect of Damascus likely did not have the haː-prefix originally, as evidenced by nearby dialects which still have no added the haː-prefix (Magidow 2013: sec. 6.3.3). It is unclear exactly what the voweling of this word would be, whether tiy, tay(a), or tiyya, all of which are possibilities, though primarily reflexes of tiyya are attested today, a diminutive form of demonstratives of the type taː. If tay(a) underwent diphthong or triphthong reduction to taː, then it would be equivalent to attested dialects with masculine singular proximate ðaː, feminine taː (Al-Jallad 2012).

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The fact that these dialects preserve many traces of the grammaticalization process from demonstrative > relative suggests that they represent the original layer of dialects, but with later borrowing of the primary demonstratives from haːk dialects (for this principle, see Pat-El 2013).27 In terms of speech communities, two speech communities, the consonant-alternating speech community, and the haːk-using speech community came into contact. The consonantalternating speech community, whether under numerical or social pressure, adopted aspects of the hawla community’s repertoire, including the entire demonstrative paradigm. However, traces of the original demonstratives remain both epigraphically and linguistically, give us a clue to the original repertoire of the community. We thus have a likely scenario based on the linguistic data in which a resident group in the Levant came under significant pressure from another group, adopting significant aspects of the incoming group’s linguistic repertoire. We can link this to the historical data also. There are reports of two major changes in the ruling groups moving into the Levant according to the Arabo-Islamic historiographic tradition. The first of these were the Ṣalīḥids, who moved into the Levant ca. 400 ce, and century later, the Ghassanids, also said to be of Yemeni origin, moved into the Levant, and became clients of Rome in 502 (Shahîd 2012a; 2012b). The Ghassanids seem the more likely candidates for bringing haːk type dialects into the Levant, since Al-Jallad reports in his paper that in the early sixth century ce we start to see words with a different realization of the definite article than had previously been current in the Levant.28 Thus, both the linguistic and historical evidence suggests that a new speech community moved into the area at this time. The speech communities approach thus allows us to develop an extremely detailed understanding of the Arabicization of the Levant. Arabic speakers using the consonant-alternating dialects were present in the area as early as the fourth century, when the Namāra inscription was written. Another speech community moved into the area in the sixth century, and we can suggest that

27

28

This same principle, that traces of a grammaticalization chain tend to occur in the innovating, rather than borrowing, variety argues against (Al-Jallad 2013) argument that the relative forms in taː in Hijazi dialects is borrowed from OSA. There are clear traces through Arabic dialects of the change from demonstrative to relative for this form, whereas the same traces are not as clear in OSA. The direction of borrowing, if any, is therefore more likely from Arabic to OSA than the reverse. Al-Jallad, Ahmad, The Spoken Arabic of the Muslim Conquests: Evidence from 7th and 8th century Greek papyri.

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figure 14.2 Levantine Arabic Dialects, based on Magidow (2013), in turn based on Behnstedt (1985).

this was related to the historical movement of the Ghassanid’s into the Levant. The late sixth century also brought with it plagues which continued through the Islamic era. These plagues destroyed the early Islamic ʾamṣār settlements in the Levant, but also opened the way for the Arabicization of the countryside. The Arabic speakers who colonized the countryside spoke haːk-dialects which still preserved some aspects of the earlier consonant alternating dialects. These speakers must also have begun moving into the cities, but a later group of speakers, probably entering the Levant post-Islamically, were the major colonizing group of the cities. The two groups influenced one another significantly, creating hybrid dialects that included elements from both repertoires. This section has shown how the speech communities approach can be used to leverage a variety of sources of information, whether they are linguistic (demonstrative forms) or extra-linguistic (texts, archaeological finds, historical accounts). Speech communities provide a natural unit of analysis for integrating this information, and provides a two-way communication between linguistic and extra-linguistic arguments. In contrast to a language-centric approach, a speech communities approach easily accommodates information about com-

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plex repertoires, and this data can help us understand how speech communities interacted.

6

Conclusion

Language is, at its essence, a social tool, and if we hope to understand the changes that language undergoes, we must understand the changes undergone by its users. This article has argued that the abstraction of ‘language,’ while useful in many contexts, can obscure the link between community and communication. Instead, we suggest that to understand how some languages developed, we must return our focus to the ‘speech community.’ Drawing on a broad research base in sociolinguistics and historical linguistics, we defined ‘speech communities’ as networks of speakers linked by shared allegiances and repertoires. Since any linguistic repertoire bears the marks of the many speech communities which have used it over time, this article argues that we should focus on the plurality of those memberships, rather than focusing only on the most ancient as is typically done in historical linguistics. Finally, we showed how the speech communities approach can be used to link linguistic and extra-linguistic information to reconstruct the repertoires of several preIslamic Arabic-speaking speech communities, and to show how their role in the early Islamic conquests shaped the Arabic-speaking world today.

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Pulgram, Ernst (1959). “Proto-Indo-European Reality and Reconstruction”. Language 35 (3): 421–426. Pulgram, Ernst (1961). “The Nature and Use of Proto-Languages”. Lingua 10: 18–37. doi:10.1016/0024–3841(61)90109-7. Rabin, Chaim (1951). Ancient West-Arabian. Taylors Foreign Press. Ross, Malcolm (1997). “Social Networks and Kinds of Speech-Community Event”. In: Archaeology and Language I: Theoretical and Methodological Orientations. London: Routledge. Ross, Malcolm (2005). “Diagnosing Prehistoric Language Contact”. In: Motives for Language Change. Ed. by Raymond Hickey. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sʾhiri, Sonia (2003). “Speak Arabic Please!: Tunisian Arabic Speakers’ Linguistic Accomodations to Middle Easterners”. In: Language Contact and Language Conflict in Arabic. Ed. by Aleya Rouchdy. RoutledgeCurzon. Shachmon, O. (2013). “Hūta, Hīta and Other Extended Pronouns in Palestinian Arabic”. Zeitschrift Für Arabische Linguistik 57: 70–82. Shahîd, Irfan (2012a). “G̲ h̲ assān”. In: Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition. Brill Online. Shahîd, Irfan (2012b). “Salīḥ”. In: Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition. Brill Online. Stanford, James (2008). “Child Dialect Acquisition: New Perspectives on Parent/peer Influence”. Journal of Sociolinguistics 12 (5): 567–596. Tannous, Jack Boulos Victor (2010). “Syria Between Byzantium and Islam: Making Incommensurables Speak”. Unpublished Ph.D. Dissertation, Princeton University. Toulmin, Matthew (2009). From Linguistic to Sociolinguistic Reconstruction: The Kamta Historical Subgroup of Indo-Aryan. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics, Research School of Pacific and Asian Studies, the Australian National University’s Center for Research on Language Change. Trudgill, Peter (1986). Dialects in Contact. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Tsafrir, Yoram, and Gideon Foerster (1992). “The Dating of the ‘Earthquake of the Sabbatical Year’ of 749 C.E. in Palestine”. Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 55 (2): 231–235. Versteegh, Kees (1984). Pidginization and Creolization: The Case of Arabic. Amsterdam: Benjamins. Watt, Dominic, Carmen Llamas, and Daniel Ezra Johnson (2010). “Levels of Linguistic Accommodation across a National Border”. Journal of English Linguistics 38 (3): 270– 289. doi:10.1177/0075424210373039. Wolff, Hans (1959). “Intelligibility and Inter-Enthic Attitudes”. Anthropological Linguistics 1 (3): 34–41. Wolfram, Walt (2003). “Reexamining the Development of African American English: Evidence from Isolated Communities”. Language 79 (2): pp. 282–316. Zelinsky, Wilbur (1992). The Cultural Geography of the United States: A Revised Edition. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall.

chapter 15

Digging Up Archaic Features: “Neo-Arabic” and Comparative Semitic in the Quest for Proto Arabic Naʿama Pat-El

1

Introduction

As scholars of Semitic languages we are fortunate to have such a wealth of material from various historical periods and various geographical areas. Indeed, typically doing historical linguistics in Semitic involves looking at and comparing features of “the big five”: Akkadian, Classical Arabic, Classical Hebrew, Classical Ethiopic and Aramaic. This is problematic, as John Huehnergard has noted. He suggested that we should work upward: reconstruct each branch independently and then compare it to others. For the purpose of reconstruction … one should first compare not all attested languages, but rather only those that share an immediate common ancestor; then that intermediate ancestral language may be compared with a language or branching with which it shares an immediate ancestor still farther back. huehnergard 1996: 160

So where do we start when we look at Arabic? Conventionally, we look for clues in Classical Arabic. This dialect is considered conservative, that is preserving archaic features and grammatical structures, primarily on the basis of its consonantal inventory (Blau 1977). In fact, at least in the early days of historical Semitic linguistics, Arabic was assumed to be the closest language to proto Semitic. Some, including many Arabists, still think so today. But Classical Arabic is a very problematic entity, since it is standardized and great efforts have been invested in order to preserve an idealized form of the language. I am not the first to suggest that Classical Arabic is a normalized and perhaps artificial language, a “construct” (Larcher 2010). Its standardization included adapting an orthography, expanding the lexicon and developing a stylistic standard; these were based on multiple linguistic sources (Versteegh 2001, 53). Classical Arabic is therefore a fusion of dialects. Many other related dialects, however, were spoken over a vast area before the advent of Islam,

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but the written records are fairly limited (MacDonald 2006: 464–465). It is unclear when and under which circumstances a standard Classical Arabic has been formulated. Estimations vary from 6th–7th century (Fischer 2006) to 9th–10th century (Owens 2003). Larcher (2010) suggests that as late as the seventh century so-called “Neo-Arabic” (non-standard Arabic heretofore) was still considered appropriate for writing specific genres, “an everyday vehicle of oral and written communication (which is why we find the dialect variation and the trace of the oral in the written)” (p. 109). The standardization had a political motivation, as a language was needed to run the administration of the sprawling empire (Versteegh 2001: 53).1 As with many forms of standardization, prescriptive grammarians decided which dialectal forms they accept as part of the standard language and which they reject. Overall, there was a conscious attempt to formulate regular paradigms and avoid exceptions (Fischer 2006: 399). Thus, although there may have been a favored variety of Arabic at the basis of the standardized language, even if imagined, there was still a careful selection of features to be codified as part of an acceptable standard. The result is an amalgam. In this paper, I will look at some features in Arabic dialects, which are clearly missing from the Classical variety, and therefore probably from the dialect(s) on which it is based. I will argue, based on comparative evidence, that these features belong to the Semitic inheritance of this branch. Their absence from the Classical language is indicative of the dialect’s relative innovation. I further suggest that other forms of Arabic, i.e. non-standard Arabic, including to a certain extent, Middle Arabic, which are not normalized and do not attempt to imitate a non-native variety, preserve a different set of archaic features at least as well as the Classical Arabic sources. In order to prove that these features are archaic and not a later development I will use comparative evidence. In the following I will discuss and evaluate a series of features and will conclude with some lessons regarding the effects of standardization. The idea that non-Classical variants preserve archaisms was previously noted by several scholars. For example, both Bloch (1967) and Schub (1974) noted relics of Barth-Ginsberg Law, which are not attested in the Classical language, where the prefix vowel is consistently -a-.2 Kaye (2007) also suggested that archaic features are preserved in the dialects, and concludes that the Clas1 Fischer (2006: 398) suggests also a religious motivation, aiming to preserve the presumed language in which the Qurʾān was delivered and to maintain a uniform linguistic form across the Arab world. Classical Arabic, however, is not based on the language of the Qurʾān, so such a claim is unsatisfactory. 2 For more features, see Huehnergard (this volume).

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sical language cannot therefore be the linguistic source of the dialects. While I agree with Kaye’s suggestion that Classical Arabic is not the ancestor of the modern dialects, I disagree with his analysis of the data and his methodology. Kaye first assumes a certain feature (the negation particle with a final glottal stop lāʾ) is archaic and then sets out to prove it by selectively and unsystematically looking at comparative Semitic evidence, primarily Hebrew. Unsurprisingly, he reaches a convenient but wrong conclusion (that the dialectal Arabic form laʾ is Proto-Semitic). The methodology used here is the opposite: I only treat features which have been proven independently to be at least common Central Semitic. If these features are attested in non-standard Arabic dialects, but not in Classical Arabic, and cannot be attributed to a secondary development, then the conclusion must be that Classical Arabic is not more archaic than some non-standard Arabic dialects.

2

Archaisms in Non-Standard Arabic

The discussion concerning the difference between Old and Non-standard Arabic has focused heavily on the nominal case system and the verbal modal system, both of which are at least in part represented by final short vowels, which are susceptible to reduction for phonological reasons and are not overtly represented in the consonantal orthography of Arabic. I would like to shift attention to morphological and syntactic features which are less likely to be a direct cause of phonological changes and where the orthography cannot inhibit interpretation of the evidence. The list of features suggested here, combined with the archaic features noted in Huehnergard (this volume), is by no means exhaustive; it is rather highly suggestive that the dialects have much to reveal about the linguistic situation of early Arabic. The possibilities of such an inquiry are yet to be fully developed. The following discussion does not attempt to compare a single Non-standard Arabic dialect or dialect group to Classical Arabic, but rather follow the evidence of specific features.3 I hope that the following will serve as a contribution to the discussion, if only for the abundance of evidence that Classical Arabic could not have been the ancestor of the non-standard Arabic dialects. 3 See also Owens (2003), who correctly notes that “at this point in research on the Arabic language one can reconstruct, even if only in approximate terms, the history of individual features. The history of Arabic dialects, however, is a much broader task which has yet to be embarked upon in a comprehensive way” (Owens 2003: 738).

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2.1 The Definite Article The definite article is not a common Semitic feature and was developed at least three times independently in Semitic. One of these times is attested in several Central Semitic languages, though not in all of them. The relevant languages are Arabic, Canaanite, Aramaic and Old South Arabian (or Epigraphic South Arabian). The article is prefixed in Canaanite and Arabic, and suffixed in Aramaic and Ancient South Arabian. The syntax of the definite article is shared by all Central Semitic languages, so it seems likely that despite the differences in the position of the article, it has a single source. Note the following common syntactic features (Huehnergard 2005; Pat-El 2009): 1. The article appears on the last member of a nominal dependency pattern (‘construct’); (1) rabb-u l-ʿālam-īn master-nom def-world-obl.pl ‘The lord of worlds’ 2. The article does not occur with nouns with pronominal suffixes; 3. Predicative adjectives are not marked with the article; (2) al-walad-u ṣaġīr-u-n def-boy-nom young-nom-indef ‘The boy is young’ 4. Attributive adjectives agree in definiteness with the noun; l-ʾāḫir-u (3) al-yawm-u def-day.ms-nom def-final.ms-nom ‘The final day’ 5. The article nominalizes adjectives. (4) al-muʾmin-ūna def-believing-mp ‘The believers’ The assumption in the literature is that the definite article originated from a demonstrative. There are many problems with this assumption, but I would like to particularly discuss item 4 above. Demonstratives normally are not

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duplicated on the adjective, so there is an obvious redundancy here. Mostly this was explained as a result of nominal agreement: the noun and the adjective always agree, and if there’s a definite article on the noun, there should be one on the adjective, and so the definite article moved from the noun to the adjective: Dem-N Adj. > Dem-N Dem-Adj. So far so good. And indeed the Classical Arabic evidence by and large does not refute this assumption. However, in several unrelated Modern Arabic dialects, the article appears on the adjective and not on the noun; the only region where this pattern is not attested in North Africa:4 (5) Levantine Arabic (Grotzfeld 2000) a. bayt l-maḥruʾ house def-burnt ‘The burnt house’ b. baṭṭīḫ əl-ʾaḫḍar watermelon def-green ‘The green watermelon’ c. sūʾ əl-ʿatīʾ market def-old ‘The old marketplace’ (6) Maltese (Borg 1989) a. wied il-kbir valley def-big ‘The great valley’ b. blata l-bajda stone def-white ‘The white rock’ (7) Iraqi Arabic (Blanc 1964) a. ʿīd le-kbīġ holiday def-big ‘The great feast (Easter)’ (Christian Baghdadi)

4 Dickins (2010) notes that this is a possible pattern in Sudanese, which he interprets to emphasize the adjective, but does not provide examples.

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b. dfāter el-ʿettaq notebook.mp def-old.mp ‘The old notebooks’ (Jewish Baghdadi) c. ʿenab l-aswad grape def-black ‘The black grapes’ (Muslim Baghdadi) (8) Omani Arabic (Rhodokanakis 1911) a. aṣûl ez-ziyâni origins.mp def-good.mp ‘The good origins’ (72:26) b. siyûf es-senâni sword.mp def-sharp.mp ‘The sharp swords’ (73:9) c. tamr en-nesîb date def-expensive ‘The expensive dates’ (76) (9) Andalusi Arabic (Corriente 1977) a. riḥá al-jidíd mill.ms def-new.ms ‘The new mill’ b. masjíd al-axḍár mosque.ms def-green.ms ‘The Green Mosque’ (10) Anatolian Arabic (Procházka 2002) a. šayx l-əkbīr sheikh def-great ‘The great sheikh’ b. bi-mayyat il-bērdi in-water.fs.cnst def-cold.fs ‘In the cold water’

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c. ʿarabāyt il-xaḍra car.fs.cnst def-green.fs ‘The green car’ In various dialects, in such constructions, the substantive head assumes a construct state (see example 10b above). Historically, these patterns could not have been construct patterns, because the adjective is always in agreement with the head noun, unlike real construct where the head noun does not trigger agreement. Furthermore, semantically, these patterns are clearly N-Adj combination; thus example 10b cannot be translated as ‘the water of the cold one’. Native speakers are quick to reject the pattern as a real feature of their language. Several scholars have noted that speakers of Lebanese Arabic tend to ‘correct’ this pattern in writing according to what they think is normative, thus adding lam before the noun, while in speech the pattern is productive (Grotzfeld 2000: 10). Borg (1989: 78, n. 19) quotes a local Maltese scholar explaining a similar pattern in Maltese as an ‘orthographical abbreviation’. This attitude may reflect the idea that the spoken language is somehow corrupt, which is a notion implanted in the psyche of Arabic speakers through schooling (though perhaps not so much in Malta). So modern dialects attest to a rather wide spread syntax which is clearly different than the standard and is not prescribed and only rarely mentioned in traditional grammars. Those grammatical descriptions that do mention the pattern, refer to it as colloquial. For example, al-Taʿālibī (2010: 264), who terms the pattern ‘annexation of a thing to its modifier’ (ʾiḍāfat š-šayʾ ʾilā ṣifatihi), seem to imply that it is not a standard variant.5 He provides several examples, such as ṣalāt l-ʾūlā ‘the first prayer’, kitāb l-kāmil ‘the complete book’, yawm lǧumʿa ‘Friday’ etc. The same term is used in Wright (1967: II 232–234, § 97(f)), who argues that the adjective is nominalized, referring to an external noun, i.e., bayt l-muqaddas should be understood as ‘the house of the holy place’, yawm s-sābiʿ ‘the day of the seventh night’, ṣalāt l-ʾūlā ‘the prayer of the first hour’ etc. The same structure is attested in Christian and Jewish texts of the Middle ages. In fact, This feature was noted by Blau (2002) as one of the characteristic features of Middle Arabic. These texts reflect a language replete with colloquial features that indicate that their writers were not committed to imitating classical norms of writings.

5 I am grateful to David Wilmsen for this reference.

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(11) Middle Arabic a. ʾarḍ l-mūqaddisa land def-holy ‘The holy land’ (Christian, Blau 1966: 356) b. fī ṭarīqa l-mustaqīma on path.fs def-correct.fs ‘On the straight path’ (Jewish, Blau 1995: 161) c. wa-yawm ṯ-ṯānī and-day def-second ‘The second day’ (Muslim, Hopkins 1984: 203) As is clear from Blau (2000)’s discussion, the assumption is that this pattern is an innovation, not something that is inherent to Arabic or very early. But this simply goes against the evidence. Pre-Islamic Arabic written in Greek alphabet found in Petra also contains an example of this pattern, which is I believe the earliest attestation of it: (12) βαιθ αλαχβαρ bayt al-ʾakbar house def-big ‘The very large apartment’ (Al-Jallad, Daniel, and al-Ghul 2013: 32–33) Additionally a few examples are in fact attested in the Qurʾān, reflecting a pregrammatical tradition text. (13) Qurʾānic Arabic a. dār-u l-āḫirat-i habitation-nom.cnst def-other-gen ‘The other world’ (Q. 12:109) b. ḥaqq-u l-yaqīn-i truth-nom.cnst def-certain-gen ‘The certain truth’ (Q. 56:95) Thus, purely on internal evidence, this pattern should be considered a common Arabic pattern. In fact, Blanc (1964: 128) cautiously suggests that the Jewish and Christian Baghdadi dialects preserve traces of an older usage. Here is where comparative evidence is so useful. This pattern is attested in other

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Central Semitic languages as well (Lambert 1895; Lambdin 1971: 321; Sarfatti 1989; Waltke and O’Connor 1990: 260): (14) Central Semitic a. rūăḥ hā-rāʿā spirit.fs def-bad.fs ‘The evil spirit’ (Biblical Hebrew, 1Sam. 16:23) b. naʿarā ham-məʾōrāsā maiden.fs def-engaged.fs ‘A betrothed maiden’ (Mishnaic Hebrew, San. 7:4) ʾl c. ʾln-m h-qdš-m god-mp def-holy-mp dem.mp ‘These holy gods’ (Phoenician, KAI 14:22) d. hānnōn tlātā gabr-īn zaddīk-ē dem.mp three man-mp.indef righteous-mp.def ‘These three righteous men’ (Syriac Aramaic, Aph. Fide 29:19–20) Since the pattern is independently attested in several Central Semitic languages and in many Arabic dialects, it is likely that it is shared. We can therefore safely conclude that the non-Classical pattern is archaic, and that the Classical variety probably hides the extent of the distribution of this pattern. 2.2 The Form of the Article The Classical Arabic definite article is orthographically represented as ʾal, although it is pronounced as ʾaC before half the consonantal inventory. For example: (15) The Arabic Definite Article a. ʾaš-šams def-sun ‘The sun’ b. ʾal-walad def-child ‘The child’

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This grammatical description is problematic on several counts. First, the classical orthography seems to indicate non assimilation, since the lam of the article is always represented in writing, while in other cases of assimilation, e.g., I-w in VIII stem, the assimilated consonant is not represented in the orthography. Additionally, /l/ does not normally assimilate in Arabic; n assimilation, partial or full, is far more common, for example, in the Qurʾānic reading tradition (Zemánek 2006) and with the preposition min. In several dialects there is regular partial or full assimilation of nasals (Watson 1993: 8; 2007: 235–237). Additionally, it has been repeatedly noted that outside the Classical language assimilation does not follow the neat distribution prescribed by the grammars; Ullendorff (1965) argues that there is no uniformity in the treatment of the definite article. For example, Sanʿani and Cairene Arabic differ in their treatment of the article before velar plosives (Watson 2007: 217). The only consonants with which the article is never assimilated in any dialect are the pharyngeals and the laryngeals (Ullendorff 1965: 633), which is the case for the Canaanite languages as well, which use an article with an underlying form *han. Dialectal records, both ancient and modern, indicate, however, that there was another article with a nasal coronal. Rabin (1951: 50–51) mentions ʾam in Ḥimyar and Ṭayyi, but ʾan is also attested. Beeston (1981) notes that purely on the basis of epigraphic material the han article is older than ʾal, since han is attested some 200 years earlier. This is, however, a rather shaky argument given the paucity of the evidence. Several modern Yemeni dialects have an article with a nasal: im in north and north-western dialects, in Minnabih and some parts of im-Ṭalḥ; an around the area of Ṣaʿda; in in Madīnat Jāwī, Banī Ḥḏēfeh and Majz (Behnstedt 1987: 85). These nasalized articles cause gemination in all environments, while al is much more restricted. The origin of the Central Semitic definite article is much disputed. Arabic is the only language which uses a liquid, while the other languages show a nasal. Recently, Rubin (2005) suggested that the Arabic definite article developed from the plural demonstrative *ʾul-, while the article in other Central Semitic languages developed from a demonstrative on the basis of *han-. AlJallad (2012) correctly argues that there are three main problems with this hypothesis: 1) the vowel does not fit well with the attested form in Arabic, which is a; 2) /l/ does not normally assimilate in Arabic; and c) the hypothesis that the origin of the article is a plural demonstrative makes the assumption that originally there was at least number agreement between the article and the noun (sg. *han, pl. *ʾul) and in Arabic the plural levelled. This scenario has nothing to support it. Al-Jallad suggests that the nasal article, ʾan, which he accepts as the original Arabic form, assimilated to a following coronal, but dissimilated to an /l/ in all other environments. The article ʾal is therefore

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a secondary form that was levelled, at the expense of the original nasal article. Thus, dialects with a nasal article hark back to the Central Semitic article found in Canaanite and Old South Arabian, *han. The solution of /l/ as the result of a dissimilatory process has been suggested earlier by Ullendorff (1965), who, however, suggested that /n/ is also a result of the same process, and in fact the article is a suprasegmental feature and not a consonant (cf. Lambdin 1971). While this is certainly a plausible scenario, especially given the lack of *hal in Arabic inscriptional material and the lack of evidence of *hal as a definite article outside Arabic, there are a couple of problems here too. First, /l/ is very rarely attested as a result of dissimilation in Arabic (Zaborski 2006: 188). Second, many Semitic languages have two variants of what became an article in Central Semitic, one with final /l/ and one with final /n/. Since both were independent particles, the former cannot be a result of dissimilation. Thus, both /l/ and /n/ are attested independently as the final consonant of a particle beginning with *ha-; see the list under 16 below. (16) Semitic Presentatives a. allû, annû (Akkadian) b. hinnē, halô (Classical Hebrew) c. hl, hn (Ugaritic) d. hā, halū (Aramaic) e. hal, ʾinna (Arabic) In Pat-El (2009), I suggested that the article developed from a presentative marker which is expressed as either *han or *hal in various Semitic languages. It is expressed as *han in Aramaic, Canaanite and Old South Arabian, but as a reflex of *hal in Arabic. The evidence in ancient dialects, particularly the evidence discussed in Al-Jallad (2012), seems to indicate that the Arabic case is more complex. It seems that in Arabic, both particles were used.6 Some dialects, for example the Yemeni ones, generalized *han, as did the other subbranches of Central Semitic. Some generalized hal and some had both in some distribution.7 The proposal that both particles were used in Arabic but later followed different paths of development explains the otherwise inexplicable distribution

6 Another example in Arabic of n/l alternation in the same paradigm is the Kwairiš (a gələt dialect) near demonstrative: haḏōl (mp) vs. haḏinni (fp) (Watson 2011: 875). 7 In Ancient North-Arabian both hn and hl are attested, as well as just h, presumably reflecting assimilation.

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of the han / hal articles in Arabia, which led several scholars to suggest a convergence scenario, accounting for the disappearance of han (Beeston 1981, 185–186; Edzard 2006, 491). The use of two variants within a single paradigm and the spread of one of them thereafter is, of course, not rare. The variation of the verbal pronominal suffixes k and t is well attested in Semitic, where even within the same branch some languages generalize t (e.g., Arabic) and others k (e.g., Old South Arabian). If this is true for the article as well, we must assume, quite reasonably, that there was an original differentiation between *hal and *han. I would suggest, however, that given their interchangeability in languages lacking a definite article, such as Akkadian and Ugaritic, that difference is lost on us. 2.3 Relative Clause The Semitic languages have two relative clauses: a relative introduced by a relative pronoun (examples 17a and 18a) and a relative which is syntactically dependent on its head noun (examples 17b and 18b): (17) Akkadian a. Šarru-kīn šar māt-im šu Enlil māḫir-a lā Sargon king.cnst land-gen rel.nom.ms Enlil rival-acc neg iddin-u-šum he.gave-sub-to him ‘Sargon, king of the land, to whom Enlil has given no rival’ (RIME 2.1.1.6.) iddin-u b. qišt-i šarr-um ana rēd-īm gift-gen.cnst king-nom to soldier-gen gave-subord ‘The gift the king gave to the soldier’ (Buccellati 1996: 489) (18) Ethiopic tanabbay-u həyya a. nabiy-āt ʾəlla prophet-mpl rel.mpl prophesy.pf-3mpl here ‘The prophets who offer prophesies here’ b. ba-mawāʿəl-a yəkwennanu masāfənt in-days-cnst rule judges ‘In the days in which the judges rule’ (Ruth 1:1) Classical Arabic has a very strict distribution of the relative clause, where definite head nouns take the pronominal relative (example 19a), and indefinite head nouns take a relative without any overt marking (example 19b). Thus, the definiteness of the antecedent is a conditioning factor.

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(19) Classical Arabic a. fa-ttaqū l-nār-a llatī and-be.ware.imprt.2mp def-fire.fs-acc rel.fs ʾuʿidd-at li-l-kāfir-īna prepare.pf.pass-3fs to-def-heathen-mp.obl ‘Beware the fire which has been prepared for the disbelievers’ (Qurʾān 3:131) b. kitāb-un ʾāyāt-u-hu fuṣṣil-at book-nom.indef expound.pf.pass-3fs verses.fs-nom-his ‘A book whose verses are expounded’ (Qurʾān 41:3) The problem with definiteness as a conditioning factor is that the category ‘definiteness’ is a relatively late feature in Semitic, while the relative clause is proto Semitic; so the Classical distribution should have appeared problematic from the get-go. Unfortunately, not only is it not the case, but rather many scholars believe that the Classical Arabic distribution was the original distribution in proto Semitic. Statements with this type of reasoning in many comparative Semitic works can be found as early as Brockelmann and as late as Lipiński. Furthermore, other languages do not have a similar distribution. Akkadian and Ethiopic, see examples 17 and 18 above, did not develop a definite article, but note the examples below from Hebrew, where in 20a the head noun is indefinite and in 20b the head noun is definite and yet they both use the same relative marker. This is an indication that the use of relative pronoun is not conditioned by a definite head, and such a pronoun may occur with both definite and indefinite heads: (20) Biblical Hebrew a. hōdīʿū-nī derek zū ʾēlēk inform-me path rel go.impf.1cs ‘Let me know which road I should take’ (Ps. 143:8) b. hinnē ʾĕlōhē-nū ze qiwwinū l-ō there god.p-our rel long.pf.1cp to-him ‘Here is our god, for whom we have waited’ (Isa. 25:9) So comparative data indicate that definiteness was not a conditioning factor for the choice of relative strategy, and that Arabic is possibly an innovation.8 8 For more arguments to that effect, see Pat-El (2014).

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Non-standard Arabic dialects support this conclusion. In these dialects the definiteness of the head noun is not a conditioning factor, and the relative pronoun may occur with both definite and indefinite heads, similar to the Hebrew relatives in example 20 above: (21) Moroccan Arabic a. l-ḥūt lli mā kāyn-š ʿənd-u qīma def-fish rel neg is.neg ext-his value ‘The fish that has no value’ (Brustad 2000: 92). ṭumubīl lli təmši məzyān b. bġī-t rel come.impf.3fs well want.pf-1cs car ‘I want a car that will run well’ (Harrell 1962: 165). (22) Egyptian Arabic a. ig-gīl ig-gidīd illi ṭāliʿ def-generation rel growing def-new ‘The new generation that’s growing up’ (Brustad 2000: 92). b. fī tamsiliyya illi kān-u bi-gibū-hu fi t-ilifiziyōn illi ext series rel be.pf-3p pref-bring.3p-it on def-TV rel hiyya bi-tʾūl she pref-say.3fs ‘There’s a series that they used to show on TV that says …’ (Brustad 2000: 93). (23) Kuwaiti Arabic a. šillit-i mū hādi lli ʾabi ʾasāfir wiyyā-ha group-my neg dem rel want.ptcl.ms to.travel with-her ‘This is not my group that I want to travel with’ (Brustad 2000: 92). b. əndawwir-l-a bnayya lli tnāsib-l-a search.impf.1cp-to-him girl rel suit-to-him ‘We are looking for a girl for him who will suit him’ (Brustad 2000: 95). Brustad (2000) suggested that certain pragmatic factors are at play here, primarily specificity, and that formal definiteness is not relevant, since formally indefinite nouns can be specific. Furthermore, other non-Classical sources show this pattern as well: Middle Arabic (example 24), but also, the Qurʾān (example 25).

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(24) lʾ ylsʿ-hw lʾ ʿqrb w-lʾ tʿbn ʾldy hw neg bite.impf.3ms-him neg scorpion and-neg snake rel he ʾl-yṣr hrʿ def-inclinations bad ‘Neither scorpion nor snake which is the evil inclination shall bite him’ (Judeo Arabic, Blau 1995: 232). yaḥmilu ʾasfār-an (25) ka-maṯal-i l-ḥimāri as-likeness-gen.cnst def-donkey carry.impf.3ms books-acc.indef ‘Like the donkey which carries books.’ (Qurʾān 62:5) We have to note, though, that definite heads followed by an unmarked relative are very difficult to find, because these are easily interpreted as two independent sentences, or as circumstantial clauses. So here too, the Classical innovation is hiding what is essentially a common Semitic distribution and appears in the dialects as well. 2.4 The Form of the Relative Pronoun The Classical Arabic relative pronoun is a complex of three morphemes: the definite article, an asseverate lam and a relative pronoun *ðū. Huehnergard (2010; this volume) suggests that this pronoun is an innovation of Arabic and its use as a relative pronoun is unique to it. Indeed, no other Semitic language uses this relative pronoun. The relative pronoun in other Semitic languages is either a reflex of the basic proto Semitic relative pronoun *ðū (or *θū in East Semitic), or a lexical replacement (e.g., Hebrew ʾăšer; Huehnergard 2006). In Classical Arabic, the original Semitic relative-determinative is attested only as a genitive in very rare cases (see below, example 40b), but has otherwise disappeared. The dialects show at least three different forms. Most dialects use a relative pronoun which does not contain a reflex of the proto Semitic relative pronoun *ðū, either because it is based on an innovation, or because the pronominal element has eroded. Relative pronouns on the basis of -lv- are found in Egypt, Mesopotamia, North Africa, Levantine and Gulf dialects (Retsö 2004: 265). (26) Relative pronouns in the dialects a. Levantine illi b. Iraqi əlli c. Maltese li d. Saudi lli e. Egyptian illi

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A minority shows a form similar to the Classical relative, allaði. This is a sporadic phenomenon attested mostly in urban areas, for example in Ṣanʿa (Watson 1993: 237) and Baghdad (Jewish Baghdadi; Mansour 1991).9 Most of these dialects also have a more common variant on the basis of -lv-. There are, however, some regions where the relative pronoun is remarkably similar to the expected Arabic reflex of the proto Semitic relative pronoun *ðū. Such a form is attested in some dialects in Yemen, North Africa and perhaps Cyprus. (27) Yemeni Arabic (Ṣaʿda) im-raǧul ḏā gāʿid hinniyah def-man rel sit.pres.ms here ‘The man who sits here’ (Behnstedt 1987: 84) (28) Moroccan Arabic a. qāl-l-u ʾā wlīd-i ntīna ḥsən mən hādəm d say.pf.3ms-to-him oh son-my you better from those rel ḥəžžu do pilgrimage.pf.3mp ‘He said to him: son, you are better than those who go on a pilgrimage’ (Žbālā, Brustad 2000: 110) ʿand-u saʿd b. ṛ-ṛažel d ma kan def-man def neg be.pf.3ms with-him help ‘The man who had no luck’ (Muslim Tetuan, Heath 2002: 495) c. nʿawd ʿala ḥimla di zat fi-na f-mille neuf tell.impf.1cp about flood rel come.pf.3fs at-us at-1000 9 cent cinquante 100 50 ‘I shall tell about the flood which overtook us in 1950’ (Jewish Sefrou, Stillman 1988: 134)

9 Blau (1995: 237) enumerates a few more. See also Retsö (2004: 265, fn. 5).

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(29) Cypriot Arabic (Kormakiti)10 aḏa o l-payt ta ritt taštri dem.ms cop.ms def-house rel want.pf.1cs buy ‘This is the house I wanted to buy’ (Borg 1985: 145) The Classical form allaðī is an innovation (Huehnergard, this volume), the relationship of which to the common dialectal lli is unclear. Some scholars, e.g., Brockelmann (1908–1913: I, 324), believe that əlli is a shortened form of allaðī, but the phonological process which underlies such a change is completely ad hoc. Other scholars suggest other paths, either a direct derivation from the demonstrative ʾullaʾi (Rabin 1951: 155) or a new formation on the basis of the article and the pronominal element la (Grand’Henry 1972: 142). Both explanations consider əlli an innovation. The relative particle in the examples above cannot, however, be the result of sound change from the Classical form allaðī. It, in fact, seems to be the expected reflex of ðū, the form used only as a relatively rare analytic possessive marker. This exact form is the etymon for relative pronoun in all the branches of West Semitic, more specifically of the masculine singular noun (Huehnergard 2006). (30) Relative pronouns in West Semitic a. Ethiopic za b. Mehri ḏa c. OSA d d. Ugaritic d e. Aramaic zī / dī f. Hebrew zû The reflexes in some Non-standard Arabic dialects above are the expected forms of a previous *ḏv pronoun, not of *al-ḏv. It is, therefore, quite plausible that a similar form was used by various Arabic dialects, which did not take part in the allaðī innovation and maintained the archaic Semitic formation.

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The differentiation between the dental stops /t/ and /d/ was lost in Cypriot Arabic, except when geminated (Borg 1985: 28); therefore ta can easily be reconstructed to proto Cypriot *da < *ḏa. A similar though not quite as systematic phenomenon is attested in some NENA dialects, e.g., Jewish Arbel, where voicing is neutralized in some positions and has resulted in the relative particle being expressed as id or it (< Late Aramaic də), depending on the following consonant (Khan 1999: 19, 386).

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2.5 Relative-Genitive Correspondence Classical Arabic uses construct as its main strategy to mark nominal dependency (example 31a). Rarely, however, a monosyllabic particle is used to mark an ownership (example 31b). (31) Genitive a. rabb al-ʿalām-īn master def-world-p.obl ‘The lord of the worlds’ (Qurʾān 1:2) b. firʿawn-u ḏū l-ʾawtād-i Pharaoh-nom rel def-stakes-gen ‘Pharaoh of the stakes’ (Qurʾān 38:12) The analytic exponent of the genitive is the same element found in the relative pronoun (see above, §2.4); however, in the Qurʾān the connection between the relative and the genitive is rather remote, because of the innovation of allaðī, which is restricted to mark relative clauses. Outside the canonical texts, the connection between the genitive and relative is more transparent: (32) The relative-genitive in early Arabic dialects a. ḏw ʾsr ʾl-tǧ rel bound def-crown ‘The one who bound the crown’ (Namāra, Line 1, following Zwettler 2006) b. ʾḫlṣ ʾ- ḍʾn ḏ ʾl ḥlṣ make safe.sc.3ms def- sheep rel.ms ʾāl-Ḥlṣ ‘He kept ʾāl-Ḥlṣ’s sheep safe’ (KRS 1964)11 Moreover, several Maghribi dialects use identical strategies to mark their genitives and relatives (Marçais 1956):12 (33) Algir Arabic (Djidjeli) a. əṛ-ṛažəl əddi ža def-man rel come.pf.3ms ‘The man who came’ 11 12

I thank Ahmad Al-Jallad for providing this example. For a similar distribution in some Jewish dialects, see Stillman (1988).

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b. l-ʾinīn ədd-uḫt-i def-eyes rel-sister-my ‘My sister’s eyes’ (34) Moroccan Arabic (Sefriwi Judeo Arabic)13 a. r-rabban d-l-blad def-rabbi rel-def-city ‘The rabbi of the city’ (Stillman 1988: 52) b. f-ṭwifor di maysi d-s-saʾāfa in-bowl rel isnot rel-def-pottery ‘A bowl that is not of pottery’ (Stillman 1988: 97) The Maghribi distribution is exceptional, because it uses the old Arabic pronoun *ðū to mark both functions; however, except in the Maghrib, the identity between relatives and genitives is based on the definite article: (35) Levantine Arabic a. sənt əž-žāyi year def-coming ‘Next year’ (Retsö 2004: 266) b. sənt əl-ṣār baṭrak year def-become.pf.3ms patriarch ‘The year he became a patriarch’ (Retsö 2004: 266) The Maghribi Arabic distribution is identical to virtually all other Semitic branches, where the genitive and relative are regularly marked with the same exponent.14

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Heath (2002: 461–462, 585) also notes this pattern in Jewish Fes, but does not provide examples. Furthermore, this is also attested in Ancient Egyptian, which means that identity between the marking of relatives and genitives is probably earlier than Proto-Semitic. (1)

Middle Egyptian a. bw ntj ntr-w jm place comp god-p there ‘A place where the gods are’ (apud Allen 2000: 132)

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(36) Akkadian a. Šarru-kīn šar māt-im šu Enlil māḫir-a Sargon king.ms.cnst land-gen rel.nom.ms Enlil rival-acc lā iddin-u-šum … neg he.gave-subj-to him ‘Sargon, king of the land, to whom Enlil has given no rival’ (RIME 2.1.1.6.) b. ŠE ša Naṣirʾilī barley rel.ms Naṣirʾilī ‘The barley of Naṣirʾilī’ (OAIC 6:9 Di, apud Hasselbach 2005: 163) (37) Ugaritic a. l pn mṣrm ḏt tġrn ỉl to face.p.cnst gods.cnst Egypt rel.p.obl protect.ptcl.mp npš špš breath.cnst sun ‘Before the gods of Egypt who protect the life of the sun’ (CAT 2.23:21– 23) b. ʿr d-qdm city rel-east ‘The city of the east’ (CAT 1.100:62) Even in Biblical Hebrew, where the relative marker has been replaced by a noun, it still reflected initially the older syntax, where both relatives and genitives are marked with the same marker (Pat-El 2010). It has been noted previously that the functional distribution of the relative marker in Maghribi Arabic probably reflects an older state of the language (Retsö 2004). Kossmann (2010) notes that the genitive-relative correspondence is quite wide-spread geographically, attested in Jijel (eastern Algeria), Tlemcen (western Algeria), Jbala (north-western Morocco) and several Jewish varieties, but not in other Arabic variants. Kossmann suggests that this feature belongs to the earliest stratum of the language, an early variety which is no longer attested, except in relics. Kossmann regards this early variety as a simplified form of pre-Maghribi

b. mḫʾ-t tw n-t rʿ scale-f dem.f rel-f Ra ‘That scale of Ra’ (apud Kramer 2012: 79).

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Arabic (Level-0), as a result of a massive L2 influence. However, since Berber does not have a unified strategy to mark genitives and relatives, I suggest that this feature is proto-Arabic and is the common Semitic feature, which has been eliminated in Classical Arabic, possibly due to the innovation of allaðī. Identity between relative and genitive is not restricted to Maghribi Arabic. Several Middle Arabic and modern dialects attest to a similar connection, where the relative and the genitive are both marked as constructs: (38) Syrian Arabic (Soukhne) a. bī ʾāl-et tinxol ṭaḥīn there.is machine-f.cnst sieve.impf.3fs flour ‘There is a machine which sieves the flour’ (Behnstedt 1994: 178) b. kamkūm-t əṛ-ṛās apex-f.cnst def-head ‘The top of the head’ (Behnstedt 1994: 177) This is also identical to a common Semitic relativization strategy, where attributes which cannot reflect agreement with their nominal head are marked as dependent on it (Pat-El and Treiger 2008). This strategy is absent from Classical Arabic, except in relics (adverbial subordination; see Pat-El forthcoming) and in some early poetry (Retsö 2004). One may, therefore, argue that this strategy too is an inheritance from common Semitic. While this is certainly a possibility, I hesitate to take this route since it is equally possible that this is an accidental similarity as a result of a secondary development, where the relative pronoun illi in its reduced form il became formally identical to the definite article. The distribution of the construct relative in Middle Arabic is identical to its distribution in Classical Arabic, i.e., after temporal nouns. Thus, since there is no early evidence that construct relatives were marked with a definite article and there is an alternative explanation to the modern pattern, the Soukhne relative seems likely to be a local innovation rather than a relic of Old Arabic. 2.6 Third Person Independent Pronouns The set of Classical Arabic third person singular independent pronouns is ms huwa and fs hiya, where the glide is probably determined by the quality of the vowel. These are in accordance with other similar Semitic pronouns which lay the basis for a reconstructed set *suʾa and *siʾa (Huehnergard 2002). The situation in Non-standard Arabic is complex. Certainly there are dialects with forms which appear to be reflexes of huwa and hiya, following regular sound

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changes. Many Syrian dialects, for example, show hū and hī, whose path of change may be reconstructed thus: (39) Ḥawrān (short set) a. 3ms hū < *huw < huwa b. 3fs hī < *hiy < hiya But some dialects have curious forms with final -t, like the Palestinian dialect of Bīr Zēt: ms hūte, fs hīte. These may be reconstructed as follows (following Al-Jallad 2012): (40) Palestinian Arabic (Bīr Zēt) a. 3ms hūte < *huwti < *huwati b. 3fs hīte < *hiyti < *hiyati (41) Egyptian Arabic (Cairo) ʾa huwwat presentative pron.ms ‘There he is’ (Behnstedt and Woidich 1985) Furthermore, some dialects with mono-syllabic forms, as the one noted in example 39, have an additional set of bi-syllabic forms: like Ḥawrān hūwa and hīya. The bi-syllabic set looks very much like the set in Classical Arabic, but could not have been originally identical to it, because it is unlikely that after a regular sound change, in this case a reduction of final short vowels, both new and old paradigms will persist concurrently. Al-Jallad (2012) suggested that since Ḥawrān hīye has the same synchronic form as mīye ‘hundred’, it probably went through a similar phonological process, namely: (42) Ḥawrān (long set) a. ‘water’ mīye *miyye < *miyyeh < *miyeh < *miyet < *miyat < miʾatu b. ‘she’ hīye*hiyye < *hiyyeh < *hiyeh < *hiyet < *hiyat < *hiʾati Thus, there is internal Arabic evidence for the existence of another set of third person independent pronouns with a -tV suffix in Arabic. Furthermore, this set seems to have existed side by side with the short set in the same dialect. Classical Arabic has no trace of two paradigms, of course. Comparative evidence comes to our aid once again. Other Semitic languages have two sets of third person independent pronouns with and without suffixal -tV (Huehnergard 2002: 65).

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(43) Pronouns with -tV in Semitic a. Akkadian i. 3ms šuʾāti ii. 3fs šiʾāti b. Classical Ethiopic i. 3ms wəʾətu ii. 3fs yəʾəti c. Ugaritic i. 3ms hwt ii. 3fs hyt Given the data in 43, one can safely reconstruct a dual third person paradigm for proto Semitic: (44) Proto-Semitic reconstruction a. 3ms *suʾa / *suʾati b. 3fs *siʾa / *siʾati The distinction between the short and long forms in Semitic is unclear, but one possibility is that the longer forms are oblique. Al-Jallad notes that several Northern Syrian dialects and some Qəltu dialects use their longer set as oblique pronouns (Al-Jallad 2012: 306). In any case, Non-standard Arabic seems to preserve a morphological feature that is proto-Semitic and possibly even earlier, while Classical Arabic shows no trace of it. 2.7 Wawation Several kinship terms in Levantine Arabic have a final non-etymological -ū (AlJallad 2012: 13):15 (45) Wawation in Levantine Arabic a. sīdū ‘grandfather’ (