Classical Islam: Collected Essays (Edinburgh Studies in Classical Islamic History and Culture) 9781474485982, 9781474486002, 9781474486019, 1474485987

Citation preview

CA RO LE H I LLE NBR AN D

CLASSICAL

ISLAM C OLLE CTED PAP E RS

E D I N B U R G H S T U D I E S I N C L A S S I C A L I S L A M I C H I S T O R Y A N D C U LT U R E

Classical Islam

Edinburgh Studies in Classical Islamic History and Culture Series Editor: Carole Hillenbrand Titles in the series include: The Body in Arabic Love Poetry: The ‘Udhri Tradition Jokha Alharthi Arabian Drugs in Early Medieval Mediterranean Medicine Zohar Amar and Efraim Lev Towards a History of Libraries in Yemen Hassan Ansari and Sabine Schmidtke The Abbasid Caliphate of Cairo, 1261–1517: Out of the Shadows Mustafa Banister The Medieval Western Maghrib: Cities, Patronage and Power Amira K. Bennison Christian Monastic Life in Early Islam Bradley Bowman Keeping the Peace in Premodern Islam: Diplomacy under the Mamluk Sultanate, 1250–1517 Malika Dekkiche Queens, Concubines and Eunuchs in Medieval Islam Taef El-­Azhari Islamic Political Thought in the Mamluk Period Mohamad El-­Merheb The Kharijites in Early Islamic Historical Tradition: Heroes and Villains Hannah-­Lena Hagemann Islam and the Crusades: Collected Papers Carole Hillenbrand The Medieval Turks: Collected Papers Carole Hillenbrand Classical Islam: Collected Papers Carole Hillenbrand The Books of Burhān al-Dīn: Literacy and Book Ownership in Mamluk Jerusalem Said Aljoumani and Konrad Hirschler Medieval Damascus: Plurality and Diversity in an Arabic Library – The Ashrafīya Library Catalogue Konrad Hirschler A Monument to Medieval Syrian Book Culture: The Library of Ibn ‘Abd al-Hādī Konrad Hirschler The Popularisation of Sufism in Ayyubid and Mamluk Egypt: State and Society, 1173–1325 Nathan Hofer Defining Anthropomorphism: The Challenge of Islamic Traditionalism Livnat Holtzman Making Mongol History: Rashid al-Din and the Jami‘ al-Tawarikh Stefan Kamola Lyrics of Life: Sa‘di on Love, Cosmopolitanism and Care of the Self Fatemeh Keshavarz Art, Allegory and The Rise of Shiism In Iran, 1487–1565 Chad Kia The Administration of Justice in Medieval Egypt: From the 7th to the 12th Century Yaacov Lev The Queen of Sheba’s Gift: A History of the True Balsam of Matarea Marcus Milwright Ruling from a Red Canopy: Political Authority in the Medieval Islamic World, from Anatolia to South Asia Colin P. Mitchell Islam, Christianity and the Realms of the Miraculous: A Comparative Exploration Ian Richard Netton Sacred Place and Sacred Time in the Medieval Islamic Middle East: A Historical Perspective Daniella Talmon-­Heller Conquered Populations in Early Islam: Non-Arabs, Slaves and the Sons of Slave Mothers Elizabeth Urban edinburghuniversitypress.com/series/escihc

Classical Islam Collected Papers

Carole Hillenbrand

Edinburgh University Press is one of the leading university presses in the UK. We publish academic books and journals in our selected subject areas across the humanities and social sciences, combining cutting-­edge scholarship with high editorial and production values to produce academic works of lasting importance. For more information visit our website: edinburghuniversitypress.com © Carole Hillenbrand, 2022 Cover image: tilework inscription from the Qaratay madrasa in Konya, Turkey, 1251. Photograph by Professor Bernard O’Kane, The American University in Cairo and used with his kind permission. Cover design: www.paulsmithdesign.com. Edinburgh University Press Ltd The ­Tun – ­Holyrood Road 12 (2f ) Jackson’s Entry Edinburgh EH8 8PJ Typeset in 11/15 Adobe Garamond by Cheshire Typesetting Ltd, Cuddington, Cheshire, printed and bound in Great Britain A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978 1 4744 8598 2 (hardback) ISBN 978 1 4744 8600 2 (webready PDF) ISBN 978 1 4744 8601 9 (epub) The right of Carole Hillenbrand to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 and the Copyright and Related Rights Regulations 2003 (SI No. 2498). Published with the support of the University of Edinburgh Scholarly Publishing Initiatives Fund.

Contents

List of Figures and Platesvii Acknowledgements x Preface xi   1 Islamic Orthodoxy or Realpolitik? Al-­Ghazali’s Views on Government1   2 Al-­Mustanjid 37   3 Al-­Mustansir 40   4 Al-­Mustarshid 46   5 Al-­Mustazhir 54   6 Some Aspects of al-­Ghazali’s Views on Beauty 59   7 New Introduction to Nasir al-­Din Shah, The Diary of HM the Shah of Persia during His Tour through Europe in AD 187375   8 A Little-­known Mirror for Princes of al-­Ghazali 87   9 Muhammad and the Rise of Islam 97 10 Sources in Arabic 133 11 Some Medieval Muslim Views of Constantinople 208 12 Gardens beneath which Rivers Flow: The Significance of Water in Classical Islamic Culture 223 13 Sayf al-­Dawla, al-­Mutanabbi and Byzantium: The Evidence of a Textile242 14 The Kimiya-yi sa‘adat (The Alchemy of Happiness) of al-­Ghazali: A Misunderstood Work? 258

vi | classi ca l i s l a m 15 A Neglected Source on the Life of Hasan-­i Sabbah, the Founder of the Nizari ‘Assassin’ Sect 275 16 The Impact of a Sixteenth-­century Jihad Treatise on Colonial and Modern India 293 17 Ancient Iranian Kings in the World History of Rashid al-­Din 314 18 Al-­Ghazali: In Praise of Sufism 341 19 Life in Pre-­Mongol Marv According to the Medieval Muslim Geographers359 20 Bernard Lewis: 31 May 1916–19 May 2018 373 21 ‘Seek Ye Knowledge, Even Unto China’: The Literature of Travel in the Lands of Islam 399 Original Sources of the Items in this Volume 417 Index419

Figures and Plates

Figures 16.1  Opening title page of the Tohfut-ul-Mujahideen295 16.2 Frontispiece of a copy of the first edition of the Tohfut-ulMujahideen303 17.1 ‘Hushang enthroned’, from Rashid al-­Din’s Jami‘ al-tawarikh, Iran, 1314 320 17.2 ‘Tahmurath enthroned’, from Rashid al-­Din’s Jami‘ al-tawarikh, Iran, 1314 320 17.3 ‘Jamshid enthroned’, from Rashid al-­Din’s Jami‘ al-tawarikh, Iran, 1314 322 17.4 ‘Zahhak enthroned’, from Rashid al-­Din’s Jami‘ al-tawarikh, Iran, 1314 325 19.1  Map of the Seljuq empire 360 19.2  The tomb of Sanjar at Marv 367 20.1  Bernard Lewis 374 Plates Between pages 238 and 239 12.1 Fellucas in the Nile at Aswan, Egypt 12.2 The Nile at Aswan, Egypt 12.3 Waterwheels in the Fayyoum, Egypt 12.4 Garden at Mahyan, Iran, nineteenth century 12.5a Garden carpet, Tehran

viii | classi ca l is l a m 1 2.5b Detail of garden carpet 12.6 Detail of the ‘Barada Panel’ mosaics from the Great Mosque of Damascus, Syria, 705–15 12.7 ‘Discovery of Moses’ from Rashid al-­Din’s, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, Iran, 1314 12.8 ‘Drowning Egyptians’, from Rashid al-­Din’s, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, Iran, 1314 12.9 Ablutions fountain, Süleymaniye Complex, Istanbul, Turkey, 1550–7 12.10 ‘Zamzam’, from Rashid al-­Din’s, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, Iran, 1314 12.11 Cisterns beside a shrine in the town of Yufrus, Yemen 12.12 The Nilometer, Cairo, Egypt, 861 12.13 ‘Waterclock’, from al-­Jazari’s Book of Ingenious Devices, 602/1206 12.14a Aghlabid basins outside Qayrawan, Tunisia, ninth century 12.14b Aghlabid basins outside Qayrawan, Tunisia, ninth century 12.15 Waterwheel at Hama, Syria 12.16 Court of the Myrtles, Alhambra Palace, Granada, Spain, fourteenth century 12.17 Khwaju Bridge, Isfahan, Iran, 1642–67 12.18 ‘Jonah and the Whale’, from Rashid al-­Din’s, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, Iran, 1314 12.19 Felucca at Aswan, Egypt 12.20 ‘Al-­Mustansir’, from Rashid al-­Din’s, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, Iran, 1314 12.21a Fountain of Ahmed III outside Topkapı Palace, Istanbul, 1728 12.21b Fountain of Ahmed III outside Topkapı Palace, Istanbul, 1728 12.22 ‘A garden’, by Mansur Bihbahani, 1398 12.23 Garden behind the Taj Mahal, Agra, India, 1631–47 12.24 Garden in front of the Taj Mahal, Agra, India, 1631–47 Between pages 414 and 415 21.1 Afghan man at prayer 21.2 Loading a camel in Afghanistan 21.3 Zazadin caravanserai near Konya, 1235–7 21.4 Scholars in a library, Maqamat of al-­Hariri, Iraq, 1237 21.5 Dhow with Indian sailors, Maqamat of al-­Hariri, Iraq, 1237

f i g ures a nd pla tes | ix 21.6 21.7 21.8 21.9 21.10 21.11 21.12 21.13 21.14 21.15 21.16 21.17

Departure of the pilgrim caravan, Maqamat of al-­Hariri, Iraq, 1237 The Ka‘ba, Mecca The Dome of the Rock, Jerusalem Caravan of Bactrian camels in winter, eastern Afghanistan Old woman, school of Siyah Qalam, fourteenth–fifteenth century Skyscrapers in Shibam, Hadramawt, southern Yemen Map showing the travels of Ibn Battuta, 1325–54 Giza, the Great Pyramid by night ‘Abbasid coin over-­stamped ‘Offa Rex’, obverse and reverse Interior of the church of Haghia Sophia, Istanbul, 537 The Qutb Minar, Delhi, 1192 The Tibetan sannaja, from The Wonders of Creation by al-­Qazwini, Iraq, 1282 21.18 Rhinoceros, from On the Usefulness of Animals by Ibn Bakhtishu‘, Maragha, 1290s 21.19 The map of the world as al-­Idrisi (twelfth century) knew it

Acknowledgements

I should like to express my great thanks to a number of people at Edinburgh University Press who have helped in various ways in the publication of this book: Nicola Ramsey, Kirsty Woods, Eddie Clark, Caitlin Murphy; and copy-­editor Lel Gillingwater and indexer Samantha Clark. I am grateful to the original publishers of these articles for permitting them to be reprinted in this volume. As always, I am extremely indebted to my husband Robert for his advice and support during the preparation of this book. Chapter 17 was written jointly by Carole and Robert Hillenbrand.

x

Preface

When I was appointed Lecturer in Arabic at the University of Edinburgh in 1979, which was my first academic post, I inherited from Professor Montgomery Watt, who was entering retirement, the supervision of no less than fourteen doctoral students from all over the Islamic world. Their range of specialties was daunting, from Sindhi Sufi poetry and the policing of ‘Abbasid cities to early Shi‘ite theology and medieval political thought. Thereafter, until my own retirement in 2008, I was responsible for the supervision of a total of fifty-­nine postgraduates, the overwhelming majority of them studying for a PhD. They continued to come from many parts of the Muslim ­world – I­ raq, Sudan, Jordan, Saudi Arabia, Libya, Syria, Oman, Kuwait, Egypt, Iran, Turkey, Pakistan, Malaysia and Indonesia. Other PhD students came from Japan, Germany, Greece, the USA, Canada and Britain. The range of subjects chosen by the vast majority of my PhD students was very wide indeed, covering many topics concerning the Qur’an, the Hadith, the Shari‘a, Sunni Islam, Shi‘ism and Sufism. A number of these students edited, translated and analysed in their theses a variety of medieval religious texts in Arabic and Persian from different Muslim countries, and written by both Sunni and Shi‘ite authors. Others focused on themes in classical Islamic history, thought and culture. And in more recent years several students wrote valuable PhDs on Muslim–Christian relations. Altogether, and from the very beginning of my time as a supervisor, this part of my work represented a very steep learning curve. It catapulted me into xi

xii | cla ssi cal is l a m fields which I would never have entered of my own volition, but which nevertheless often proved to be utterly absorbing. I count this as an unexpected bonus of what at the time I felt was extremely hard work. My responsibilities as supervisor were made still more difficult by the fact that very few of these students were native speakers of English, so that closely focused and laborious copy-­editing was added to my core job of assessing the structure of the argument and the maintenance of rigorous scholarly standards in the use of primary and secondary sources. I did not undertake this extra element of work lightly or unthinkingly, but out of a deep conviction that academic prose needs to be clear and grammatically accurate, that good plain English is not an optional extra but an absolute necessity. It really helps the reader to turn the page. It is simply not fair to expect non-­native speakers of English to reach this standard ­unaided – ­just let my readers imagine writing a doctoral thesis in a language that is not their ­own – ­and the great majority of my students did not have the financial resources to pay for the necessary editorial input. So I felt that this responsibility was mine. It would be no exaggeration to say that for almost all of my career at Edinburgh the supervision of postgraduates has been essentially a second job alongside the enjoyable teaching of Arabic language, Islamic history and classical Arabic and Persian texts to numerous undergraduates. On the credit side, in general I enjoyed the company of my postgraduate students; and I learned from every single one of them. I also stayed in contact with a good number of them for a long time. It was this second and parallel career as a supervisor that consistently broadened my perspectives, and most especially gave me an ever deeper understanding of the faith and practice of Islam, in both classical and modern times and in different parts of the world. I do not think that I could have acquired this kind of knowledge and this sympathetic understanding simply by reading books. The personal dimension was crucial. So in a real sense all my postgraduate students taught me. I was grateful to be able to draw on this experience in the writing of my book, Islam: A Historical Introduction, published in 2015. To my lasting amazement, over the years I encountered many colleagues in the field of Islamic studies who had not visited Muslim-­majority countries. This was nothing new; for example, Reynald Nicholson, the celebrated translator of Rumi, never travelled further east than Geneva. Looking back, I am very happy that I did not do likewise. Indeed, I learned a lot about the

pref a ce | xiii Muslim world simply by visiting it, as well as living for extended periods in Iran, Syria, Yemen and the Holy Land, and having family holidays in Morocco and Tunisia. I also delivered invited lectures, speeches or conference papers in Riyadh, Muscat, Kuwait City, Doha, Cairo, Beirut, Mardin, Istanbul and Islamabad. My experience of seeing at first hand the countries where there are significant Muslim communities was splendidly enhanced by a wonderful stroke of luck in the form of a surprise letter which came to my husband and me from the shipping company Swan Hellenic. They invited us to give lectures about Islamic topics on those cruises which had core destinations in the Islamic world, from West Africa to South East Asia. We were thus able to enjoy, over a period of more than two decades, ­travelling – ­free of charge! – on twenty-­seven cruises. In this way we visited the whole North African coast, sailed the Black Sea, the Adriatic, the Aegean, the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean, and saw Malaysia, Brunei, and East and West Africa. Closer to home, the society known as the Union Européenne des Arabisants et Islamisants (UEAI) organised wonderful conferences in Europe; their meetings that took place in Spain were especially memorable, as the famous Muslim sites of al-­Andalus were easily accessible to us. It was very helpful at such conferences to meet many scholars of Islamic studies from different European countries. For the best part of three decades I taught a two-­term course on pre-­ modern Islamic history to a class of first-­year undergraduates that grew to c. 120 students. That involved sixty lectures (three a week) plus oversight of twenty weekly tutorials. This formidable workload made it necessary for me to acquire a solid knowledge of the period from the rise of Islam in the seventh century to the Ottoman and Safavid empires of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Here again, the demands of teaching widened my horizons in unexpected ways. They also broadened my grasp of the essentials of Islamic history and enabled me to discern key patterns in its evolution that would not have been clear to me had I taught only in my chosen specialisations. One of these specialties was the Sunni ‘Abbasid caliphate. From 632, when the Prophet Muhammad died, this religio-­legal institution epitomised the overarching unity of the community of all Sunni Muslim believers across the world. However, the political power of the Sunni ‘Abbasid caliphs in their capital, Baghdad, was seriously weakened over the centuries, for

xiv | cla ssi cal is l a m example in the ninth century by the caliph’s Turkish soldiery, in the tenth century by Persian military groups, and then by nomadic Turkish invaders from Central Asia in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. It was this latter turbulent period that I found particularly interesting. Although the political power of the ‘Abbasid caliphs had been undermined, they still represented the central religio-­legal authority of Sunni Islam, and even after usurping power in Baghdad, the Seljuq Turkish rulers, who came to be called sultans, still felt the need to seek caliphal legitimisation. The very first article in this volume analyses a key moment in the life of the most famous Sunni Muslim medieval scholar, al-­Ghazali, and I show how he eloquently urged the caliph al-­Mustazhir (d.  1118) to recognise the need for Realpolitik. That meant facing the fact that actual power resided not with the caliph but with the Seljuq sultans and their nomadic troops, and that in turn meant acknowledging their military presence in Iraq, Iran and Syria as a ‘necessary evil’. The articles in this volume which investigate the lives and achievements of three more ‘Abbasid ­caliphs – a­l-­Mustarshid (d.  1135), al-­Mustanjid (d. 1170) and al-­Mustansir (d. 1242), the penultimate caliph in ­Baghdad – ­show clearly how very troubled their times were. They tried hard, but to no avail, to revive the political power of the caliphate which had been wrenched from them in the twelfth century by the Seljuqs, and thereafter in the early thirteenth century by petty Turkish rulers, ambitious viziers and other court officials. The final disaster for the Sunni caliphate came shortly after the death of al-­Mustansir, with the horrific invasion of the Mongols and their murder of the last ‘Abbasid caliph in Baghdad in 1258. Soon afterwards, the Mamluk sultan of Egypt, Baybars, reinstated a shadow Sunni caliphate in Cairo, an institution that limped on under Ottoman rule until the twentieth century. But it was never the same again. Although some of this volume deals with Persian themes that have interested me greatly, my work has never strayed that far away from Arabic. For example, my abiding interest in, and fascination with, al-­Ghazali, the nearest Islamic equivalent to the towering figure of St Thomas Aquinas, grew out of my research, already mentioned, on the many-­sided relationship between the two poles of authority in the Islamic world, caliph and sultan, in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. Born in eastern Iran in 1058, al-­Ghazali moved to Baghdad as a young man ambitious to make his mark,

pref ace | xv and he became well known at the court of the Sunni ‘Abbasid caliph as the author of important works in Arabic about Islamic law and religious thought. However, despite his prestigious status in Baghdad (he held a post comparable in Britain to being both Regius Professor at Oxford and Archbishop of Canterbury), he experienced a very serious personal midlife crisis, left Baghdad to follow the path of Sufism and eventually returned home to Iran. He wrote numerous books and letters in Arabic which explain his celebrity right across the Islamic world. For years I read his astonishingly candid autobiography, al-Munqidh min al-Dalal (The Deliverer from Error) with generations of students, and I grew to love the limpid quality of his Arabic in that book. But there was another strand to his complex personality, and that was his affection for, and loyalty to, his native tongue. So when, towards the end of his life, he returned to Iran, he embraced Persian once more and decided to reach his fellow-­countrymen by writing a version of his most famous Arabic work, the Ihya’ ‘ulum al-din (The Revivification of the Sciences of Religion) in Persian. He called this book the Kimiya-yi sa‘adat (The Alchemy of Happiness). This Persian masterpiece, whilst it draws heavily on the Ihya’, also contains new and eloquent material about Sufism. For he was no longer the person who had written the Arabic original. There may also have been national sentiment at work ­here – ­after all, he died less than a century after Firdawsi, whose Shahnama (Book of Kings) encapsulated Iranian identity across the ages. The other chapters in this volume cover a range of other topics of Islamic history, thought and culture which have interested me during a very long and enjoyable career teaching Islamic studies: until 2008 in the University of Edinburgh, and thereafter from 2013 onwards at the University of St Andrews. These subjects include studies of medieval Muslim views on Byzantium, the World History of Rashid al-­Din, the Assassins of Iran and Syria, and a sixteenth-­century jihad treatise written for Indian Muslims at the time of Portuguese attempts at colonisation. As I look back on my long career, and the settled happiness that it has brought me, I realise with increasing clarity how much I owe to my early personal experiences of the Islamic world. In the preface to the second volume of these collected articles I mentioned the excitement of my first exposure to Turkey as a young woman. That was instantly followed by my immersion in

xvi | cla ssi cal is l a m the Arabic language when I embarked on a second undergraduate degree in Arabic, with Turkish as a subsidiary subject, at Oxford. But then, quite unexpectedly, at the end of the first year of my ­studies – ­in the course of which I had married my husband Robert, who was himself studying at Oxford to become an Islamic art ­historian – ­a dramatic change of scene intervened. Robert had embarked on a doctoral thesis about medieval Persian mausolea, and he needed to spend a year doing the necessary fieldwork. So off we went to Iran. I count the year that we spent there, as impressionable would-­be scholars in our twenties, as perhaps the single most defining experience of my professional life. I quickly learned and loved to speak colloquial Persian, and on several occasions I accompanied my husband on his travels all over the country. I worked as a teacher of technical English at the University of Arya Mehr in Tehran, and that brought me into daily direct contact with young Iranians. But a great deal also came to me indirectly and only g­ radually – ­a deep affection for the haunting beauty of the Persian landscape, the experience of the changing seasons, a profound admiration for Persian culture in its many manifestations, an ever-­expanding understanding of its people, and a steady awareness of the pervasive impact of the Islamic faith on so many aspects of daily life. These many experiences have informed my scholarly work in more ways than I can calculate, some of them instinctive. They have impacted the heart as well as the head. So it was a natural development that I found my way into Iranian studies both as a university ­teacher – ­I regularly gave courses on medieval Persian texts such as the Siyasat-nama of Nizam al-­Mulk and the Safar-nama of Nasir-­i ­Khusraw – ­and as a researcher. One fruit of the experience of that year in Iran was to sharpen my perception that the serious study of the central Islamic lands in the medieval period demands an engagement with all three of its major ­languages – ­Arabic, Turkish and Persian. Of course there is very considerable overlap, but it is important to acknowledge that there are three separate cultures at work here, each embedded in its own language. That is why I have used all three of them in my work. And Persian has its honoured place there. One of my retirement projects is a translation of al-­Ghazali’s Kimiya-yi sa‘adat, of which I have so far translated over 500 pages of the complete printed text of some 1,000 pages.

pref ace | xvii Research on Islamic thought and culture is an area of the humanities which is much more thinly populated in the academy than the study of medieval Western Europe, for there are far fewer scholars who work in it, and it is not nearly as heavily policed. But in my own lifetime it has attracted ever-­increasing public attention as our world has become increasingly global. I am indeed fortunate to have received honours and prizes for my work, but the simple truth is that the work is its own reward. Looking back through the prism of old age, I count myself both happy and lucky to have found my way into Islamic studies after my early and enjoyable interest in French and German studies and in Romance linguistics. The range of topics in this volume reveals the sheer variety of work still to be done in Islamic studies and the excitement and happiness of exploring the many unduly neglected facets of this wonderfully rich civilisation.

This book is dedicated to Alan Jones, wonderful teacher, dear friend

1 Islamic Orthodoxy or Realpolitik? Al-Ghazali’s Views on Government

I Introduction

I

t may be argued that the subject of al-­Ghazali’s political theory has been aired sufficiently and that there is little point in reworking such familiar material. The aims of this article will be to examine certain facets of this topic which have perhaps not yet been studied with sufficient attention and to stimulate further debate on this area of al-­Ghazali’s work. In particular, an attempt will be made, through translation and analysis of crucial passages of al-­Ghazali’s major works on Islamic government, to consider the thorny question of the consistency of his views and the extent to which they were modified during his lifetime by particular historical circumstances. Oddly enough, this has not yet been done in the requisite detail, largely because the scholars who have devoted themselves to the study of al-­Ghazali have had their point of departure in theology and philosophy rather than in political history. A few words of background will serve to locate the discussion which follows in its appropriate intellectual context. According to the classical theory of Islamic law, the only legitimate political authority in Islam is that of the caliphate. In reality, however, the situation of the Sunni ‘Abbasid caliphate by the time of Buyid hegemony in the fourth/tenth century had sunk to one of total dependence on the military power wielded by the Buyid military amirs. It was with these men, therefore, that all temporal power lay. Even the role of the ‘Abbasid caliph as the religious and legal figurehead of the Muslim community had not gone unchallenged by this time. The establishment in 1

2 | classi ca l i s l a m the fourth/tenth century of the ‘heretical’ Isma‘ili caliphate of the Fatimids in Cairo threatened to remove even notional authority from the Sunni caliphate in Baghdad. That counter-­caliphate, moreover, was vigorously expanding its influence at a time when the prestige, to say nothing of the actual power, of the ‘Abbasid caliph in Baghdad had sunk dangerously low. When the nomadic Seljuq Turks, recently converted to Islam, took Baghdad in 447/1055, they made great play of elevating the status of the ‘Abbasid caliph and of being the champions of Sunni Islam. To a disinterested observer, this pose may well smack of self-­justification, all the more so since, in reality, the heyday of the Seljuq empire (447–85/1055–92) saw the political situation remaining much the same as it had been under the Buyids. Al-­Ghazali came to prominence during the reign of the third Seljuq sultan Malikshah (465–85/1072–92), a period which saw the power of the great vizier Nizam al-­Mulk reach its apogee. The latter set about the revitalisation of Sunni Islam through a network of madrasas, the ­Nizamiyyas – ­institutions of Shafi‘i law which were to produce a class of ‘ulama’ able to confront the internal and external threat posed by Isma‘ili missionary activities. As is well known, al-­Ghazali was appointed to a prestigious teaching post at the premier Nizamiyya, that of Baghdad, in 484/1091, where he remained until he experienced a profound spiritual crisis in 488/1095. This resulted in his resignation from his post to become a wandering Sufi. The last years of his life (493–505/1100–11) he spent in his homeland of Khurasan, engaged above all in writing his major works. The present discussion will be based on a range of works generally attributed to al-­Ghazali, written in Arabic and Persian, both before and after his crisis in 488/1095. II  Al-­Ghazali’s Political Ideas in the Kitab al-Mustazhiri a. Introductory Comments The full title of this work of al-­Ghazali is the Kitab Fada’ih al-Batiniyya wafada’il al-Mustazhiriyya.1 It has long been accepted as an authentic work of al-­ Ghazali,2 and its contents were outlined and discussed by Goldziher as early as 1916.3 The treatise, its title usually abbreviated to Kitab al-Mustazhiri,4 was written in response to a request from the young ‘Abbasid caliph al-­

al - ghazali ’s vi ews on g ove r nme n t  | 3 Mustazhir, who had asked al-­Ghazali to compose a work by means of which the errors of the Isma‘ilis would be exposed. According to his own account in his autobiography, al-Munqidh min al-dalal, al-­Ghazali studied the writings of the Isma‘ilis (the Ta‘limiyya) in order to be able to refute their claims in polemical fashion: The heresy of the Ta‘limiyya had already appeared, and everyone was speaking about their talk of gaining knowledge of the meaning of things from an infallible Imam who has charge of the truth. It had already occurred to me to study their views and become acquainted with what is in their books, when it happened that I received a definite command from His Majesty the Caliph to write a book showing what their religious system really i­s . . . I­ began to search for their books and collect their doctrines.5

The Mustazhiri can be dated to the short period between the accession of al-­Mustazhir (18 Muharram 487/7 February 1094) and al-­Ghazali’s famous departure from Baghdad at the time of his spiritual crisis (Dhu’l-­Qa‘da 488/ November 1095).6 There is disagreement as to whether al-­Ghazali wrote the work before or after the death of the Fatimid caliph al-­Mustansir (18 Dhu’l-­Hijja 487/29 December 1094).7 In any case, it is significant that the Mustazhiri probably appeared during the year 488 (11 January–30 December 1095). As Goldziher points out, there were a number of earlier Sunni writers who had composed polemical works against the Isma‘ilis.8 Nor is the Mustazhiri the only attempt made by al-­Ghazali to refute the doctrines of the Isma‘ilis. In his autobiography he mentions five such works,9 including the Mustazhiri. Only one other of these, the Qistas al-mustaqim, is extant.10 Al-­Ghazali also attacks the Isma‘ilis in the Mi‘yar al-‘ilm, a treatise on logic also apparently written in 488/1095, which Bouyges believes to pre-­date the Mustazhiri,11 and also in the Mustasfa.12 The Mustazhiri is, however, the first work by al-­Ghazali which has as its central aim a refutation of Isma‘ili beliefs. As is well known, the timing of its appearance may be seen as the result of an increasing preoccupation, both in Seljuq and caliphal circles, with the political threat posed by the Isma‘ilis. Al-­Ghazali’s mentor, the great Seljuq vizier Nizam al-­Mulk, whose own ­work – ­the Siyasat-nama – reveals an obsessive zeal against the Isma‘ilis,13 and

4 | classi ca l i s l a m in whose entourage al-­Ghazali had spent some time,14 had been assassinated allegedly by the Isma‘ilis in 485/1092. Within Seljuq territory, moreover, Isma‘ilis under the leadership of Hasan-­i Sabbah had seized the fortress of Alamut in north-­west Iran and now threatened the centre of Seljuq power from within. It is not surprising, therefore, that one of the first actions of al-­ Mustazhir after becoming caliph was to commission from al-­Ghazali, as one of the leading theologians of the age, a work of polemic against these Isma‘ilis whose sophisticated propaganda was exerting growing appeal amongst the intelligentsia and common people alike. b. The Subject-­matter of the Kitab al-Mustazhiri One of the two principal aims of al-­Ghazali in this work is a refutation of the Isma‘ilis (the Batiniyya or Ta‘limiyya). This part of the work, which broadly speaking covers Chapters 2 to 8, has been extensively described by Goldziher15 and Laoust.16 Only a few additional points, therefore, will be raised here. Although Goldziher performed a valuable service in focusing scholarly interest on this particular work, his approach is heavily biased in favour of al-­Ghazali and the Sunnis. All too often he makes no distinction between his description of the highly charged polemical text of al-­Ghazali and his own comments on the material, which are emotional and hostile to the Isma‘ilis.17 Corbin rightly takes Goldziher to task for selecting only certain passages of the Mustazhiri and for passing unfavourable remarks about the Isma‘ilis.18 Corbin also points out that the response of the Isma‘ilis to al-­Ghazali’s attack was to express surprise that a scholar of his stature should censure them without reference ‘to any authentic Isma‘ili source’.19 Not for the first time, al-­Ghazali stands accused of too great an involvement in the politics of his own time.20 Nevertheless, between them, Goldziher and (to a lesser extent) Laoust provide a valuable digest of the arguments adduced by al-­Ghazali in his attack on the doctrines of the Isma‘ilis. He calls his adversaries the Ta‘limiyya, those who follow ta‘lim – a word which Corbin defines as ‘initiatic knowledge’21 and which is dispensed by the infallible Imam. According to al-­Ghazali, the Isma‘ilis believe that salvation lies in accepting what is transmitted to them by the Imam and in imitating him.22 For the Isma‘ilis, the impeccable Imam is the deputy (khalifa) of the Prophet and after his death the only person

al - ghazali ’s vi ews on g ove r nme n t  | 5 qualified to interpret God’s revelation. Every age must have an immaculate Imam and it is inconceivable that there should be two such Imams at any one time.23 The Shari‘a, for the Isma‘ilis, is different from what Sunnis believe it to be. Although following the Shari‘a is an obligation for the Isma‘ilis, such an obligation is based on the Shari‘a as interpreted solely by their Imam and not in accordance with the views of the orthodox Sunni madhhabs.24 The Isma‘ilis claim that the true Imam is the one who occupies the imamate in Egypt and that all mankind owes him obedience.25 The other aim of the Mustazhiri – which is in fact inextricably linked to the refutation of the Isma‘ili i­mamate – ­is to prove the legitimacy of the ‘Abbasid caliph al-­Mustazhir. This aim is realised in Chapters 9 and 10 of the work.26 Al-­Ghazali begins in Chapter 9 by clearly stating his aim, namely to demonstrate that the imamate of al-­Mustazhir is in conformity with Islamic law, that he is God’s caliph (khalifa) over mankind and that obedience to him is a religious obligation (fard) incumbent on all mankind.27 According to al-­Ghazali, the existence of the caliph at the head of the community is an obligation based on the Shari‘a. The caliph is, in short, the mainspring of all legitimacy. Public functions are valid only if they spring from the wish of the caliph, whose existence is the very foundation of the continuity of the Shari‘a. If there were no caliphate, all religious institutions would be suspended and the Shari‘a itself would be threatened with extinction.28 Al-­Ghazali adduces three arguments to support his assertion that the Imam is the source of all legitimacy, the principle from which all other public functions spring. The first is based on the consensus of the community (ijma‘). Whilst there is disagreement only on a suitable method of appointing the Imam, there is unanimity on the necessity for such an Imam. The second argument is the valuable precedent of the Companions who, in order to preserve the unity of the umma and the survival of Islam, acted speedily after the death of the Prophet to elect an Imam. The third argument is the necessity for authority to be vested solely in one man and not in a consultative council (shura), since the rule of a single Imam is the only way of preventing disunity and disorder.29 Al-­Ghazali then moves on to a discussion of the right method of appointing the Imam. For the Isma‘ilis, the Imam is appointed by divine nass,30 and this method has nothing to do with the number of people who may or may

6 | classi ca l i s l a m not support such an appointment. If appointment by nass is invalid, there only remains election (ikhtiyar) by the Muslims.31 This is not a foolproof method, since election may be variously defined as the consensus (ijma‘) of all Muslims; or only that of the people of ‘loosing and binding’ in every land; or that of the inhabitants of the city where the caliph lives; or the consensus of a small number of people, or only one. Al-­Ghazali dismisses as impossible the idea of universal consensus and that of the people of ‘loosing and binding’ and of a specified small number of people.32 The only remaining viable solution is that of one person making the bay‘a. Al-­Ghazali states categorically, ‘We would say: “Yes, there is no source for the imamate except nass or election. Since nass is invalid, election holds good”.’33 The ensuing passage is the core of his whole argument. He says that election of the Imam by one person making the oath of allegiance is sufficient if that one person is obeyed and possesses unsurpassed military strength (shawka), since his compliance is the compliance of the masses.34 If this cannot be achieved by one person, then two or three should come to an agreement; but what is important here is not the number of those making the oath of allegiance but the establishing of a power base (shawka) for the Imam. That can be achieved by means of anyone who seizes power (mustawlin) and who is obeyed.35 The desired object in setting up the Imam is the establishment of unity. The only way that this can be achieved is by a manifestation of force (shawka), and shawka can only be accomplished by the compliance of the majority of the respected people of every period. Election, al-­Ghazali alleges, is not a human stratagem but a God-­given blessing.36 In contrast to the Isma‘ili (and Shi‘i) view that the Imam is designated by God, for al-­Ghazali God is also involved in his theory: the imamate is, so to speak, ratified by shawka, and shawka undertakes the act of allegiance. The act of allegiance in turn is obtained only when Almighty God by force turns hearts to obedience and loyalty, and this cannot be done by humankind.37 According to al-­Ghazali, ten qualities are necessary for an Imam if he is to be fit for his office; six are natural or innate (khilqiyya) and cannot be acquired, whilst four may be acquired.38 In the first category are adult status, sound intellect, freedom, maleness, descent from Quraysh and good hearing and sight.39 In each case, al-­Ghazali outlines his arguments for the presence of these qualities in an Imam. In the second category are four so-­called

al - ghazali ’s vi ews on g ove r nme n t  | 7 ‘acquired’ attributes: najda, kifaya, ‘ilm and wara‘. Al-­Ghazali then states that the requisite attributes, both innate and acquired, are to be found in the person of al-­Mustazhir, that his imamate is in accordance with the Shari‘a, that it is incumbent on all ‘ulama’ to pronounce fatwas under his overall authority, and that they are to execute his judgements.40 In the remainder of the chapter, al-­Ghazali goes on to explain and justify the four ‘acquired’ attributes.41 In his discussion of the first ‘acquired’ quality, najda,42 al-­Ghazali embarks on a long excursus about the Turks.43 This is of considerable interest, yet it has not received the attention it deserves in the context of scholarship on al-­Ghazali’s political theory. He begins as follows: Our view is that what is meant by najda in the case of Imams is a show (zuhur) of strength (shawka), a plentiful supply of equipment, seeking the help (istizhar) of armies, the tying of banners and standards, possessing the ­ability – ­through the help of parties and ­followers – ­to subdue rebels and wrongdoers, to fight against infidels and those who are inordinately proud, to still the manifestation of discords and to stop the flow (hasm) of the accumulated swell of trying afflictions, before their evil (sharar)44 becomes apparent (yastazhira) and the harm (darar) they cause becomes widespread. This is what is meant by najda.45

The above passage, which has been translated literally, is written in a high-­ flown style with verbal conceits and rhetorical devices which cannot be reproduced in English. To take only a single example, the appearance in quick succession of three words (zuhur, istizhar and yastazhira) which are formed from the same root as the name al-­Mustazhir is probably deliberate. Al-­Ghazali then turns his attention to the Turks: In this age of ours, from amongst the (various) kinds of human beings it is the Turks who possess force (shawka). Almighty God has given them the good fortune to befriend and love him (namely, the caliph) to such an extent that they draw near to God by helping him (namely, the caliph) and by suppressing the enemies of his state (dawla). They yield themselves to belief in his caliphate and imamate and in the necessity (wujub) of obedience to him, just as they submit themselves to the (religious) obligations of

8 | classi ca l i s l a m God’s commands and the confirmation of the truth (tasdiq) of His message by His messengers.46 So this is a najda, the like of which has not (ever) been established for anyone but him, so how can there be any dispute about his najda?

It is conceivable that in the phrases ‘befriend and love him’ and ‘his caliphate and imamate’ al-­Ghazali is referring to God; but in view of the subsequent sentences, which speak more clearly of the parallel between obedience to the caliphate (on earth) and obedience to God and Islam, it seems more likely that these are references to the caliph, namely al-­Mustazhir. The last sentence is a clear allusion to the caliph, who has not been mentioned by name or office anywhere in this section of the text.47 Al-­Ghazali continues, using the format of question and answer which occurs so frequently in his work: If it is argued, ‘How can his (that is, the caliph’s)48 najda be achieved by them (namely, the Turks) when we see them venturing49 to oppose his commands and prohibitions and exceeding the limits laid down for them in his ­regard – f­ or shawka is achieved only by those who as far as possible show unswerving obedience, whereas these (namely, the Turks) are unswerving only in pursuit of their passions,50 and whenever they are aroused by anger or stirred by lust, or violent rancour inflames their breasts, they do not care about obedience and they can only revert to the bonds of their innate bestial nature. So how can shawka be achieved by them?’51 We would reply, ‘This is an extremely invalid question, seeing that the obedience required of mankind for the providing of (military) support (shawka) for the Imam is no more than the obedience required of slaves and bondsmen in respect of their masters, and no more than the obedience imposed on those who have a religious obligation to God and His prophet. Neither the conditions of bondsmen in the matter of submission to their master nor the conditions of mankind in the matter of submission to their Lord are loosened by being divided into obedience and disobedience, for (just as) when Muslims52 are divided into those who obey and those who disobey and are not thus divested of the covering53 of Islam, nor excused (literally ‘removed’) thereby from being subservient to it, as long as they continue to believe that obedience to God is an obligation and disobedience

al - ghazali ’s vi ews on g ove r nme n t  | 9 is forbidden and abominable, (so also) that is the situation when one strives to obey whoever holds (temporal) power.54 For even if they (namely, the Turks) disobey one of the commands which it is incumbent (upon them) to obey, they believe that disobedience is a sinful act and that obedience is a virtuous one. For this reason you would not see them violating their commitment55 to offer friendship (to the caliph) even if they were to be cut up limb by limb.56 Nobody can oppose him in one of his commands unless that person, when reaching the noble threshold, himself stoops down to the ground, rubs his cheek in the dust in token of abasement, stands in the position of the most abject slave at his door and rises to his feet again on hearing his (that is, the caliph’s) discourse. Moreover, if there should be an insurrection in any region of the earth against this resplendent state (dawla) there is not one amongst them (namely, the Turks) who on seeing strife beyond its frontiers would not fight in the way of God, waging jihad against the infidels. What obedience in God’s world (‘alam) exceeds this obedience? What shawka in this world matches this shawka?’57

Al-­Ghazali then asks why the Batiniyya in answering this question do not remember what disturbances and dissensions befell ‘Ali. Al-­Ghazali argues that the same mistakes must not be made in his own time as in the case of ‘Ali. It would have been better for ‘Ali to have come to an accommodation with Mu‘awiya, who had greater military strength, than to launch himself into a course of action which could only culminate in disaster. Great emphasis has been laid in the present discussion of this section on najda, not only because it has been given scant attention by Goldziher and Laoust but also because, as will be shown later, al-­Ghazali’s discussion here is central to an understanding of his political theory. It is perhaps appropriate here to discuss the question of the authenticity of this section. It has never before been called into question, although possible insertions and tampering by later authors in other parts of al-­Ghazali’s works have been brought to light by scholars before now. The spirit of the passage on najda is entirely in accord with al-­Ghazali’s arguments elsewhere in the Mustazhiri; so too is the question-­and-­answer device used for the exposition of al-­Ghazali’s viewpoint. The high-­flown epistolary style of the first paragraph may be unusually intricate and more typical of the Arabic of al‑Bundari58

10 | cla ssi cal is l a m than that of al-­Ghazali, but the Mustazhiri is a work of panegyric, and similar stylistic techniques are found in other parts of a book whose authorship is not in dispute. Suspicion may be aroused by the accolades showered on the Turks; perhaps some later member of a Seljuq chancery added and embellished the original text of al-­Ghazali here. Yet the spirit of the passage remains consistent with the main argument. On balance it seems probable that it was indeed written by al-­Ghazali. Al-­Ghazali now turns to a discussion of the remaining ‘acquired’ attributes which should be present in the Imam. The second of these is kifaya,59 the meaning of which is ‘competence to govern’ and the aim of which is to order ‘religious and temporal matters’. Al-­Ghazali stresses the deeply disturbed nature of his own time, which he describes as one of falra,60 effacement of the signs of religion, a time overflowing with afflictions and strife. In the accomplishment of kifaya, al-­Ghazali sets great store by the powers of discrimination possessed by the Imam himself but also by the need for consultation with good counsellors and especially the Imam’s vizier.61 There follows a long panegyric of the caliph in the same style as the preceding one devoted to the Turks.62 The third ‘acquired’ quality is wara‘, ‘piety’,63 which al-­Ghazali views as the most splendid of the attributes. It is a quality which can only be exercised personally by the caliph; it cannot be acquired through outside help.64 It is the very foundation of authority. It is difficult to reconcile wara‘ with the exercise of power, but the basis of this is strict adherence to justice.65 It is noteworthy that al-­Ghazali does not demand that the imam be sinless.66 The fourth ‘acquired’ attribute is ‘ilm, ‘knowledge’.67 This denotes a knowledge of religion but does not necessitate that the caliph should be a qualified mujtahid. In order to establish the imamate in accordance with the Shari‘a, it is not important whether the caliph knows about the law through his own knowledge or through the help of the best advisers of his age.68 c. Chapter 9 of the Kitab al-Mustazhiri The Mustazhiri has long attracted the attention of scholars of medieval Islamic political thought. Apart from the detailed treatment accorded to this work by Goldziher and Laoust, it is not surprising to note that Rosenthal devotes some space to a discussion of this work, which he says reveals ‘politi-

al - ghazali ’s vi ews on g over nme n t  | 11 cal realism and preparedness to make concessions to expediency’.69 What is surprising, however, is that Binder, in his oft-­cited article ‘Al-­Ghazali’s theory of Islamic government’, makes only one reference to the Kitab alMustazhiri.70 The purpose of the remarks which follow is to avoid rehearsing familiar arguments and instead to raise some new questions, thereby moving the discussion forward. The Mustazhiri is a work on the imamate. It does not cover other aspects of Islamic government. In many ways it follows the standard, indeed classical, Islamic theory on the imamate and covers much the same ground as al-­Ghazali’s predecessors had done, even using similar arguments.71 Yet it is much more than that. It is written against a background of unusual political turbulence in the period which immediately followed the deaths (in quick succession) of the famous vizier Nizam al-­Mulk and his master the Seljuq sultan Malikshah in 485/1092, both of whom had enjoyed a long tenure of power. With the death in 487/1094 of the ‘Abbasid caliph al-­Muqtadi, who had himself ruled for nineteen years, there was in a period of no more than two years a clean sweep of the major political figures in the eastern Sunni world. In this situation of political flux, the accession of a new ‘Abbasid caliph, al-­Mustazhir, took on an unwanted importance. It is possible that al-­Ghazali’s high-­flown panegyric of the new caliph should be attributed to the desire to please his patron, who had after all personally commissioned the Mustazhiri. But such a view is unduly harsh and cynical. Moreover, it ignores al-­Ghazali’s subsequent works on government, which were apparently not written for any specific patron and which nevertheless reveal views consistent with those expressed in the Mustazhiri. It would appear, therefore, that al-­Ghazali was writing out of personal conviction in the latter work. A significant dimension is, of course, the attack on the Isma‘ili imamate of Cairo. It is to counter the grandiose claims of the Isma‘ilis, who assert that their infallible Imam is the only person qualified to interpret the Shari‘a and that all mankind owes him obedience,72 that al-­Ghazali is emboldened to pronounce that it is the ‘Abbasid caliph, al-­Mustazhir, who is God’s caliph over mankind and that obedience to him is a religious duty incumbent on all men.73 It seems legitimate to assume that al-­Ghazali is motivated here by Sunni zeal. Moreover, like must be countered by like. It is inconceivable

12 | cla ssi cal is l a m that, whatever the real status of the ‘Abbasid caliph within the Seljuq empire, al-­Ghazali – w ­ ith his deep commitment to the Shafi‘i madhhab and with his knowledge of the views on government held by his predecessors, especially his teacher al-­Juwayni – ­could so break out of the traditional Sunni mould as to elevate the temporal authority, the sultanate, to serve as the institution through which to refute the Isma‘ili imamate of Cairo. So it is the ‘Abbasid caliphate which is deemed, once again and according to precedent, to be the sole institution worthy of representing orthodox Islam in the tussle with the Isma‘ilis. Moreover, the linchpin of al-­Ghazali’s argument justifying the ‘Abbasid caliphate is that it is the very foundation of the continuity of the Shari‘a. The ‘Abbasid caliph himself, however, is not the sole interpreter of the Shari‘a, as is the case with the Isma‘ili Imam; for he is advised by competent ‘ulama’. It is important to stress that al-­Ghazali does not say that the ‘Abbasid caliph is infallible. There are, however, certain puzzling aspects to the Mustazhiri. Above all, the passage on the Turks raises certain questions which are worth discussing further. Why does al-­Ghazali, while writing a polemical work refuting the Isma‘ilis and arguing for the legitimacy of the ‘Abbasid caliph, al-­Mustazhir, feel constrained to include a long excursus on the virtues of the Turks? Why does he go to the trouble of justifying and exonerating the Turkish invaders who have seized military supremacy within the eastern Islamic world, and why does he address this apologia for the Turks to the ‘Abbasid caliph, who is without any real power at all? Al-­Ghazali is in a serious dilemma here. To ignore the existence of the Turkish military authority altogether and to write, instead, a blueprint for Islamic government based on the ‘Abbasid caliphate would have no basis in reality. It is clear that al-­Ghazali’s contacts with the prominent political figures of the ­age – ­he spent time both in the entourage of Nizam al-­Mulk and in al-­Mustazhir’s circle, even before the latter’s accession to the caliphal ­office – w ­ ould not have predisposed him to write such a manifestly redundant treatise. Instead, al-­Ghazali attempts to accommodate the political status quo into his own system of beliefs on Islamic government. The result is pious dishonesty. The idea of symbiosis between the caliphate and the temporal authority was not of course new by al-­Ghazali’s time. Moreover, earlier scholarship on

al - ghazali ’s vi ews on g over nme n t  | 13 al-­Ghazali has rightly stressed that his ideas are motivated by an overriding desire for stability and unity within the Sunni world. Here in the Mustazhiri al-­Ghazali views unity of purpose between the caliphate and the secular Turkish authority as the best defence against the Isma‘ili threat. It is for this reason that he praises the Turks, emphasising their zeal as warriors for the faith, and deflects attention away from the reality, namely that they have usurped power. To depict them as insubordinate, wayward creatures whose fundamental loyalty to Islam is nevertheless unswerving constitutes a plea for some kind of accommodation with this alien implant into the Islamic body politic; but it cannot of course possibly reflect a true picture of how turbulent must have been the daily contact between the Persian–Arab bureaucracy and religious elite on the one hand and the Turkish military leadership and their nomadic followers on the other. Nor is it likely that the rank-­and-­file Turcomans were anything other than superficially Islamised. The audience to whom al-­Ghazali’s addresses the work was small and select; only the caliph and the ‘ulama’ would have had the intellectual and linguistic ability to understand al-­Ghazali’s argumentation and the flowery Arabic style which he used. So the panegyric of the Turks is directed at those who have to deal at ceremonial, legal and bureaucratic level with this alien power group. The panegyric, patronising in tone and insulting to the Turks in content, will not be understood by the Turks but will flatter the caliph and his entourage. More fundamentally, however, al-­Ghazali is trying by his insistence on the innate and consistent devotion to Islam which he attributes to the Turks to consolidate the working relationship between the temporal and spiritual authorities which he knows to be more important than ever to the stability of the realm. That stability, as he often argues elsewhere in his works, is a prerequisite for stability of religion. Is there a more specific and less lofty aim behind the Mustazhiri? It is well known that al-­Ghazali left Baghdad and its highly charged political atmosphere shortly after the composition of this work. Here is not the place to discuss in detail the complex causes of al-­Ghazali’s spiritual crisis.74 The evidence from his ‘autobiography’ should be treated with caution, however, not only because of the obvious problems of veracity inherent in this literary genre, but also ­because – ­as Van Ess has pointed out75 – the Munqidh is full of topoi and clichés and is intended as a work of guidance and instruction.

14 | cla ssi cal is l a m One component of al-­Ghazali’s complex decision is worth discussing further here in the context of the Mustazhiri. Leaving aside Jabre’s assertion that al-­Ghazali left Baghdad because he was afraid of being assassinated by the Isma‘ilis76 – a claim that can obviously be linked in particular to the material in the Mustazhiri but which is argued in too simplistic a fashion by ­Jabre – t­here is quite another possible motive to be considered, and this too smacks of expediency. Macdonald alleges that al-­Ghazali withdrew from the Nizamiyya at Baghdad because the caliph al-­Mustazhir had backed Tutush, the unsuccessful Seljuq claimant to the sultanate after the death of Malikshah in 485/1092.77 Al-­Ghazali had been involved in the recognition of Tutush by the caliph al-­Mustazhir in 487/1094. Tutush was subsequently defeated and killed by Barkyaruq in Safar 488/February 1095. The latter then became sultan. Al-­Ghazali left Baghdad in Dhu’l-­Qa‘da 488/November 1095. Al-­Ghazali’s close involvement with the entourage of the Seljuq sultan Malikshah, and more especially with Nizam al-­Mulk and his son Fakhr al-­Mulk, is well known. Although the work under discussion was commissioned by the caliph, it seems that al-­Ghazali was loth to lose this opportunity of pressing the case of the Seljuqs, and of ­arguing – ­by whatever means, honest or ‘dishonest’ – that a modus vivendi with the Turks was vital for the continuing stability of Sunni Islam. But is there more to it than this? Does the Mustazhiri contain in veiled terms an appeal to the caliph to accept a particular Seljuq claimant to the sultanate? This is improbable. More likely is the hypothesis that al-­Ghazali feels the need to issue a warning to the caliph, who was after all young and inexperienced and who may well have had ideas of exploiting Seljuq disunity after the death of Malikshah and of reasserting caliphal authority. Certainly, such a caliphal revanche, namely a full military involvement by the caliph as one warring element amongst many, was to occur later, after al-­Mustazhir’s own death in 518/1118, with the activities of his successor al-­Mustarshid.77a To summarise, then, it would appear that behind the device of addressing his praise of the de facto military rulers to the powerless ‘Abbasid caliph, as illustrated by the passage translated above, al-­Ghazali may well have wished to emphasise to the caliph that his role should not be to interfere with the sphere of operations of the temporal authorities, the Seljuq sultans. At the same time, al-­Ghazali – ­prompted to a large extent by the polemic edge of

al - ghazali ’s vi ews on g over nme n t  | 15 his attacks on the Isma‘­ilis – ­makes truly grandiose claims for his patron, the ‘Abbasid caliph, whom he describes as God’s caliph to whom all mankind owes obedience. Political opportunism may be apparent in the Mustazhiri, but it is more slanted towards supporting the Seljuqs than the caliph. This is not to say that al-­Ghazali is necessarily espousing wholeheartedly the interests of the Turks. This is a time of crisis, both politically and theologically, when it behoves the new caliph to tread warily and not to come into collision with the Turks. Al-­Ghazali makes it clear that he disapproves of their insubordinate ways; indeed, he views them as an inferior species of human being. Nevertheless, he argues implicitly that their continuing presence is an inevitable fact and even a necessity. III The Kitab al-Iqtisad fi’l-i‘tiqad78 This treatise has been called al-­Ghazali’s ‘chief theological work’79 and has received considerable scholarly attention, forming the basis of many of the generalisations made about al-­Ghazali’s political theory. Bouyges dates the composition of this work to the year 488/1095, before al-­Ghazali’s departure from Baghdad, although Bouyges also concedes that it could have been written just after that event.80 What is certain is that the Iqtisad follows the Mustazhiri81 and precedes the Ihya’.82 It would appear likely that al-­Ghazali did not write this work with any particular patron in mind. In view of the short interval between the composition of the Mustazhiri and the Iqtisad (they were written within a year or so of each other) it would, at first glance, seem improbable that al-­Ghazali would have expressed in the second of these two works views very different from those already expounded at greater length in the Mustazhiri. The absence of a patron for the Iqtisad might, however, have freed him from the particular constraints imposed on him by the Mustazhiri in which he focused on one particular caliph. a. Al-­Ghazali’s Views on the Caliphate in the Kitab al-Iqtisad: The Content This subject is discussed in Chapter 3, ‘On the imamate’.83 Al-­Ghazali begins by saying that a consideration of the imamate is not a matter of great moment,84 nor is it the stuff of rational speculation. It is a matter of fiqh. Moreover, such a discussion excites factions and is better avoided if one’s views are ­right – a­ nd even more so if they are wrong. Since, however,

16 | cla ssi cal is l a m such discussions are customary at the end of works on dogmatic theology (mu‘taqidat), al-­Ghazali says that he too will treat the subject of the imamate, but in summary form.85 He divides his discussion into three parts. The first is an exposition of why it is necessary to appoint an Imam. The necessity for an Imam is not deduced from reason (‘aql) but from revealed law (shar‘). In establishing decisive legal proof for the necessity of an Imam, al-­Ghazali is not satisfied merely to use the argument of the consensus of the community. He goes further, analysing the basis of such an ijma‘, and says that the establishment of the good ordering of religion was an aim of the Prophet himself, whom he calls the ‘Lord of Revealed Law’ (sahib al-shar‘). This, he states, is his first irrefutable premiss. He then adds a second premiss, namely, that the good ordering of religion is achieved only by an Imam who is obeyed. From these two premisses it is proved that the appointment of an Imam is necessary.86 Al-­Ghazali then challenges anyone who might argue that his second ­premiss – ­that good order in religion is achieved only by an Imam who is ­obeyed – ­is not Islamic. He then demonstrates the proof of this second premiss, arguing that the good ordering of religion is achieved only by the good ordering of this world, and that the good ordering of this world is in turn achieved only by an Imam who is obeyed. These two premisses are, he maintains, irrefutable. He then examines the first of these two premisses more closely. To those who would allege that religion (din) and this world (dunya) are two opposites and that preoccupation with promoting one of them leads to the destruction of the other, al-­Ghazali defends himself by developing a clear definition of dunya. This term does not denote excessive enjoyment of this world’s ­pleasures – ­a definition which would indeed be the antithesis of din – but rather means what one needs in this life. This latter definition of dunya, al-­Ghazali argues, is a necessary condition for the accomplishment of din.87 Above all, security in this world is essential, for if one has to spend one’s time in defending oneself against tyranny and in searching for food, one cannot devote oneself to knowledge and good works which are the means of acquiring happiness in the next world. Al-­Ghazali therefore concludes that the good ordering of this world is a prerequisite for the good ordering of religion.88

al - ghazali ’s vi ews on g over nme n t  | 17 Turning to his second premiss, which he expressed a few lines earlier as the good ordering of this world being dependent on an Imam who is obeyed (imam muta‘), al-­Ghazali continues as follows: As for the second premiss, namely, that this world and security for oneself and one’s property can only be ordered by an authority which is obeyed (or: a sultan who is obeyed, sultan muta‘), seeing the periods of strife on the death of sultans (salatin) and Imams testifies to it (that is, the truth of the premiss) and (the fact) that if that (situation) should last and if another authority which is obeyed (sultan muta‘) were not appointed immediately, discord would continue, the sword would be everywhere, drought all-­embracing, beasts would perish, crafts would become ineffective and all who conquered would seize (the property of others) by force and nobody would be able to apply himself exclusively to worship (that is, of God, ‘ibada) and knowledge if he remained alive, and otherwise many would die under the shades of the swords.89 For this reason, it is said that ‘Religion and (temporal) authority (sultan) are twins’ and for this reason, it is said that ‘Religion is a foundation and (temporal) authority (sultan) a guardian. That which has no foundation falls into ruins, and that which has no guardian is destroyed.’ In sum, the reasonable person cannot dispute the fact that human b­ eings – b­ ecause of the difference of their natures, the inherent diversity of their passions and the divergence of their o­ pinions – w ­ ould perish to the last man if they were left to their own devices and if there were not an obeyed opinion to reconcile their differences. This is an illness whose sole remedy is by means of a powerful authority (sultan) who is obeyed (and) who unites diversities of opinions. So it has been demonstrated that authority (sultan) is necessary for the good ordering of this world, and the good ordering of this world is necessary for the good ordering of religion, and the good ordering of religion is necessary for the acquisition of happiness in the hereafter. That is undoubtedly the aim of prophets. So the necessity of appointing the Imam is one of the necessities of the shar‘ which must not be abandoned, so take heed of that!90

The second section of Chapter 3 tackles two questions: the qualities which the Imam must possess and the right method of designating him. Al-­Ghazali asserts that the person to be appointed Imam must possess special attributes

18 | cla ssi cal is l a m which differentiate him from the rest of humanity. These attributes are either personal or are connected with other people (min jihat ghayrihi). In the first category, al-­Ghazali states that in order to be able to govern the people and keep them on the right path the imam must possess kifaya, ‘ilm, wara‘, and descent from Quraysh.91 It may be, however, that there are a number of suitable people of Quraysh descent. The decisive ­factor – ­and here al-­Ghazali introduces his second category of a­ttributes – i­s being appointed to govern (tawliya) or being entrusted with authority (tafwid) by other people. This bestowal of authority may be achieved in one of three ways: through designation (tansis) by the Prophet himself; by the appointment of a suitable successor from amongst his sons by the ruling Imam; or, thirdly, by the entrusting of authority (tafwid) to a suitable person by a man who wields military power (dhu shawka). This last method would require that other people should follow suit and pay allegiance to the Imam. At certain times this may be achieved by one person who is well respected and enjoys the support of the people and the total authority, since his act of allegiance and his entrusting of authority (to the Imam) dispense with the necessity for others to do so. The aim, after all, is to reconcile differences of opinion under one ‘obeyed person’ (shakhs muta‘). The Imam is also obeyed by virtue of the oath of allegiance made to him by the ‘obeyed person’. Should there be more than one person possessed of military strength, the men concerned must pay allegiance and agree on the person to whom they should entrust authority, so that obedience may be achieved. Al-­Ghazali goes on to say that if, on the death of an Imam, there is only one Qurashi who can command obedience and who possesses shawka, a following amongst the people by virtue of his shawka and his competence to govern, and the necessary attributes of an Imam, then his imamate is valid and obedience to him is incumbent on the people. Such a person will certainly be able to have the oath of allegiance paid to him by the important men (akabir) of the age, and by the ‘ulama’.92 Al-­Ghazali then turns to the case of an Imam who possesses all the necessary attributes except that of legal knowledge, but who after consultation with the ‘ulama’ acts upon their advice. Should such an Imam be deposed or obeyed? Al-­Ghazali argues that he should be replaced by someone who

al - ghazali ’s vi ews on g over nme n t  | 19 fulfils all the necessary conditions only if such action does not engender strife. Otherwise, such an Imam should be obeyed and his imamate is valid.93 Al-­Ghazali defends himself against those who would accuse him of making compromises by saying that these views which he has expressed are forced on him by necessity: ‘This is not a voluntary concession. Necessities, however, make prohibitions allowable. We know that taking carrion (mayta)94 is prohibited, but death (from starvation) is worse than that.’ He then presents two possible situations to anyone in his own time who might deem the imamate to be invalid because its conditions are not fulfilled. First, there is the following possibility. If there is no Imam, then judges are dismissed from their office, all public functions (wilayat) are null and void, marriages are not legal, the activities of provincial governors are invalid and the whole of mankind are perpetrating forbidden deeds. Alternatively, one may say that the imamate is valid and that its activities and functions are effective by virtue of the present situation and necessity. In view of this there are three options. First, people must be prevented from contracting marriages and engaging in other activities connected with the law. This would be an absurd, divisive and destructive course of action. Second, one may say that people do contract marriages and engage in other legal activities but that they are perpetrating what is forbidden. Nevertheless, they should not be condemned as disobedient because of the exigencies of the moment. The third possibility is that, in view of the contemporary necessity, the imamate should be considered as valid in spite of the fact that its conditions are not fulfilled. This is the choice for which the reasonable person must opt.95 b. Analysis of al-­Ghazali’s Discussion of the Imamate in the Kitab al-Iqtisad It is noteworthy that at the beginning of this chapter, al-­Ghazali expresses reluctance to discuss the question of the imamate, which he describes as contentious. Although this stance of his may well in fact be a literary ­device – ­he has in any case dealt with the imamate in extenso in the Mustazhiri – there is a clear note of disillusionment here. Such a sentiment may spring from the reception accorded to the Mustazhiri, about which the sources are silent, ­or – ­more ­generally – i­t may indicate a wider disenchantment with the political circles of Baghdad, which he was soon to leave (if, indeed, he had not already left the city at this time).

20 | cla ssi cal is l a m The concepts expressed here in Chapter 3 are very similar to those set out in Chapter 9 of the Mustazhiri. Once again the main emphasis is on the need for political stability, on the unifying force of the Imam and the necessity for his existence so that he can reconcile diversity within the Dar al-Islam and create conditions suitable for religion to thrive. Once again, too, al-­Ghazali seeks a basis in the Shari‘a when arguing for the necessity of the imamate. There are, however, certain differences in approach and emphasis which distinguish the Iqtisad from the Mustazhiri. The whole tone of the opening of the third chapter of the Iqtisad is decisive and succinct. It is devoid of the verbal conceits of the Mustazhiri. The aim is to argue a case convincingly, and for this purpose al-­Ghazali employs a series of syllogisms. His extended treatment of his second premiss, namely, that the good ordering of this world is achieved only by an Imam who is obeyed, deserves further discussion at this point.96 Here he uses terms to denote ‘rulers’ with apparent imprecision and ambiguity. At the beginning of Chapter 3, the word imam is used five times and seems to follow the practice to which he adheres firmly in the Mustazhiri. Thereafter, however, the phrase Imam muta‘ is replaced, when the premiss is repeated, by sultan muta‘. In the next sentence, moreover, the phrase ‘on the death of sultans (salatin) and Imams’ appears. At the end of the discussion of the second premiss, al-­Ghazali reverts to the use of the term imam. Various questions are raised by these usages. Does al-­Ghazali deliberately employ imam and sultan to denote different concepts, or do they have the same meaning here? Alternatively, is his terminology unintentionally loose? The word sultudtan is of course problematic, representing as it does both the concept of ‘authority’, ‘ruling power’, and the holder of such power. The first example of sultan (bi-sultanin muta‘ in) could have both meanings but probably refers to the actual holder of power, in view of the fact that it is a repetition of the premiss nizam al-din la yuhsalu ila bi-imamin muta‘ in. This also holds good for the second example: bi-sultanin akhar a muta‘ in. When he cites the well-­known saying ‘Religion and sultan are twins’, however, sultan obviously refers to the abstract concept of authority. The remaining two examples of sultan – the phrase bi-sultanin qahirin muta‘ in and al-sultan daruri – could denote either the abstract concept or the actual holder of authority.97

al - ghazali ’s vi ews on g over nme n t  | 21 As for the use of the term imam, this too is sometimes imprecise. When it occurs in a discussion of the institution of the imamate,98 it is relatively unambiguous. In the phrase ‘on the death of Imams and sultans’ the juxtaposition of the two seems to ‘devalue’ the Imam, or at any rate to suggest that al-­Ghazali may be aware of little actual distinction between them. In his concluding statement fa-kana nasb al-imam min daruriyyat al-shar‘,99 al-­Ghazali quasi-­automatically reverts to the term imam, probably because of the mention of shar‘ in the same sentence. A few tentative conclusions may be drawn here. The Iqtisad is of course a work on the articles of faith. It is not a treatise on Islamic government. Nor is Chapter 3 the central part of the Iqtisad. In it, al-­Ghazali emphasises the need to create the conditions conducive to the maintenance of good religion in this world, but he is not intent on creating a blueprint for Islamic government. In the Mustazhiri, where the central theme is that of the imamate, al-­Ghazali does not fail to use the term imam or, less frequently, khalifa. In this short passage of the Iqtisad, the term khalifa does not appear at all and there is no apparent consistency in the use of imam and sultan. It would be unduly bold to interpret this shift as a fundamental change of attitude on the part of al-­ Ghazali towards the imamate. This would be an unlikely development in the short interval of time between the two works. It would seem more reasonable to attribute this looseness of terminology to a conscious or unconscious lapse on al-­Ghazali’s part from the theoretical plane of the Mustazhiri to the practical level of the reality of Seljuq rule revealed in this discussion in the Iqtisad. It may well be that the turbulent events which followed the completion of the Mustazhiri only enhanced al-­Ghazali’s conviction that what mattered were political stability and the existence of a strong government in order to produce the right conditions for the conduct of good religion. Here, at any rate, he may well be indifferent as to whether these conditions are to be achieved with the imamate or without it. At the beginning of the second section of Chapter 3, in which the attributes necessary in the Imam and the method of appointing him are discussed, al-­Ghazali is back on the conventional path, making a clear distinction between the Imam and the holder of military power, whom he calls ‘an obeyed person’ (shakhs muta‘). Of the three so-­called methods of appointing the Imam, only the third really interests al-­Ghazali. This is the situation in

22 | cla ssi cal is l a m which the possessor of military force (dhu shawka) entrusts authority (tafwid) to a suitable person as Imam. The act of allegiance paid to the Imam by the holder (or several holders) of power symbolises the allegiance of all those under his (or their) authority, and assures unity. It is interesting to speculate on the nature of al-­Ghazali’s formula here and to ask whether such an arrangement corresponded to the political realities of the relationship between the Seljuq sultans and the ‘Abbasid ­caliph – ­a relationship to which al-­Ghazali is attempting to accord ­legitimacy – ­or whether he is here describing an idealised scheme whereby to ensure unity. It is also relevant to ask whether al-­Ghazali sees any justification for dispensing with either caliph or sultan at any time. In the arrangement outlined by al-­Ghazali, it is the sultan who appoints the caliph. This act validates the government of the sultan. Such an emphasis on the sultan is of course an accurate reflection of the contemporary balance of power between the two institutions in the heyday of Seljuq power. Yet even then the sultans felt the need to link themselves with the ‘Abbasid caliph by marriage ties and public ceremonies. After the death of Malikshah in 485/1092 and the ensuing disarray among his successors, many Seljuq pretenders saw the need to seek caliphal approval in their bids for power.100 As already mentioned, the caliph al-­Mustazhir himself may well have nurtured the ambition of profiting from this fragmented situation and of trying to reassert caliphal authority not as an arbitrator but as a participant in the struggle for political power. This is of course not mentioned in the sources, as it is in the case of his successor al-­Mustarshid, but al-­Ghazali certainly leaves such an option open by conceding that a suitably qualified candidate for the imamate may appoint himself if he possesses competence to govern and (more important) the necessary shawka to impose his rule upon the people. In other words, it is conceivable for an Imam to dispense with a sultan. There is an unusually strong element of compromise in al-­Ghazali’s ideas as presented here. He himself puts up a strong defence of this position in his forceful analogy that eating carrion is prohibited but that starvation is worse. There is also an element of compromise over the question of the necessity for the Imam to possess knowledge of the Shari‘a. Here al-­Ghazali suggests that deposition should only occur if it does not cause civil strife. Otherwise it is preferable for such an Imam to seek the advice of the ‘ulama’ and to act upon

al - ghazali ’s vi ews on g over nme n t  | 23 it. This emphasis on the role of the ‘ulama’ is a consistent preoccupation of al-­Ghazali. Binder argues, mostly on the basis of the arguments in the Iqtisad, that al-­Ghazali has a ‘tripartite concept of the caliphate’.101 A close examination of the text does not support his unwieldy theory. Certainly the three elements of caliph, sultan and ‘ulama’ are present in al-­Ghazali’s argument, but Binder stretches the evidence too far by postulating a definition of the caliphate itself as being ‘composed’ of these three elements. Laoust propounds a rather similar theory, claiming that al-­Ghazali is aiming at a mixed theory of the caliphate and that he combines the caliphate and the sultanate in the same institution.102 Above all, it is important to note that, despite the exigencies of the disturbed times in which he lived, al-­Ghazali was not prepared to dispense with the caliphal institution altogether. IV The Ihya’ ‘ulum al-din a. Introductory Comments This, the most monumental work produced by al-­Ghazali, was written in the period of his retreat from public life, probably between the years 489/1096 and 495/1102.103 Its authenticity is beyond doubt and need not be discussed here. The Book of what is licit and what is forbidden (Book 14, Chapter 5) contains a short section which deals once again with the imamate and its relationship with the military warlords.104 b. Content Al-­Ghazali argues that in the case of an unjust, ignorant sultan who is sustained by military force (shawka), and whom it would be difficult to dislodge without stirring up violent strife, he must be left in office and obedience is due to him, just as it is due to amirs. Indeed, there are traditions which enjoin obedience to amirs. Al-­Ghazali continues, Our view is that the caliphate (khilafa) is given contractually to that person from the ‘Abbasid family who has taken it (that is, the office) upon himself and that sovereignty (wilaya) is legally exercised (nafidha) in the case of

24 | cla ssi cal is l a m sultans (salatin) in the (different) regions of the lands who pay allegiance to the caliph.105

There then follows a succinct summary of al-­Ghazali’s mature view on the relationship between sultans and the caliph: In short, we consider attributes and conditions in sultans with a view to (deriving) the optimum advantages.106 If we decreed that public functions (wilayat) are now invalid, the interests (of the common weal) would also be invalid. Why lose one’s capital by seeking (to gain) interest? No indeed, sovereignty nowadays is possible only through force (shawka). The caliph is the person to whom the possessor of force (sahib al-shawka) pays allegiance. Anyone who seizes power by force (shawka) and is obedient to the caliph in respect of the khutba and the sikka is a sultan wielding valid jurisdiction (hukm) and judgement (qada’) in the (different) regions of the earth by virtue of a sovereignty (wilaya) whose decisions (ahkam) are legally valid (nafidha).

Al-­Ghazali concludes by referring the reader to his discussion of the imamate in the Iqtisad. c. Analysis This passage reveals a remarkable consistency with the earlier remarks of al-­Ghazali on this subject. There is, however, some development. The tone is now more pessimistic than ever before. Obedience is incumbent on the people even when they are ruled by an unjust sultan who is ignorant of how to rule or of how to conduct himself according to the precepts of the Shari‘a. The use of such terminology as khalifa and sultan is clear, but it is noteworthy that this passage implies the existence of a number of sultans wielding power at the same time (again, a true reflection of the historical reality in the first decade of the sixth/twelfth century). Even so, al-­Ghazali still adheres to the beliefs that the caliphate is a legal necessity and that there should be only one holder of that office.

al - ghazali ’s vi ews on g over nme n t  | 25 V  Al-­Ghazali’s ‘Mirrors for Princes’ No discussion of al-­Ghazali’s views on government would be complete without reference to those of his books, or parts of his books, written within the Fürstenspiegel genre. Three works of al-­Ghazali will be discussed here in chronological order. a. Chapter 10 of the Kitab al-Mustazhiri107 As has already been mentioned, Chapter 10 contains material which places it firmly within the Fürstenspiegel genre. The Mustazhiri is a work commissioned by a caliph, and it deals with the caliphate as its central theme. Al-­Ghazali therefore addresses his counsels to the caliph, who is enjoined to observe strict personal piety and self-­discipline. There is an emphasis on justice on the part of the caliph, who is in duty bound to observe the Shari‘a strictly. If he deviates from the path of justice, his subjects may regard him as a ruler who has usurped power. Obedience to him is incumbent upon them only as long as he rules in accordance with the Shari‘a.108 Al-­Ghazali stresses the need for the ruler to consult the ‘ulama’, and illustrates this point with numerous examples from an Islamic context.109 Al-­Ghazali’s approach here is the same as elsewhere in his writings. He supports his arguments with quotations from hadith and with anecdotes from the lifes of the caliphs ‘Umar I and ‘Umar II. The material is exclusively Islamic. There is one isolated reference to Yazdagird, the last of the Sasanian rulers, but it is made in connection with ‘Umar I. Chapter 10 begins with a section which is strongly Sufi in tone.110 In it, al-­Ghazali stresses the transitory nature of this world, which is merely a staging-­post on the route to the afterlife. The leitmotif of man sharing attributes both with beasts and with a­ ngels – a­ theme which recurs in al-­Ghazali’s later ­works – i­s also found here.111 The same ideas and images also recur in the section of his later work written in Persian, the Kimiya-yi sa‘adat, which is discussed next. b. The Kimiya-yi sa‘adat112 As is well known, this work is a long summary in Persian of the Ihya’ ‘ulum al-din, and it is addressed to the common people. A close examination of this

26 | cla ssi cal is l a m work reveals that it is not just a summary of the Ihya’.113 More especially, the Kimiya contains, in Section 10, Pillar 2, a complete section entitled ‘On government and exercising authority’ – a Fürstenspiegel which is not found in the Ihya’.114 Much of this material is identical, or at any rate similar, to Chapter 10 of the Mustazhiri. Moreover, the same subject-­matter, as Bagley has already pointed out, recurs in Part I of the Nasihat al-muluk.115 Indeed, it would appear that this section of the Kimiya is the prototype of Part I of the Nasiha, which has almost identical material. It is, however, presented in a different order. In this section of the Kimiya, al-­Ghazali urges that the ruler should constantly keep in mind the transience of this earthly life. Thus he will be able to govern justly, removed from a preoccupation with the passions of this world.116 Although the section begins with a reference to the caliphate of God (khilafat-i khuda), the term used for the person who governs is wali, which can be applied to either caliph or sultan. Yet the tone is strongly Sufi and is far removed from a preoccupation with demarcation disputes between the authority of the caliph and that of the sultan. The instructions to the ruler are given in the form of ten rules which stress the need for justice and the dangers of injustice. As elsewhere in his work, al-­Ghazali exhorts the ruler to frequent the pious ‘ulama’, for whose company he should thirst, and to eschew the counsels of the worldly ‘ulama’.117 The activities of the ruler are seen as symbolic and exemplary. His punishment for injustice will be greater than the punishment of the ordinary man.118 The ruler must see to it that his entourage also follows the path of justice.119 The symbolic value of the ruler’s actions is shown by means of imagery exploiting the associations of light: The sun of justice appears first in the breast (of the ruler). Then its light falls on the people of the (royal) house. Then it penetrates to the entourage (of the ruler). Then its rays reach the subjects. Anyone who hopes for rays without sun is seeking the impossible.120

As is usual in al-­Ghazali’s writings, the material supporting his precepts is drawn from the Qur’an, the hadith and anecdotes of the early Muslims.

al - ghazali ’s vi ews on g over nme n t  | 27 c. The Nasihat al-muluk A work of this name has long been attributed to al-­Ghazali and was allegedly written by him towards the end of his life, probably just before his death in the years 503–5/1109–11.121 The work was originally written in Persian and was dedicated either to Muhammad b. Malikshah or to Sanjar.122 A work by al-­Ghazali with this title is mentioned by Ibn Khallikan, who says that it was translated from Persian into Arabic by al-­Irbili at the request of his patron Alp Qutlugh Beg Qaymaz (d. 595/1199).123 A short discussion of the authenticity of this treatise is highly relevant to the general theme of this article. As early as 1956, Isaacs cast doubt on the authenticity of parts of the Nasiha,124 but Bagley did not find grounds for undue concern.125 More recently, Patricia Crone has taken up the problem.126 It is clear that Part I of the Nasihat al-muluk can be attributed with confidence to al-­Ghazali. As already noted, it contains material which is also found in the Mustazhiri, the Kimiya-yi sa‘adat, the Ihya’ and the Bidaya, all of which can safely be said to have been written by al-­Ghazali.127 Part I is not addressed to the caliph. It begins with a short sermon to the sultan urging him to behave in accordance with the precepts of religion. It is, however, very difficult to argue that Part II of the Nasiha was also written by al-­Ghazali. Its approach is at variance with that demonstrated by al-­Ghazali in the rest of his writings, both in Arabic and in Persian, and in general it clashes with the ethos of Part I of the very same work. Here is not the place to try to pinpoint in detail those sections (if any) of Part II of the Nasiha which might or might not have been written by al-­Ghazali. A few general remarks must suffice. In his authentic works, it is not his wont to draw on non-­Islamic material to support his arguments, nor to express the ethos of the Sasanian Persian heritage of statecraft as explicitly as it appears in Part II of the Nasiha. This is not to say that Islamic material in the form of quotations and anecdotes is absent from Part II of the Nasiha. On the contrary, as is customary in al-­Ghazali’s genuine works such as the Kimiya and the Ihya’, there is frequent reference here as well to the Prophet, the caliphs ‘Umar I and ‘Umar II, ‘Ali, Harun al-­Rashid and al-­Mansur, as well as sayings attributed to Jesus. It is not, however, al-­Ghazali’s usual practice to draw on anecdotes

28 | cla ssi cal is l a m from Sasanian or other non-­Islamic sources, as happens repeatedly in Part II of the Nasiha. A detailed examination of a number of al-­Ghazali’s works in both Arabic and Persian reveals a common approach: the statement of an argument followed by Qur’anic corroboration and examples from the hadith, the Companions or the early Sufis. This approach, which can be discerned in al-­Ghazali’s Persian letters and in the Kimiya as well as in the Arabic writings discussed in this article, is a far cry from Chapters II to VII of Part II of the Nasiha which deal with topics such as viziers, secretaries, women and aphorisms, and which obviously emanate from a milieu very different from that of al-­Ghazali the Shafi‘i lawyer and Sufi Muslim. It is of course conceivable that there is a primitive core of Part II of the Nasiha which may also have been composed by al-­Ghazali. It is, however, more likely that two works, the indisputably authentic Ghazali work which survives as Part I of the Nasiha and another Fürstenspiegel written by an unknown author who moved in official Seljuq circles, had been uneasily yoked together by the time that al-­Irbili translated the composite piece into Arabic. It is now time to consider the implications of this finding for an assessment of his political theory. It could be argued by those eager to include the entire Nasihat al-muluk in the canon of al-­Ghazali’s authentic works, that in this part of the work al-­Ghazali bypasses the caliphate and instead emphasises the divinely ordained sultanate. The sultan is seen as the ‘shadow of God on earth’ and is imbued with the Sasanian concept of the divine effulgence (farr-i izadi).128 By virtue of his God-­given position he must be obeyed. In other words, al-­Ghazali – ­if indeed he was responsible for this section of the ­work – w ­ ould have made a significant move away from the central theme of his earlier writings, that is, the tightly argued concept of the dual government of caliph and military warlord. Now that it appears clear, however, that al-­ Ghazali did not write the second part of the Nasiha, such a hypothesis cannot stand. VI  General Conclusions The preceding discussion has focused on a certain number of well-­known works by al-­Ghazali which shed light on his views about government. Other works of his have been omitted, either because they yield disappointing

al - ghazali ’s vi ews on g over nme n t  | 29 results129 or because they merely corroborate the ideas expressed in his major works. It seems reasonable to argue from the evidence presented above that there is a considerable degree of consistency in al-­Ghazali’s views on government.130 The same themes and the same preoccupation with political and social stability are found in his early and his mature works alike. The ideas which he expresses so forcefully in the Mustazhiri are repeated time and again in his subsequent works. At no point can al-­Ghazali shake off his training as a faqih. There is a constant emphasis in his writings on the necessity for a Shari‘a-­based solution to the problems of Islamic government. However much he may try to bend in order to accommodate the imperfections of the political status quo, he always seeks to produce a theory of government which involves the imamate. Indeed, he cannot envisage a solution without it. Quite simply, without the imamate the umma would cease to function or even to exist. For this reason, an indissoluble link must be forged between the caliph and the most powerful military warlord, the sultan. If it is argued that al-­Ghazali did not write the controversial Part II of the Nasihat al-muluk, there is no evidence at all in his later writings that he was moving towards a theory of government which elevates the sultanate and bypasses the caliphate. Within the harsh political realities of Seljuq disarray, in-­fighting and outright civil war, al-­Ghazali still holds fast to the legal necessity of retaining the caliphate. Moreover, like his ­contemporaries – ­including the Seljuq ­sultans – ­he was probably incapable of divesting himself of the inbuilt emotional attachment which he obviously felt towards the caliphal institution.131 The sultan cannot yet fulfil the role of the caliph, even if the reverse is true. Within this framework of overall consistency in al-­Ghazali’s oeuvre, slight changes of emphasis may be discerned. It is perhaps possible to trace his increasing disillusionment with the political systems of his time in the years after his crisis and his departure from Baghdad. Indeed, one may even detect him adopting a quietist stance, and thus emphasising personal piety and the transitory nature of this world. Given the turbulent times in which his lot was cast, that response had much to recommend it.

30 | cla ssi cal is l a m Notes 1. Ed. ‘Abd al-­Rahman Badawi (Cairo, 1382/1964). 2. M. Bouyges, Essai de chronologie des œuvres de al-Ghazali (Beirut, 1959), 30–2; W. M. Watt, ‘The authenticity of the works attributed to al-­Ghazali’, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society (1952), 24–45; C. Brockelmann, Geschichte der arabischen Litteratur, SI (Leiden, 1937), 747. 3. I. Goldziher, Streitschrift des Gazali gegen die Batinijja-Sekte (Leiden, 1916), 1–112. Goldziher also edited extracts of the Arabic text. 4. This is not the only work commissioned by the caliph al-­Mustazhir and called the Mustazhiri. Ibn Khallikan mentions another work of the same name, a compendium of Shafi‘i law composed by Abu Bakr al-­Shashi who, like al-­Ghazali, was a pupil of al-­Juwayni and who was also appointed to the Nizamiyya in Baghdad (in 504/1110–11). Cf. Brockelmann, SI, p. 489; Ibn Khallikan, Wafayat al-a‘yan, tr. Baron M. de Slane (Paris, 1842–71), II, 625–6. 5. Translated by W. M. Watt in The Faith and Practice of al-Ghazali (London, 1953), 44. 6. For a detailed discussion of the different views on the exact date of the composition of this work, cf. Bouyges, op. cit., 31–2. Bouyges concludes with good reason that the Mustazhiri was written in 488 (11 January–30 December 1095). 7. Cf. H. Laoust, La politique de Gazali (Paris, 1970), 77–8. 8. Op. cit., 14. 9. Op. cit., 52. 10. Ed. V. Chelhot (Beirut, 1959). 11. Op. cit., 25; al-­Ghazali, Mi‘yar al-‘ilm fi fann al-mantiq (Cairo, 1346/1927). 12. Idem., Kitab al-Mustasfa min ‘ilm al-usul (Cairo, 1333/1914). 13. Tr. H. Darke, The Book of Government or Rules for Kings (London, 1960). 14. Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd edn, s.v. ‘al-­Ghazali’. 15. Op. cit., 36–80. 16. Op. cit., 78–82. 17. Terms such as ‘insinuate’ and ‘cunning’ are inappropriate in Goldziher’s own comments on the Isma‘ili threat (op. cit., 23). 18. H. Corbin, ‘The Isma‘ili response to the polemic of al-­Ghazali’, in S. H. Nasr (ed.), Isma‘ili Contributions to Islamic Culture (Tehran, 1977), 67–99. 19. Op. cit., 70. 20. Ibid.

al - ghazali ’s vi ews on g over nme n t  | 31 21. Op. cit., 73. 22. Goldziher, op. cit., 17. 23. Ibid., 42. 24. Ibid., 46. 25. Ibid., 73. 26. Cf. ibid., 80–97; Laoust, op. cit., 82–3, 234–5; A. K. S. Lambton, State and Government in Medieval Islam (Oxford, 1981), 110. 27. Mustazhiri, 169. 28. Ibid. 29. Ibid., 171–2. 30. ‘Revealed text’: ibid., 174. 31. Ibid., 175. 32. Ibid., 176. 33. Ibid. 34. Ibid., 176–7. 35. Ibid., 177. 36. Ibid., 178. 37. Ibid., 179. 38. Ibid., 180. 39. Ibid., 180–1. 40. Ibid., 181. The definitions of najda, kifaya, ‘ilm and wara‘ are discussed below. 41. Ibid., 182–94. 42. Najda, ‘courage and sharpness, or vigour and effectiveness, in those affairs which others lack the power or ability to accomplish’ (E. W. Lane, An Arabic– English Lexicon (repr. Beirut, 1980), Part 8, 2788). 43. Mustazhiri, 182–4. 44. It seems preferable to take sharar as the masdar of sharra rather than as sharar meaning ‘sparks’. 45. Mustazhiri, 182. 46. Literally, ‘the confirming of the truth of His messengers in the matter of His message’. 47. This seems to be Laoust’s interpretation of this passage. He states briefly that najda belongs to the ­Turks – ­that is, to the Seljuq ­amirs – ­who by recognising the authority of the caliph and rallying to him bring him the power indispensable for his protection (op. cit., 249). 48. Kayfa tuhsalu najdatuh bi-him (Mustazhiri, 182). Goldziher’s edition has yuhsil (op. cit., 68).

32 | cla ssi cal is l a m 49. Yatahajjamun. Goldziher’s edition has yatamallahun (loc. cit.). This is not satisfactory. 50. Literally, ‘Those who go repeatedly in obedience according to ability while those in their movements go repeatedly only after their passions’. 51. Literally, ‘they know only the reverting to that to which they have been tied consisting of the natural constitution of predatory animals’. 52. al-mukallafun, those on whom is imposed the duty (of serving God); a fully responsible Muslim who is free, adult and sane. 53. Literally, ‘skin’. 54. Sahib al-amr. 55. Literally, ‘firm belief’. 56. Irb (Mustazhiri, 183); Goldziher has the plural arab (op. cit., 69). 57. Mustazhiri, 183. 58. al-­Bundari, Zubdat al-nusra wa-nukhbat al-‘usra, ed. M. T. Houtsma (Leiden, 1889). 59. Mustazhiri, 185–7. 60. Cf. Qur’an, V, 19. 61. Mustazhiri, 186. 62. Ibid., 186–7. 63. Personal piety. 64. Mustazhiri, 189. 65. Ibid., 187–91. 66. Ibid., 190. 67. Ibid., 191–4. 68. Ibid., 191. Chapter 10, which follows, contains counsels to the ruler and is an early version of material which will reappear in al-­Ghazali’s later works, the Kimiya-yi sa‘adat and Part I of the Nasihal al-muluk. This chapter will be discussed later under the category of al-­Ghazali’s Fürstenspiegel. 69. E. I. J. Rosenthal, Political Thought in Medieval Islam (Cambridge, 1962), 38. 70. L. Binder, ‘Al-­Ghazali and Islamic government’, in Muslim World XIV (1955), 228–41. 71. Al-­Ghazali stands in a long line of Ash‘ari thinkers. Cf. al-­Baghdadi, Usul al-din (Istanbul, 1928); al-­Mawardi, al-Ahkam al-sultaniyya (Cairo, 1966); and al-­Juwayni, al-Irshad, ed. J.-D. Luciani (Paris, 1938). 72. Mustazhiri, 46, 73. 73. Ibid., 169.

al - ghazali ’s vi ews on g over nme n t  | 33 74. Cf. Watt, Muslim Intellectual, a Study of al-Ghazali (Edinburgh, 1963), 133– 43; D. B. Macdonald, ‘The life of al-­Ghazzali, with especial reference to his religious experiences and opinions’, Journal of the Americal Oriental Society XX (1899), 71–132; Laoust, op. cit., 90–4; F. Jabre, ‘La biographie et l’œuvre de Ghazali réconsidérées à la lumière des Tabaqat de Subki’, Mélanges de l’Institut Dominicain d’Études Orientales du Caire I (1954), 91–4. 75. Cf. J. van Ess, ‘Neuere Literatur zu Gazzali’, Oriens XX (1967), 299–308. 76. ‘Biographie’, 91–4. 77. Op. cit., 80. 77a. Cf. Ibn al-­Azraq al-­Fariqi, Ta’rikh Mayyafariqin, BM. Ms. Or. 5803, ff. 165a– b; Ibn al-­Jawzi, al-Muntazam (Hyderabad, 1940), X, 41–50; Ibn al-­Athir, al-Kamil, ed. C. J. Tornberg (Leiden and Uppsala, 1851–76), XI, 14–17. 78. The edition of Cairo, n.d., is used here. 79. Watt, op. cit., 199. 80. Op. cit., 34. 81. There is in the Iqtisad a reference to the Mustazhiri which al-­Ghazali describes as a refutation of the Batiniyya (op. cit., 107). 82. The Iqtisad is mentioned in the Ihya’ on a number of occasions (for example, II, 179). 83. Iqtisad, 105–10. 84. Laysa min al-muhimmat (ibid., 105). 85. Ibid. 86. Ibid. The terms used in this part of the chapter are imama and imam. 87. Al-­Ghazali expounds his definition of the necessities of life to embrace health, survival, adequate clothing, housing, food and above all security (ibid.). 88. Ibid., 105–6. 89. Cf. the tradition al-janna tahta zilal al-suyuf (‘Paradise is beneath the shades of the swords’), that is, fighting unbelievers is a means of attaining Paradise. Cf. Lane, Lexicon, 1, 1915. 90. Iqtisad, 106. 91. Ibid. 92. Ibid., 106–7. 93. Ibid. Al-­Ghazali goes on to say that what is lost by having such an Imam is less than what is lost by following another and stirring up discord, with untold consequences. 94. That which has not been slaughtered in the way prescribed by the law. 95. Iqtisad, 107–8. The third part of the chapter is concerned with the Companions

34 | cla ssi cal is l a m and the order of precedence of the first four caliphs, and is not directly relevant to the present discussion. Cf. ibid., 108–10. 96. Ibid., 105, line 13 onwards. Cf. the translation given above. 97. Cf. Goldziher, Muslim Studies, II, ed. S. M. Stern, trs C. R. Barber and Stern (London, 1971), 143. 98. Iqtisad, 105. 99. Ibid., 106. 100. In his biography of the Seljuq sultan Muhammad b. Malikshah, Ibn Khallikan gives a detailed account of the visit of Muhammad and his brother Sanjar to Baghdad in 495/1101–2. The caliph al-­Mustazhir received them with great pomp and placed insignia of power upon the two of them. Shortly afterwards, the khutba was said in Baghdad, naming Muhammad as sultan instead of his half-­brother Barkyaruq.   Such events as these would of course have been familiar to al-­Ghazali. A sermon of his addressed to sultan Muhammad is mentioned in the same biography (de Slane, op. cit., III, 232–4). 101. According to Binder, the caliph represents ‘institutional’ authority, the sultan ‘constitutional’ authority, and the ‘ulama’ ‘functional’ authority (op. cit., 240). 102. Ibid., 237–9. 103. Jabre, La notion de la ma‘rifa chez Ghazali (Beirut, 1958), 141; Laoust, op. cit., 115; Bouyges, op. cit., 41–4. 104. Ihya’ ‘ulum al-din, II (Cairo, 1387/1967), 179. 105. li’l-salatin fi aqtar al-bilad wa’l-muba‘in li’l-khalifa. This makes better sense if the waw is interpreted as introducing a concept which qualifies salatin rather than denoting a second category of people. 106. Literally, ‘the excellent qualities of good affairs’. 107. Mustazhiri, 195–224. 108. Ibid., 205–12. 109. Ibid., 212–24. 110. Ibid., 195–9. 111. Ibid., 201. 112. Ed. H. Khedivjam, 2 vols (Tehran, 1361 ash). 113. This will be apparent in my forthcoming translation of and commentary on the Kimiya-yi sa‘adat. 114. Ibid., I, 525–42. This replaces the section in the Ihya’ on the Sira of the Prophet.

al - ghazali ’s vi ews on g over nme n t  | 35 115. F. R. C. Bagley, Ghazali’s Book of Counsel for Kings (Oxford, 1971), xxiv– xxv. 116. Kimiya-yi sa‘adat, I, 525–7. 117. Ibid., I, 533–4. 118. Ibid., I, 537. 119. Ibid., I, 538. 120. Ibid. 121. For a discussion of the date of this work, cf. Bouyges, op. cit., 61–3; Laoust, op. cit., 144–5. 122. On the question of the identity of the ‘king of the east’ (Bagley, op. cit., 3) to whom this work is addressed, cf. Lambton, ‘The theory of kingship in the Nasihat al-muluk by Ghazali’, Islamic Quarterly I (1954), 47–55; eadem, ‘Justice in the medieval Persian theory of kingship’, in Studia Islamica XVII (1962), 91–119; Nasihat al-muluk, ed. J. Huma’i (Tehran, 1351 ash/1972), 119 ff. 123. Tr. de Slane, II, 556–61. 124. In the introduction to his unpublished MA thesis (Manchester, 1956), in which he translated Part I of the Nasihat al-muluk, H. D. Isaacs concludes that Part I is authentic but that Part II ‘may contain spurious material’. 125. Ghazali’s Book of Counsel for Kings, xxvi, xli, xlix. 126. There is a reference to a forthcoming article ‘Did al-­Ghazali write a Mirror for Princes?’ to be published in Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam, VI, in P. Crone and M. Hinds, God’s Caliph (Cambridge, 1986), 18, n. 67. I have not seen this article. 127. Watt, The Faith and Practice of al-Ghazali, 88, 110. 128. Bagley, op. cit., 45. 129. This is particularly true of his letters (nearly all of which are in Persian) addressed to rulers and prominent people of the time (these letters were probably written over a period extending from the year 489/1096 until his death). These might be expected to contain revealing insights but instead, as Wickens rightly observes, they are sometimes dull, verbose, repetitive homilies (‘The Persian letters attributed to al-­Ghazali’, IQ III (1956), 109–16). Cf. D. Krawulsky, Briefe und Reden des Abu Hamid Muhammad al-Gazzali (Freiburg im Breisgau, 1971). 130. Rosenthal, op. cit., 239, cites Ibn Rushd’s condemnation of al-­Ghazali as ‘being all things to all men’ (Fasl al-maqal, ed. L. Gauthier (Algiers, 1948), 21). Other scholars, such as Watt, have held that al-­Ghazali’s thought is consistent,

36 | cla ssi cal is l a m ‘The study of al-­Ghazali’, Oriens, XIII–XIV (1961), 122; idem, ‘The authenticity of the works attributed to al-­Ghazali’, 31. 131. As Goldziher puts it, ‘Even the mighty vassals who in reality held the caliph a prisoner, seem to have attached to the latter’s person some sort of awe’ (Muslim Studies, II, 69–70).

2 Al-Mustanjid

A

l-­Mustanjid bi’llah, Abu’l-­Muzaffar Yusuf, ‘Abbasid caliph in Baghdad, born on 1 Rabi‘ II 510/13 August 1116, the son of al-­Muqtafi and a Byzantine concubine called Tawus or Narjis, died 566/1170. He was nominated wali ‘ahd as early as 542/1147 and became caliph after his father’s death on 2 Rabi‘ I 555/12 March 1160. His accession was not, however, secured until he had foiled a plot engineered by a favourite slave of al-­Muqtafi to install her son, Abu ‘Ali, as caliph. The reign of al-­ Mustanjid was dominated by powerful viziers and court officials and it is difficult to disentangle from the sources the caliph’s own role in political events. On his accession, al-­Mustanjid confirmed the famous Hanbali vizier, Ibn Hubayra, in his post, promising him that he could remain in it for life (Ibn al-­Jawzi, Muntazam, x, 193). Although the two men did not enjoy the close relationship which had existed between Ibn Hubayra and al-­Muqtafi, they coexisted relatively harmoniously, if at arm’s length (Ibn Khallikan, tr. iv, 119). Ibn Hubayra was later ousted and poisoned by his rivals (12 Jumada I 560/27 March 1165). Having replaced him briefly by his son ‘Izz al-­Din, al-­Mustanjid next appointed Ibn al-­Baladi, the nazir of Wasit, as vizier. This proved an unpopular choice, especially with the ustadh al-dar, ‘Adud al-­Din, and the latter years of al-­Mustanjid’s reign were marked by bitter rivalry between Ibn al-­Baladi and ‘Adud al-­Din. Fearing for their own safety at the hands of the caliph and Ibn al-­Baladi, ‘Adud al-­Din and his associate, the caliph’s mamluk, Qutb al-­Din Qaymaz, murdered the caliph and his vizier. Al-­Mustanjid was taken forcibly to his bath where he was locked in until he died (9 Rabi‘ II 566/20 December 1170). 37

38 | cla ssi cal is l a m The ten-­years’ reign of al-­Mustanjid saw the successful continuation of vigorous policies, begun under preceding caliphs, notably al-­Muqtafi, and now pursued by or on behalf of al-­Mustanjid. These policies aimed at the exclusion of the Seljuqs from Iraq and at maintaining a strong territorial ‘caliphal state’. Early in his caliphate, in 558/1163, al-­Mustanjid despatched an army to Hilla and finally disposed of Mazyadid resistance there (Ibn al-­Athir, xi, 195). To the east the Seljuqs were in full decline and the main threat to caliphal authority during al-­Mustanjid’s rule was posed by Shumla, a Turcoman of the Afshar tribe, who had held Khuzistan since c. 550/1155 (Ibn al-­Athir, xi, 133; Bundari, 286–7; Ibn al-­Jawzi, x, 161, 255). Shumla had designs on the lower Euphrates area but when the caliph’s army defeated forces sent by Shumla in 562/1166–7 the latter withdrew to Khuzistan. To the west the caliph maintained close relations with Nur al-­Din. The Hanbali historian Ibn Rajab goes so far as to say that Ibn Hubayra had written spurring on Nur al-­Din to conquer Fatimid Egypt and that the khutba had been pronounced in the name of al-­Mustanjid on Shirkuh’s third campaign into Egypt (Dhayl, i, 28). Although the sources generally agree that the ‘Abbasid khutba was finally declared in Cairo in 567/1171, there is, however, good reason to assume that under the influence of Ibn Hubayra and other Hanbalis there had been encouragement from al-­Mustanjid for Nur al-­Din’s activities in Egypt. According to Ibn Khallikan, ‘Imad al-­Din al-­Isfahani was sent by Nur al-­Din on a mission to al-­Mustanjid’s court (iv, 301). The reign of al-­ Mustanjid witnessed the continuing flowering of Hanbalism. Al-­Mustanjid is praised by Ibn al-­Jawzi for his honouring of ‘Abd al-­Qadir al-­Jilani and himself (x, 194, 233). Indeed, a lost work of Ibn al-­ Jawzi on preaching was entitled Kitab al-Mustanjid (Sibt b. al-­Jawzi, 487–8). The caliph held an annual festivity in Rajab to which religious notables and Sufis were invited, and on one such occasion he married the daughter of his paternal uncle Abu Nasr b. al-­Mustazhir (ibid., 251, 267–8). Al-­Mustanjid is blamed, however, in the sources for the death of the scholar Ibn Hamdun (d. 562/1166), who had served as his sahib diwan al-zimam. Ibn Hamdun fell from grace because of alleged anti-­caliphal comments in his writings (Ibn Khallikan, iii, 91). Al-­Mustanjid is described as brown-­skinned, of average stature, with a long beard (Ibn al-­Athir, xi, 236; Sibt, 284). He was famous as a poet and for his first-­hand knowledge of astronomy. His scholarly reputa-

al-musta nji d  | 39 tion is confirmed by Benjamin of Tudela, who visited Baghdad in the 1160s and praises al-­Mustanjid for his erudition and his tolerance towards the Jews. Bibliography Sources Benjamin of Tudela, The Itinerary of Rabbi Benjamin of Tudela, tr. and ed. M. N. Adler, London 1907, 35–42. al-­Bundari, Zubdat al-nusra wa-nukhbat al-‘usra, in M. T. Houtsma, Recueil de textes relatifs à l’histoire des Seljoucides, Leiden 1889, 290–2. al-­Husayni, Akhbar al-dawla al-Saljuqiyya, ed. M. Iqbal, Lahore 1933, 154, 167. Ibn al-­Athir, al-Kamil fi’l-ta’rikh, ed. C. J. Tornberg, Leiden and Uppsala 1851–76, x, 169–70, 195, 211–12, 216–17, 219, 229–30, 236–8. Ibn al-­Azraq, Ta’rikh Mayyafariqin, ms. BL. Or. 5803, ff. 182b, 183a, 186a, 189a–b, 191a, 193b, 194a. Ibn al-­Jawzi, al-Muntazam fi ta’rikh al-muluk wa’l-umam, ed. F. Krenkow, Hyderabad 1940, x, 192–4, 232–3. Ibn Kathir, al-Bidaya wa’l-nihaya fi’l-ta’rikh, editor unidentified, Cairo 1929–32, xii, 258, 267, 270. Ibn Khallikan, Kitab Wafayat al-a‘yan wa anba’ abna’ al-zaman, tr. W. M. de Slane, Paris 1838–42, iii, 91–2, 163–4, 301; iv, 119. Ibn Rajab, Kitab al-Dhayl ‘ala Tabaqat al-Hanabila, Cairo 1952, i, 258. Sibt b. al-­Jawzi, Mir’at al-zaman, viii/1, Hyderabad 1951, 233–5, 251, 255, 260, 262, 267–8, 271, 282, 284–5. Studies Encyclopaedia of Islam, 1st edn, art: al-Mustandjid. H. Mason, Two statesmen of medieval Islam, The Hague 1972, 69–76.

3 Al-­Mustansir

A

l-­ Mustansir bi’llah, Abu Ja‘far al-­ Mansur, ‘Abbasid caliph (623– 40/1226–42). He was born in Safar 588/February–March 1192, the eldest son of al-­Zahir; his mother was a Turkish slave. He was proclaimed caliph after his father’s death on 13 Rajab 623/11 July 1226 (Ibn al-­Athir, xii, 298). It is difficult to interpret from surviving sources the extent to which the caliph himself played a significant role in political events. It is especially regrettable that two works which dealt with his caliphate have not survived: a monograph by Ibn al-­Sa‘i (d. 674/1276 entitled I‘tibar al-mustabsir fi akhbar al-Mustansir which is quoted by later authors such as Ibn Kathir (Bidaya, xiii, 139) and al-­Irbili (Khulasat, 287–8); and the history of Baghdad by Ibn al-­ Najjar (d. 643/1245) which was used by al-­Dhahabi and al-­Suyuti. The sources present a confused picture of the chronology and names of al-­Mustansir’s viziers and other prominent officials. The exact balance of power between these men is not clear. At least two major figures at the caliphal court were Shi‘is: Muhammad al-­Qummi who had served under al-­Nasir and al-­Zahir and who is described as katib al-insha’ (Ibn al-­Dubaythi, i, 134) and as wazir (Sibt, Mir’at, 523, 533; Ibn al-­Tiqtaqa, 568); and Mu’ayyad al-­Din al ‘Alqami who became deputy wazir (al-­Irbili, Khulasat, 289) or ustadh al-dar and later served as wazir of al-­Musta‘sim, the last ‘Abbasid caliph of Baghdad (Ibn Kathir, op. cit., 139); it was he who was to be blamed later for treacherous complicity with the Mongols. According to Ibn al-­Tiqtaqa (loc. cit.), al-­Qummi was later replaced as wazir by Nasir al-­Din b. Muhammad b. al-­Naqid, who remained in power until al-­Mustansir’s death. Ibn Wasil reports that the most powerful officials in al-­Mustansir’s reign were the 40

al-musta nsi r  | 41 military commander Iqbal al-­Sharabi and the ustadh al-dar Ibn al-‘Alqami, who were responsible for installing al-­Musta‘sim as caliph after al-­Mustansir’s death, an event which was briefly concealed to allow the succession to be arranged (op. cit., 318). Information on al-­Mustansir’s reign remains lacunary: random in its occurrence and of very unequal importance. Entire areas of his life and activities are simply not recorded. His caliphate spans an uneasy lull between Mongol onslaughts. The first years of his reign were dominated by the flamboyant career of Jalal al-­Din Khwarazmshah, who was seen by contemporaries as a buffer between the Mongols and the Muslim world (Ibn Wasil, iv, 323). The sources devote much more attention to him than to al-­Mustansir; at this stage of his career he was campaigning principally in Iraq, the Jazira and western Persia. Jalal al-­Din seems to have harboured bellicose intentions towards the caliph (Ibn al-­Athir, xii, 276–8). Moreover, Sibt b. al-­Jawzi mentions a letter from al-­Mustansir to Jalal al-­Din, reproaching him for his treatment of his fellow Muslims (op. cit., 668). The other political events of al-­Mustansir’s reign mentioned in the sources reveal the caliph as a petty territorial ruler and arbitrator. The ruler of Irbil, Muzaffar al-­Din Kökbüri, the brother-­in-­law of Salah al-­Din (Saladin), being without male issue, had bequeathed the city to al-­Mustansir. However, on Kökbüri’s death, the caliph had to send an army under his military commander, the eunuch Iqbal al-­Sharabi (Ibn Taghribirdi, vi, 346), to besiege Irbil before it finally surrendered on 17 Shawwal 630/27 July 1233 (Sibt, 568; Ibn Kathir, 135). Al-­Mustansir seems also to have mediated between various political factions. Thus he arbitrated in disputes in ‘Iraq between Kökbüri and Badr al-­Din Lu’lu’ (Sibt, 680–1) and between the Ayyubids al-­Malik al-­Nasir Dawud and al-­Malik al-­Kamil (Ibn Wasil, 100–2). Like his grandfather al-­Nasir, al-­Mustansir stands out as a great patron of architecture. Indeed, the most significant event of the second half of his reign was undoubtedly the establishment of the Mustansiriyya madrasa in Baghdad. The building and inaugural ceremony of this monument are described in some detail in the sources, notably the Hawadith al-jami‘a, wrongly attributed to Ibn al-­Fuwati; (cf. Rosenthal’s discussion of the authorship of this work) and were analysed by ‘Awwad in a pioneering article written in 1945 (cf. Bibliography). On instructions from the caliph, the foundations

42 | cla ssi cal is l a m of the madrasa were laid in 625/1227 (Hawadith, 53) and the building was completed in 631/1234. The official opening of the Mustansiriyya was held on 5 Rajab 631/7 April 1234 while the caliph watched the proceedings from a belvedere in the centre of one of the iwans (ibid.; Ibn Kathir, xiii, 149). The Mustansiriyya housed all four Sunni madhhabs (cf. the inscription over the door of the madrasa, published by Herzfeld, ii, 164), each of which were represented by their leading ‘ulama’ at the inaugural ceremony. According to Ibn Battuta, each madhhab had its own iwan (op. cit., 109). The building also included a dar al-hadith, a dar al-Qur’an, hospital, kitchen, bath and library. The caliph was involved personally in building up the magnificent library of the Mustansiriyya (cf. Eche, 172–7). To this library the caliph brought valuable models of calligraphy, such as examples of the ‘well-­proportioned script’ (al-khutut al-mansuba) of the famous Buyid calligrapher Ibn al-­Bawwab and his illustrious predecessor Ibn Muqla (Sibt, 739). The caliph also endowed the library with the best books on fiqh, literature and science (Hawadith, 54). At the invitation of al-­Mustansir, desirous no doubt to eclipse the fame of the fifth/eleventh-­century Nizamiyya madrasa in the same city, prestigious scholars were brought to work in the Mustansiriyya. They included the historians Ibn al-­Sa‘i, who served as librarian for a while (Ibn al-‘Imad, v, 343) and Ibn al-­Najjar, who was the principal Shafi‘i mudarris there (al-­Kutubi, Fawat, ii, 522). Although much scholarly attention has been focused on the Mustansiriyya (cf. Bibliography), there remains much to be said about its function within its own historical context. In particular, it is noteworthy that the Mustansiriyya was the first madrasa to be founded by a caliph. It was also (even more importantly) the first universal Sunni madrasa: the patrons of earlier madrasas had been amirs, high officials such as wazirs, and occasionally sultans. It built boldly upon the already existing practice of founding madrasas designed for more than one madhhab, and took the decisive further step of catering for all four madhhabs. Moreover, al-­Mustansir chose to build a madrasa, not a mosque or a mausoleum, which were traditionally the preferred buildings for a ruler wishing to perpetuate his name. Why choose a madrasa? The key reason may be that by building the Mustansiriyya the caliph established a teaching institution for all Muslims, not just for the people of Baghdad alone. There is other telling evidence which clearly points to wider and more

al-musta nsi r  | 43 grandiose aims on the part of the caliph. Firstly, certain features of this particular madrasa are unusual or suggestive. One of the crowning glories of the Mustansiriyya was its magnificent riparian inscription of historical content which specifically names the caliph himself. This gigantic inscription, although following local architectural traditions in certain respects, nevertheless decisively flouted convention by its sheer size and lavish rendering. It appears to have been (at least so far as surviving evidence indicates) the largest and longest cursive inscription known in the Islamic world up to that time, and like some vast hoarding it proclaimed its presence to anyone approaching the madrasa by river. Thus the privileged and unusual location of the madrasa was manipulated for propagandist purposes. Secondly, the Mustansiriyya also boasted a highly sophisticated and lavishly adorned zodiacal clepsydra which was similar to those described by al-­Jazari and which bore unmistakable royal and cosmological connotations (al-­Irbili, Khulasat, 287–8 (quoting Ibn al-­Sa‘i)). In addition to its scholarly functions, the Mustansiriyya was used by the caliph in his role as arbitrator to receive visiting potentates, such as Badr al-­Din Lu’lu’ of Mosul and Nasir al-­Din Dawud of Damascus in 633/1235 (Ibn Wasil, v, 100–2) and Nur al-­Din Arslanshah of Shahrazur the following year (Hawadith, 89). It is perhaps not too fanciful to argue that al-­Mustansir intended the Mustansiriyya to serve as a symbol of Islamic unity under the auspices of a revitalised ‘Abbasid caliphate. Al-­Mustansir may well have been attempting to continue and elaborate the grandiose universalist policies of his grandfather al-­Nasir. In one sense, the decision to house all Sunni madhhabs under one roof was no abrupt innovation; it was merely a logical extension of al-­Nasir’s decision to limit the appointment of qadis to the four madhhabs, a confirmation of the status quo which had prevailed since the demise of the Zahiri madhhab around 475/1082 (cf. Makdisi, 6). Al-­Mustansir is described by Sibt b. al-­Jawzi as having ‘no fanaticism for one particular madhhab’ and is shown as behaving in a conciliatory way towards the Shi‘is whose shrines he visited (op. cit., 739–41). Moreover, a major figure in al-­Nasir’s revitalised caliphate had been Shihab al-­Din ‘Umar al-­Suhrawardi (d. 632/1234). As the most prominent Sufi of his time at Baghdad, it is quite conceivable that he had been influential in the education of al-­Mustansir and that he continued to influence him whilst he was caliph.

44 | cla ssi cal is l a m Most of the extant historical sources date from the period after the Mongol capture of Baghdad. Overshadowed by this cataclysmic event, they may well have distorted the perspective of al-­Mustansir’s reign as seen by his contemporaries. The historical evidence of the Mustansiriyya, unaffected as it is by ex post facto commentary is thus even more important. It may well be that al-­Mustansir intended this building to be an instrument for continuing the policies initiated by al-­Nasir, and to create under the caliphal banner some kind of unity amongst the Muslims whose territories bordered his own. Such a task was given added urgency by the recent Mongol onslaught on the eastern Islamic world. A political regrouping of the remaining Muslim powers in that area was therefore imperative. Al-­Nasir had tried to encourage Muslim cooperation through establishing equal status for all four Sunni madhhabs, through promoting Sufism and through a pan-­ Islamic futuwwa. Whilst there is a little positive evidence for al-­Mustansir’s involvement in the futuwwa, it is unlikely that he discontinued this aspect of al-­Nasir’s policies. Jalal al-­Din had lacked the acumen or the political stability to effect an eastern Islamic coalition against any future Mongol attacks. It may well be that by the building of the Mustansiriyya al-­Mustansir was proclaiming (ironically, far too late in the day) the paramount need for unity in the Islamic world. Al-­Mustansir also erected other buildings. These included the Khan of Sabus near Wasit (Ibn al-­Tiqtaqa, 567–8) and the Khan of Kharnina between Takrit and al-­Balaliq (ibid.; G. Bell, Amurath, 219). Moreover, inscriptions on the Harba bridge over the Dujayla canal between Baghdad and Samarra testify that it was built by al-­Mustansir in 629/1231 (Ibn al-­Tiqtaqa, 567; Janabi, plates 12 and 13). Al-­Mustansir also restored the Jami‘ al-­Qasr in Baghdad which had been founded by al-­Muqtafi and he placed in it benches on which students could sit and hold discussions after prayers had been performed (Ibn Wasil, 317). Al-­Mustansir is accorded the usual high-­flown panegyrics in the sources. More specifically, he is described as pale-­skinned, red-­haired, corpulent and short (Ibn Taghribirdi, vi, 345). As already mentioned, he was a great bibliophile. He is reported to have been copious in alms-­giving, especially when plague hit Baghdad in the last year of his reign. He died on 10 Jumada II 640/12 December 1242 and was buried in the Rusafa cemetery.

al-musta nsi r  | 45 Bibliography Primary Sources Bar Hebraeus, The Chronography, tr. E. A. W. Budge, London 1932, i, 390. Al-Hawadith al-jami‘a, Baghdad 1932, 53–8, 82–4. Ibn al-­Athir, al-Kamil fi’l-ta’rikh, ed. C. J. Tornberg, Leiden and Uppsala 1851–76, xii, 276–8, 298. Ibn Battuta, The Travels of Ibn Battuta a.d. 132–1354, vols 1, 2, and 3, ed. H. A. R. Gibb, New Delhi 1993, ii, 108–9. Ibn al-­Dubaythi, al-Mukhtasar, Baghdad 1951, i, 134. Ibn al-‘Imad, Shadharat, Beirut 1998, v, 209. Ibn Kathir, Bidaya, Beirut and Riyad 1966, xiii, 112–13, 135, 139–40, 159–60. Ibn Taghribirdi, Al-nujum al-zahira fi muluk Misr wa’l-Qahira, ed. W. Popper, Berkeley 1909, vi, 265, 277, 345–6. Ibn al-­Tiqtaqa, Fakhri, tr. E. Amar, Paris 1910, 567–8. Ibn Wasil, Mufarrij al-kurub, iv, Cairo 1972, 196–8; v, Cairo 1977, 100–2, 108–10, 315–21. Irbili, Khulasat al-dhahab, Baghdad n.d., 285–9. al-­Kutubi, Fawat al-wafayat, Beirut 1973–4, ii, 522. Sibt b. al-­Jawzi, Mir’at al-zaman, Hyderabad 1951, viii/2, 643, 668, 680–1, 739–41, 747. al-­Suyuti, History of the Caliphs, tr. H. S. Jarrett, Calcutta 1881, 486–90. Secondary Sources ‘Awwad, K., al-Madrasa al-Mustansiriyya bi-Baghdad, in Sumer, i (1945), 76–130. Bell, G., Amurath to Amurath, London 1911, 191, 219. Creswell, K. A. C., The Muslim architecture of Egypt, ii, New York 1978, 124–7. Eche, Y., Les bibliothèques arabes, Damascus 1967, 172–7. Encyclopaedia of Islam, 1st edn, art: al-Mustansir (K.V. Zetterstéen). EI 2 art: madrasa. III. (R. Hillenbrand), at Vol. V, 1148. Hartmann, A., an-Nasir li-Din Allah, Berlin and New York 1975. al-­Janabi, T. J., Studies in medieval Iraqi architecture, Baghdad 1983, 48–9, 73–4. Makdisi, G., The rise of colleges, Edinburgh 1981. Ma‘ruf, N., Ta’rikh ‘ulama’ al-Mustansiriyya, Baghdad 1965. Sarre, F. and E. Herzfeld, Archäologische Reise im Euphrat und Tigris-Gebiet, ii, Berlin 1920, 161–5. Schmid, H., Die Madrasa des Kalifen al-Mustansir in Baghdad, Mainz 1980.

4 Al-­Mustarshid

A

l-­Mustarshid bi’llah, Abu Mansur al-­Fadl, ‘Abbasid caliph (reigned 512–29/1118–35), was probably born in 486/1093–4 (though some sources suggest a date as early as 484), the son of al-­Mustazhir and a slave girl called Lubaba. Al-­Mustarshid came to the throne after his father’s death on 16 Rabi‘ II 512/6 August 1118. The reign of al-­Mustarshid coincided with a period of intense strife amongst the Seljuqs of Iraq and western Persia after the death of Sultan Muhammad b. Malik Shah in 511/1118 and the accession of his son Mahmud. Apart from Sultan Mahmud and the caliph himself, the strong hand of Sultan Sanjar, the most senior member of the Seljuq clan, often intervened from Khurasan. There is also frequent mention of other Seljuq pretenders, as well as a series of powerful shihnas, especially Aq Sunqur al-­ Bursuqi and Zengi. The interplay of these figures with the caliph is chronicled in confusing detail and reveals constantly shifting alliances. Al-­Mustarshid initially juggled with these factions, depending on one group or another for military support. Later, he espoused the more intrepid and fateful policy of trying to rid Iraq of all these opposing forces. The early years of al-­Mustarshid’s caliphate were dominated by his bitter feud with the Mazyadid Dubays b. Sadaqa of Hilla. Initially, Dubays had no doubt hoped to wield influence over the new caliph as his father Sadaqa had done with al-­Mustazhir. The caliph sent warning letters to Dubays reproaching him for plundering Iraq during the revolt of the Seljuq prince Mas‘ud b. Muhammad against his brother, Sultan Mahmud, in 514/1120–1. Dubays responded by coming to Baghdad and threatened al-­Mustarshid from his 46

al-musta rshi d  | 47 tent pitched opposite the caliphal palace (Ibn al-­Athir, x, 397–8). At this stage al-­Mustarshid, needing military support, requested Mahmud to stay on in Baghdad because of the threat posed by Dubays. Mahmud agreed and was honoured by the caliph in a lavish ceremony (Ibn al-­Jawzi, ix, 222–3). In 516/1122–3, al-­Mustarshid sent the shihna of Baghdad, Aq Sunqur al-­ Bursuqi, to drive Dubays out of Hilla. This attempt proved a failure (Ibn al-­Athir, x, 423–4; Ibn al-­Jawzi, ix, 232). In Muharram 517/March 1123 al-­ Mustarshid decided to take matters into his own hands. Having distributed money and weapons to the people of Baghdad, he sallied forth in person to fight Dubays. Wearing full caliphal regalia, al-­Mustarshid stood prominently behind the battlelines, accompanied by prayer-­leaders and Qur’an readers. He scored a resounding victory against Dubays and returned triumphantly to Baghdad on the Day of ‘Ashura’ (Ibn al-‘Adim, Bughya, 227–8; Ibn al-­Athir, Atabegs, 25–6; Ibn al-­Jawzi, ix, 235, 242–3). The caliph also humiliated Dubays by writing to his father-­in-­law, the Artuqid Najm al-­Din İl-­Ghazi, ordering him to annul Dubays’ marriage with İl-­Ghazi’s daughter (Ibn al-‘Adim, Bughya, 226). Even after Dubays had fled from Iraq and fallen into the hands of Buri, the ruler of Damascus, al-­Mustarshid remorselessly pursued him, sending the caliphal katib al-insha’, Ibn al-­Anbari, to bring the prisoner to him. Dubays, however, had already been handed over to Zengi, who released him (Ibn al-­Qalanisi, 230; Ibn al-‘Adim, Bughya, 249, 256; Ibn al-­Athir, x, 470–1; Sibt b. al-­Jawzi, 135–6). The growing assertiveness of al-­Mustarshid clearly alarmed Mahmud’s shihna, Yürün-­Qüsh, who clashed openly with the caliph in 519/1125–6. Yürün-­Qüsh visited the sultan and warned him that the caliph was no longer docile and that he would not tolerate the sultan’s interference in Baghdad (Ibn al-­Jawzi, ix, 255–6). Sultan Mahmud advanced rapidly, ignoring the excuses fabricated by al-­Mustarshid to delay his arrival. After skirmishes between the troops of caliph and sultan, al-­Mustarshid sued for peace. Before leaving Baghdad on 10 Rabi‘ II 520/5 May 1126, Mahmud took the precaution of appointing a new shihna, Zengi, to keep a close eye on the caliph (Ibn al-­Athir, x, 447–50; Atabegs, 28–31; al-­Husayni, 97; Ibn al-­Azraq, 51). In the complicated power struggle which followed Sultan Mahmud’s death in Shawwal 525/August–September 1131 and the short reign of his brother, Sultan Tughril, Sanjar’s appointee (526/1132–529/1134),

48 | cla ssi cal is l a m al‑Mustarshid behaved in a quietly subversive way and played off the various factions against each other, no doubt in an attempt to increase his own power. Several earlier caliphs had practised such brinkmanship. But in the case of al-­Mustarshid, an inflated sense of his own importance coupled with his awareness of Seljuq division at this critical point made a dangerous combination, and his own rash (perhaps even bellicose) personality tipped him over the brink and precipitated an adventure that was to be fatal to him. When Sanjar attempted to install Tughril as sultan, al-­Mustarshid urged Tughril’s brothers, Mas‘ud and Seljuq Shah, to rebel. Sanjar responded by launching Zengi and Dubays into an attack on Baghdad (Ibn al-­Athir, x, 476–7; Atabegs, 44). The caliph defeated them on 27 Rajab 526/13 June 1132. It is interesting to note that Usama in an unnamed book of his mentions that he was present at this battle and that he saw for himself ‘the caliph’s black satin tent in which he sat upon a throne’ (as quoted by Ibn Wasil, 50, and Ibn al-­Furat, 94). It could be argued that thus far al-­Mustarshid had only been defending himself against attack. It was his next step which took the matter a crucial degree further. After the battle, al-­Mustarshid once more opposed Sanjar by proclaiming Mas‘ud’s name in the khutba at Baghdad in Muharram 527/November–December 1132 (al-­Bundari, 175; al-­Husayni, 102; Ibn al-­Jawzi, x, 29). Later that year, the caliph again left Baghdad to launch a retaliatory attack against Zengi in Mosul. After a three months’ siege, al-­Mustarshid was forced to return home, out-­manoeuvred by Zengi, for whilst the latter’s deputy, Nasir al-­Din Jaqar, strengthened the city’s fortifications, Zengi had left Mosul and cut off the caliph’s food supplies (Bar Hebraeus, 127; Ibn Khallikan, i, 330; Ibn al-­Azraq, 64; Ibn al-­Athir, Atabegs, 47–8). At this point, one would have expected al-­Mustarshid to have learned his lesson. Manifestly he had not. It is difficult to disentangle the circumstances surrounding al-­Mustarshid’s decision to set out to fight Mas‘ud in western Persia: the received version of events is as follows. Mas‘ud had sought al-­Mustarshid’s help in 528/1133–4 against Tughril, but they had quarrelled. Mas‘ud had then rushed to Hamadhan on the news of Tughril’s death in Muharram 529/October– November 1134. Mas‘ud subsequently quarrelled with some of his amirs, who arrived in Baghdad and incited the caliph to go out against Mas‘ud

al-musta rshi d  | 49 (Ibn al-­Athir, Atabegs, 48–9; Ibn al-­Jawzi, x, 36–41). Al-­Mustarshid, with heavy baggage train and official entourage, left Baghdad in Sha‘ban 529/17 May–14 June 1135 and joined battle against Mas‘ud at Day Marg outside Hamadhan (for a discussion of Day Marg, cf. Schwarz, Iran, 497–8, 926). The caliph’s army was defeated, after the Turkish amirs rejoined Mas‘ud’s side, and al-­Mustarshid and all his officials were taken prisoner. His goods were seized (according to Ibn al-­Tiqtaqa, op. cit., 521, 170 mules were needed to carry away the contents of the caliph’s camp) and his officials were imprisoned in the castle of Sar-­i Jahan near Qazwin and Rayy. As for the caliph, he was obliged to move around Azerbaijan with Mas‘ud. When the sultan made camp outside Maragha, the caliph was murdered in his tent in Dhu’l-­Qa‘da 529/August 1135, allegedly by Assassins. The body of al-­Mustarshid was wrapped in green silk brocade (Sibt b. al-­Jawzi, 156) and borne on the heads of amirs and ‘ulama’ to its burial-­place in Maragha. Ibn al-­Tiqtaqa mentions that he saw the caliph’s tomb when he visited the town in 697/1297–8 (op. cit., 522). The traditional version of al-­Mustarshid’s final battle and murder needs some revision. Most of the sources attribute the blame for the caliph’s killing to Sanjar or Mas‘ud or both. Was the caliph the victim of a trap set by Mas‘ud? Did Mas‘ud send the amirs to Baghdad to lure the caliph (and more especially, his lavish train) to Azerbaijan? This is certainly a strong possibility. All this casts doubt on the story that it was the Assassins who killed him. However, to tackle Mas‘ud head on and to rid Iraq of his deputies was clearly al-­Mustarshid’s own policy by this stage. As Usama commented: ‘It was that great boldness which destroyed him’ (Ibn Wasil, 50; Ibn al-­Furat, 94). Al-­ Mustarshid’s march against Mas‘ud was famous enough to be enshrined in the Čahar maqala, in which Nizami ‘Arudi quotes part of an eloquent khutba delivered by the caliph at Kirmanshah, strongly denouncing the Seljuqs (tr. E. G. Browne, 37–8). The reign of al-­Mustarshid represents a critical phase in the relationship between caliph and sultan, a phase in which long-­suppressed tensions erupted into open conflict, especially at Baghdad, the traditional area of caliphal strength. Al-­Mustarshid’s efforts to liberate himself from the yoke of the Seljuqs were generally praised in the mediaeval sources. He was seen as following the path of the earlier caliphs, al-­Qadir and al-­Qa’im (Sibt b. al-­Jawzi,

50 | cla ssi cal is l a m 156), and he is credited by al-­Suyuti with having revived the ancient customs of the caliphate and putting ‘life into its bones’ (op. cit., 453). Certainly, al-­Mustarshid was acting in a different way from his immediate predecessors in the caliphal office. He levied and reviewed his troops (the alleged size of his army compares favourably with those of his Seljuq opponents) and was often in dire need of funds to pay the troops (in 528/1133–4 al-­Mustarshid’s men surrounded the citadel of the shihna, Bihruz al-­Khadim, until he disgorged funds to pay the caliph’s army (Ibn al-­Jawzi, x, 35). Al-­Mustarshid also appeared on the battlefield on several occasions. Thus he arrogated to himself the traditional prerogatives of the Seljuq sultan and his deputies and revealed himself unwilling to accept the usual, albeit uneasy, accommodation between the caliphate and the military authorities. What of the attitude of the Seljuqs towards al-­Mustarshid? According to Ibn al-­Anbari, the caliph’s katib al-insha’, who was released from prison and brought to sultan Mas‘ud at Maragha, Mas‘ud told him categorically that he could no longer endure a caliph like al-­Mustarshid. He preferred someone on the throne who would ‘meddle in nothing but religious matters’ and who would not ‘raise an army, take up arms or assemble men (Ibn al-­Azraq, 73). Al-­Mustarshid was clearly perceived as a growing threat to the Seljuqs; he was an opponent difficult to mollify. Even though he had descended into the military arena and had tarnished the caliphal aura, Sultan Mas‘ud still baulked at the idea of killing the caliph in battle. Instead, the conventional device of private assassination was chosen. Al-­Mustarshid was afraid to return alone to Baghdad fearing to be killed en route and Mas‘ud refused to accompany him (Bar Hebraeus, 260). Thus it came about that he was murdered in Mas‘ud’s camp itself. Most of the sources gloss over this deed; the strongest condemnation of the caliph’s murder is given by Ibn al-­Qalanisi who, expanding on the more muted criticism of al-­Bundari, finds the killing repugnant (op. cit., 249). How then should al-­Mustarshid’s unconventional reign be assessed? He certainly made a fateful error in leaving his power base, Baghdad, and its environs. Nor was he likely to achieve frequent military successes against such hardened warriors as the Seljuqs or Zengi. Apart from the fiasco which occurred during the short reign of his son al-­Rashid, the military option was not repeated by subsequent caliphs. Nevertheless, al-­Mustarshid had

al-musta rshi d  | 51 gone a considerable way towards removing the Seljuq presence from Iraq and towards the creation of a small caliphal state in that area. This proved a valuable basis upon which al-­Muqtafi and above all al-­Nasir could later build . Not surprisingly, al-­Mustarshid’s preoccupation with military matters left him with little time to devote to the activities usually associated with his office. There were few foreign embassies or lavish court ceremonies. Al-­ Mustarshid’s building programme was modest: he is recorded as rebuilding the wall around Baghdad in Safar 517/April 1123 (Ibn al-­Athir, x, 435; Ibn al-­Jawzi, ix, 243), building the octagonal palace (al-muthammana) for his wife, Sanjar’s daughter, who arrived in Baghdad for the wedding in Rajab 518/August–September 1124 (Sibt b. al-­Jawzi, 113), and he added the great hall (the bab al-hujra) to the Taj palace (cf. Le Strange, Baghdad, 259–60). A number of prominent officials served al-­Mustarshid. These included the wazir Jalal al-­Din Hasan b. ‘Ali b. Sadaqa (d. 522/1128) whom, under pressure from the sultan’s wazir, ‘Uthman b. Nizam al-­Mulk, the caliph was obliged to remove temporarily in favour of Ahmad b. Nizam al-­Mulk. In the later years of his caliphate, Abu’l-­Qasim b. Tirad al-­Zaynabi and Anushirwan b. Khalid served as wazir (Ibn al-­Tiqtaqa, 523–9; al-­Bundari, 104, 152; Ibn al-­Azraq, 80). Al-­Mustarshid is described as having a ruddy complexion with dark-­blue eyes and a sparse beard. In his youth, he had practised asceticism, read the entire Qur’an, studied fiqh and hadith, and was such a fine calligrapher that, according to Ibn al-­Anbari, he would correct the mistakes made by his scribes (al-­Kutubi, ii, 248; Ibn al-­Jawzi, ix, 197). Ibn al-­Athir claimed that he had seen al-­Mustarshid’s handwriting, one of the finest examples of ruq‘a (xi, 17). Al-­Mustarshid is mentioned by some sources as belonging to the Shafi‘i madhhab (al-­Suyuti, 454). He was an accomplished poet (‘Imad al-­Din al-­ Isfahani, i, 30; Ibn Wasil, 51; al-­Kutubi, ii, 249). To him are attributed the grandiose words: ‘My horses will reach the land of Rum and the gleam of my blade will extend to the limits of China.’

52 | cla ssi cal is l a m Bibliography Primary Sources Bar Hebraeus, Chronology, tr. Budge, London 1932, i, 248, 256–61. al-­Bundari, Zubdat al-nusra wa-nukhbat al-‘usra, in M. T. Houtsma, Recueil de textes relatifs à l’histoire des Seljoucides, Leiden 1889, 104, 120, 152, 160, 174–8. al-­Husayni, Akhbar al-dawla al-Seljuqiyya, ed. M. Iqbal, Lahore 1933, 96–9, 101–8. Ibn al-‘Adim, Bughyat al-talab fi ta’rikh Halab, ed. A. Sevim, Ankara 1976, 225–8, 248–9, 255–6. Ibn al-­Athir, Ta’rikh al-dawlat al-atabakiyya, ed. A. Tulaymat, Cairo 1963, 22, 24–6, 28–31, 44–51. Ibn al-­Athir, al-Kamil fi’l-ta’rikh, ed. C. J. Tornberg, Leiden and Uppsala 1851–76, x, 356–8, 394–5, 397–8, 420–6, 428–30, 433–5, 440–4, 447–51, 459–61, 470–1, 474–8, 480; xi, 2–3, 6, 9, 14–17. Ibn al-­Azraq, Ta’rikh Mayyafariqin, ed. and tr. C. Hillenbrand, in A Muslim principality in Crusader times, Leiden 1990, 51, 64, 66–70, 72–3, 80. Ibn al-­Jawzi, al-Muntazam fi ta’rikh al-muluk wa’l-umam, ed. F. Krenkow, Hyderabad 1940, ix, 197–9, 204–6, 216–18, 222–3, 231–2, 234–5, 242–3, 245–50, 254–6, 258; x, 2–5, 8–13, 20, 25–7, 30, 35–6, 42–7. Ibn Furat, Ta’rikh al-duwal wa’l-muluk, ii, ed. M. F. Elshayyal, unpublished PhD thesis, Edinburgh 1986, 12–13, 26, 78, 92–4, 164–6. Ibn al-­Qalanisi, Dhayl ta’rikh Dimashq, ed. H. F. Amedroz, Leiden 1908, 200, 206, 208–9, 215–17, 224, 230–1, 237–8, 245–9. Ibn Khallikan, Kitab Wafayat al-a‘yan wa anba’ abna’ al-zaman, tr. W. M. de Slane, Paris 1838–42, i, 506; iii, 355–6. Ibn al-­Tiqtaqa, Fakhri, ed. H. Derenbourg, 406–16, tr. E. Amar, Paris 1910, 519–27. Ibn Wasil, Mufarrij al-Kurub fi akhbar Bani Ayyub, i, ed. J. al-­Shayyal, Cairo 1953, 29–33, 44–5, 47–52, 58–9. ‘Imad al-­Din al-­Isfahani, Kharidat al-qasr, i, Baghdad, 1955, 29–30; iv/1, Baghdad 1973, 630–1. Qazwini, Hamdallah Mustawfi, Tarikh-i Guzida, tr. C. Defrémery, Histoire des Seljoukides, in Journal Asiatique (October 1848), 345. al-­Kutubi, Fawat al-wafayat, Beirut 1973–4, ii, 248–50. Nizami ‘Arudi, Čahar maqala, tr. Browne, London 1921, 37–8. Rawandi, Rahat al-sudur, ed. M. Iqbal, London 1921, 227–8.

al-musta rshi d  | 53 Sibt b. al-­Jawzi, Mir’at al-zaman, Hyderabad 1951, viii/1, 70–4, 77, 81, 83, 89–92, 95–102, 109–13, 115–19, 124, 135, 140–1, 145, 147, 152–6. Suyuti, History of the caliphs, tr. H. S Jarrett, repr. Karachi 1971, 453–5. Secondary Sources Cambridge History of Iran, v, The Saljuq and Mongol Periods, Cambridge 1968, 119–27. Encyclopaedia of Islam, 1st edn, art: al-Mustarshid (K. V. Zetterstéen). Le Strange, G., Baghdad during the Abbasid Caliphate, London 1900, 259–60. Schwarz, P., Iran im Mittelalter nach den arabischen Geographen, Frankfurt am Main 1993, 497–8, 926.

5 Al-­Mustazhir

A

l-­Mustazhir bi’llah, Abu’l-‘Abbas Ahmad, ‘Abbasid caliph, was born in Shawwal 470/April–May 1078. He came to the throne on 18 Muharram 487/7 February 1094, three days after the death of his father al-­ Muqtadi. Al-­Mustazhir’s accession ceremony was attended by such famous figures as al-­Ghazali and Ibn ‘Aqil (Ibn al-­Jawzi, ix, 82; Ibn al-­Athir, x, 157). His reign proved turbulent. By the time of his accession, the stability of the Seljuq state had been seriously undermined by the successive deaths of Nizam al-­Mulk and Malikshah, whilst the Nizari schism had further weakened the Fatimid caliphate and unleashed the Assassins’ campaigns within Seljuq territory. The first years of al-­Mustazhir’s rule were dominated by the rivalry between Barkyaruq and Tutush and later by the protracted power struggle between Barkyaruq and his half-­brother Muhammad Tapar. The caliph was never able to turn these debilitating disputes to his own advantage, since all three Seljuq pretenders still saw the need to obtain caliphal ratification for their activities whilst allowing the caliph no scope for political autonomy. On one occasion only was there a hint of military aggression on the part of the caliph. When news of Barkyaruq’s high-­handed treatment of al-­Mustazhir’s representative in Wasit came to Baghdad in 495/1101–2, the caliph announced his desire to fight alongside Muhammad Tapar against Barkyaruq. This suggestion was rejected very firmly by Muhammad (Ibn al-­Athir, x, 225). Despite the unstable political situation, al-­Mustazhir managed, however, to emerge intact from the many, often threatening visits to Baghdad made by the different pretenders to the western Seljuq sultanate and to coexist uneasily with the various high-­handed shihnas sent (often concur54

al-musta zhi r  | 55 rently) by the three Seljuq princes to police the caliphal capital during their absences. Described in the sources as malleable, al-­Mustazhir tried at times to play the role of peacemaker and to humour the claimants to the Seljuq throne. Initially, he juggled adroitly with the numerous requests by the Seljuq princes to be mentioned in the khutba at Baghdad, but he also knew how to curry favour with the eventual victor, Muhammad Tapar (Ibn al-­Athir, x, 210). In 495/1101–2 the Seljuq brothers Muhammad and Sanjar, unhappy with Barkyaruq’s rule (al-­Husayni, 77), were received in solemn ceremony by al-­Mustazhir clad in full caliphal regalia. Al-­Mustazhir honoured both Muhammad and Sanjar with the gifts customary to the rank of sultan and he then had the khutba pronounced in Muhammad’s name (ibid.; al-­Bundari (sub anno 496), 261; Ibn al-­Jawzi, ix, 130; Ibn Khallikan, quoting the lost Seljuq history of al-­Hamadhani, tr. de Slane, iii. 233). The struggle between Muhammad and Barkyaruq continued, however. In 496/1102–3 the caliph seems to have been temporarily unsure as to which candidate to support and omitted any reference whatsoever to the sultan in the khutba (Ibn al-­Athir, x, 245; Ibn al-­Jawzi, ix, 132). Stability was finally secured with the death of Barkyaruq in 498/1105. The disturbed period of al-­Mustazhir’s caliphate favoured intensified activity from the Assassins, although Muhammad Tapar, once firmly established in power after 498/1105, made determined efforts to quell them. At the very beginning of al-­Mustazhir’s reign, al-­Ghazali, on the evidence of the Munqidh (44), had been commissioned by the caliph himself to write the work usually known as the Kitab al-Mustazhiri, in which he set out to prove the legitimacy of the ‘Abbasid caliphate and to refute the claims of the Isma‘ili imamate (this is confirmed by Ibn al-­Jawzi, ix, 170). Underlying al-­Ghazali’s arguments, however, was a veiled plea to the sixteen-­year-­old caliph to reach a modus vivendi with the military might of the Seljuq Turks and to avoid the tensions which had been stirred up between caliph and sultan, al-­Muqtadi and Malikshah, during the latter’s last visit to Baghdad in 485/1092. Al-­Ghazali’s warning was generally heeded by al-­Mustazhir. When fear of Assassin activity was at its height, he did, however, intervene with Sultan Muhammad on one occasion in 504/1110–11 and persuaded him not to execute the Shafi‘i faqih al-­Kiya al-­Harrasi, a former pupil of

56 | cla ssi cal is l a m al‑Juwayni, who had been accused of Isma‘ili sympathies (Ibn al-­Athir, x, 221; Ibn al-­Jawzi, ix, 129–30). The role and importance of al-­Mustazhir’s officials remain imprecise, although a number of names are mentioned in the sources. The office of caliph’s wazir was still dominated by the Banu Jahir. At the beginning of his reign, al-Mustazhir reappointed ‘Amid al-­Dawla Ibn Jahir, who had served the two preceding caliphs in the post (Ibn al-­Jawzi, ix, 82). He was, however, arrested in Ramadan 493/July–August 1100 (probably at the instigation of Barkyaruq, whose coffers were enriched through mulcting Ibn Jahir) and he died in prison in the caliphal palace the following month (Ibn al-­Jawzi, ix, 118; Ibn al-­Athir, x, 203). A prominent figure in the early years of al-­Mustazhir’s reign was the Mazyadid ruler of al-­Hilla, Sadaqa, ‘the king of the Arabs’ (d. 501/1107–8), who sought to gain ascendancy over the caliph. Sadaqa was involved in 500/1106–7 in the dismissal of his wazir, Za‘im al-­Ru’asa’ Ibn Jahir, who had been appointed in 496/1102–3 to the same office as his brother (Ibn al-­Tiqtaqa, 517; Ibn al-­Jawzi, ix, 149; Ibn al-­Athir, x, 251). Proof of Sadaqa’s status vis-­à-vis the caliph is furnished by Ibn Khallikan’s account of his standing on the right of the throne at the official reception for Muhammad and Sanjar in 495/1101–2 (loc. cit.). After the dismissal of Za‘im al-­Ru’asa’ Ibn Jahir, the caliph was moved to raze his house to the g­ round – i­t had allegedly been built with the ‘ill-­gotten gains’ of his father (Ibn al-­Jawzi, ix, 149; Ibn al-­Athir, x, 305). Nevertheless, Ibn Jahir was reappointed as the caliph’s wazir in 502/1108–9 and remained in office until his death in 507/1113–14 (Ibn al-­Athir, x, 329, 349; Ibn al-­Jawzi, ix, 182). The sources say very little about al-­Mustazhir in the latter part of his reign, a clear indication that sultan Muhammad had achieved firm political control over him. The advent of the Crusaders impinged very little on al-­Mustazhir’s activities. As early as 491/1097–8, the caliph had written to Barkyaruq urging him to go to war against the Crusaders before their power increased. This request was not followed up (Ibn al-­Athir, x, 191; Ibn al-­Jawzi, ix, 105). Between 500/1106–7 and 505/1111–12 Syrian fugitives and dispossessed rulers visited Baghdad seeking help against the Crusaders, but this was barely forthcoming. Indeed, when on one occasion the arrival of certain Aleppan notables in Baghdad coincided with the festivities for the caliph’s marriage to the sister

al-musta zhi r  | 57 of Sultan Muhammad, ‘Isma Khatun, in 504/1110–11, al-­Mustazhir was clearly irritated and asked them to leave (Ibn al-­Qalanisi, 173). A year later, however, after a further Syrian delegation to Baghdad, Mawdud was finally sent out against the Crusaders (Ibn al-­Athir, x, 340). Al-­Mustazhir is praised in the sources in conventional panegyrical terms. He is described as a poet and fine calligrapher. He also sponsored new building programmes. In Rabi‘ II 488/April–May 1095 he began building the wall of the harim which comprised a large part of eastern Baghdad (Ibn al-­Athir, x, 172; Ibn al-­Jawzi, ix, 85). Later, between 503/1109 and 507/1113, he built a new palace known as the Dar al-Rayhaniyyin (for a detailed description, cf. Le Strange, 272–3). Al-­Mustazhir died of a throat tumour four months after Sultan Muhammad on 16 Rabi‘ II 512/6 August 1118 aged forty-­one. His body was washed by Ibn ‘Aqil and prayers were recited over him by his son and wali ‘ahd, the future caliph al-­Mustarshid. Al-­Mustazhir was buried initially in the caliphal place. Later, his body was moved to the Rusafa cemetery alongside his caliphal predecessors. Ibn al-­Athir wryly observes that as with the deaths of Alp Arslan and Malikshah, which were quickly followed by those of the caliphs al-­Qa’im and al-­Muqtadi, the caliph al-­Mustazhir died very shortly after Sultan Muhammad (x, 375). Bibliography Primary Sources Bar Hebraeus, Chronography, tr. E. A. W. Budge, London 1932, i, 232–3, 248. al-­Bundari, Zubdat al-nusra wa-nukhbat al-‘usra, in M. T. Houtsma, Recueil de textes relatifs à l’histoire des Seljoucides, Leiden 1889, 83, 95, 119, 261. al-­Ghazali, Kitab Fada’ih al-Batiniyya wa-fada’il al-Mustazhiriyya, ed. A. Badawi, Cairo 1382/1964. al-­Ghazali, al-Munqidh min al-dalal, tr. W. M. Watt, London 1953, 44. al-­Husayni, Akhbar al-dawla al-Saljukiyya, ed. M. Iqbal, Lahore 1933, 75, 77, 81, 83, 96. Ibn al-­Athir, al-Kamil fi’l-ta’rikh, ed. C. J. Tornberg, Leiden and Uppsala 1851–76, x, 153–8, 171–2, 191, 196–9, 203–4, 208–10, 221–3, 225, 231, 242, 245–6, 248, 251, 287–8, 305, 316–18, 330, 339, 349, 360, 374–5. Ibn al-­Azraq, Ta’rikh al-Fariqi, ed. B. A. L. ‘Awad, Cairo 1959, 242, 265, 284–5. Ibn al-­Jawzi, al-Muntazam fi ta’rikh al-muluk, wa’l umam, ed. F. Krenkow,

58 | cla ssi cal is l a m Hyderabad 1940, ix, 81–5, 97, 112–14, 118, 123–4, 130–2, 141–3, 149, 155, 157, 159, 166, 168–70, 172, 175, 182, 184, 196–8, 200. Ibn al-­Qalanisi, Dhayl Ta’rikh Dimashq, ed. H. F. Amedroz, Leiden 1908, 125–6, 139, 147, 173, 193–7, 200. Ibn al-­Tiqtaqa, Fakhri, tr. E. Amar, Paris 1910, 516–19. Sibt b. al-­Jawzi, Mir’at al-zaman, Hyderabad 1951, viii/1, 8, 11, 13–14, 18, 23–4, 27, 37–8, 43, 55–6, 62, 70–1, 73–4. Secondary sources Cambridge History of Iran, v, The Saljuq and Mongol Periods, Cambridge 1968, 102–18. Encyclopaedia of Islam, 1st edn, art: Al-Mustazhir (K. V. Zetterstéen). Le Strange, G., Baghdad during the Abbasid Caliphate, London 1900, 272–3, 279.

6 Some Aspects of al-­Ghazali’s Views on Beauty

Into every beautiful object there enters something immeasurable and divine Emerson When man achieves the pleasure of intimacy with the Beauty of the Divine Presence he cannot refrain for one moment from the contemplation of that Beauty; gazing upon that Beauty becomes Paradise for him al-­Ghazali, Kimiya-yi sa‘adat

Introduction

T

o discuss al-­Ghazali’s views on beauty in a comprehensive and systematic way is beyond the scope of a short article. It would be a rewarding task in itself but would involve a search through all his many works written in diverse genres. Such a task should nevertheless be undertaken in spite of the contentious issue of authenticity which besets a number of the works attributed to him. In view of this continuing and probably insoluble problem,1 the following discussion will be restricted deliberately to three works which have been attributed with confidence to al-­Ghazali, namely the Ihya’ ‘ulum al-din;2 its so-­called ‘summary’ in Persian, the Kimiya-yi sa‘adat:3 and the treatise on the Beautiful Names of God, Kitab al-maqsad al-asna fi sharh asma’ Allah al-husna.4 The topic of beauty in the works of al-­Ghazali has already been touched upon by Richard Ettinghausen,5 although he himself admitted that his aim was simply to present relevant excerpts which had all been translated into 59

60 | cla ssi cal is l a m English or German already. Ettinghausen’s article forms a useful digest of some of al-­Ghazali’s comments on beauty. But these are treated within the context of the preoccupations of the art historian seeking to elicit hints of some kind of aesthetic theory in al-­Ghazali’s work. Moreover, the article uses only limited sections of the Kimiya and does not draw on the Ihya’ at all. More recently, Daniel Gimaret has raised a number of important points in his book Les noms divins en Islam.6 Those which are relevant to the present discussion will be mentioned below. It would be unrealistic and inappropriate to expect a coherent treatment of the subject of beauty within the works of al-­Ghazali, even within the currently accepted corpus of his authentic writings. His works and aims are multifarious, while his intellectual curiosity and critical faculties induced him to stray into many genres of Islamic religious writing. It is therefore not surprising that he does not put forward a fully fledged aesthetic theory. Nevertheless, when pieced together, his various pronouncements on the subject of beauty do prove illuminating. This article will begin by analysing some of the most telling passages on beauty from al-­Ghazali’s works. Thereafter the possible influences and sources of these ideas will be discussed; and finally a few tentative conclusions will be essayed. I  Human Beauty Within God’s marvellous creation al-­Ghazali singles out man as an object of special wonder. Indeed, God has made man beautiful: That which is not needed or essential but which has extra adornment like blackness of hair, redness of lip, curve of eyebrow, uprightness of stature, evenness of eyelashes and other things He also gave to make him more beautiful.7

The beauty of the human body is emphasised because it is the ‘key to knowing the greatness of the Creator’.8 Man’s body exemplifies the whole of creation and provides insights into the nature of God, the Creator: Man’s ­body – ­in its ­epitome – ­is a model of the whole world, for everything which has been created in the world is exemplified in it.9

so m e aspe cts of al-g hazali ’s vi ew s o n b e a uty  | 61 Human beauty reveals God’s perfect power in creating from such ‘a contemptible, abject drop of ­water . . . ­such a being of perfection and beauty full of rarities and wonders’.10 God fashioned man’s form in the finest harmony and most perfect balance (fi ahsan taqwim wa atamm i‘tidal).11 Yet there is another and negative aspect of this beauty. On several occasions, al-­Ghazali warns against the beguiling treachery of physical beauty. Indeed, it is to be eschewed totally. Man is defective and weak, and as for his beauty of form: It is a skin drawn over a dunghill12

This transient world with its beautifully adorned exterior resembles: a hideous old woman who covers her face and puts on a brocade garment so that anyone who sees her from afar becomes infatuated with her.13

On a more prosaic level, al-­Ghazali, the faqih, deals in both the Ihya’ and the Kimiya (under the rubric of the norms and ethical standards of a Muslim’s daily life [‘adat]) with the institution of marriage. Here he discusses the importance of physical beauty in relation to other attributes necessary and desirable in a suitable wife. His practical advice is clear, even behind the somewhat ponderous apparatus of argumentation and prolixity found in the Ihya’.14 This advice becomes almost matter of fact and brisk in the more simplified structure of the Kimiya.15 Enumerating the qualities to be sought in an ideal wife, beauty comes a poor third, after chastity and good character. Above all, a man should not take a wife because of her beauty alone. Beauty is a desideratum in a wife since it evokes love and affection in a man. It is not unimportant but one should not marry solely on account of it.16 In the context of his overall argument that marriage is a necessary institution, necessary for the propagation of humankind and for the enjoyment of licit pleasure in this world, al-­Ghazali lists eight qualities which are to be sought in a wife. Under the first quality, chastity, al-­Ghazali cites the Prophet as saying that a wife should be wanted for her religion and not for her beauty. This means, al-­Ghazali continues, that she should not be desired for her beauty alone without taking her virtue into account. On the other hand, this does not mean that ‘beauty should not also be taken into consideration’.17 If one opts for marriage it would be

62 | cla ssi cal is l a m foolish not to consider beauty as important. Indeed, such an approach is a ‘door to asceticism’. Al-­Ghazali then cites the example of Ahmad b. Hanbal who preferred a one-­eyed woman to her beautiful sister because the former was more intelligent.18 II  The Beauty of God’s Whole Creation There are many passages in al-­Ghazali’s works which highlight the beauty of the world, God’s handiwork. As already mentioned, man is beautiful but so too is the world of nature around him. The allusions to nature are generalised and vague, referring to the wonders of creation such as a ‘tree with blossoms on it’, ‘pure flowing water’, ‘beautiful birds’.19 These passages do not focus specifically on the beauty of the world per se, and they do not give evidence of close first-­hand observation. Their function is rather to point to the Divine Being behind their creation and to enjoin man to spend every moment contemplating the wonders of His handiwork: ‘All things are the indications of His power, all things are the lights of His greatness, all things are the marvels and prodigies of His wisdom.’20 III  ‘Abstract’ Beauty Beyond physical beauty, and superior to it, is the kind of beauty which cannot be grasped by the five senses. This is of much greater import to al-­Ghazali than the physical beauty of the transient world. Perhaps the most significant treatment of this subject is to be found in the Ihya’ in the ‘Book of Love’ (Kitab al-mahabba wa’l-shawq wa’l-rida) under the section which deals with the true nature and causes of love.21 Throughout his discussion al-­Ghazali stresses the links between love, happiness, knowledge, beauty and perfection. Al-­Ghazali’s argument may be summarised as follows. In order to love something it is necessary to know it. In the case of the pleasures perceived by the senses, they are loved because they are pleasing. The pleasure of the eye resides in perceiving beautiful sights (al-mubsarat al-jamila) and pretty (maliha), fine (hasana) and pleasing (mustaladhdha) forms. The pleasure of the ear comes from fine (tayyiba), harmonious melodies. Whilst the pleasures grasped by the five senses are shared by animals too, man possesses a sixth sense, the heart (qalb). Through this organ inner perception (al-basira al-

so m e aspe cts of al-g hazali ’s vi ew s o n b e a uty  | 63 batina) may be achieved. This perception is more powerful than what is seen with the eye. Al-­Ghazali then continues: The beauty (jamal) of concepts apprehended by the intellect (‘aql) is greater than the beauty of forms visible to the eye. There is no doubt that the pleasure of the heart (qalb) in what it apprehends of noble, divine matters too lofty to be grasped by the senses is more complete and lasting.22

In a carefully constructed argument al-­Ghazali then examines the underlying causes of love. Under his third cause, love which loves something for itself and not for any ulterior motive and which he calls ‘true, lasting love’, al-­Ghazali places the love of beauty (jamal) and the love of goodness (husn).23 All beauty when seen is loved because the perceiving of it is the very essence of pleasure and pleasure is loved for itself and not for any other reason. It is wrong to think that the love of beautiful forms (al-suwar al-jamila) is to be linked only with the gratification of passion. Perceiving the very essence of beauty is pleasurable too. How can this be refuted when vegetation and running water are loved not so that the water may be drunk and the vegetation may by eaten but purely for the very essence of seeing itself? Healthy dispositions derive pleasure from looking at lights, flowers and pretty-­coloured, finely painted, harmoniously formed birds to such an extent that by looking at them man’s cares and anxieties are alleviated, not seeking any benefit beyond the looking.

All these (beautiful) things give pleasure and everything that gives pleasure is loved.24 At this point al-­Ghazali reaches a crucial part of his argument. If it can be established that God is beautiful then it follows that He will be loved by anyone to whom His beauty (jamal) and majesty (jalal) have been revealed, for as the hadith has it: ‘God is beautiful (and) loves beauty’. It is now important for al-­Ghazali to expatiate on the meaning of beauty (husn wa jamal).25 He begins by explaining that the definition of beauty is not confined to what can be seen, to harmonious proportioning and fine combinations of colours. We may speak of fine writing, a fine voice, a fine horse, a fine garment, a fine vessel. The eye enjoys beholding fine writing just as the ear delights in hearing fine melodies. Since everything that can be comprehended can be categorised

64 | cla ssi cal is l a m as beautiful (hasan) or ugly (qabih), what then constitutes the meaning of the quality of beauty shared by all these things? The beauty (jamal) and fineness (husn) of anything lies in the presence of that perfection (kamal) which is fitting and realisable for it. So if all its possible perfections (kamalat) are present, it will be extremely beautiful ( fi ghayat al-jamal). If only some of them (its possible perfections) are present, then it has that proportion of fineness and beauty which is present (in it).

Indeed, al-­Ghazali explains that everything has its own special perfection which is appropriate for it. So what makes a man beautiful does not make a beautiful horse. What makes writing beautiful does not make a beautiful voice. What makes vessels beautiful does not make beautiful clothes. The next stage of the argument moves to the sphere of morality. Whilst it has been argued that beauty (husn wa jamal) can be attributed to objects ‘perceived’ through the senses, beauty may also be found in things which are not perceived by the ­senses – ­fine character, fine knowledge, fine conduct and fine qualities. Some aspects of these attributes can never be grasped by the five senses. On the contrary, they are perceived only by the light of inner perception (al-basira al-batina). Human nature has a propensity to love the prophets, the Companions and the founders of madhhabs even though they can no longer be seen. To take al-­Shafi‘i for example, many people have loved him, even though if they had seen him they would not have found him physically beautiful. His external form, his physical body, has long since perished in the dust but people love him for his inner qualities of piety and religious knowledge: These are beautiful things (umur jamila) whose beauty (jamal) may be apprehended only through the light of perception (basira).

The examples of Abu Bakr al-­Siddiq and ‘Ali are then given. What is loved in al-­Siddiq after the disintegration of his physical body are those attributes which comprise the concept Siddiq. These are laudable attributes (sifat mahmuda) which are the sources of fine behaviour. In spite of the disappearance of all (physical) forms, love remains because these attributes remain. What is loved (mahbub) is the source of beautiful conduct (al-siyar al-jamila). This

so m e aspe cts of al-g hazali ’s vi ew s o n b e a uty  | 65 conduct has intrinsic beauty and is not valuable only to those who are the direct beneficiaries of it: For all beauty is loved (mahbub).

Beauty is both external and internal. If one denies the existence of the inner perception then one will not perceive or enjoy it. However, anyone in whom the inner perception prevails over the external senses will love inner concepts more: What a difference there is between someone who loves a painting on the wall because of the beauty of its external appearance and someone who loves one of the prophets because of the beauty of his internal form!26

The role of music is an important link for man which can permit him to perceive the inner beauty of the moral and spiritual world.27 Al-­Ghazali suggests that man possesses an innate faculty to respond to and appreciate music. This faculty is a heavenly, divine spark within him, an inborn ability to be moved by beautiful sounds, not through the ear alone but in the very depths of man’s being: You should know that Almighty God has a secret in the heart of man which is concealed within it just like fire within iron. Just as the secret of fire appears by striking the flint and it becomes aflame, so too beautiful music and harmonious sound stir up that essence (jawhar) of the heart and bring forth something from within it without man’s own volition.

A correlation is drawn between this world and the n ­ ext – ­the heavenly world, the higher world of beauty which is called the world of the spirits. Man’s heart is the link between these two worlds: Moreover, beautiful, harmonious, well-­proportioned sound produces an image of the wonders of that world.

IV  Divine Beauty The subject of Divine Beauty has been the goal and consummation of all al-­ Ghazali’s other discussions of beauty. It lies behind the lesser manifestations of beauty in man, in the rest of creation, and also in abstract beauty. Man’s

66 | cla ssi cal is l a m beauty is of value in relation to God’s beauty. Man is beautiful because part of him is angelic. The nourishment and happiness of angels lie in witnessing the beauty of the Divine Presence. So man is enjoined thus: Strive to know the Divine Presence, to find a way for yourself to contemplate that beauty.28

Man may know Almighty God through the heart whose attribute is ‘to contemplate the beauty of His presence’.29 Man’s ultimate felicity lies in constant contemplation of God’s beauty: Gazing upon that beauty becomes Paradise for him.30

As for the rest of God’s creation, its marvels are a revelation of His beautiful handiwork but they are also indications of His own beauty: all things are the reflected glory (partaw) of the beauty of His presence.31 Indeed, the knowledge of the wonders of God’s creation provide ‘the key to the knowledge of God’s beauty’.32

It is relevant now to resume al-­Ghazali’s examination of beauty found in the Book of Love, already discussed in part in this article. Al-­Ghazali plausibly argues that if all the five causes of love which he has elucidated could be found in one person, the amount of love experienced would be increased. Moreover, if all these attributes (sifat) were present at the highest level of perfection (kamal) there is no doubt that the love experienced would also be at the highest level. Therefore he will now turn to an explanation of the fact that it is only in Almighty God that there exists such a degree of perfection and conjunction of these attributes (which evoke love). Therefore love is due to Him alone. In the discussion which follows, an Explanation of the fact that God alone is deserving of love,33 al-­Ghazali devotes one section to the ‘love of everything beautiful for the sake of beauty itself’ (hubb kull jamil li-dhat al-jamal). Here he speaks of the beauty of the external form which can be seen with the physical eye (‘ayn al-ra’s) and the beauty of the inner form which can be perceived by the eye of the heart (‘ayn al-qalb) and the light of perception (nur al-basira). When someone loves the Prophet of God or Abu Bakr, as already mentioned, it is not because of their beautiful appearance or even

so m e aspe cts of al-g hazali ’s vi ew s o n b e a uty  | 67 their good deeds. Rather, their good deeds demonstrate the beauty (husn) of those attributes which are the mainspring of those deeds: To anyone who sees the beauty of the writer’s writing or the poet’s poem or indeed the painter’s painting or the builder’s building there are revealed the beautiful secret attributes of these deeds (af‘al) . . . The nobler and more complete in beauty and greatness any known thing is, the nobler and more beautiful it is.34

Later in the same section, al-­Ghazali mentions amongst the attributes of God perfection (kamal), beauty (jamal), splendour (baha’) and greatness (‘azama).35 He concludes that since God alone possesses the attributes of majesty (jalal) and perfection (kamal) He alone is worthy to be loved.36 Thus it is clear that the culmination of al-­Ghazali’s lengthy discussion of beauty in the Book of Love is God. A similar emphasis in even more concentrated form is to be found in the Maqsad, al-­Ghazali’s treatise on the Beautiful Names of God, and it is illuminating to compare and interpret al-­Ghazali’s discussion of God’s beauty in the Ihya’ with the relevant passages on this theme in the Maqsad. In the latter work al-­Ghazali states that he is summarising part of the Ihya’. The discussion in the Maqsad, however, is more focused and cogent. God’s name, al-Jamil, is treated under the section al-Jalil.37 Al-­Ghazali’s argument in the Maqsad culminates in the following: Therefore the absolutely and authentically Beautiful One (al-jamil al-haqq al-mutlaq) is God Most High alone, for all the beauty, perfection, splendour and loveliness in this world are from the lights of His essence and the traces of His attributes. Nothing in the whole of existence has absolute perfection, which in no sense is adulterated either actually or potentially, except God alone.38

God is Absolute Beauty. His Beauty is immaterial; it is moral and spiritual. Everything beautiful in the world is but a reflection of Divine Beauty. Moreover, the contemplation of this Divine Beauty evokes happiness incomparably superior to that experienced when gazing upon visible earthly beauty:

68 | cla ssi cal is l a m The one who knows Him and gazes upon His Beauty experiences such delight, happiness, joy and bliss that in comparison with them the ­blessings of Paradise and the beauty of the visible form would be considered contemptible.39

Analysis i. Terminology It will be noted that in the preceding discussion, based as it is on detailed reading and quotations from three of al-­Ghazali’s works, a set terminology recurs in connection with the concept of beauty. The words jamil/jamal and hasan/husn are used frequently and are at times replaced by malih, mustaladhdh and tayyib. There is, however, little to be inferred from al-­Ghazali’s almost interchangeable usage of these terms. The pairing of jamal/husn and jamil/hasan is widespread, either together or when these words are used as synonyms. There seems to be no nuanced shade of meaning in the preference for one or the other term. Indeed, it is probable that al-­Ghazali used both when wishing to vary his sentences stylistically, and that he chose either one or the other indifferently when needing only one word to express the concept of beauty. It is, in other words, probable that his selection of either one of these pairs of words was not of great importance to him. What mattered was the thrust of his argument, not the precise lexicographical differences between words of similar meaning. The interchangeability of jamil/hasan and jamal/husn, however, goes deeper than stylistic preference. The ease with which al-­Ghazali uses one term or the other, or indeed both, to denote the same ­concept – ­beauty – is a reflection of a deeper Islamic reality which has its roots in the Qur’an itself. There, words derived from the roots j.m.l and h.s.n refer on occasion to God’s beneficence40 and to the benefits which man may derive from God’s wondrous creation.41 Often these terms seem to imply the possessing or acquiring of moral beauty and the performing of virtuous actions. Beauty is equated with goodness; that which pleases mankind because of its beauty, and which benefits him, is linked with what is moral conduct.42 The aesthetic and the moral coalesce, or are indivisible.43 The same imprecision of terminology is found to denote the organ or faculty through which man can perceive the inner, spiritual or moral mani-

so m e aspe cts of al-g hazali ’s vi ew s o n b e a uty  | 69 festations of beauty and through which he may be vouchsafed some g­ limpses – ­though they be muted and i­ mperfect – o­ f God’s ineffable beauty. The terms used include qalb, jawhar, nafs, ‘aql, ruh, nur, al-basira al-batina, ‘ayn al-qalb and nur al-basira. This sixth sense, whatever the terminology employed to describe it, is man’s key to the spiritual world. ii. Aspects of al-­Ghazali’s Treatment of Beauty Beauty forms part of a complex structure of argumentation on love and happiness. It will be apparent that for al-­Ghazali, physical beauty has no inherent value but that it is a sign of God’s handiwork, a pointer to man to spend all his time contemplating the wonders of creation. By so doing he will achieve happiness and learn to love God, in the contemplation of Whose Beauty lies ultimate felicity. When pieced together from various contexts al-­Ghazali’s pronouncements on beauty reveal a carefully structured crescendo, a graded ladder of beauty which begins with the beauty of the physical world, and then rises through the sphere of moral and spiritual beauty to the climax, the absolute and ineffable beauty of God. The discussion throughout is focused on God. Physical and moral beauty are but a sign of the ungraspable Perfection of God’s Beauty: Man’s soul is like a mirror in which anyone who looks sees God44

It is tempting but dangerous to seek parallels with al-­Ghazali’s ideas on beauty, for example to try to label him a ‘neo-­Platonist’ or to speak of his work as being firmly based on Islamic foundations (whatever such a phrase really means). The following remarks are therefore couched in the most tentative terms. Al-­Ghazali is careful to steer clear of the accusation of anthropomorphism. Following the Sufi tradition as shown in the writings of al-­Hujwiri and others, al-­Ghazali is careful, whilst speaking about divine beauty, to maintain scrupulously God’s transcendence45 and the utter impossibility of beginning to describe Him. Al-­Ghazali frequently uses the image of dazzling light which man ‘sees’ when he perceives the first manifestations of His glory, and which renders him insensible.46 Elsewhere he devotes a long section in the Kimiya to God’s tanzih:47

70 | cla ssi cal is l a m In His essence He is not substance or ­accident . . . ­He is not like anything else and nothing is like H ­ im . . . H ­ e is exempt from everything to do with quantity and quality that comes into the imagination and the mind, for all these are attributes of His created beings. He possesses no attribute of any created being.

This passage from the Kimiya, a work heavily infused with Sufi concepts, sounds warning bells to those who would accuse him of transgressing the limits of strict monotheism. Al-­Ghazali’s descriptions of God’s beauty remain vague and generalised. God’s beauty is beyond man’s powers of comprehension. Like al-­Hujwiri, al-­Ghazali speaks of God’s beauty in juxtaposition to His majesty (jalal) and His perfection (kamal).48 There is a direct correspondence between al-­ Hujwiri49 and al-­Ghazali in their view of the contemplation of God, in which one is ‘illuminated by His beauty’. The underlying impulse for al-­Ghazali’s discussion of beauty is that of the Sufi ardently desiring the ultimate felicity of ‘seeing’ God. Al-­Ghazali’s treatise on the Beautiful Names, the Maqsad, is important within a Sufi framework. As Gimaret points out,50 the names of God are in fact attributes (sifat) describing God in His manifold aspects. Many of these names are Qur’anic and to invoke them is a significant act of piety for Muslims. Not content merely with a ‘theological’ treatment of the names, al-­Ghazali meditates on their importance for the Sufi moving along the path towards God. The Maqsad is infused with the Sufi preoccupation of takhalluq bi-akhlaq Allah, by which the Sufi strives to acquire for himself the names (and therefore the attributes) which he knows to belong to God and by which he tries to make his own being conform to the Divine Being.51 It is not sufficient for man’s happiness and his becoming perfected that he should know and understand the meaning of the Divine Names and to believe that God possesses them. Man must strive to have a share (hazz) in them. Espousing the view that al-­Ghazali is heavily influenced by neo-­Platonic thought, Wensinck argues vigorously that the concept of the beauty of God is not Semitic at all but rather Hellenistic.52 He makes great play of the parallels or resemblances between the ideas of God’s beauty expressed by al-­Ghazali and those of Plotinus. Both writers postulate a link between beautiful images

so m e aspe cts of al-g hazali ’s vi ew s o n b e a uty  | 71 in this world and the spiritual beauty which they reflect. Both emphasise that the vision of Divine Beauty causes its beholder to faint in awe and wonder. Wensinck’s view is shared by Walzer, who is also in no doubt that the idea of God’s beauty is alien to the Semitic tradition and that it is a Platonic and neo-­Platonic doctrine which al-­Ghazali may have come to know through al-­Farabi and Ibn ­Sina – ­and which he did not find difficult to incorporate into his Ihya’.53 Here is not the place to argue one way or the other. Much of al-­Ghazali’s substratum of thought is clearly Islamic (drawing heavily on the Qur’an and hadith) and his method of argumentation is often that of the faqih. His impulse is that of the Sufi seeking the intimacy of proximity with God and the happiness of ‘seeing’ Him. And yet the upward progression towards divine beauty in al-­Ghazali’s work follows a path remarkably similar to that mentioned in the Symposium – love of physical beauty, love of the beauty of the soul (love of the beauty of institutions, the beauty of the sciences), culminating in the Absolute, Ideal Beauty in which all beautiful finite things have an allotted share: subsisting of itself and by itself in an eternal oneness, whilst every lovely thing partakes of it.54

Al-­Ghazali’s debt to neo-­Platonism remains a subject of controversy. Even in this short discussion of beauty in three authentic works of his, the problem of influences arises. Building on a firm basis of Qur’anic terminology, examples from the hadith and from earlier generations of Sufis, al-­Ghazali constructs a God-­centred, God-­orientated theory of beauty. For al-­Ghazali everything beautiful is loved because it gives pleasure. Beauty is juxtaposed with perfection. Ultimate beauty and perfection are therefore found only in God. The ultimate pleasure is to love Him. * It is a great honour and pleasure to make a contribution to a Festschrift for Professor Schimmel.

72 | cla ssi cal is l a m Notes   1. In the special edition of Ma‘arif (Vol. 1, No. 3) devoted to al-­Ghazali, Kamran Fani gives a provisional estimate of fifty-­four authentic works in Arabic and Persian (Tehran, March 1985, 6). Cf. also G. F. Hourani, ‘A revised chronology of Ghazali’s writing’, Journal of the American Oriental Society 104/2 (1984), 289–302; W. M. Watt, ‘The authenticity of the works attributed to al-­Ghazali’, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society (1952), 24–45. Al-­Ghazali allegedly left more than 400 works but clearly many of these are not his. Other works attributed to him may contain certain sections which were not written by him at all or which may have been compiled under his name by his disciples with or without his authorisation. This is a wide-­ranging problem which will not be discussed here.   2. ‘Isa al-­Babi al-­Halabi (Cairo, n.d.), 4 vols.   3. Ed. Khedivjam (Tehran, 1976), 2 vols. This work is often more of an interpretative essay on the Ihya’ than a mere summary of it. Its tone is strongly Sufi. Probably it was intended as a teaching handbook for use in al-­Ghazali’s Sufi cloister in Khurasan.   4. Tr. R. C. Slade (Ibadan, 1970).   5. ‘Al-­Ghazzali on Beauty’, in M. Rosen-­Ayalon (ed.), Islamic Art and Archaeology Collected Papers (Paris, 1984), 16–21. This article appears to be little-­known and is not included in Kojiro Nakamura’s very full bibliography on works on al-­Ghazali, Orient XIII (1977), 119ff.   6. Paris, 1988.  7. Kimiya, I, 44.  8. Ibid.   9. Ibid., I, 42. 10. Ibid., I, 48. 11. Ihya’, II, 79. 12. Kimiya, I, 45. 13. Ibid., I, 76. 14. Ihya’, II, 19ff. 15. Kimiya, I, 301ff. 16. Ibid. 17. Ibid., 311–12. 18. Ibid., 312. 19. E.g., Ihya’, III, 88.

so m e aspe cts of al-g hazali ’s vi ew s o n b e a uty  | 73 20. Kimiya, I, 4. The contemplation of God’s wonderful creation is given as one of the principal motives for travel: ‘One travels in order to see the wonders of the handiwork of God, on land and sea, in the mountain, desert and different climes, and in order to discover the diversity of created things.’ (ibid., I, 458). 21. Ihya’, IV, 254ff. 22. Ibid., 255. 23. Ibid., 256. 24. Ibid. 25. Ibid., 256–8. 26. Ibid., 258. 27. Cf. D.B. Macdonald, ‘Emotional religion in Islam as affected by music and singings, being a translation of a book of the Ihya’ ‘ulum al-din of al-­Ghazali with analysis, annotation and appendices’, JRAS (1901), 195–252, 705–48; (1902), 1–22. In view of this translation by Macdonald, the present discussion will focus on the corresponding (but untranslated) part of the Kimiya (I, 473ff.). 28. Kimiya, I, 14. 29. Ibid., 15. 30. Ibid., 4. 31. Ibid. 32. Ibid., 72. 33. Ihya’, IV, 258–64. 34. Ibid., 260. 35. Ibid., 262. 36. Ibid., 264. 37. Defined by Gimaret as ‘perfect in attributes’ as opposed to Kabir (‘perfect in essence’) (op. cit., 201ff.). 38. Slade, op. cit., 84–5. 39. Ibid. 40. Qur’an 33: 28 and 48; 7: 167; 4: 80. 41. Qur’an 16: 6. 42. Cf. Genesis, Ch. 1: ‘And God saw that it was good’. 43. The interchangeability of jamal and husn as meaning ‘beauty’ is confirmed by Arkoun in his glossary of terms used by Miskawayh. His translation of jamil as ‘beau-­bien’ is apposite. Cf. M. Arkoun, Essais sur la pensée islamique (Paris, 1984), 320, 332. 44. Kimiya, I, 47.

74 | cla ssi cal is l a m 45. Cf. the discussion in H. Ritter, Das Meer der Seele (Leiden, 1978), 458. 46. Cf. Ihya’, IV, 297:

‘No beauty or majesty may be compared with the beauty and majesty of the Divine Being. Anyone to whom something of this is revealed becomes so dazzled by it that he becomes insensible and faints and no longer sees what is happening to him’.

47. I, 125ff. 48. Kashf al-Mahjub, tr. R. A. Nicholson (London, 1976), 288. 49. Ibid., 376. 50. Op. cit., 7; cf. also Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd edn, art: Al-­Asma’ al-­Husna (L. Gardet). 51. Gimaret, op. cit., 24–6. 52. A. J. Wensinck, La pensée de Ghazzali (Paris, 1940), 24. 53. Al-­Farabi, Al-Farabi on the Perfect State, with introduction, translation and commentary by R. Walzer (Oxford, 1985), 82–4. 54. Plato, The Symposium in The Collected Dialogues of Plato, eds E. Hamilton and H. Cairns (New York, 1964), 562. It is important to note that the contents of the Symposium were reproduced in Ibn Sina’s Fragment on Love (cf. M. M. Sharif, A History of Muslim Philosophy (Wiesbaden, 1966), II, 832) and that Ibn Sina was al-­Ghazali’s major source of philosophical knowledge.

7 New Introduction to Nasir al-­Din Shah, The Diary of HM the Shah of Persia during His Tour through Europe in ad 1873

T

he Qajar monarch, Nasir al-­Din Shah, ruled Iran for the second half of the nineteenth century (1848–96), a momentous period in which the forces of colonialism and Western commercial interests were fully unleashed on the Islamic world. Within Iran itself, centuries-­old, traditional modes of government were called into question by reforming spirits, anxious for their country to adapt to the demands of the new industrial age and to be capable of defending its own territorial integrity against the rapacity of the European powers, especially Britain and Russia. Nasir al-­Din Shah presided over turbulent times within his own kingdom. He personally survived an assassination attempt in 1852. He disposed of the supporters of the Bab with a severity that shocked Europe and he executed his reforming prime minister, Mirza Taqi Khan-­i Amir Kabir, that same year. Yet the forces of change could not be withstood for ever. The first telegraph lines were set up in Iran in 1858–9 and the growing power of a new and influential group in Iran, the ‘foreigners’, became increasingly felt. By the middle of his reign, Nasir al-­Din Shah was persuaded of the wisdom of trying to encourage the European powers to invest heavily in Iran. Indeed, in 1872 Reuter was granted the famous concession. Yet, compared with the reforming activities of Muhammad Ali in Egypt and the Ottoman activities in the early nineteenth century, the Qajar shahs lagged behind. In particular, they had done little to build up a modernised army, based on Western military equipment and expertise. How did it come about that Nasir al-­Din Shah took the step, unprecedented for a Qajar monarch, of embarking on a trip to Europe? There 75

76 | cla ssi cal is l a m was certainly much opposition to such an enterprise: conservative elements at home, including the Shi‘ite ‘ulama’, were not keen on the idea of the Shah’s travelling abroad, being exposed to potentially dangerous newfangled reformist notions and falling prey to Western imperialist plots. It might also be perilous for the country if the Shah were absent for too long, for during that time centrifugal forces hostile to the monarchy could attempt to disrupt the peace and stability of Iran. Other groups, and notably the prime minister, Mirza Husayn Khan Mushir al-­Dawla, were enthusiastic about the idea of a European tour for the Shah, hoping that he and his immediate entourage would see and come to admire aspects of European industry, commerce and government which might be introduced into Iran. More especially, Mirza Husayn Khan wanted to forge links with Britain, then at the height of its imperial power, and to encourage the British to invest in Iran, to help to build railways and embark on other economic initiatives. The Shah himself was willing to travel abroad, provided that the task of governing Iran was in loyal hands. Nasir al-­Din Shah was the first Qajar monarch not only to leave Iran but also to dare to travel to infidel lands. Perhaps he was spurred on to emulate the Ottoman sultan, who had visited Europe in 1867 and been received by Queen Victoria. By 1873 it appears that the Shah and his close advisers felt that the control of the central government was firm enough for him to embark on his first journey to Europe. On 19 April 1873 he set out on a trip which was to take him to Russia, Germany, Belgium, England, France, Switzerland, Italy, Austria, Turkey and Georgia. He was to set foot again on Persian soil on 7 September that same year. During the tour he faithfully recorded his impressions of Europe in a Diary which was published back home in the Tehran Gazette. The Diary recording his trip to Europe in 1873 was not the Shah’s first attempt at literary composition. In common with Queen Victoria, who saw the need to communicate by the pen with her subjects and who had published Leaves from the Journal of Our Life in the Highlands in 1868, Nasir al-­Din Shah had already written accounts of two earlier journeys of his, one to the Caspian provinces of Iran and the other to the holy Shi‘ite shrines of Najaf and Karbala in Ottoman Iraq. His avowed aim in writing was to forge a link with his people and to instruct and entertain them. In accordance

­t he diary of hm the shah of persia  | 77 with current literary taste, the Shah avoided the stylistic conceits, Arabicised vocabulary and overblown style that had characterised Persian prose writing in the preceding centuries, choosing instead simpler language, more in keeping too with his intention to communicate with his people. Travel literature had been a popular genre in Europe since the Middle Ages. For a whole variety of reasons, travellers had gone east, to the Islamic world or further afield, and returned with exotic tales to captivate, even titillate, the taste of the European literary public. Others, such as Montesquieu in his Lettres Persanes, had sought to criticise the mores and political systems of Europe by fabricating the safe backcloth of a quasi-­Oriental world. The cult of exoticism, the creation of an ‘Oriental milieu’ which bore little or no resemblance to reality, has been analysed by Edward Said in his celebrated book Orientalism and need not detain us here. But what of the other way round? What did Middle Easterners who travelled to the West have to say about the lands they visited and the customs they observed? The Islamic response was slow in coming. In his book, The Muslim Discovery of Europe, Bernard Lewis argues persuasively that it needed ‘centuries of defeat and retreat before the Muslims were ready ­to . . . ­look at the Christian West with anything other than contempt’. To be sure, the medieval Islamic world had itself produced a vast corpus of travel literature of various kinds, but its authors were concerned to describe what they observed in the Muslim lands and, less frequently, the worlds of India and China, which they at least deemed worthy of description because of their undoubted contributions to civilisation. As for Europe, Muslims throughout the Middle Ages had viewed it through the prism of religion and were convinced of the superiority of the message of Islam, the final and complete Revelation. What had Christian Europe to offer them? Form the end of the eighteenth century onwards, however, cracks began to show in this monolithic attitude of distrust and indifference. Muslim political envoys reported on European military and strategic matters, embassies were established in Europe and young ­intellectuals – ­Turks, Arabs, ­Persians – b­ egan to study in Europe and to return home to form a key élite in governing their lands. Others in the Islamic world may not have travelled to Europe but they took the trouble to learn a European language. The influence of Europe was also felt in the establishment of newspapers in the Middle East.

78 | cla ssi cal is l a m In Iran, for example, Mirza Muhammad Salih, who had been one of the first Iranians to study in England, had founded an official newsletter in 1835. Within a year of the Shah’s visit to Europe, Sir James Redhouse, a well-­ known British Orientalist scholar, whose dictionary of Ottoman Turkish is still the standard work on the subject, had published a translation of the Shah’s Diary. As Redhouse himself observes, he has tried in his English version to keep as close as possible to the style and spirit of the original text by producing what he dubs ‘a verbatim translation’. In fact, Redhouse’s indisputably Victorian turn of phrase accords well with the subject matter of the Diary and gives the translation a very appropriate ‘period flavour’. For whom did Redhouse intend the translation and why did he write it? Clearly, he would not have acted with such alacrity in producing the translation if he had not anticipated an enthusiastic response from the British reading public to whom he wished to give ‘the same amount of pleasure’ as he had felt in undertaking the translation. Indeed, it is probable that he wished to capitalise, while it lasted, on the bubble of popularity caused in Britain by the Shah’s visit. As Sir Denis Wright has shown in his book, The Persians Among the English, Nasir al-­Din Shah went down well with the British public and for a while there was a spate of Shah memorabilia, including songs, mugs and even a pub probably named after him. Political aspirations, as well as more lofty internationalism, also lay behind the translation, as its preface reveals. In it Redhouse expresses the hope that by the effects of the Shah’s tour, ‘ever-­strengthening ties of friendly and beneficial intercourse may be facilitated and multiplied’ between the Persian court and people, on the one hand, and Western rulers and nations, on the other. Redhouse even cites examples of similar-­sounding words in English and Persian to underline the two countries’ common Indo-­European linguistic origins (p. viii). It is also possible that Redhouse wished to use the translation in order to exploit something rare in the genre of travel literature in a Western language: namely to show the Europeans, long accustomed to savouring the quaint, even exotic customs of the East, that they, the Europeans, could also be viewed from the outside and scrutinised like a Darwinian species by an Oriental traveller visiting their lands for the first time and surveying their world with curiosity and freshness of eye. Whether or not such was Redhouse’s intention, his translation of the Shah’s Diary afforded a rare

­t he diary of hm the shah of persia  | 79 opportunity for nineteenth-century Europeans to see themselves as others saw them. The Diary itself is a highly personal, indeed, idiosyncratic narrative, noteworthy for what it includes and emphasises, revealing too for what it omits. Often it reads like a court circular with its careful but scarcely scintillating lists of royalty, courtiers and dignitaries who were present on a given occasion on the Shah’s tour. At other times, however, the Diary comes alive when the Shah’s own enthusiasm for what he has seen raises his account above the banal and rather deadpan style in which some of the events of the tour are described. The Shah’s interest in the natural w ­ orld – ­botanical gardens, parks, zoos, plants, animals, ­birds – ­is manifest on many pages of the Diary. In these matters he often reveals a sound knowledge of nature, admirable powers of observation and an ability to compare what he finds in Europe with what he knows from Iran. He mentions many birds and animals by name, some of them quite obscure. Even if he did not know these facts beforehand, he must have enquired diligently (of those travelling with him or of those officials entrusted with the task of showing him round) what the various species were, before recording them faithfully in his Diary. The Shah’s interest in animals is particularly apparent on his visits to various European zoos. For example, he devotes several pages to his trip to the Berlin Zoo (pp. 81–4). The following day, he writes: ‘Today I wish to go the aquarium’, thereby implying that this is an outing of his choosing, for his pleasure, not one of the many functions which he must attend in the course of duty. That trip too is described in some detail (pp. 85–7). He is particularly struck by the sloths, which, in his view, ‘resemble melancholy, sorrowful men, are very inoffensive, and continually utter a cry like the chirping of a cricket’ (p. 87). His genuine enthusiasm and curiosity are revealed by the telltale remark that three days later he visited the aquarium and once again ‘examined that slothful animal’ (p. 95). Thus, even in his hectic schedule of farewells in Berlin, he found the time for such an impromptu and supplementary visit. Not surprisingly, once the Shah returned home, he was to establish a zoo in Tehran. The individual reader of the Diary will find different points of interest in it. A picture of nineteenth-­century royal and aristocratic life emerges with its unrelenting round of social engagements and formal occasions. The Shah certainly met many of the famous people of Europe on his trip but

80 | cla ssi cal is l a m for twentieth-­century tastes, nurtured on a diet of sensationalist journalism and scandalous revelations about the great and the good, the Diary may well seem disappointingly short of juicy titbits. Architectural historians will linger over the Shah’s comments on many of the monuments he visited. He remarks, for example, on the buildings destroyed or damaged in the troubled days of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries in France (p. 256). Some of his comments in this respect are anodyne; others have the freshness, even quirkiness, of a person observing well-­known works of art for the first time. He notices, for instance, that the Venus de Milo has truncated ­arms . . . ­His likes and dislikes are individualistic and unpredictable, unfettered by European fashions or taste. In the Louvre, he prefers Albani to Raphael (p. 257). He is exceedingly impressed by the Jardin des Plantes in Paris and is especially struck by the collection of dead animals that he found there. This was something new for him and he writes several pages of detailed and enthusiastic observations on this collection, concluding rather mournfully: Were a man actually to sit for five months in the contemplation of these dead animals, bones and birds, he might then come to understand something about them; but what can I learn in a quarter of an hour? (p. 265)

Diverse tiny details of European life strike the Shah’s e­ye – fi ­ re brigades, lawnmowers, prams, carousels, windmills, hosepipes, Dijon mustard, boxing matches, balloons, waxworks. These are all novel to him. The appearance of French nuns with their ‘white bonnets of a curious shape, like the ears of elephants’ intrigue him, although he recognises the merit of their lives devoted to the service of others. Back home in Iran, the Shah had shown a great interest in the performance of the ta‘ziya plays. In Europe he is subjected to a great range of e­ ntertainment – t­heatre, ballet, ­opera – ­but he reserves his warmest plaudits for the circus and especially for all manner of conjuring tricks in which he takes an almost child-­like delight. Some aspects of Europe, however, he does not like at all. Loud noise disturbs him, as for example, in Geneva with ‘the noise of carriages, the roar of thunder, the plashing of rain, the striking of clocks, and the jangling of bells in the various hotels’ (p. 287). He is very uncomfortable in crowds and narrow spaces. He often remarks on whether or not the train compartments are enclosed or have adjoining corridors. Above all, his claustrophobia is

­t he diary of hm the shah of persia  | 81 sparked off by travelling through railway tunnels, which he picturesquely calls ‘black holes’. These he mentions frequently in the Diary, sometimes fairly nonchalantly; but on other occasions his fears have got the better of his royal sangfroid. One such ‘hole in the mountain’ near Caen in northern France was particularly traumatic for him: ‘[W]e passed through many “holes in mountains”, one of them being about a league in length. During the transit (through these), one feels a very suffocating kind of sensation about the heart.’ (p. 219) But the worst tunnel of all for Nasir al-­Din Shah is the ‘hole’ between France and Italy. He admires its handiwork, but he is clearly disturbed by the experience of going through it: At first I closed all the windows of the carriage, in order to prevent the entry of the smoke. After a few minutes we (the royal personage himself, of course) experienced a difficulty of breathing . . . But the whole of this tunnel, of two and a half leagues in length, is very dark and terrific. (pp. 289–90)

What would His Majesty have made of the Channel Tunnel? When the Shah does record anything of political moment, it stands out in stark relief from the rest of the Diary. The reader is startled suddenly to come across a rare account of an alleged conversation which the Shah had with the Jewish banker, Rothschild, in Paris. Nasir al-­Din jokes about a homeland for the Jews. Rothschild has come to plead for tolerant treatment for the Jews of Iran. The tone of the Shah’s response is not entirely cordial; its message seems strangely prescient: I said to him: ‘I have heard that you, brothers, possess a thousand crores of money. I consider the best thing to do would be that you should pay fifty crores to some large or small state, and buy a territory in which you could collect all the Jews of the whole world, you becoming their chiefs, and leading them on their way in peace, so that you should no longer be thus scattered and dispersed’. (p. 237)

Nasir al-­Din tries to pass these comments off as a joke but he faithfully records that Rothschild made no reply. Remarks against Christianity, the religion of his European hosts, are rare in the Diary. It is difficult to guess exactly why the Shah asks the Archbishop

82 | cla ssi cal is l a m (he calls him the chief priest) of Notre Dame in Paris if Jesus used to drink wine or not. Is this a loaded question intended for his readership, especially the ‘ulama’, back home in Iran? Or is it asked out of a genuine spirit of enquiry? (The Shah’s own predeliction for the wines of Shiraz does not, of course, receive a mention here or for that matter anywhere else in the Diary. He records instead that he drank sherbet.) The assembled clergy respond that Jesus even used to make wine and drink it often. The discussion is then left in the air (p. 249). The French political system seems to interest Nasir al-­Din enough to elicit some explanation of it for his subjects in Iran. Having described the various parties and groups, he observes that with such diversities it is difficult to govern and he advocates the adoption of a single plan, either ‘a pure monarchy or a pure republic’ (p. 222). The Shah’s greatest eulogies in the Diary are addressed to the British, in a probable mixture of genuine admiration for what he perceived to be the most powerful nation on earth and of the desire, instilled in him by his advisers, to ingratiate himself with Iran’s potential financial backers: ‘One sees and comprehends that they are a great people, and that the Lord of the Universe has bestowed on them power and might, sense and wisdom, and enlightenment’ (p. 142). Nevertheless, he is moved when in Liverpool to comment on the poverty he sees there: ‘many more poor people were noticed in these parts, on whose countenances were visibly stamped the signs that they obtained a living with difficulty’ (pp. 177–8). The background and aftermath of the Persian royal visit to Britain is covered in some detail in Sir Denis Wright’s book, The Persians Amongst the English. Before the Shah’s arrival, Queen Victoria, her family and ministers were worried by stories about the Persian monarch’s allegedly ‘strange’ behaviour and habits. In the event, the visit to Britain went off well and Queen Victoria was relieved to find the Shah a pleasant guest. But it cannot be denied that the Shah’s voracious appetites for food and women were legendary and rumours of this had preceded him to Europe. Amongst the Shah’s earlier sexual antics, his dalliance with a gardener’s daughter and another passion for a small boy, had shocked the ‘ulama’ and the court alike. Such a preoccupation with the pleasures of the flesh was a characteristic he shared with many of his predecessors on the Persian throne,

­t he diary of hm the shah of persia  | 83 who had been brought up in the shadow of the harem and had little aptitude to rule. The upbringing of the Persian monarch left him isolated, aloof and aimless; the harem was the obvious place to seek consolation. Not surprisingly, the Shah’s lechery and gluttony are glossed over in the Diary. Perhaps, he was, in any case, aware of the need for exemplary behaviour when on show to the world. His Diary mentions very little about the food he must have consumed on the tour. Reading its pages, one would only surmise that he was particularly fond of ­fruit – ­peaches, grapes, melon. Oddly enough, he finds the banana ‘nauseating’. As for any sexual improprieties, there is not a word on this subject. Occasionally, there is an appreciative comment in the Diary about a particular city’s ‘beautiful women’, but if there were any sexual peccadilloes on the tour, the Europeans who met him and recorded their impressions afterwards drew a veil of silence over them. The Shah was of course not without his little vanities and these creep into the Diary. At various points, he refers to his ability to speak French. Indeed, he would have us believe that he is highly proficient in French; at one point, he writes: ‘Only that I was not so much in need of an interpreter, as I spoke French myself’ (p. 235). Yet, although he may have managed to deceive Queen Victoria on this ­point – a­ fter a luncheon with the Shah during which she had addressed him in French through the help of the Sadr-­i A‘zam, she wrote that the Shah understands French ­perfectly – ­the plain truth was that he was unable to follow a normal conversation in French without an interpreter. In spite of his upbringing in the harem, the Shah was no physical weakling, as the evidence of the Diary shows. The trip to Europe was not without its dangers. The initial stages of the journey until he reached Enzeli were fraught with difficulties: sometimes he travelled by carriage, sometimes on horseback. At one point he comments that ‘here and there I was forced to dismount and walk’ (p. 13) and that one man actually died after being thrown from a mule. Right at the end of his tour, when the joy of homecoming must have been intense, Nasir al-­Din Shah was prevented from disembarking by a terrible storm which lasted several days. One can only speculate on the reaction of his French hosts when the Shah asked to go right up close to some of the statues at Versailles. Refusing to be dissuaded from this by his hosts who argued that the path was too

84 | cla ssi cal is l a m precipitous and steep, the Shah resolved to have his way and proceeded there, accompanied by his most unwilling hosts. He comments afterwards with unmistakable pride and humour (and perhaps a little Schadenfreude): It is true that the way was disagreeable; but to us, who had seen and traversed much worse paths in the hunting-­grounds of Persia, it offered no difficulty.

Not so General Arture, who fell down, dirtied his clothes and damaged his sword. Similarly, the marshal who ascended the path with great difficulty, and with the assistance of several persons (pp. 229–30). In Italy the Shah’s stamina remained undiminished and he mounted 570 steps to the top of Milan cathedral (p. 304). In fact, the Shah is to be congratulated on his stamina and persistence. The length and unrelenting schedule of his European ­tour – ­some 138 days in ­all – m ­ ust have left him exhausted. Indeed, there are telltale signs towards the end of the Diary that betray his physical and mental fatigue. The entries are shorter and some of his comments reveal that he is looking forward to going home. Yet, in spite of all the strains and stresses of being the cynosure of European eyes he still keeps dictating the Diary. As he himself confesses once: ‘It is extremely difficult to write up our Diary in Paris day by day and in detail . . . However, all that is needful shall be entered in a succinct manner’ (p. 227). It is, of course, important to note what the Shah omits to mention or glosses over. There is no hint, for instance, in the pages of the Diary which deal with his stay in Russia that it was here that, to the great embarrassment of his Russian hosts, he was obliged to send home the women of his harem, including his favourite wife, Anis al-­Dawla, because of the problem of veiling. Nor is there any mention of the cold reception the Shah and his party had received in Russia because of his hosts’ displeasure at the recent signing of the Reuter concession. The surface of the Diary often seems opaque. The Shah rarely records details of the many conversations that he had with the monarchs and great men of Europe whom he met. Heavy matters of state form the backcloth to the rounds of banquets, parties, balls and social outings which punctuate the narrative. But the political dimension is virtually absent from the Diary. Only here and there is there a whiff of momentous deliberations behind closed doors, a hint of a more weighty agenda than the

­t he diary of hm the shah of persia  | 85 delights of European gardens, theatres and zoos. On 6 June, for example, the Shah remarks that ‘Mirza Malkam Khan has remained in Berlin to settle with the Prussian Government a contract for the purchase of muskets’ (p. 95). There then follows an account of the Shah’s own visit to the Krupp armament factory. Although the Shah makes no comment on the purpose of the visit, its serious intent cannot be denied (pp. 96–7). What was the impact of this first European tour on the Shah and on his country? Did the hoped-­for reforms follow quickly in the wake of his return home? It is difficult to tell how the Shah personally viewed his experiences. It is noteworthy and rather disappointing that the Diary comes to an abrupt end once he has set foot again on Iranian soil. He makes no effort to sum up his impressions or to contemplate in tranquillity what measures might be taken in Iran, as a result of all the momentous developments he has seen in Europe. However, he was clearly not too displeased with his experiences, since he was to make another two such journeys to the West, one in 1878 (for which he also wrote a Diary) and the other in 1889. But scholars have labelled the Shah’s first trip to Europe and its underlying purpose of binding Iran and Britain together a political failure. What were the Shah’s real motives in writing the Diary? Does he deliberately censor the information he passes on to his Persian subjects, choosing innocuous facts for them and consciously avoiding contentious or delicate matters of state, the divulgence of which might disrupt the stability of his country? Perhaps these are questions which it is inappropriate to raise. It is important not to have too high expectations of the Shah’s Diary. He is not a journalist or political analyst, nor is he a polished literature, just as the letters of Madame de Sévigné reflect the preoccupations and interests of a seventeenth-­century French aristocratic milieu, so too the Diary of Nasir al-­ Din Shah is moulded by the outlook and attitudes of the Persian royal family over centuries. The Shah had lived all his life in the stifling atmosphere of the court with its restricting protocol and elaborate ceremonial. He had had little scope to exercise independent political judgement, being only a pawn in the hand of his close advisers, his women and his retainers. Although his Diary leaves major historical questions unanswered, it is nevertheless surprisingly rich in quirky comments. It remains a document of nineteenth-­century social history which records a vanished world of European imperialism and

86 | cla ssi cal is l a m industrial and technological change, a world where monarchs behaved with greater decorum and discretion than nowadays. Select Bibliography Bosworth, C. E. and C. Hillenbrand (eds), Qajar Iran, Edinburgh, 1984, 3–14, 34 [reprinted in 1992 by Mazda Publishers]. Lewis, B., The Muslim Discovery of Europe, London, 1982. The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 7, Cambridge, 1991. Wright, D., The Persians Among the English, London, 1985, 121–40.

8 A Little-­known Mirror for Princes of al-­Ghazali*

T

he Fürstenspiegel (Mirror for Princes) genre is well attested in the medieval Islamic world from an early stage. These works, in Arabic, Persian and later on in Turkish, were written by a range of a­ uthors – g­ overnment ministers, bureaucrats, philosophers, historians and ­lawyers – ­and they approached the topic from a variety of standpoints. Such works often present a synthesis between Arabic/Islamic and ancient Persian elements and are happy to draw on illustrative models from both Muslim caliphs and Sasanian shahs, from Islamic religious writers, ancient Zoroastrian texts and Hellenistic statecraft. These Mirrors demonstrate widespread Muslim concern with just government and the nature of kingship.1 This contribution looks at an example of one such work by al-­Ghazali, probably written in the early years of the twelfth century. It is addressed to a person or persons in power in Iran in the middle of the Seljuq period. This era saw the eastern Islamic world dominated militarily by Turks, rulers whose great-­grandfathers had roamed the Central Asian steppes as pastoral nomads and who had come to power with credentials which to orthodox Muslims seemed dubious. Al-­Ghazali addresses this work to them, as well as to the Persian bureaucrats who administered the Seljuq government on their behalf. Al-­Ghazali towers like an intellectual colossus over the Seljuq period and beyond. The generally accepted outlines of his career are well known and are largely based on his spiritual ‘autobiography’ (al-Munqidh min al-dalal), and the evidence of medieval biographical dictionaries. Having enjoyed the status of the foremost intellectual of his time and the favours of caliph, sultan and vizier alike, al-­Ghazali abandoned his prestigious post at the Nizamiyya 87

88 | cla ssi cal is l a m madrasa in Baghdad in 1095 and, on his own admission, wandered as a Sufi for ‘ten years’ visiting Mecca, Medina, Damascus and Jerusalem before returning to his native land, Khurasan.2 There he engaged in the corporate Sufi life and wrote works in both Arabic and Persian.3 It is important to stress that actual chronological information in medieval chronicles and biographical dictionaries about the life of al-­Ghazali is relatively sparse; much of the overall geographical pattern of his movements seems secure, but not the precise details.4 What seems incontestable, however, is that al-­Ghazali was heavily involved in the politics of his time, both in Baghdad and even after his return to Khurasan, despite his protestation to the contrary. If he did absent himself from the circles of rulers and viziers at all, it could only have been for a short time. Perhaps the lure of power was too strong for him. A vast amount of work has been done on al-­Ghazali’s massive oeuvre, but scholars have continued to concentrate on his output in Arabic, not surprisingly since this is the language of the overwhelming majority of his books. However, it is time for works that he composed in his native tongue to receive more attention.5 This contribution focuses on a little-­known work of al-­Ghazali on good government. It is buried in the Kimiya-yi sa‘adat, al-­Ghazali’s longest extant work in Persian. This is commonly held to be a Persian summary of al-­Ghazali’s magnum opus in Arabic, the Ihya’ ‘ulum al-din. This generalisation is obviously true to a great extent, since substantial parts of the Ihya’ are omitted or shortened in the Kimiya, no doubt with the aim of not overburdening the readership for whom the Kimiya is intended with the often-­sophisticated intellectual apparatus of the Ihya’. The result of this pruning process is to produce a work which is much clearer and more direct in its message than the Ihya’, even though the spirit of the Ihya’ is largely retained. In some parts of the text one might go further and call the Kimiya an interpretative essay in the themes of the Ihya’. This is especially true of the introductory section of the Kimiya.6 There is a whole chapter (Book 2, Section 10) in the Kimiya which is not in the Ihya’ at all; it is entitled ‘On Governing and Exercising Authority’ (Dar ra‘iyat dashtan va-vilayat randan).7 The tone of the chapter is strongly Sufi. In it the ruler is exhorted to keep constantly in his heart the remembrance that this life is but transient. If he does so, he will govern justly and not be preoccupied with the passions of this world. The importance

a l it t l e - known mi rror f or pri nces o f a l - gh a z a l i ­ | 89 of the ‘ulama’ is stressed, as is the crucial significance of justice, since the ruler’s actions have exemplary value and his punishment or reward will be correspondingly greater on the Day of Judgement. The key elements of this text are as follows. After an introductory meditative section, al-­Ghazali states that justice will be achieved if ten rules, which he presents here in numbered form, are observed:   1. The ruler should rule in such a way that he is the subject and the other person is the ruler.   2. The ruler should care for those in his trust.   3. The ruler should not indulge his appetites or be extravagant in clothes or food.   4. The ruler should govern kindly.   5. The ruler should strive to please all his subjects.   6. The ruler should please his subjects only within the Law.   7. The danger and responsibility of governing should be known.   8. The ruler should thirst for the spirit of devout ‘ulama’.   9. The ruler should make sure that those in his service refrain from injustice. 10. The ruler should avoid pride and anger. So much for the skeletal outline of the text. What of the image of monarchy in this section of the Kimiya? This is not a mirror in the usual practical mould with its emphasis on the precepts of good government; rather, this little piece in the Kimiya presents a series of pious injunctions to the ruler about the principles of the faith which should be the mainspring of true Islamic government. The Kimiya mirror leaves ­out – ­and this is an important ­omission – a­ll sayings or stories from pre-­Islamic or non-­Islamic sources. Thus neither Anushirvan nor Alexander appear and there is no mention of Sasanian or pre-­Sasanian Persian concepts of government. As well as providing Qur’anic foundations for his injunctions, al-­Ghazali follows in the Kimiya his traditional habit of giving Islamic corroboration to his themes. In accordance with the pattern of other early Islamic religious literature in Persian (such as the Tanbih al-ghafilin of al-­Samarqandi, who flourished at the end of the tenth century),8 al-­Ghazali cites several hadith, followed by anecdotes or pious snippets about famous personalities in early

90 | cla ssi cal is l a m Islam. Almost half of the illustrative material in the Kimiya mirror concerns the Prophet. However, although many of the statements are introduced by the phrase ‘and the Prophet said’ (va-rasul goft), they are not easily traceable to any canonical collection of hadith. More probably, they come from a corpus of accumulated Sufi wisdom and formed part of what was taught to Sufi disciples in their daily lives. Whatever the source of these pious sayings may have been, it is noteworthy that al-­Ghazali’s intention in choosing to include them is to use the Prophet, above all, as the exemplar of model government. Other important figures in early Islam mentioned here are the caliphs ‘Umar, ‘Umar II and Harun al-­Rashid. Occasionally, too, Judaeo-­Christian figures who are, of course, well incorporated into the Islamic prophetic tradition, such as Moses, David and Jesus, are invoked. The wide range of figures of spiritual authority cited in this text highlights the corresponding absence of celebrities whose prestige was secular. What kind of ruler is being addressed here? The term used most frequently in this Mirror to denote ‘ruler’ is vali, ‘the one who governs or exercises authority’. Such a usage as this is very convenient as it embraces a variety of specific o­ ffices – ­sultan, prince, amir, wazir and ­others – a­ nd it stresses the importance of Islamic government at different levels of state administration, both supra-­provincial and provincial. Here again, then, the difference from the standard Mirror, which targets the principal ruler, is marked. Al-­Ghazali’s ethical emphasis, which makes fewer distinctions of rank than works in this genre normally do, places moral responsibility on all those who exercise power through their public office. The Sunni ‘Abbasid caliphate, whose pivotal role al-­Ghazali had stressed whilst in Baghdad in his Kitab fada’ih al-Batiniyya wa-fada’il al-Mustazhiriyya,9 is not mentioned here at all. This omission does not necessarily spring from inconsistency or shifting allegiance on al-­Ghazali’s part; it is more likely that he is concentrating here on the local context of Khurasan to which he has returned, probably some time between 1097 and 1100. Nor does the Kimiya mirror speak specifically of the sultanate, the preoccupation of a number of Persian Mirrors. There is, however, no mention of a specific ruler to whom this Mirror is addressed and its inclusion within the massive Kimiya gives it generalised validity. The pervasive use of the term ‘vali’ has the same deliberately general flavour.

a l it t l e - known mi rror f or pri nces o f a l - gh a z a l i ­ | 91 Further light can be shed on this little Mirror in the Kimiya by an analysis of its links with other works of al-­Ghazali. A comparison with al-­ Ghazali’s Persian letters gives insights into the background in which he lived in Khurasan during the last decade of his life.10 These letters were often written to named rulers, such as the son of Nizam al-­Mulk, Fakhr al-­Mulk. Both the tone and the content of these letters are reminiscent of the Mirror in the Kimiya; they exhort the rulers of the time to mend their ways and to govern according to Islamic principles. Another didactic work, the Nasihat al-muluk, has been classified as being amongst the works of al-­Ghazali, although only the first of its two parts can confidently be attributed to him.11 It is in this first part of the Nasihat, probably written shortly after the Kimiya, that the Mirror in the Kimiya reappears in somewhat expanded form. The content of both pieces is the same, but it is arranged in a different order. The piece in the Kimiya would seem to have been a preliminary draft of the longer, more sophisticated piece which followed. The relationship between the ‘little Mirror’ in the Kimiya and its corresponding chapter in the Ihya’ is more complicated. The ‘little Mirror’ (Pillar 2, Chapter 10) in the Kimiya completely replaces its equivalent section in the Ihya’ (Pillar 2, Chapter 10) which is not about government at all but deals with the life and character of the Prophet. And so the question poses itself in the most pressing w ­ ay – w ­ hy replace the section of the Ihya’ on the life and morals of the Prophet with the Mirror section in the Kimiya? This change in the content of the Kimiya is at first glance quite radical. Various possible reasons or inter-­related combinations of reasons present themselves. Above all, one may cite the following factors: the audience of the two works, the Ihya’ and the Kimiya, is different; the purpose of the two works is different; and the historical context in which the two works are written is different. But one could argue that he has kept much of the spirit of the section on the Prophet’s life in the Ihya’ by making the Prophet’s words and actions the principal exemplar in this ‘little Mirror’. It should be added in any case that the presence of the Prophet as an ethical role model is all-­pervasive in the Kimiya. In some ways this chapter of the Kimiya can be viewed as a self-­standing piece inserted into the larger work. As already mentioned, the Kimiya covers much of the same ground as the Ihya’, albeit often in a different arrangement

92 | cla ssi cal is l a m of chapters. But the ordering of the chapters in both works is deliberate and careful, and this is particularly so in the case of the Mirror in the Kimiya, the position of which within the overall framework of the Kimiya is significant. Despite its strongly Sufi ethos, the Kimiya is arranged like a standard work of fiqh; the Mirror is placed at the very end of the second pillar which deals with the social behaviour of Muslims (mu‘amalat). This pillar covers a wide range of topics of a ‘practical’ ­nature – f­ ood, marriage, trade and ­travel – ­but it deals too with more far-­reaching themes which concern both the upholding of the Shari‘a and the following of the Sufi path (tariqa). It is noteworthy that the whole pillar builds up to a climax with the last two s­ections – t­he penultimate one which deals with the exercising of hisba12 and the final one, which is the Mirror, and which reminds the ruler of the basic principles according to which he should govern. Thus the position of the Mirror in the Kimiya may be regarded as significant, both in its replacing of the equivalent section of the Ihya’ which concerns the Prophet himself, and in its being sited as the culmination of the whole pillar which deals with Muslim society. In this obvious way the ruler’s role and the paramount importance of his Islamic credentials are highlighted. Why did al-­Ghazali write this Mirror in the first place, and why did he write it in Persian? Al-­Ghazali was no stranger to political turbulence. He had witnessed at first-­hand the break-­up of the empire of the Great Seljuqs and the lethal jostlings for power after the deaths in quick succession of the Seljuq vizier Nizam al-­Mulk, the sultan Malikshah (both in 1092) and the ‘Abbasid caliph al-­Muqtadi in 1094. In the ensuing bloodbath al-­Ghazali left Baghdad, alleged by some scholars to have been motivated by fear of the Isma‘ilis or because he had backed the wrong Seljuq pretender to the throne.13 If the latter supposition is correct, discretion was assuredly the better part of valour for a man with his high profile in the capital. It is difficult to pinpoint precisely when al-­Ghazali returned home to Khurasan, but whenever that ­was – ­perhaps around ­1100 – ­the province was in turmoil. He himself alludes to the injustice and tyranny perpetrated by the Turks who: are unswerving only in pursuit of their passions . . . They do not care about obedience and can only revert to the bonds of their innate bestial nature.14

a l it t l e - known mi rror f or pri nces o f a l - gh a z a l i ­ | 93 Quite apart from the general malaise caused by the widespread local anarchy, corruption and injustice, the political climate in Khurasan in which al-­Ghazali found himself was still in the grip of a paranoia generated by the activities of the Assassins. His vituperative attacks on this ‘heretical’ group were well known and he may have continued to fear for his life, even in his native land. The peak of the murders attributed to the Assassins came during the decade 1100–­10 – j­ust when al-­Ghazali returned to his ­homeland – ­and in particular the violent death of Fakhr al-­Mulk, Sultan Sanjar’s vizier, in 1106, allegedly at the hand of an Assassin, must have had a profound effect on al-­Ghazali.15 Despite, or perhaps because of, his towering fame, al-­ Ghazali also ­experienced – ­predictably e­ nough – ­personal attacks on his Islamic orthodoxy. In one of his Persian letters he refers to one such enemy in Nishapur who, jealous of his appointment there as teacher in the Nizamiyya madrasa, intrigued against him. Summoned to the court of Sultan Sanjar in c. 503/1109–10 to explain his position, al-­Ghazali vindicated himself and made short work of his enemies.16 It is probably against such a background that al-­Ghazali wrote this ‘little Mirror’ on how to govern according to Islamic principles. There remains one final question. Why write in Persian when he was an outstanding master of Arabic? It is well known that al-­Ghazali wrote in Arabic right up to the very end of his life. As for his Persian works, it would appear likely, and by no means surprising, that almost all of these date to his last years in Khurasan. Once persuaded to resume his teaching and high public profile (as suggested earlier, it is improbable that al-­Ghazali could ever have totally abandoned these aspects of his life), it is natural that al-­Ghazali would wish to reach a Persian-­speaking audience. Moreover, he was surrounded by those who saw him as the great teacher, the mujaddid of the new sixth Islamic century, who would revitalise the flagging fortunes of Sunni Islam in turbulent times. His target was now specifically his native province of Khurasan and its governance, and so his native tongue was the appropriate instrument for his message. In sum, therefore, al-­Ghazali’s ‘little Mirror’ in the Kimiya is a first draft for a longer, more elaborate but very similar treatment of the same subject in the first (and confidently attributable to al-­Ghazali) part of the Nasihat al-muluk. Perhaps he was angling his new chapter on governing towards one

94 | cla ssi cal is l a m particular prince in ­Khurasan – ­possibly Sanjar, although other names could be canvassed. But of course the material in the Mirror also has a more general exemplary value from which any ruler may profit. His audience seems to have been important political and religious figures in the Persian-­speaking world, but the timing of this work is also significant. He would appear not to have written a Mirror before. In his role as mujaddid, as his contemporaries came to view him, al-­Ghazali in the last years of his life seem to have felt the need to underline the vital importance of true religion in a corrupt age in which known truths and spiritual certainties have become effaced, an era overflowing with strife and trouble. The ‘little Mirror’ in the Kimiya is, as already noted, remarkably free from any pre-­Islamic material, in sharp contrast to the ethos of the Siyasat-nama of Nizam al-­Mulk, al-­Ghazali’s mentor. The Mirror is resolutely homiletic in tone and firmly rooted in Islamic soil. Its counsels are not muddied by secular precepts and pre-­Islamic Persian cultural models. His advice is unequivocal: the ruler should govern according to sound Islamic beliefs and Islam’s God-­ given law. Al-­Ghazali’s words have a formidable directness. They warn the ruler that he should be ever mindful of the transience of this world and the imminence of the Last Day. The ruler must know that: This world is his staging-­post (manzilgah), not his permanent residence (qarargah). He is like a traveller whose mother’s womb is his first abode, whose last staging-­post is the grave and whose true homeland (vatan) is beyond ­that . . . ­Even if a man should live for around a hundred years and be entrusted with dominion on earth from east to w ­ est . . . ­what value is 17 that to him in the face of the endless afterlife?

Given its plain speaking and its ability to get to the heart of the matters it discusses, it is not surprising that in subsequent centuries the Kimiya became a source of inspiration for works of quite varied purpose. These include not only other Islamic Mirrors, such as the anonymous Bahr al-fava’id18 in the twelfth century, but also Sufi works such as those of Jalal al-­Din Rumi. Thus this little Mirror can claim an illustrious progeny.

a l it t l e - known mi rror f or pri nces o f a l - gh a z a l i ­ | 95 Notes   * Gerhard Endress has been a fine colleague and friend, an example to us all. It is a real pleasure to dedicate this small piece to him.   1. A noteworthy example is the anonymous twelfth-­century Bahr al-fava’id from Syria; cf. The Sea of Precious Virtues (Bahr al-fava’id): A Medieval Islamic Mirror for Princes, tr. J. S. Meisami (Salt Lake City, 1991). Cf. also the interesting discussion in G. J. van Gelder, ‘Mirror for Princes or vizor for viziers: the twelfth-­century Arabic popular encyclopedia Mufid al-‘ulum and its relationship with the anonymous Persian Bahr al-fawa’id’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 64/3 (2001), 313–38.  2. Al-Ghazali, al-Munqid min al-dalal (Erreur et délivrance), [Texte arabe,] trad. française avec introduction ct notes par F. Jabre (Coll. Unesco d’œuvres représentatives, série arabe) (Beirut, 1959), T.A.   3. For the generally accepted chronology of the works of al-­Ghazali, cf. M. Bouyges, Essai de chronologie des oeuvres de al-Ghazali (Algazel), édité [. . .] par M. Allard (Recherches publiées sous la direction de l’Institut de lettres orientales de Beyrouth, 14) (Beirut, 1959).   4. The numerous medieval biographies of al-­Ghazali follow a similar pattern.   5. This point was made a long time ago by J. van Ess but few scholars have followed this up; cf. J. van Ess, ‘Neuere Literatur zu Gazzali’, Oriens 20 (1967), 299–308.  6. Abu Hamid Muhammad al-­ Ghazali, Kimiya-yi sa‘adat, ed. H. Khedivjam (Tehran, 1361/1976), 13–115.   7. Ibid., 25–42. The following analysis of this section of the Kimiya arises from a project of mine, begun in 1985 and still ongoing, to translate the whole of this work of al-­Ghazali into English. Some of the subject matter of this article has been discussed in the relevant section about the Kimiya found in Fouchécour’s monumental work on medieval Persian didactic literature; cf. C. Fouchécour, Moralia: les notions morales dans la litérature persane du 3e/9e au 7e/13e siècle (Paris, 1984), 393–5.   8. Cf. ibid., 139–42.   9. Abu Hamid Muhammad al-­Ghazali, Kitab Fada’ih al-Batiniyya wa-fada’il alMustazhiriyya, haqqaqahu wa-­qaddama lahu ‘Abdurrahman Badawi (Cairo, 1382/1964). 10. D. Krawulsky, Briefe und Reden des Abu Hamid Muhammad al-Gazzali. Übersetzt und erläutert von D. K. (Islamkundliche Untersuchungen, 14) (Freiburg im Breisgau, 1971).

96 | cla ssi cal is l a m 11. Tr. F. R. C. Bagley as Ghazali’s Book of Counsel for Kings (Nasihat al-muluk). Tr. [. . .] from the Persian text edited by J. Huma’i and the Bodleian Arabic text edited by H. D. Isaacs, with intro., notes and biographical index (London and New York, 1964). 12. Cf. M. Cook, Commanding Right and Forbidding Wrong in Islamic Thought (Cambridge, 2000), 428–45. 13. Cf. the discussion of this in R. J. McCarthy, Freedom and Fulfillment (Boston, 1980), xxxvii–xl. 14. Kitab Fada’ih al-Batiniyya wa-fada’il al-Mustazhiriyya, ed. Badawi (v. supra, n. 9), 182. 15. For a discussion of these murders, cf. C. Hillenbrand, ‘The power struggle between the Saljuqs and the Isma‘ilis of Alamut, 487–518/1094–1124: the Saljuq perspective’, in F. Daftary (ed.), Mediaeval Isma‘ili History and Thought (Cambridge, 1996), 205–20. 16. Cf. Krawulsky, Briefe (v. supra, n. 10). 17. Kimiya-yi sa‘adat, ed. Khedivjam (v. supra, n. 6), 525–6. 18. Meisami, The Sea of Precious Virtues, xiv–xv (v. supra, n. 1), points out the debt owed to the Kimiya by the author of the Bahr al-fava’id.

9 Muhammad and the Rise of Islam

Pre-­Islamic Arabia

T

raditionally, scholars have drawn a firm distinction between south Arabia (especially the south-­ western corner which corresponds to modern Yemen) and the rest of the peninsula. Although, as we shall see later, it is unhelpful to draw too crude a division between south and north, the dichotomy is essentially dictated by geography: most of Arabia in late antique times consisted predominantly of vast areas of desert, fringed with oases, whilst the southern part of the peninsula, the ‘Arabia Felix’ of the ancients, was blessed with abundant and regular rainfall and could support a highly developed agriculture, underpinned by extensive and elaborate irrigation systems. South Arabia was thickly populated, its inhabitants were largely sedentarised and agriculturalist from around the eighth century bc and its towns had provided a milieu conducive to the development of political institutions and material culture. A few kingdoms or city-­states, such as Ma‘n, Saba’, Qataban and Hadramawt, stand out from the blurred outlines of south Arabian history, based as it is on oral tradition. Such states could enjoy brief periods of independent power or could become united for a while, as was the case with the kingdom of Himyar around the beginning of the fourth century ad.1 Reliable information about the south Arabian kingdoms is only fragmentary. Classical authors waxed lyrical about the fabled luxury of the Sabaeans (and notably the Queen of Sheba). In spite of the still insecure chronologies of south Arabian rulers, archaeological evidence bears clear witness to 97

98 | cla ssi cal is l a m a mature urban culture in the area. Indeed, the south Arabians were skilled architects and left behind a vast array of monumental inscriptions, as well as statues inspired by the art of Greece and Rome and the famous irrigation works at Marib, first mentioned in the eighth century bc, which were praised in antiquity as an engineering wonder. The irrigation provided by the dam in its heyday produced two fertile oases, which may well have comprised in toto some 10,000 hectares of arable land and must have supported a substantial population. Recent German archaeological excavations in the Marib area have in fact demonstrated from epigraphic evidence that the dam broke on at least four major occasions (c. 370, 449, 450 and 542 ad) before its final ‘collapse’ (or moment when no further repairs were attempted) at some point before the advent of Islam. The inherent flaw in the dam, namely the accumulation of silt, was not understood by those who constructed and repaired it. The dam was not therefore designed to cope with this problem, and the strategies to which the pre-­Islamic engineers ­resorted – ­namely raising the height of the dam but having to use increasingly thinner courses of masonry to do s­o – w ­ ere bound to be merely palliative. Each time the dam broke, widespread economic hardship and population shifts must have occurred. These would have had a disruptive domino effect on adjoining territories, and the shock waves of the disaster would in time have been felt in the far north of Arabia and beyond, notably in the form of successive tribal displacements.2 The bursting of the Marib dam in Saba’ is in fact enshrined in Islamic tradition, a moment symbolising the decline of the south Arabian kingdom. So much for the civilised south-­western corner of Arabia. The remainder of the peninsula presented a sharp contrast in many ways. Here, human life was dominated by the desert and the pressing need to adjust to its rigours. The inhabitants of this vast desert, predominantly pastoralists, led a precarious existence based on the domestication of the camel and the cultivation of the date palm. The Bedouin nomads were hardy and resourceful, working as camel-­herders deep into the desert or as sheep-­rearers closer to the agricultural areas around the oases, such as Yathrib, later to be called Medina, and Khaybar. Here, farmers grew dates and wheat. Camel nomadism had developed in Arabia over many centuries. As the famous fourteenth-­century Muslim thinker Ibn Khaldun observed in his well-­known analysis of nomad life, camel-­herders had greater mobility than sheep-­rearers and could cover

m u hammad and the ri se of is l a m ­ | 99 wider expanses of land between watering holes.3 The balance of power in the desert areas of the peninsula lay with the camel-­herders, whose animals could support more people with meat, milk and hides. They lived in a symbiotic relationship with the semi-­sedentarised agriculturalists of the oases, with whom they traded the products of nomad life in exchange for other wares, including weapons. Nevertheless, the camel-­herders had the edge militarily, and periodically the farmers would buy protection from them. The Arabs in north, central and eastern Arabia possessed no centralised government. Such a structure had existed only in peripheral areas, such as the kingdoms of Petra in Jordan and Palmyra in the Syrian desert, which had prospered in Roman times and had been profoundly influenced by classical culture. Bedouin society rejected authoritarian political concepts, being divided instead into egalitarian lineage groups. Such a ‘tribal’ organisation permeated the life of both pastoralists and farmers. Smaller or larger groups would recognise common ties and unite for economic and defensive reasons. To quote Ibn Khaldun on the Bedouin: ‘Their defence and protection are successful only if they are a closely knit group of common descent.’4 Tribes and clans (the terminology in the Arabic sources is very imprecise) would vary in size, structure and prestige. It is possible that wider tribal affiliations were acknowledged, but everyday life was probably based on smaller pragmatic groupings which shared encampments and watering places. Such groups were not rigidly structured, however, and were flexible enough to allow newcomers in or to reform according to circumstance. Nomadic groups often possessed their own recognised pasturing grounds, but these did not have fixed boundaries. In principle, Bedouin society was egalitarian, although each tribal unit recognised a chief (sharif or sayyid) whose own status depended on his personal charisma. Such tribal leaders were both elected and hereditary, for a new chief would be drawn initially from an élite group within the tribe but nevertheless would be chosen outright on merit. His responsibilities included arbitration in disputes, the entertainment of guests, the defence of the tribe and the custody of its sacred symbols. Justice and restraint between tribal groups were achieved by a strict lex talionis: the honour of the whole group to which an injured person belonged required that they should exact equivalent retribution from the whole group of which the person who had c­ ommitted

100 | classi ca l is l a m the injury was a member. This process of mutual retaliation, which prevailed not only in the sedentarised areas such as Medina and Mecca but also amongst the desert nomads, could become protracted, until a suitable solution was found. Such a system, which gave each individual membership of a wider group, afforded him personal safety and protection for his dependants and his property. The Bedouin tribesmen were armed; the exigencies of desert life often necessitated raiding (ghazw) the territory of other tribes or of the sedentary peoples. Indeed, this was a militarised society. The rules for ghazw had been laid down in ancestral tradition. In their dour desert environment the Bedouin tribesmen had long followed a code of manly virtue (muruwwa) in which the qualities of patient endurance (sabr), generous hospitality, courage and military prowess were especially prized. This code of conduct was probably more important to them than any formal religious observance. The religious customs of the Arabs in north, central and eastern Arabia are even more difficult to pinpoint with precision than those of the south. The cults of the Bedouin were animistic and varied; they worshipped stones, trees and idols. Muslim tradition speaks of the existence of soothsayers or sorcerers (kahins) in the pre-­Islamic period; these men or women seem to have resembled the shamans of the Turkic world in some of their functions, possessing gifts of foretelling the future, healing and water-­divining. They were not associated with specific deities. The Bedouin also acknowledged the sanctity of certain holy enclaves (haram or hawta).5 Some of these sanctuaries functioned without guardians; others were organised by a hereditary religious elite. These holy enclaves became places of asylum and were used as a meeting place for the settling of disputes. The sanctuary itself and the area surrounding it were declared inviolable and killing, even fighting, was prohibited. Some sanctuaries acquired as it were tutelary deities. Thus the god Hubal was associated with the Meccan sanctuary, and the triad of goddesses, Allat, al-‘Uzza (both normally identified with Venus) and Manat (the goddess of fate) were especially reverenced in the sanctuaries located near Mecca. Annual markets followed by pilgrimage ceremonies, including circumambulation in a ritually pure state, took place at these sites. These last three goddesses were elevated to the title of the ‘daughters of Allah’, the Creator God, whose importance was widely recognised within the peninsula. These goddesses

m u h ammad and the ri se of is l a m ­ | 101 formed part of the religious milieu of the Prophet’s own tribe, the Quraysh, in his lifetime and are attacked in the Qur’an (53: 19–23).6 It is difficult to evaluate the importance of the religious practices and beliefs of the pre-­Islamic Arabs. The Bedouin did not fight in the name of specific deities. Nor did such deities provide them with prophets who propounded ethical codes. Such deities impinged very little on the everyday actions of the Bedouin, or on the rites and feuds of their tribal society. Life had simply to be endured with all its vicissitudes until, after his allotted span, man was struck down according to the inscrutable decrees of Fate. This pessimistic Weltanschauung was common to oasis-­ dweller and nomad alike. They also shared other cultural norms, which transcended inter-­ tribal rivalries and fostered sentiments of all-­embracing solidarity, unity and pride in being Arab. As already mentioned, during certain months of truce each year, Arabs from different parts of the peninsula would attend fairs before performing pilgrimage rites together. At such fairs a major attraction would be recitations of poetry, involving panegyric of the bard’s own tribe and lampooning of their rivals. This time-­honoured oral poetic tradition, retained intact by members of the tribe with prodigious memories, used a high form of Arabic. This was truly a lingua franca, which, in spite of numerous dialectal differences between the pre-­Islamic Arabs, was understood by all and gave them a sense of shared identity and common heritage. Moreover, no matter how labile and pragmatic the realities of tribal affiliation may have been, it would appear that the pre-­Islamic Arabs believed that they shared a common ancestry and, in the fifth and sixth centuries, the elements, at least, of an Arabic high culture in their poetry. Thus, if only in embryonic form, the Arabs possessed the linguistic and ethnic foundations on which Muhammad would be able to build his supra-­tribal community. The factor that was to cement the edifice was Islam, the new monotheistic revelation from Arabia itself. It is appropriate within a discussion of pre-­Islamic Arabia to attempt to assess what inroads external religious traditions had made in the peninsula and to look more generally at outside influences on the milieu of Mecca, Muhammad’s hometown. Were there special circumstances that led to the genesis of a new religion and a new community? First, it is clear that the Hijaz, the cradle of Islam, was not as isolated as later Muslim tradition would

102 | classi ca l is l a m have it; this pious concept of Arabia as an area of ignorance and darkness highlights all the more brightly the glory of the new faith and its cultural manifestations. In fact, in the centuries immediately preceding Islam, the Hijaz was subject to a medley of external cultural and religious traditions and in turn reciprocally exerted its own influence on the adjoining territories. Despite the geographical contrasts, it is simplistic to divide the Arabian Peninsula crudely into the ‘civilised’ south-­west corner and the ‘backward’ remainder. Too many scholarly hypotheses, even in recent times, have been based on such a dichotomy and have accordingly postulated static models for these pre-­modern societies. The balance of power varied, and indeed the actual frontiers between sedentarised and nomadic areas were often shifting. The kingdoms of southern Arabia used the nomads (especially the Kinda tribe) from the central region as mercenaries; periodically the nomads would encroach on the territories of the south. Similarly, population movements northwards from south Arabia that took place as the southern kingdoms declined, must have changed the religious and social configuration of the rest of the peninsula and not merely its demography. By the end of the sixth century ad, Judaism and Christianity had infiltrated the Arabian Peninsula, especially the south-­west, and the desert areas that bordered the Byzantine empire. The conversion of the Negus of Abyssinia in the first half of the fourth century had produced a vigorous Christian state close to south Arabia.7 There is evidence of Christian communities in Aden in the fourth century. The famous Christians of Najran in fifth-­century Hadramawt were in contact with the Monophysite Christians of Syria. Judaism was found in the oases of the Hijaz where its adherents successfully cultivated date-­palm plantations. In south Arabia, prominent figures had been converted to Judaism. The king of Himyar, Yusuf As’ar, known in Muslim tradition as Dhu Nuwas, came to power around 510 and proselytised his Jewish faith in his domains; his zeal culminated in the massacre of the Christians of Najran. The Abyssinians, probably with Byzantine encouragement, crossed the Red Sea in 525, destroyed Dhu Nuwas and his kingdom and established a protectorate that lasted for around half a century. Abraha, an Abyssinian adventurer, subsequently took power in south Arabia and, according to Muslim tradition, made an expedition (mentioned obliquely in the Qur’an) as far as Mecca. A second colonising power, Sasanian

m u h ammad and the ri se of is l a m ­ | 103 Persia, also brought its official state religion, Zoroastrianism, to the shores of south Arabia. Around 570 to 575, the Persians occupied Himyar and some Zoroastrian conversions took place.8 Thus, the image of a religiously backward Arabia is inappropriate. To be sure, neither Judaism nor Christianity had taken a firm hold of the peninsula. Arabia had its own indigenous religious traditions but it was also subjected to the missionary activities of external colonial powers. The spread of Judaism and Christianity seems to have been piecemeal and uneven. In the Hijaz, the tribes in areas bordering Byzantine Syria had come under the influence of Christianity: some, such as the Ghassanids, had converted to the Monophysite creed, ­and – ­at a popular ­level – ­many would seek cures from the pillar saints of the Syrian desert. It may also be inferred from the frequent Qur’anic references to prophets common to the Judaeo-­Christian tradition, and from the elliptical manner in which they are mentioned there, that the milieux of Mecca and Medina must have been very familiar with this religious background and that those to whom the Qur’anic message was first addressed had no need to be told in detail the stories of, for example, Joseph or Noah. The Arabian Peninsula was also capable of exerting its influence on the Fertile Crescent. Arabs had moved out of Arabia and into Byzantine territory. The power pendulum in Byzantium’s eastern provinces as a result swung towards the non-­Hellenised elements of the population who were often, moreover, of a different religious persuasion from their Byzantine overlords. Most of the inhabitants of Byzantine Syria and Egypt were Monophysites who used Syriac or Coptic in the liturgy. Their feeling of alienation from the Chalcedonian form of Christianity imposed from Constantinople was enhanced by discrimination and persecution. Just before the Arab conquests began, the province of Syria was again under Byzantine control; the campaigns of Heraclius in the 620s (referred to obliquely in the Qur’an) are discussed elsewhere in this volume. These Byzantine military successes could not, however, stem the tide of Syrian urban decline, plague, depopulation and reversion to pastoralism. Heraclius simply did not have sufficient time to reimpose centralised control, to reorganise local defences, before the Arab invasions struck. What of the other superpower, Sasanian Persia?9 By the sixth century, the empire of the King of Kings (Shahanshah) covered the Iranian highlands

104 | classi ca l is l a m and what is now Iraq. Its northern frontier with the lands of the Caucasus was established in the Araxes valley; to the east, the border town was Merv, beyond which lived the Turkic nomads of the steppes. To the south-­east the empire stretched to Sistan, corresponding broadly with the frontier between Iran and Pakistan today. The disputed western frontier in eastern Anatolia and northern Syria shifted in accordance with the power struggles with Byzantium. In spite of its Persian origins, the Sasanian dynasty had placed its capital at Ctesiphon on the Tigris, near both ancient Babylon and the future site of Baghdad. Indeed, Iraq was the economic heart of the Sasanian Empire, providing some two-­fifths of the imperial revenue. There were signs of tension in the sixth century between the centralised government structure of absolute monarchy, with its official religion, Zoroastrianism, elaborate bureaucracy and hierarchical class structure, on the one hand, and on the other the centrifugal forces of the nobility wishing to keep hold of provincial power. Khusraw I Anushirwan (531–79) brought about wide-­ranging reforms designed to strengthen centralised, absolute government. In particular, his fiscal policy produced revenue for a regular army whose strength lay in its heavy cavalry, the cataphracts who had perfected their skills in Central Asia against the Turks. He also recruited nomadic Arabs as mercenaries. These reforms did not, however, heal deep-­rooted divisions and dissatisfactions within the Sasanian empire and especially in Iraq. The Sasanian aristocracy itself was stratified; its upper echelons could on occasion try to wrest power from the King of Kings himself, whilst the lower gentry, the dihqans, were much less privileged and often liaised between the government and the peasantry. The religious situation in the Sasanian empire was far from unified. It would appear that by the sixth century the state religion, a Zoroastrianism identified with conservatism, enjoyed only limited popular appeal. This was especially true in Iraq, where Christianity, particularly Nestorianism, had made considerable headway, even with the Persian upper class. Sasanian Iraq was also a dynamic centre of Jewish life in spite of periodic persecutions in the fifth and sixth centuries, and the Jews formed a large part of the population in town and village. Most of the settled people of Iraq spoke Aramaic (the Persians were only a ruling minority there), whilst Arabic was the language of the Jazira and Hira. It can be seen, therefore, that the people of Iraq at least, the first Sasanian province to be subjected to the Arab military onslaught,

m u h ammad and the ri se of is l a m ­ | 105 were estranged religiously and ethnically from their Sasanian masters and that they would not be highly motivated towards defending the ancien régime once the Persian armies had been defeated by the incoming Arabs. The period immediately preceding the Arab invasions had proved as disastrous for the Sasanian empire as for Byzantium. Khusraw II Parviz (591–628) executed the last of the Arab Lakhmid kings, Nu’man, in 602 and removed this Sasanian-­sponsored state that policed the Arab frontier. Probably as a consequence of the resumption of the war against Byzantium under Khusraw II Parviz and Heraclius’ highly successful campaigns into Sasanian territory (627–8), the areas east of the Tigris became depopulated. Parts of Iraq were struck by plague, famine, floods and earthquakes. In the period between Khusraw’s death in 628 and the eventual accession of Yazdagird III in 632, the year in which Muhammad died, ten claimants tried to seize the imperial throne. The Sasanian empire was, indeed, seriously vulnerable. It will be apparent from the preceding discussion that with the generally debilitated state of the two superpowers, the weakness of their frontiers and the internal urban decline of the provinces immediately adjoining Arabia, a power vacuum had developed. It ended with a shift of power towards the Arab nomads. The new conquerors were to come into a world that had undergone considerable changes even before they entered it, and they transformed it further. Within the Arabian Peninsula itself too, by the time of the Prophet’s career, it would appear that the balance of power lay with the nomads. They already held the ring between the seriously weakened superpowers in the march areas. They infiltrated southern Arabia, exploiting its weakness, already pinpointed by the external intervention of Abyssinia and Persia. Many of the nomads had shown little or no interest in the religions of Byzantium or Persia, possibly because they smacked of identifying with one or other superpower. The influence of Judaism was also probably limited. Islamic tradition often mentions hanifs, monotheists in Arabia,10 who were not associated with Judaism or Christianity but who practised the pure religion of Abraham, the father of the Arabs, who founded the Ka‘ba shrine at Mecca. It is debatable whether such a concept is a reflection of historical reality or a retrospective creation portending the forthcoming religion of Islam, which places uncompromising monotheism at its very core. Suffice it to say that the earlier

106 | classi ca l is l a m monotheistic revelations of Judaism and Christianity were known widely to the Arabs but had not taken root. Arabia now offered fertile ground for a new religion that was to provide the basis of an unprecedented supra-­tribal entity that would in turn integrate and channel nomad power. Muhammad came at a hinge of history. The preceding discussion of the historical setting may help our understanding of some of the f­ actors – ­social, economic, territorial, religious, ­demographic – ­which contributed to the success of the Prophet’s career and facilitated the spread of the new religious revelation. Nevertheless, the phenomenon of the rise of Islam defies simplistic explanations. The Problem of the Sources In spite of the vast mass of scholarly writings and the plethora of theories in recent times about the phenomenon of the rise of Islam and the early Muslim empire up to 750 ad, the structure of detailed ‘facts’ underpinning this phenomenon remains historiographically unsure. The career of the Prophet of Islam soon became the focus of Muslim pious tradition and sacred history: the important stages of his career on earth assumed symbolic significance. It is not ‘fiction’ or a distortion of historical truth that lies at the heart of the Muslim traditions about the rise of Islam, as some have alleged. It is the exemplary truth of the Prophet’s career and the Islamic conquests, which is enshrined in the extant corpus of Muslim historiographical works on which the ‘received’ version of the rise of Islam is based. In other words, not just the sayings and opinions of Muhammad but also his actions, including the military campaigns, as observed and recorded by his Companions and their successors, became paradigms for the entire Muslim community. In time they were fleshed out with additional anecdotal material and with an apparatus detailing the process of transmission. Thus was fashioned an account of events whose components were, so to speak, interlocking and mutually supportive. The conquests, too, were integrated into this scheme of sacred history, and sacred history is not easily subject to alteration, whether in detail or in its grand sweep. But does this mean that one has to take it or leave it? We shall see that there are indeed some objective controls that can be applied to the information contained in the Muslim literary tradition, and that they tend to substantiate the general accuracy of the grand sweep of that tradition. Perhaps it is the paucity of such controls that has encouraged certain

m u h ammad and the ri se of is l a m ­ | 107 wholesale attacks on the validity of Muslim accounts of the rise of Islam;11 but one should remember Carl Sagan’s dictum that ‘absence of evidence is not evidence of absence’. The events of c. 620–c. 660 ad, when seen as sacred history in the Muslim tradition, are immutable once they achieved their extant written form. These events, when presented in this way, do not obey the laws of ‘ordinary’ history; they operate on a different level altogether. But that they do also enshrine actual historical events need not be ­doubted – ­and should not be doubted ‘on principle’ simply because they are presented in a religious guise. To the core of sacred history were added (as we shall see) elements from oral tradition, or outright propaganda; these can be identified as extraneous. And of course the more distant events are from the life of the Prophet himself, the more they tend to fall into the category of ‘straight’ history. But for the study of the earliest decades of Islam the intractable problem remains: sacred history presents the past as a single solid block whose very diverse component parts have been transformed into an integrated whole and which repulses attempts at piecemeal analysis from within. A further dimension of the Islamic tradition needs to be mentioned here. The earliest information about the rise of Islam came from oral tradition. Memory in a tribal society is a finely tuned instrument, with experienced storytellers and poets performing extraordinary feats of narration and oratory. Yet the ‘historical’ time frame of a society with oral tradition is blurred and usually devoid of precise chronological points. Oral tradition cannot be used to reconstruct the exact sequence of events concerning a historical figure or detailed historical episodes. These remarks are absolutely not meant to imply that the corpus of extant Islamic historiographical material (dating mostly from the eighth and ninth centuries) was based on ‘fiction’. As already mentioned, sacred history has normative significance, and key events and figures are endowed from an early stage with exemplary value for the faithful. Dating and details become fixed in hallowed tradition. The received view of the rise of Islam given by the great Muslim historians of the ‘Abbasid period (and above all, al-­Baladhuri (d. 892) and al-­Tabari (d. 923)) springs from the double inspiration of several generations of oral tradition (carefully memorised by the faithful anxious not to forget the contours of the Prophet’s career and the glorious victories of the

108 | classi ca l is l a m Islamic conquests) and the corpus of material inherited from the first written Islamic historical sources, now no longer extant. In a true sense some of the great ‘Abbasid historians were ‘compilers’; they were mostly religious scholars meticulously collecting and sifting nuggets of information, however fragmentary or full, left by their predecessors. Such snippets and anecdotes were furnished with an apparatus (the so-­called isnads which traced the chain of narrators) intended to demonstrate the authenticity of the data mentioned. It is thus probable that although the first extant Islamic historical sources date from a period much later than many of the events they record, they do contain authentic earlier material. There can be no doubt that many traditionalists, acutely aware of the dangers of transmitting unreliable information, did not simply parrot the material they had inherited or collected, but took inordinate pains to verify it, with the instincts of true historians. It is equally probable, indeed at times proven irrefutably, that the isnad apparatus, although interesting in a prosopographical sense, does not guarantee ‘reliable’ information. Other ‘Abbasid historians, such as al-­Ya‘qubi (d. 897) and al-­Mas‘udi (d. 956), produced digests which are the result of selecting and interpreting earlier sources now lost. Thus within the Muslim tradition itself there are the makings of internal criticism of historiography, and of the verification of events by means of comparing one source with another. It is a short step from hallowed reverence of sacred history to the exploiting of it for propagandistic purposes. The phenomenon of the early Islamic conquests lends itself easily to such an approach. The ‘Abbasid historians were quick to seize the full propagandistic potential of the Muslim ­victories – ­both for the prestige of the ‘Abbasid caliphs and for the glory of Islam. Military success was perceived as the manifestation of God’s preordained will for man on earth, leading inexorably towards His perfected and final Revelation, Islam. An account of a famous battle often provides little concrete information, but is given layers of symbolic meaning with recognisable topoi, including highly stylised exchanges between the protagonists. The description of the battle of Qadisiyya given by al-­Baladhuri is a typical example. The ‘uncouth’ Bedouin al-­Mughira b. Sa‘d, mounted on an emaciated horse and carrying a broken sword wrapped up in rags, is refused permission by the Sasanian cavalry to sit on the dais beside the ‘civilised’ Persian commander, Rustam. But the Muslim leader betters Rustam in the ensuing

m u h ammad and the ri se of is l a m ­ | 109 exchange: al-­Mughira ignores Rustam’s taunt that the Arabs have entered Sasanian territory, driven by economic hardship, and proudly claims that he and his companions have come to call the Persians to embrace Islam.12 Similarly, accounts of the Muslim capture of individual cities often contain texts purporting to be the actual treaties of capitulation to the Muslims. These ostensibly provide dates, signatories, even the ‘precise’ amounts of poll-­tax ­payable – b­ ut they should not be taken too literally.13 Rather than being ‘accurate’ accounts, they seem to be idealised blueprints retrospectively attributed to the individual stages of the Muslim conquests. They reflect the preoccupations of legists in the ‘Abbasid period engaged in the codification of the Shari‘a (the Islamic Revealed Law) who wished to establish models of conduct based on the Qur’an and the Sunna (a term which eventually came to mean the idealised conduct of the Prophet). The Qur’an itself is not easy to use as a historical source, although attempts have been made to extract from it the evolution of the Prophet’s life. To be sure, by its condemnation of certain aspects of Arabian life, it sheds light on some of the prevailing social conditions and practices that the Prophet sought to reform, but to try to trace the successive stages of his career through Qur’anic allusions is apt to result in crude and simplistic conclusions. There is even considerable debate about the real chronology of its chapters. The Hadith, which incorporate the alleged words or deeds of the Prophet transmitted by his Companions and subsequent generations of early Muslims, have been used by Muslim scholars in conjunction with the Qur’an to clarify and amplify certain elliptical Qur’anic statements. The Hadith are, however, also difficult to use as a historical source. Their often fragmentary, parable-­like nature makes it impossible to piece them together coherently. They faithfully reflect the fluidity, diversity and evolutionary aspects of early Islamic ritual and law and the efforts of the pious in the first two or three centuries of the Muslim era to establish the path of ‘true Islam’. Hadith also form the basis for much of the ‘received version’ of the Prophet’s life, the Sira (the hallowed biography compiled in the eighth century by Ibn Ishaq (d. 767) and revised by Ibn Hisham (d. 833)). Although it is overlaid with miraculous and legendary elements, it has formed the basis used by modern biographies of the Prophet, including those written by Western Orientalists. Aware of the historiographical problems associated with the Sira, problems

110 | classi ca l is l a m that they analyse fully, they resort to its accounts only reluctantly in the virtual absence of any other sources. Certainly the Muslim historiographical tradition, although difficult to use, should not be dismissed, not least because it is the main corpus of texts available on the rise of Islam and the early Muslim empire. Recently, attempts have been made to step outside the Muslim historiographical tradition and to try to construct the early history of Islam from non-­Muslim sources. This approach, although exciting, has proved a­bortive – ­Christian and Jewish sources view the rise of Islam through a prism of misunderstanding and prejudice. They span a wide historical time frame too, often suffer from a half-­digested understanding of the events mentioned and are as replete with anachronisms and ideological elements as the Muslim writings themselves. Above all, they are not objective enough to constitute a corrective to the Muslim tradition. Certainly, the evidence of seventh- and eighth-­century Christian sources needs to be better known, reflecting as they do the context in which Christians were responding to the presence of Islam. However, it is dangerous in attempting to reconstruct the early development of Islam to place credulous reliance on the evidence of non-­Muslim sources. Other questions, such as the possible interrelationship between Muslim, Jewish and Christian sources, still need further examination. To what extent can the contemporary evidence of numismatics, papyri, archaeology and standing monuments shed light on the veracity of the traditional Muslim written accounts? If there is agreement between statements made in the historical sources and the evidence of material culture, then is it not reasonable to adopt a more positive stance towards the value of the information contained in the Islamic historical sources? The evidence of surviving coins, for example, indicates clearly the transition between late antique and early Islamic modes of government.14 The Arabs did not mint their own coins straightaway. Through an analysis of the evolutionary aspects of early Islamic coinage one may trace the handover of the mint, and all that it implies for government administration, from the Byzantine and Sasanian officials to Muslim ones. There is strong evidence that the existing division between Byzantium and Persia continued to be respected by the Arabs, that Byzantine and Sasanian coins continued in circulation after the Muslim takeover and that certain issues continued to be minted even when they were technically

m u h ammad and the ri se of is l a m ­ | 111 out of date and for use by the ­Muslims – ­the disproportionate number of coins in the name of Yazdagird III and Heraclius are revealing in this respect. The bilingual coins of the mid-­seventh century, which used Greek or Pahlavi concurrently with Arabic, and the gradual evolution of an Islamic design for coins (removing crosses and fire-­altars and substituting religious formulae such as the shahada or the image of the standing caliph) demonstrate the growth of Islamic self-­awareness and self-­confidence, culminating in the coins of the last decade of the seventh century which bear testimony to the coin reforms and the establishment of Arabic as the official language of the Islamic empire, events recorded in the written histories. Numismatic evidence provides unbroken lists of provincial governors, for example in Iran and Iraq, and confirms textual information about administrative districts. The surviving papyri are useful mainly for the last decade of the seventh century and the eighth century, although one of them, dated 643, confirms the beginning of the Muslim era as 622.15 Similarly, a gravestone in Cairo (Museum of Islamic Art, no. 1508/20) in the name of one ‘Abd al-­Rahman b. Khayr is dated Jumada II 31/January–February 652.16 An undated fragment of papyrus, written in Greek and found in the Negev desert by Israeli archaeologists, provides corroborative evidence of another kind. Its authenticity seems to be in no doubt. It mentions names and pay and would appear to be part of an army register (diwan); it thus provides documentary proof of an aspect of military administration well attested in the written sources. As for architectural testimony, the most outstanding monument for the period under discussion is the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem, with a foundation inscription of 72/692. Orientalist Qur’anic scholars have resolutely turned their faces away from the epigraphy of the Dome of the Rock, with its 240 metres of Qur’anic inscriptions.17 Although this evidence was published by van Berchem as early as 1927, few Qur’anic scholars even mention it, let alone draw any conclusions from it. It is an urgent task for future research. So too is the luxury Qur’an recently discovered in the Yemen, now lodged in the House of Manuscripts in Sana‘a; a carbon-­14 test has yielded, with 95 per cent accuracy, the momentous date of 645–90 ad.18 What is the way forward? Those who subscribe to the theory of a historiographical ‘black hole’ for the early history of Islam express themselves very forcibly on this point and then settle ­down – ­evincing remarkably little

112 | classi ca l is l a m awareness of the gross inconsistency i­nvolved – t­o reproducing the received Islamic view of the period in all its detailed amplitude. Rather than adopting this schizophrenic approach, one may proceed more cautiously and examine which parts of the Islamic historiographical edifice can be corroborated by external ­evidence – ­either from material artefacts or from non-­Islamic written sources. When this approach is adopted, certain firm landmarks in the historical picture can be established. Exact dates and sequences for most of the events in the conquests of Islam will never be known, but the relatively early establishment of the new Islamic empire can be confirmed by a whole sequence of Arabo-­Byzantine and Arabo-­Sasanian coins produced in the early Umayyad period at scores of widely scattered mints. If some of the fixed points in the Islamic tradition can be proven from external evidence, then are there not grounds for a wider acceptance both of the general sweep of events which it records and of some, at least, of their more detailed points of interest? It has been argued that the best way forward would be to synthesise the results obtained by archaeologists and by historians. This approach sounds very plausible but when it is examined critically it becomes apparent that the two strands do not mesh. Historians and archaeologists talk past each other because each has very different aims. Archaeology yields abundant detail about the kind of pottery people used, the kind of houses they lived in, and settlement patterns, but for the most part written Islamic sources have very little to say about such matters. Archaeology merely proves what common sense would indicate anyway, namely that there was continuity of daily life from late antique to Islamic times. Everything depends on the nature of the questions that are asked of this crucial period. Archaeology says virtually nothing about the microcosmic issues that have traditionally engaged most historians of the early Islamic period. But if the focus is henceforth to shift and to concern itself with macrocosmic issues such as living conditions in the villages and small towns of the Levant in the seventh and eighth centuries or the nature of settlement in steppe/desert areas and of their agricultural exploitation, then beyond doubt archaeology holds the key. This is especially true of the period 710–50, when most of the Umayyad desert residences were built. But all this has very little to do with the heady controversies of the 1970s. For those who call into question the overall accuracy of the

m u h ammad and the ri se of is l a m ­ | 113 traditional Muslim account of what actually happened between 600 and 650, archaeology provides little ­help – ­not least because of the lack of excavation in the key sites of Arabia, notably Mecca and Medina, and disputes about the dates of those early mosques which might reflect the revelation which caused the Prophet to shift the direction of prayer (qibla) from Jerusalem to Mecca. The Career of Muhammad The sacred ‘bricks’ in the traditional edifice of the Prophet’s life are immutably fixed in the Muslim consciousness and have been hallowed by generations of piety. In the Muslim view, Muhammad’s career is not an appropriate subject for historical enquiry. The historian is nevertheless faced with the phenomenon of a new world religion and empire that emanated directly from Muhammad. Any historical analysis, however tentative, must therefore begin with his life and should attempt at least to discern its major landmarks. The brief account that follows is based on traditional Muslim sources; where appropriate, the testimony of non-­Muslim writings will also be mentioned. The Prophet’s birth cannot be securely dated either from Muslim or from external sources, although it was probably in the 570s. He was born in Mecca into a minor branch of the Quraysh tribe, the Banu Hashim, a clan of some prestige but whose wealth and political power had declined after the 570s. Orphaned early (Qur’an 93: 6 is clear proof of this),19 he was raised by his uncle, Abu Talib. As a young adult, Muhammad became involved in commerce, working for a rich widow, Khadija, whom he subsequently married (the Byzantine historian Theophanes writing in the early ninth century mentions both Muhammad’s orphanhood and this marriage).20 The union produced seven children, only one of whom, Fatima, survived into adulthood and was the mother of Muhammad’s g­ randsons – H ­ asan and the more famous Husayn. In his middle years (traditionally fixed at around the age of forty) Muhammad began to withdraw from Mecca to meditate for prolonged periods on Mount Hira, where he received his first revelations from God. These overwhelmed him in their impact. After initial self-­doubts and with the wholehearted support of Khadija, he became increasingly persuaded of the truth of his divine call. Around 613 he felt compelled to begin preaching to his fellow Meccans. The initial prophetic message, which forms the earliest

114 | classi ca l is l a m Meccan chapters (suras) of the Qur’an, stresses the imminence of the Last Day and man’s urgent need of repentance. The Qur’anic language is infused with dramatic intensity, gripping those who hear it. Its message, however, fell on deaf ears. Nevertheless, Muhammad was able to gather around himself a small group of enthusiastic converts, who ‘surrendered themselves to God’ (the meaning of the word muslim). The revelations continued. The rift with the polytheistic Meccans intensified, as the uncompromisingly monotheistic emphasis of Islam (evident from the middle Meccan suras onwards) became more pronounced. The Muslims were persecuted by the Meccans and some of them, according to Islamic tradition, moved around 615 to Abyssinia, where they were protected by the Negus. At this stage, however, Muhammad still had the support of his clan and its leader, his uncle Abu Talib. A major turning point for Muhammad came in 619 with the deaths of Khadija and Abu Talib; another uncle of his, Abu Lahab, the new leader of the clan, would not tolerate his activities. Bereft of protection, Muhammad was now obliged to seek a different centre in which to propagate Islam. He was approached around 620 by some inhabitants of Yathrib who invited him to arbitrate in their crippling internal disputes. He eventually accepted their offer and entered the town (soon renamed Madinat al-nabi – the city of the P ­ rophet – ­and known thereafter as Medina) on 24 September 622. Later, when the Muslim calendar was introduced, this date marked the beginning of the Islamic era, commemorating Muhammad’s hijra (emigration) from Mecca to Medina. A papyrus from the year 643 and dated ‘the year 22’ seems to confirm 622 as the beginning of a new era. In Medina the Arabs were divided into two main, mutually hostile tribal groups, the Aws and the Khazraj. Also living there were three principal Jewish clans, the Qurayza, al-­Nadir and Qaynuqa. It is difficult to determine either the exact ‘ethnic’ identity of these ‘Jewish’ elements (were they Arabic-­speaking Jews or Judaicised Arabs?) or what kind of Judaism they practised. What seems certain, however, is that they played an important role in the economic life of Medina and were in touch with Jewish groups in other parts of Arabia. They may well have been responsible for familiarising the Arabs of Medina with monotheistic concepts and biblical stories. The next decade (622–32) in Medina provided the Prophet with an opportunity to preach freely, to worship openly and to create a theocratic Islamic community (umma). The

m u h ammad and the ri se of is l a m ­ | 115 newcomers, the Meccan Muslims (the so-­called Emigrants – muhajirun – a form of this term is used in the earliest Greek and Syriac sources) who had arrived in Medina without resources or support, needed to be integrated into Medinan society. This problem was solved initially by the system of ‘brotherhood’, established by Muhammad between individual Emigrants and the Medinan Muslims (the so-­called Helpers – Ansar). A document known as the Constitution of Medina21, the authenticity of which seems secure, is preserved in Ibn Ishaq. Dating from the second or third year of the Medinan period, it reveals Muhammad’s great skills as an arbitrator and his attempts to weld the heterogeneous elements of Medinan society into a unified community. The text shows that even at this early stage the ethos of the umma was clearly ­Islamic – t­ he highest authority is supra-­tribal and belongs to God and His prophet M ­ uhammad – ­but the Constitution allowed also for the inclusion of Jews and polytheists and suggests that Muhammad was not yet uncontested leader in Medina. However, the pragmatic outlook of this document was soon superseded, as the Prophet’s position became strengthened and the need for an exclusively Muslim community became paramount. As Muhammad laid the foundations of the umma, the Qur’anic revelations continued; the Medinan chapters are longer pronouncements on the conduct of the Muslims in every aspect of their personal and communal lives. It is difficult to chart with chronological precision the internal evolution of the Medinan period but it is clear that Muhammad’s early attempt to gain acceptance of the Islamic revelation from the Medinan Jews whom he wished to include within the community met with rejection. His familiarity with both Jewish and Christian scriptures is mentioned by Theophanes. However, the Qur’anic message reveals an increasing disenchantment with the Jews and a heightened emphasis on the exclusivity and originality of the new faith, Islam. The Qur’an also speaks of Hypocrites (munafiqun), subversive, disloyal elements within the community, who threatened to destroy it. As well as building a harmonious community from within, Muhammad had to fend off external attacks from the Meccans who threatened the very existence of the umma. Islamic tradition records his struggle against the Meccans in a series of battles that have become the prototype of jihad, itself defined by Muslims as a defensive struggle against external aggression. His successful struggle against the enemy from without was accompanied by a

116 | classi ca l is l a m sharpening of his resolve to remove dangerous elements from within Medina, above all the Jews. The Muslims’ first major victory against the Meccans, the battle of Badr in 624, damaged Meccan prestige and provided a vital boost to Muslim morale, a potent proof of the new faith’s veracity. Thereafter, Muhammad banished the Jewish clan of Qaynuqa from Medina; their possessions became the property of the umma. A year later, although the Meccans defeated the Muslims at the battle of Uhud, they did not succeed in ousting Muhammad. Soon afterwards he moved against the second Jewish group, Nadir, and banished them to Khaybar and other Jewish settlements. In 627 the Meccans’ attempt to take Medina by force failed at the so-­called Battle of the Ditch. Thereafter, Muhammad dealt with the remaining Jewish group, Qurayza: the men were executed and the women and children enslaved. Muhammad now established absolute authority within Medina and turned his attention to Mecca. Ideally, he preferred to integrate his home town peacefully into the umma, which soon included some of the tribes from the area around Medina; these were won over by astute negotiation and alliances rather than by military force. The foundations for a peaceful entry into Mecca were laid within two years. At the same time the community’s horizons widened to include some Arab tribes on the fringes of the Syrian desert whom Muhammad summoned to embrace Islam and submit to the authority of the umma. In 628 he announced his wish to perform the pilgrimage to Mecca. In the event he reached al-­Hudaybiyya on the outskirts of the Meccan haram and concluded a truce with the Meccans, allowing him to enter the city the following year. Shortly afterwards, Muhammad captured the Jewish oasis of Khaybar. The Prophet’s conduct on this o­ ccasion – ­he allowed the inhabitants (who were ‘People of the Book’ with established scriptures) to remain there and to practise their faith on payment of an annual poll-­tax (jizya) – formed the model for subsequent treatment of conquered peoples. In 629, in accordance with the truce of al-­Hudaybiyya, the Meccans vacated their city for three days while the Muslims performed the ‘umra (the lesser pilgrimage). At this stage the Meccans still refused Muhammad’s offers of reconciliation. In January 630, Muhammad made a triumphal entry into Mecca, which surrendered peacefully to him. Some weeks later he defeated a large hostile army of central Arabian tribes at al-­Hunayn.

m u h ammad and the ri se of is l a m ­ | 117 The remainder of his l­ife – a­ mere two y­ ears – w ­ as spent in Medina, consolidating his policy of securing the northern routes to Syria and expanding the umma. Already in 629 he had sent a large force under his adopted son Zayd towards Palestine. This expedition proved abortive. The momentum of expansion was, however, sustained. Muhammad himself took part in a Syrian campaign to Tabuk in 630. In that year numerous tribal delegations came to agreements with the Prophet, probably implying on their part varying degrees of commitment, religious and political, to the umma. In 632 the Prophet performed the Farewell Pilgrimage in ­Mecca – ­this time following the full rites of the hajj, which became the model for future Islamic p ­ ractice – ­and on his return to Medina made preparations for an ambitious expedition across the Jordan, which he himself intended to lead. Shortly before the campaign’s departure, he fell unexpectedly and seriously ill. He died on 8 June 632 (Theophanes puts the date a year earlier).22 By his death most of Arabia owned his sway. The foundations of the new faith, Islam, had been laid. A dynamic community had been created, which was shortly to burgeon into a vast world empire. This was made possible through the towering figure of the Prophet, through his remarkable qualities of leadership and charisma, the memory of which inspired his followers to carry on the enterprise he had initiated. Whilst noting the exemplary nature of the Prophet’s character and career in the religious life of the Muslims, it is important to stress that he viewed himself as only a man and that his contemporaries also viewed him thus. He was the vehicle through which divine revelations came. At the same time he was able to make the revelations the basis of actions and to organise a society capable of perpetuating the new faith. What were the salient characteristics of ‘early Islam’, the pristine faith preached and practised by the Prophet? This is not easy to chart from the evidence of the Qur’an, which is a work of revelation and not organised on a thematic basis. It is, however, the most valuable source for determining the evolution of Islam. Revealed as it was in successive stages, it mirrors the internal defining of Islam as an all-­embracing faith and way of life and the progression by which Islam distanced itself from Judaism and Christianity, on the one hand, and the pre-­Islamic polytheistic milieu on the other. Islam came to emphasise the uncompromising oneness of God, in sharp contrast

118 | classi ca l is l a m both to Arab idolatry and to the Christian doctrines of Jesus’ divinity and the Trinity. God is transcendent, omnipotent, omniscient, the Supreme judge; yet He is closer to man than his own jugular vein. Early Islam shared features with other Near Eastern monotheistic faiths: in common with Syriac Christianity, the Day of Judgement is terrifyingly imminent, whilst, as in Judaism, Muslims prayed towards a Holy City and emphasised the importance of fasting. But in spite of a common heritage Islam is viewed as the completion and perfection of preceding revelations. At the outset of his preaching, it would appear that Muhammad saw himself as a prophet, one of a long line of figures shared by the Jews and Christians, who came to ‘warn’ successive generations that they had strayed from the right path, that God’s judgement was imminent and that there was urgent need for repentance. The Qur’an evokes the dire punishments of Hell in memorable imagery. If only man will survey the wondrous signs of God’s handiwork, he will surely acknowledge God’s omnipotence. The Meccan suras also stress the importance of frequent prayer and of charity towards the poor. Gradually the attacks on Meccan polytheism increase; the Ka‘ba belongs to Allah, the one true God. When the Meccans refused to heed this message, the Qur’an speaks of the terrible fate that awaited earlier generations who ignored their prophets. As we have seen, the rift with Judaism became wider in the Medinan period. Initially Muhammad made the 10th of Muharram a day of fasting for the Muslims (cf. Yom Kippur) and at some point he adopted the practice of turning towards Jerusalem for prayer. Friday became the day for the congregational service, held in the courtyard of Muhammad’s house. When the message he preached failed to receive recognition from the Jews of Medina, this crisis led to further redefining of the new faith; the Jews had received only part of the Revelation (Qur’an 4: 44). In the second year after the hijra (623–4) the direction of prayer was changed from Jerusalem to the Ka‘ba (Qur’an 2: 142–50). The Qur’an also stresses Abraham’s role as the Arabs’ forefather and as the first Muslim (3: 67). The Prophet was to restore the Ka‘ba, founded by Abraham (2: 125), to its pristine monotheism. In the early Medinan period the rift with Arab polytheism also became sharper. The new faith should replace and transcend both blood loyalty (2: 216) and ancient polytheistic rituals, such as the taboo on fighting in the sacred months (2: 217).

m u h ammad and the ri se of is l a m ­ | 119 The role of the pilgrimage as a pillar of Islam was established during the Prophet’s lifetime; the Ka‘ba became a focal point in the transmuted Muslim hajj, through the paradigmatic conduct of the Prophet in his last year. Indeed, by the time of his death, the five pillars of I­slam – ­the profession of faith, fasting, prayer, almsgiving and ­pilgrimage – ­were in place. The Qur’anic revelations were being used in early Muslim worship and memorised by the faithful. Like Moses before him, Muhammad, the ‘seal of the Prophets’, was involved in social action as well as preaching. His message and his activities in Medina emphasised brotherhood and mutual solidarity but the umma was a supra-­tribal entity based on new Islamic criteria. For whom did the Prophet intend the message of Islam? The issue continues to be debated. Strong arguments have been made in support of the view that he considered his mission to be for all mankind, not just the Arabs. Conversely, it could be argued from Qur’anic evidence that he was working within his own milieu and that his mission was intended for the Arabs. The authenticity of letters from the Prophet to various potentates of the time, including the Byzantine and Sasanian emperors and the Negus of Abyssinia, inviting them to embrace Islam, has rightly been called into question. It is, however, likely that the Prophet was in regular contact with local rulers whose territories touched Arabia and that he intended to spread Islam to Arabs on the borders or already within Byzantine and Sasanian territories. This is clearly demonstrated by the Muta episode and by his own participation in the Tabuk campaign of 630. The Conquests of Islam, 632–711 The formation of the Islamic empire, which followed the death of the Prophet in 632, falls conveniently but not rigidly into two phases. The first was an explosive and surprisingly easy series of conquests of the territories closest to Arabia, which soon brought Byzantine Syria, Palestine and Egypt as well as Sasanian Iraq into the orbit of government from Medina. The second involved protracted and more difficult conquests that eventually added Sasanian Iran and parts of Central Asia in the east and the North African littoral in the west. The year 711 is a convenient date at which to fix the conquest of both extremities of the Islamic empire, Spain and India; that year established the boundaries of the Islamic polity that were, broadly speaking, to remain unchanged

120 | classi ca l is l a m until the eleventh century.23 By the early eighth century, the Arab Muslim empire had reached the limits of its military and administrative viability and the wave of successful conquests was to ­subside – ­a turning point traditionally marked in the West by the battle of Poitiers in 732 or 733, the importance of which has been grossly inflated but which came to symbolise the beginning of a new phase of Muslim territorial withdrawal and consolidation. As a result of Muslim expansion, in the period 632–711, the Sasanian empire was ‘wiped out as if it had never been’ (Ibn Khaldun).24 The Byzantine state, although greatly diminished and stripped of its Levantine possessions, lived on to fight another day, in spite of several determined but abortive Muslim attacks on Constantinople made during the period. Thereafter, the Arabs ceased to have the Byzantine capital as a major focus of their aspirations. The first external conquests conducted under the banner of Islam were remarkably swift and successful. These took place at the same time as the first caliph, Abu Bakr, was trying to subdue the whole Arabian Peninsula. Indeed, these two activities, the beginning of conquest of Byzantine and Sasanian territory and the acquisition of firm control within the peninsula itself, both form part of the first external thrust of the new Islamic polity in Medina, aimed at spreading its faith and hegemony. The reigns of the first two caliphs, Abu Bakr (632–4) and ‘Umar (634–44), saw the subjugation of the whole of Arabia, the Levantine provinces of Byzantium and Sasanian Iraq. From the outset, the Medinan leadership seems to have realised the importance of continued military momentum, both for the survival of a unified umma and for the extension of its territories. The exact chronology of the first phase of the conquests and the contribution made by individual Muslim leaders are impossible to reconstruct accurately. Even the dates of key battles and of the capitulation of important cities are disputed. Yet the general sweep of Muslim victory is incontestable. Initially, raids were often conducted on two or more fronts simultaneously. They were not always sanctioned or instigated by the caliph at Medina. The problem of communications grew as the distances covered by Muslim armies increased. Certain generals, such as ‘Amr b. al-‘As and Khalid b. al-­Walid, acted on occasion on their own initiative. Even in the earliest phases of Muslim expansion there were temporary setbacks and the Arabs had sometimes to make several attempts to capture individual cities, such as Damascus and Alexandria. Generally, however, the Arabs held on to

m u h ammad and the ri se of is l a m ­ | 121 the territories conquered and began to create a primitive infrastructure for administering the new territories. Sasanian Iraq proved an easy target for the Muslim armies. According to the traditional Muslim accounts, the chief of the Bakr tribe, Muthanna b. al-­Harith, exploited the vulnerable Sasanian frontier, supported by contingents from Medina under the leadership of ‘the Sword of Islam’, Khalid b. al-­Walid. After taking Hira, the Arabs inflicted a heavy defeat on a Sasanian army at the battle of Qadisiyya (636) and built two fortified bases, Basra and Kufa, from which to spearhead conquests further east. With their subsequent capture of the Sasanian capital, Ctesiphon, and a further victory at Nihawand in 642, the Arabs soon became masters of Sasanian Iraq and west and central Iran. The last Sasanian emperor, Yazdagird III, retreated as far as Khurasan where he died in 651. Like the Arab conquest of Sasanian Iraq, the annexing of Byzantine Palestine and Syria was brought about initially by the actions of those Arab tribes nearest to the frontier, reinforced by contingents sent by the caliph at Medina. The decisive engagements with the Byzantines seem to have been the victory at Ajnadayn in 634, after Khalid had made his fabled crossing of the waterless desert from Iraq to Syria, and the battle of Yarmuk, dated by Theophanes to 23 July 636. Damascus and Jerusalem fell by 638, and with the capture of Caesarea in 640 the conquest of Syria and Palestine was complete. Before ‘Umar’s death in 644, the Arab armies had penetrated Armenia but had not yet crossed the Taurus mountains into Asia Minor. The conquest of Egypt was achieved by another great Muslim general, ‘Amr, who moved into lower Egypt (639), defeated the Byzantine army at Heliopolis (640) and negotiated the capture of Alexandria (by 645). Thus ended the first phase of Muslim expansion. On Christmas Day 634 the patriarch Sophronius, preaching in Jerusalem, had seen the Arabs’ taking of Bethlehem as divine punishment for Christian sin and urged repentance in order to defeat the ‘Ishmaelites’, but such initial optimism on the Byzantine side soon receded. Indeed, in a letter dated between 634 and 640 Maximos the Confessor, the Byzantine theologian, showing greater realism, speaks of ‘a barbaric nation from the desert having overrun a land not their own’.25 The Arabs’ preferred mode of movement was by land, ideally in desert country. But the caliphate of ‘Uthman witnessed an important new

122 | classi ca l is l a m ­ evelopment – ­the first Muslim naval expedition led by the Umayyad govd ernor of Syria, the future caliph Mu‘awiya. Cyprus was taken in 649, initial raids were conducted against Sicily and in 655 the Arabs won a naval victory over the Byzantine fleet off the Lycian coast (the Battle of the Masts). The second phase of conquest, however, lasted more than sixty years. It might be argued that the initial élan had gone, that the conquerors had much to organise in the new territories and that the progress of further conquests would inevitably be slower than in the decade after Muhammad’s death. Other factors contributed to the more protracted struggle to gain control of points west of Egypt and east of Iraq. Internal dissensions at the heart of the new Islamic community preoccupied the caliphs and undermined the triumphal advance of Muslim hegemony. Local conditions also hindered Muslim military leaders. The Arab conquest of Byzantine North Africa, spearheaded from Egypt, was fraught with pitfalls. Even a superficial Arabisation of the coastal strip from Libya westwards to the Atlantic was to take until the end of the seventh century. A natural boundary to the south was provided by the Atlas Mountains. Their gradual progress westward arose as a natural extension of the conquest of Egypt. A new factor in North Africa was local resistance, successfully organised by the indigenous Berbers, with or without support of Byzantine military units. Yet, in time the Berbers converted to Islam; indeed, the Muslim army that eventually crossed over the Straits of Gibraltar (in 710–11) was predominantly Berber, with Arab leadership. Berber conversion to Islam was not, however, swift or uniform. The earliest extant Muslim historiography which focusses on the conquest of North Africa comes from the Egyptian historian Ibn ‘Abd al-­Hakam (d. 871), who collected tales based largely on oral tradition. His underlying aim was to legitimise the Muslim conquests of Egypt and North Africa. Reference is made to two semi-­legendary Berber figures, the warrior Kusayla and the aged queen Kahina, around whom the opposition to the incoming Muslim Invaders centred. Although precise chronologies are not available, it appears that as the Arabs moved along the North African littoral the composition of their armies changed to include increasing numbers of Berber contingents attracted to Islam, if not initially by its precepts, at least by the prospect of booty and regular pay. An important new garrison town, Qayrawan (in present-­day Tunisia), was built in 670 and became the base for further

m u h ammad and the ri se of is l a m ­ | 123 conquests westwards. The Muslims’ conquest of Spain (al-­Andalus) followed naturally from their presence in Morocco and was achieved with great ease. By 720 all the major cities of southern Spain, including Granada, Seville and Cordoba, had fallen. At the other extremity of the Islamic world, the conquest of the Iranian plateau also proved slower. Nevertheless, the easternmost province of the empire, Khurasan, was colonised early by Arab settlers and became a key base for raids into central Asia.26 In the east, the battle of Talas (751) against the Chinese became identified as the moment at which Arab Muslim territorial expansion halted in the east and consolidation of conquered territory began. From 711 the Arabs had also established a small Muslim presence in Sind in northern India. Thus, within a century after the death of the Prophet, the Arab Muslims ruled a mighty empire into which were integrated vast subject populations that had not yet accepted Islam, but the death knell of Zoroastrianism and North African Christianity had been sounded. Elsewhere in the ­empire – ­in Egypt, Syria, Iraq and ­Spain – ­Christian and Jewish communities would survive and retain their character and autonomy under Muslim rule. Much ink has been spilt on the phenomenon of the Islamic conquests, but few firm conclusions can be drawn. Scholars have stressed the weakness of the Byzantine and Sasanian empires and the lack of policing on the borders with Arabia; they have alleged a degree of acquiescence or active complicity on the part of the subject populations of these empires, disaffected with their central governments; and they have adduced various combinations of religious, military, demographic and economic factors which contributed to the Arabs’ remarkable success. It seems unlikely that the Arabs possessed military superiority over their opponents. Certainly, they had no secret weapon, no new techniques. Indeed, in some military spheres they were inexperienced; they allegedly learned siege warfare, for example, from the Persians. They were also unfamiliar with how to fight naval engagements. The nomadic Arabs were, however, militarised and hardy as a result of their lifestyle. They could cover enormous distances over difficult terrain, deriving advantage from their great familiarity with the desert and the riding camel. Perhaps above all, the early Muslim armies enjoyed good leadership from seasoned generals.

124 | classi ca l is l a m As already mentioned, profound demographic changes, conveniently focused on the bursting of the Marib dam, must have occurred, causing populations to spill over into the Byzantine and Sasanian empires from the northern and eastern fringes of the Arabian Peninsula. These factors cannot be ignored in the search for explanations but they do not account for the timing of the conquests so soon after Muhammad’s death. The conclusion imposes itself that the religious impetus must have played a key role in the early military successes and that it gave the Arabs an ideological edge over their foes. Without this impetus the achievements of the Muslims would have been ephemeral and localised. Initially, those genuinely fired by Islam probably formed a small élite of people who had been privileged to work close to Muhammad. This inner core moulded the religious, political and social framework of the community. Islam provided the raison d’être of the embryonic Arab state. Instead of the time-­honoured patterns of Bedouin border raiding followed by a return to Arabia, or of Bedouin integration into frontier localities under the thumb of the Byzantine and Sasanian empires, Muslim rule was now imposed from Medina and the Bedouin settled in custom-­built garrison towns in the territory of the former super-­powers. It seems unlikely, however, that the rank-­and-­file nomads who comprised the earliest Muslim armies were propelled into fighting principally out of religious zeal. Their knowledge of Islam must have been very superficial. Islamic sources themselves stress that inducements of booty and financial remuneration kept the Arab warriors loyal. Gradually, success after success must have engendered greater solidarity and higher morale. Once the Arab tribal contingents were housed in the new garrison towns, it became an important facet of military life to receive instruction in Islam and to ‘live’ the Muslim life corporately. Qur’anic recitation and the daily fulfilment of Islamic rituals helped to reinforce the sense of belonging to a movement destined by God to be crowned with success. Islam, conveyed through the unifying power of the Arabic language, enabled the Arabs to establish the most long-­lasting of all empires set up by nomads. Whilst these extraordinary military exploits and territorial gains were taking place in Byzantine and Sasanian lands, the embryonic Islamic state was developing at the heart of the umma. Internal disunity soon appeared. Indeed, it could be argued that true harmony existed only in Medina under

m u h ammad and the ri se of is l a m ­ | 125 the charismatic rule of Muhammad himself. His unexpected death in 632 left the community in disarray. Partisan historical sources obscure the true nature of the Prophet’s own plans for succession. He left no male heirs and a number of worthy candidates felt they had good right to take on the task. According to the minority Shi‘ite sources, Muhammad bequeathed authority to his cousin and son-­in-­law, ‘Ali. The majority of Muslims, the Sunnis, believe that the decision to appoint Abu Bakr, the Prophet’s father-­in-­law and devoted friend, as his successor (khalifa, ‘caliph’) was in accordance with the true wishes of Muhammad and with the consensus of the nascent Muslim community. Islamic political thinkers have tended to view the period of the four so-­ called ‘Rightly Guided’ caliphs (632–61) as a halcyon era of true theocracy. In reality, the sources reveal a paradox: tremendous vitality and expansion on the one hand and growing internal schism on the other. Three of these first four caliphs were assassinated. The caliphate of Abu Bakr, lasting only two years, was a caretaker government. Islamic sources credit ‘Umar, the second caliph, who succeeded Abu Bakr on the latter’s death in 634, with the establishment of true Islamic government. Many of the achievements attributed to him may well, however, be retrospective projections: the Islamic state must have acquired its distinctive form over a considerable time. Nevertheless, it is clear that ‘Umar held the umma together by the force of his iron personality. After his death in 644, cracks in the edifice of the umma widened and the impetus of conquest was temporarily halted during the turbulent reigns of the third and fourth caliphs, ‘Uthman (644–56) and ‘Ali (656–61). Early Islamic government was at once pragmatic and innovative. At the head of the state was the caliph, who appointed governors over individual provinces. These were usually based on the territorial units already existing under preceding r­egimes – ­Sasanian, Byzantine or Visigothic. The Muslims were content to use local administrative institutions (indeed, they were constrained to do so by their own administrative inexperience); this facilitated the gradual transfer of power to the newcomers. Even so, specifically Islamic modes of government probably came into being early. Initially, the empire was ruled from the seat of the caliphate, Medina, and later briefly Kufa, before moving to Damascus with the takeover of power by the Umayyads in 661. Before that date conquest was a fundamental pillar of the umma. Its

126 | classi ca l is l a m warriors were entitled to a share of the booty; this was divided up on the spot in the case of movable property, one fifth being sent to the caliph to be spent on needy groups within the community and the remainder distributed to those who had participated in the fighting. Islamic tradition also gives ‘Umar credit for the establishment of the diwan, the financial system, which paid military stipends and was based on a supra-­tribal criterion, namely priority of conversion to Islam. The ‘People of the Book’ (Christians, Jews, Sabians, Zoroastrians and, later, Buddhists) were granted the protection of the Islamic state, as well as freedom of worship, in return for payment of the poll-­tax (jizya), which was collected with the help of the religious leaders of the non-­Muslim communities. The early Islamic state demarcated the relationship between the rulers and the ruled. The caliphs derived fiscal benefit from their subject populations; more than this they did not want. Conversion to Islam was not apparently a significant factor. The new faith was for the Arabs at this early stage. The exclusivity of the umma was underlined by the physical separateness of their living quarters. The subject populations continued to dwell in long-­established urban areas, whilst the conquerors generally lived in the newly constructed garrison towns, strategically sited near the open desert. It was not, however, in the interests of the Muslims to mete out harsh treatment to peoples much more numerous than themselves, peoples who could make valuable contributions to the Islamic state. The process by which Sasanian Iraq came to terms with the conquerors can be documented in detail from the Islamic sources. The dihqan class was quick to negotiate with the Arabs to keep its lands. The chronicler al-­Tabari also records that the local population of Iraq built bridges and served as scouts and soldiers for the Arabs. Some contingents of the Sasanian army, notably the group mentioned by al-­Tabari as the Hamra’, converted to Islam and became integrated into the Muslim army as allies of the Tamim tribe before and after the battle of Qadisiyya. Some Hamra’ were infantry; they joined the Muslim side and settled in Kufa. Such new non-­Arab converts, the mawali (‘clients’, so called because they had to become affiliated to an Arab tribe), made mangonels and helped the Arabs to learn the use of armour and the heavy Persian horse. Thus a picture emerges in which certain elements of the Sasanian population, both those with vested land interests and also military

m u h ammad and the ri se of is l a m ­ | 127 contingents, saw their survival in terms of a quick accommodation with the conquerors.27 Can a similar situation be postulated for the Byzantine empire? Recent research reveals a complex picture and suggests that the population did not welcome the Arabs with open arms. It is certainly too simplistic to argue that local Monophysite Christians supported the Muslim conquerors because of their religious disaffection with Constantinople. There were, however, important individuals who allegedly aided the Muslims; Mansur b. Sarjun, the governor of Damascus, apparently wanted them to capture the city. It was his family that was to provide an array of talented administrators for the Umayyad caliphs. According to Brock, it is possible to gauge some of the attitudes of the Christian population towards the transfer of power to the Muslims.28 The Syriac writers of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, relying on much earlier sources, notably Jacob of Edessa (d. 708) and Dionysius of Tell-­Mahre (d. 845), reveal a sense of relief at the transition from Byzantine to Muslim rule after the disruptions of the Byzantine/Sasanian wars. Indeed, the Arab invasions are viewed primarily as punishment for the wickedness of Byzantine ecclesiastical policies.29 An anonymous Nestorian source, dating from between 670 and 680, also shares a positive attitude to the conquerors, claiming that their victory has ‘come from God’. How much such statements are attributable to a desire for survival and good relations with the Muslim newcomers it is difficult to say. No clear-­cut principle of succession was established during the reigns of the first four so-­called ‘Rightly Guided’ (Rashidun) caliphs of Islam. ‘Umar’s assassination in 644 plunged the community into a crisis which was not solved by the eventual emergence of ‘Uthman as the compromise choice of the consultative council set up by the dying ‘Umar to appoint his successor. With ‘Uthman’s accession, the Muslim state witnessed the growing dominance of the Meccan élite and, above all, the Umayyad clan, who, with the notable exception of ‘Uthman himself, had been the Prophet’s main opponents in his attempts to establish the new faith and community. ‘Uthman’s nepotistic policies, which placed his Umayyad relatives in key administrative posts, proved unpopular. However, not all the blame for internal turbulence can be placed at ‘Uthman’s door: his caliphate coincided with widespread dissatisfaction and unrest within the community. The slowing down of the conquests

128 | classi ca l is l a m and concomitant booty, strife in the garrison towns, increasing support for the idea that the caliphate should be in the hands of the Prophet’s blood relations (an idea particularly prevalent among the partisans of ‘­Ali – ­the so-­called Shi‘at ‘Ali, hence the term Shi‘ite) culminated in his murder in Medina in 656; the aged caliph was killed whilst reading the Qur’an. ‘Uthman’s death was a seminal event in the internal development of the community. ‘Ali who had been bypassed for the caliphate on three preceding occasions finally took office but was to rule for only two turbulent years before he too was assassinated. ‘Ali’s impeccable religious credentials and his blood and marriage ties with Muhammad proved powerless to stem centrifugal forces within the community, especially the claims of ‘Uthman’s Umayyad relatives who demanded vengeance for his murder. The crisis culminated in civil war between ‘Ali and the Umayyad faction, led by the talented governor of Syria, Mu‘awiya, who had ruled the province since ‘Umar’s time. Within three decades of Muhammad’s death, supreme power in the Islamic empire was now to pass to the Meccan Quraysh elite. The Umayyads ruled the empire from 661 to 750 and brought about substantial changes in Islamic government and society. It is difficult to give a balanced view of the Umayyad period.30 There are few extant contemporary sources and the dynasty’s achievements have been distorted by the partisan accounts of the chroniclers of the ‘Abbasids, their rivals who ousted them in the revolution of 750. Shi‘ite groups roundly condemned the Umayyads as political usurpers rather than true theocratic rulers, alleging that they were mere ‘kings’ who had introduced the principle of hereditary succession into the umma. The Umayyads were also opposed by pietistic non-­Shi‘ite circles. So much can be gleaned from the sources. More recently, a process of re-­evaluation has rightly shown the Umayyads to be the true architects of an international empire. The key figures in this process were Mu‘awiya (661–80) and ‘Abd al-­Malik (685–705). During the Umayyad period the embryonic Islamic state was freed from the cultural yoke of the Byzantine and Sasanian empires and came of age: this process can be charted through contemporary numismatic, architectural and epigraphic evidence independently of the written sources which, despite their ‘Abbasid bias, also confirm it. Mu‘awiya moved the capital to his power base, Damascus, an important urban centre in late antique times and strategically a more appropriate loca-

m u h ammad and the ri se of is l a m ­ | 129 tion from which to administer the enormous Islamic empire. In Damascus, the Arab Muslim governing elite lived close to the conquered Christian population from whose ranks they drew their high-­level administrators. A symbiosis was created between Byzantine modes of government and society and new Islamic institutions. Muslims and Christians for a while shared the same buildings for religious worship. The caliphal court became the forum for open theological discussion between Christians and Muslims. Each side influenced the other and sharpened their polemical skills in debates before the caliph. By the reign of ‘Abd al-­Malik (685–705), self-­confidence had grown to such an extent that a programme of religious monuments was initiated. The mosque had developed into a building type easily identifiable with the spread and triumph of Islam. The Umayyad Mosque of Damascus was a tangible sign of the religious prestige of Islam. Even more overt was the propagandistic significance of the Dome of the Rock, erected at the heart of the religious centres of Judaism and Christianity, Jerusalem, and decorated with Qur’anic inscriptions proclaiming the triumph of Islam. Arabic, the sacred vehicle through which God’s final and perfect revelation had come to mankind, became the sole language of government and coinage. The Umayyad caliphs favoured Arab over non-­Arab Muslim. Berber and Persian converts to Islam suffered discrimination and their disaffection with the regime grew as the seventh century progressed. The international aspects of the Islamic message, the brotherhood of man mentioned in the Qur’an, came to be emphasised, as the initial ‘Arabness’ of the revelation receded into the background. Islam was for Berber and Persian as well as Arab. This desire to redefine Islam contributed to the downfall of the Umayyad dynasty in 750. The preceding pages have shown that, despite the early appearance of debilitating internal disputes about the nature of true succession to the Prophet, disputes which caused civil war and the violent deaths of caliphs, the waves of Islamic territorial conquests which had begun shortly before or after the death of Muhammad in 632 had created by 732 an enormous empire stretching from Spain to India and Central Asia. The Sasanian polity had been wiped out and Byzantium seriously diminished. The reasons for the success of the phenomenon of Arab Islamic expansion remain complex, but the irruption of nomadic forces out of the Arabian Peninsula at the same time as the emergence of the Islamic revelation and the career of Muhammad points

130 | classi ca l is l a m to the new faith as the mainspring of the inspirational leadership underpinning the military successes. Conquest was followed by consolidation, and in the Umayyad period a series of very gifted caliphs, based on Syria rather than Arabia, elaborated a government system capable of administering this vast empire. Arabic was now its lingua franca and Islam, a clearly identifiable new religion, was the faith of its ruling elite. Notes  1. For a clear overview of the history of pre-­Islamic Arabia, Lammens (1928); Serjeant (1967); Shahid (1970).   2. Brunner (1982–3), I and II; Glaser (1913).   3. Ibn Khaldun, The Muqaddimah, tr. Rosenthal, 92.   4. Ibn Khaldun, The Muqaddimah, tr. Rosenthal, 97.   5. Cf. Serjeant (1981).   6. ‘Have ye thought upon Al-­Lât and Al-‘Uzzâ and Manât, the third, the other? . . . They are but names which ye have named’, The Quran, tr. Pickthall, 549.   7. Cf. Gibb et al. (1960), Habashat; see also Glaser (1895).   8. Bosworth (1983), 593–612.   9. Cf. Christensen (1944); also Frye (1984), 116–80. 10. Gibb et al. (1960), hanif. 11. Seminal are Crone and Cook (1977) and Wansborough (1978). 12. al-­Baladhuri, Futuh al-buldan, trs Hitti and Murgotten, 412. 13. For example, the agreement of Khalid b. Walid on the conquest of Damascus in 14 ah recorded in al-­Baladhuri, 187. 14. See for example Walker (1941a) and (1941b); Grierson (1960); Morony (1984), 38–51. 15. Grohmann (1952), 4. 16. Combe et al. (1931), 6. 17. Kessler (1970). 18. Cf. von Botmer (1987), 4–20. 19. ‘Did He not find thee an orphan and protect (thee)?’, tr. Pickthall, 656. 20. Theophanes, Chronographia, tr. Turtledove, 34. 21. Cf. Serjeant (1964b), 3–16. 22. Theophanes, tr. Turtledove, 34. 23. For recent secondary works on the Islamic conquests, Donner (1981); Kaegi (1992).

m u h ammad and the ri se of is l a m ­ | 131 24. Ibn Khaldun, The Muqaddinah, tr. Rosenthal, 1. 25. On Maximos, see Louth, chapter 11, vol. 1 of The New Cambridge Medieval History (Cambridge, 2005). 26. Gibb (1923). 27. Cf. Morony (1984), 181ff. 28. Brock (1982). 29. Brock (1982). 30. For a clear overview, Hawting (1986).

Bibliography al-­Baladhuri (1916–24), Futuh al-Buldan, trs P. Hitti and F. Murgotten as The Origins of the Islamic State, New York. Bosworth, C. E. (1983), ‘Iran and the Arabs before Islam’, in E. Yarshater (ed.), Cambridge History of Iran, III, pt 1, Cambridge, 593–612. Brock, S. P. (1982), ‘Syriac views of emergent Islam’, in G. H. A. Juynboll (ed.), Studies on the First Century of Islamic Society, Carbondale and Edwardsville, 9–22. Brunner, V. (1982–3), Die Erforschung der antiken Oase von Marib mit Hilfe geomorphologischer Unterssuchungsmethoden (Archäologische Bericht aus dem Yemen I and II), Mainz. Christensen, A. (1944), L’Iran sous les Sassanides, Copenhagen. Combe, E., J. Sauvaget and G. Wiet (eds) (1931), Répertoire chronologique d’épigraphie arabe, Cairo. Crone, P. and M. Cook (1977), Hagarism: The Making of the Islamic World, Cambridge. Donner, F. M. (1981), The Early Islamic Conquests, Princeton, NJ. Frye, R. N. (1984), The History of Ancient Iran, Munich. Gibb, H. A. R. (1923), The Arab Conquests in Central Asia, London. Gibb, H. A. R. et al. (eds) (1960), The Enyclopaedia of Islam, Leiden and London. Glaser, E. (1895), Die Abessinier in Arabien und Afrika, Munich. Glaser, E. (1913), Eduart Glaser’s Reise nach Marib, Vienna. Grierson, P. (1960), ‘The monetary reforms of ‘Abd al-­Malik’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 3: 241–64. Grohmann, A. (1952), From the World of Arabic Papyri, Cairo. Hawting, G. R. (1986), The First Dynasty of Islam: The Umayyad Caliphate, AD 661– 750, London. Ibn Khaldun (1967), The Muqaddimah, tr. F. Rosenthal, Princeton.

132 | classi ca l is l a m Kaegi, W. E. (1992), Byzantium and the Early Islamic Conquests, Cambridge. Kessler, C. (1970), ‘‘Abd al-­Malik’s inscription in the Dome of the Rock: a consideration’, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society (unnumbered): 2–14. Lammens, H. (1928), L’arabie occidentale avant l’Héjire, Beirut. Morony, M. G. (1984), Iraq after the Muslim Conquest, Princeton, NJ. Pickthall, M. (1930), The Meaning of the Glorious Koran: An Explanatory Translation, London. Serjeant, R. B. (1964b), ‘The Constitution of Medina’, Islamic Quarterly 8: 3–16. Serjeant, R. B. (1967), ‘Société et gouvernement en Arabie du Sud’, Arabica 14: 284–97. Serjeant, R. B. (1981), ‘Haram and hawtah, the sacred enclave in Arabia’, in Studies in Arabian History and Civilisation, London, 41–8. Shahid, I. (1970), ‘Pre-­Islamic Arabia’, in P. M. Holt, A. K. S. Lambton and B. Lewis (eds), The Cambridge History of Islam I, Cambridge, 2–29. Theophanes (1982), The Chronicle of Theophanes: An English Translation of the Anni Mundi 6095–6305 (a.d. 602–813), tr. H. Turtledove, Philadelphia. von Botmer, H.-K. (1987), ‘Architekturbilder im Koran. Eine Prachthandschrift der Umayyadenzeit aus dem Yemen, Pantheon 45: 4–20. Walker, J. (1941a), A Catalogue of the Arab–Byznatine and Post-reform Umayyad Coins, London. Walker, J. (1941b), A Catalogue of the Arab–Sassanian Coins, London. Wansborough, J. (1978), The Sectarian Milieu: Content and Composition of Islamic Salvatation History, Oxford.

10 Sources in Arabic

In the last thirty years prosopographical studies have significantly enlarged the understanding of Islamic medieval societies. Manuela Marin1

A

fter a brief introduction, this overview will focus on three major areas: a discussion of medieval Arabic (and, to a lesser extent, Persian) narrative sources which deal with the period 1025–1204, a survey of medieval Islamic prosopographical material, including biographical and autobiographical literature, and an analysis of the current state of research on Islamic prosopography. This overview will also mention certain ancillary sources, such as inscriptions, which are a useful prosopographical tool. The bibliography which follows this essay provides comments, sometimes detailed, on certain individual authors and works which will be of special value to the Prosopography of the Byzantine World project. These comments will not be recapitulated here. Instead, an attempt will be made to give a background analysis of the historiography of the period under investigation. Introduction The Geographical and Historical Background In the eleventh century, the Muslim world lay on the eastern and southern flanks of the Byzantine empire. The ‘House of Islam’ controlled the sinews of Byzantine trade and its fleets dominated the Mediterranean. The Muslim world was effectively boundless, immeasurably richer than Byzantium. 133

134 | classi ca l is l a m Moreover, since the seventh century and for almost the whole of the eleventh, Muslims held sway in Jerusalem and the Holy Land. The days of a Muslim world, ruled by a single theocratic state, were long since past. From the ninth century onwards smaller political entities governed the vast areas of the ‘House of Islam’, stretching from Spain to northern India. Since the death of the Prophet Muhammad in 632, major religious splits had appeared amongst Muslims who disagreed about who should govern the Muslim world. The majority came to believe that legitimate rule had lain initially with the line of four so-­called Rightly Guided caliphs (khalifa = ‘successor’) who had been appointed after 632. This majority group eventually received the title of Sunnis. A minority, itself gradually divided into several groups, held that legitimate rule in Islam should be vested in the Prophet’s family and descendants through his daughter Fatima and her husband ‘Ali, Muhammad’s cousin. This minority within the Muslim community came to be known as Shi‘ites (the name was derived from the phrase shi‘at ‘Ali, ‘the party of ‘Ali’). By the eleventh century, the Sunni caliphate, since 750 established within the ‘Abbasid dynasty at Baghdad, held no temporal power. However, the caliph still acted as a legal and religious figurehead, although even this role of his was challenged by the existence of a second caliph, the Isma‘ili2 Shi‘ite ruler of the Fatimid empire in Egypt. Despite political and religious fragmentation, however, the Muslim world, with its lingua franca, Arabic, remained united by common cultural norms and aims, and scholars could travel freely within it in search of knowledge in the great centres of learning in Baghdad, Damascus, Cairo, Jerusalem and elsewhere. The Fatimid empire (909–1171) The Shi‘ite Isma‘ili Fatimid caliphs (named Fatimids after the Prophet’s daughter) had ruled Egypt since 969. In its time, their empire had included North Africa (conquered in 909) and southern Syria, and for a while in the 1050s it even threatened Baghdad itself. The Fatimids had also taken Sicily. Despite their religious persuasion and their overall missionary aim to topple the Sunni ‘Abbasid Caliph at Baghdad and to convert the whole Muslim world to their beliefs, the Fatimid c­aliphs – w ­ ith the notorious exception of the Caliph al-­Hakim (ruled 996–1021) – had been generally tolerant to

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 135 their own Sunni Muslim subjects and to Christians and Jews within their territories. Most of the eleventh century saw the long reign of al-­Mustansir (1036– 94). By his death the Fatimid caliphate had passed its peak and begun to fall prey to internal instability and weak rule. The twelfth century saw the further decline of the Fatimid state, as it became the object of the predatory eyes of both the Franks and the Muslim commanders, Nur al-­Din and Saladin. The latter finally put an end to the dynasty in 1171 and returned the former Fatimid territories to Sunni Islam. The Buyids of Iran and Iraq (945–1055) To the east, in Iraq and Iran, a group of mercenaries from the remote province of Daylam near the Caspian Sea had conquered Baghdad in 945, now ruled Iraq and western Iran and were in control of the weakened ‘Abbasid caliphate. In Baghdad the Buyids espoused Twelver Shi‘ism,3 but they kept the Sunni ‘Abbasid caliph in situ and presided over a flourishing Arabo-­ Persian culture. The new power in the East: the Seljuq empire (1030–1194) Unlike the Fatimids, the Seljuq sultans were newcomers. They led their fellow-­Turkish nomads from Central Asia into the Islamic world, took Baghdad in 1055, ousting the Buyids, and by the 1050s had created an empire stretching from Syria and Palestine to Central Asia. Like other medieval military warlords who had seized power in the eastern Islamic world, the Seljuqs used Perso-­Islamic government structures and they formed an alliance with the existing Persian bureaucratic elite. After 1092 the unity of the Seljuq empire was fragmented into smaller family polities but the dynasty continued in weakened form for another century. The Seljuq successor-­states of the twelfth century In the breakup of the Seljuq empire into smaller principalities after 1092, Seljuq princelings and their military commanders who had been appointed as provincial governors in the cities of Syria and Palestine took power for themselves. The same process occurred in Anatolia with the emergence of a number of petty Seljuq successor states, such as the Danishmendids and the

136 | classi ca l is l a m Artuqids, who modelled their government structures, such as they were, on the Seljuq pattern from further east. Central Anatolia, however, was to see the appearance of an altogether more formidable political entity, the state normally known as the Seljuqs of Rum, which was to have close ties with its Byzantine neighbour. In time, the Rum Seljuqs extended their control over most of Anatolia, as evidenced by their networks of caravanserais, some of which serviced the trade that funnelled slaves from southern Russia to Egypt and the Levant. The rivalries between the various Seljuq successor-­states, such as the Danishmendids and the Artuqids, helped to delay the development of a unified Muslim power in Anatolia whose obvious goal would be the capture of Constantinople and the extirpation of Byzantium. But this process did not, of course, begin, until the fourteenth century. The Scope of this Enquiry Given the daunting vastness of the medieval Muslim world, stretching from Spain to India, this survey, and its accompanying bibliography, cannot hope to be comprehensive. What is given here can be called only the tip of an enormous iceberg. Even within the geographical limitations which have necessarily been imposed on the available medieval Islamic historiographical material, the task of selecting what to omit proved difficult. However, the sources chosen and the discussion of them will, it is hoped, show the richness and diversity of Muslim source material in the period 1025–1204. A deliberate decision has been taken to restrict the discussion to the areas traditionally regarded as the heartlands of medieval Islam, the areas long ­Islamicised – ­namely Egypt, Greater Syria, Iraq and Iran. Anatolia, newly conquered in part by the Seljuq Turks in this period, will be given brief mention but, as a newly conquered, frontier territory, it had still to make an important contribution to Muslim culture. The historiographical contributions of Spain and India will not be covered, nor will the historiographical traditions of North Africa under the Berber Almoravid and Almohad dynasties. These areas, often regarded by scholars of the Islamic world as ‘peripheral’, should rightly be the subject of a separate study, as recent scholarship testifies, notably the meticulous book on Arabic administration in Sicily by Johns.4 On the other hand, this overview will give brief mention of some of

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 137 the works of Christian historians who lived in Egypt, Syria and Iraq under Muslim rule and wrote in Arabic. Whilst it remains true that the major patterns of Islamic historiography were set in the high ‘Abbasid period and that Arabic remained the major vehicle for such writings until Ottoman times, the picture was already becoming more nuanced and Persian historical works cannot be ignored.5 By the eleventh century, with the divisive impact of the Turkish invasions and the sponsorship of Persian culture by Seljuq sultans, New Persian began to rival Arabic as a court language and literary vehicle in the eastern Islamic world. Hence some at least of the most important historical works in Persian will also be discussed here when appropriate; these clearly point to the emergence of a second historiographical tradition. These two traditions were not, however, hermetically sealed. Whilst it it true that Arabic writers from the Fertile Crescent rarely knew Persian, ethnically Persian scholars, both those living in Iran and those, such as Saladin’s adviser, ‘Imad al-­Din al-­Isfahani, who moved from Iran to Syria and Egypt, were at home in both languages and could draw on earlier sources written in both. The selection of primary sources for inclusion in the bibliography was a difficult task. The first choice was made on the basis of geography and sources from countries neighbouring Byzantium were prioritised. Others were selected for their prosopographical interest. Even with the virtual exclusion of sources from Spain, North Africa and Central Asia, the richness and diversity of Islamic historiography are daunting. Unsurprisingly, medieval Islamic sources, like their Western Christian counterparts, deal with rulers and elites rather than ordinary people, cities rather than the countryside, with men rather than women and children, with political and military events rather than with social and economic trends. Like their counterparts in Europe or Byzantium, medieval Muslim writers of history aimed not only at narrating events; they wished to point a moral. They saw in the overarching sweep of history the inexorable and ineluctable will of God whose purpose was the eventual victory of Islam.

138 | classi ca l is l a m Medieval Arabic and Persian Narrative Sources General Characteristics Unfortunately, raw material comprising documents in archives, charters and the like, which forms such an important resource for western medieval history, is almost entirely lacking in the Islamic world.6 Our knowledge of the medieval Islamic world therefore comes mainly from chronicles, as well as religious and legal works. There is no doubt that the written narrative historical texts of this p ­ eriod – ­as distinct from the numerous other types of s­ ources – a­ re the most valuable resource for the Prosopography of the Byzantine World (PBW) project within the period 1025–1204, although it should be stressed that this timescale fits the rhythms of Byzantine, and not Islamic, history. In the Middle East the period 1055–1250 would offer a more useful framework. During this time, some Muslim historians continued to write overarching works embracing the whole umma, God’s worldwide community of Muslims. Others became more focused and wrote about their own locality or a particular dynasty ruling in one specific part of the Islamic world. With this increased regionalisation came pride in one’s own area and the desire to vaunt it over other Muslim regions. Preoccupation with one’s own city or territory also brought introversion; indeed, Muslim historians in Spain and North Africa showed little interest in the historiography of the eastern Islamic world and the same tendency happened in reverse. The Persian-­speaking region, especially, as already mentioned, with the gradual demise of Arabic as the major vehicle for the writing of history in eastern Iran and Central Asia in the twelfth century, was, not surprisingly, largely interested in itself.7 That solipsistic emphasis helps to explain why the language of choice for these historical accounts was increasingly Persian. It is interesting to note that only one chronicle in Arabic, the Akhbar al-dawla al-Saljuqiyya (The Accounts of the Seljuq State) of al-­Husayni, is known from the early thirteenth century in this area. By then, the split between the Arabic and Persian-­speaking parts of the Islamic world was becoming more pronounced. Even religious and legal works were often written in Persian. The works of medieval Islamic history and literature were written by religious scholars and high-­ranking government officials, the latter being

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 139 often of a pronounced ‘secular’ bent. Although there are many unasked and unanswered questions in this material about prosopographical issues, these sources speak, often in great detail, about the individuals who have shaped medieval Muslim society, and there is a strong anecdotal aspect to their accounts. By the eleventh century historical writing was a well-­established part of Islamic scholarship. However, the earlier practice of presenting the reader with a selected number of different accounts of the same event, without adjudicating between them, and with each account given authenticity by a chain of transmitters, had largely disappeared. Instead, the chronicler chose what he wanted from a variety of sources and presented his own synthesis of them. It was uncommon for him to stray from the annalistic mode, let alone to seek to discern a pattern in events or to meditate on broad historical processes. But for him, as already noted, the sequence of events, however random they might seem, unfolded according to the sovereign will of God. It was still the practice in the period under discussion to copy excerpts, often lengthy, from earlier sources, with or without attribution. This practice enabled writers to build on the work of their predecessors, before they embarked on their own new account of the historic present in which they themselves lived. Copying or adapting the work of earlier authors meant that histories now lost were preserved, in extracts at least, in the writings of later scholars. A notable example of the value of such a process is the oft-­quoted chronicle of the thirteenth-­century Shi‘ite historian of Aleppo, Ibn Abi Tayyi’. This lost work, a valuable corrective, for example, to the laudatory accounts of Saladin found in other works, can be pieced together, at least in part, from the extensive quotations of it found in later authors such as Abu Shama, al-‘Ayni and others. It is precisely for this reason that much later sources, which might otherwise be ruled out of court because they were written so long after the events that they describe, can sometimes be of crucial value. As well as the genealogies and family histories of caliphs, sultans and governors, Muslim narrative souces frequently give lists of administrators and government ministers who have held office, which offices they held, often with precise dates. Power networks can thus be constructed. Such information is usually given at the end of a ruler’s period in power, either through death or removal from office.

140 | classi ca l is l a m Historiographical Genres: City Chronicles, Universal Histories and Dynastic Histories An important genre of Muslim historical writing in the period is the city chronicle. The history of important cities, such as Aleppo and Damascus, was recorded by chroniclers who would draw for their material on previous local histories, oral accounts and administrative documents. Ibn al-­Qalanisi, for example, composed the local history of Damascus which covers much of the twelfth century. A city chronicler, such as he, often provides detailed information not found elsewhere. However, the focus of such a work is narrow, fixated as it is on local preoccupations and ignoring the wider significance of some of the events it records. A more panoramic perspective is given by the genre of historical writing known as the Universal History. Embracing the history of the world (or rather the world of Islam) from the Creation until the author’s own time, this genre can deal with territories as far-­flung as Spain to the west and Central Asia in the east. However, the Muslim h ­ eartlands – E ­ gypt, Palestine, Syria and I­ raq – ­usually receive more extended coverage. The most valuable source in this genre for the PBW is the Universal History of Ibn al-­Athir (d. 1233). Another kind of Muslim historical work was the dynastic history. Ibn al-­Athir wrote a second work in this genre, a highly laudatory account of the Zengid dynasty founded in Mosul by the conqueror of Edessa, Zengi. Other chroniclers, Ibn Wasil and al-‘Asqalani, performed the same services for the Ayyubids, the family dynasty of Saladin, and in distant Central Asia, the Akhbar al-dawla al-Saljuqiyya (The Accounts of the Seljuq State) of al-­Husayni, is a very useful source in the same genre. The Limitations of Medieval Islamic Historical Narrative Sources Byzantium occupied a time-­honoured place in the medieval Muslim consciousness. It had always been there, since the very beginning of Islam. It was the familiar ‘other’, a long-­standing neighbour. References to it float in and out of the Muslim chronicles but they occasion little comment and apparently required no explanation. It had always been the Christian rival and enemy on the Muslim doorstep. In the eleventh century Byzantium attracted attention when it came into contact or conflict with Muslims, notably in

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 141 Syria and Anatolia, and in its relations with the Buyids, the Fatimids and the Franks. As for the new and alien Christian presence, that of the Franks from the end of the eleventh century onwards, a presence, moreover, right in the heart of Muslim territory, in Syria and Palestine, they are mentioned in Islamic writings with much greater frequency than the Byzantines, but in a rather blinkered way, at least in the twelfth century. The Muslims did not, it seems, fully understand the wider social, political and religious context from which the Franks came and within which they operated. Moreover, the ideological divide, as will be shown below, allows the Franks to be given only rare prosopographical treatment in the Muslim sources. Within the Muslim world itself, it is also important to note the ideological differences which underly the corpus of medieval Islamic historiographical material in this period. The great Syrian and Iraqi chroniclers of the thirteenth century, such as Ibn al-­Athir and Sibt b. al-­Jawzi, for example, on whom one must rely for much of the period 1025–1204, were Sunni Muslims, working within the orbit of the ‘Abbasid caliphate and for masters who drew their authority from that caliphate. Their testimony, when they choose to speak of the Isma‘ilis at all, on the activities of both the rival Isma‘ili Shi‘ite Fatimid caliphate in Egypt and its offshoot, the Assassins of Iran, and later Syria, is flawed and patently hostile. It must also be admitted that even in modern scholarship in both the west and the Middle East greater weight is given to the Sunni historiographical tradition and little attention is paid to the Isma‘ilis or other Shi‘ite evidence. This leads to the more general question of what exactly is ‘Islamic historiography’. What this grandiose term, with its potentially vast horizons, actually means in the period under discussion is ‘Sunni Arab historiography’. The frequent marginalisation of Shi‘ite historiography in general works on Islamic history or thought is here, unfortunately, imposed not by choice but by the lack of extant material. So the complete picture cannot be given for the period 1025–1204 and indeed, it is true to say that in the bibliography of primary sources that follows this essay the medieval writers mentioned are Sunni, unless there is an explicit statement to the contrary.

142 | classi ca l is l a m Fatimid Sources Work on the Fatimids has proliferated in recent years but the results do not always receive the attention they deserve. This is particularly significant in the study of Fatimid–Byzantine relations and Fatimid involvement in the history of the Franks in the first half of the twelfth century. But the Fatimid caliphate (ruled 909–1171), it must be remembered, was a major Mediterranean power, and it did attempt to oust its Sunni rival institution in Baghdad, so it is not surprising that it generated a new historiography of its own. Unfortunately, many of the achievements of Fatimid historiography have been lost to us.8 However, some fragments and extensive quotations from Fatimid sources have been preserved in the works of the Mamluk era (1250–1517). The oeuvre of al-­Maqrizi (d. 1442), the great Muslim historian of Egypt, is a particularly valuable resource in this respect. His evidence constitutes the main source for the history of Egypt for the period of the project. For the much-­neglected Fatimid history of the twelfth century, for example, al-­Maqrizi draws on the lost history of Ibn al-­Ma’mun (d. 1192). Despite the long gap between his own time and that of the early Fatimids, al-­Maqrizi quotes such early Fatimid sources as al-­Musabbihi (d. 1030) and he adopts a comprehensive and systematic approach to them. Mamluk historians are all the more important, since works written about the Fatimids in the Ayyubid period (1174–1250) have also been lost. In the work of the Egyptian scholar Ibn al-­Furat (d. 1405), we also find many extracts from lost sources. Nevertheless, it is impossible to discern how much these later Sunni writers, by their selections and omissions of quotations from lost Fatimid sources, may have ‘doctored’ them for their own purposes. Christian Arabic Sources A good number of texts written in Arabic by ­Christians – M ­ elkites and ­Copts – ­have survived. There had long been a robust and extensive Christian historiographical tradition written in Arabic; in addition to those Middle Eastern Christians who wrote in Armenian, Greek or Syriac, some chose to write in Arabic. Although the Jacobites continued writing in Syriac until the thirteenth century, some of their number, notably Bar Hebraeus (called in Arabic Ibn al-‘Ibri), also composed works in Arabic.9

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 143 The Christian Arab viewpoint is a valuable supplement and even corrective to the approaches followed in the Muslim chronicles. The Nazm al-jawhar (String of Jewels), the chronicle of Sa‘id b. Batriq, known also as Eutychios (d. 940), the Melkite patriarch of Alexandria from 933–40, was continued in a Dhayl (Appendix) by another Melkite historian, Yahya al-­ Antaki (John of Antioch, d. 1066). Christian Arab sources, such as the Dhayl, help to fill the gap in early Fatimid historiography. It is a useful resource for Arab–Byzantine relations. On the other hand, Christian Arab historians who opted to write in Arabic exposed themselves to being understood in their writings by their Muslim overlords; one may assume therefore that they had come to terms to some extent with their Muslim governors and that they exercised caution in their accounts of non-­ecclestiastical matters inside the ‘House of Islam’. It should also be stressed that the boundaries between Christian and Muslim historical writings were permeable and that both sides unashamedly copied material from each other. The better-­known Coptic writer, Jirjis al-­Makin Ibn al-‘Amid (d. 1273), is less useful for the period 1025–1204. His chronicle on the Ayyubids begins in 1205 and thus is outside our period; it should, however, be consulted for its valuable information on the thirteenth century in Egypt and elsewhere. Al-­Makin also composed a work entitled al-Majmu‘ al-mubarak (The Blessed Collection), a Universal History from the Creation until the year 1260. This short work received much, perhaps unwarranted, attention, given its highly derivative nature, in Western Europe because of its early translation into Latin. Eleventh-­century Sources It is worth mentioning that at the very beginning of the period 1025–1204 we find the work of Miskawayh (d. 1030), a very important Muslim historian who in his work entitled Tajarib al-umam (The Experiences of Nations) adopted an ethical and philosophical approach to history.10 He used his own judgement in assessing the information in front of him and he used the first person in his narrative. Some have seen in his wider vision of historical processes a precursor of the work of the more famous Ibn Khaldun (d. 1406). Buyid historiography was also dominated by a prominent Sabian family11 – doctors, men of letters and ­administrators – ­and in particular by Hilal

144 | classi ca l is l a m al-­Sabi’, who converted to Islam, and his son Ghars al-­Ni‘ma. The historical works of both these men are now lost but fortunately they were quoted by later writers from the Baghdad historiographical ‘school’, such as Ibn al-­Jawzi (d. 1200) and especially his maternal grandson, Sibt b. al-­Jawzi (d. 1256), who uses the work of Ghars al-­Ni‘ma in detail for his account of the years 1055–76.12 Mention should also be made of the little-­known Kurdish Muslim dynasties who ruled on the eastern borders of Byzantium, in Armenia and Transcaucasia, the Shaddadids of Ganja (951–1075) and the Shaddadids of Ani (1064–1198). The pioneeering work on these dynasties is that of Minorsky entitled Studies in Caucasian History. In it, Minorsky draws on an anonymous Arabic source from the area, probably written around 1075.13 Twelfth- and Thirteenth-­century Sources The twelfth century yields disappointingly little in the way of extant narrative sources. However, the situation improves dramatically in the thirteenth century where there is a vast wealth of such material, from Iraq, Syria and Egypt, providing extremely rich documentation. As already mentioned, the practice of copying predecessors’ works, helped to preserve the lost contributions of eleventh- and twelfth-­century chroniclers. Pride of place amongst the medieval Muslim historians writing about the period 1025–1204 must go to Ibn al-­Athir (d. 1233). This chronicler shows the true instincts of the historian in his al-Kamil fi’l-ta’rikh (The Complete in History), with his breadth of vision and masterly synthesis of sources. The work of Sibt b. al-­Jawzi (d. 1256), the Mir’at al-zaman (The Mirror of the Time) is a rich resource for the history of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries in Syria. Islamic Prosopographical Works There is a wealth of extant medieval Muslim prosopographical literature relating to the period 1025–1204. After a discussion of general characteristics of this kind of material, the g­ enres – b­ iographical dictionaries, biographies and a­ utobiographies – ­will be analysed. The possible value and interest to Byzantine prosopographical studies will then be highlighted.

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 145 The Format and Content of Medieval Islamic Prosopographical Sources Generally speaking, an independent biographical work devoted to one individual person is called a sira; a biographical entry inserted into a collection of biographies is called a tarjama. There is, however, some overlap between these two terms.14 The major sources of biographical material in the medieval Islamic world were the tabaqat (generation) books; these were biographical works classified according to death dates. Other biographical books were ordered alphabetically. A typical notice in a biographical dictionary reads rather like an entry in a medieval ‘Who’s Who?’ It includes the dates of birth and death, if known, of the subject, the person’s names, titles, genealogy, education, the scholars with whom the person studied, the offices he held, the titles of the book he wrote, and in some cases, anecdotal material about the person. Some entries are short but others cover several pages. Although they often contain nuggets of unexpected and valuable information, they are formulaic in their structure and phrasing and they can be somewhat discouraging to use. Biographical dictionaries that step outside the narrow remit of the tabaqat literature appeared at a later date. In their works, al-­Khatib al-­Baghdadi (d. 1071), focusing on Baghdad, and Ibn al-‘Asakir (d. 1176), writing about Damascus, aimed at quantity and comprehensiveness, wanting to give a complete record of élites living in or connected with a specific place. Such works were also written by Shi‘ites and other ‘sectarian’ groups. Yet other biographical works were compiled on a regional basis, covering Spain to Central Asia. The genre of biographical dictionary reached its apogee with a flood of such works in the Mamluk period (1250–1500). Amongst these are the great biographical works of the writers who lived in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, such as Ibn Khallikan, Ibn al-‘Adim, al-­Maqrizi, al-­Safadi and others. Who deserved mention in biographical dictionaries? At first, the genre focused on obituaries of religious lawyers who belonged to one of the four main Sunni madhhabs (madhhab literally means ‘way’ but it is usually translated as ‘legal school’).15 As is sometimes forgotten in the west, Islam had no established ‘church’ and it was these men who shaped religious orthodoxy. However, by the period under discussion here the genre of biographical

146 | classi ca l is l a m dictionaries had broadened to include administrators, Sufis (Muslim mystics), doctors, poets and other specific groups. Nevertheless, the ‘ulama’ (the religious scholars of Islam, for want of a more precise definition),16 are the group which figure most prominently in medieval Muslim biographical dictionaries. It is they too who compiled these works. The major criterion for inclusion was scholarship or religious piety, although this is not explicitly stated. For a writer such as Ibn Khallikan, however, his selection (and his dictionary contains 855 entries) was dictated by the yardstick of fame itself and his is the first general biographical dictionary. As he himself wrote: ‘I have not restricted myself to any given group, like the ‘ulama’, kings, princes, viziers or poets. On the contrary, I have mentioned everybody who was famous.’17 Some of the Muslim leaders against the Franks are given an entry in at least one biographical dictionary. Delving in the hundreds of pages of such works the reader is even rewarded occasionally by the discovery of a short biography of famous Franks, such as Baldwin I or Reynald of Châtillon. These works provide rich prosopographical information. They shed light on the dealings of religious notables with each other and also on how they interacted with the rest of society. They show typical career paths for scholars and they shed light on the nature of religious institutions, such as the madrasa (a religious college devoted to the study of the jurisprudence of a particular legal ‘school’),18 and on urban social elites and structures. In addition to information on religious scholars, these biographical collections provide a mine of information on urban elites, governors, administrators, merchants and women.19 Such sources have enabled scholars to begin to write social and cultural history and to address themes, such as the transmission and circulation of knowledge, the movement of books and scholars, and onomastic and genealogical issues.20 Biographical dictionaries have, however, clear limitations. They are aimed at depicting the religious and scholarly achievements of medieval Muslim society but their value as documents that record other aspects of that society is sporadic. For political and social history, they can only ever be a supplementary source to be used alongside chronicles and other writings. Except for occasional entries about saints and mystics, nobody anonymous could be included in the biographical dictionaries. Moreover, the exact registering of an individual’s names was of paramount importance. These

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 147 names are composite. In addition to the person’s forename (ism) received at birth and selected from a rather small repertoire, other names were given, including the nisba (to denote place of birth or residence), the kunya (the personal name which indicates someone as the ‘father’ or ‘mother’ of so and ­so – ­for example, ‘Abu Muhammad’ = ‘father of Muhammad’) and the laqabs (honorific titles). Some dictionaries are organised according to ism, others prefer to use a person’s kunya, whilst yet others identify their subjects by their nisba. Clearly, then, one must be in possession of quite a range of information, if one wishes to track down a given individual. The complete, or even a partial, set of names reveals much about a person’s life, travels and career. In general, Islamic prosopographical studies suffer from many problems: the daunting amount of works to be tackled and the relative lack of researchers working as a team on this material. These works are still a largely unexploited source for modern scholars. This is perhaps not surprising, since only one of them, the work of Ibn Khallikan, has been fully translated into a European language. The rest of this corpus of material remains difficult of access to scholars who cannot read Arabic, for it is translated piecemeal and only in small fragments or, much more frequently, untranslated. A good number of the editions of these works still lack an index, a deficiency which, given their great length, makes them very difficult for anyone to use. A major desideratum is a computerised corpus of all persons mentioned in each of the important biographical dictionaries. It is important to stress within the context of this Byzantine and Crusader prosopographical project that the very material on the Islamic ­side – ­these biographical d ­ ictionaries – ­which ought to be of great help, is hard to use as an inter-­disciplinary tool. The genre of biographical writing in the medieval Islamic world developed as an indigenous entity, the natural result of a society’s desire to record the achievements of its religious, scholarly elites. The classical models of Greece and Rome do not seem to have exerted any influence from outside, nor is there any obvious parallel to the penetrating observations about Byzantine rulers from the pen of Michael Psellos. The avowed aim of the PBW of identifying individuals from Byzantium mentioned in non-­Greek sources will be extremely hard to achieve on the basis of using Arabic and Persian prosopographical works in this period or any other. Mention of Byzantine persons in medieval Islamic sources is

148 | classi ca l is l a m extremely rare and difficult to find. Literally hundreds of pages of medieval biographical works will yield only a few, or no, such references. The situation is slightly better in the case of the Franks, whose leaders are mentioned very occasionally. When such references do occur, it is difficult to decide why such a nugget has been ­included – ­is it there by chance because the Muslim compiler had access to a source which mentioned a specific Byzantine or Frankish individual or has the short biographical notice been chosen for a purpose? Recent Scholarly Approaches to Islamic Prosopography The Western Contribution The French scholar, Cahen, was not certain of the value of what he rather sweepingly described as ‘all these bulky dictionaries’, remarking that they were full of people ‘of little significance’.21 Fortunately, this rather harsh judgement, whilst true up to a point in the case of certain works in this genre, is certainly not now the view of scholars who are keen to tap the biographical dictionaries for all kinds of data. Much of this information is incidental from the standpoint of the compiler. But when such snippets are used with imagination and care, they have already produced interesting results. Byzantinists will be interested to learn of recent approaches and achievements in the burgeoning field of research on Islamic prosopography. Perhaps ironically, the two main areas where there has been significant interest in this field are Spain and eastern Iran, far removed from the central Islamic lands which border Byzantium. For some time now, Spanish scholars, under the influence and inspiration of Manuela Marin, have been doing pioneering prosopographical research focused on Muslim Spain. In addition to her own considerable output in this area, Marin recently edited a special issue of the journal Medieval Prosopography devoted to Arab–Islamic medieval culture. The emphasis in this volume (seven out of eleven articles) is heavily on material from Spain, where the study of medieval Muslim prosopography has been flourishing for some time and is clearly well ahead of comparable work in the central and eastern Islamic lands. For the area of eastern Iran, the work of Bulliet has been notably adventurous in the field of medieval Islamic prosopographical studies. In his book The Patricians of Nishapur22 he collected data from a single city to draw a

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 149 picture of how power was concentrated in the hands of a few families over a period of generations. For this research he leant on three summarised versions of two Persian biographical dictionaries which deal with the notables of this city betweeen the middle of the tenth century and the middle of the twelfth. Basing himself on this material, he has assembled useful data on the role of the ‘ulama’ in an important centre of religious learning in eastern Iran. In a later work, Conversion to Islam in the Medieval Period: An Essay in Quantitative History,23 Bulliet suggested a controversial but thought-­provoking method for gauging the rate of conversion to Islam in different parts of the Muslim world. Here again he used material from biographical dictionaries and in particular he interpreted the evidence of naming patterns for a person who is converted and takes a Muslim name. Most recently, he has turned his attention to the role and education of women in the pre-­Mongol period, again using data from biographical dictionaries, in both Persian and Arabic.24 But this field is only in its infancy in the case of the central Islamic lands. Humphreys argues with reference to Mamluk studies, which lie outside the remit of this present essay, that only the barest beginnings of a prosopographical approach to Mamluk administration can be found in recent scholarship.25 Models of good practice are rare and Humphreys singles out for praise the work of Petry on Mamluk bureaucrats which is based on data derived from two fifteenth-­century biographical dictionaries. The contributions of Pouzet, Ephrat, Cohen, and Morray should also be singled out for praise.26 The Contribution of Modern Scholarship in the Middle East For this book, bearing in mind a probable readership of Byzantinists and Western medievalists and the aims and nature of the PBW project, an editorial decision has been taken in this chapter to focus, in the secondary literature listed in the bibliography, on work done in European languages. This has meant the exclusion of a massive corpus of scholarly books and articles written in Arabic, Persian and Turkish on the period 1025–1204. There is also relevant research done in Hebrew. These works, almost always untranslated, remain out of the reach of all but a few Western scholars. There is no room here even to mention the thousands of such books and articles. It is important, however, to emphasise that every year, in the major publishing houses of Cairo, Beirut, Damascus, Riyadh, Tehran, Istanbul and

150 | classi ca l is l a m elsewhere, scholarly monographs regularly appear, as do serious journals with articles relevant to the subjects discussed in this overview. These works have included topics such as the relationship between the Arabs and Byzantium, social and cultural studies of the eleventh to the thirteenth centuries, and biographies of major figures like Saladin. These books, many of which are based on doctoral theses, are, as in the West, of varying quality. The contribution of scholars from the Middle East to the pressing task of editing and publishing primary sources is quite simply indispensable. It is not only that they have produced new and improved editions of key texts, such as those of Ibn Khallikan and Ibn al-­Athir, which were first published in the nineteenth century by Orientalist scholars. They have also e­ dited – a­ nd this is a continuing p ­ rocess – m ­ any crucial works which have long been available only in manuscript form. Such editions include the history of al-­Nuwayri and the multi-­volume biographical dictionary of al-­Safadi. In this essential work of editing core texts, the contribution of Ihsan Abbas has been outstanding. Major remaining desiderata for publication include a proper and full edition of the histories of Sibt b. al-­Jawzi and of al-‘Ayni, whose works contain important excerpts from lost sources, and the completion of the editing work begun on Ibn al-­Furat. Biographical and Autobiographical Literature As already mentioned, the term sira was used to denote a full-­length biography. Apart from the central importance of the Biography of the Prophet, this kind of biographical work came relatively late in medieval Arabic historical writing. Indeed, in the period 1025–1204, such works are still rare.27 Within the Persian tradition there is a similar absence of writing in this genre, although the Sufis did occasionally produce works focusing on the head (shaykh) of a particular religious order. An example of this kind of writing is a work devoted to a famous mystic, Abu Sa‘id b. Abi’l-­Khayr (d. 1048–9), and his miraculous powers.28 Those medieval Muslim biographical accounts that do exist are couched in stylised narrative form and are exemplary in character. Such material can appear, therefore, as rather tedious and repetitive, full of clichéd phrases, which are transferred from one famous person to another. Moreover, medieval Muslim biographies almost always speak of the virtues of the famous

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 151 person about whom they are writing, suppressing his faults since they are not worthy of emulation. It is worth recalling that panegyric was a principal mode of medieval Islamic poetry. Who was accorded the honour of a biography? Predictably, the men whose lives are recorded in medieval biographical accounts belonged to specific groups and categories. Mostly they were religious scholars and mystics, and sometimes governors, military commanders and rulers. How could it be otherwise, since the lives of the rest of society were not considered a worthy model for the whole community? The modern reader looks in vain in a medieval Muslim biography for a full account of the life of a famous person. There is no attempt to depict an entire life from the cradle to the grave, warts and all. There is little interest shown in physical appearance or even psychological motivation. Whether they are full-­blown narratives or short obituaries, medieval Muslim biographical accounts are very stereotyped, opaque and hard to read. In their concern to demonstrate God’s will for the world and the inevitable triumph of Islam, these sources exploit rhetorical devices, poetry, speeches and Qur’anic quotations to the full. During the period under discussion the few important full biographies were not written for caliphs but rather for two usurping military warlords, Nur al-­Din and Saladin, Muslim heroes in the jihad against the Franks. Indeed, Saladin’s two biographers, Ibn Shaddad and ‘Imad al-­Din, use their works to justify his seizure of power and they focus on glorifying his reputation as a valiant warrior in the Holy War and as a pious Sunni ruler. However, the work of ‘Imad al-­Din, The Syrian Lightning, crosses two genres, the biography and the autobiography. Indeed, the book is both a biography of Saladin and an autobiography of the author himself, proud to show his own close relationship with his master.29 As for Nur al-­Din, he is accorded a biography, together with Saladin, by Abu Shama (d. 1267), in his panegyrical work, The Book of the Two Gardens. In this carefully constructed book, the author devotes attention to Nur al-­Din but clearly brings his work to a climax with his even more glowing description of Saladin. Autobiographies It was once thought that autobiographies in medieval Islamic literature were very few and far between. Recent scholarship, and especially the excellent

152 | classi ca l is l a m book edited by Reynolds,30 has somewhat modified this viewpoint. This volume, completed by a team of scholars, provides an annotated guide to Arabic autobiographical writings from the ninth to the nineteenth centuries; it covers non-­extant works and short autobiographical extracts preserved by later authors. Full autobiographies, however, for the period 1025–1204, number only six. Of these, the Kitab al-I‘tibar (The Book of Instruction by Example) of Usama b. Munqidh (d. 1188), his so-­called Memoirs, has been known for a long time in the West. Attitudes to this material have been refined and sharpened over the years; recent scholarship has focused on the didactic nature of the work. The other two autobiographies from the central lands of the Islamic world in this period are written by religious scholars. The ‘spiritual autobiography’ of the famous theologian and mystic, al-­Ghazali (d. 1111), entitled Deliverer from Error, is also well known in the West, whereas the unusual autobiography of the Fatimid missionary, al-­Mu’ayyad fi’l-­Din al-­Shirazi, The Biography of al-Mu’ayyad fi’l-Din al-Shirazi the Chief Missionary, has remained neglected until recently. This latter work contains the author’s own speeches and sermons and gives lively accounts of court intrigues. In a sense, travel writings are clearly autobiographical but their focus is deliberately circumscribed. Such accounts abound in the medieval Islamic world and they will not be discussed here. Ancillary Sources Documents Archival documents from the Islamic Middle Ages are much rarer than in Europe. They certainly existed, as testified by the mention of them in chronicles, encyclopedias and administrative manuals. Some archives have survived in mosques, shrines, synagogues or monasteries. Was this dearth of archival material caused by the lack of institutions known in the West or by recurring invasions? The Genizah archives have been described elsewhere in this volume,31 so they will not be discussed here. Other decrees and diplomas from Islamic chancelleries have survived, such as those in the monastery of St Catherine in Sinai. Letters and diplomas dating from the Fatimid period are assembled

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 153 in a volume collected by Jamal al-­Din El-­Shayyal, entitled Majmu‘at alwatha’iq al-fatimiyya (Anthology of Fatimid Documents).32 In Iran, Afshar and Tahir have recently edited a very important collection of administrative archival documents from the late Seljuq period, Mukhtarat min al-rasa’il (Selections from the Epistles), mostly in Persian but some in Arabic; they were found in the southern city of Yazd and hence escaped destruction in the Mongol invasions. These are a valuable resource for the names and networks of administrative elites in the second half of the twelfth century in Iran.33 This corpus deserves to be studied in depth. Palestine and Syria yield disappointingly few documents. The large collection (a thousand or so documents) from the Haram al-­Sharif in Jerusalem postdates the period of this volume. Mirrors for Princes This genre flourished in the eleventh and twelfth centuries and offers a useful adjunct for the modern scholar seeking to shed light on the ethos of medieval Islamic government and courtly life. Such works, written in Arabic and Persian, and occasionally even Turkish, trace their origins to the ancient Near East (for example, the Khudaynama of Sasanian Iran) and India (for example, the Pančatantra), but they were thoroughly assimilated into Islamic society and have developed accordingly. This didactic genre uses the device of historical anecdotes about famous people to point a moral, but these have been carefully chosen with that aim in mind. As historical evidence they should be treated with caution. It is difficult to tell to what extent theory was applied in reality. Epigraphy and Coins General Inscriptions and coins present invaluable information about medieval people and their public face. In one sense, their evidence is hard to judge because it involves stereotyped titulature, and the rhythms of such artefacts are not necessarily those of chronological history. However, the titles rulers gave themselves or which were bestowed on them are often revealing. Changes in titulature often reflect political events. Above all, surviving coins and inscriptions, especially when they are dated, are genuinely contemporary documents

154 | classi ca l is l a m and not, as in much medieval historiography, the fruit of retrospective reflections and interpretations of later generations of scholars. Epigraphy In contrast to its dearth of archival material, the Muslim world possesses astoundingly rich extant epigraphic ­evidence – ­on buildings, tombstones and all kinds of artefacts. Such inscriptions chart the realities of political power, recording the titulature and achievements of individual rulers. They often give precise dates of death and assist in the construction of g­ enealogies – t­ hanks to their formulae for the rendering of ­names – ­thus acting as an adjunct to the evidence of written sources and often reinforcing them. They also shed light on the establishments of religious endowments (waqfs). The Corpus inscriptionum arabicarum, confined to Egypt, the Levant and Anatolia, is organised country by country and it focuses on monuments. The Répertoire chronologique d’épigraphie arabe gives all inscriptions, both on buildings and objects, according to the actual or approximate year. Each inscription is given in Arabic transcription and French translation. Coins Coins are the most reliable source for establishing a dated sequence of rulers (often governors as well as caliphs or sultans) across the entire Islamic world. They are also a prosopographical resource of the first importance, thanks to the Islamic custom of always rendering a name by more than one element, and thereby avoiding ambiguity. There is virtually no figural representation. The striking of coins was the prerogative of the ruler; they give his titles, his names, the place of the mint, and the date of the striking of the coin. On the other side of the coin are Qur’anic quotations. These can often be related to specific religious or political concerns. Editions and Translations Until relatively recently, the period under discussion in this volume was less well served with editions of texts than those of the high ‘Abbasid period of Arabic historical writing in the ninth and tenth centuries. Nowadays, later medieval Islamic ­historical – ­and in particular Mamluk s­ tudies – ­are thriving, and new, high-­quality editions of relevant texts are appearing regularly.

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 155 However, given the large number of publishing houses in the Middle East, it is not easy to keep abreast of all the new editions or the latest volumes of ongoing publications which appear each year (although the Internet is an increasing help in this matter). Existing translations vary in quality. Building on the efforts of numerous scholars, such as de Sacy, Quatremère, de Slane and Blochet, the French corporate enterprise, known as the Recueil des historiens des croisades (RHC), was published towards the end of the nineteenth century. Five out of the sixteen volumes were devoted to Arabic sources, edited and translated into French. A couple of generations later, the French scholar, Cahen, attacked the Recueil very vigorously,34 rightly criticising both the choice of texts made and the quality of the translations, and discoursing on the harm caused by the Recueil. This material should therefore be used with some care. But for all its faults, it has been of cardinal importance in presenting the story of the Crusades from the Muslim side and thus acting as a counterweight to the understandably though regrettably Eurocentric tendencies of Crusader studies in the West. Fortunately, a good number of the texts in the Recueil have been re-­ edited since that time and better translations of many of the texts have been published.35 It is, however, important that as many relevant texts as possible should be translated. It is unfortunate that so many scholars, somewhat cravenly, choose to retranslate texts that have already been translated, often more than once, rather than boldly to embark on the more useful but more difficult task of bringing a new text to the attention of a wider audience that does not know Arabic. Notes   1. M. Marin, ‘Biography and prosopography in Arabic–Islamic medieval culture. Introductory remarks’, in M. Marin, ed., Medieval Prosopography. History and collective biography. Special issue. Arab-Islamic Medieval culture 23 (2002), 12.  2. A group of Shi‘ites, also known as ‘Seveners’, who believed that legitimate succession within Islamic government was vested in a line of seven imams (charismatic rulers who were infallible in matters of doctrine).   3. A branch of Shi‘ites, also known as Imamis, who held that legitimate succession within Islamic government was vested in a line of twelve imams.

156 | classi ca l is l a m   4. J. Johns, Arabic Administration in Norman Sicily: the royal diwan (Cambridge, 2002).   5. See J. Meisami, Persian Historiography (Edinburgh, 1999). New Persian became the medium of choice for both poetry and prose in Seljuq lands, causing the formation of a linguistic division in the field of adab (belles-lettres) between the Persian-­speaking world of Iran, northern India and Central Asia, and the areas further to the west where Arabic still held sway.   6. Sicily is exceptional in its documentary record: see J. Johns, ‘Arabic sources for Sicily’, in M. Whitby, ed., The Prosopography of the Byzantine Empire, 1024– 1204 (London, 2007).  7. C. Cahen, ‘Réflexions sur la connaissance du monde musulman par les ­historiens’, in Les peuples musulmans dans l’histoire médiévale (Damascus, 1977), 4–5.   8. For a comprehensive overview of Fatimid sources, see P. E. Walker, Exploring an Islamic Empire: Fatimid history and its sources (London, 2002).   9. See the contribution by Witold Witakowski in M. Whitby, ed., The Prosopography of the Byzantine Empire, 1024–1204 (London 2007). 10. See the discussion in C. Robinson, Islamic Historiography (Cambridge, 2003), 100. 11. The Sabians (Sabi’un) are mentioned in the Qur’an as possessing a religion revealed by God, but their identity is controversial. The name has been attached to at least three communities: the Manichaeans, the Elchasaites of southern Iraq (an ancient Jewish–Christian sect) and the Sabians of Harran who followed an ancient Semitic polytheistic religion, with a strongly Hellenised upper class. For a detailed discussion of this issue, see F. de Blois, s.v. Sabi’, in Encyclopaedia of Islam (2nd edn), vol. 8, 672–5. 12. See C. Cahen, ‘The historiography of the Seljuqid period’, in B. Lewis and P. M. Holt, eds, Historians of the Middle East (London, 1962), 61. 13. (Cambridge, 1953), 3–5. 14. R. S. Humphreys, Islamic History: a framework for inquiry (Princeton, 1991), 190–1; D. F. Reynolds, ed., Interpreting the Self: autobiography in the Arabic literary tradition (Berkeley, Los Angeles and London, 2001), 42–3. 15. There had been other ‘legal schools’ in early Islam but by the eleventh century the number had become fixed as four among the Sunnis. All four madhhabs had their own books of fiqh (jurisprudence), based on the four sources of the Shari‘a (Islamic revealed law) – the Qur’an, the hadith (the canonical sayings of the Prophet), ijma‘ (consensus) and qiyas (analogy). These legal schools did not

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 157 differ on matters of fundamental belief but on their interpretations of praxis. These differences could often be on matters of minute detail. 16. For problems of defining this group in medieval Islamic society, cf. Humphreys, Islamic History, 187. 17. Ibn Khallikan, Wafayat al-a‘yan, ed. I. Abbas (Beirut, 1968–72), vol. 1, 20. 18. Legal scholars belonging to a particular madhhab would learn about its version of Islamic law in a madrasa, sitting at the feet of a master whose words they would write down and memorise. 19. See Robinson, Islamic Historiography, 71. 20. See, for example, the works of Pouzet and Morray mentioned in the bibliography of secondary sources. 21. C. Cahen, ‘Editing Arabic chronicles: a few suggestions’, in Les peuples musulmans dans l’histoire médiévale (Damascus, 1977), 34. 22. (Cambridge, MA, 1972). 23. (Cambridge, MA, 1979). 24. R. W. Bulliet, ‘Élite women in the pre-­Mongol period’, in G. Nashat and L. Beck, eds, Women in Iran from the Rise of Islam to 1800 (Urbana and Chicago, 2003), 68–79. 25. Humphreys, Islamic History, 183. 26. For details, see the bibliography of secondary sources. 27. The chapter, entitled ‘Islamic biographical literature’, by H. A. R. Gibb in the work edited by Lewis and Holt (n. 12) is devoted entirely to a discussion of medieval Arabic biographical dictionaries: Historians of the Middle East, 54–8. 28. For details, see A. K. S. Lambton, ‘Persian biographical literature’, in Lewis and Holt, Historians of the Middle East, 148–9. 29. B. Lewis, ‘First-­person narrative in the Middle East’, in M. Kramer, ed., Middle Eastern Lives: the practice of biography and self-narrative (Syracuse, 1991), 25. 30. Reynolds, Interpreting the Self (n. 14). 31. See the discussions of Jeremy Johns (on Sicily) and Nicholas de Lange and Joshua Holo (on Jewish sources), in M. Whitby, ed., The Prosopography of the Byzantine Empire, 1024–1204 (London 2007). 32. Vol. 1 (Cairo, 1958). 33. (Tehran, 2000). 34. C. Cahen, ‘Editing Arabic chronicles’, 30, n. 1. 35. See the bibliography for details.

158 | classi ca l is l a m Bibliography Handbooks, Surveys, Prosopographies Handbooks and Guides C. Brockelmann, Geschichte der arabischen Litteratur (Weimar, 1898–1902; 2nd edn, Leiden, 1945–9); 3 supplementary vols (Leiden, 1937–42) Still a starting-­point for information about manuscripts and editions of key sources, although the work has been much criticised. However, many new manuscripts and editions of texts have appeared since its publication. C. Cahen, Introduction à l’histoire du monde musulman médiéval: VIIIe–Xve siècle (Paris, 1983); a revision of J. Sauvaget and C. Cahen, Introduction à l’histoire de l’Orient musulman (Paris, 1961); trans. as Introduction to the History of the Muslim East: a bibliographical guide (Berkeley, 1965) Despite its date of publication, still a useful entrée into the subject. Encyclopaedia Iranica, ed. E. Yarshater (London and Boston, 1982–) A very substantial ongoing enterprise with contributions from scholars from Iran and the west. Encyclopaedia of Islam, 1st edn, 4 vols and Supplement (Leiden, 1938); 2nd edn, 11 vols (Leiden, 1954–2002) The most important reference work for Islamic history. W. Hinz, Islamische Masse und Gewichte (Leiden, 1955) The best work on Islamic weights and measures. R. S. Humphreys, Islamic History: a framework for inquiry (Princeton, 1991) An invaluable bibliographical resource, which also discusses approaches to medieval Islamic history in a thought-­provoking manner. Chapter 8, which concerns the role of religious scholars in Islamic society, deals with medieval biographical dictionaries and prosopographical issues. I. K. Poonawala, Bibliography of Ismaili Literature (Malibu, 1977) A very informative work for research on the various groups (including the Fatimids and the Assassins) which comprise the world’s Isma‘ili Muslims. It is organised according to sub-­groups and then according to authors. F. Sezgin, Geschichte des arabischen Schrifttums, 9 vols (Leiden, 1967–) This massive, ongoing venture aims at replacing Brockelmann’s classic work. So far the volumes have only just recently reached the period of the project. C. A. Storey, Persian Literature, a bio-bibliographical survey, 3 vols (London, 1927– 84) Volume 1.2 on history and biography is especially relevant.

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 159 Chronology and Genealogy C. E. Bosworth, The New Islamic Dynasties (Edinburgh, 1996); an updated and fuller edition of his earlier work, The Islamic Dynasties: a chronological and genealogical handbook (Edinburgh, 1967) A very useful research tool. The first edition has been translated into Russian and Persian. There is also a Turkish edition, based on the first edition but expanded to include some lesser-­known Turkish dynasties from the eleventh century onwards: Islâm devletleri tarihi, eds E. Merçil and M. Ipşirli (Istanbul, 1980) T. W. Haig, Comparative Tables of Muhammadan and Christian Dates (London, 1932) S. Lane-­Poole, The Mohammedan Dynasties: chronological and genealogical tables with historical introductions (London, 1893; repr. Beirut, 1966); revised Turkish edition and translation, H. Edhem, Duval-i islamiyyah (Istanbul, 1927) F. Wüstenfeld, Genealogische Tabellen der arabischen Stämme und Familien, 2 vols (Göttingen, 1852–3) F. Wüstenfeld and E. Mahler, Vergleichungstabellen der muhammadenischen und christlichen Zeitrechnung (Leipzig, 1854); 3rd edn, rev. J. Mayr and B. Spuler (Wiesbaden, 1961) Gives conversion tables for Hijri and Christian dates. E. von Zambaur, Manuel de généalogie et de chronologie pour l’histoire de l’Islam (Hanover, 1927; repr. Bad Pyrmont, 1955) Maps G. Cornu, Atlas du monde arabo-islamique à l’époque classique IXe–Xe siècles (Leiden, 1985) H. Kennedy, An Historical Atlas of Islam (Leiden, 2002) Tübinger Atlas des vorderen Orients (Wiesbaden, 1977–84) Dictionaries and Other Linguistic Tools G. L. M. Clauson, An Etymological Dictionary of Pre-Thirteenth Century Turkish (Oxford, 1972) Difficult to use, because the author organises his entries according to reconstructed Turkish roots, but still the best resource for the earliest extant texts in Turkish. R. J. Dozy, Supplément aux dictionnaires arabes (Leiden 1881; repr. 1927 and 1960; also repr. Beirut, 1968)

160 | classi ca l is l a m

The most useful Arabic dictionary for the period of the project, although it bases its findings primarily on evidence from Spain and North Africa. J. Fück, ‘Arabiya. Recherches sur l’histoire de la langue et du style arabe, French tr., C. Denizeau (Paris, 1955) G. Graf, Die Sprachgebrauch der ältesten christlich-arabischen Litteratur. Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte des vulgär-arabisch (Leipzig, 1905) M. T. Houtsma, Ein türkisch–arabisches Glossar (Leiden, 1894) E. W. Lane, An Arabic–English Lexicon, 8 vols (London, 1863–93; repr. Beirut, 1980) A vast resource, based on data from medieval Arabic dictionaries. It was unfinished, so the last eight letters of the Arabic alphabet are presented only in fragmentary fashion. F. Steingass, A Comprehensive Persian–English Dictionary (London, n.d.) The standard dictionary of classical Persian. It is often also helpful in elucidating meanings of obscure Arabic words in the late medieval period. M. Ullmann, ed., Wörterbuch der klassischen arabischen Sprache (Wiesbaden, 1957–) A very ambitious and comprehensive but slow-­moving enterprise. It began where Lane had stopped in his Lexicon – with the letter kaf. The entries are based on texts up to ad 1500. F. Wehr, A Dictionary of Modern Written Arabic (Ithaca, 1961; revised and expanded, Wiesbaden, 1979) Despite its title, this work is useful for the Arabic of the later medieval period. Select List of Catalogues I. Afshar, Bibliographie des catalogues des manuscripts persans (Tehran, 1337/1958) W. Ahlwardt, Verzeichnis der arabischen Handschriften der königlichen Bibliothek zu Berlin, 10 vols (Berlin, 1887–99) A remarkable early achievement in surveying Islamic manuscripts. A. J. Arberry, The Chester Beatty Library: a handlist of the Arabic manuscripts, 6 vols (Dublin 1955–64) A. S. Atiya, The Arabic Manuscripts of Mount Sinai (Baltimore, 1955) C. F. Baker and M. R. P. Polliack, Arabic and Judeo-Arabic Manuscripts in the Cambridge Genizah Collections (Cambridge, 2001) C. Cahen, ‘Les chroniques arabes concernant la Syrie, l’Égypte, et la Mésopotamie de la conquête arabe à la conquête ottomane dans les bibliothèques d’Istanbul’, Revue des Études Islamiques 10 (1936), 333–62

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 161 M. de Slane, Catalogue des manuscrits arabes (Paris, 1883) R. J. W. Jefferson and E. C. D. Hunter, Published Material from the Genizah Collections: a bibliography 1980–1997 (Cambridge, 2004) G. Khan, Arabic Legal and Administrative Documents in the Cambridge Genizah Collections (Cambridge, 1993) A. Munzavi, Fihrist-i nuskhaha-yi khatti-i farsi (Index of Manuscripts in Persian Script), 6 vols (Tehran, 1969–) W. Pertsch, Verzeichnis der persischen Handschriften der königlichen Bibliothek zu Berlin, 10 vols (Berlin, 1888) —— Verzeichnis der türkischen Handschriften der königlichen Bibliothek zu Berlin (Berlin, 1889) The two works by Pertsch were models in the same way as the work of Ahlwardt. C. Rieu, Supplement to the Catalogue of the Arabic Manuscripts in the British Museum (London, 1894) F. Sezgin, Beiträge zur Erschliessung der arabischen Handschriften in Istanbul und Anatolien, 4 vols (Frankfurt am Main, 1986) A useful tool giving a description of some of the lamentably little-­known riches of the Turkish libraries. Türkiye Cumhuriyeti Kultur ve Turizm Bakanliği, Kütübhaneler Genel Müdürlügü, Türkiye yazmaları toplu katalogu (The Collected Catalogue of Turkish Manuscripts), 11 vols (several publishers, 1979–) G. Vajda, Répertoire des catalogues et inventaires de manuscripts arabes (Paris, 1949) Select List of Historical Surveys General histories of the Islamic world E. Ashtor, A Social and Economic History of the Near East in the Middle Ages (London, 1976) M. G. S. Hodgson, The Venture of Islam, 3 vols (Chicago, 1974) H. Kennedy, The Prophet and the Age of the Caliphates: the Islamic Near East from the sixth to the eleventh century (London and New York, 1986) For the timeframe of the PBW project, this book is particularly helpful in its unusually detailed coverage of the eleventh century. Studies of particular areas of the Islamic world (i) Syria and Palestine T. Bianquis, Damas et la Syrie sous la domination fatimide 359–468/969–1076 (Damascus, 1986)

162 | classi ca l is l a m M. Canard, Histoire de la dynastie des H’amdanides de Jazira et de Syrie, vol. 1 (Paris, 1953) A.-M. Eddé, La principauté ayyoubide d’Alep (579/1183–658/1260) (Stuttgart, 1999) An exemplary study, based on a wide array of Arabic sources. M. Gil, A History of Palestine, 634–1099 (Cambridge, 1992) Contains a great quantity of useful information but is somewhat dense to read. R. S. Humphreys, From Saladin to the Mongols (Albany, NY, 1977) The classic work on the Ayyubid family dynasty. J.-M. Mouton, Damas et sa principauté sous les Saljoukides et les Bourides 468– 549/1076–1154 (Cairo, 1994) A. Sevim, Süriye-Filistin Selçuklu devleti tarihi (The History of the Syrian–Palestinian Seljuq State) (Ankara, 1989) M. Yared-­Riachi, La politique extérieure de la principauté de Damas 468–549AH/1076– 1154 (Damascus, 1997) S. Zakkar, The Emirate of Aleppo 1004–1094 (Beirut, 1971) (ii) Egypt M. Barrucand, ed., L’Égypte fatimide, son art et son histoire. Actes du colloque de Paris (May 1998) (Paris, 1999) The Cambridge History of Egypt, ed. C. F. Petry, 2 vols (Cambridge, 1998) A fine volume of corporate scholarship. F. Daftary, The Isma‘ilis: their history and doctrines (Cambridge, 1990) S. D. Goitein, A Mediterranean Society: the Jewish communities of the Arab world as portrayed in the documents of the Cairo Geniza, 4 vols (Berkeley, 1967–93) H. Halm, Die Kalifen von Kairo. Die Fatimiden in Ägypten 973–1074 (Munich, 2003) Y. Lev, State and Society in Fatimid Egypt (Leiden, 1991) J. Mann, The Jews in Egypt and in Palestine under the Fatimid Caliphs: a contribution to their political and communal history based chiefly on Geniza material hitherto unpublished, ed. S. D. Goitein, 2 vols (New York, 1970) A. Raymond, Le Caire (Paris, 1993) A. F. Sayyid, Les Fatimides en Égypte (Cairo, 1992) S. J. Staffa, Conquest and Fusion: the social evolution of Cairo, a.d. 642–1850 (Leiden, 1977) S. Stern, Fatimid Decrees (London, 1964) F. Wüstenfeld, Geschichte der Fatimiden-Chalifen. Nach arabischen Quellen (Göttingen, 1881)

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 163 (iii) Iraq and Iran C. E. Bosworth, ‘The political and dynastic history of the Iranian world (ad 1000– 1217)’, in J. A. Boyle, ed., The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 5, The Saljuq and Mongol Periods (Cambridge, 1968), 1–202 H. Busse, Chalif und Grosskönig. Die Buyiden im Iraq (945–1055) (Beirut, 1969) C. Cahen, ‘The Turkish invasion: the Selchükids’, in K. M. Setton and M. W. Baldwin, eds, A History of the Crusades (Madison, Milwaukee and London, 1969), 135–76 H. Horst, Die Staatsverwaltung der Grossseljuqen und H ˇ orazmshahs (1038–1231). Eine Untersuchung nach Urkundenformularen der Zeit (Wiesbaden, 1964) C. L. Klausner, The Seljuq Vezirate: a study of civil administration, 1055–1194 (Cambridge, MA, 1973) A. K. S. Lambton, ‘The internal structure of the Saljuq empire’, in J. A. Boyle, ed., The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 5, The Saljuq and Mongol Periods (Cambridge, 1968), 203–82 B. Lewis, The Assassins: a radical sect in Islam (London, 1967) R. Mottahadeh, Loyalty and Leadership in an Early Islamic Society (Princeton, 1980) M. Hodgson, The Order of Assassins (The Hague, 1955) The classic work on this important topic. (iv) Turkey C. Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey, tr. J. Jones-­Williams (London, 1968); new revised French edn, La Turquie pré-ottomane (Istanbul and Paris, 1988); new tr., P. M. Holt, The Formation of Turkey (London, 2001) Cahen updated the French revised edition which he provided with fuller annotation. He himself criticised the somewhat hurried 1968 edition. I. Kafesoğlu, A History of the Seljuqs, ed. and tr. G. Leiser (Carbondale and Edwardsville, 1988) A study by one of the best, if not the best, of the Turkish historians who worked on the pre-­Ottoman period in Anatolia. M. F. Köprülü, The Seljuqs of Anatolia: their history and culture according to local Muslim sources, ed. and tr. by G. Leiser (Salt Lake City, 1992) —— Islam in Anatolia after the Turkish Invasion (Prolegomena), ed. and tr. G. Leiser (Salt Lake City, 1993) A. Sevim and E. Merçil, Selçuklu devletleri tarihi (The History of the Seljuq States) (Ankara, 1995)

164 | classi ca l is l a m O. Turan, Doğu Anadolu Türk devletleri Tarihi (The History of Eastern Anatolian Turkish States) (Istanbul, 1973) (v) Byzantium: Muslim viewpoints N. M. El-­Cheikh, ‘Byzantium through the Islamic prism from the twelfth to the thirteenth century’, in A. E. Laiou and R. Mottahedeh, eds, The Crusades from the Perspective of Byzantium and the Muslim World (Washington, DC, 2001), 53–70 —— ‘Byzantium viewed by the Arabs’, unpublished PhD thesis (Harvard, 1992) W. Felix, Byzanz und die islamische Welt im frühen 11. Jahrhundert (Vienna, 1981) M. Marin, ‘Constantinopla en los geografos arabes’, Erytheia 9.1 (1988), 49–60 —— ‘Rum in the works of three Spanish Muslim geographers’, Graeco-Arabica 3 (1984), 109–17 (vi) The Crusades: Islamic aspects L. Atrache, Die Politik der Ayyubiden (Münster, 1996) C. Cahen, La Syrie du nord à l’époque des croisades et la principauté franque d’Antioche (Paris, 1940) C. Hillenbrand, The Crusades: Islamic perspectives (Edinburgh, 1999) P. M. Holt, The Age of the Crusades (London, 1986) M. A. Köhler, Allianzen und Verträge zwischen frankischen und islamischen Herrschern im Vorderen Orient (Berlin and New York, 1991) A. Nasrallah, The Enemy Perceived: Christian and Muslim views of each other during the Crusades (New York, 1980) E. Sivan, L’Islam et la croisade (Paris, 1968) W. B. Stevenson, The Crusaders in the East (Cambridge, 1907) (vii) Christian Arabic sources J. Assfalg, ‘Nichtislamische religiöse Litteratur in arabischer Sprache; christliche Litteratur’, in H. Gätje, ed., Grundriss der arabischen Philologie, vol. 2 (Wiesbaden, 1987), 384–92. G. Graf, Geschichte der christlichen arabischen Litteratur (Vatican City, 1947) J. Nasrallah, Histoire du mouvement littéraire dans l’Église melchite du Ve au XXe siècle (Louvain, 1988) G. Troupeau, Études sur le christianisme arabe au Moyen Âge (London, 1995) Primary Sources Sources are arranged in chronological order according to the death date of the author.

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 165 Histories: Select Muslim Primary Sources in Arabic al-­Musabbihi, ‘Izz al-­Mulk (d. 1030), Akhbar Misr (Accounts of Egypt) An Egyptian chronicler who served in the Fatimid administration. A prolific writer, but almost all his works are no longer extant (perhaps destroyed during the more militant phase of the reign of al-­Hakim). Generally regarded as a Sunni who worked for the Isma‘ili Fatimids, it has recently been suggested by Daftary that al-­Musabbihi may have been an Isma‘ili himself.   Only the fortieth chapter of his vast history of Fatimid Egypt has survived, preserved in a single Escorial ­manuscript – t­his covers a few months of the year 414/1023–4 and most of the year 415/1024–5. Al-­Musabbihi wrote on an annalistic basis but he sub-­divided each year into months. At the end of each year he assembled obituaries of those who had died in that year. This short extant part of an enormous and detailed work, reputed to have been written in forty volumes, demonstrates the serious loss to Fatimid historiography of the rest of the chronicle. Edition: A. F. Sayyid and T. Bianquis, al-Musabbihi. al-juz’ al-arba‘un min Akhbar Misr (The Fortieth Part of the Accounts of Egypt), 2 vols (Cairo, 1978) Secondary Literature: T. Bianquis, Damas et la Syrie sous la domination fatimide (Damascus, 1989), vol. 2, 393–4 —— ‘al-­Musabbihi’, in Encyclopaedia of Islam (2nd edn), vol. 7, 650–2 F. Daftary, Ismaili Literature (London, 2004), 23 Miskawayh, Abu ‘Ali (d. 1030), Tajarib al-umam (The Experiences of Nations) A very important writer, a rare combination of historian and philosopher as well as bureaucrat and librarian. He often wrote in the first person and he could criticise his sources.  His Universal History covers the period from the Flood to the year 980. It is mentioned here, although it is outside the period of the PBW project, because of its unusual methodology and viewpoints. Partial Edition: L. Caetani (Leiden, 1909–17), 2 vols

166 | classi ca l is l a m Partial Edition and Translation: H. F. Amedroz and D. S. Margoliouth, The Eclipse of the Abbasid Caliphate: original chronicles of the fourth century (Oxford, 1920–1) Secondary Literature: M. Arkoun, Contribution à l’humanisme arabe au ive/xe siècle: Miskawayh, philosophe et historien (Paris, 1970, 1982) J. Kraemer, Humanism in the Renaissance of Islam: the cultural revival during the Buyid age (Leiden, 1993) Ibn al-­Qalanisi, Abu Ya‘la (d. 1160), Dhayl ta’rikh Dimashq (Supplement to the History of Damascus) This is an extremely important source. The early part of the work, which begins in 363/973, contains extracts from the non-­extant history of Baghdad by Hilal al-­Sabi’. The work of Ibn al-­Qalanisi himself gives an account of events from 1056 to 1160. The work is particularly valuable for the twelfth century in Syria and its entries are of increasing length from the year 497/1103–4 onwards. The chronicle gives a very lively account of political and social events from the viewpoint of Damascus and extends its remit to include narratives about central Syria, Palestine and, occasionally, beyond, to Cairo and Baghdad. It is the oldest extant Arabic source for the events of the First and Second Crusades and it contains an eyewitness account of the siege of Damascus in 1148. It is a rigidly annalistic chronicle and the author deals with episodes which occur over two years in two parts, one in each year.   The opening pages of the work are missing. The first part of the work is based on earlier sources and especially Hilal al-­Sabi’. In the second part of the work, the author, who lived until his nineties, draws on eye-­witness accounts, as well as archival material to which he had access in his administrative career (he was twice mayor of Damascus, the last period being in 548/1153). The work reveals a strong sense of regional pride. Editions: The text has two good editions: 1. H. F. Amedroz (Leiden, 1908) 2. S. Zakkar (Damascus, 1983)

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 167 Translations: There are two good partial translations of this work: 1. H. A. R. Gibb, The Damascus Chronicle of the Crusades (London, 1932; 1967) This translation omits all passages to do with internal Damascene affairs. 2. R. Le Tourneau, Damas de 1075 à 1154 (Damascus, 1952) This translation for the years 1075 to 1154 covers all the narratives within this period, including those omitted by Gibb. Secondary Literature: H. A. R. Gibb, The Damascus Chronicle, introduction, 7–14 C. Cahen, ‘Note d’historiographie syrienne. La première partie de l’histoire d’Ibn al-­Qalanisi’, in G. Makdisi, ed., Arabic and Islamic Studies in Honor of Hamilton A. R. Gibb (Cambridge, MA, 1965), 156–68 F. Gabrieli, ‘The Arabic historiography of the crusades’, in Lewis and Holt, eds, Historians of the Middle East, 102–3 al-‘Azimi, Muhammad b. ‘Ali (born 1090 and died after 1161), Ta’rikh (History) A still rather neglected chronicler. Only one of his two known works is e­ xtant – a­ world history until 538/1143–4. The work contains laconic but important accounts, seen from the viewpoint of Aleppo, about events in the late eleventh century and the first half of the twelfth century, and includes occasional references to Anatolia; it is interesting on the period immediately preceding the coming of the Franks. Editions: 1. C. Cahen, ‘La chronique abrégée d’al-‛Azimi’, Journal asiatique 230 (1938), 335–448 Cahen begins his edition with the entry of the nomadic Turks into Syria. He includes the years 455/1063 to 538/1143–4. 2. I. Za‘rur, Ta’rikh Halab (The History of Aleppo) (Damascus, 1984) Secondary Literature: C. Cahen, La Syrie du nord à l’époque des croisades (Paris, 1940), 42–3 Cahen’s edition of the text, 354–6

168 | classi ca l is l a m Ibn al-­Azraq al-­Fariqi, Ahmad b. Yusuf (d. after 572/1176–7), Ta’rikh Mayyafariqin wa-Amid (The History of Mayyafariqin and Amid) The author was employed in the service of Temürtash, the second Artuqid ruler of Mayyafariqin, and he held various administrative offices in that city. He also visited Tiflis and worked for a while for the Georgian king, Dimitri. This town chronicle contains valuable information for the twelfth century on the Turcoman Artuqid dynasty which ruled Mayyafariqin and Mardin. Despite its local focus, it has a surprisingly wide coverage, with excurses on the Fatimids and the Almohads, and a few references to Byzantium. Its structure is annalistic, but the text presents at times a disordered narrative, uneven and uncoordinated, with very inaccurate dating. Nevertheless, it is a useful source for events in northern Syria and the Jazira in the period 1100–50 and was used extensively by later chroniclers. Editions: 1. B. A. L. ‘Awad, Ta’rikh al-Fariqi (The History of al-Fariqi) (Cairo, 1959) A good edition covering the years 347/958 to 502/1108–9. 2. A. Savran, ‘A critical edition of the Artukid section in Ta’rikh Mayyafariqin wa-­ Amid’, unpublished PhD thesis (St Andrews, 1975) Covers the period of the first three Artuqid ­rulers – ­498/1104–5 to 572/ 1176–7. Edition and Translation: C. Hillenbrand, A Muslim Principality in Crusader Times (Leiden, 1990) This is an edition and translation of the events of the years 498/1104–5 to 549/1154. Secondary Literature: H. F. Amedroz, ‘The Marwanid dynasty at Mayyafariqin in the tenth and eleventh centuries a.d.’, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society (1903), 123–54 C. Hillenbrand, ‘Marwanids’, in Encyclopaedia of Islam (2nd edn), vol. 7, 626–7 —— A Muslim Principality, 5–14 Ibn al-­Jawzi, ‘Abd al-­Rahman (d. 1200), al-Muntazam fi Ta’rikh al-muluk wa’l-umam (Systematic Arrangement in the History of Kings and Nations) A Baghdad Hanbalite scholar, preacher and prolific writer. The Muntazam is a chronicle which in many ways resembles a biographical dictionary; it provides obituaries, mostly of scholars, under each year. These often occupy much more space than

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 169 that given to political events. The chronicle is a rich source for the history of the caliphate, covering the years 971 to 1179, but it is less wide-­ranging in its focus than the history written by his grandson, Sibt b. al-­Jawzi. Editions: 1. F. Krenkow (Hyderabad, 1938–40) 2. M. A. Ata and others (Beirut, 1992–3) This is a better edition. Secondary Literature: H. Laoust, ‘Ibn al-­Djawzi’, in Encyclopaedia of Islam (2nd edn), vol. 3, 751–2 ‘Imad al-­Din al-­Isfahani, Muhammad (d. 1201) Kitab al-Fath al-qussi fi’l-fath al-qussi (The Book of Eloquent Rhetoric in the Conquest of Jerusalem) This famous Persian scholar, poet and historian worked for the Seljuqs, before moving to Syria where he was in the service first of Nur al-­Din and then Saladin, for whom he acted as scribe and close adviser.   This important work begins with Saladin’s conquest of Jerusalem in 1187 and ends with his death in 1193. It follows an annalistic arrangement. Editions: 1. C. Landberg (Leiden, 1888) 2. M. M. Subh (Cairo, c. 1975) Translation: H. Massé, Conquête de la Syrie et de la Palestine par Saladin (Paris, 1972) ‘Imad al-­Din al-­Isfahani, Nusrat al-fatra (Help for Lassitude) The earliest extant history of the Seljuqs completed in 1183 for Saladin. The work is based on the lost Persian memoirs of the twelfth-­century Seljuq vizier, Anushirwan b. Khalid (died in the 1130s).   It is still only in unpublished manuscript form (Bibliothèque nationale, Paris, ms. arabe 2145). The work was summarised by al-­Bundari (see below) who removed some at least of the verbal conceits of the original text. The title is a pun on the word fatra which means both lassitude and a period of time.

170 | classi ca l is l a m Secondary Literature: D. Little, ‘Historiography’, in The Cambridge History of Egypt (Cambridge, 1998), vol. 1, 416–17 D. S. Richards, ‘Imad al-­Din al-­Isfahani: administrator, littérateur and historian’, in M. Shatzmiller, ed., Crusaders and Muslims in Twelfth-century Syria (Leiden, 1993), 133–46 L. Richter-­Bernburg, ‘Observations on ‘Imad al-­Din al-­Isfahani’s al-Fath al-Qussi fi’l-fath al-Qudsi’, in W. al-­Qadi, ed., Studia Arabica and Islamica. Festschrift for Ihsan ‘Abbas (Beirut, 1981), 373–9 —— ‘Funken aus dem kalten Flint: ‘Imad al-­Din al-­Katib al-­Isfahani (I–II)’, Welt des Orients 20–1 (1989–90), 121–66; 22 (1991), 105–41 —— Der syrische Blitz. Saladins Sekretär zwischen Selbstdarstellung und Geschichtsschreibung (Beirut, 1998), 176–89 Ibn Zafir al-­Azdi, Jamal al-­Din (d. 1216 or 1226), Kitab al-Duwal al-munqati‘a (The Book of Discontinued Dynasties) The most important section of this work concerns the Fatimids. The author, based in Egypt and a scribe in the chancery of the early Ayyubids, writes his chronicle according to dynasty. Most of the work remains unpublished. Edition: A. Ferré (Cairo, 1972) Fatimid section. Secondary Literature: C. Cahen, ‘Quelques chroniques anciennes relatives aux derniers Fatimides’, Bulletin de l’Institut français d’archéologie orientale 38 (1937), 2ff. Ibn al-­Tuwayr, Abu Muhammad (d. 1220), Nuzhat al-muqlatayn fi akhbar al-dawlatayn (The Entertainment of the Eyes in the Accounts of the Two Dynasties) This work by an Egyptian high official is an account of the Fatimid and Ayyubid dynasties in Saladin’s time. A useful source for Ibn al-­ Furat, al-­ Maqrizi, Ibn Taghribirdi and other Mamluk historians and for general institutions. Edition: A. F. Sayyid (Beirut and Stuttgart, 1992).

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 171 Secondary Literature: C. Cahen, ‘Quelques chroniques anciennes relatives aux derniers Fatimides’, BIFAO 38 (1937), 10–14, 16, n. 1 al-­Husayni, Sadr al-­Din (d. ?1220s), Akhbar al-dawla al-Saljuqiyya (The Accounts of the Seljuq State), also called Zubdat al-tawarikh (The Cream of Histories) There is scholarly debate over the authorship of this work or indeed its real title. Al-­Husayni is still cited tentatively as its author in scholarly literature, in the absence of any clear alternatives.   This dynastic history of the Seljuqs from the extreme east of the Islamic world is a rather under-­used work. It is full of valuable information gleaned from a wide variety of sources. It covers the history of the Seljuqs from their semi-­legendary origins until the end of the dynasty in 1193. The text continues thereafter until 622/1225 but this last section is likely to have been added by another author. This chronicle, drawing on lost works, from the Baghdad historiographical ‘school’ of late Buyid and early Seljuq times, and others, is especially useful for the history of the eleventh century, so depleted of surviving sources. Edition: M. Iqbal (Lahore, 1933; repr. Beirut, 1984) A poor edition with many dubious readings of this difficult text. Unpublished Translation: Q. Ayaz, ‘An unexploited source for the history of the Saljuqs: a translation and critical commentary’, unpublished PhD thesis (Edinburgh, 1985) Secondary Literature: C. Cahen, ‘Historiography of the Seljuqid period’, in Lewis and Holt, eds, Historians of the Middle East, 69–72 al-­Bundari, Fath b. ‘Ali (d. after 1226), Zubdat al-nusra wa nukhbat al-‘usra (The Choicest Part of Help and the Pick of the Age) Little is known about this Arabic chronicler, who originated in Iran but moved to Syria. He probably worked for an Ayyubid ruler of Syria, al-­Mu‘azzam ‘Isa, to whom he dedicated this dynastic history of the Seljuqs, begun in 1226. The work, which

172 | classi ca l is l a m is an accurate summary of the Nusrat al-fatra, aims to prune down and simplify the ornate style of his predecessor, ‘Imad al-­Din al-­Isfahani. Edition: M. T. Houtsma, Recueil de textes relatifs à l’histoire des Seljoucides, vol. 2 (Leiden, 1889) al-­Bundari, Sana al-barq al-shami (The Radiance of the Syrian Lightning) An abridgement of the work entitled al-Barq al-shami of ‘Imad al-­Din al-­Isfahani: see below under Autobiographies, p. xxx. Editions: 1. R Șeşen (Beirut, 1971) 2. F. al-­Nabarawi (Cairo, 1979) Ibn al-­Athir, ‘Izz al-­Din ‘Ali (d. 1233), al-Kamil fi’l-ta’rikh (The Complete in History) This is a Universal History and the key Arabic chronicle for the period 1024–1204. For his time, its author has the instincts of a true historian. The work covers world history from the Creation until 628/1230–1. Its geographical scope is unusually wide, embracing the Muslim world from Spain to Central Asia, but information is fullest on the central lands of Egypt, Syria and Iraq. It is arranged annalistically, but not too mechanistically so, and the author gives excurses on various important topics, such as the rise of the Turks or the Assassins in a more overarching way. He is capable of interpreting events as well as recording them. He makes a synthesis of the data from his sources, although he rarely cites their names. Occasionally he devotes his attention to Byzantine matters; he includes, for example, a report on the events of 1204. Edition: C. J. Tornberg, 12 vols (Leiden and Uppsala, 1851–76; corrected repr., 13 vols, Beirut, 1965–7) The classic edition. Vol. 13 of the reprint contains only indices. Edition and Translation: RHC: historiens orientaux, vol. 1 (Paris, 1872), 189–714 (covers the activities of the Franks during the years 491/1098 to 585/1189–90); vol. 2 (Paris, 1887),

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 173



3–180 (covers the activities of the Franks during the years 585/1189–90 to 628/1230–1) The edition is unreliable, as usual with the Recueil. Mistakes of translation are therefore inevitable; moreover, the translation sometimes reads like a paraphrase.

Translation: D. S. Richards, The Annals of the Seljuq Turks (London, 2002) Translates a crucial section of this work, which concerns the history of the Seljuq Turks from 420/1029 to 490/1096–7. This translation is reliable and scholarly and should be used, wherever possible, in preference to the French translation of comparable passages in the Recueil des historiens des croisades. Secondary Literature: D. S. Richards, Annals, 1–8 —— ‘Ibn al-­Athir and the later parts of the Kamil: a study of aims and methods’, in D. O. Morgan, ed., Medieval Historical Writing in the Christian and Islamic Worlds (London, 1982), 76–108 Ibn al-­Athir (d. 1233), Ta’rikh al-bahir fi’l-dawlat al-atabakiyya (The Brilliant History about the Atabeg State) This is a full but highly partisan dynastic history of the Zengids. The author reveals on occasion a bias against Saladin and his family. The work was written as an exemplary history, a kind of ‘Mirror for Princes’, for al-­Qahir b. Nur al-­Din Arslan (d. 615/1218). Edition and Translation: RHC: historiens orientaux, vol. 2, 5–375 Here erroneously called Ta’rikh al-dawlat al-atabakiyya muluk al-Mawsil (The History of the Atabeg State, the Princes of Mosul). After a lengthy panegyrical introduction, the work covers the years 477/1084–5 to 608/1211–12. Edition: A. A. Tulaymat, al-Ta’rikh al-bahir fi’l-dawlat al-atabakiyya (The Brilliant History about the Atabeg State) (Cairo, 1963) This reliable edition covers the years 521/1127 to 608/1211–12. The title given here is the one mentioned by the author himself in his Universal History, discussed above.

174 | classi ca l is l a m Secondary Literature: D. S. Richards, ‘Ibn al-­Athir and the later parts of the Kamil’, 78–9, 85 Sibt b. al-­Jawzi, Yusuf Qizoğlu (d. 1256), Mi’rat al-zaman fi ta’rikh al-a‘yan (The Mirror of the Time in the History of Famous Men) This Ayyubid historian was the grandson of the famous Baghdad Hanbalite scholar Ibn al-­Jawzi on his mother’s side. At the beginning of the thirteenth century he moved from Baghdad to Damascus and worked for a number of Ayyubid rulers there. His immense Universal History, modelled on the work of his grandfather, the Kitab al-Muntazam, is a very important text. It begins with the Creation and stops in the year of the author’s death. Important events are recorded for each year and are then followed by short obituary notices of notables who have died in that year. Until the beginning of the thirteenth century, the work conforms to the model of a universal chronicle with a comprehensive approach to the Islamic world. Its coverage of events in the thirteenth century is focused on Damascus and is an invaluable source, drawn on by many subsequent Syrian chroniclers.   This source is particularly valuable for the eleventh century since it cites, at length but uncritically, sources such as the lost history of the Baghdad historian, Hilal al-­Sabi’, and the work of his son Ghars al-­Ni‘ma. For example, the Mir’at contains a very full description of the battle of Mantzikert. Editions: The editions of this text are at best only mediocre. 1. A. Sevim (Ankara, 1968) Partial edition. It selects events about the Seljuqs and concerns the years 448/1056–7 to 480/1087–8. 2. J. R. Jewett (Chicago, 1907) This facsimile edition covers the years 495/1101 to 654/1256. Jewett used a faulty manuscript and its pages are badly arranged. 3. Printed edition of the Jewett text, editor unidentified, 1 vol. in 2 parts (Hyderabad, Deccan, 1951–2) Edition and Translation: RHC: historiens orientaux, vol. 3, 517–70 Extracts concerning the Franks from the year 490/1097 to 532/1137–8.

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 175 Secondary Literature: M. Ahmad and M. Hilmy, ‘Some notes on Arabic historiography during the Zengid and Ayyubid periods’, in Lewis and Holt, eds, Historians of the Middle East, 91–2 C. Cahen, ‘Editing Arabic chronicles: a few suggestions’, in Les peuples musulmans dans l’histoire médiévale (Damascus, 1977), 11–36 —— ‘The historiography of the Seljuqid period’, in Lewis and Holt, eds, Historians of the Middle East, 60–1 Ibn al-‘Adim, Kamal al-­Din (d. 1262), Zubdat al-halab fi ta’rikh Halab (The Cream of the Milk in the History of Aleppo) A concise local history of Aleppo written by a member of an elite family in the city who served in various important positions there, including scribe, judge and chief minister to two Ayyubid rulers. The chronicle gives a clear exposition of events from the viewpoint of Aleppo, often without citing the author’s sources. The work is a chronicle of Aleppo from the early Islamic period until 1243 and is organised according to dynasty and ruler or governor. Editions: 1. S. Dahan, 3 vols (Damascus, 1951–68) 2. S. Zakkar (Damascus, 1997) Translations: 1. RHC: historiens orientaux, vol. 3, 577–690 The extracts translated cover the years 1097–1146. 2. E. Blochet, Revue de l’Orient Latin (1896–8) Blochet translates extracts from the chronicle. The poor quality of his translation has always been criticised. Secondary Literature: S. Dahan, in Lewis and Holt, eds, Historians of the Middle East, 111–13 Ibn Muyassar, Taj al-­Din (d. 1278), Akhbar Misr (The Accounts of Egypt) The Egyptian continuator of al-­Musabbihi (d. 1030). This is the most important work on the late Fatimids, containing much original information.

176 | classi ca l is l a m Editions: 1. H. Massé (Cairo, 1919) This covers the years 1047–1158, with a lacuna for the years 502/1108–9 to 514/1120–1. Fortunately, the later chronicler, al-­Nuwayri, borrows from the work of Ibn Muyassar and fills these missing years. 2. A. F. Sayyid (Cairo, 1981) Here other lost sections have been partially reconstructed from later quotations. Translation: RHC: historiens orientaux, vol. 3, 461–73 Secondary Literature: C. Cahen, ‘Quelques chroniques anciennes relatives aux derniers Fatimides’, BIFAO 38 (1937), 1–27 Ibn Wasil, Jamal al-­Din (d. 1298), Mufarrij al-kurub fi akhbar Bani Ayyub (The Dispeller of Anxieties about the Accounts of the Ayyubid Family) The key source for the Ayyubid period (1171–1250). It is untranslated and still relatively unexploited. Despite the existence of four good manuscripts of this text, it was unfortunately left out of the Recueil des historiens des croisades. The author was educated in Syria but was sometimes resident in Egypt where he had access to the Ayyubid and Mamluk courts. The work, covering Egypt and Syria in Zengid and Ayyubid times, begins with Saladin’s father, Ayyub, and his brother Shirkuh, and then it goes further back to give an account of the Zengids. However, the work is primarily an idealised dynastic history of the Ayyubids until 645/1247–8. For earlier periods it leans on previous histories, such as the works of Abu Shama and Ibn al-­ Athir; for his own time his work is invaluable. Edition: J. al-­Shayyal, vols 1–3 (Cairo, 1953–60); S. A. F. Ashur and H. Rabie, vols 4–5 (Cairo, 1972) Good clear editions.

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 177 Secondary Literature: R. S. Humphreys, From Saladin to the Mongols: the Ayyubids of Damascus, 1193–1260 (Albany, 1977) C. Cahen, La Syrie du nord (Paris, 1940), 70 Ibn Wasil, Jamal al-­Din, Ta’rikh al-Salihi (The Salihi History) An abridged general history of the Islamic world from the age of the Prophet to the year 637/1240. It is dedicated to the Ayyubid ruler, al-­Malik al-­Salih Najm al-­Din. Still only in manuscript. Abu’l-­Fida’, Isma‘il (d. 1331), al-Mukhtasar fi akhbar al-bashar (The Abridged Work on the Accounts of Mankind) This chronicle, written by an Ayyubid prince of Hama in Syria, a chronicler, geographer and man of letters, covers the history of the Islamic world from the rise of Islam until 1329. This compilation is heavily dependent on Ibn al-­Athir but is a useful summary of events. The work has been known in the west for a long time and was translated into Latin as early as 1754. Because of this, it was always the first port of call for historians to use, until the publication of the work of Ibn al-­Athir. Editions: 1. J. J. Reiske and J. G. C. Adler, Annales moslemici (Leipzig, 1754 and Copenhagen, 1789–94) 2. The first complete text was edited in Istanbul, 2 vols (1869–70) 3. 4 vols, editor unidentified (Cairo, 1914) Edition and Translation: RHC: historiens orientaux, vol. 1, 1–165 This translation covers the years 485/1092–3 to 702/1302–3. al-­Nuwayri, Shihab al-­Din (d. 1333), Nihayat al-arab fi funun al-adab (The Attaining of the Goal in the Arts of Culture) An Egyptian administrator and encyclopedist, who wrote a vast and ambitious work of 9,000 pages in thirty-­one volumes. The last of the five sections of the work concerns history; it is arranged chronologically, beginning with the Creation and reaching the year 1331. It is very focused and well-­structured and not slavishly wedded to the

178 | classi ca l is l a m annalistic format. The Fatimid volume has been published and is a very important source, containing extracts from a number of lost sources. Edition: Volumes 1–25 and 28 have been published, edited by various scholars (Cairo, 1923–92). The Fatimid period is covered in vol. 28, eds M. M. Amin, M. Hilmi and M. Ahmad (Cairo, 1992). Secondary Literature: D. Little, ‘Historiography’, in The Cambridge History of Egypt (Cambridge, 1998), vol. 1, 430 M. Chapoutot-­Remadi, ‘al-­Nuwayri’, in Encyclopaedia of Islam (2nd edn), vol. 8, 156–60 Ibn al-­Dawadari, Sayf al-­Din (d. after 1335), Kanz al-durar wa jami‘ al-ghurar (The Treasure of Pearls and the Collection of Shining Objects) A bureaucrat from a Mamluk family in Egypt, Ibn al-­Dawadari wrote an annalistic Universal History up to the year 1335. The Kanz al-durar is an abridgement of an even longer chronicle. The section on the Fatimids has valuable information in it. Editions: Part 6, entitled al-Durra al-madiya fi akhbar al-dawla al-fatimiyya (The Past Pearl in the Accounts of the Fatimid State), ed. S. al-­Munajjid, Die Chronik des Ibn ad-Dawadari (Cairo, 1961) Part 7, entitled al-Durr al-matlub fi akhbar muluk Bani Ayyub (The Desired Pearls in the Accounts of the Princes of the Ayyubid Family) ed. S. A. F. Ashur (Cairo, 1972) Secondary Literature: B. Lewis, ‘Ibn al-­Dawadari’, in Encyclopaedia of Islam (2nd edn), vol. 3, 744 D. Little, ‘Historiography’, in The Cambridge History of Egypt (Cambridge, 1998), vol. 1, 424–5 Ibn Kathir, ‘Imad al-­Din (d. 1373), al-Bidaya wa’l-nihaya fi’l-ta’rikh (The Beginning and the End in History) This is a universal ‘salvation’ history written from the Creation to his own time and, unusually, beyond that, to include predictions about the end of the world. The work is focused on Damascus and includes valuable information on that city.

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 179 Editions: 14 vols (Cairo, 1932–9; repr. Beirut, 1932–77) Secondary Literature: H. Laoust, ‘Ibn Kathir historien’, Arabica 2 (1955), 42–88 Ibn al-­Furat, Nasir al-­Din Muhammad (d. 1405), Ta’rikh al-duwal wa’l-muluk (The History of States and Kings) An Egyptian chronicler who wrote this enormous Universal History in draft. He then revised and completed twenty volumes which deal with the twelfth, thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. The work begins in 501/1107–8. This is an important source because it draws on lost chronicles, such as the history of Aleppo by the Shi‘ite historian, Ibn Abi Tayyi’ (d. c. 630/1232). The majority of the extant volumes concern the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Manuscript: The major manuscript of the text is in the Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Vienna, MS. A.F. 118 (Flügel 814, II). Editions: H. al-­Shamma, vol. 4, pts 1–2 (Basra, 1967–9) For the period of the project, only this volume has been edited, covering the years 563/1167 to 615/1218. The Vienna manuscript has been the subject of several doctoral theses, which have involved critical editions of varying quality, but these remain unpublished. The best is: M. F. Elshayyal, ‘A critical edition of volume II of Ta’rikh al-duwal wa’l-muluk by Muhammad b. ‘Abd al-­Rahim b. ‘Ali Ibn al-­Furat’, unpublished PhD thesis (Edinburgh, 1986) This includes an edition of vol. 2, which covers the years 522/1128 to 543/1148–9 and gives a summary of major events. Secondary Literature: U. and M. C. Lyons, Ayyubids, Mamlukes and Crusaders (Cambridge, 1971), vol. 2, vii–xi C. Cahen, ‘Ibn al-­Furat’, in Encyclopaedia of Islam (2nd edn), vol. 3, 768–9

180 | classi ca l is l a m al-­Maqrizi, Taqi al-­Din (d. 1442), Itti‘az al-hunafa’ bi-akhbar al-a’imma al-fatimiyyin al-khulafa’ (Warning of the Pious about the News of the Fatimid Imam Caliphs) Perhaps the most important and versatile of the Mamluk polymaths, al-­Maqrizi wrote on a wide range of historical topics, focusing on Egypt. This chronicle, which preserves material from such lost sources as al-­Musabbihi, Ibn al-­Ma’mun and Ibn al-­Tuwayr, is the only separate history of the Fatimids composed by a Sunni writer. It remains untranslated. Edition: J. al-­Shayyal, vol. 1 (Cairo, 1967) M. H. M. Ahmad, vols 2–3 (Cairo, 1971–3) Secondary Literature: D. Little, ‘Historiography of the Ayyubid and Mamluk epochs’, in The Cambridge History of Egypt (Cambridge, 1998), 436–7 al-­Maqrizi, Kitab al-Suluk li-ma‘rifat duwal al-muluk (The Book of Access to the Knowledge of the Dynasties of Kings) This chronicle, which covers the history of the Ayyubids and the Mamluks, is a useful source for the project. It gives the history of Egypt from the accession of Saladin in 1169 until 1440–1. Editions: M. M. Ziyada and S. A. F. Ashur, 4 vols (Cairo, 1934–73) This is a good edition. Translations: 1. E. Quatremère, Histoire des sultans mamlouks de l’Égypte (Paris, 1837–45) Quatremère’s translation, which covers the Mamluk period and is therefore outside the remit of the project, is still worth studying because of its many valuable footnotes about earlier dynasties. 2. E. Blochet, Histoire d’Égypte de Makrizi (Paris, 1908) As usual, a translation to be treated with caution. 3. R. J. C. Broadhurst, History of the Ayyubid Sultans (Boston, 1980) A competent translation.

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 181 Secondary Literature: D. Little, ‘Historiography’, in The Cambridge History of Egypt (Cambridge, 1998), vol. 1, 437 al-‘Ayni, Badr al-­Din (d. 1451), ‘Iqd al-juman fi ta’rikh ahl al-zaman (The Necklace of Pearls in the History of the People of the Time) This major chronicle, written by a high-­ranking Egyptian official, has still not yet been fully edited and evaluated. It is a vast, encyclopedic work with quotations from lost sources, such as Ibn Abi Tayyi’ and others. The parts of the text that deal with the period of the project have not yet been edited and the translated excerpts in the Recueil des historiens des croisades lie outside the chosen timeframe. The edition of all this manuscript is a major desideratum. Secondary Literature: M. Quatremère, Histoire des sultans mamlouks de l’Égypte (Paris, 1837), 219–28 Ibn Taghribirdi, Abu’l-­Mahasin Yusuf (d. 1470), al-Nujum al-zahira fi muluk Misr wa’l-Qahira (The Brilliant Stars in the Kings of Egypt and Cairo) A general history of Egypt from the Arab conquest to 1467. Edition: Editor unidentified, 16 vols (Cairo, 1929–72) Edition and Translation: RHC: historiens orientaux, vol. 3, 481–509 The translated extracts deal with the years 491/1098 to 552/1157. Secondary Literature: R. S. Humphreys, Islamic Historiography, 137–47 A. Darrag, ‘La vie d’Abu’l-­ Mahasin Ibn Tagribirdi et son oeuvre’, Annales Islamologiques 11 (1972), 163–81 W. Popper, ‘Abu’l-­Mahasin’, in Encyclopaedia of Islam (2nd edn), vol. 1, 138 al-‘Asqalani, Ahmad b. Ibrahim (d. 1471), Shifa’ al-qulub fi manaqib Bani Ayyub (The Cure of the Hearts in the Glorious Deeds of the Ayyubid Family) This is a dynastic history of the Ayyubids, organised on biographical lines. This scholar should not be confused with the more famous Ibn Hajar al-‘Asqalani. There is controversy over the authorship of this work.

182 | classi ca l is l a m Manuscript: BM. Ms. Add. 7311 Edition: Editor unidentified (Baghdad, 1978) Histories: Select Muslim Primary Sources in Persian Nishapuri, Zahir al-­Din (d. c. 1186–7), Saljuqnama (The Book of the Seljuqs) Little is known about Nishapuri but he was probably employed as a tutor to a Seljuq prince or princes in the 1140s. His chronicle is the Urtext for most of the subsequent histories of the Seljuqs written in Persian. It is a dynastic history of the Seljuqs, completed sometime before 1186. The text is simple and lively with interesting depictions of the Seljuq sultans. Editions: 1. I. Afshar (Tehran, 1954) In this edition Afshar wrongly published as the original Saljuqnama of Nishapuri a recension of the history of the Seljuqs by Nishapuri produced by a later Persian author, Qashani (early fourteenth century). The edition is poorly produced. 2. A. H. Morton, The Saljuqnama of Zahir al-Din Nishapuri (Chippenham, 2004) This recent edition is based on the unique manuscript in the library of the Royal Asiatic Society in London. The edition is very good, with a meticulous scholarly apparatus. It is clear from this edition that the original version of the text was much less full and flowery than the version of it produced by Qashani. A more famous contemporary of Qashani, Rashid al-­Din (d. 1318), in the Seljuq sections of his Universal History (see p. xxx below) also draws on the history of Nishapuri. Translation: The recension of Nishapuri made by Rashid al-­Din was translated by K. A. Luther with an introduction by C. E. Bosworth as The History of the Seljuq Turks, from the Jami‘ al-tawarikh (an Ilkhanid adaptation of Zahir al-Din Nishapuri) (London, 2001).

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 183 Secondary Literature: J. Meisami, Persian Historiography to the End of the Twelfth Century (Edinburgh, 1999), 229–34 A. H. Morton, edition, 1–63 Rawandi, Muhammad b. ‘Ali (d. early thirteenth century), Rahat al-sudur wa-ayat al-surur dar ta’rikh-i al-i Saljuq (The Ease for Breasts and the Marvel of Joy in the History of the Seljuq Family) Rawandi was a Persian scholar, calligrapher and gilder from Rawand near Kashan. After the demise of the Seljuq dynasty in Iran at the end of the twelfth century, he dedicated his work to the Seljuq sultan of Anatolia, Kaykhusraw I. This work is a dynastic history of the Seljuqs, with strong ‘Mirror for Princes’ overtones, written in rhetorical style. The narrative is interspersed with proverbs and quotations from Arabic and Persian poetry and prose. The work’s historical information is derived from the chronicle of Nishapuri. Edition: M. Iqbal (London, 1921; repr. Tehran, 1985) A reasonable edition. Secondary Literature: E. G. Browne, ‘Account of a rare, if not unique, manuscript history of the Seljuqs’, JRAS (1902), 567–610, 849–87 J. Meisami, Persian Historiography (Edinburgh, 1999), 237–56 C. Schefer, Nouveaux mélanges orientaux (Paris, 1886), 3–47 Ibn Bibi, al-­Husayn b. Muhammad (d. after 1285), al-Awamir al-‘Ala’iyya fi’l-umur al-‘Ala’iyya (‘Ala’id Commands about ‘Ala’id Matters) Ibn Bibi was an important official working for the Seljuqs of Rum (Anatolia). The work was completed in 1281. It is a detailed memoir of the period 1190 to 1280 in Seljuq Anatolia, written in an ornate rhetorical style. The abstruse title may be interpreted as follows: the author was asked to write the work by ‘Ala’ al-­Din Juwayni and its subject was to be the achievements of the sultan, ‘Ala’ al-­Din Kayqubadh I, whose reign was the apogée of Seljuq rule in Anatolia.

184 | classi ca l is l a m Edition: M. T. Houtsma, Histoire des Seldjoucides d’Asie Mineure d’après Ibn Bibi; recueil de texts relatifs à l’histoire des Seldjoucides, vol. 3 (Leiden, 1902) Translation: H. W. Duda, Die Seltschukengeschichte des Ibn Bibi (Copenhagen, 1959) A good German translation. Rashid al-­Din, Fadl Allah (d. 1318), Jami‘ al-tawarikh (The Compendium of Histories) This famous doctor, scholar and government minister was a convert to Islam from Judaism. He served the Mongol ruler of Iran, Abaqa (ruled 1265–82), but he achieved his highest office in the reign of Ghazan (after 1298). His Universal History extends from the Creation until his own time. Though known principally in its Persian versions, it also existed early in an Arabic form. Edition: A. Ateş (Ankara, 1960; repr. Tehran, 1983) This edition covers the Ghaznavid and Seljuq periods. Hamd Allah, al-­Mustawfi al-­Qazwini (d. after 1339–40), Ta’rikh-i guzida (The Choice History) Persian Shi‘ite scholar and contemporary of the more famous Rashid al-­Din. This concise work, describing the history of the Islamic world until his own time, was completed in 730/1330. Edition: E. G. Browne and R. A. Nicholson (Leiden and London, 1911–14) Translation: C. Defrémery, ‘Histoire des Seldjoukides’, Journal asiatique (April–May 1848), 417–62; (September 1848), 259–79; (October 1848), 334–70 A very useful translation of the Seljuq sections of the text.

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 185 Histories: Select Christian Primary Sources in Arabic al-­Antaki, Yahya b. Sa‘id (John of Antioch) (d. 1066), Ta’rikh al-Antaki (The History of al-Antaki) A doctor at the Fatimid court, this Melkite chronicler was the continuator of the work entitled Nazm al-jawhar (String of Jewels) written by his relative, the patriarch of Alexandria, Sa‘id b. Batriq (Eutychios) (d. 940). Al-­Antaki continued this work until 1034, where the extant parts of the work stop, but it probably went even further. Forced to leave Egypt at the time of the persecutions of the Fatimid caliph al-­Hakim, al-­Antaki moved to Byzantine Antioch in 405/1014–15. His chronicle is a valuable source for Arab–Byzantine relations; in it he draws on his own experiences, non-­Arabic Christian writings, as well as a variety of Muslim sources, such as Thabit b. Sinan, al-­Musabbihi and other chronicles, now lost. The chronicle is arranged chronologically according to caliphs. Editions: 1. L. Cheikho, B. Carra de Vaux and H. Zayyat, CSCO Scriptores arabici 3.7 (Paris, 1909) 2. U. A. Tadmuri (Tripoli, 1990) Secondary Literature: M. Canard, ‘al-­Antaki’, Encyclopaedia of Islam (2nd edn), vol. 1, 516 G. Graf, Geschichte der christlichen arabischen Litteratur (Vatican, 1957), vol. 2, 49–51 al-­Makin, Ibn al-‘Amid Jirjis (d. 1273), al-Majmu‘ al-mubarak (The Blessed Collection) A Coptic bureaucrat who was in the service of the Ayyubids in Egypt. He wrote a succinct Universal History in Arabic from the Creation until the accession of Sultan Baybars in 1260. This work was known early in Europe through its edition by Erpenius in 1625. It was translated very early into European languages and influenced the scholarship of early orientalist scholars as a result. It was a largely derivative work until the lifetime of the author. The Islamic section of the work until 1238 seems, according to Cahen, to be copied from the Ta’rikh al-Salihi of Ibn Wasil or from a common source.

186 | classi ca l is l a m Edition and Translation: T. Erpenius, Historia saracenica (Leiden, 1625), with a Latin translation by J. Golius This edition stopped at the year 512/1117–18. Secondary Literature: C. Cahen, ‘al-­Makin’, in Encyclopaedia of Islam (2nd edn), vol. 6, 143–4 —— ‘al-­Makin Ibn al-‘Amid et l’historiographie musulmane: un cas d’interpénétration confessionnelle’, Orientalia hispanica, sive Studia F.M. Pareja octgenario dicata, vol. 1.1 (Leiden, 1974), 158–67 al-­Makin, Akhbar al-Ayyubiyyin (Accounts of the Ayyubids) A chronicle of events in the Ayyubid period, beginning in 1205 and ending with the accession of the Mamluk sultan, Baybars, in 1260. Edition: C. Cahen, ‘La “chronique des Ayyoubides” d’al-­Makin b. al-‘Amid’, Bulletin d’études orientales 15 (1958), 127–77 Contains a very useful summary of the events covered in the chronicle (pp. 116– 26). Translation: A.-M. Eddé and F. Micheau, Chronique des Ayyoubides (Paris, 1994) Bar Hebraeus, Abu’l-­ Faraj, known in Arabic as Ibn al-‘Ibri (d. 1286), Ta’rikh mukhtasar al-duwal (An Abbreviated History of the Dynasties) See Witold Witakowski in this volume under John Gregory BarEbroyo. Select Biographical Dictionaries The choice of biographical dictionaries made in this section is intended to show the rich diversity of this genre in the medieval Islamic tradition, but it is by no means comprehensive. Examples have been taken over a wide chronological framework and from the different social groups covered by this important corpus of works. Entries are arranged chronologically according to the death-­date of the author.

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 187 al-‘Abbadi, Abu ‘Asim Muhammad (d. 1066), Tabaqat al-fuqaha’ al-Shafi‘iyya (The Generations of Shafi‘ite Jurisprudents) A legal scholar from Harat who wrote a biographical dictionary devoted to his predecessors in the Shafi‛ite madhhab (legal school). Edition: G. Vitestam (Leiden, 1964) al-­Khatib al-­Baghdadi, Abu Bakr (d. 1071), Ta’rikh Baghdad (The History of Baghdad) An Iraqi religious scholar, preacher and historian of Baghdad. He is famous principally for his massive, fourteen-­volume biographical encyclopedia known as the Ta’rikh Baghdad, completed in 1070. It is the first biographical dictionary of a wider scope, though it still focuses especially on scholars of hadith (the ‘sayings’ of the Prophet Muhammad). It contains 7,831 entries; these record the lives of famous men (and thirty women) involved in the social and cultural life of Baghdad. Edition: Editor unidentified (Cairo, 1931; repr. Beirut, 1968) Edition and Translation: G. Salomon, L’introduction topographique à l’histoire de Baghdad (Paris, 1904) A partial edition and translation dealing with the introduction on the topography of Baghdad. Secondary Literature: R. W. Bulliet, ‘Women and the urban religious élite in the pre-­Mongol period’, in G. Nashat and L. Beck, eds, Women in Iran from the Rise of Islam to 1800 (Urbana and Chicago, 2003), 68–79 R. Sellheim, ‘al-­ Khatib al-­ Baghdadi’, Encyclopaedia of Islam (2nd edn), vol. 4, 1111–12 Abu Ishaq al-­Shirazi (d. 1083), Tabaqat al-fuqaha’ (The Generations of Legists) This work, written around 1060, records, regardless of their particular school of law, all the jurists, whose opinion could be sought in order for a consensus to be reached. Later works of this kind would be confined to jurists of one particular ‘school’ only.

188 | classi ca l is l a m Edition: Editor unidentified (Baghdad, 1937) al-­Sam‘ani, ‘Abd al-­Karim (d. 1166), al-Ansab (Genealogies) A religious scholar from Marw in the eastern province of Khurasan. This is a massive biographical dictionary of scholars of hadith (the ‘sayings’ of the Prophet Muhammad). Its 5,348 entries are arranged alphabetically according to nisba (a person’s name based on place of origin or residence). The work provides advice on how to pronounce names and their derivations, as well as the names of teachers and their pupils. Edition: D. Margoliouth (Leiden and London, 1912) Facsimiles: 1. A. al-­Mu‘allimi and others, 13 vols (Hyderabad, 1952–82) 2. A. U. al-­Barudi (Beirut, 1998) Ibn al-‘Asakir, Thiqat al-­Din (d. 1176), Ta’rikh madinat Dimashq (The History of the City of Damascus) A famous historian of Damascus who belonged to an important family of Shafi‘ite scholars from that city. This grandiose prosopographical work, arranged alphabetically, records all the important people who lived in or visited Damascus and a number of other cities in Syria. It has a valuable introduction, which gives the historical topography of the city. The most recent publication of this enormous work is ongoing. Editions: 1. A. Badran and A. Ubayd, 7 vols (Damascus, 1911–32) This edition is abridged. 2. S. al-­Munajjid, vol. 1, pt 2 (Damascus, 1954) 3. Complete edition, edited by several scholars (Damascus, 1951–) Cf. also A. Badran, Tahdhib Ta’rikh Dimashq (The Pruned Version of the History of Damascus) (Damascus, 1911–32) This is a rearrangement of the Ta’rikh madinat Dimashq up to the letter ‘ayn. It is an unsatisfactory effort.

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 189 Translation: N. Elisséeff, La description de Damas d’Ibn ‘Asâkir (Damascus, 1959) This is a translation of the section edited by Munajjid. Secondary Literature: R. S. Humphreys, Islamic History: a framework for inquiry (Princeton, 1991), 238–9 Yaqut al-­Rumi al-­Hamawi, Shihab al-­Din (d. 1229), Mu‘jam al-udaba’ (The Dictionary of Men of Letters) A traveller and prolific writer. Born in Byzantine territory, he was taken as a slave to Baghdad as a small boy. His master, a merchant, saw to it that he received a thorough Islamic education and he travelled widely on his master’s business.   Not all this colossal work has survived, but its most recent editior, Ihsan Abbas, restored thirty-­two entries that were not in the first edition by Margoliouth. It is, as its title suggests, concerned with the ­writers – ­poets, lexicographers and other kinds of ­scholars – w ­ hom the author met. Editions: 1. D. Margoliouth, 7 vols (Cairo, 1907–27) 2. A. F. Rifa‘i, 20 vols (Cairo, 1936–8) A poor edition. 3. I. Abbas, 7 vols (Beirut, 1993) Secondary Literature: C. Gilliot, ‘Yakut al-­Rumi’, Encyclopaedia of Islam (2nd edn), vol. 11, 264–6 A very fine and full treatment of this author’s work with full bibliographical details. Ibn al-‘Adim (d. 1262), Bughyat al-talab fi ta’rikh Halab (The Desired Object of Seeking in the History of Aleppo) For details of this author, see the entry under Histories.   In this monumental work (even though only a quarter of it has survived), Ibn al-‘Adim vaunts his own city by a full biographical coverage of its great personalities. Anyone who lived there or visited the city or its surrounding areas in any historical period may qualify for inclusion in his work. However, if the entry deals with a traveller to Aleppo, his inclusion in the dictionary must be justified.

190 | classi ca l is l a m   The dictionary is organised in alphabetical order. The typical biographical entry follows a generally predictable plan; it includes the name of the subject, a summary of that person’s links with Aleppo, an assessment of his qualities and the most important parts of his career. After some illustrative anecdotes, the date and details of his death are provided. The author draws on an unusually wide range of sources, both oral and written, extant and lost. Editions: 1. A. Sevim (Ankara, 1976) Partial. 2. F. Sezgin, 11 vols (Frankfurt, 1986–90) Facsimile Edition: S. Zakkar, 11 vols (Damascus, 1988) Translations: 1. RHC: historiens orientaux, vol. 3, 695–732 These extracts cover the biographies of five Muslim rulers of Syria in the twelfth century. 2. B. Lewis, ‘Three biographies from Kamal al-­Din’, in O. Turan, ed., Fuad Köprülü Armağanı (Istanbul, 1953), 325–44 These three biographies throw light on the history of the Syrian Assassins: two of the entries chosen concern their alleged victims, Janah al-­Dawla, the ruler of Hims, and Khalaf b. Mula‘ib, the governor of Afamiya. The other biography is that of the Assassin leader in Syria himself, Rashid al-­Din Sinan. Secondary Literature: D. Morray, An Ayyubid Notable and his World: Ibn al-‘Adim and Aleppo as portrayed in his Biographical Dictionary of people associated with the city (Leiden, 1994) A remarkably thorough and learned study of this very important biographical work. —— ‘Egypt and Aleppo in Ibn al-‘Adim’s Bughyat al-talab fi ta’rikh Halab’, in H. Kennedy, ed., The Historiography of Islamic Egypt (c.950–1800) (Leiden, 2001), 13–22

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 191 Abu Shama, ‘Abd al-­Rahman (d. 1267), Tarajim rijal al-qarnayn al-sadis wa’l-sabi‘ (Biographical Notices of the Men of the Sixth and Seventh Centuries) A Syrian scholar from Damascus. The work gives, as its title suggests, biographical notices of important local people in the sixth and seventh centuries of the Muslim era (that is, the twelfth and thirteenth centuries of the Christian calendar). Edition: M. al-­Kawthari (Cairo, 1947; Beirut, 1984) Ibn Abi Usaybi‘a, Muwaffaq al-­Din (d. 1270), ‘Uyun al-anba’ fi tabaqat al-atibba’ (Choice News about the Generations of Doctors) A Syrian doctor who lived and practised in Damascus. His biographical work on classical and Muslim physicians contains 380 entries, arranged according to area and generation. Edition: 1. A. Müller, 2 vols (Cairo, 1882–4) 2. N. Rida (Beirut, 1965) Secondary Literature: A.-M. Eddé, ‘Les médecins dans la société syrienne du VIIe/XIIIe siècle’, AI 29 (1995), 91–109 Ibn Khallikan, Ahmad b. Muhammad (d. 1282), Kitab Wafayat al-a‘yan wa anba’ abna’ al-zaman (The Book of the Deaths of the Famous and Information about the Sons of the Time) Ibn Khallikan had a very varied public life in different cities of the Near East, reaching the rank of Chief Judge. His is the best known of the medieval Islamic biographical dictionaries outside the Middle East, because of its English translation by de Slane in the nineteenth century. It is arranged in alphabetical order, according to the person’s ism (personal name), and it contains only the biographies of those whose death dates he could find out for sure. It is a very useful source indeed for the period of the project, especially for the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. It is often witty and is intended to entertain, with frequent use of poems and lively anecdotes. It is much wider in scope than the other biographical dictionaries which precede it and it includes anyone who had excelled in almost all spheres of public life, such as scholars,

192 | classi ca l is l a m princes, commanders, ministers, poets and women. It omits the lives of the ‘Abbasid caliphs, on the grounds that they are sufficiently well covered in other sources, but it does provide biographies of the ‘heretical’ Fatimid caliphs of Egypt. Edition: 1. E. Wüstenfeld (Göttingen, 1835–43) 2. Baron W. M. de Slane (Paris, 1838–42) Not a complete edition. 3. M. Muhyi al-­Din, 2 vols (Cairo, 1299/1881–2) 4. I. Abbas, 8 vols (Beirut 1968–72; repr. Beirut, 1997) The best edition. Translations: 1. Baron W. M. de Slane, Ibn Khallikan’s Biographical Dictionary, 4 vols (Paris, 1843–71; repr. Beirut, 1970) 2. RHC: historiens orientaux, vol. 3, 379–430 The biographies of Ibn Shaddad, the biographer of Saladin, and of Saladin himself are translated here. al-­Safadi, Khalil b. Aybak (d. 1363), Kitab al-Wafi’ bi’l-wafayat (The Supplement to the Necrologies) This scholar came from a Turkish family in Safad and worked in the Mamluk administration. This is the fullest of the medieval biographical dictionaries. It purportedly once contained over 140,000 entries. It is now published in over thirty volumes with more than 5,000 entries. They are arranged alphabetically, except that the work gives precedence to the name Muhammad. It aims to continue and build on the dictionary of Ibn Khallikan. Its contents can be gleaned from Gabrieli’s summary. It is a rich source on Fatimid Egypt. Edition: H. Ritter et al., eds, Das biographische Lexikon des Salahaddin Halil ibn Aibak as˘ Safadi, Bibliotheca Islamica 6a–zc, 29 vols (all published by various houses in Istanbul and Beirut on commission from a succession of publishers in Berlin, Leipzig, Stuttgart and Wiesbaden, 1931–2004) Standard critical edition.

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 193 Secondary Literature: G. Gabrieli, ‘Indice alfabetico di tutte le biografie contenute nel Wafi bi’l wafayat’, Rendiconti dell’Accademia nazionale dei Lincei, classe di scienze morali, storiche e filologiche 22 (1913), 547–77, 581–629; 23 (1914), 191–208, 217–65; 24 (1915), 551–615; 25 (1916), 341–98 al-­Subki, Taj al-­Din (d. c. 1369/70), Tabaqat al-shafi‘iyya (The Generations of the Shafi‘ites) A Syrian preacher and religious scholar from Damascus. This is a collection of biographies of Shafi‘ite jurists. It exists in three versions, the ‘largest’, the ‘middle-­sized’ and the ‘smallest’. It gives a thorough intellectual history of the Shafi‘ite madhhab (legal school). Edition (of the ‘largest’ (al-kubra)) version: 1. 6 vols (Cairo, 1908) A bad edition. 2. M. M. al-­Tanahi and M. A. al-­Hilw, 10 vols (Cairo, 1964–76) Secondary Literature: H. Halm, Die Ausbreitung der šafi‘itischen Rechtsschule von den Anfängen bis zum 8./14. Jahrhundert (Wiesbaden, 1974) Ibn Rajab, Zayn al-­Din (d. 1392), Kitab al-Dhayl ‘ala tabaqat al-hanabila (The Book of the Appendix to the Generations of Hanbalites) A Hanbalite legist from Damascus. This is a biographical work restricted to the Hanbalite madhhab (legal school). Edition: H. Laoust and S. Dahhan, vol. 1 (Damascus, 1951) This covers the years 460/1067 to 540/1145. al-­Maqrizi, Taqi al-­Din (d. 1442), Kitab al-Ta’rikh al-kabir al-muqaffa li-misr (The Great History Limited to Egypt) For details of this author, see the entry under Histories.   Only partly extant but a most valuable and extensive prosopographical resource. It was originally planned in eighty volumes but only sixteen were completed by the

194 | classi ca l is l a m author. It includes a wide range of biographies and is especially important for its some four hundred entries on famous people connected to the Fatimid state, including the caliphs. It also has the odd biographical notice of a prominent Frank, such as Baldwin I of Jerusalem. Edition: M. al-­Ya‘lawi, 8 vols (Beirut, 1991) Translation: E. Quatremère, ‘Mémoires historiques sur la dynastie des Khalifes Fatimites’, Journal asiatique (1836), 97–142 Partial French translation. Ibn al-‘Imad, ‘Abd al-­Hayy (d. 1679), Shadharat al-dhahab fi akhbar man dhahab (Fragments of Gold in the Accounts of Those who have Passed on) A Syrian scholar of the Hanbalite madhhab (legal school). His comprehensive biographical dictionary was completed in 1670. Despite its late date of composition, it is very useful because of its encyclopaedic scope. It is arranged annalistically and covers the first Islamic millennium (the years 1/622 to 1000/1591–2). Edition: 1. (Cairo, 1284/1867–8) 2. A. and M. al-­Arna’ut, 11 vols (Beirut, 1986) Biographies in Arabic Ibn Shaddad, Baha’ al-­Din (d. 1239), al-Nawadir al-sultaniyya wa’l-mahasin al-yusufiyya (The Sultanal Rarities and the Josephal Virtues) A contemporary of Saladin who travelled and worked with him from 1188 until Saladin’s death in 1193. The title of his biography of Saladin refers to the fact that the name Yusuf (Joseph), a figure famed for his beauty in the Qur’an, was also one of Saladin’s names. The work begins with a laudatory section extolling Saladin’s virtues. The middle part of the book is a narrative of Saladin’s activities in the jihad, drawn largely from the work of another companion of Saladin, ‘Imad al-­Din al-­Isfahani. The last section, however, recounts Ibn Shaddad’s own personal views of his master and he writes movingly of Saladin’s death.   With this work, medieval Arabic biographical writing as a genre is properly launched.

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 195 Edition: J. El-­Shayyal (Cairo, 1964) Edition and Translation: RHC: historiens orientaux, vol. 3, 3–370 Translations: 1. C. R. Conder and C. W. Wilson, The Life of Saladin (London, 1897; repr. New York, 1971) Richards rightly suggests that this translation is too dependent on the French translation in the Recueil. 2. D. S. Richards, The Rare and Excellent History of Saladin (Aldershot, 2001) This recent reliable translation draws on a Berlin manuscript which was not used by El-­Shayyal in his edition. Secondary Literature: D. S. Richards, ‘A consideration of two sources for the life of Saladin’, Journal of Semitic Studies 25 (1980), 46–65 —— Introduction to his translation, 1–9 Abu Shama, ‘Abd al-­Rahman (d. 1267), Kitab al-Rawdatayn fi akhbar al-dawlatayn (The Book of the Two Gardens in the Accounts of the Two States) See also his entry under Biographical Dictionaries. This work deals in a laudatory way with the ‘Two Gardens’, the reigns of Nur al-­Din and Saladin. It is carefully structured. It draws on a number of lost sources and makes ample use of poetry and official correspondence, including many extracts from the letters of Saladin’s companion and adviser, the Qadi al-­Fadil. Edition: 1. 2 vols (Cairo, 1871–5) 2. M. H. M. Ahmad and M. M. Ziyada, 2 vols (Cairo, 1956–62) Edition and Translation: RHC: historiens orientaux, vol. 4, 3–522; vol. 5, 3–206

196 | classi ca l is l a m Translation: E. P. Goergens in Arabische Quellenbeiträge zur Geschichte Salah-ad-Dins, vol. 1: Zur Geschichte Salahadins (Berlin, 1879; repr. Hildesheim, 1975) Partial translation, covering the second half of the book, which deals with the life of Saladin, and then takes the narrative up to the early years of the thirteenth century. Secondary Literature: P. M. Holt, ‘Saladin and his admirers; a biographical reassessment’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 46 (1983), 235–9 Autobiographies al-­Mu’ayyad fi’l-­Din al-­Shirazi, Hibat Allah (d. 1078), Sirat al-Mu’ayyad fi’l-Din da‘i al-du‘at (The Biography of al-Mu’ayyad fi’l-Din the Chief Missionary) An important Persian Isma‘ili missionary and scholar, he moved to Cairo and became deeply involved in the politics of his time, serving as envoy and negotiator for the Fatimid caliph al-­Mustansir in his attempts to take Baghdad in the 1050s. These events and other parts of his life are recounted in his autobiography. Edition: M. K. Husayn (Cairo, 1949) Secondary Literature: V. Klemm, Memoirs of a Mission: The Islamic scholar, statesman and poet al-Mu’ayyad fi’l-Din al-Shirazi (London, 2003) I. K. Poonawala, Biobibliography of Isma‘ili Literature (Malibu, 1977), 103–9 al-­Ghazali, Abu Hamid, Muhammad (d. 1111), al-Munqidh min al-dalal (The Deliverer from Error) Al-­Ghazali was probably the most famous medieval Muslim scholar. This short work, written towards the end of his life, is his ‘autobiography’; in it he bares his soul and charts his spiritual journey as a model for the whole community to follow. His search for ‘certain truth’ leads him to the mystical path of the Sufis. Known early in the West, the work has enjoyed great popularity and has been often translated into European languages.

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 197 Edition and Translation: F. Jabre, al-Munqidh min adalal (Erreur et déliverance) (Beirut, 1959) Translations: 1. W. M. Watt, The Faith and Practice of al-Ghazali (London, 1953) This sometimes reads more like a paraphrase than an exact translation. 2. R. J. McCarthy, Freedom and Fulfilment: an annotated translation (Boston, 1980) A faithful, literal translation. Secondary Literature: C. Hillenbrand, ‘al-­Ghazali’, in M. Jolly, ed., Encyclopedia of Life Writing, vol. 1 (London and Chicago, 2001), 374–5 W. M. Watt, Muslim Intellectual: a study of al-Ghazali (Edinburgh, 1963) Usama, b. Murshid b. ‘Ali, generally known as Usama b. Munqidh (d. 1188) Kitab al-I‘tibar (The Book of Instruction (by Example)) An Arab aristocrat, warrior and scholar, born in 1095, who came from Shayzar in northern Syria and whose autobiographical memoirs record his experiences, in war and peace, during his rich and long life. His aim in these memoirs is both to entertain and instruct, and the stories are often exaggerated and stereotypical, with a clear didactic aim. However, the work is a precious account of social relations between upper-­class Muslims and Franks in the twelfth century. Edition: 1. P. K. Hitti (Princeton, 1930) 2. Q. al-­Samarra’i (Riyadh, 1987) 3. H. Zayd (Beirut, 1988) Translations: 1. H. Derenbourg, Ousama Ibn Mounkidh, un emir syrien au premier siècle des croisades (Paris, 1889) 2. G. R. Potter, The Autobiography of Ousama (London, 1929) 3. P. K. Hitti, Memoirs of an Arab-Syrian Gentleman (New York, 1929; repr. Beirut, 1964 and Princeton, 1987) 4. A. Miquel, Des enseignements de la vie (Paris, 1983) 5. H. Preisser, Die Erlebnisse des syrischen Ritters Usama ibn Munqidh (Munich, 1985)

198 | classi ca l is l a m Secondary Literature: C. Hillenbrand, The Crusades: Islamic perspectives (Edinburgh, 1999), 259–62 A. Miquel, Ousâma. Un prince syrien face aux croisés (Paris, 1986) D. W. Morray, The Genius of Usamah ibn Munqidh: aspects of the Kitab al-I‘tibar (Durham, 1987) ‘Imad al-­Din al-­Isfahani, Muhammad (d. 1201), al-Barq al-shami (The Syrian Lightning) This famous Persian scholar, poet and historian worked for the Seljuqs, before moving to Syria where he was in the service first of Nur al-­Din and then Saladin, for whom he acted as scribe and close adviser.   This is a detailed autobiographical account of the author’s service under Nur al-­Din and Saladin, written in a very difficult, highly ornate rhymed prose. It covers the years 1166 to 1193 and draws on the author’s own personal knowledge, as well as official chancellery documents. Most of the seven volumes are lost; there are two surviving parts which deal with Saladin’s ­campaigns – ­part 3 (covering the years 1177–9) and part 5 (covering the years 1182–3). Edition: M. al-­Hiyari (Amman, 1987) Partial Edition and Translation: L. Richter-­Bernburg, Der syrische Blitz. Saladins Sekretär zwischen Selbstdarstellung und Geschichtsschreibung (Beirut, 1998) The edition and translation cover the year 573/1177–8. ‘Abd al-­Latif al-­Baghdadi, Muwaffaq al-­Din (d. 1231), Kitab al-Ifada wa’l-i‘tibar fi’l-umur al-mushahada wa’l-hawadith al-mu‘ayana bi-ard Misr (The Book of Benefit and Instruction about Matters Which Have Been Witnessed and Events Which Have Been Seen with the Eye in the Land of Egypt) An Iraqi doctor who travelled widely and lived in Egypt for some years. As its title suggests, this work records things seen and experienced personally by the author. It is a short but valuable description of Egypt. The work seems to have been part of a larger history but only excerpts of it have survived.

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 199 Edition: Editor unidentified (Cairo, date uncertain, 1869?) Edition and Translation: RHC: historiens orientaux, vol. 3, 435–9 A very short extract. Translations: 1. S. de Sacy, Relation de l’Égypte (Paris, 1910) 2. K. H. Zand and J. A. and I. Videan, The Eastern Key (Cairo and London, 1964) Secondary Literature: C. Cahen, ‘‘Abdallatif al-­Baghdadi, portraitiste et historien de son temps’, BÉO 23 (1970), 101–28 G. Makdisi, The Rise of Colleges (Edinburgh, 1981), 84–8 This is a very useful discussion of the educational career of this scholar, with translated excerpts. S. M. Stern, ‘‛Abd al-­Latif al-­Baghdadi’, Encyclopaedia of Islam (2nd edn), vol. 1, 74 S. Toorawa, ‘The educational background of ‘Abd al-­Latif al-­Baghdadi’, Muslim Educational Quarterly 13.3 (1996), 35–53 Biographies in Persian Ibn al-­Munawwar, Muhammad (d. early twelfth century?), Asrar al-tawhid fi maqamat al-Shaykh Abu Sa‘id (The Secrets of Oneness in the (Mystical) Stages of the Shaykh Abu Sa‘id) This scholar, a descendant of Abu Sa‘id b. Abi’l-­Khayr (d. 1048–9), wrote a hagiographical biography of this famous mystic between 1179 and 1192. The cousin of Ibn al-­Munawwar, Jamal al-­Din Abu Rawh b. Abi Sa‘id had also written a similar work on the same subject. Edition: 1. V. Zhukowski (St Petersburg, 1899) 2. D. Safa (Tehran, 1953)

200 | classi ca l is l a m Translation: M. Achena, Les étapes mystiques du Shaykh Abu Sa‘id (Paris, 1974) Secondary Literature: G. Böwering, ‘Abu Sa‘id Abi’l-­Khayr’, Encyclopaedia Iranica, vol. 1, fasc. 4, 377–80 H. Ritter, Das Meer der Seele (Leiden, 1955) Major Collections of Translated Texts Recueil des historiens des croisades: historiens orientaux, vols 1–5 (Paris, 1872–1906) This collection of Arabic texts and French translations contains long excerpts from major medieval Arabic chronicles from Syrian, Egyptian and Iraqi historians of the twelfth, thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Information on Byzantine affairs occurs from time to time but its appearance is rather sparse and unpredictable. It is fuller when Byzantium involves itself in Syria against the Muslims or Franks, or in eastern Anatolia against the Seljuq Turks and other Turcoman dynasties in that border area. The erratic quality of the Arabic editions in the Recueil is also mirrored in some of the French translations. F. Gabrieli, Arab Historians of the Crusades (London, 1969) This volume contains extracts from important primary Arabic texts which were translated by Gabrieli into Italian and thereafter translated from Italian into English by Costello. Inevitably the passages sometimes read more like paraphrases than translations and seem distant from the original Arabic. There is little on Byzantium in this selection of texts. B. Lewis, Islam from the Prophet Muhammad to the Capture of Constantinople, 2 vols (New York, 1974) Contains a few extracts from the period of the project. A.-M. Eddé, and F. Micheau, L’Orient au temps des croisades (Paris, 2002) This very useful book contains a good number of extracts from hitherto untranslated texts. D. F. Reynolds, ed., Interpreting the Self: autobiography in the Arabic literary tradition (Berkeley, 2000) This is a useful and interesting volume. Part 2 contains translations from medieval Arabic autobiographies, including the works of Mu’ayyad al-­Shirazi and ‘Imad al-­Din al-­Isfahani. See especially the annotated guide to Arabic autobiography; the part relevant to the period 1025–1204 is pp. 259–66.

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 201 Select Bibliography on Material Culture This corpus of material is very important indeed for any prosopographical or onomastic study, since it contains vital, often dated, visual evidence on the names and titles of rulers and prominent people. Monumental inscriptions The following entries are intended as an entrée into the vast bibliography on this subject. The work of Max van Berchem towers over the field; for full details of his remarkable scholarly output, see the introduction by A. Louca in M. van Berchem, Opera minora, vol. 1 (Geneva, 1978), xviii–xxxvi. E. Combe, J. Sauvaget and G. Wiet, eds, Répertoire chronologique d’épigraphie arabe (Cairo, 1935–9) Volumes 6–10 are relevant to the period 1025–1204. For each inscription the Arabic text is given (but not its Qur’anic quotations, if it contains any) together with a French translation. M. Sharon, ed., Corpus inscriptionum arabicarum Palestiniae, vol. 1 (Leiden, 1997) N. Elisséeff, ‘Les monuments de Nur al-­Din’, BÉO 12 (1949–51), 5–43 —— ‘La titulature de Nur al-­Din d’après ses inscriptions’, BÉO 14 (1952–4), 155–96 M. van Berchem, Matériaux pour un Corpus inscriptionum arabicarum. Première partie, Égypte (Paris, 1894–1903) —— Matériaux pour un Corpus inscriptionum arabicarum. Deuxième partie, Syrie du nord (Cairo, 1909) —— Matériaux pour un Corpus inscriptionum arabicarum. Troisième partie, Asie Mineure (Cairo, 1910, 1917) —— Matériaux pour un Corpus inscriptionum arabicarum. Deuxième partie, Syrie du sud. Jérusalem (III. Planches) (Cairo, 1920) —— Matériaux pour un Corpus inscriptionum arabicarum. Deuxième partie, Jérusalem (I. Ville) (Cairo, 1922–3) —— Matériaux pour un Corpus inscriptionum arabicarum. Deuxième partie. Jérusalem (II. Haram) (Cairo, 1927) —— Matériaux pour un Corpus inscriptionum arabicarum. Deuxième partie. Syrie du sud. Jérusalem (Index) (Cairo, 1949) M. van Berchem and E. Fatio, Voyage en Syrie (Cairo, 1913–15)

202 | classi ca l is l a m Coins M. Bates, Islamic Coins (New York, 1982) N. Elisséeff, Nur al-Din. Un grand prince musulman de Syrie au temps des croisades (Damascus, 1967), vol. 3, 812–23 I. Ghalib, Catalogue des monnaies turcomanes (Constantinople, 1894) G. Hennequin, Catalogue des monnaies musulmanes de la Bibliothèque nationale: Asie pré-mongole: les Saljuqs et leurs successeurs (Paris, 1985) S. Lane-­Poole, Catalogue of Oriental Coins in the British Museum. 3. The Coins of the Turkman Houses of Saljook, Urtuk, Zenge, etc. (London, 1877) N. Lowick, ‘The religious, the royal and the popular in the figural coinage of the Jazira’, in J. Raby, ed., The Art of Syria and the Jazira (Oxford, 1985), 159–74 H. Mitchell Brown, ‘Some reflections on the figured coinage of the Artuqids and the Zengids’, in D. Koyuymjian, ed., Studies in Honor of George Miles (Beirut, 1974), 353–8 W. E. Spengler and W. S. Sayles, Turkoman Figural Bronze Coins and their Iconography (Lodi, 1996) Select Studies Select Items on the Historiography of the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries M. Ahmad and M. Hilmy, ‘Some notes on Arabic historiography during the Zengid and Ayyubid periods (521/1127–648/1250)’, in Lewis and Holt, eds, Historians of the Middle East, 79–97 C. Cahen ‘Quelques chroniques anciennes relatives aux derniers Fatimides’, BIFAO 37 (1937), 1–27 —— ‘The historiography of the Seljuqid period’, in Lewis and Holt, eds, Historians of the Middle East, 59–78 —— ‘Reflexions sur la connaissance du monde par les historiens’, Folia Orientalia 12 (1970), 41–9; repr. in C. Cahen, Les peuples musulmans dans l’histoire mediévale (Damascus, 1977), 1–10 An unjustly neglected article on the intellectual horizons of medieval Islamic historians. —— ‘Some new editions of oriental sources about Syria in the time of the crusades’, in Outremer Studies in the History of the Crusading Kingdom of Jerusalem (Jerusalem, 1982), 323–31 E. Daniel, ‘Historiography’, in Encyclopaedia Iranica, vol. 12, fasc. 4, 340–8 Excellent coverage of Persian historiography.

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 203 A.-M. Eddé, ‘Sources arabes des XIIe et XIIIe siècles d’après le dictionnaire biographique d’Ibn al-‘Adim (Bughyat al-talab fi ta’rikh Halab)’, Itinéraires d’Orient. Hommages à Claude Cahen, Res Orientales 6 (1994), 293–308 F. Gabrieli, ‘The Arabic historiography of the crusades’, in Lewis and Holt, eds, Historians of the Middle East, 98–107 H. A. R. Gibb, ‘al-­Barq al-­shami, the history of Saladin by the Katib ‘Imad al-­Din al-­ Isfahani’, Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde des Morgenlandes 52 (1953), 93–115 C. Hillenbrand, ‘Some medieval Islamic approaches to source material’, Oriens 27–8 (1981), 197–225 —— ‘Some reflections on Seljuq historiography’, in A. Eastmond, ed., Eastern Approaches to Byzantium (Aldershot, 2001), 73–88 H. Kennedy, ed., The Historiography of Islamic Egypt, c. 950–1800 (Leiden, 2000) B. Lewis and P. M. Holt, eds, Historians of the Middle East (London, 1962) D. P. Little, History and Historiography of the Mamluks (London, 1986) —— ‘Historiography of the Ayyubid and Mamluk epochs’, in C. F. Petry, ed., The Cambridge History of Egypt: Islamic Egypt 640–1517 (Cambridge, 1998), 412–44 M. C. Lyons and D. E. P. Jackson, Saladin: the politics of the Holy War (Cambridge, 1982) J. S. Meisami, Persian Historiography to the End of the Twelfth Century (Edinburgh, 1999) F. Micheau, ‘Croisades et croisés vus par les historiens arabes chrétiens d’Égypte’, Itinéraires d’Orient. Hommages à Claude Cahen, Res Orientales 6 (1994), 169–85 D. S. Richards, ‘Ibn al-­Athir and the later parts of the Kamil’, in D. O. Morgan, ed., Medieval Historical Writings in the Christian and Islamic Worlds (London, 1982), 76–108 L. Richter-­Bernburg, ‘Funken aus dem alten Flint: ‘Imad al-­Din al-­Katib al-­Isfahani’, Die Welt des Orients 20–1 (1990), 121–66; 22 (1991), 15–41 —— Der syrische Blitz: Saladins Sekretär zwischen Selbstdarstellung und Geschichtsschreibung (Beirut, 1998) C. F. Robinson, Islamic Historiography (Cambridge, 2003) Part 1, chapter 4 (pp. 55–79) provides a very helpful discussion of biography, prosopography and chronography. F. Rosenthal, A History of Muslim Historiography (Leiden, 1968) This book is not what it seems. It considers the role of historical writing within medieval Islamic culture. However, its bibliographical information is invaluable.

204 | classi ca l is l a m A. F. Sayyid, ‘Lumières nouvelles sur quelques sources de l’histoire fatimide en Égypte’, AI 13 (1977), 1–41 Prosopography and Biography A. ‘Abd al-­Raziq, ‘Le vizirat et les vizirs d’Égypte au temps des Mamluks’, AI 16 (1980), 183–239 J. Ahola, ‘The community of scholars: an analysis of the biographical data from the Ta’rikh-Baghdad’, unpublished PhD thesis (St Andrews, 2005) P. Auchterlonie, Arabic Biographical Dictionaries: a summary guide and bibliography (Durham, 1987) —— ‘Historians and the Arabic biographical dictionary: some new approaches’, in R. G. Hoyland and P. F. Kennedy, eds, Islamic Reflections, Arabic Musings: studies in honour of Alan Jones (Oxford, 2004), 186–201 A helpful overview of recent scholarly approaches to Arabic biographical dictionaries. M. L. Avila, La sociedad hispanomusulmana al final del califato: aproximación a un estudio demográfico (Madrid, 1985) M. Benaboud, ‘The value of biographical dictionaries for studying al-­Andalus during the period of the Taifa states’, in C. Vazquez de Benito and M. A. Manzano Rodríguez, eds, Actas XVI Congreso UEAI (Salamanca, 1995), 57–71 R. Bulliet, ‘A quantitative approach to medieval Muslim biographical dictionaries’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 13 (1970), 195–211 —— The Patricians of Nishapur: a study in medieval Islamic social history (Cambridge, MA, 1972) A prosopographical survey of the religious scholars in Nishapur in eastern Iran, based on two biographical dictionaries. —— Conversion to Islam in the Medieval Period: an essay in quantitative history (Cambridge, MA, 1979) A pioneering study, using biographical dictionaries to chart the process of conversion to Islam. —— ‘Women and the urban religious élite in the pre-­Mongol period’, in G. Nashat and L. Beck, eds, Women in Iran from the Rise of Islam to 1800 (Urbana and Chicago, 2003), 68–79 L. Caetani and G. Gabrieli, Onomasticon arabicum, ossia repertorio alfabetico dei nomi di persona e di luogo contenuti nelle principali opere storiche (Rome, 1915) A tentative beginning to the task of assembling and analysing Arabic proper names.

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 205 H. J. Cohen, ‘The economic background and the secular occupations of Muslim jurisprudents and traditionists in the classical period of Islam’, JESHO 13 (1970), 17–61 D. Ephrat, A Learned Society in a Period of Transition: the Sunni ‘ulama’ of eleventhcentury Baghdad (Albany, 2000) H. E. Fähndrich, ‘The Wafayat al-a‘yan of Ibn Khallikan: a new approach’, Journal of American Oriental Studies 93 (1973), 432–45 H. A. R. Gibb, ‘Islamic biographical literature’, in Lewis and Holt, eds, Historians of the Middle East, 54–8 C. Gilliot, ‘Prosopography in Islam: an essay of classification, Medieval Prosopography 23 (2002), 19–54 —— ‘Tabaqat’, in Encyclopaedia of Islam (2nd edn), vol. 10, 7–10 R. J. H. Gottheil, ‘A distinguished family of Fatimid cadis’, JAOS 27 (1906), 217–96 I. Hafsi, ‘Recherches sur le genre “tabaqat” dans la littérature arabe’, Arabica 23 (1976), 227–65; 24 (1977), 1–41, 150–86 Explains how biographical dictionaries are organised and the kinds of topic covered. H. Halm, Die Ausbreitung der šafi‘itischen Rechtsschule von den Anfängen bis zum 8/14. Jahrhundert (Wiesbaden, 1974) R. S. Humphreys, ‘Banu Munqidh’, in Encyclopaedia of Islam (2nd edn), vol. 7, 577–80 A study of the family of the famous memoir-­writer Usama b. Munqidh who lived through much of the twelfth century. F. Justi, Iranisches Namenbuch (Hildesheim, 1963) U. R. Kahhala, Mu‘jam al-mu’allifın (The Compendium of Writers), 15 vols (Damascus, 1957–61) Concise entries in alphabetical order on all Arabic writers, both medieval and modern, together with their works. Knows Arabic biographical literature very well. T. Khalidi, ‘Islamic biographical dictionaries: a preliminary assessment’, Muslim World 63 (1973), 53–65 A. K. S. Lambton, ‘Persian biographical literature’, in Lewis and Holt, eds, Historians of the Middle East, 141–51 M. Marin et al., eds, Estudios onomástico-biográficos de al-Andalus, 12 vols (Madrid, 1988–2003) An impressively thorough, regional approach to Muslim prosopography. —— ‘Anthroponymy and society: the occupational laqab of Andalusian ‘ulama’’,

206 | classi ca l is l a m in J. Lüdtke, ed., Romania Arabica. Festschrift für Reinhold Kontzi (Tübingen, 1996), 271–9 —— ‘Biographical dictionaries and social history of al-­Andalus: trade and scholarship’. Scripta Mediterranea 19–20 (1998–9), 239–57 B. Martel-­Thoumian, Les civils et l’administration dans l’état militaire mamluk, IXe– XVe siècle (Damascus, 1991) J. A. Mojaddedi, The Biographical Tradition in Sufism: the tabaqat genre from alSulami to Jami (London, 2001) D. Morray, An Ayyubid Notable and his World: Ibn al-‘Adim and Aleppo as portrayed in his Biographical Dictionary of people associated with the city (Leiden, 1994) —— ‘Egypt and Syria in Ibn al-‘Adim’s Bughyat al-talab fi ta’rikh Halab’, in H. Kennedy, ed., The Historiography of Islamic Egypt, 13–22 C. F. Petry, The Civilian Élite of Cairo in the Later Middle Ages (Princeton, 1981) A model study from a later period of Islamic history. It analyses data about Mamluk bureaucrats from two fifteenth-­century biographical dictionaries. L. Pouzet, Damas au VIIe–XIIIe siècles: vie et structure religieuses d’une métropole islamique (Beirut, 1998) —— ‘Remarques sur l’autobiographie dans le monde arabo-­musulman au Moyen Âge’, in U. Vermeulen and D. de Smet, eds, Philosophy and Arts in the Islamic World (Louvain, 1998), 97–106 W. al-­Qadi, ‘Biographical dictionaries: inner structure and cultural significance’, in G. N. Atiyeh, ed., The Book in the Islamic World: the written word and communication in the Middle East (Albany, 1995), 93–122 D. F. Reynolds, ed., Interpreting the Self: autobiography in the Arabic literary tradition (Berkeley, 2000) Contains a very useful guide to autobiography in the Arab world. For works written in the period of the project, see pp. 259–66. R. Roded, Women in Islamic Biographical Collections: from Ibn Sa’d to Who’s Who (Boulder, 1994) F. Rosenthal, ‘Die arabische Autobiographie’, Studia Arabica 1 (1937), 1–40 —— The Technique and Approach of Muslim Scholarship (Rome, 1947) A. Schauer, Muslime und Franken. Ethnische, soziale und religiöse Gruppen im Kitab al-I‘tibar des Usama ibn Munqid (Berlin, 2000) A. Schimmel, Islamic Names (Edinburgh, 1989) J. Sublet, ed., Cahiers d’onomastique arabe (Paris, 1979, 1981, 1985, 1989, 1993–) This pioneering venture, begun in the days when computers were not as advanced as now, is still ongoing.

sources i n a rabi c ­ | 207 —— Le voile du nom: essai sur le nom propre arabe (Paris, 1991) D. Urvoy, Le monde des ulemas andalous du v/xi au vii/xiii siècle: étude sociologique (Geneva, 1978) A study of the Muslim religious elites in medieval Spain. J. Vallve Bermejo, ‘La literature biográfica árabe y la toponimia de al-­Andalus’, in C. Vazquez de Benito and M. A. Manzano Rodríguez, eds, Actas XVI Congreso UEAI (Salamanca, 1995), 531–8 M. J. L. Young, ‘Arabic biographical writing’, in M. J. L. Young, J. D. Latham, R. B. Serjeant, eds, The Cambridge History of Arabic Literature: religion, learning and science in the Abbasid period (Cambridge, 1990), 168–87

11 Some Medieval Muslim Views of Constantinople

Constantinople before the Coming of Islam

E

ven before the coming of Islam in the early seventh century, the Bedouin tribes of the Arabian Peninsula had heard of the distant city of Constantinople, the Byzantine emperor and the vast realms he governed. Embedded in the oral traditions of pre-­Islamic tribal culture, whose principal artefact was poetry, are stories of visits made by semi-­legendary Arab rulers and poets to the Byzantine emperor1 in Constantinople. The Bedouin poet, ‘Adi b. Zayd, is reported to have visited Constantinople where he was well received at the court; on ‘Adi’s departure, the emperor instructed the officials in charge of the post routes to provide his guest with horses and every other assistance so that ‘Adi might see the size and strength of the Byzantine empire.2 An even more celebrated Bedouin poet, and also a ruler, ‘Imru’l-­ Qays, went to Constantinople to ask for help in regaining his lost kingdom. The emperor Justinian was not unsympathetic to the plight of his visitor but nothing more was heard of this request since ‘Imru’l-­Qays died on his way back to Arabia around the year 540.3 To many inhabitants of Constantinople such visits must have caused quite a stir. The garb of the Bedouin Arabs, their alien speech and ‘otherness’, left a profound impression on the Byzantine court and capital alike. The Arab Monophysite Christian ruler, Harith b. Jabala, from the Ghassanid tribe, had been appointed by Justinian in the early sixth century to police the Byzantine border with the Bedouin Arabs in the peninsula. Around the year 529 Harith came to Constantinople to discuss the succession in his kingdom. 208

som e m e d ie val musli m vi ews of con s ta ntino p l e ­ | 209 He created a powerful impression on the city at large and on the emperor’s nephew Justinus in particular. According to John of Ephesus, years later when Justinus had fallen into his dotage and began to rave and his chamberlains wanted to frighten him, they would simply threaten that Harith would come and attack him.4 Stories of visits such as these indicate that even before the coming of Islam the Bedouin Arabs knew something about Constantinople and that it was a familiar, if somewhat nebulous, concept to them, a distant but not totally inaccessible city. Conquest There are echoes of Arab aspirations to capture Constantinople in the earliest Muslim religious literature. In a very rare reference to a historical event, Byzantium is mentioned specifically in the Qur’an itself; Q. 30: 3–5 declares: The Rum have been defeated in the nearer land, and they, after their defeat, will be victorious within ten years.

This allusion to Byzantium’s defeat at the hands of the Sasanian Persians in the early seventh century and to Byzantium’s subsequent triumph is then followed by the clear pronouncement that God will give the ultimate victory to the Muslims: In that day believers will rejoice in God’s help to victory. He helps to victory whom He will.

God’s word on this issue remained in the hearts of the Muslims and was interpreted as a constant reassurance that they would one day surely conquer Constantinople. It is well known too that sayings (hadith) of the Prophet exist which reflect the conviction that God’s will to bring Islam to the whole world would eventually be accomplished.5 From the very beginning of the Islamic period, then, the adherents of the new faith knew about their mighty Christian neighbours and their capital city, Constantinople. The extraordinary series of conquests in the seventh century saw the Arab Muslim armies destroy the great Sasanian Persian empire and its capital at Ctesiphon and seize the Byzantine territories of Syria, Palestine, Egypt and North Africa. By 711 the new Islamic empire stretched from Spain in the west to northern India and Central Asia in the

210 | classi ca l is l a m east. Yet a much-­reduced Byzantine empire and above all Constantinople were still there, and would survive for another seven centuries and more. Already by the middle of the seventh century, when the new rulers of the Muslim ­empire – ­the ­Umayyads – ­had moved to Damascus and established it as their new capital, they had their sights set on capturing Constantinople for Islam. After all, Damascus was right in the heart of an area previously ruled by Byzantium and it was still permeated by Byzantine cultural and administrative elements. There were good religio-­political reasons for this. After a while the Umayyads began to divest themselves of the Byzantine models of government they found in Syria. They wanted an Arabo-­Islamic character for their state, they changed their coinage so that it bore Islamic slogans and they made Arabic the lingua franca of their empire. The Umayyad ruler ‘Abd al-­Malik (d. 705), the first caliph with a conscious and explicit imperial purpose,6 commissioned the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem, a triumphal statement of the superiority of Islam over the two preceding monotheistic faiths, Judaism and Christianity. It was scarcely surprising, therefore, that the Umayyad caliphs also wanted to own and claim for Islam the great city of Constantinople, the very symbol of Christianity and of the Christian imperial tradition as they knew it. Even in the extreme west, hopes of conquering Constantinople were cherished: Spanish Muslims were familiar with the saying attributed to the third caliph of Islam, ‘Uthman: Constantinople will be conquered from al-­Andalus. If you succeed in conquering al-­Andalus, you will associate with those who will finally take possession of Constantinople.7

Muslim attacks on Constantinople were especially important in the Umayyad period, and in 672 and 715 they were protracted, but there was still a desire to take it under their successors, the ‘Abbasids, who came to power in 750. These regular expeditions are often mentioned in historical sources, geographical works, tradition literature and popular stories; but the chronology of the campaigns against Constantinople and sieges of the city is very difficult to disentangle. It was inevitable that legends would grow up around these expeditions to Constantinople. A close Companion of the Prophet, Abu Ayyub al-­Ansari, was the focus of a number of such stories. Despite his advanced age, Abu Ayyub wanted to go on campaign to Constantinople.

som e m e d ie val musli m vi ews of con s ta ntino p l e ­ | 211 Tradition had it that he wished to venture forth with Mu’awiya’s son, Yazid, on this hazardous campaign so as to acquire special blessing (baraka) and perhaps because of the tradition predicting that Constantinople would be taken in the time of one of the Companions of the Prophet. Islamic sources report that he was indeed buried beneath the walls of the city.8 Religious scholars at the Umayyad and ‘Abbasid courts attributed traditions to the Prophet which actually reflected contemporary realities and aspirations. The Umayyad ruler Sulayman b. ‘Abd al-­Malik may have been inspired to send his brother Maslama on campaign to Constantinople because of the hadith which predicted that the city would be taken by a caliph bearing the name of a prophet (Solomon). Maslama began a siege of Constantinople which began on 25 August 716 and lasted a year, before he was forced to retire. The campaign of Maslama left behind numerous legends and stories. His name became attached to a mosque which he had allegedly built in Constantinople.9 It is possible that there was one mosque at least in Constantinople from early times. Muslim tradition fondly called it Maslama’s mosque, although there is no proof that it was Maslama who had it built. It is far more likely that it was constructed by the Byzantines in response to the needs of many Muslims living t­here – p ­ risoners, exiles, merchants and travellers. It must be emphasised, however, that by the ninth century, despite their deeply held ambitions, the realisation dawned on the Muslims that they were simply not going to take the Byzantine capital in the near future. The fulfilment of this long-­cherished aim was, after all, not imminent. In the Muslim consciousness, therefore, in popular religion and legend, this ambition was relegated to the distant, indeed messianic future. A group of religious traditions put the conquest of Constantinople back to the end of time and associate it with the Last Day and the appearance of Dajjal (the Antichrist). As for Christianity, in both east and west, it was able to survive, despite the enormous expansion of the Muslim empire, not, as Gibbon argued, because of the Muslim defeat far to the west at Poitiers in 732, but, as Bernard Lewis put it, because of the ‘failure of the Arab army to conquer Constantinople’.10

212 | classi ca l is l a m Conflict It was important for caliphal prestige and Muslim religious self-­confidence that the public stance presented in speeches, sermons, chancellery prose and court panegyric poetry should focus on the Byzantines, and their capital city, as the official enemy against whom jihad should be waged. The public position expounded in propaganda between the two great power blocs represented by these two ruling empires was inevitably defined by religion. These blocs shared certain prevailing c­ haracteristics – a­ bove all, self-­confidence and self-­ sufficiency. Both were heirs to the traditions of Greece and Rome, and both based their power to a large extent on the possession of the Mediterranean. The House of Islam and the eastern Christian empire state both felt culturally superior to each other, since both believed that they alone possessed the ‘truth’. Although the borders between these two medieval ‘super-­powers’ remained relatively stable from the eighth century onwards, it was regarded as necessary by the ‘Abbasid caliphs in Baghdad that annual jihad campaigns should be conducted on the Byzantine frontiers, and so for several centuries Byzantium remained the principal military enemy of the Muslim world and was pre-­eminently ‘the House of War’.11 Yellow, the colour of flight and cowardice, was long associated in the medieval Muslim sources with the Byzantines, who were known as the Yellow Tribe (Banu’l-­Asfar).12 In the Muslim accounts of the early conquests, in apocalyptic writings and in popular folklore, the Byzantines were shown as tyrannical rulers whom God had replaced by the Muslims. In such narratives Byzantine armies always outnumber Muslim forces; yet the Banu’l-­Asfar are reluctant to fight and try to bribe the Muslims. The Byzantines are treacherous and cowardly; some may be mighty warriors but the Muslim victory over them, decreed by God, is total and inevitable. In their long acquaintance with their neighbour Byzantium, the medieval Muslims formed stereotypical views of this mighty Christian power on their doorstep. The Byzantines are seen through the eyes of prejudice, religious differences, propaganda and lack of much first-­hand knowledge. In addition to being cowardly in war, they are pale, bad-­mannered, and lacking in generosity and hospitality. High and low literature still cherished dreams of conquering Constantinople for Islam. Poets flattered their patrons who achieved minor

som e m e d ie val musli m vi ews of con s ta ntino p l e ­ | 213 victories on the Byzantine frontier: the capture of a single Byzantine fortress could permit expectations to be raised all over again. When Harun al-­Rashid as heir-­apparent to the ‘Abbasid caliphate reached the Sea of Marmara in 781–2 and obliged the Empress Irene to agree to a peace treaty and the payment of tribute, a contemporary Arab poet, Marwan b. Abi Hafsa, ignoring the fact that yet again a Muslim army had failed to take Constantinople, rises to panegyrical heights in the following bombastic lines: You have gone round Constantinople of the Byzantines, resting the spear on it so that its walls were covered with ignominy. You just went towards it, and lo, its kings came to you with its poll tax, while the pots of war were boiling.13

The Arab poet Abu Tammam (fl. c. 805–45) celebrates the Muslim victory over Byzantium at Amorium in 836 in the following lines, proclaiming: The days of victory have left pale of face as their name the sons of the Yellow Ones (the Byzantines) and have brightened the faces of the Arabs.14

The prolonged struggle between the ‘House of Islam’ and the eastern Christian empire of Byzantium is portrayed in the ode of an even more famous Arab poet, al-­Mutanabbi, celebrating the capture of the Byzantine border fortress of al-­Hadath in 954 by the Hamdanid ruler Sayf al-­Dawla. Here the poet’s hyperbole reaches a climax in the lines addressed to Sayf al-­Dawla: You were not a king routing an equal, But monotheism routing polytheism.15

Coexistence Despite their repeated failure to take Constantinople and the Muslim publicly trumpeted anti-­Byzantine polemic and stereotyped expressions of hostility, caliphs and governors kept the city and all that it represented in their memories. Their admiration for this city is clear. Constantinople epitomised imperial power, pomp and ceremony: it was a yardstick by which Muslim rulers everywhere could measure their own greatness. It was a model to emulate, refine and surpass. The great capital cities of the medieval Islamic world, Damascus, Baghdad, Cordoba and Cairo, gauged their prestige by

214 | classi ca l is l a m diplomatic contacts with the kings of Western Europe. But it was above all by embassies to and from Constantinople, by the exchange of elaborate gifts and splendid luxury goods with the Byzantines, and by the Muslims seeking to outdo Constantinople in grandeur and magnificence that this competitive attitude is revealed. Constantinople is mentioned repeatedly in Muslim geographical literature, diplomatic correspondence, chronicles, travel reports and popular folklore, and an aura of immense prestige and mystique clings persistently to these accounts. Popular literature in the medieval Islamic world also enshrined memories of the Muslim ambition to conquer Constantinople, and oral tradition kept alive stories of the Muslim attempts to take the city; pseudo-­historical romances then followed. In the Alf layla wa-layla (The Thousand and One Nights), for example, the sons of ‘Umar b. al-­Nu’man undertake an expedition to Constantinople: in a sea battle they are victorious against the Byzantines. An unsuccessful siege of the city then follows. These legendary elements also infiltrated Turkish folk tradition long before the Ottomans appeared on the scene.16 Given all this interest, it is remarkable to discover that accounts of actual journeys by Muslims to Byzantium are relatively rare. However, some early Islamic geographical books contain quotations from the lost work of a Muslim prisoner of war who languished in Byzantine captivity in the ninth century.17 A Syrian, Harun b. Yahya, was captured by pirates off the coast of Palestine. As a prisoner of war, he visited Constantinople, Venice and Rome. We know little of how he fared in Byzantine hands but he left a very detailed account of the palace of the Byzantine emperor in Constantinople and of the glory of that city, the Church of Haghia Sophia. The account attributed to Harun became the canonical version used by later Muslim writers. The Muslim geographers whose works contain Harun’s account show no concern for its verisimilitude; it would seem that they quote it verbatim, despite its juxtaposition of allegedly precise measurements of buildings, flowery but vague descriptions of Byzantine luxury and accounts of the interior of Haghia Sophia which are clearly in the realm of fantasy. Harun speaks of a cistern in the church from which water is raised to statues on top of the columns: On the festival day it is filled with around ten thousand jars of date-­wine and one thousand jars of white honey. Then this mixture is perfumed

som e m e d ie val musli m vi ews of con s ta ntino p l e ­ | 215 with lavender, cloves and ­cinnamon . . . ­When the ­emperor . . . ­enters the church, his glance falls on those statues and he can see this liquid flowing from their mouths and ­ears . . . ­Each of the courtiers who escort him in honour of this occasion drinks a mouthful of it.18

The grandeur of the emperor’s retinue and processions deeply impresses Harun: The cortège is preceded by the procession of ten thousand old men, dressed in red brocade, hair flowing down their shoulders, without headgear. They are followed by ten thousand young people, dressed in white brocade, all on foot, followed by ten thousand pages, dressed in green brocade; then come ten thousand more pages dressed in sky-­blue brocade, holding in their hands double-­bladed axes encrusted with gold: then five thousand middle-­ aged eunuchs, dressed in thick white Khurasani fabrics, then ten thousand pages, Turks and Khazars, dressed in striped waistcoats, carrying lances and shields encrusted with gold . . .19

And the flowery list continues in the same vein, followed by a description of the emperor; this mentions that he wears a tiara and two boots, one red and one black. He carries in his hands a gold box and he goes on foot.20 It is obvious that this account is a mishmash of fact and fiction, exaggerations and precise details. It would appear that Harun witnessed personally a royal procession to the Great Church on Ash Wednesday. The fabled splendour of Byzantine ceremony is recorded here, with the aim of entertaining and titillating the imagination of Muslim readers. We move to safer ground with the work of the great Muslim polymath al‑Mas‘udi (d. 956). He had a firm knowledge of the location of Constantinople: Constantinople is in the great land mass which includes the land of Rome, Spain and the countries of the Franks, Slavs and other people of the north.

Al-­Mas‘udi knew several names for the Byzantine c­ apital – a­ l-­Qustantiniyya and Buzantiyya (to indicate the environs of the city). He also mentions two other names, used by the Byzantines themselves: ‘queen of the cities’ (malikat al-mudun) and simply ‘the City’ (tés pólis).21

216 | classi ca l is l a m The Muslim geographer Ibn Hawqal (d. 988) also mentions Constantinople. His description of the city is based on an eye-­witness account from a certain Abu’l-­Husayn Muhammad, a man ‘who was more than 100 years old, a very wise and cultivated person’.22 His narrative concentrates on the Byzantine emperor and his entourage: I have noticed with them that the emperor is followed in hierarchical order by the Logothetos who is the vizier. After him comes the Eparch; his rank allows him to wear two boots, one of which is red and the other black; he is the only person who is able to wear this accoutrement. It is he who has the power to judge, cut, decapitate, imprison and castrate, without needing to consult the emperor. Then comes the Domesticos, then the Patricians numbering 12, no more, no less; when one of them dies, he is replaced by a suitably qualified person. Then come the Zarawira, in innumerable quantity, who are like the commandants who follow the army chiefs. Then come the Turmaques, members of the bureaucratic aristocracy and rich families of Constantinople.23

It should be noted that the information above is, broadly speaking, not inaccurate. But there is no interest shown in this account in the monuments, religious customs, topography or people of Constantinople. The account bears all the hallmarks of being borrowed from another source, at least once removed from its true originator; hence its lifeless quality. As already mentioned, after the ‘definitive’ account of Constantinople attributed to Harun b. Yahya and recorded by Ibn Rusta, later writers used the same information verbatim, although sometimes extra details were added. Far away in Muslim Spain, the Andalusian polymath al-­Bakri (d.1184) writes a long account of Constantinople based on Ibn Rusta. Al-­Bakri is, however, interested especially in the horses of the Byzantine emperor which, he says, are the descendants of the horses of Alexander the Great: They bear saddles with saddlebows adorned with green emeralds and rubies; their stirrups, harnesses and other refinements are inlaid with precious stones.24

Al-­Bakri also refers to several swords that had belonged to Alexander. Thus a canonical Muslim account is embellished with legendary flourishes that place it firmly in the tradition of Islamic ‘marvel’ literature.

som e m e d ie val musli m vi ews of con s ta ntino p l e ­ | 217 The short account of Constantinople written by the eccentric travelling scholar al-­Harawi (d. 1215) focuses first on some points of interest to Muslims which have already been discussed above.25 His remaining description of Constantinople mentions . . . bronze and marble statues, columns, amazing ­talismans . . . ­and antiquities the like of which do not have their equal in the lands of Islam.26

His account of Haghia Sophia is disappointing: Haghia Sophia is their great church. I will describe the arrangement of this church later.27

Unfortunately, this tantalising promise from a veteran traveller is never fulfilled and his narrative ends rather tamely: This city is even greater than its reputation; may God, in His grace and generosity, deign to make of it a land of Islam.28

Did he, one wonders, ever visit the city at all? The whole account has a second-­hand feel to it. The account of the late thirteenth-­ century Muslim ‘Abdallah b. Muhammad, a merchant from Sinjar in upper Mesopotamia, who had lived in Constantinople for twelve years during the reign of Andronicos II Paleologos, contains some interesting, indeed idiosyncratic, material.29 Relying on an account from his own father, the Muslim scholar al-­Jazari writes about ‘Abdallah as follows: My father and he had known each other a long ­time . . . ­when my father found out that he had been in Byzantium for twelve years he exclaimed. ‘Hajji ‘Abdallah, is it possible that Muslims who have performed the pilgrimage can settle among the Franks?’ He replied ‘Brother, if I described this city to you, you would understand better and you would know that those who live there have nothing to fear.’

Thereupon the father of al-­Jazari obliges by asking for a description of Constantinople, and ‘Abdallah proceeds: It is a large city, like Alexandria, situated by the sea, and to cross it from one end to the other you must walk from morning until noon. There is a place

218 | classi ca l is l a m there, as large as two-­thirds of Damascus, surrounded by a precinct wall and provided with a gate which can be opened and shut, which is reserved specially for Muslims so that they can live there. Similarly there is another place where the Jews live. Every evening their two gates are closed at the same time as those of the city.

Having established that Constantinople contained Muslim and Jewish quarters. ‘Abdallah then turns to the city’s churches: There are these one hundred thousand churches minus one, but the Great Church completes this ­number . . . ­It is one of the most extensive and marvellous buildings that one could possibly see. The place where they position themselves for their prayers consists entirely of ornamental grilles: deacons go and place incense-­burners and the incense fume rises up under their clothes. On the walls of this church all the cities of the world and similarly all the professions are represented . . . They have placed there all the professions and where the tools for each of them come from, but above all of these they have placed a blacksmith who is holding his member and urinating on all the others. In response to the questions which I asked about that they replied that it is because the tools of all the professions come from the blacksmith.30

By far the most famous medieval Muslim traveller was Ibn Battuta (d. 1368), a Berber from Tangier. Often dubbed in Europe the ‘Marco Polo of Islam’, this travel addict included Byzantium among the countries he visited. His account of Constantinople is unusually long.31 He was given an audience by the emperor Andronicos II, but before being allowed into the royal presence, four Greek pages searched Ibn Battuta to see if he had a knife on his person. After this procedure, two men on each side of him and two behind him brought him into a large audience-­hall . . . whose walls were of mosaic work, in which were pictured figures of creatures, both animate and inanimate.32

During the audience the Byzantine emperor questioned Ibn Battuta about Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Damascus, Cairo and other places. Pleased with his response, the emperor rewarded Ibn Battuta with a robe of honour and a companion to show him round the city.33 Ibn Battuta goes on to describe

som e m e d ie val musli m vi ews of con s ta ntino p l e ­ | 219 what interested him about Constantinople. He notes, for example, that the city wall is formidable ‘and cannot be taken by assault on the side of the sea’. The city itself . . . is enormous in magnitude and divided into two parts, between which there is a great river, in which there is a flow and ebb of tide.34

He mentions that the two parts of the city are Istanbul on the eastern bank and Galata on the western; in the former are situated the royal residences and bazaars, while the latter area is reserved for European Christians who reside there. Ibn Battuta describes these people as men of commerce and comments that the bazaars there are ‘overlaid with all kinds of filth’. Their churches too are ‘dirty and mean’ – stereotypical comments whose origins date from before the anti-­Frankish Crusades. His narrative then moves to a description of the ‘Great Church’. The details he provides are flowery, if not fanciful at times, but there is no doubt that he wishes to suggest that Haghia Sophia made a profound impression on him: It is one of the greatest churches of the Greeks; around it is a wall which encircles it so that it looks like a city (in itself ) . . . They allow no person to enter it until he prostrates himself to the huge c­ ross . . . ­which they claim to be a relic of the wood in which the double of Jesus (on whom be peace) was crucified . . . Inside it is another church exclusively for women, containing more than a thousand virgins consecrated to religious devotions, and a still greater number of aged and widowed women.35

Once again these and other observations are a revealing melange of fact and fiction, including details designed to titillate ‘the folks back home’. Haghia Sophia is the very symbol of this great city; its beauty and splendour are apparent to Ibn Battuta, although his account of the monument focuses on specific elements of interest to his Muslim audience. An important point to note is that Ibn Battuta did not go into the interior of the church, presumably because he did not wish to prostrate himself before the Cross. He therefore remained ignorant of the very essence of the building. His stance is that of a conventional medieval Muslim, although he is clearly impressed by aspects of this grand building.

220 | classi ca l is l a m Conclusion As has been shown in the preceding discussion, Constantinople is frequently mentioned in Muslim historical chronicles, religious traditions, geographical works and accounts, tales of the fantastic and other works. Yet the actual level of information recorded in such a wide range of medieval Muslim sources about Byzantium, and the city of Constantinople in particular, is disappointingly meagre and repetitive. It is interesting to note that Muslim accounts of Constantinople written by those who had actually or allegedly visited the city concentrate on the Byzantine emperor and his awe-­inspiring entourage, the splendour of the palace and, above all, on the very epitome of Constantinople, the church of Haghia Sophia itself. There is in all this an interesting juxtaposition between high-­flown anti-­ Christian polemical writings against Byzantium and the works of travellers and geographers which focus on the fabled city of Constantinople with its aura of grandeur and luxury and which form in many ways part of the literature of marvels (‘aja’ib). However, considering the normally introverted nature of many medieval Muslim ­writings – ­the knowledge of the House of Islam sufficing for all the community’s ­needs – i­t should be stressed that Constantinople is deemed worthy to receive a significant amount of attention by Muslim authors. Notes Author’s note: I chose the subject of medieval Muslim views of Constantinople for this Festschrift in honour of Professor David Kerr for a number of reasons. When I first met him forty years ago, he was working at Oxford on the Maronites, and since then he has never lost his early interest in the Christian communities of the Middle East. However, David’s focus in his academic life since Oxford has extended to embrace Muslim–Christian relations where he has played a very important role in the United States, the United Kingdom, Europe and the Middle East. In all this, his training as an Arabist and theologian has been crucial. This small contribution is dedicated to him with love and admiration.   1. Known in Arabic as Qaysar (Caesar).   2. R. A. Nicholson, A Literary History of the Arabs (Cambridge, 1969), 45–6.   3. Ibid., 104.

som e m e d ie val musli m vi ews of con s ta ntino p l e ­ | 221   4. Ibid., 51–2. He is citing John of Ephesus.   5. For example, Sahih Muslim, Book 14, nos 4282 and 4283, available at: (last accessed 2 May 2021).   6. B. Lewis, The Political Language of Islam (Chicago, 1988), 45.   7. Cf. al-­Himyari, Rawd, ed. and tr. E. Lévi-­Provençal (Leiden, 1938), 3/6; apud M. Marin, ‘Rum in the works of three Spanish Muslim geographers’, GraecoArabica (Athens) 3 (1984), 117 and n. 51.   8. For example, Muslim in his Sahih mentions a tradition which reports that Abu Ayyub ‘was buried in Constantinople’; Sahih Muslim, Book 14, no. 2506. He died in 669.  9. Cf. for example the report given in Ibn al-­ Faqih, Kitab al-buldan, ed. M. F. de Goeje (Leiden, 1885), 145. 10. B. Lewis, The Muslim Discovery of Europe (London, 1982), 19–20. 11. A. Shboul, Al-Mas‘udi and his World: A Muslim Humanist and his Interest in Non-Muslims (London, 1979), 227. 12. This epithet would easily be transferred to another Christian enemy, the Crusaders, at a later stage; for a recent discussion of this topic, cf. C. Hillenbrand, The Crusades: Islamic Perspectives (Edinburgh, 1999), 240, 255. A particularly outlandish explanation of the origin of the name Banu’l-­Asfar is given by the geographer Ibn al-­Faqih, who tells a story about a Byzantine ruler who was the son of a black father and a white mother and who was therefore called al-asfar (the Yellow One); Ibn al-­Faqih, Kitab al-buldan, tr. H. Massé as Abrégé du Livre des Pays (Damascus, 1973), 178. 13. Quoted by al-­Tabari, Ta’rikh al-rusul wa’l-muluk, 10, ed. M. J. de Goeje et al. (Leiden, 1879–80), 505. 14. A. J. Arberry, Arabic Poetry (Cambridge, 1965), 62. 15. Ibid., 84. 16. Cf. R. Irwin, The Arabian Nights: A Companion (London, 1994), 88–9. 17. Ibn Rusta, Kitab al-a’laq al-nafisa, tr. G. Wiet as Les atours précieux (Cairo, 1955), 134–43. The Spanish geographer al-­ Bakri also reproduced Harun’s account; cf. Marin, op.cit., 110–11. 18. Ibn Rusta, tr. Wiet, 137. 19. Ibid., 139. 20. Ibid., 140. 21. Shboul, op. cit., 243. 22. Ibn Hawqal, Kitab surat al-ard, trs J. H. Kramers and G. Wiet as Configuration de la Terre (Paris, 1964), 190–1.

222 | classi ca l is l a m 23. Ibid., 191. 24. Marin, 10–11. 25. For example, al-­Harawi mentions the tomb of Abu Ayyub and the Great Mosque in Constantinople; cf. al-­Harawi, Kitab al-isharat ila ma‘rifat al-ziyarat, ed. J. Sourdel-­Thomine (Damascus, 1953), 56. 26. Ibid. 27. Ibid. 28. Ibid., 57. 29. M. Izzeddin, ‘Un texte inédit sur Constantinople byzantine’, Journal Asiatique 246 (1958), 453–7. 30. Izzeddin comments that this description is unusual for a Muslim writer in that it mentions the mosaics of Haghia Sophia. He does not think that it is likely that ‘Abdallah ever entered the interior of the Great Church but that he did see the atrium and the mosaics. After all, Ibn Battuta, ‘Abdallah’s far more famous contemporary, gave up the idea of a visit to Haghia Sophia in order to avoid having to prostrate himself before the Cross; cf. Izzeddin, 454. 31. Ibn Battuta, tr. H. A. R. Gibb as The Travels of Ibn Battuta a.d. 1325–1354, II (London, 1962), 504–14. 32. Ibid., 505. This is a truly remarkable way of referring to some of the greatest Byzantine mosaics. 33. Ibid., 506. 34. Ibid., 508. 35. Ibid., 509–10.

12 Gardens beneath which Rivers Flow: The Significance of Water in Classical Islamic Culture

A

ccording to the Qur’an (31: 30), ‘God preferred water over any other created thing and made it the basis of creation, as He said: “And We made every living thing of water”.’ The late twelfth-­century Muslim writer al-­Kisa’i (1978, 6) commented on this passage in his famous Qisas al-anbiya’ (‘Tales of the Prophets’): ‘Then the water was told, “Be still”. And it was still, awaiting God’s command. This is limpid water, which contains neither impurity nor foam,’ thus noting God’s predilection for water before He began the creation of the world. Islam emerged in a desert land that thirsted for water and prized it as a rare and wonderful phenomenon. The early Muslims conquered vast territories in which great civilisations had prospered in the lush river valleys of the Nile (Plates 12.1 and 12.2), the Tigris and the Euphrates, and eventually even the distant Indus. Water played many roles in the lives of medieval Muslims, ranging from irrigation machinery (Plate 12.3) to gardens (Plate 12.4). This essay surveys the ways that water is treated in written sources, ranging from those that deal with the faith, ritual and law to geographical and scientific literature and the world of imagination and symbolism. Water in the World of Faith Al-­Kisa’i highlights the importance of water in creation itself. He also speaks of God’s placing His throne upon the surface of the waters, echoing the 223

224 | classi ca l is l a m Qur’anic verse (11: 7) that says that when God created the heavens and the earth in six days, His throne was upon the water. Early Qur’an commentators such as al-­Tabari (d. 923) interpreted this verse to mean that God created water first and then, from it, created heaven and earth (Encyclopaedia Iranica: ‘Ab’). Water is also an intrinsic feature of Paradise. The way in which Paradise is represented in the Qur’an is entirely appropriate for a revelation coming to a desert people. Images of water and greenery ­abound – ­fountains, rain, cool rivers and gardens for the pure and righteous. Garden carpets may possibly contain graceful allusions to these concepts (Plates 12.5a and 12.5b). The waters of Paradise deserve special attention. The Qur’anic chapters revealed at Medina mention rivers (anhar) in Paradise. The opening verse of Sura 108 contains an allusion to the heavenly water of al-­Kawthar, a name that gave rise to the title of the chapter; according to various early accounts, the Prophet Muhammad regarded al-­Kawthar as the name of a river in Paradise or as a water basin or pool there. When he performed his ascent into the heavens (the mi‘raj), he was shown al-­Kawthar, and according to al-­Tabari (Encyclopaedia of Islam Two: ‘Kawthar’), ‘its waters are whiter than snow and sweeter than honey’. Al-­Kisa’i (1978, 16) says that trees of pearl and sapphire grow on its banks. Several Qur’anic verses, notably 9: 72, promise the believers gardens with buildings beneath which rivers flow, ‘wherein they will abide for ever’, and Qur’an 10: 9 adds that these rivers will flow beneath them in the Gardens of Delight (al-anhar fi jannat al-na‘im). The mosaics of the Umayyad Great Mosque of Damascus may well represent an attempt to give visual form to these descriptions (Plate 12.6). Mention of named rivers is only the beginning. In Paradise there are, as al-­Kisa’i writes (1978, 17), endless vistas of rivers stretching out into infinity, ‘rivers the number of which only God knows, for they are more numerous than the stars in the sky’. These citations provide wonderful imagery for the Arabs from the arid deserts of Arabia to savour. Angels have a clear link with water. In one of his works, the prolific religious scholar al-­Suyuti (d. 1505) assembled a collection of more than 700 hadith about angels. These sayings are mixtures of exegetical and folkloric material, and they reveal a clear association between the angels and rain. One such hadith (al-­Suyuti 1988, 14) states: ‘Every day Gabriel is immersed in

t he si g ni f i ca nce of wat e r ­ | 225 al-­Kawthar, and then he shakes himself; every raindrop is created from an angel.’1 Water is also a sign of God’s beneficence to humankind. The Qur’an contains many references to rivers, rain and fountains; they symbolise God’s benevolence towards His creatures. God can rain abundant water on those who worship Him aright, such as the pre-­Islamic Arab prophet Hud (Qur’an 11: 50): ‘He will cause the sky to rain abundance on you.’ The healing and miraculous powers of water are illustrated in the tale related by al-­Kisa’i (1978, 333–4) of how Jesus performs a miracle by praying and sprinkling water on the tomb of Noah’s son Shem, who emerges alive and well from the tomb after 4,000 years. Conversely, water can be a sign of God’s punishment. Muslims are reminded that it is God who created the heavens and the oceans from rain. He can, if He wills, use the rain to inflict a deadly punishment and destroy mankind in a cataclysmic inundation. For example, when Noah’s people reject his message, God’s reaction is swift: ‘We opened the gates of heaven with a flood of water’ (Qur’an 54: 11). The sea as portrayed in the Qur’an can also be a terrifying symbol of God’s retribution on those who disbelieve. Their deeds are like ‘Darknesses in an open sea covered in waves upon which are waves upon which are ­clouds – ­darknesses piled one upon the other’ (Qur’an 24: 40). It is important for the faithful to recall that it is God who gives, and it is He who can take away: ‘Consider the water which you drink. Was it you that brought it down from the rain cloud or We? If We had pleased, We could make it bitter’ (Qur’an 56: 68–70). This is a clear warning to believers that they are not in charge of God’s creation. They must look after it properly, for God has entrusted them with it. Water figures largely in the stories of the prophets, usually in a didactic or minatory sense. Take the case of Noah again. God’s guiding of Noah’s ark to safety is a symbol of His benevolence towards man to whom He has given the gift of seafaring. The sea on which Noah sailed was terrifying, ‘amid waves like mountains’ (Qur’an 11: 42). But God is all-­powerful over the waters in the heavens and the earth and can make the waves abate, as He did for Noah: ‘And it was said: O earth! Swallow your water and, O sky! Be cleared of clouds! And the water was made to subside’ (Qur’an 11: 44). The Qur’anic story of Noah is a clear illustration of the transience of life and of man’s ­delusion in

226 | classi ca l is l a m thinking that he is master of the world. A powerful contrast is drawn between Noah and his believing companions in the ship, whom God saves, and those who denied God’s revelations, who are drowned (Qur’an 10: 74). In the story of Moses, it is the River Nile that is the instrument of saving his life when he was a baby (Plate 12.7), whereas later on there is the contrast between God allowing the Children of Israel to cross over the Red Sea and the dreadful fate awaiting Pharaoh and his hosts who pursue them. God’s terrifying punishment overwhelmed them when drowning overtook them (Qur’an 28: 40) (Plate 12.8). Water in Islamic Ritual The Tradition of the Prophet reported by al-­Nawawi (1979, 78) that ‘Purity is half the faith’ is very famous. Moreover, detailed sections of the collections of canonical hadith emphasise the necessity of carrying out ritual ablutions before prayer (Plate 12.9) and instruct the Muslim faithful on how to purify themselves properly. On a more metaphorical level is the water of Zamzam, the sacred well near the Ka‘ba in Mecca (see Encyclopaedia of Islam Two: ‘Zamzam’). The Prophet’s biographer Ibn Ishaq (1980, 45) reported that its origin miraculously occurred when Hagar, the wife of Ibrahim, asked God for water to give to her son Isma‘il because they were both near death from thirst. Gabriel came and hollowed out a place in the ground with his heel, and from it water sprang. In the pre-­Islamic period the well was filled in, but was dug out again by the Prophet’s own grandfather, who was led to the place by a raven (Plate 12.10). Ibn Ishaq summarised the well’s merits, saying that ‘Zamzam utterly eclipsed the other wells from which the pilgrims used to get their water, and people went to it because it was in the sacred enclosure and because its water was superior to any other; and, also, because it was the well of Isma‘il b. Ibrahim’. The rites of the Muslim pilgrimage end with the drinking of Zamzam water. The word Zamzam is onomatopoeic; its root means ‘abundant supply of water’. The ninth-­century geographer Ibn al-­Faqih (1973, 24) records a hadith that ‘The water of Zamzam is a remedy for anyone who suffers’. Popular tradition holds that other holy w ­ ells – ­for example, the one in the Great Mosque at Kairouan in ­Tunisia – a­ re connected underground with

t he si g ni f i ca nce of wat e r ­ | 227 Zamzam. Zamzamiyyat are small phials that contain water from the sacred well, and even today pilgrims take them home after performing the pilgrimage. Al-­Kisa’i (1978, 172) mentions the well of Zamzam in connection with Joseph to show its miraculous powers: ‘When Joseph had washed and performed ablutions with the water, the earth itself shone from his beauty, and the light of prophethood gleamed from his eyes.’ The Proper Governance of Water Not surprisingly, the concern with water in the arid land where Islam was revealed was all-­pervasive. According to Islamic law, animals have the right to drinking water in the same way as human beings do. Indeed, the Qur’an makes it clear that both humans and animals are dependent on God for water and life. The collections of hadith also contain precise examples showing how the Prophet recommended that water be distributed to fellow Muslims including travellers. The famous ninth-­ century Traditionist al-­ Bukhari (1998, 3: 40, Distribution of water, no. 551: ) mentions one instance involving a dog that was panting and eating mud because of its extreme thirst. A man saw this, filled his shoe with water, and poured it over the dog. The Prophet praised this act, saying that there would be a reward for serving water to any animate being. The collections of hadith also preserve the prayers for rain (salat alistisqa’) performed by the Prophet (on these prayers and their connection to rock crystal amulets, see Porter (2009)). One such Tradition exists in a number of versions. An especially detailed example of the story is told by the Prophet’s wife ‘A’isha and reported by al-­Tibrizi (1972, i: 315–16): The people complained to God’s messenger of the lack of rain, so he gave orders for a pulpit, and when it was set up for him in the place of prayer he appointed a day for the people on which they should come o­ ut . . . ­God’s messenger came out when the rim of the sun appeared and sat down on the pulpit. Then he said: ‘Praise be to God, the Lord of the universe, the compassionate, the merciful, the master of the Day of Judgment . . . O ­God . . . s­ end down rain upon us and make what Thou sendest down a strength and satisfaction for us for a time.’ He then raised his hands and kept raising them till the whiteness under his armpits was visible. He then turned his

228 | classi ca l is l a m back to the people and inverted his cloak while keeping his hands aloft. He then faced the people, descended and prayed two rak‘as. God then produced a cloud and a storm of thunder and lightning came on. Then it rained by God’s permission, and before he reached his mosque streams were flowing.

The verb istisqa can also mean ‘to go in procession to ask for rain’, and in Egypt it signifies ‘the making of public prayers to obtain a good Nile inundation’. Both these meanings clearly demonstrate the central importance of water in the life of the Muslim community. Not surprisingly, the Fatimid caliphs of Egypt organised public celebrations when the Nile flooded. Islamic law devised intricate rules about water precisely because it was an all-­important commodity. Islamic canonical law or Shari‘a traditionally identifies seven kinds of water that are lawful to drink or with which it is permissible to perform ablutions: water that comes from rain, snow, hail, springs, wells, rivers and the sea.2 There is much discussion in the Shari‘a about ownership of water and about who may take it. Rules were formulated on the possession and use of rivers, wells and springs. Before Islam, the phrase sahib al-ma’ (the possessor of water) denoted a wealthy person. The provision of water to pilgrims to the Ka‘ba shrine at Mecca was the prerogative of the Quraysh tribe to which the Prophet Muhammad belonged; this was a sign of prestige. The practice of giving water to visitors was carried over and enshrined in Islamic law. Those who owned sources of water had the duty to give some to those suffering from thirst. This kindness even to an enemy defeated in battle was common practice. Two very different but famous scenes come to mind in this context. First, the tragic plight of the Prophet’s grandson Husayn at Karbala in 680 when he appealed in vain to his opponents to spare his women and children from the pangs of thirst. According to Shi‘ite belief, thirst caused the greatest suffering for Husayn, his family, and his followers. So, as part of the Muharram commemorations in Shi‘ite lands every year, the believers distribute water in memory of the thirst of Husayn and his family (Encyclopaedia Iranica: ‘Ab’). A second episode involving the custom of giving water to the needy occurred in Saladin’s tent after his famous victory over the Crusaders at

t he si g ni f i ca nce of wat e r ­ | 229 the Battle of Hattin in 1187 (for the Arabic sources on this episode, see Gabrieli 1978, 123–4, 133–4, 143). Following long-­standing Muslim practice, Saladin gave water to his defeated enemy, Guy, the king of Jerusalem. When Guy passed the water on to the ‘infamous’ Reynald de Châtillon, however, Saladin refused to allow him to drink the water and, instead, struck him down with his sword. Here Saladin’s vow to God that he would personally kill this redoubtable, yet treacherous, enemy prevailed over the deeply ingrained Muslim habit of providing water to the needy. Water in Muslim Geographical and Scientific Writings As a standard part of their work, medieval Muslim geographers give long descriptions of the seas and waters of the earth. From ancient times water had a sacred, numinous role in the valleys of ‘the two rivers’ – the Tigris and the Euphrates. It was used for divination, and rivers, springs and floods were consulted for omens. In the arid environment of the Middle East, water was the fundamental need, and early sites of human settlement were inevitably near sources of w ­ ater – ­rivers, lakes, and streams. Rainwater was collected in reservoirs and cisterns (Plate 12.11), and the water from rivers and lakes was exploited in elaborate irrigation systems. Underground water was located by oases and extracted through wells. Not surprisingly for a civilisation whose territories are so frequently arid, Muslim scientists followed with minute attention the factors that affected the rise and fall of rivers. The Nilometer in Cairo was intended to record the ebb and flow of the Nile over the years (Plate 12.12). The great Muslim polymath al-­Biruni (d. 1038) wrote an entire treatise on how water naturally flows to the centre of the earth; the nature of springs, canals, water-­clocks (Plate 12.13) and lakes that are always full; and the columns in the Great Mosque of Kairouan that always leak water on Fridays. In Iran since Achaemenid times in the sixth century bce when Herodotus described the system, the practice that government, even at local level, functioned as the distribution agent for irrigation had been familiar. After the coming of Islam, legislation on irrigation became very intricate; but it was always based on the principle embedded in the Shari‘a that water should never be bought or sold. It was the clear duty of the ruler to be the custodian of water supplies and to distribute them to his subjects. For this reason the

230 | classi ca l is l a m Umayyad caliph al-­Walid II (r. 743–4) began diverting the course of the River Jordan (al-­Tabari 1989; Braslavski 1933), and his ­uncle – ­another Umayyad caliph, the usually miserly H ­ isham – c­ onstantly dug canals (Gabrieli 1935, 129). The famous Aghlabid water basins, placed outside the city of Kairouan, with their complex system of filtration, are nowadays a major tourist attraction (Plates 12.14a and 12.14b). To this day there are more than a hundred working waterwheels in Syria, and the technology was exported as far west as Spain (Ruggles 2009). The waterwheels at Hama in Syria (Plate 12.15) are especially famous (Miranda (2007) describes recent research on this topic). Muslim scientists were extremely inventive in constructing and developing many kinds of hydraulic machines throughout the medieval period, and they wrote about them in technological treatises. Writing about tenth-­ century Spain, the geographer Ibn Hawqal, for example, is full of praise for the irrigation system there (cited in Wittfogel 1957, 215): ‘The foreigner notices with admiration the universally well cultivated fields and a hydraulic system, which is coordinated in such a profoundly scientific manner that it created fertility in the seemingly least rewarding soils.’ Despite this emphasis on the urgent need for water to sustain agriculture on behalf of large populations in arid areas of the Muslim world, it should not be forgotten that on occasion rulers and the wealthy urban elite would enjoy being near or on water for pleasurable activities such as parties and picnics, and indeed water plays a major role in many palaces (Plate 12.16). The Safavid ruler of Iran, Shah ‘Abbas II (r. 1633–66), for example, followed a tradition recorded 600 years earlier at the Qalat Bani Hammad in Algeria when he organised regattas in Isfahan, which he watched from his grandstand in the middle of the Khwaju bridge (R. Hillenbrand 1986, 803) (Plate 12.17). Within the distinguished Muslim astronomical scientific tradition, in which celestial configurations were identified with mythological personages, water played its part in the zodiacal house of Aquarius, the Constellation of the Water-­Bearer (Wellesz 1959). Illustrations to the treatise entitled Kitab suwar al-kawakib al-thabita (‘The book of pictures of the fixed stars’) by the famous Arab astronomer ‘Abd al-­Rahman b. ‘Umar al-­Sufi (d. 986) show ­Aquarius – ­the ‘Water Pourer’, also called the ‘Bucket’ – as a young man holding a ‘curious receptacle’ from which he pours water as if he is squeezing it out of a bag.

t he si g ni f i ca nce of wat e r ­ | 231 Al-­Biruni treats the phenomenon of water on earth at length in his remarkable work Athar al-baqiya or ‘Vestiges of the past’ (1879, tr. Sachau). He discusses mountains, rivers, winds and changes in weather month by month, drawing on legends, superstitions and scientific fact. His book is a veritable mine of esoteric information. Al-­Biruni calculates (322) that Jonah stayed in the belly of the fish for twenty-­two days (Plate 12.18). He describes (235) the air of the mountains of Tabaristan as being ‘so moist that if people break and pound garlic on the tops of the mountains, rain is sure to set in’. He singles out a particular day in November as being inauspicious for navigation. He speaks (236) of a wind at the bottom of the sea: The sea has certain days when it is in uproar, when the air is turbid, the waves roll, and thick darkness lies over it. Therefore navigation is impracticable. People say that at this time there arises the wind at the bottom of the sea that puts the sea in motion.

One thinks at once of a tsunami. And that image, of course, brings us to the recording of natural disasters caused by water, for seas and rivers, though part of God’s wondrous creation, can also present dangers to the lives of humans and animals alike. Poets would celebrate these occasions, describing how the Tigris became a whirlpool reaching the very ramparts of the city of Baghdad. The fourteenth-­ century Persian poet Nasir al-­Bukhara’i describes one such flood: The Tigris this year had a wonderful drunken gait – Its feet in chains and its hand to its lips – Was it out of its mind?

The flood was illustrated in an Anthology produced in Shirvan (Shamakha) in 1468 (London, British Library, Add. 16561, fol. 60a; reproduced in Robinson 1957, pl. ix). The Christian Arab chronicler of the thirteenth century, Bar Hebraeus (1976, 224–5, slightly adapted), narrates another dramatic story about the flooding of the Tigris in 1073. As a result of extremely heavy rains, the river overflowed, inundating the houses and public buildings of Baghdad and endangering the life of the caliph himself:

232 | classi ca l is l a m When the waters rose up under the bed of the caliph, he fled to the door . . . And a eunuch carried him out and placed him in a ­boat . . . ­The caliph himself was for two days unable to find anything to eat. And the lions and the buffalos were seen together on the top of the hills, with the waters surrounding them, and being utterly stupefied they did not harm each other.

Arab seafaring skills were famous in the Gulf and the Indian Ocean. Their maritime history is reflected in the practical details of the Geniza documents. As S. D. Goitein (1967, 273–5; 1968, 301–7) and more recently Lawrence Conrad (2002, 136–7) have pointed out, this rich treasure-­house of Jewish documents from medieval Cairo provides many valuable insights into maritime trade and seafaring undertaken by both Jews and Muslims, especially in the eleventh century, to such faraway lands as South Arabia, East Africa and India. Such men encountered terrifying dangers and obstacles at s­ ea – s­ torms, sand reefs, rocks and p ­ irates – ­but they embarked on their voyages nonetheless. They did not undertake such journeys out of a sense of irresponsibility and foolish yearning after adventure. They had to make a living, and they needed to plan carefully (Conrad 2002, 149–51). Ships often broke into pieces or foundered. They could not leave port until there was a full complement of passengers and goods and until a favourable wind blew. The risk of shipwreck was high. Medieval Arabic sources give graphic accounts of shipwrecks, such as, for example, the one by the late eleventh-­century Spanish scholar Ibn al-‘Arabi (C. Hillenbrand 1999, 49; ‘Abbas 1968, 73). Not surprisingly, medieval Muslim sources are full of stories of those at sea crying out to God to rescue them (Conrad 2002, 151). But Muslim sailors emerge from a wide range of sources as courageous, enterprising and capable of braving the terrors of the oceans, so the idea that the medieval Muslims had an antipathy to the sea needs some modification. Nor should one forget the role of boats for transport in marshes, in agriculture, and on rivers (Plate 12.19). Water in the World of the Imagination and Symbolism The sea and seafaring take centre-­stage here. The sea is a subject for works of imaginative literature as well as for the writing of practical handbooks of navigation and the drawing of maps. The Qur’an makes it clear that it is

t he si g ni f i ca nce of wat e r ­ | 233 foolhardy to embark on a sea voyage without embracing Islam. Yet, despite these clear proofs that God will protect pious believers when they venture on the sea in ships, a deep-­seated terror of the sea remains. The poet Ibn Barraq al-­Hudhali (Montgomery 2001) expresses this very powerfully: Will I escape from sailing the sea? Will a hump-­backed ‘ship’, in the darkness every evening, rush with us through the dark depths, Its prow cleaving the water, persevering, on dunes of stinging brine?

For their descriptions of the oceans and faraway lands, Muslim travel writers, geographers and ethnographers drew on actual observation but still more on a vast treasure-­house of myth and folklore. Just as Europe placed its imaginary concepts of unknown lands in exotically distant Asia, so too for the Muslim world marvels, monsters and miracles lay further east. The worlds of the imagination and of folklore mingle with ethnography and travellers’ tales. The taste for the fantastic was very marked and produced ‘aja’ib works, books of marvels. Such works draw directly or indirectly on the marvel literature of classical antiquity, with its accounts of fantastic journeys to the East and of mysterious and bizarre natural phenomena. These writings were very popular in the lively scholarly circles of Baghdad, Cairo and Cordoba, and they remained alive in the Islamic world until the dawn of the modern era. Using the time-­honoured mystical number seven, the famous collection of fairy and folk tales entitled Alf layla wa-layla (‘Thousand and one nights’) contains the seven voyages of Sinbad the Sailor, who encapsulates the sea-­ faring exploits of the medieval Arabs across the seven seas. He declares at the beginning (The Book of the Thousand Nights and One Night, ii: 178): ‘I have accomplished seven extraordinary voyages, and the narrative of each one is enough to stupefy listeners with an excess of marvel.’ In the story of Sinbad’s adventures, the sea is presented as a terrifying and dangerous force that engulfs humans who dare to brave the perils of the deep with its strange ­inhabitants – f­antastic birds, fish, seahorses, whales and other astonishing creatures. During his first voyage, Sinbad and his companions arrive at an island, decked with beautiful foliage, but they discover that this ‘island’ is in reality a gigantic whale. When they light a fire there, the disturbed whale stirs up monstrous waves, drowning many of Sinbad’s fellow sailors. Sinbad

234 | classi ca l is l a m himself is saved by God, who guides a piece of hollow wood towards him (ii: 180). The subsequent stories told by Sinbad highlight the awesome nature of the sea with its contrary winds and its monstrous waves that can shatter a ship into a thousand pieces. In the stories of ‘Abdallah the Fisherman and ‘Abdallah the Merman in the Thousand Nights and One Night (Irwin 1994, 212), ‘Abdallah rubs a miraculous fish oil onto his body; he is then able to breathe underwater and thereby gains access to a mysterious submarine society. Why do men venture onto the sea at all? The Sinbad stories make it clear that his voyages are not just prompted by the desire to ‘visit far countries and strange peoples’. The Prophet Muhammad had established that commerce was a highly valued activity in Islam and it was therefore scarcely surprising that maritime travel, however perilous and risky, should also be motivated by what Sinbad calls ‘the trading habit’. Even in this collection of tales of fantasy designed to amuse and entertain Muslim urban elites, as well as to be told in tea-­houses to the ordinary people, the image of water is also used metaphorically to express deeper truths about the human condition and man’s aspirations in his life on earth. Determined to travel on the oceans, Sinbad quotes the words of an unknown poet (The Book of the Thousand Nights and One Night, ii: 179): What is success? . . . It is to dive into deeper, deeper water, And ever deeper, layer on layer, Of cold green mystery, For an ever rosier, ever whiter, ever greyer pearl of the sea.

This fine passage from brings us to the mystical resonances of water, which are well encapsulated in the legend of the ‘Water of Life’. Here again religious literature and legend overlap and merge. In the Qur’an (18: 59–81) Moses sets sail with a mysterious companion, identified as the so-­called Green Prophet, al-­Khidr, who then scuttles the ship. The story is later elaborated in the anonymous medieval Persian popular romance Iskandarnama (‘Book of Alexander’) in which Alexander the Great’s search for the Water of Life (ab-i hayat) in the Land of Darkness is a central element. On his way Alexander meets a mysterious guide, the Green Prophet (al-­Khidr again), who brings

t he si g ni f i ca nce of wat e r ­ | 235 him eventually to his desired destination. There al-­Khidr drinks from the Water of Life and becomes immortal, but when Alexander tries to do the same, the water has disappeared. Bereft of the chance to acquire immortality, Alexander is inconsolable: ‘And King Alexander became melancholy, on account of the Water of Life, because the hope of life had not remained’ (Venetis 2006, 173–4 and n. 86; see also Nizami 1991, 369–76). In the poetic sphere, water was used regularly as a trope. Water was already a common theme for the poets of pre-­Islamic Arabia, both when they wished to extol the beauties of nature and when they tried to portray the wondrous attractions of their beloved (see also Tabbaa (2009)). The most famous and ancient of the writers of the pre-­Islamic odes known as the Mu‘allaqat, the sixth-­century poet of the Kinda tribe, ‘Imru’l-­Qays (quoted in Howarth and Shukrallah 1944, ix), evokes in unforgettable lines the coming of rain among the Arabian hills: Far distant is the cloud on which my eyes are fixed. Its right side seems to pour its rain on the hills of Katan and its left on the mountains of Sitaa and Yadbul . . . The beasts of the wood, drowned in the floods of night, float, like the roots of wild onions, at the distant edge of the lake.

Thus the pre-­Islamic Bedouin poet views with awe and wonder the unbridled forces of nature when the much-­desired rain finally descends like a cataclysm onto the earth below. The favourite of all Arab poets, al-­Mutanabbi (d. 965), praises the generosity of a patron, using the image of a rain-­bringing cloud: ‘And indeed a cloud whose rain is like his bounty is a cloud in which every cloud may glory’ (al-­Mutanabbi 1967, 38). Later in the same ode (40), the poet goes even further with his flowery rhetoric: ‘As if you are the coolness of water without which there is no life.’ Water imagery is also used more symbolically to express objects of beauty, especially the body of the beloved. Speaking of his beloved, ‘Imru’l-­Qays (Nicholson 1987, 19) writes: A white pale virgin pearl such lustre keeps, Fed with clear water in untrodden deeps.

236 | classi ca l is l a m Ka‘b b. Zuhayr, a contemporary of the Prophet (Stetkevych 1994, 24), describes Su‘ad’s smile, when she flashes her wet side teeth, as a second draught of wine ‘mixed with cool water from a wadi’s bend’. Jamil (d. 701) (Nicholson 1969, 238) speaks longingly of his lone meeting with his beloved: Shall I ever meet Buthayna alone again, Each of us full of love as a cloud of rain?

Poets writing in the three great literary languages of classical Islamic ­culture – ­Arabic, Persian and Ottoman T ­ urkish – ­all draw on the symbolism of water to portray the wonders of nature in all seasons and to express deep truths about the human condition, especially the beauty of the human body and the emotion of love. In the poetry of war, the warrior’s sword of tempered steel is likened to flowing water. The phrase sayf kathir al-ma’ (sword plentiful of water) denotes a sword with many wavy marks or streaks in its grain (Lane 1867, repr. 1980, viii: 3025). Then there is the role of water in nature poetry. Ibn Sa‘id al-­Maghribi (1989, 29) includes a lyrical description of a river by the poet Ibn Khafaja (d. 1138) in his anthology of poetry from Spain: How beautiful the river running in its bed, more delicious to drink from than the lips of a lovely woman; Curved like a bracelet, and protected by flowers as if it were the Milky Way.

In sharp contrast, the Ottoman poet Nejati (d. 1509), describing the rigours of winter in an ode (qasida) presented to Sultan Mehmed, writes of water transformed into snow and ice (Gibb 1905, ii: 110) (Plate 12.20): The locust-­snowflakes are descended through the air . . . The clouds have, like to angry camels, flecked the earth with foam . . . The wind hath hurled the stream within a fort of steely ice.

That same poet exploits the emotional resonances of water imagery. He portrays himself in melancholy mood in striking terms: ‘By his tears and sighs a water-­wheel Nejati has become.’ The famous Ottoman poet Nedim (d. 1730), with characteristic grace and lightness of touch, described his beloved’s legs (Gibb 1905, iv: 44–5):

t he si g ni f i ca nce of wat e r ­ | 237 Two streamlets flowing from the Fount of Life were frozen, and now form The crystal legs of my sweet silver-­bodied one.

Inviting the beloved then to go with him on an excursion by boat to the sultan’s newly constructed summerhouse, he declares: Let us go and let us play, and the time let us redeem, From the new-­made fountain there let us drink of sweet Tesnim, Let us watch the drops of life from the dragon’s mouth that stream.

These few carefully constructed lines contain references to two major themes of religious tradition and legend about water, symbolised here by two fountains in the palace g­ardens – ­a newly made fountain (Plates 12.21a and 12.21b) is likened to the River Tesnim, one of the rivers of Paradise, and an ornamental fountain shaped like a ‘dragon’s mouth’ from which stream ‘drops of life’ – evoking the story of the ‘Water of Life’.3 Finally, one must take account of the use of water imagery as symbolising spiritual truths. The late Martin Lings (1968, 153), a British convert to Islam and a follower of the Sufi way, points out that water in the Qur’an symbolises both a spiritual blessing and knowledge. The word tanzil, used for the ‘sending down’ of the Qur’an, is linked to God’s benevolence in sending down life-­giving rain. A significant number of medieval Islamic books, such as the anonymous twelfth-­century Persian work Bahr al-fawa’id (1991) or ‘Sea of precious virtues’, have titles containing the word bahr (sea) to symbolise areas of mystical experience and knowledge as vast and as deep as the ocean. This idea is expressed by the Persian mystic Rumi, currently the best-­selling poet in the United States: ‘The sea bears up one who is dead: but if he be living, how shall he escape from the sea? When you have died to the fleshly nature, the sea of divine consciousness will raise you aloft’ (Nicholson 1995, 160–61). Concluding Remarks Water is a symbol with a very wide and complex spectrum of meanings in Islamic culture. As unformed, undifferentiated mass, it symbolises the abundance of possibilities or the primeval beginning of all that exists, the materia prima. As such, it appears in many creation myths, including that of Islam. Water is also a symbol of bodily, emotional and spiritual cleansing and

238 | classi ca l is l a m renewal. As a destructive force, however, water is also a negative symbol, as in the story of the Flood, and the movements of the waves can assume a highly threatening character. So we see the duality of water: it is a source of life and also a destroyer of it. But this is not God’s doing. The message is clear. If humankind will only look after this beautiful world that He has created from water, He would not have to send His punishments for our transgressions in the form of tempests and inundations. In Paradise, however, the righteous will enjoy a blissful life, by streams and rivers that flow with pure water for all eternity (Plate 12.22). The funerary garden echoes this on earth (Plates 12.23 and 12.24). It is perhaps appropriate to end with a quotation addressed to God from the opening of The Ship of Sulaiman, a little-­known Persian work by Ibn Muhammad Ibrahim (1972, 15) that recounts a Persian embassy to Thailand in the late seventeenth century. Its complex aquatic imagery and esoteric symbolism hint at the deep spiritual truths underlying the Islamic attitude to water and to God Himself who made it: ‘From unfathomed seas beyond existence the ship of His omnipotence brought forth creation’s present forms. So efficient is His overflowing bounty, that two essence-­producing drops from His cloud of generosity have been the source of all these seas of varied being.’ Notes 1. I am grateful to Stephen Burge for this reference. 2. The Arabic root sh-r-‘ has as its original meaning ‘to enter the water to drink’, in connection with an animal. 3. These lines are reminiscent of the account written by William of Oldenburg in 1211 in which he describes the palace of John I of Ibelin at Beirut: ‘The focal point of the palace is an elaborate fountain. Its base is made of smooth, multi-­ coloured marbles, arranged to form a pattern of innumerable flowers. At the apex a dragon spouts water, with other animals below. William found the sound of the fountain relaxing and would have been happy to spend the rest of his day near it’ (Hunt 1998, 57–8).

Plate 12.1  Fellucas in the Nile at Aswan, Egypt

Plate 12.2  The Nile at Aswan, Egypt

Plate 12.3  Waterwheels in the Fayyoum, Egypt

Plate 12.4  Garden at Mahyan, Iran, nineteenth century

Plate 12.5a  Garden carpet (Tehran, Carpet Museum)

Plate 12.5b  Detail of garden carpet (Istanbul, Museum of Turkish and Islamic Art)

Plate 12.6  Detail of the ‘Barada Panel’ mosaics from the Great Mosque of Damascus, Syria, 705–15

Plate 12.7  ‘Discovery of Moses’, Rashid al-Din’s Jami‘ al-tawarikh, Iran, 1314 (Edinburgh University Library Ms.Arab 20, fol. 9b)

Plate 12.8  ‘Drowning Egyptians’, Rashid al-Din’s Jami‘ al-tawarikh, Iran, 1314 (Edinburgh University Library Ms.Arab 20, fol. 10b)

Plate 12.9  Ablutions fountain, Süleymaniye Complex, Istanbul, Turkey, 1550–7

Plate 12.10  ‘Zamzam’, Rashid al-Din’s Jami‘ al-tawarikh, Iran, 1314 (Edinburgh University Library Ms. Arab 20, fol. 43a)

Plate 12.11  Cisterns beside a shrine in the town of Yufrus, Yemen, as seen from the minaret

Plate 12.12  The Nilometer, Cairo, Egypt, 861

Plate 12.13  ‘Waterclock’, al-Jazari’s Book of Ingenious Devices, 602/1206 (Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı Library, A. 3472)

Plate 12.14a  Aghlabid basins outside Qayrawan, Tunisia, ninth century

Plate 12.14b  Aghlabid basins outside Qayrawan, Tunisia, ninth century

Plate 12.15  Waterwheel at Hama, Syria

Plate 12.16  Court of the Myrtles, Alhambra Palace, Granada, Spain, fourteenth century

Plate 12.17  Khwaju Bridge, Isfahan, Iran, 1642–67

Plate 12.18  ‘Jonah and the Whale’, Rashid al-Din’s Jami‘ al-tawarikh, Iran, 1314 (Edinburgh University Library Ms. Arab 20, fol. 25b)

Plate 12.19  Felucca at Aswan, Egypt

Plate 12.20  ‘Al-Mustansir’, Rashid al-Din’s Jami‘ al-tawarikh, Iran, 1314 (Edinburgh University Library Ms. Arab 20, fol. 122a)

Plate 12.21a  Fountain of Ahmed III outside Topkapı Palace, Istanbul, 1728

Plate 12.21b  Fountain of Ahmed III outside Topkapı Palace, Istanbul, 1728

Plate 12.22  ‘A garden’, by Mansur Bihbahani, 1398 (Istanbul, Museum of Turkish and Islamic Art, Ms. 1950)

Plate 12.23  Garden behind the Taj Mahal, Agra, India, 1631–47

Plate 12.24  Garden in front of the Taj Mahal, Agra, India, 1631–47

t he si g ni f i ca nce of wat e r ­ | 239 Bibliography ‘Abbas, I. (1968), ‘Rihlat Ibn al-‘Arabi ila al-­mashriq kama sawwaraha ‘Qanun al-­ ta’wil’, Al-Abhath 21/1, 59–92. Bar Hebraeus (1976), Chronography, tr. E. A. W. Budge as The Chronography of Bar Hebraeus, Amsterdam. al-­Biruni (1879), Athar al-baqiya, tr. E. Sachau as The Chronology of Ancient Nations, London. Braslavski, I. (1933), ‘Hat Welid II den Jordan ablenken wollen?’, Journal of the Palestine Oriental Society XIII/1–2, 97–100. al-­Bukhari (1998), Sahih, ed. A. S. al-­ Karmi, Riyadh, (last accessed 4 May 2021). Chabbi, J. (2002), ‘Zamzam’, Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd edition, XI, Leiden, 440a–442a. Conrad, L. (2002), ‘Islam and the sea: paradigms and problematics’, al-Qantara 23, 75–105. Gabrieli, F. (1935), Il califatto di Hisham: studi di storia omayyade, Alexandria. Gabrieli, F. (1978), Arab Historians of the Crusades, tr. E. J. Costello, London. Gibb, E. J. W. (1905), A History of Ottoman Poetry, London. Goitein, S. D. (1967), A Mediterranian Society, vol. 1, Berkeley, Los Angeles and London. Goitein, S. D. (1968), Studies in Islamic History and Institutions, Leiden. Hillenbrand, C. (1999), The Crusades: Islamic Perspectives, Edinburgh. Hillenbrand, R. (1986), ‘Safavid architecture’, in P. Jackson and L. Lockhart (eds), The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 6: The Timurid and Safavid Periods, Cambridge, 759–842. Horovitz, J. and L. Gardet (1978), ‘Kawthwar’, Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd edition, IV, Leiden, 805b–806a. Howarth, H. and I. Shukrallah (1944), Images from the Arab World, London. Hunt, L. (1998), ‘Comnenian aristocratic palace decoration: descriptions and Islamic connections’, Byzantium, Eastern Christendom and Islam: Art at the Crossroads of the Medieval Mediterranean, London, 29–59. Ibn al-­Faqih (1973), Kitab al-buldan, tr. H. Massé as Abrégé du Livre des Pays, Damascus. Ibn Ishaq (1980), Sirat Rasul Allah, tr. A. Guillaume as The Life of Muhammad: A Translation of Ibn Ishaq’s Sirat Rasul Allah, Karachi.

240 | classi ca l is l a m Ibn Muhammad Ibrahim (1972), Safina’i Sulaymani, tr. J. O’Kane as The Ship of Sulaiman, London. Ibn Sa‘id al-­Maghribi (1989), Rayat al-mubarrizin wa-ghayat al-mumayyazin, trs J. A. Bellamy and P. O. Steiner as The Banners of the Champions: An Anthology of Medieval Arabic Poetry from Andalusia and Beyond, Madison. Irwin, R. (1994), The Arabian Nights: A Companion, London. al-­Kisa’i (1978), Qisas al-anbiya’, tr. W. M. Thackston as The Tales of the Prophets, Boston, MA. Lane, E. W. (1867), repr. 1980, An Arabic–English lexicon, Beirut. Lings, M. (1968), ‘The Qoranic symbolism of water’, Studies in Comparative Religion 2/3, 153–60. de Miranda, A. (2007), Water Architecture in the Lands of Syria: The Water Wheels, Rome. Montgomery, J. (2001), ‘Salvation at sea? Seafaring in early Arabic poetry’, Orientations 5, 25–49. al-­Mutanabbi (1967), Poems of al-Mutanabbi, trs A. J. Arberry, Cambridge. al-­Nawawi (1979), Al-arba‘un al-nawawiyya, tr. E. Ibrahim and D. Johnson-­Davies as An-Nawawi’s Forty Hadith, Lahore. Nicholson, R. A. (1969), A Literary History of the Arabs, Cambridge. Nicholson, R. A. (1987), Translations of Eastern Poetry and Prose, London. Nicholson, R. A. (1995), Tales of Mystic Meaning, Oxford. Nizami (1991), Iskandarnama, tr. J. C. Bürgel as Das Alexanderbuch: Iskandarname, Zurich. Poonawala, I. K. (1984), ‘Ab: Water in Muslim Iranian culture’, Encyclopaedia Iranica I, 27–8. Porter, V. (2009), ‘Stones to bring rain? Magical inscriptions in linear Kufic on rock crystal amulet-­seals’, in S. Blair and J. Bloom (eds), Rivers of Paradise: Water in Islamic Art and Culture, Newhaven and London, 131–60. Robinson, B. W. (1957), Persian Miniatures, New York. Ruggles, D. F. (2009), ‘From the heavens and hills: the flow of water to the fruited trees and ablution fountains in the Great Mosque of Cordoba’, in S. Blair and J. Bloom (eds), Rivers of Paradise: Water in Islamic Art and Culture, Newhaven and London, 81–104. Stekevych, S. P. (1994), ‘Pre-­ Islamic panegyric and the poetics of redemption: Mufaddiliyah 119 of ‘Alqamah and Banat Su’ad of Ka’b ibn Zuhayr’, Reorientations: Arabic and Persian Poetry, Bloomington, 1–57. al-­Suyuti (1488/1988), Al-haba’ik fi akhbar al-mala’ik, ed. M. al-­S Zaghlul, Beirut.

t he si g ni f i ca nce of wat e r ­ | 241 al-­Tabari (1989), Ta’rikh al-rusul wa’l-muluk, vol. 26, tr. C. Hillenbrand as The Waning of the Umayyad Caliphate, Albany. Tabbaa, Y. (2009), ‘Control and abandon: Images of water in Arabic poetry and gardens’, in S. Blair and J. Bloom (eds), Rivers of Paradise: Water in Islamic Art and Culture, Newhaven and London, 59–80. al-­Tibrizi (1972), Mishkat al-anwar, tr. J. Robson, Lahore. The Book of the Thousand Nights and One Night (1980), tr. P. Mathers from the French translation of J. C. Mardrus, 4 vols, London. Venetis, E. (2006), The Iskandernama: An Analysis of an Anonymous Medieval Persian Prose Romance, unpublished PhD thesis, University of Edinburgh. Wellesz, E. (1959), ‘An early al-­Sufi manuscript in the Bodleian Library in Oxford: A study in Islamic constellation images’, Ars Orientalis 3, 1–26. Wittfogel, K. A. (1957), Oriental Despotism: A Comparative Study in Total Power, New Haven.

13 Sayf al-­Dawla, al-­Mutanabbi and Byzantium: The Evidence of a Textile

The Historical Context

B

y the third/tenth century the Sunni caliphate, which had once ruled a united empire stretching from Spain to Central Asia, had given way to smaller political entities. A good number of independent or semi-­independent Sunni dynasties still acknowledged the religio-­legal status of the caliphate at Baghdad. But further disunity and political fragmentation occurred with the emergence of small Shi‘ite dynasties during what the Orientalist scholar Minorsky famously called ‘the Shi‘ite century’. One such dynasty, the Hamdanids, descendants of the Banu Taghlib, ruled at that time in northern Syria and the Jazira. By contrast, in the same historical period, the Byzantine empire, under the control of the Macedonian dynasty (843–1025), enjoyed overall strong rule, and those who held the office of the Domesticus, the Byzantine military commander in charge of the eastern borders, launched many offensives against the Muslim world.1 The geographical location of the territories ruled by the most famous of the Hamdanids, Sayf al-­Dawla (ruled 333/944–356/967), led him to conduct a large number of military raids into the lands of Rum for a period of around thirty years.2 His first victory against the Byzantine frontier commander, the Domesticus, came in 326/938, but his principal successes were achieved between 336/947 and 346/957. Thereafter he experienced devastating defeats at the hand of the Domesticus Bardas Phocas and then by his three sons, Nicephorus, Leo and Constantine.3 Despite these setbacks Sayf al-­Dawla was admired and eulogised by medi242

the evi dence of a texti l e ­ | 243 eval Arab writers, both chroniclers and poets.4 His court at Aleppo attracted the best intellectuals of his time, including the philosopher al-­Farabi, the preacher Ibn Nubata,5 the poets al-­Mutanabbi, al-­Nami and Abu Firas (the cousin of Sayf al-­Dawla) and many other luminaries. Sayf al-­Dawla himself is said to have composed poetry.6 Ibn Khallikan writes that Sayf al-­Dawla held an assembly every night to which the men of learning came,7 and he describes this majlis of Sayf al-­Dawla as ‘a point of union for all persons distinguished by their acquirements in any of the sciences’.8 The same laudatory tone is adopted by al-­Tha‘alibi, who declares: The sons of Hamdan were princes whose faces were formed for beauty; whose tongues, for eloquence; whose hands, for liberality; and whose minds, for pre-­eminence; Sayf al-­Dawla was renowned as their chief and the middle pearl of the necklace.9

It is indeed noteworthy that Sayf al-­Dawla is widely portrayed in the medieval Islamic historiographical tradition as a ruler who in the time-­honoured Arab way cultivated both the ‘arts of peace’10 and the ‘conduct of war’; he is shown to be a worthy protagonist to take on the might of the prestigious and venerable Byzantine empire. According to Ibn Shaddad, Sayf al-­Dawla showed great magnanimity towards a distinguished prisoner of war, Constantine, son of the Domesticus, who remained for some time in captivity with him. Constantine wrote to his father to tell him of the generosity of Sayf al-­Dawla towards him, saying that if his father had been taking care of him he would not have been as kind to him as Sayf al-­Dawla had been.11 The fame of Sayf al-­Dawla as a valiant warrior, the epitome of a jihad fighter, was widespread even in his own time, and contemporary poets, above all al-­Mutanabbi, perpetuated for posterity the memory of his achievements in Rum. Even after being afflicted by serious and crippling illness from 351/962 onwards,12 Sayf al-­Dawla entered the fray of battle, carried in a litter, and he continued to conduct affairs of state. He was buried in the manner of a shahid in his family mausoleum in Mayyafariqin;13 a brick covered in the dust from one of his campaigns was put under his cheek.14

244 | classi ca l is l a m The Relationship between Sayf al-­Dawla and al-­Mutanabbi The career of al-­Mutanabbi is described in particular detail by the local historian of Aleppo, Ibn al-‘Adim,15 and it has often been discussed by modern scholars.16 After the eventful years of his youth, al-­Mutanabbi joined the entourage of Sayf al-­Dawla in 337/948–9, remaining at his court until 346/957. According to Ibn Khallikan, al-­Mutanabbi accompanied Sayf al-­ Dawla on his military expeditions into Byzantine territory.17 Often a turbulent and controversial figure,18 al-­Mutanabbi composed odes of dazzling virtuosity. It was most fortunate for Sayf al-­Dawla that the brief interlude of his military triumphs over the Byzantines coincided with the nine-­year stay of al-­Mutanabbi at his court. Indeed, because of the vast popularity of this poet’s panegyrics in his honour, Sayf al-­Dawla has enjoyed an especially prestigious posthumous reputation. And it is generally agreed by Arabic literary scholars that the poems composed in honour of Sayf al-­Dawla (the Sayfiyyat), in which al-­Mutanabbi deploys the full grandeur of his epic style, represent his finest poetic achievement.19 In what follows, an extract from one of these celebrated poems will be analysed with a view to clarifying the context of such poems and the light which they shed on Hamdanid court life and on relations between that dynasty and Byzantium. A Description of the Tent of Sayf al-­Dawla by al-­Mutanabbi

20

The following discussion, then, focuses on a short but very significant passage from one of the Sayfiyyat of al-­Mutanabbi. The qasida itself was declaimed to

the evi dence of a texti l e ­ | 245 Sayf al-­Dawla on his return to Antioch after he had captured the previously impregnable fortress of Barzuya.21 According to the notes provided by ‘Azzam in his edition of the Diwan,22 ‘this panegyric of the amir Sayf al-­Dawla dates from Jumada II 337’.23 The passage analysed here (lines 19–26 of the ode) is preceded by eighteen lines of poetry. The first five lines constitute the usual introduction (nasib) depicting the conventional stance of the lover at the campsite abandoned by his beloved. A transition to the main panegyrical section of the qasida is effected in line 18 when the poet exclaims that better than all the water of youth is the moment when he watches the sparkling rain fall onto the tent (faza) (of Sayf al-­Dawla). The reference to rain is presumably an image of the ruler’s generosity from which al-­Mutanabbi hopes to profit if the poem finds favour with his patron. Line 18 mentions Sayf al-­Dawla’s faza, a word whose dictionary definition as a tent supported by two poles,24 is susceptible of more than one interpretation. It might mean a tent in the form of an inverted ‘v’, with the poles supporting the two central extremities of the cloth, the whole presumably anchored by guy-­ropes and tent pegs. Or it could refer to a vertical hanging stretched between two poles. Or finally it could indicate an awning, supported by poles at two of its corners and probably pitched at a slant so that its designs could clearly be seen, and steadied by ropes at the other two corners. It is this last interpretation that is most plausible, for there are numerous later images of such awnings depicted in Islamic book painting, each with its prince seated in majesty below it.25 The above lines have been translated by European scholars of Islam, and especially of Islamic art, into English, French, Spanish and German. Some of these scholars have been eager to show from the evidence of this passage that the alleged prohibition on pictorial art in the Muslim world does not extend to secular contexts, such as the one demonstrated ­here – ­probably an awning spread over a ruler’s head in his military camp.26 Despite the existence of the translations of this passage by Arnold, Wormhoudt, Horovitz, Wiet and others, there is still more to say about these very interesting lines of al-­Mutanabbi. Moreover, the existing translations read at times much more like flowery paraphrases than exact renderings of the text. An attempt at a literal prose translation of these lines now follows,27

246 | classi ca l is l a m although it is, of course, impossible to render in English the full subtlety of the multivalent resonances of such a brilliant verbal poetic master as al-­Mutanabbi.28 Translation of Lines 19–26 19. On it (the tent) are gardens which no rain cloud has caused to spring up, And branches of lofty trees whose doves have never cooed. 20. And above the edges of each double-­sided tapestry Is a string of pearls whose stringer has not pierced them.29 21. You see land animals peacefully together (there); One opponent fights its opponent and (then) makes peace with it. 22. Whenever the breeze makes it (the awning) billow, it sways as if Its full-­bodied30 horses are moving around and its lions are outwitting (their prey). 23. In the image of the Byzantine possessed of a crown there is submission Towards the proud one who has no crowns except his turbans. 24. The mouths of kings kiss his carpet For his sleeve and finger joints are too high for them (to reach). 25. Standing before him whose cauterisation31 cures illness Between their ears each chieftain bears his branding marks.32 26. Their (sword) pommels are beneath their elbows out of awe And more penetrating than what is in the scabbards are his decisions.

Commentary on the Lines of the Poem Translated In line 19 there is an impression of ethereality and immortality, with multiple layers of meaning. The gardens with lofty trees are imaginary, of course, as in the beautiful mosaics in the Umayyad Mosque in Damascus; this may well be an evocation of the gardens of Paradise mentioned in the Qur’an.33 The doves that inhabit these trees do not coo there, because this is an eternal sphere. One is reminded of the Arabic proverbial phrase used on a Mamluk tinned bronze lunch-­box to bring good fortune and long life to its owner: tawwala al-‘umr ma nahat hamama – may his34 life last as long as a dove cooes35

the evi dence of a texti l e ­ | 247 The use of the verb haka is very skilful, considering its semantic range which, as well as its meaning ‘to make plants spring up by watering them’, can also be ‘to weave’. Indeed, perhaps there is an intended word play here. What seems to be depicted in line 20 is an awning which is a double-­ sided (muwajjah)36 embroidered tapestry. Around its edges are white points or circles that look like a string of unbored pearls. This custom of hemming material or a garment with pearls already had an ancient tradition behind it by this time.37 This image too bears the hallmark of the purity of the heavenly realm.38 As in line 19, line 21 evokes an idyllic pastoral scene in Paradise. The imagery of animals living in peace together has venerable antecedents in the Old Testament Biblical tradition, as, for example: The wolf shall also dwell with the lamb, And the leopard shall lie down with the kid.39 The wolf and the lamb shall feed together. They shall not hurt nor destroy in all my holy mountain, saith the Lord.40

Such images of the peaceful co-­existence of predators and prey were a staple of the floor mosaics of churches in the Near East from late antique to Islamic times, and they could be interpreted as carrying similar connotations of friendship among animals, and thus evoking the Biblical Eden.41 The mention of turbans and crowns in line 23 is reminiscent of the saying ‘Turbans are the crowns of the Arabs’.42 The reference to the ruler’s carpet in line 24 again has an ancient pedigree. To approach the caliph and, above all, to sit on his carpet, was a signal honour. Indeed, for the ruler to grant increasing spatial nearness to his presence was a yardstick of his favour. Here, with the reference to monarchs kissing the carpet of Sayf al-­Dawla,43 which represents his autonomous symbolic space, the poet expresses the complete subjugation of one head of state by another. Presumably, in line 25, the reference to cauterisation is to a branding iron used for marking the skin of animals or indeed human beings.44 Symbolically, the illness of those who have been brought before the turbaned ruler is that of insubordinate pride. Not only is the emperor subjugated but other lesser chiefs too stand in respectful pose, as line 26 indicates.

248 | classi ca l is l a m General Reflections It would appear that the ­awning – ­it does not seem to be a ­tent – d ­ escribed here depicts a paradise-­like setting of gardens with shady trees, birds and animals. Elsewhere on the awning a defeated Byzantine crowned figure is seen prostrate before a turbaned Arab rule. Other grandees are also present, standing in respectful poses. The reference to the sword pommels of the attendant chieftains being beneath their elbows reflects with close accuracy a detail of Sasanian court ceremonial that is recorded in several rock reliefs. These show courtiers ranged beside the shah, their elbows jutting out and their hands resting in the pommels of their swords, which are held vertically between the knees.45 As already mentioned, art historians have used these lines to focus on the issue of figural representation in medieval Muslim art. In that connection Arnold says that it is uncertain whether the picture was painted on the canvas of the ‘tent’ or if it had been ‘woven into a curtain or worked in some form of embroidery’.46 Welin tentatively suggests that al-­Mutanabbi is talking about woven tapestries47 and she is probably right. Indeed, the allusion in lines 19 and 20 would seem to be to an awning woven on both sides with images. Elsewhere amongst his odes al-­Mutanabbi mentions amongst the gifts that Sayf al-­Dawla had given him were silk brocade textiles on which Rumi craftsmen had depicted their kings.48 So it is conceivable that the imagery in the lines analysed here comes from the poet’s close scrutiny of one such textile. Possibly the textile in question had been made to order from a Byzantine original for a scene in which Sayf al-­Dawla, not the Byzantine ruler, is receiving signs of obeisance from defeated rulers in his tent. Such a scene as this recalls the Psalter of Basil II, painted in the early eleventh century and depicting the victorious emperor standing armed and upright in full armour, while the defeated Bulgarians grovel at his feet.49 But it also relates to a Sasanian tradition in which the kings of the earth pay homage to the enthroned shah, and more generally to the themes of the kings of the earth and the family of kings. The interpretations have been proposed respectively by Herzfeld50 and Grabar51 for the wall painting of the Six Kings at Qusayr ‘Amra, an early eighth-­century hunting lodge and bath in the Jordanian desert.

the evi dence of a texti l e ­ | 249 According to Horovitz, a chapter in De Ceremoniis of the Byzantine emperor Constantine Porphyrgenitus, the contemporary of Sayf al-­Dawla, describes a similar homage ceremony to the one depicted in this poem of al-­Mutanabbi. Horovitz argues that the poet is describing a picture he has actually seen and that the painting was executed by a Byzantine artist.52 In creating a scene in which the Byzantine emperor is brought to heel by an Arab ­ruler – ­a theme already depicted in a different way in a celebrated fresco in the audience hall at the Umayyad baths of Qusayr ‘­Amra – ­al-­Mutanabbi is evoking deeply embedded historic memories as well as mythic hopes for the future. The memories are of centuries-­old frustrated Arab ambitions to capture Byzantium and, in particular, its magnificent capital city Constantinople. Even in the Jahiliyya period the Bedouin Arabs had heard of the Byzantine emperor, Qaysar, and the grandeur of his court. After the coming of Islam, in the days of the first Arab conquests, the taking of Constantinople had been a major objective for the early caliphs. However, by the second/ninth century, Muslim leaders had realised that they would have to wait for a long time for this long-­cherished ambition to be fulfilled. But this did not mean that the dream of conquering Byzantium disappeared. It must have lingered in the Muslim imagination as an event which God would allow to happen at its pre-­ordained moment.53 In the meantime, such a victory could inhabit the sphere of messianic myth, to be evoked in court poetry and popular legend. Al-­Mutanabbi deploys the full armoury of his poetic skills. The sheer scale of the exaggeration in this poem is extremely daring. The ruler of an ancient and venerable empire is humiliated in the poet’s creative imagination by an Arab princeling who governs a small border state centred on Aleppo and who has recently achieved a small military triumph. All the strategies of the panegyrical ode are deployed to inflate this victory to the full. The rhetorical potential is enhanced by the grandeur of the enemy. This, we are led to believe, is no mere border skirmish between two equal protagonists. It does not serve the poet’s purpose in these lines to use the real historical opponent of Sayf al-­Dawla, the Domesticus. It is necessary for al-­Mutanabbi to declare that his turbaned Arab patron has defeated none other than the crown-­ bearing Byzantine emperor who lies in abject humiliation in front of him. The victory must be over the loftiest foe the poet can i­magine – Q ­ aysar himself.

250 | classi ca l is l a m It is worth wondering whether the Arab historians living two or three hundred years later, when writing about the real event of the defeat and capture of the Christian Byzantine emperor Romanus IV Diogenes by the Muslim Seljuq sultan Alp Arslan in Dhu’l-­Qa‘da 463/August 1071,54 recalled these extraordinarily ambitious poetic lines by al-­ Mutanabbi describing a purely imaginary capture by Sayf al-­Dawla of the Byzantine emperor. Certainly several medieval Muslim chroniclers who recorded this pivotal hinge of history extracted a full measure of triumphalist pride from it. There are a number of resonances shared by the poem of al-­Mutanabbi and some of the accounts of the events that took place with Romanus IV Diogenes in Alp Arslan’s tent after the battle of Manzikert. Both the poetic lines of al-­Mutanabbi and the historical Manzikert narratives of the Muslim chroniclers speak of the forced obeisance of the Byzantine emperor to the Muslim sultan. Ibn al-­Jawzi relates that the Seljuq sultan pushed the emperor’s face onto the ground. Sibt b. al-­Jawzi mentions that Romanus kissed the ground. Rashid al-­Din writes that the sultan fixed two rings in the emperor’s ears. The Persian chronicler Mirkhwand goes further with his rhetorical statement that Romanus ‘was forced to lay the face of humiliation into the dust of impotence and baseness’.55 So there are strong resemblances between the imaginary incident evoked by al-­Mutanabbi and a real event which took place only a century or so later. However, it is important to remember the actual final outcome of the encounter between Romanus and Alp Arslan which is recorded in both Muslim and Byzantine ­sources – ­the honourable release of the ruler of an ancient empire by a Muslim sultan who shows mercy and magnanimity. Although poetic sources should be used with caution by historians, there is certainly information to be gained from the diwan of al-­Mutanabbi about the social history of the third/tenth century in Northern Syria and in particular about Sayf al-­Dawla and his relations with Byzantium in war and in peace.56 For al-­Mutanabbi, Sayf al-­Dawla is the epitome of the noble Arab of ‘unblemished descent’, as well as a true champion of Islam.57 As the poet declaims elsewhere in his diwan: Do not be amazed: there are many swords, but today there is one Sword of the Dynasty.

the evi dence of a texti l e ­ | 251 His noble nature unsheathes him in war, and the habit of benevolence and mercy sheathes him.58

Let that serve as an epitaph for a ruler who practised with such distinction the arts of peace59 and war alike. Notes   1. A. A. Vasiliev, History of the Byzantine Empire, vol. 1 (Madison and Milwaukee, 1964); M. Canard, Histoire de la dynastie des Hamdanides de Jazîra et de Syrie, vol. 1 (Paris, 1953).   2. Ibn al-‘Adim lists the campaigns conducted by Sayf al-­Dawla into Rum. He then writes: ‘Battles took place between him (Sayf al-­Dawla) and Rum, most of them in his favour and some of them against him.’ Ibn al-‘Adim, Zubdat al-halab fi ta’rikh Halab, vol. 1, ed. S. Zakkar (Damascus, 1997), 119.



The geographer Ibn Shaddad mentions in some detail the raids which took place in the years 343–5/954–6 and 347/958; see ‘Izz al-­Din Ibn Shaddad, Al-a‘laq al-khatira fi dhikr umara’ al-Sham wa’l-Jazira, tr. A.-M. Eddé-­Terrasse as Description de la Syrie du Nord (Damascus, 1984), 196–99.   3. Ibn Shaddad, Al-a‘laq, tr. Eddé-­Terrasse, 198.   4. Ibn al-‘Adim, Zubda, vol. 1, 144; Ibn al-­Azraq al-­Fariqi, Ta’rikh Mayyafariqin, British Library MS Or. 5803, ff. 113b–117a.   5. Ibn Khallikan, Kitab wafayat al-a‘yan, tr. Baron W. M. de Slane as Kitab wafayat al-a‘yan: Ibn Khallikan’s Biographical Dictionary, vol. 2 (Paris, 1843), 10–11.   6. Ibn Khallikan, Wafayat, tr. de Slane, vol. 2, 334–40; Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd edn, art: Sayf al-­Dawla (T. Bianquis).   7. Ibn Khallikan, Wafayat, tr. de Slane, vol. 2, 205.   8. Ibn Khallikan, Wafayat, tr. de Slane, vol. 3, 308.   9. Quoted in Ibn Khallikan, Wafayat, tr. de Slane, vol. 2, 334–5. 10. The phrase is used by Nicholson; R. A. Nicholson, A Literary History of the Arabs (Cambridge, 1969), 270. As al-­Mutanabbi himself puts it: Him have I visited when sword in sheath was laid, And I have seen him when in blood swam every blade. Him, both in peace and war the best of all mankind.



252 | classi ca l is l a m See al-­Mutanabbi, Mutanabbi carmina cum commentario Wahidii, ed. F.  Dieterici (Berlin, 1856–61), 481–4; tr. Nicholson, Literary History, 306. 11. Ibn Shaddad, Al-a‘laq, tr. Eddé-­Terrasse, 195. 12. He became afflicted with hemiphlegia (falij) and grave intestinal and urinary disorders; Ibn al-­Athir, Al-Kamil fi’l-ta’rikh, ed. C. J. Tornberg (Leiden and Uppsala, 1851–76), vol. 8, 580. 13. Ibn al-­Azraq, Ta’rikh, f. 117a; Ibn al-­Athir, Al-Kamil, vol. 8, 580. 14. C. Hillenbrand, ‘Jihad poetry in the age of the Crusades’, in T. Madden, J. L. Naus and V. Ryan (eds), Crusades: Medieval Worlds in Conflict (Farnham and Burlington, VT, 2011), 11–12. 15. Ibn al-‘Adim gives a very full set of narratives about him; cf. Ibn al-‘Adim, Bughyat al-talab fi tarikh Halab, ed. S. Zakkar, vol. 2 (Damascus, 1988/1408), 639–86. 16. For example, R. Blachère, ‘La vie et l’oeuvre d’Abû t-­Tayyib al-­Mutanabbi’, in R. Blachère, Analecta (Damascus, 1975), 401–30. 17. Ibn Khallikan, Wafayat, tr. de Slane, vol. 2, 104. 18. Arberry reminds the reader that al-­Mutanabbi was criticised both for arrogance and for the quality of his poetry, during his lifetime and thereafter; cf. A. J. Arberry, Poems of al-Mutanabbi (Cambridge, 1967), 3–4. 19. Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd edn, art: al-­ Mutanabbi (R. Blachère); E. Dermenghem, Les plus beaux textes arabes (Paris, 1951), 103. 20. The version of the text given here is reproduced from the article by J. Horovitz, ‘Die Beschreibung eines Gemäldes bei Mutanabbi’, Der Islam I (1910), 385–8. 21. Welin describes a silver dirham, the first Hamdanid coin minted at Antioch. It is dated 337/948–9 and was probably made to commemorate the visit of Sayf al-­ Dawla on his return to the city that year from Barzuya; see U. S. Winder Welin, ‘Sayf al-­dawlah’s reign in Syria and Diyarbekr in the light of the numismatic evidence’, Commentationes de nummis saecolorum IX–XI in Schweden gefundenen Münzen des 9. bis 11. Jahrhunderts, vol. 1 (1961), 61. 22. Al-­Mutanabbi, Diwan, ed. A. ‘Azzam (Cairo, 1363/1944), 242, note alif. Note ba’ mentions that Sayf al-­Dawla was sitting in a tent of silk brocade (dibaj); ‘Azzam, 242. 23. This date corresponds to the Christian date of December 948. 24. A. de Biberstein-­Kazimirski, Dictionnaire arabe-français (Paris, 1860), vol. 2, 646. 25. For Timurid examples, see T. W. Lentz and G. D. Lowry, Timur and the Princely Vision: Persian Art and Culture in the Fifteenth Century (Los Angeles

the evi dence of a texti l e ­ | 253 and Washington, DC, 1989), 258, 260 and 265; for Safavid examples, see S. C. Welch, Royal Persian Manuscripts (London, 1976), 62, 81, 110, 112, 120 and 122. 26. T. W. Arnold, Painting in Islam: A Study of the Place of Pictorial Art in Muslim Culture (New York, 1965), 20; G. Wiet, Soieries persanes (Cairo, 1947), 78; Horovitz, ‘Die Beschreibung’, 386–7; al-­Mutanabbi, Poems of the Diwan of Abu Tayyib Ahmad Ibn Husain al-Mutanabbi, tr. with notes by A. Wormhoudt (Oxford, 1968), 1. 27. Each line of the English translation corresponds to half the line in Arabic. 28. It is a pity that, as far as I know at least, Arberry did not translate this passage, since he, above all others, was able to render the power of such Arabic poetry, even in English translation. 29. A translation of Horovitz’s rather wordy German translation of this line reads: ‘Above all the edges of each double-­sided material (of the tent) is a string of pearls, which, however, did not need first to be pierced by him who put them onto the string’. See Horovitz, ‘Beschreibung’, 386.

30. The noun madhaki signifies strong or hefty horses. Moreover, in a fashion typical of al-­Mutanabbi, there could even be a pun lurking here, since one meaning of the root in the phrase sahaba mudhkiya is that of a cloud which has repeatedly produced rain (see line 19, where the word sahaba is indeed used); see E. W. Lane, An Arabic–English Lexicon (Beirut, 1980), vol. I, 972. Lane cites Taj al-‘arus. 31. Arnold’s translation of this hemistich reads: ‘Standing before him whose branding iron heals the fever of their pride’; Arnold, Painting, 20.

32. mawasim – marks imprinted on the skin of animals with an iron instrument heated in the fire; see Biberstein-­Kazimirski, vol. 2, 1538. 33. See the evidence for this view accumulated by B. Finster in ‘Die Mosaiken der Umayyadenmoschee von Damaskus’, Kunst des Orients 7/2 (1972), 117–21. 34. Literally ‘the life’. 35. Cf. the inscription on a Mamluk lunch-­box in the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford; cf. J. W. Allan, ‘Later Mamluk m ­ etalwork – ­II: A series of lunchboxes’, Oriental Art XVII/2 (Summer 1971), 1. 36. Nicholson refers to al-madh al-muwajjah, which he calls a ‘two-­sided panegyric’. It may, he says, ‘be compared to a garment having two surfaces of different

254 | classi ca l is l a m colours but of equal beauty’; cf. Nicholson, Literary History, 311. 37. M. W. Meister, ‘The pearl roundel in Chinese textile design’, Ars Orientalis 8 (1970), 255–67. 38. M. Canard, ‘Quelques aspects de la vie sociale en Syrie et Jazira au dixième siècle d’après les poètes de la cour Hamdanide’, Miscellanea orientalia (London, 1973), 172. 39. Isaiah 11: 6. 40. Isaiah 65: 25. 41. M. Piccirillo, The Mosaics of Jordan (Amman, 1993), 119, 128 and 351. 42. Biberstien-­Kazimirski, Dictionnaire, vol. 2, 1496. 43. Avinoam Shalem, ‘Forbidden territory: Early Islamic audience hall carpets’, Hali 99 (July, 1998), 70, 74. 44. See, for some of the background to this practice, R. Nour, ‘Tamga ou Tag. Marque au fer chaud sur les chevaux à Sinope’, Journal Asiatique (1928), 1–4. 45. For examples see R. Ghirshman, Iran: Parthians and Sasanians, trs S. Gilbert and J. Emmons (London, 1962), 172 and 225. 46. Arnold, 21. 47. Welin, ‘Sayf al-­dawlah’s reign’, 62, n. 16. 48. Al-­Mutanabbi, Diwan, ed. ‘Azzam, 362. 49. A. Grabar, L’empereur dans l’art byzantin (Strasbourg, 1936), pl. 23/1. 50. E. Herzfeld, ‘Die Konige der Erde’, Der Islam 21 (1933), 233–6. 51. O. Grabar, ‘The painting of the Six Kings at Qusayr ‘Amrah’, Ars Orientalis 1 (1954), 185–7. 52. Horovitz, 387. 53. Qur’an 30: 3–5. 54. Carole Hillenbrand, Turkish Myth and Muslim Symbol: The Battle of Manzikert (Edinburgh, 2007). 55. Hillenbrand, Manzikert, 41, 71, 94, 102. For the full accounts of the battle by these authors, cf. Ibn al-­ Jawzi, Al-Muntazam, vol. 8, ed. F. Krenkow (Hyderabad, 1359), 260–5; Sibt b. al-­Jawzi, Mir’at al-zaman fi ta’rikh al-a‘yan, ed. A. Sevim (Ankara, 1968), 146–52; Rashid al-­Din, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, ed. A. Ateş (Ankara, 1960), 31–9; Mirkhwand, Rawdat al-safa’ fi sirat al-anbiya’ wa’l-muluk wa’l-khulafa’, no editor (Lucknow, 1332), 68–83. 56. Canard, Histoire, 32–3. 57. Arberry, Poems, 13. 58. A. Hamori, The Composition of Mutanabbi’s Panegyrics to Sayf al-Dawla (Leiden, 1992), 64.

the evi dence of a texti l e ­ | 255 59. His library in Aleppo was made waqf for the public good; see Y. Eché, Les bibliothèques arabes publiques et semi-publiques en Mesopotamie, en Syrie et en Égypte au Moyen Âge (Damascus, 1967), 130–1.

Bibliography Primary Sources Ibn al-‘Adim, Bughyat al-talab fi ta’rikh Halab, vol. 2, ed. S. Zakkar (Damascus, 1988). Ibn al-‘Adim, Zubdat al-halab min ta’rikh Halab, ed. S. Zakkar (Damascus, 1997). Ibn al-­Athir, Al-Kamil fi’l-ta’rikh, ed. C. J. Tornberg (Leiden and Uppsala, 1851–76). Ibn al-­Azraq al-­Fariqi, Ta’rikh Mayyafariqin, British Library MS Or. 5803. Ibn al-­Jawzi, Al-Muntazam, vol. 8, ed. F. Krenkow (Hyderabad, 1359). Ibn Khallikan, Kitab wafayat al-a‘yan, tr. Baron W. M. de Slane as Kitab wafayat al-a‘yan: Ibn Khallikan’s Biographical Dictionary, 4 vols (Paris, 1843–71). ‘Izz al-­Din Ibn Shaddad, Al-a‘laq al-khatira fi dhikr umara’ al-Sham wa’l-Jazira, tr. A.-M. Eddé-­Terrasse as Description de la Syrie du Nord (Damascus, 1984). Mirkhwand, Rawdat al-safa’ fi sirat al-anbiya’ wa’l-muluk wa’l-khulafa’, no editor (Lucknow, 1332). al-­Mutanabbi, Mutanabbi carmina cum commentario Wahidii, ed. F. Dieterici (Berlin, 1856–61). al-­Mutanabbi, Diwan, ed. A. ‘Azzam (Cairo, 1363/1944). al-­Mutanabbi, Poems of the Diwan of Abu Tayyib Ahmad Ibn Husain al-Mutanabbi, tr. A. Wormhoudt (Oxford, 1968). Rashid al-­Din, Jami‘ al-tawarikh, ed. A. Ateş (Ankara, 1960). Sibt b. al-­Jawzi, Mir’at al-zaman fi ta’rikh al-a‘yan, ed. A. Sevim (Ankara, 1968). Secondary Sources Allan, J. W., ‘Later Mamluk ­metalwork – ­II: A series of lunch-­boxes’, Oriental Art XVII/2 (Summer 1971), 1–8. Arberry, A. J., Arabic Poetry: A Primer for Students (Cambridge, 1965). Arberry, A. J., Poems of al-Mutanabbi (Cambridge, 1967). Arnold, T. W., Painting in Islam: A Study of the Place of Pictorial Art in Muslim Culture (New York, 1965). Biberstein-­Kazimirski, A. de, Dictionnaire arabe-français (Paris, 1860). Blachère, R., ‘La vie et l’oeuvre d’Abû t-­Tayyib al-­Mutanabbi’, in R. Blachère, Analecta (Damascus, 1975), 401–30.

256 | classi ca l is l a m Canard, M., Histoire de la dynastie des Hamdanides de Jazîra et de Syrie, vol. 1 (Paris, 1953). Canard, M., ‘Quelques aspects de la vie sociale en Syrie et Jazira au dixième siècle d’après les poètes de la cour Hamdanide’, Miscellanea orientalia (London, 1973), 168–90. Dermenghem, E., Les plus beaux textes arabes (Paris, 1951). Eché, Y., Les bibliothèques arabes publiques et semi-publiques en Mesopotamie, en Syrie et en Égypte au Moyen Âge (Damascus, 1967). Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd edn: al-­Mutanabbi (R. Blachère). Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd edn: Sayf al-­Dawla (T. Bianquis). Finster, B., ‘Die Mosaiken der Umayyadenmoschee von Damaskus’, Kunst des Orients 7/2 (1972), 85–141. Ghirshman, R., Iran: Parthians and Sasanians, trs S. Gilbert and J. Emmons (London, 1962). Gibb, H. A. R., Arabic Literature: An Introduction (Oxford, 1968). Gomez, E. G., Cinco poetas musulmanes: biografias y estudios (Madrid, 1944). Grabar, A., L’empereur dans l’art byzantin (Strasbourg, 1936). Grabar, O., ‘The painting of the Six Kings at Qusayr ‘Amrah’, Ars Orientalis 1 (1954), 185–7. Hamori, A., On the Art of Medieval Arabic Literature (Princeton, 1974). Hamori, A., The Composition of Mutanabbi’s Panegyrics to Sayf al-Dawla (Leiden, 1992). Herzfeld, E., ‘Die Konige der Erde’, Der Islam 21 (1933), 233–6. Hillenbrand, C., ‘Jihad poetry at the time of the Crusades’, in T. Madden, J. L. Naus and V. Ryan (eds), Crusades: Medieval Worlds in Conflict (Farnham and Burlington, VT, 2011), 9–23. Hillenbrand, C., Turkish Myth and Muslim Symbol: The Battle of Manzikert (Edinburgh, 2007). Horovitz, J., ‘Die Beschreibung eines Gemäldes bei Mutanabbi’, Der Islam I (1910), 385–8. Huart, C., A History of Arabic Literature (London, 1903). Lane, E. W., An Arabic–English Lexicon (Beirut, 1980). Lentz, T. W. and G. D. Lowry, Timur and the Princely Vision: Persian Art and Culture in the Fifteenth Century (Los Angeles and Washington, DC, 1989). Meister, M. W., ‘The pearl roundel in Chinese textile design’, Ars Orientalis 8 (1970), 255–67. Nicholson, R. A., A Literary History of the Arabs (Cambridge, 1969).

the evi dence of a texti l e ­ | 257 Nour, R., ‘Tamga ou Tag. Marque au fer chaud sur les chevaux à Sinope’, Journal Asiatique (1928), 1–4. Piccirillo, M., The Mosaics of Jordan (Amman, 1993). Shalem, A., ‘Forbidden territory: Early Islamic audience hall carpets’, Hali 99 (July 1998), 70–6. Vasiliev, A. A., History of the Byzantine Empire, vol. 1 (Madison and Milwaukee, 1964). Welch, S. C., Royal Persian Manuscripts (London, 1976). Welin, U. S. Winder, ‘Sayf al-­dawlah’s reign in Syria and Diyarbekr in the light of the numismatic evidence’, Commentationes de nummis saecolorum IX–XI in Schweden gefundenen Münzen des 9. bis 11. Jahrhunderts, vol. 1 (1961), 35–102. Wiet, G., Soieries persanes (Cairo, 1947).

14 The Kimiya-yi sa‘adat (The Alchemy of Happiness) of al-­Ghazali: A Misunderstood Work?1 This is the famous stone That turneth all to gold For that which God doth touch and own Cannot for lesse be told. George Herbert (d. 1633), The Elixir2

T

he writings of al-­Ghazali in Persian have been largely neglected in Western and Muslim scholarship alike. A large number of authentic works in Arabic have been attributed to al-­Ghazali and it is these that have attracted the attention of scholars. However, his small corpus of Persian writings composed in his later years, and therefore arguably giving his mature views on certain themes, are also worthy of attention. This chapter will focus on the longest book in Persian that al-­Ghazali wrote, the Kimiya-yi sa‘adat (The Alchemy of Happiness). It will aim to give a more precise and nuanced view of this important work than has yet been presented in a Western language, analysing its authorship, structure and contents, and examining the context in which it was written. This discussion should do something to dispel a number of the long-­standing misconceptions that surround this work. In particular, the chapter will argue that the Kimiya-yi sa‘adat is more than a summary in Persian of al-­Ghazali’s magnum opus, the Ihya’ ‘ulum al-din.

258

a mi sunderstood work? ­ | 259 What Exactly is the Work Entitled the Kimiya-yi sa‘adat? There are many manuscripts of a long Persian work entitled Kimiya-yi sa‘adat dispersed in libraries across the world. Their dates testify that this text, popular in the Persophone lands of the eastern Islamic w ­ orld – I­ ran, Central Asia, India and Ottoman ­Turkey – ­was frequently recopied over the centuries. The oldest surviving complete manuscript of the Kimiya dates from 595/1199.3 Two rather different editions were published in Iran, one first published by Ahmad Aram in 19404 and the other by Husayn Khadivjam in 1982.5 More recently, Alexei Khismatulin has published four chapters of the Kimiya in a parallel Russian–Persian facsimile edition; this is based on one of the very oldest known manuscript fragments of the Kimiya – Ms. B 4612 in the St Petersburg Branch of the Institute of Oriental Studies.6 Various specialists on al-­Ghazali have mentioned a small epistle entitled Kimiya al- sa‘ada, written in Arabic and included in a collection of shorter works of al-­Ghazali published in Beirut in 1409/1988.7 Reputable scholars have preferred to use this work rather than to consult the much longer work in Persian.8 Such scholars have readily accepted at face value the notion that al-­Ghazali wrote this work, despite the fact that Persian specialists, such as de Fouchécour, Khismatulin and Karimi, who have looked more closely into this matter, have produced convincing arguments to the contrary; it therefore seems preferable to term the author of this work Pseudo-­al-­Ghazali.9 The Translations of the Persian Kimiya There are frequent references in the scholarly literature on al-­Ghazali to translations of the work entitled the Kimiya-yi sa‘adat, but such references are very misleading. These so-­called translations of the Kimiya are only partial translations, and they are sometimes one stage removed from the Persian original. Until recently, there was no complete translation of the Kimiya into English.10 The Kimiya proved a popular work from a very early stage. It was a major source for the unknown author of the Bahr al-fawa’id (The Sea of Precious Virtues), which was written in Persian in Aleppo in the mid-­twelfth century and is a ‘Mirror for Princes’. Meisami points out that a number of passages in this work are quoted verbatim from the Kimiya.11

260 | classi ca l is l a m Parts of the Kimiya were translated, sometimes with commentaries, into Ottoman Turkish from the fifteenth century onwards; as Ülken explains, the majority of such translations consist of little books that concentrate on only one chapter at a time of this voluminous book.12 Henry Homes’ work called The Alchemy of Happiness by Mohammed al-Ghazzali, and published in 1873, is a translation of an Ottoman Turkish translation of part of the Kimiya, published in Istanbul in 1260/1845. Claud Field’s short book The Alchemy of Happiness/al-Ghazzali, which appeared in its first edition in 1910, takes a similarly convoluted route into English. It is a translation from a Hindustani translation of a tiny part of the Persian text and is published in a small format with wide margins and quite large print. Hellmuth Ritter’s German translation of a small proportion of the Kimiya is typically idiosyncratic. He does not mention what text or texts he is using for his translation and he gives no references to the page numbers of the texts he is translating. However, his exiguous footnotes, together with Schimmel’s foreword to the reprint of the book, make it clear that he is using parts of the Kimiya in conjunction with excerpts from the Ihya’.13 He shortens or omits difficult passages in the Kimiya without comment, but he does mention in the footnotes certain problematic phrases in the text, the translation of which he says he is unsure. His book consists of 199 pages in small format, whilst Khadivjam’s published edition of the Kimiya, in a much larger format with much more content on each page, has 1,165 pages of text. So Ritter’s translation can only be described as a very partial one indeed.14 To summarise, then, it is a mere travesty of the truth to treat either Field’s or Ritter’s translation as even an approximate guide to the contents of al-­Ghazali’s great work. More recently, Khismatulin’s Russian translation of part of the Kimiya has proved a very useful addition to knowledge about this important work.15 To What Extent is the Kimiya Based on the Ihya’ ? Both works contain forty books. These are divided into four quarters, each containing ten books. The plan set out in the appendix of this chapter presents the layout of chapters in both these works. It is clear from this plan that the Kimiya has many sections which bear similar names to those of the Ihya’. There are, however, major differences of structure in the two works. Firstly, the Kimiya has an introduction, which is not found in the Ihya’.

a mi sunderstood work? ­ | 261 Secondly, Pillar 2, Section 10 in the Ihya’, entitled ‘The life and character of the Prophet’, is omitted in the Kimiya and is replaced by a new section called ‘Government and exercising authority’; this is a small ‘Mirror for Princes’.16 Thirdly, the Kimiya does not include a section entitled ‘The wonders of the heart’ (‘Aja’ib al-qalb’), which is found in Pillar 3, Section 1 of the Ihya’.17 It is apparent from the plan in the appendix that the order of the sections in the two works often varies. It is important too to mention that within a given section the detailed arguments are frequently put in the Kimiya in a different order from that followed in the Ihya’. Generally speaking, the result is clearer in the Kimiya than in the Ihya’. The lengthy introduction to the Kimiya is also not present in the Ihya’. It sets the tone for the whole work and meditates extensively on the Sufi spiritual way. It is divided into a prologue and then four parts: on the knowledge of oneself, on the knowledge of God, on the knowledge of this world and on the knowledge of the next world. This new section is beautifully written. It contains and develops ideas scattered throughout the Ihya’, and more especially those located in Pillar 3, Section 1 of the Ihya’, and the section on ‘The wonders of the heart’ which is not found in the Kimiya. This introduction gives an extended treatment of spiritual themes that are to be found all through the Ihya’ but which are concentrated in a more accessible and persuasive form in the Kimiya and appropriately placed at the very beginning of the work. As for the content of the two works, the Kimiya omits much of the legal discussion found in the Ihya’. More than that: the remaining material is simplified. Clear-­cut instructions in the Kimiya replace complex, detailed legal counsels in the Ihya’. The Kimiya also contains fewer examples than the Ihya’ to illustrate one general point. In the Kimiya, al-­Ghazali is less anxious to present a complete scholarly apparatus in support of his argument. He is content to prove his point with Qur’anic quotations, hadith and a few other supporting anecdotes that are homespun and unpretentious in tone.18 The frequent Qur’anic quotations found in the Ihya’ are never summarised or omitted in the Kimiya; they are given in full in Arabic and then translated into Persian on each occasion (the ratio of Qur’anic quotations to other quotations in the Kimiya is broadly speaking the same as in the Ihya’). Similarly, there is no pruning of the regular references to the Prophet’s own

262 | classi ca l is l a m example, and, like the Ihya’, the Kimiya quotes many so-­called hadith that do not appear in the canonical hadith collections. Hadiths are presented generally in their Persian form. Both the Ihya’ and the Kimiya also make liberal use of similar anecdotes or sayings attributable to ‘Umar, Ahmad b. Hanbal, Jesus and early Sufis, such as Junayd and Dhu’l-­Nun. Al-­Ghazali’s tendency to utilise large sections of his predecessors’ ­work – ­so apparent in the Ihya’ – is less obvious in the Kimiya. The very task of crystallising and reinterpreting his thoughts written in lengthy form in Arabic in the Ihya’ and now expressed in short, lucid passages in Persian makes al-­ Ghazali less directly dependent on the actual phrasing of previous writers. To cite but one example, in the Kitab al-tawba of the Ihya’ al-­Ghazali has taken whole sections from al-­Makki’s Qut al-qulub.19 There is little of his own here at all. In contrast, in the Kitab al-tawba of the Kimiya, the dependence on al-­Makki, whilst still present in the themes addressed, is less apparent once al-­Ghazali has pruned, summarised and recomposed the subject matter in Persian.20 This suggests that al-­Ghazali composed the Kimiya in a more extempore manner than scholars have hitherto recognised, and that he did so on the basis of a framework borrowed from the Ihya’ rather than working laboriously to produce a summarised Persian translation of an Arabic text in front of him. So it would be fair to say that much, but by no means all, of the Kimiya is a summary of the material in the Ihya’, but that it is emphatically not a translation, even an abbreviated one, of the actual Arabic wording of the Ihya’, with the exception, of course, of the translated quotations from the Qur’an. The result is an entity rather different from the Ihya’. Was al-­Ghazali the Author of the Kimiya? The discussion so far has assumed that al-­Ghazali did indeed write the Kimiya and it is now time to verify this assumption. Indeed, the same question of authenticity has been asked of al-­Ghazali’s works in Arabic by specialists in Islamic thought, such as Bouyges and Badawi,21 who rejected as spurious a number of books attributed to al-­Ghazali. There is, moreover, always the possibility that a work thought to have been written by him may be genuinely his in some parts but not in others, as is probably the case, for example, with the Nasihat al-muluk, the second part of which does not seem to have been

a mi sunderstood work? ­ | 263 written by al-­Ghazali.22 And the situation with this latter work is all the more complicated because it was also written in Persian.23 As for the Kimiya, it has generally been accepted as being the work of al-­Ghazali by those scholars who have actually read it.24 Others who did not know Persian and therefore did not read the work have also accepted uncritically that it is a work of al-­Ghazali.25 There is in fact ample evidence, both internal and external, that al-­ Ghazali wrote the work. Within the body of the Kimiya, its author mentions explicitly in a number of places that he has also written the Ihya’.26 Since therefore it is generally accepted that al-­Ghazali wrote the Ihya’, it follows that he also wrote the Kimiya. Moreover, the author of the Kimiya also mentions other works of his, such as Jawahir al-Qur’an,27 the Bidaya28 and the Mishkat al-anwar.29 Since these are also generally accepted as al-­Ghazali’s works, this lends further support to the hypothesis that al-­Ghazali wrote the Kimiya. The external evidence is also telling. In one of the Persian letters attributed to al-­Ghazali, a letter addressed to the Seljuq vizier Fakhr al-­Mulk b. Nizam al-­Mulk, the author exhorts his reader to consult the Kimiya if he wishes to know the truth about Sufism.30 This statement suggests that the Kimiya was in existence at the time that the letter was written and that its author was the same person who wrote the letter. In addition, the ‘Mirror for Princes’ section in the Kimiya (Pillar 2, Section 10) is identical in subject matter31 with part of the first half of the Nasihat al-muluk, which is still generally accepted as having been written by al-­Ghazali.32 The Kimiya is also mentioned by al-­Ghazali in the Munqidh, which is widely considered to be his work.33 On the other hand, it could be argued that a number of works have been falsely attributed to al-­Ghazali. Why not the Kimiya too? It was common for works to be attributed to famous people for a number of different motives and it is not easy to assess the validity of these claims, especially as in-­ depth analyses of al-­Ghazali’s literary style have not yet been published.34 Alternatively, it is possible that some of the Kimiya may have been written by al-­Ghazali, whilst other parts were inserted by another person or persons, perhaps one or more of his disciples in Khurasan. Unfortunately, given the absence of holograph manuscripts, or texts authenticated in al-­Ghazali’s own lifetime, there is clearly no easy way out of

264 | classi ca l is l a m these difficulties. Nevertheless, it may be proposed that the onus of proof lies rather on the doubters than on those who believe the Kimiya to be the work of al-­Ghazali. Such as it is, the evidence on balance points firmly in favour of accepting the arguments that al-­Ghazali did write the Kimiya himself. Even so, it is only proper to give the reasoning that underlies this conclusion. If the Kimiya is a forgery, it is a very unsuccessful one and the forger has made a number of obvious blunders. A good forger would have followed the plan of the Ihya’ throughout, instead of inserting new material and rearranging the material in the Ihya’. A good forger would also have been more careful. Omitting the chapter about the Prophet would have been a bold move for anyone but al-­Ghazali to have made. The new passages in the Kimiya that are not in the Ihya’ are echoes, expansions or reworkings that fall well within the spirit of the Ihya’ and other known works of al-­Ghazali. To write such passages would be no easy task for a forger. The rearrangement and shortening of material in the Kimiya are also fully in accord with the spirit of the Ihya’. Only the true author of the Ihya’ would have dared to rearrange and add material so extensively when writing the Kimiya. The writer of the Kimiya knows the Ihya’ so intimately that he often draws in relevant quotations and ideas from disparate sections of the Ihya’ to illustrate his current argument. This is not surprising if it is accepted that al-­Ghazali is indeed the author of both works; but it would be a remarkably sustained feat of memory if the Kimiya were by someone other than al-­Ghazali. The Choice of a New Title: The Kimiya-yi sa‘adat To distance the Kimiya from the Ihya’, and to reinforce the new emphasis and independent nature of the Kimiya, al-­Ghazali gives this work a new title. As in other medieval cultures, the ‘science’ or pseudo-­science of alchemy presented writers with a potent set of images. Alchemists believed that metals formed a hierarchy of increasing purity until one attained the mystical perfection of gold. The transformation of base metals, which were imperfect, into gold can serve as an evocative symbol of man’s spiritual regeneration through travelling along the Sufi path. Al-­Ghazali was no stranger to these symbols. It is probable that Ahmad al-­Ghazali, a well-­known Persian Sufi poet and scholar,35 remained a major influence on the spiritual development

a mi sunderstood work? ­ | 265 of his more famous brother Abu Hamid Muhammad throughout the latter’s life. Alchemical imagery is expressed in the introduction to the Kimiya: Though man’s body is made of clay and lowly, the essence of his spirit is sublime and godly; though in the beginning his substance is mixed and contaminated with beastly, feral and devilish qualities, when he is placed in the crucible of conflict, he is cleansed of this pollution and contamination and becomes worthy to be close to God’s presence.36

Al-­Ghazali then goes on to explain the meaning of the title of his book: Just as that alchemy which changes copper and brass into the brightness of pure gold is difficult to find [. . .] so too the alchemy which changes the essence of man from the mud of bestiality to the purity and preciousness of the angelic state, so that he may find eternal happiness, is difficult to find and is not known to everyone. The purpose of writing this book is to explain the components of this alchemy which in truth is the alchemy of happiness. For this reason we have named this book The Alchemy of Happiness (Kimiya-yi sa‘adat). The name ‘alchemy’ is very fitting for it. The difference between copper and gold is no more than yellowness and weight, and the product of that [earthly] alchemy is no more than the enjoyment of this world. But how long does this world endure and wherein do the delights of this world lie? [However], the difference between the attributes of beasts and the attributes of angels is as vast as [the gap] from the lowest of the low to the highest of the high; and the product of this spiritual alchemy is eternal happiness, whose duration has no end, the varieties of whose enjoyment have no limit and whose purity of enjoyment no cloudiness can pollute.37

Why Did al-­Ghazali Write the Kimiya? The emergence of New Persian as a vehicle for literature and scholarly writing in the Persophone lands of Iran and Central Asia in the tenth and eleventh centuries has received much attention in recent years. It is not surprising, therefore, that when al-­Ghazali returned to Tus after his long absence from public life he must have realised that in Khurasan in the last decade of the

266 | classi ca l is l a m fifth century hijri there were good reasons for writing major works in his native tongue.38 The Kimiya is not the only work attributed to al-­Ghazali that is composed in Persian. Amongst his other writings in Persian are a number of letters that he wrote to prominent people of the age and that date from the period after his spiritual crisis in 488/1095.39 It is also believed that his pedagogical treatise, Ayyuha al-walad, was originally composed in Persian before appearing in Arabic, as was the first part of the Nasihat al-muluk. These writings of al-­Ghazali in Persian, and especially the longest of them, the Kimiya, seem to have been motivated by the Zeitgeist in Seljuq Iran and the nature of the religious and political milieu in which he spent the last few years of his life. It would seem, moreover, that knowledge of Arabic in the eastern Islamic world was not very solid and that Persian was the language through which to reach a wider audience.40 The years following the deaths of Nizam al-­Mulk and Malikshah in 485/1092 were turbulent, and the imminent advent of a new century must have added to an apocalyptic atmosphere, engendering deep malaise and anxiety about the future. Indeed, it seems that al-­Ghazali, with his towering intellect and pan-­Islamic fame, may well have been cast in the hearts and minds of the people of Khurasan and beyond in the role of the mujaddid, the person who renews the faith of Islam at the beginning of a new century in the Muslim calendar.41 Writing in Persian liberates al-­Ghazali and allows him, unencumbered by the necessity for elaborate argumentation, to address, criticise and try to reform contemporary society in his homeland of Khurasan. Two specific religious groupings, viewed by staunchly Sunni ‘ulema’ as heretical, may well have contributed to al-­Ghazali’s decision to write the Kimiya. Firstly, one may cite the so-­called Assassins of Alamut. Al-­Ghazali does not attack them and their leader Hasan-­i Sabbah overtly in the Kimiya. However, in view of the blistering attack on this group that al-­Ghazali made in his treatise, the Kitab al-Mustazhiri, commissioned by the caliph in Baghdad in the period 1091–5,42 it is unlikely that he changed his stance towards them in the years of his retreat from public life. On the contrary, just as the ‘new preaching’ (al-da‘wa al-jadida) of Hasan-­i Sabbah was written in Persian in order to be understood by the people of Iran and Central Asia, so too, if al-­Ghazali was to present a convincing alternative interpretation of the true path of Islam in his local milieu in Khurasan, he should write it in Persian.43

a mi sunderstood work? ­ | 267 It is also not impossible, as de Fouchécour remarks tentatively, that it was to respond to the Isma‘ilis, who borrowed the vocabulary and concepts of Jabirian alchemy, that al-­Ghazali presented his treatise as an ‘alchemy of happiness’.4 4 A second group, much more explicitly targeted in the Kimiya, is the Ibahis, rather nebulous, pseudo-­pious figures who parade in the apparel of Sufis but flout the Shari‘a; on such people al-­Ghazali vents much spleen and powerful invective, combining a violent attack on them with a staunch defence of the religious sciences and those who teach them: As for these free-­thinkers (Ibahatiyyan) and these useless wearers of tall hats (mutawwaqan),45 who have appeared nowadays, . . . who have got hold of a few fraudulent phrases from the incoherent speech of the Sufis, who do nothing but wash themselves all day long, adorn themselves with a loincloth, a patched cloak and a prayer mat and then pour scorn on learning and learned men, they deserve to be put to death. They are utterly devilish people and enemies of God and the Messenger; for God and the Messenger praised learning and learned men and they summoned the whole world to learning.46

As in his Persian letters, which are permeated with a political dimension, the Kimiya can be seen to be speaking to the rulers of the time and advising them how to govern justly according to the precepts of Islam. Indeed, the insertion of Pillar 2, Section 10, the little ‘Mirror for Princes’, could well have been prompted by the pressure placed on al-­Ghazali in 499/1105 by the vizier of the Seljuq sultan Sanjar, Fakhr al-­Mulk b. Nizam al-­Mulk, to play a more prominent public role again and to teach at the Nizamiyya in Nishapur.47 A year later, Fakhr al-­Mulk was killed, reportedly by the Assassins: a frightening reminder to al-­Ghazali of the dangers of fitna and of the horrific events of 485/1092 when he was in Baghdad. And for a man of al-­Ghazali’s years, the murder of Fakhr al-­Mulk might serve as a warning of God’s imminent judgement in the next world. Given the earthly and eschatological dangers of straying from the ‘straight path’, it is clear that al-­Ghazali sees the need to write about the importance of ‘true Sufism’ – that which is conducted within the framework of the Shari‘a. The Kimiya has been labelled a work of religious devotion and a treatise of

268 | classi ca l is l a m Muslim ethics, and both these labels are appropriate for it. But it is decisively more than that, for it is also an eloquent expression of the importance of Sufism ‘of the heart’. So the Kimiya is a work directed to those who follow the Sufi path, and no doubt to the disciples of al-­Ghazali himself, whom he exhorts to live their lives according to the spiritual rules carefully elaborated in the Kimiya. Al-­Ghazali explicitly states that he wishes the Kimiya to have wide circulation and to be understood with ease: We shall withhold our pen from lengthy, obscure expressions and subtle, difficult meanings, so that it (the book) may be u ­ nderstood . . . ­The aim of this book is people at large (‘awamm-i khalq),48 who have asked for this subject (to be explained to them) in Persian, and beyond the limit of whose understanding the discussion will not pass.49

It would be naive to assume that al-­Ghazali really uses the phrase ‘awamm-i khalq to mean the ‘common people’ in this context. It is much more likely that he is referring here to the Persian-­speaking urban elites in Khurasan, as well as their Turkish overlords who were more likely to know Persian rather than Arabic. And of course, as already mentioned, the Kimiya is also directed to his disciples. The style of the Kimiya is typical of the Persian prose produced in Khurasan in the eleventh century and the early twelfth century. It is beautiful, pellucid language; indeed, the Iranian scholar Bahar calls it the best Persian prose dating from Khurasan in the eleventh century.50 Concluding Comments Nearly all the attention in Western scholarship has been paid, not surprisingly, to al-­Ghazali’s numerous works in Arabic. These do, indeed, form the overwhelming majority of al-­Ghazali’s oeuvre. It is important, however, to note that al-­Ghazali was a Persian who also composed works in his native tongue; and yet these have been largely neglected by all but a few ­scholars – ­although all seem to accept en passant that al-­Ghazali did write in Persian too. Insufficient attention has been given to the fact that the Kimiya was a summation rather than merely a summary of al-­Ghazali’s thought. It seems plausible that he wrote this huge w ­ ork – ­its very size proclaims the seriousness of his ­purpose – ­as a testament to his life’s work, and in the full awareness of

a mi sunderstood work? ­ | 269 his own mortality. And he used his native language for this purpose, with all the ease and freedom of expression that it allowed him. These, then, are words which deserve careful attention for that very reason. Scholars of al-­Ghazali, who on the whole until recently have not even bothered to learn Persian,51 all too often say that the Kimiya-yi sa‘adat is a summary of the Ihya’, which it is not, and they imply, by their lack of interest in the Kimiya, that its material is all to be found in the Ihya’, which it is not. Traditionally, scholars unwilling to engage at close quarters with the Kimiya have consulted the so-­called ‘translations’ of Homes, Field or Ritter. It is to be hoped that the above discussion has shown that these translations offer a mere travesty of the breadth and detail of the Persian text of the Kimiya and that it is a work that deserves specific attention in its own right. If this paper has succeeded in dispelling some of the loose and lazy myths that surround al-­Ghazali’s Persian works, it will have fulfilled its purpose. Appendix: The Relationship between the Structure of the Kimiya-yi sa‘adat and That of the Ihya’ ‘ulum al-din The plan set out below presents the layout of chapters in both these works.

Ihya’ Kimiya Introduction

Pillar 1

Section 2 = Section 1 Section 1 = Section 2 Sections 3–10 (in same order)

Pillar 2

Sections 1–9 (in same order) Section 10 Section 10 (entitled: The life (entitled: Government and character and exercising of the Prophet) authority)

Pillar 3

Section 1 (entitled: The wonders of the heart) Section 2 =

Section 1

270 | classi ca l is l a m

Section 3 = Section 2 Section 4 = Section 3 Section 5 = Section 4 Section 6 = Section 5 Section 7 = Section 6 Section 8 = Sections 7 and 8 Sections 9–10 (in same order)

Pillar 4

Sections 1–4 (in same order) Section 5 = Section 8 Section 6 = Section 9 Section 7 = Section 5 Section 8 = Section 6 Section 9 = Section 7 Section 10

Notes  1. It is a great pleasure to contribute to this Festschrift in honour of Charles Melville, who has done so much, through his scholarship and public service, to promote Persian studies in Britain.   2. G. Herbert, The Poems of George Herbert (London, 1903), 166.   3. C. de Fouchécour, Moralia: Les notions morales dans la littérature persane du 3e/9e au 7e/13e siècle (Paris, 1986), 224.   4. The seventh edition of this work published by Intisharat-­i Ganjina is referred to in this chapter: Kimiya-yi sa‘adat, ed. A. Aram (Tehran, 1381/1961).   5. Ed. H. Khadivjam (Tehran, 1341/1976). The references to the Persian text used in this chapter come from Khadivjam’s seventh edition. The number of reprints of Aram’s and Khadivjam’s editions offer powerful testimony as to how popular this work is in the modern Persophone community.   6. This manuscript is described in detail by Khismatulin. It is a fragment of the Kimiya on which the date Ramadan 605/March–April 1209 appears. Cf. A. A. Khismatulin, ‘“The Alchemy of Happiness”: al-­Ghazali’s Kimiya and the origins of the Khwajagan-­Naqshbandiyya principles’, in S. Günther (ed.), Ideas, Images, and Methods of Portrayal: Insights into Classical Arabic Literature and Islam (Leiden, 2005), 229–30; see also the reference to this manuscript in Kimiya, ed. Khadivjam, i, 39.

a mi sunderstood work? ­ | 271   7. Pseudo-­al-­Ghazali, Kimiya al-sa‘ada in Majmu‘at rasa’il al-Imam al-Ghazali (Beirut, 1409/1988), 121–42.   8. Bouyges remarks that al-­Ghazali composed the Ihya’ in his period of retreat and then wrote the Kitab al-sa‘ada and other little works (opuscules): M. Bouyges, Essai de chronologie des oeuvres de al-Ghazali (Algazel), ed. M. Allard (Beirut, 1959), 42. Smith wrote about the Kimiya as the ‘little Arabic text’; M. Smith, Al-Ghazali the Mystic (reprinted Lahore, 1983), 175. Glassen speaks of a shorter Persian version of the Ihya’ with the title Kimiya al-sa‘ada; E. Glassen, Der mittlere Weg: Studien zur Religionspolitik und Religiosität der späteren Abbasiden-Zeit (Wiesbaden, 1981), 175.  9. De Fouchécour, Moralia; A. A. Khismatulin, ‘Some notes on The Kimiya-yi Sa‘adat (“The Elixir of Happiness”) by Abu Hamid al-­Ghazali at-­Tusi’, in S. Leder et al. (eds), Studies in Arabic and Islam: Proceedings of the 19th Congress Union Européenne des Arabisants et Islamisants Halle (Saale), 1998 (Leuven, 2002), 469–84; M. Karimi, ‘Etica politica e scomunica in età selgiuchide: Un’indagine critica delle opere di Abu Hamid Gazali’, in D. Cevenini and S. D’Onofrio (eds), ‘Uyun al-akhbar: Studio sul mondo islamico. Conflitti e dissensi nell’Islam (Bologna, 2009), 351–79. 10. Some years ago I completed a draft translation, with substantial commentary, of Volume 1 of the Khadivjam edition. In the interim, a complete translation has appeared: al-Ghazzali: Alchemy of Happiness (Kimiya al-sa‘adat): Hujat (sic) al-Islam Abu Hamid Muhammad Ghazzali Tusi, tr. J. R. Crook, Introduction by L. Bakhtiar, 2 vols (Chicago, 2008). 11. Anon, The Sea of Precious Virtues (Bahr al-fawa’id): A Medieval Islamic Mirror for Princes, tr. J. S. Meisami (Salt Lake City, 1991), xv–xvi. 12. Ülken provides an impressive list of the Ottoman Turkish translations of the Kimiya; cf. H. Z. Ülken, ‘Les traductions en turc de certains livres d’al-­Ghazali’, İlâhiyat Fakültesi Dergisi 9 (1961), 71–2. This list has been updated and expanded by Günaydin; cf. Y. T. Günaydin, ‘Gazâlî Tercümeleri: Osmanli Devri ve 1928 Sonrasi İodIçin Bir Bibliyografya Denemesi’, Dîvân Disiplinlerarasi Çalismalar Dergisi 16 (2011), 75–6. 13. H. Ritter, Al-Ghasali: Das Elixier der Glückseligkeit (Munich, 1989; 1st edition 1923). 14. It is certainly misleading to imply in bibliographies, such as the one given by Böwering in Encyclopaedia Iranica, that the ‘translations’ of the Kimiya by Field and Ritter are complete ones. That is, of course, far from the case. These ‘translations’ should be described more accurately.

272 | classi ca l is l a m 15. A. A. Khismatulin, The Kimiya-yi Sa‘adat (‘Elixir shchast’ya’) (Part 1: ‘Unwan 1–4. Rukn 1, St Petersburg, 2002; Part 2: Rukn 2, St Petersburg, 2007). Unfortunately, the valuable data in these two volumes will not have wide circulation amongst scholars because of the serious lack of knowledge of Russian in academic circles today. 16. Cf. C. Hillenbrand, ‘A little-­ known Mirror for Princes of al-­ Ghazali’, in R. Arnzen and J. Thielmann (eds), Words, Texts and Concepts Cruising the Mediterranean Sea (Leuven, 2004), 593–601. 17. The Kimiya’s omission of the ‘Aja’ib al-qalb, a very important part of the Ihya’ which has a much more overtly Sufi spirit, is significant. The reason for this omission is not hard to find, since the Kimiya overtly treats the Sufi way on many of its pages, not just in one section. 18. The same approach had been used in the Persian translation of the Tafsir of al-­ Tabari; Peacock comments that ‘virtually all of the commentary [. . .] is jettisoned in the Persian translation’; A. C. S. Peacock, Mediaeval Islamic Historiography and Political Legitimacy: Bal’ami’s Tarikhnama (London, 2007), 45. 19. For the dependence of al-­Ghazali on al-­Makki, cf. M. Amin, Evaluation of the Qut al-qulub of al-Makki, PhD thesis (University of Edinburgh, 1991). 20. Al-­Ghazali, Ihya’ ‘ulum al-din, editor unidentified (Cairo, n.d.), vol. 4, 2–59; Kimiya, vol. 2, 318–42. 21. ‘Abd al-­Rahman Badawi, Mu’allafat al-Ghazali (Cairo, 1961); Bouyges, Essai de chronologie. 22. Cf. P. Crone, ‘Did al-­Ghazali write a Mirror for Princes?’, Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 10 (1987), 167–91; C. Hillenbrand, ‘Islamic orthodoxy or Realpolitik?: al-­Ghazali’s views on government’, Iran 26 (1988), 92. 23. Bagley’s translation is based on the Persian text edited by J. Huma’i and the Bodleian Arabic text edited by H. Isaacs. For details, cf. Nasihat al-muluk, tr. F. R. C. Bagley as Ghazali’s Book of Counsel for Kings (London, 1964). 24. De Fouchécour writes that there are no arguments to question the authenticity of the Kimiya; cf. Moralia, 224; cf. also Khismatulin, ‘The Alchemy’, 262. 25. G. M. Wickens, ‘The “Persian letters” attributed to al-­Ghazali’, Islamic Quarterly 3/2 (1956), 109. 26. For example, Kimiya, ed. Khadivjam, vol. 1, 231–2, 262. 27. Ibid., vol. 1, 275. 28. Ibid., vol. 1, 262. 29. Ibid., vol. 1, 58: ‘We have given an explanation of this in our book Mishkat al-anwar wa-misfat al-asrar: it can be sought there’.

a mi sunderstood work? ­ | 273 30. Al-­Ghazali, Fada’il al-anam, tr. A. Qayyum as Letters of al-Ghazzali (Lahore, 1976), 37. 31. But it is not identical in the arrangement of its sections; cf. Hillenbrand, ‘A little-­ known Mirror’, 600. 32. Cf. note 16. 33. Al-­Ghazali, Al-munqid min adalal (Erreur et Délivrance), ed. and French tr. F. Jabre (Beirut, 1959), 50. 34. Sprenger mentions, for example, a History of the Prophets that was attributed to al-­Ghazali, as noted by Peacock, Mediaeval Islamic Historiography, 151. 35. Like his brother, Ahmad also taught at the Nizamiyya at Baghdad; Ibn Khallikan, Wafayat al-a‘yan wa anba’ abna’ al-zaman, tr. Baron MacGuckin de Slane as Kitab Wafayat al-a‘yan: Ibn Khallikan’s Biographical Dictionary (Paris, 1843–71), i, 79. 36. Kimiya, ed. Khadivjam, vol. 1, 4. 37. Ibid., vol. 1, 5. 38. This decision did not, however, deter him from continuing to write major works in Arabic, including the Munqidh and the Mustasfa. 39. Al-Ghazali, Fada’il al-anam, tr. A. Qayyum as Letters of al-Ghazzali (Lahore, 1976); cf. the German translation by D. Krawulsky as Briefe und Reden des Abu Hamid Muhammad al-Gazzali (Freiburg im Breisgau, 1971). 40. Richter-­Bernburg remarks sagely that the choice of which language to use is ‘nearly always based on practical grounds only’; L. Richter-­Bernburg, ‘Linguistic Shu‘ubiya and early neo-­Persian prose’, Journal of the American Oriental Society 94/1 (1974), 57. 41. Cf. the discussion in J. van Ess, ‘Quelques remarques sur le Munqid min ad-­ dalal’, in Ghazali: La raison et le miracle (Paris, 1987), 61–2. 42. Al-­Ghazali, Kitab fada‘ih al-Batiniyya wa-fada’il al-Mustazhiriyya, ed. ‘Abd al-­ Rahman Badawi (Cairo, 1382/1964). 43. Cf. H. Corbin, ‘The Isma‘ili response to the polemic of al-­Ghazali’, in S. H. Nasr (ed.), Isma‘ili Contributions to Islamic Culture (Tehran, 1977), 67–99. 44. De Fouchécour, Moralia, 227. 45. Amongst the various meanings of taqiyya in Persian territory is a tall hat; R. Dozy, Supplément aux dictionnaires arabes (Beirut, 1968), vol. 2, 71. 46. Kimiya, ed. Khadivjam, vol. 1, 38. One of his lesser-­known works in Persian is a treatise attacking this group: al-­Ghazali, Hamaqat al-Ibahiyya, ed. with a German translation by O. Pretzl as Die Streitschrift des Gazali gegen die Ibahija (Munich, 1933).

274 | classi ca l is l a m 47. The four letters written in Persian to Fakhr al-­Mulk by al-­Ghazali are very revealing in this respect. The murder of Fakhr al-­Mulk is mentioned in the earliest extant biography of al-­Ghazali, that of ‘Abd al-­Ghafir al-­Farisi, parts of which are translated by R. J. McCarthy, Freedom and Fulfillment: An Annotated Translation of al-Ghazali’s al-Munqidh min al-Dalal and Other Relevant Works of al-Ghazali (Boston, 1980), xvii. 48. This phrase has been translated thus, rather than as ‘the common people’. 49. Kimiya, ed. Khadivjam, vol. 1, 9. 50. Bahar, quoted by de Fouchécour, Moralia, 225. 51. De Fouchécour, Karimi and Khismatulin are obvious exceptions to this generalisation.

15 A Neglected Source on the Life of Hasan-­i Sabbah, the Founder of the Nizari ‘Assassin’ Sect 1. Introduction

T

he usual Arabic and Persian sources used for the biography of al-­Hasan b. al-­Sabbah (d. 518/1124) – or, as he is called in Iran, Hasan-­i ­Sabbah – ­the founder of the Nizari group better known as the Assassins, have been exploited to the full by the major scholars who have worked on this subject.1 The fullest coverage of Hasan-­i Sabbah in Arabic remains the chronicle of Ibn al-­Athir,2 while in Persian the works of Rashid al-­Din and Juwayni, who was vizier of the Mongols at the time of the sacking of the major Assassin stronghold of Alamut in north-­western Iran in 1256, have been used extensively in modern scholarship.3 Ibn al-­Athir produces narrative excerpts about the career of Hasan-­i Sabbah, with details of core events. The account of Juwayni, on the other hand, is at times a vituperative rant against Hasan-­i Sabbah, composed in high-­flown rhetorical Persian, and he claims, somewhat dubiously perhaps, to have unearthed the Sar Guzasht-i Sayyidna, the autobiography of Hasan-­i Sabbah himself. Juwayni quotes directly and extensively from this ‘source’. As early as 1837, the French scholar Quatremère mentions the valuable contents of the encyclopedic work of the Egyptian scholar al-­Maqrizi, the Kitab al-Muqaffa’ al-kabir. Quatremère points out that this book provides in alphabetical order the history of all the rulers of Egypt as well as the biographies of all the prominent people who flourished there, and even those who visited the country. Hasan-­i Sabbah fits into this last category. The Muqaffa’ is said to have been an enormous work, comprising around eighty volumes; only part of it is extant.4 275

276 | classi ca l is l a m In his book on the Assassins, Bernard Lewis mentions that the Muqaffa’ contains ‘a fuller version’ of the biography of Hasan-­i Sabbah given by Ibn al-­Athir; Lewis also remarks that the source of al-­Maqrizi’s fuller version found in the Muqaffa’ remains ‘unknown’.5 The career of Hasan-­i Sabbah is in fact also covered in some detail by al-­Maqrizi in his well-­known chronicle of the Fatimids, Itti‘az al-hunafa’.6 But there is little mention of the Muqaffa’ biography of Hasan in many modern books about his life. Some of the details about Hasan found in these two works by al-­Maqrizi have barely figured in modern studies of Hasan-­i Sabbah, and yet they shed curious light on his activities, his methods and his personality. In neither of these two works does al-­Maqrizi make any attempt to write an integrated biography of Hasan-­i Sabbah; instead, he provides excerpts which could form an initial basis for such a work. These excerpts are unfinished drafts and they leave many questions unanswered. Walker points out that the Muqaffa’ is often ignored even though it contains a great deal of information not in other historical works of al-­Maqrizi.7 The aims of this paper are to present a translation of the biography of Hasan-­i Sabbah in the Muqaffa’, to discuss more briefly the material about him in the Itti‘az, and to reflect generally on some of the more curious features of Hasan’s career and personality highlighted by al-­Maqrizi in the Muqaffa’. 2. A Translation of the Biography of Hasan-­i Sabbah in the Kitab al-Muqaffa’ of al-Maqrizi8 Al-­Hasan b. Sabbah al-­Razi, chief (ra’is) of the Isma‘iliyya, known as al-­ Kayyal.9 He was an astute, capable man knowledgeable in geometry, arithmetic, the stars, magic and other matters.10 He inclined towards the da‘wa of the Batiniyya and he became a disciple of Ahmad b. ‘Abd al-­Malik b. ‘Attash the doctor (al-tabib). He was a scribe for the chief (ra’is) ‘Abd al-­Razzaq b. Bahram, in Rayy. Abu Muslim, the lord of Rayy,11 suspected him of bringing a group of Egyptians there. Ibn al-­Sabbah became afraid of him and left Rayy. Abu Muslim searched for him but did not catch up with him. Ibn al-­Sabbah set out and went round the country and he arrived in Egypt in the year 479/1086–108712 in the guise of a merchant. He met the caliph al-­Mustansir bi’llah;13 he said that he had established his da‘wa in

a ne gl e c t e d source on the li f e of ha s a n- i s a b b a h ­ | 277 the land of Khurasan, and he brought him money. He stayed there a while. (Then) he (the caliph) heard things about him (Hasan) which made it necessary for him to imprison him. He then released him and bestowed favours on him and he wrote for him in his own handwriting an answer to questions which he had asked him about the madhhab of the Isma‘iliyya.14 Hasan left Cairo for Syria, the Jazira, Diyar Bakr and the land of Rum. He returned to Khurasan and entered Kashghar and Transoxiana, going round the people, preaching in support of al-­Mustansir and propagating the da‘wa in the land of Jibal, Qazvin and Isfahan so that it (the da‘wa) spread. He sent his missionaries and emissaries to the non-­Arab (‘ajam) lands and he instructed them with answers to their questions, such as: Why were the days seven? And the signs of the zodiac twelve? And the heavens seven? And the terrestrial globes seven? And the months twelve? And on every human hand there are five fingers? And on each finger there are three slits? And on the human back there are twelve vertebrae? And on his neck seven vertebrae? And other (questions) besides.15

Hasan claimed that he alone possessed from his imam the wells of knowledge and the wonder of secrets.16 The Isma‘ili da‘wa there was old and many of the people had accepted it. He began to buy arms and weapons of war secretly. He arranged to meet on a night that he appointed for them in Sha‘ban of the year 483/September– October 1090 some of those associates of his who had responded to him.17 The sultan at that time was Malikshah b. Alp Arslan. Hasan took the citadel of Alamut,18 which is in the environs of Qazvin, and it had many lands in Isfahan and a number of citadels. It belonged to the kings of al-­Daylam in olden days before Islam and at the beginning of Islam. It is extremely strong and well fortified.19 It is difficult to reach20 and it is surrounded by a small lake. Nizam al-­Mulk sent an army to the citadel of Alamut and besieged Ibn Sabbah until he failed in the siege. Hasan sent someone to kill Nizam al-­Mulk and when he was killed the army withdrew from Hasan. When he had taken possession of it (Alamut) Hasan met the Batiniyya of Isfahan and its surrounding areas with the leader of their missionaries, Ahmad b. ‘Attash.21 They took two great citadels22 and their power grew and their activity with the knife increased. The first of their activity with the

278 | classi ca l is l a m knife had been that al-­Hasan b. al-­Sabbah, when he disseminated his da‘wa, accompanied by a group (of men), presented himself in a religious and ascetic guise23 and said to the people of the citadel of Alamut: ‘We are feeble people and we want to worship God with you, so sell us half this citadel.’ And they bought it from them for 9,000 dinars and they settled there and he took possession of it. News of him reached the king of that area and he advanced on Hasan with troops to wage war against him. ‘Ali al-­Ya‘qubi24 said to al-­Hasan b. Sabbah and those with him: ‘What would I have from you if I put you in command of this army?’ He said: ‘We would mention you in our hymns of praise.’ He said: ‘I agree.’ Hasan went down with them and he divided them into four parts in the army. He beat a drum with them and said: ‘If you hear shouting, beat the drum.’ Then he attacked the commander of the army in the night and killed him. Shouting broke out in the army and those people banged the drum. The army did not feel safe because of their hearts being full of fear and they all fled and left their tents. And the associates of Ibn Sabbah carried them (the tents) to the citadel of Alamut. From that time they established the custom of the knife and they murdered kings and chiefs and their killing of people was plentiful. The imam Abu Hamid al-­Ghazali was called to Nishapur and stayed in the Nizamiyya madrasa there. He busied himself with disputing with the associates of Ibn Sabbah, he wrote the book al-Mustazhiri25 and he answered their questions. The sultan Malikshah made repeated efforts to uproot them but he could not do that. When al-­Mustansir bi’llah died in Dhu’l-­Hijja 487/December 1094, al-­Hasan b. al-­Sabbah claimed that he had said to al-­Mustansir when he had been with him: ‘Who is the imam after you?’ He had said: ‘My son Nizar.’ Hasan denied the imamate of al-­Musta‘li and preached on behalf of Nizar b. al-­Mustansir. When Nizar was killed in Dhu’l-­Qa‘da (4)88/November 1095, the associates of Ibn al-­Sabbah said to him: ‘You claimed that he would come.’ He said to them: ‘The sign of that is that the moon will appear (but) not at its (usual) time of rising.’ Then he went to an extremely high mountain beside them, and he performed one of his miraculous tricks and it began to look as if the moon had risen behind the mountain. Thereupon, some of them began announcing to others the good news about the Imam Nizar. They felt disgust for the people of Egypt and began conquering fortresses,

a ne gl e c t e d source on the li f e of ha s a n- i s a b b a h ­ | 279 and they took citadels. They busied themselves with the knife which ‘Ali al-­Ya‘qubi had sharpened for them. Ibn al-­Sabbah began saying to his associates: Indeed the Imam Nizar is amongst many enemies, and enemies surround him. And the country is far away and he could not come, so he decided to hide in the belly of a woman and to be born again in order to arrive safely.

They believed him about that and he fetched out to them a pregnant girl and he said to them: ‘The Imam is hidden in this one.’ They exalted her until she gave birth to a male. He called him Hasan and said: ‘The name has changed with the change of face.’ In Muharram of the year 503/August 1109 Sultan Muhammad b. Malikshah sent his vizier Ahmad b. Nizam al-­Mulk to the citadel of Alamut to fight al-­Hasan b. al-­Sabbah. He laid siege to him; the winter took him by surprise and he returned having achieved nothing. In the year 505/1111–12 the amir Anushtegin Shirgir, lord of Sawa, sent (troops) to fight Hasan. He took possession of a number of citadels belonging to al-­Hasan b. al-­Sabbah, he encamped at the citadel of Alamut with his troops and Sultan Muhammad reinforced him with a number of amirs. He persisted in fighting al-­Hasan b. al-­Sabbah and for that (purpose) he built houses in which he and those with him lived. Things became difficult for al-­Hasan and food became scarce for him until he gave out to each of his associates a loaf and three walnuts each day. While they were in that (situation) the sultan died and the army moved off and al-­Hasan gained as booty what was left behind by them.26 Then Ibn Sabbah sent some of his associates to kill al-­Afdal b. Amir al-­Juyush. When he was killed in the month of Ramadan of the year 515/ November–December 1121, al-­Qa’id Abu ‘Abdallah Muhammad b. Fatik, known as al-­Ma’mun al-­Bata’ihi,27 was appointed as the vizier to the caliph al-­ Amir bi-­ahkam Allah.28 After the killing of al-­Afdal, it came to his knowledge that the Nizariyya and al-­Hasan b. al-­Sabbah were pleased about the death of al-­Afdal and that their hopes were (now) extended to the killing of al-­Amir and al-­Ma’mun. Ibn Sabbah had sent messengers to those associates of his in Egypt with money to distribute among them. At that point al-­Ma’mun took strong control over the situation in Egypt, to such an extent that he seized a

280 | classi ca l is l a m great number of the associates of al-­Hasan b. al-­Sabbah. He gave a lecture29 in the citadel to dispute the subject of the Nizaris and he wrote to al-­Hasan b. al-­Sabbah warning him and ordering him to refrain from talking about the imamate of Nizar. But Hasan was not happy with that and he remained with his da‘wa until he died in the district of Alamut in the year 518.30 He followed a path (simt) (of religion) and he practised asceticism. A Daylami called Buzurgumid31 took over in Alamut. 3. The Account of Hasan-­i Sabbah in the Itti‘az The Itti‘az al-hunafa’ also contains extracts from Hasan’s life.32 The narrative here is more sober in tone. It contains some information not found in the Muqaffa’ and it excludes the more dramatic anecdotes found in the Muqaffa’ about Hasan and the moon and his questions to his followers about the significance of certain numbers, such as seven and twelve. Details of Hasan’s early career in Rayy, his stay in Egypt and the conversation between him and al-­Mustansir, in which the caliph announces that his successor will be Nizar, are found here too. The account then moves to Hasan’s return to Iran, his spreading of the da‘wa of al-­Mustansir, his preparations for military conflict, and his capture of Alamut and other citadels, especially two in the vicinity of Isfahan. Here al-­Maqrizi acknowledges that he has found his information from ‘sources from the east’, which mention that ‘the Batiniyya went from the citadel of Alamut and treacherously carried out much killing amongst the people’.33 4. Analysis It is interesting to note the details of the life and image of Hasan-­i Sabbah presented by al-­Maqrizi and to compare these details with the standard image of Hasan given in the Persian sources, and especially by Juwayni and Rashid al-­Din. There is nothing in the Muqaffa’ about Hasan’s family or early life. Al-­ Maqrizi’s account begins after the establishment of ‘Abd al-­Malik b. ‘Attash as chief da‘i in Seljuq territory by around the year 460/1067. In Ramadan 464/May–June 1072, Hasan had been brought to the notice of Ibn ‘Attash.34 Hasan’s arrival in Egypt in the year 479/1086 and his activities there may well explain al-­Maqrizi’s interest in him. He arrives disguised as a merchant,

a ne gl e c t e d source on the li f e of ha s a n- i s a b b a h ­ | 281 but almost immediately al-­Maqrizi mentions specifically that Hasan actually did meet the caliph al-­Mustansir and talk with him, petitioning him for help in propagating the da‘wa in far-­off Khurasan. The caliph, says al-­Maqrizi, duly put him in charge of the da‘wa for those regions. He also worked as a scribe for the caliph, as he had for the Isma‘ili ra’is in Rayy. Hasan must have been a man of some social skills, for the caliph furnished him with money and indeed bestowed abundant favours on him. But then al-­Mustansir ‘heard some talk about him’ which led him to arrest Hasan and imprison him. Al-­Maqrizi gives no time-­scale here, and he remains enigmatic as to what these hostile rumours might have been. At all events, Hasan was later released and was obviously restored to the caliph’s favour, for al-­Maqrizi describes (again, giving no specifics) how he discussed a number of Isma‘ili issues with the caliph, who answered them in his own handwriting, a signal honour. Al-­Maqrizi particularly stresses that Hasan also asked the c­ aliph – w ­ ith pointed clarity – ‘O Commander of the Believers, who is the Imam after you?’ And he said to him: ‘My son Nizar.’ 5. Hasan’s Military Activities In the Kitab al-Muqaffa’ al-­Maqrizi notes that in the year 483/1090 Hasan began to buy weapons and military equipment secretly, and he arranged a meeting one night with his close associates in Sha‘ban in that year. Two matters are of interest here. First, the secrecy with which he accumulated a store of weapons. This is surely of a piece with his capacity to keep his true motives hidden. In Iran he was a member of a savagely persecuted minority and it was a matter of life and death to stay out of sight. Secondly, the dramatic touch of testing the loyalty of his followers by demanding their presence at a given place on one particular night demonstrates the hold he exercised over them and the absolute obedience which he exacted. All this bore fruit in the enterprise for which he is remembered to this day: the creation of a cohort of highly trained and disciplined killers prepared to sacrifice their own lives to bring down the principal enemies of their faith in as public a manner as possible. In so doing they demonstrated the long arm of Hasan-­i Sabbah and sowed widespread terror. At a stroke this policy neutralised the numerical weakness that had long disabled the Isma‘ilis in Iran. That numerical weakness of the Nizari Isma‘ilis vis-­à-vis their Sunni enemies also sufficiently explains another strategy adopted by Hasan-­i Sabbah,

282 | classi ca l is l a m namely to capture isolated citadels and make these the key centres of his operations. Al-­Maqrizi notes that the first of these citadels to fall to him was Alamut in the mountains to the north of Qazvin. Al-­Maqrizi then outlines how the power of the Nizaris grew and their activity with the knife increased. He also stresses this theme in the Itti‘az, noting in sombre fashion ‘from what has been mentioned in the accounts of the east an indescribable amount of affliction was caused by Hasan to the people’. The soundness of Hasan’s policy quickly revealed itself. Alamut was repeatedly attacked. But he had chosen well; in the words of the Muqaffa’, ‘it is extremely strong and well fortified. It is difficult to reach and it is surrounded by a small lake’. A series of unsuccessful attempts to take the citadel by Seljuq armies are mentioned in the account of al-­Maqrizi; all failed. 6. Hasan’s Methods for Spreading the Isma‘ili Da‘wa The scope and range of Hasan’s journeys to spread the da‘wa, as related by al-­Maqrizi in the Muqaffa’, are indeed ­remarkable – ­from Egypt and Syria to the land of Rum, Diyar Bakr, the Jazira and the provinces of central and western Iran. But he goes still further afield, to Transoxiana and even to Kashghar on the very borders of China, and he sends his missionaries and emissaries there. Al-­Maqrizi’s account of the instructions that Hasan gave them before they began their travels yields some new insights into the secrets of Hasan’s success. When he mentions the religious views of Hasan in the Muqaffa’, al-­ Maqrizi does not make any reference to the well-­known account of the complex doctrines of the Isma‘ilis provided by al-­Shahrastani (d. 548/1153) in his book Kitab al-milal wa’l-nihal.35 Instead, al-­Maqrizi has assembled more unusual material about Hasan’s preaching. As in a number of other sources, notably in Ibn al-­Athir, the Muqaffa’ quotes verbatim this sentence which describes Hasan’s diverse skills: ‘He was an astute, capable man knowledgeable in geometry, arithmetic, the stars, magic and other matters.’ Such arcane knowledge lent itself to be easily manipulated in unscrupulous fashion to mystify and persuade Hasan’s followers. Al-­Maqrizi gives Hasan the additional name of al-­Kayyal. This name refers back to a tenth-­century heterodox Shi‘ite gnostic of this name who

a ne gl e c t e d source on the li f e of ha s a n- i s a b b a h ­ | 283 preached esoteric doctrines about the links between the spiritual and corporeal worlds and the human body.36 It is not clear from al-­Maqrizi’s account whether he has used this title for Hasan in a pejorative way or merely as a descriptive term. It is probable that Hasan-­i Sabbah, a clever religious scholar as well as a shrewd handler of people, was interested in divination, omens, horoscopes and folk beliefs. He also possessed a knowledge of a range of sciences, and in particular ‘ilm al-nujum (astronomy/astrology) and the works of al-­Khwarazmi (d. 850), al-­Biruni (d. 1048) and ‘Umar Khayyam (d. 1131). Recent research on the anonymous work written in Arabic and entitled Dustur al-munajjimin (its author appears to have been a follower of Hasan) reveals that under the leadership of Hasan-­i Sabbah the Iranian Nizari Isma‘ilis were knowledgeable about a range of sciences. The work, which dates from between 487/1095 and 513/1119, deals with astronomy and astrology and it reveals a close link between this field of science and the Isma‘ili da‘wa.37 On the face of it, the sequence of questions which Hasan asks the people suggests numerology and symbolism. What, might one ask, has this got to do with Isma‘ili doctrine? He claimed to have learned from his Imam about ‘the wells of knowledge and the marvels of secrets’. Such words have an esoteric ring to them. The Muqaffa’ gives an account of Hasan’s instructions to his da‘is with a curious catalogue of numbers. The importance of numerology clearly plays a part in the interpretation of Isma‘ili beliefs. The earlier Isma‘ili da‘is, al-­Sijistani (d. 331/942) and al-­Kirmani (d. after 363/947), emphasise, not surprisingly, the importance both of the number seven in the concept of seven cycles of spiritual birth and also of the number three which signifies, according to Ahmad al-­Naysaburi (d. 386/996), three stages of instruction.38 However, al-­Sijistani and al-­Kirmani also speak of the number ten in the context of Ten Intellects and Ten Spheres.39 Al-­Maqrizi’s account does not mention the importance of the number ten, but certain n ­ umbers – ­seven, twelve, five and ­three – ­are significant in the doctrines taught by Hasan according to the account in the Muqaffa’. Among the most intriguing aspects of al-­Maqrizi’s account of Hasan and his modus operandi are the instructions which Hasan gives to his missionaries to non-­Arab lands when he dispatches them on their missions of conversion. They were embarking on potentially dangerous journeys. They may well

284 | classi ca l is l a m have encountered fierce hostility not only from Sunni Muslims who were unwilling to accept the teaching that they heard, but also from spies who were listening with hostile intent. These real and present dangers imposed on the missionaries, and on those whom they converted, a need for unremitting vigilance and, beyond that, for secrecy about the content of the preaching. Conversion, after all, brought the risk of lethal reprisals from the guardians of Sunni orthodoxy. When al-­Maqrizi’s report is considered in this light, the first impressions that might be triggered by his account, which seems to present Hasan-­i Sabbah as something of a mystagogue, even a charlatan, require revision. It might possibly be that he was speaking in code. It is noticeable that in this account he does not furnish his missionaries and emissaries with a potted digest of Isma‘ili doctrines. Above all, those doctrines are not written down. If they had been, and had fallen into the wrong hands, they would be incriminating. So he relies on their powers of memory, thus using orality rather than literacy to recall the key tenets of the Isma‘ili faith. In short, the questions about numbers which Hasan-­i Sabbah lists are in the nature of mnemonics. To make things easier, they deal with inter-­related matters. Thus, the mention of days leads naturally to the zodiac, which in turn leads naturally to the celestial bodies, which in their turn lead naturally to the human beings whose destiny they influence. This inter-­relatedness, then, makes it easier to remember them. But there is more to the passage about numbers than this. These everyday concepts and ­objects – ­days and months, the signs of the zodiac, the heavens and the earths, the five fingers, the joints on each finger and on the ­backbone – ­are easily available and understandable to one and all. They are not the preserve of a literate elite. And of course most of the people to whom the missionaries and emissaries were going to preach would have been illiterate. So the message of the da‘is, while it would no doubt have contained esoteric elements for those intrigued by such matters, would have been so packaged as to appeal to as wide an audience as possible, and to have been obviously based on everyday realities understandable to all. There is a further dimension to this account. Numerology was an integral part of the medieval Muslim mindset. So the numerological aspect of these questions would pique the interest of an enquiring or indeed of a supersti-

a ne gl e c t e d source on the li f e of ha s a n- i s a b b a h ­ | 285 tious mind. Finally, the notion that these questions are actually a series of mnemonics has a much wider application than to the da‘is alone. The converts that they made would thereby be enabled to remember key doctrines of the Isma‘ili faith. Those doctrines would be embedded in the minds of new converts by the very familiarity of the objects and concepts to which they were related. Their daily life would ensure that these objects and concepts would speak to them repeatedly, enriched by these new associations, at unpredictable hours of the day and night. Hasan-­i Sabbah, then, emerges as a shrewd psychologist rather than as a confidence trickster. What al-­Maqrizi himself thought about all this material remains unclear but at least he chose to include it, while omitting many other details of the life and work of Hasan. When Hasan wishes to gain access to the citadel of Alamut, he and his men present themselves as ascetics wanting to worship God and he offers the people living there the sum of 9,000 dinars to sell him half the castle. This they do in all innocence, but it is not long before Hasan has taken total control of the citadel. Some of the anecdotes included by al-­Maqrizi in the Muqaffa’ account are clearly in the category of ‘tall stories’ reminiscent in some ways of the implausible tales told by Usama b. Munqidh about the antics of the Crusaders in the Holy Land.40 The story related by al-­Maqrizi about the moon is similar. Hasan’s followers in Alamut are disappointed that the new Imam Nizar has not come to join them, after his father al-­Mustansir’s death, as Hasan has promised he would. So, according to al-­Maqrizi’s narrative, Hasan then pulls off a masterstroke of deception, though the exact manner in which he achieves it is very vague. By one of what al-­Maqrizi calls Hasan’s miraculous tricks, he makes it seem as if the moon has risen at an unusual time from behind a mountain. Even more of a ‘tall story’ related by al-­Maqrizi is the birth of the new Imam at Alamut from the womb of an unnamed woman whom Hasan had produced to show to his followers who were complaining about the non-­ appearance of Nizar. It is noteworthy, however, that al-­Maqrizi does not include some of the legendary material found in earlier Arabic sources on which he has drawn in other parts of his biography of Hasan. For example, he does not mention, as Ibn al-­Jawzi does, Hasan commanding some of his followers to leap to their death from high places.41

286 | classi ca l is l a m 7. Concluding Reflections It is hard to sum up al-­Maqrizi’s attitude to Hasan-­i Sabbah as he portrays him in the Muqaffa’. It is not surprising that he gives details of Hasan’s brief stay in Egypt. Indeed, previous scholarship on al-­Maqrizi by established specialists both in the field of Isma‘ili studies and of the history of Egypt has tended to view al-­Maqrizi as being very interested in the Fatimid dynasty and as showing respect towards its rulers in his writings.42 Indeed, there is clear proof of this in the fact that despite being a Sunni Muslim himself, he devoted the Itti‘az al-hunafa’ to the history of the Fatimids. This positive view is argued strongly by Halm, who writes of al-­Maqrizi: ‘To him the Fatimids are not heretic or even heterodox usurpers, but the legitimate forerunners of the Ayyubid and Mamluk sultans, a view that the modern historian can unhesitatingly adopt.’43 However, one may wonder whether this accolade about al-­Maqrizi’s attitude to the Fatimids applies equally to the breakaway Nizari Isma‘ilis and their leader, Hasan-­i Sabbah. The picture of Hasan presented in the Muqaffa’ is a far cry from that given by Juwayni, Rashid al-­Din and other medieval Persian historians; they portray an austere, rigorous scholar, autocratic and severe towards any misdemeanours committed by his followers, including his own family. This was an amazing man who never left Alamut in the course of more than thirty years.44 The two texts in which al-­Maqrizi writes about Hasan-­i Sabbah contain a certain amount of repetition from Ibn al-­Athir, some of it verbatim. But they are also full of lively details, some of which are apparently not to be found elsewhere. Hasan-­i Sabbah emerges from these pages of al-­Maqrizi as a complex character who wore many faces. Hence the cryptic summing up by al-­Maqrizi in the Muqaffa’ when reporting Hasan’s death at Alamut in 518/1124. He writes that Hasan ‘pursued his own path of religion and asceticism and he had followers of his (own) kind’. That is all that al-­Maqrizi says directly, but other aspects of Hasan’s character and modus operandi may be sensed from his narrative. There is no reason to doubt that Hasan enthusiastically and successfully preached the da‘wa of al-­Mustansir and his son Nizar. Whether that was enough to make him an inspirational religious leader is questionable. He was clearly an effective military commander. Other aspects of his personality

a ne gl e c t e d source on the li f e of ha s a n- i s a b b a h ­ | 287 are rather harder to pin down; indeed, he had something of the chameleon about him. He was obviously an expert obfuscator, a negotiator of cunning and resourcefulness, and able to extemporise plausibly in a pseudo-­scientific manner. He must have been charming and persuasive when he set his mind to it. And he seems to have had an inborn talent for dissimulation coupled with a readiness to take bold risks when required, as shown in his dealings with al-­Mustansir or in the way he cleverly and bloodlessly averted the threat of an attack on Alamut by a local ruler whose men Hasan caused to panic. So he was indeed a man of parts, a worthy opponent of Nizam al-­Mulk and successive Seljuq sultans. Acknowledgements It is a great pleasure to dedicate this chapter to Dr Paul Luft with great affection and thanks for his friendship over many years. Notes  1. Lewis, The Assassins, 38–63; Hodgson, ‘Hasan-­i Sabbah’, 424–49; and Daftary, ‘Hasan-­i Sabbah and the Origins of the Nizari Isma‘ili Movement’, 181–204.   2. Ibn al-­Athir, Al-Kamil fi’l-ta’rikh.  3. Juwayni, Ta’rikh-i Jahan-Gushay; Rashid al-­Din, Djami et-Tévarikh.  4. Quatremère, Histoire des Sultans Mamlouks, de l’Égypte, écrite en arabe par Takieddin-Ahmad-Makrizi, xi.  5. Lewis, The Assassins, 148.   6. Al-­Maqrizi, Itti‘az al-hunafa’ bi akhbar al-a’imma al-Fatimiyyin al-khulafa’, 323–4, 326.   7. Walker, ‘Al-­Maqrizi and the Fatimids’, 93.   8. Al-­Maqrizi, Itti‘az al-hunafa’ bi akhbar al-a’imma al-Fatimiyyin al-khulafa’, 327–31.   9. Al-­Kayyal literally means ‘the corn measurer’. 10. The wording of this sentence is exactly the same as that given by Ibn al-­Athir, Al-Kamil fi’l-ta’rikh, 131; the same quotation occurs in al-‘Ayni, Iqd al-juman fi ta’rikh ahl al-zaman, 618. 11. He was the son-­in-­law of Nizam al-­Mulk. 12. Juwayni gives the date of 471/1078–9 for the arrival of Hasan-­i Sabbah in Egypt (Juwayni, Ta’rikh-i Jahan-Gushay, 668). 13. According to Juwayni, Hasan did not meet al-­Mustansir, but Hasan himself said

288 | classi ca l is l a m that al-­Mustansir ‘knew of me and several times spoke in praise of me’ (Juwayni, Ta’rikh-i Jahan-Gushay, 668). Ibn al-­Athir, on the other hand, writes that al-­ Mustansir personally revealed to Hasan that his successor would be Nizar (Ibn al-­Athir, Al-Kamil fi’l-ta’rikh, 82). Ibn Muyassar and al-­Maqrizi in the Itti‘az also support this version of events (Ibn Muyassar, Akhbar Misr, 618; al-­Maqrizi, Itti‘az al-hunafa’ bi akhbar al-a’imma al-Fatimiyyin al-khulafa’, II, 323). 14. This narrative is very similar to the one given by al-­Maqrizi in the Itti‘az: al-­Maqrizi, Itti‘az al-hunafa’ bi akhbar al-a’imma al-Fatimiyyin al-khulafa’, II, 323. 15. The number seven has an obviously special importance for the Isma‘ilis; see Endress and Schimmel, Das Mysterium der Zahl, 165. The reference to the twelve stations of the zodiac is a crucial link since it is the sum of 7 + 5 = 12. Endres and Schimmel, Das Mysterium der Zahl, 209 quote an ancient piece of wisdom mentioned by Schiller: Fünf und Sieben, Die heiligen Zahlen Ruhen in der Zwölfte.

16. Juwayni stresses that Hasan had learned the ‘hidden secrets’ of the faith (Juwayni, Ta’rikh-i Jahan-Gushay, 668). He also speaks of the tricks of Hasan’s propaganda (Juwayni, Ta’rikh-i Jahan-Gushay, 674). 17. Al-mustajibin. This was a technical term used for those who had been persuaded to join the Nizari cause; Daftary, ‘Hasan-­i Sabbah and the Origins of the Nizari Isma‘ili Movement’, 186. 18. Al-­Maqrizi gives no date for the taking of Alamut. According to Juwayni the date of the capture of the citadel was 6 Rajab 483/4 September 1090 (Juwayni, Ta’rikh-i Jahan-Gushay, 670). 19. Itti‘az, 323. 20. Literally: ‘Efforts to climb it are not successful’. 21. The name is given as Ahmad b. ‘Abd al-­Malik b. ‘Attash in the Itti‘az, 324. 22. Named as al-­Darr and al-­Jan, both on the hills of Isfahan; Itti‘az, 324. 23. Juwayni also emphasises Hasan’s extreme asceticism (Juwayni, Ta’rikh-i JahanGushay, 670). 24. ‘Ali al-­Ya‘­qubi – ­presumably the Daylami ruler who owned Alamut. 25. The full title of this work is the Kitab fada’ih al-Batiniyya wa-fada’il al-Mustazhiriyya (al-­Ghazali, Kitab fada’ih al-Batiniyya wa-fada’il al-Mustazhiriyya). The work probably appeared in 488/1095 just before al-­Ghazali’s famous departure from

a ne gl e c t e d source on the li f e of ha s a n- i s a b b a h ­ | 289 Baghdad that year; see Hillenbrand, ‘Islamic Orthodoxy or Realpolitik?’ 82. This was not the only work commissioned by the caliph al-­Mustazhir and called the Mustazhiri. According to the account in the Itti‘az, Sultan Malikshah had summoned a scholar called Imam Abu Yusuf al-­Khazin to debate issues with Hasan’s associates. He then wrote his book entitled Al-Mustazhiri, answering the issues that had been raised (al-­Maqrizi, Itti‘az al-hunafa’ bi akhbar al-a’imma al-Fatimiyyin al-khulafa’, 324). Ibn Khallikan mentions that Abu Bakr al-­Shashi, ­who – ­like al-­Ghazali – ­was appointed to the Nizamiyya madrasa in Baghdad (in 504/1110–11), also wrote a work of the same name (Ibn Khallikan, Kitab wafayat al-a‘yan, II, 625–6). 26. According to Juwayni, Sultan Muhammad sent Anushtegin Shirgir to lay siege to Alamut in 511/1117–18. When the sultan died, his troops besieging Alamut went away and the Isma‘ilis took all their stores and equipment to their castles (Juwayni, Ta’rikh-i Jahan-Gushay, 681). 27. Dunlop, ‘Al-­Bata’ihi’. 28. The tenth Fatimid caliph. He was appointed caliph aged five by al-­Afdal after the death of his father al-­Musta‘li (14 Safar 495/8 December 1101). He was assassinated by some Nizaris in 524/1130; see Stern ‘Al-­Amir’. 29. Stern argues convincingly that the word majlis can mean ‘lecture’ (Stern, ‘The Epistle of the Fatimid Caliph al-­Amir (al-Hidaya al-Amiriyya)’, 31). 30. According to Juwayni, al-­Hasan died on 6 Rabi‘ II 518/23 May 1124 (Juwayni, Ta’rikh-i Jahan-Gushay, 683). See also Ibn Muyassar, Akhbar Misr, 97 and al-­Maqrizi, Kitab al-muqaffa’ al-kabir, III, 108. 31. Buzurgumid ruled at Alamut from 518/1124 to 532/1138. His name is misunderstood in the Arabic text, where it is written as bzrkmn (al-­Maqrizi, Kitab al-muqaffa’ al-kabir, 331). 32. For the major narrative about Hasan in the Itti‘az, see al-­Maqrizi, Kitab almuqaffa’ al-kabir, II, 323–4, 326. 33. Al-­Maqrizi, Kitab al-muqaffa’ al-kabir, II, 323. 34. Daftary, ‘Hasan-­i Sabbah and the Origins of the Nizari Isma‘ili Movement’, 184–5. A widespread view is that Hasan did not meet al-­Mustansir; see Daftary ‘Hasan-­i Sabbah and the Origins of the Nizari Isma‘ili Movement’, 186. 35. Al-­Shahrastani, Kitab al-milal wa’l-nihal, 309–19. 36. Madelung, ‘Al-­Kayyal’. 37. Karimi Zanjani Asl, Ta’rikh wa-ta’wil bi-riwayat Dustur al-munajjimin, 93–4; Orthmann ‘Astrologie und Propaganda’, 131–42. 38. Makarim, The Doctrines of the Ismailis, 19–20.

290 | classi ca l is l a m 39. Ibid., 21, 28. 40. Cobb, ‘Usama Ibn Munqidh’s Lubab al-Adab (The Kernels of Refinement)’, 74–5. 41. Ibn al-­Jawzi, Al-Muntazam fi ta’rikh al-muluk wa’l-umam, 121–2. 42. Walker points out the attention that al-­Maqrizi pays to the Fatimids and his ‘evident sympathy’ for them (Walker, ‘Al-­Maqrizi and the Fatimids’, 85). 43. Halm, The Fatimids and Their Traditions of Learning, 59. 44. Juwayni, Ta’rikh-i Jahan-Gushay, 683.

Bibliography Primary Sources al-‘Ayni. ‘Iqd al-juman fi ta’rikh ahl al-zaman. A Critical Edition of the Eleventh Volume of ‘Iqd al-juman fi ta’rikh ahl al-zaman’. Edited by S. Hajeri. Unpublished PhD thesis, University of Edinburgh, Edinburgh, 2007. al-­Bundari. Zubdat al-nusra wa-nukhbat al-‘usra. In Recueil de textes relatifs à l’Histoire des Seljoucides, II. Edited by M. T. Houtsma. Leiden: Brill, 1889. al-­Ghazali. Kitab fada’ih al-Batiniyya wa-fada’il al-Mustazhiriyya. Edited by ‘Abd al-­Rahman Badawi. Cairo, 1382/1964. Hamdallah Mustawfi. Ta’rikh-i Guzida. Translated by C. Defrémery as Histoire des Seldjoukides et des Ismaéliens. Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, 1849. al-­Husayni. Akhbar al-dawla al-saljuqiyya. Translated by C. E. Bosworth as The History of the Seljuq State. Abingdon: Routledge, 2011. Ibn al-­Athir. Al-Kamil fi’l-ta’rikh, X. Edited by C. J. Tornberg. Leiden: Brill, 1864. Ibn al-­Jawzi. Al-Muntazam fi ta’rikh al-muluk wa’l-umam, IX. Editor unidentified. Da’ira al-­ma‘arif al-‘uthmaniyya, Hyderabad, Deccan, 1359/1940–1. Ibn Khallikan. Kitab wafayat al-a‘yan, 4 vols. Translated by W. McGuckin de Slane. Paris: Oriental Translation Fund of Great Britain and Ireland, 1842–71. Ibn Muyassar. Akhbar Misr: Choix de Passages de la Chronique d’Ibn Muyassar. Edited by A. F. Sayyid. Cairo: Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale du Caire, 1981. Juwayni. Ta’rikh-i Jahan-Gushay, 2 vols. Translated by J. A. Boyle as The History of the World-Conqueror. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1958. al-­Maqrizi. Histoire des Sultans Mamlouks, de l’Égypte, écrite en arabe par Takieddin-Ahmad-Makrizi, I. Translated by É. M. Quatremère. Paris: The Oriental Translation Fund of Great Britain and Ireland, 1837. al-­Maqrizi. Itti‘az al-hunafa’ bi akhbar al-a’imma al-Fatimiyyin al-khulafa’, II. Edited by M. H. M. Ahmad. Cairo, 1417/1996, 1996/1416.

a ne gl e c t e d source on the li f e of ha s a n- i s a b b a h ­ | 291 al-­Maqrizi. Kitab al-muqaffa’ al-kabir, III. Edited by M. al-­Ya‘lawi. Beirut: Dar al-­ Gharb al-­Islami, 1991. Rashid al-­Din. Djami et-Tévarikh. Edited by E. Blochet. London: Gibb Memorial Series, 1912. al-­Shahrastani. Kitab al-milal wa’l-nihal. Translated by J.-C. Vadet as Les dissidences de l’Islam. Paris: Paul Geuthner, 1984. Usama b. Munqidh. Kitab al-i‘tibar. Translated by P. K. Hitti as An Arab-Syrian Gentleman and Warrior in the Period of the Crusades. New York: Columbia University Press, 1929. Secondary Sources Bauden, F. ‘Al-­ Maqrizi’. In Encyclopedia of the Medieval Chronicle, edited by R. G. Dunphy, 1074–1076. Leiden: Brill, 2010. Cobb, P. ‘Usama Ibn Munqidh’s Lubab al-­Adab (The Kernels of Refinement): Autobiographical and Historical Excerpts’. Al-Masaq 18/1 (2006): 67–78. Daftary, F. The Assassin Legends: Myths of the Isma‘ilis. London: I. B. Tauris, 1994. Daftary, F. ‘Hasan-­i Sabbah and the Origins of the Nizari Isma‘ili Movement’. In Mediaeval Isma‘ili History and Thought, edited by F. Daftary, 181–204. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996. Daftary, F. The Isma‘ilis: Their History and Doctrines. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007. Daftary, F. ‘Persian Historiography of the Early Nizari Isma‘ilis’. Iran 30 (1992): 91–7. Dunlop, D. M. ‘Al-­Bata’ihi’. Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd edn, 1 (1970): 1091–2. Endres, C., and A. Schimmel. Das Mysterium der Zahl. Zahlensymbolik im Kulturvergleich. Köln: Diederichs, 1984. Halm, H. The Fatimids and Their Traditions of Learning. London: I. B. Tauris, 1997. Hillenbrand, C. ‘Islamic Orthodoxy or Realpolitik?: al-­ Ghazali’s Views on Government’. Iran XXVI (1988): 81–94. Hillenbrand, C. ‘The Power Struggle Between the Saljuqs and the Isma‘ilis of Alamut, 497–518/1094–1124: The Saljuq Perspective’. In Mediaeval Isma‘ili History and Thought, edited by F. Daftary, 205–220. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996. Hodgson, M. G. S. ‘Hasan-­i Sabbah’. Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd edn, III (1979): 253–4. Hodgson, M. G. S. The Secret Order of Assassins. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2005.

292 | classi ca l is l a m Karimi Zanjani Asl, M. Ta’rikh wa-ta’wil bi-riwayat Dustur al-munajjimin. Bonn: Goethe & Hafis, 2013. Levy, R. ‘The Account of the Isma‘ili Doctrines in the Jami‘ al-Tawarikh of Rashid al-­Din Fadlallah’. Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society iii (1930): 509–36. Lewis, B. The Assassins. London: Al Saqi Books, 1985. Lockhart, L. ‘Hasan-­i-Sabbah and the Assassins’. Bulletin of the School of Oriental Studies 5/4 (1930): 675–96. Madelung, W. ‘Al-­Kayyal’. Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd edn, IV (1978): 847. Makarem, S. N. The Doctrines of the Ismailis. Beirut: The Arab Institute for Research and Publishing, 1972. Orthmann, E. ‘Astrologie und Propaganda: Iranische Weltzyklusmodelle im Dienst der Fatimiden’. Die Welt des Orients 36 (2006): 131–42. Stern, S. M. ‘Al-­Amir’. Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd edn, I (1979): 440. Stern, S. M. ‘The Epistle of the Fatimid Caliph al-­Amir (al-Hidaya al-Amiriyya): Its Date and Its Purpose’. Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society (1950): 20–31. Stern, S. M. ‘The Succession to the Fatimid Imam al-­Amir, the Claims of the Later Fatimids to the Imamate, and the Rise of Tayyibi Ismailism’. Oriens 4/2 (1951): 193–255. Walker, P. Abu Ya‘qub al-Sijistani: Intellectual Missionary. London: I. B. Tauris, 1996. Walker, P. ‘Al-­Maqrizi and the Fatimids’. Mamluk Studies Review VII/2 (2003): 83–97.

16 The Impact of a Sixteenth-­century Jihad Treatise on Colonial and Modern India

Introduction

T

his chapter analyses the views on Islam of a little-­known early Orientalist scholar working in Madras, Michael John Rowlandson (1804–94), and of two modern Muslim scholars in India, Muhammad Husayn Nainar and Ahamad Ilyaas Vilayatullah. The discussion here will focus on a most interesting Arabic jihad treatise called Tuhfat al-mujahidin fi ba‘d ahwal al-Burtugaliyyin.1 Written by a Keralan scholar, Sheikh Zainuddin Makhdum (d. 1583), this work deals with events from his own time, the period of Portuguese domination of the Indian Ocean, and their violent attacks on Malabar. This treatise urges the Muslims in Bijapur to wage jihad against these ferocious invaders. Zainuddin makes telling comparisons between the famous jihad waged by the Levantine Muslims in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries against the Franks and the much less well-­known jihad fought by the Indian Muslims in Bijapur against the Portuguese in his own time, three centuries later. Thus the relevance of medieval concepts of jihad, developed and refined in the Levant in the context of the Crusades, remained firmly in place in early modern India. Zainuddin calls the Portuguese invaders the Franks (al-Afranj) and he records their history from the time of their arrival in Calicut in 1498 under Vasco da Gama. In his author’s preface, Zainuddin expressly states that he has composed his narrative to arouse the faithful to engage in jihad against ‘the worshippers of crosses’ (‘abada al-sulban).2 Zainuddin stresses the great reward that awaits those who engage in fighting jihad against the Portuguese. 293

294 | classi ca l is l a m He is not, however, hostile to the Hindus with whom he and his fellow-­ Muslims have long lived harmoniously. The jihad he advocates is a defensive one against the foreign European Christian invaders of Malabar. Zainuddin frequently uses the same kind of anti-­Frankish tropes and formulaic curses regularly found in the twelfth- and thirteenth-­century Arabic chronicles of the Levant that recount the history of the Crusades. For example, when he mentions the attacks of the group he calls ‘the Portuguese Franks’, Zainuddin writes ‘May God forsake them’ (khadhala-hum Allah),3 a curse frequently used in Muslim chronicles of the Crusading period in the Levant.4 This chapter hopes to demonstrate how, just as Arabic chroniclers at the time of the Crusades provided a model of jihad which Zainuddin could use to inspire his fellow-­Malabari Muslims to resist the terrible onslaughts of the Portuguese ‘Franks’, so too his own work, translated into English, could be used for different purposes in the context of nineteenth-­century British colonial India and also in Kerala today. The Tohfut-Ul-Mujahideen was translated for the first time from Arabic into English in 1833 in Madras by Michael John Rowlandson, a serving British army officer (see Figure 16.1).5 This chapter will focus on aspects of his translation, the context in which he undertook it, his possible motives for doing so, and his explanations of Islamic doctrines, including jihad. Of course this work has its own interest in the context of sixteenth-­century Indian history, and, beyond that, of the Portuguese enterprise of exploration. But it also has its place in the very different context of the present volume. For it shows how a work written for a specific and urgent purpose, namely to encourage South Indian Muslims to take up jihad against the hated foreign invaders, could spring to life and acquire an unexpected relevance in nineteenth-­ century India, when the region was under the control of quite another set of foreign invaders. As this chapter will show, it served an apparently innocuous purpose as a teaching tool for both Europeans and Indians interested in the study of the Arabic language. It also fitted into the wider nineteenth-­century pattern of ­increasing – ­and increasingly ­meticulous – ­non-­Muslim European scholarly engagement with the literature of the Islamic world. However, it was also manipulated (and that is not too strong a word) to serve the missionary purposes of its devoutly evangelical translator. There is a rich irony in the use of a jihad text as a call to accepting the Christian gospel. But that so to

a sixt eenth-century ji had tr e a tis e ­ | 295

Figure 16.1  Opening title page of the Tohfut-ul-Mujahideen, published in London in 1833

296 | classi ca l is l a m speak undercover purpose itself fitted into the wider project, so dear to many a Victorian heart, of converting Indians to Christianity. Who Was Michael John Rowlandson? It was a phenomenon of British India in the nineteenth century that a number of Orientalist scholars came from the ranks of the army and the civilian government.6 Michael John Rowlandson, the translator of the TohfutUl-Mujahideen, was no exception to this. He is very little known. He fails to figure in any list of the galaxy of British Orientalist scholars who served in India in the nineteenth century.7 Copies of his Tohfut translation are found in only a few libraries outside India.8 Rowlandson was born on 23 November 1804, in Hungerford, Berkshire; his father was Vicar of Warminster.9 He joined the Indian army as a cadet in 1820, becoming a lieutenant in 1821 and a major in 1824. Before going to India, in accordance with the rules of the Indian Colonial Service (ICS), Rowlandson must have attended Haileybury College, as did all serving administrative and military officers, where he would have learned Latin and Greek, as well as one or more of the languages that were important for governing I­ ndia – ­Persian, Arabic and Urdu. These studies were probably followed up with further informal language sessions with local munshis once he had graduated from Haileybury and had arrived in Madras. He was awarded a brevet commission in 1836.10 Details about Rowlandson’s activities in Madras are scarce. One snippet of information, suggesting that he enjoyed a respected status in Madras government circles, is to be found in the records of divorce proceedings in the Supreme Court of Judicature in 1837, where his name appears as one of the signatories to a new divorce bill.11 Rowlandson is also mentioned in the Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society in 1899 as having been a Corresponding Fellow and as Persian Interpreter to the Headquarters of the Army, Fort St George.12 Rowlandson retired from the Indian army in 1852 and he died in 1894 in England.13 It is not clear when he returned home and there is little known in official records about how or where he spent the rest of his life. Rowlandson did, however, write at least three other books in addition to his translation of Tohfut, and these provide further biographical evidence about him. They shed valuable light on his academic credentials and religious

a sixt eenth-century ji had tr e a tis e ­ | 297 convictions. One of these books was published as early as 1828 in Madras and it demonstrates clearly his commitment to the teaching of Arabic and Persian. It is entitled An Analysis of Arabic Quotations which Occur in the Gulistan of Muslih-ud-Deen Sheikh Sadi. The text beneath this title on the frontispiece reads: the book is intended for the use of the College of Fort St George by Lieut. M. J. Rowlandson, Acting Secretary to the Board of the College, and for public instruction.

This work of 220 pages is a textbook. The first part (pages 1–142) explains aspects of Arabic grammar at considerable length; the second part gives a selection of Arabic quotations in the Persian work of Sa‘di, the Gulistan, and an explanation of them. This latter part, Rowlandson writes, ‘is designed more particularly for the use of the native students in the College of Fort St George’. Such a statement makes it clear that local Indian students as well as serving British army officers and administrators were attending his classes in the College. It is probable that Rowlandson taught them. On matters concerned with Arabic he says that he has consulted the opinion of the ‘Arabic Head master [sic] of the College of St George’. He also writes that it is hard to know whether the Arabic language is so little studied because of a belief that it is difficult or because it is not useful. He has no such problem with appreciating the importance of Persian ‘as long as the process of the courts is in Persian’.14 Whatever the intended readership for this book might be, Rowlandson is uncompromisingly scholarly in his copious footnotes, often quoting verbatim from Latin sources, as well as those in Arabic, Persian and French. The work is dedicated to the Governor of Fort St George, the Right Honourable Stephen Rumbold Lushington, to whom Rowlandson explains his intention of facilitating a better reading of a work ‘with the beauties of which you are familiar’.15 This work makes it clear that Rowlandson was equipped with a sound knowledge of Arabic grammar by this time and thus he would have felt ready to embark on the translation of the Tohfut, which was published five years later. Two of Rowlandson’s other published works reveal him to be an ‘evangelical Orientalist’, as Avril Powell said of Rowlandson’s much more illustrious

298 | classi ca l is l a m compatriot, Sir William Muir.16 Like Muir, Rowlandson wrote proselytising Christian tracts, with long, grandiose titles. One such work by Rowlandson is called A Basket of Fragments and Crumbs for the Children of God, and another is entitled Specimens of ‘Much Fine Gold’ or The Unsearchable Riches of Divine Grace.17 The Specimens of Gold makes its Christian missionary intention clear, explaining that its title refers to the Gospel message which is ‘to be preached amongst and offered to the Gentile nations of the earth’.18 The tone is that of British nineteenth-­century militant Christianity and perceived European superiority: To people of all colours and countries and climes; to the civilized European, and the debased African; to the Mohamedan sensualist and the Hindoo idolater; to Scythian, barbarian, bound or free, the Son of God cries, ‘Come!’19

Hinting perhaps at his own feelings of ‘otherness’ during his time in Madras, as well as his openly declared Christian faith, Rowlandson describes the resurrected Jesus as: ‘walking through the world, no longer as a native inhabitant, but (as Europeans dwell in India) as a foreigner and stranger, having his affections in another and better country’.20 The preceding discussion of the sparse extant biographical and personal material available about Rowlandson’s life and attitudes prompts a number of reflections. He never enjoyed posthumous fame, such as that accorded to certain other British Orientalists serving in India, such as William Muir and Thomas Arnold. Indeed, were it not for his translation of the Tohfut of Sheikh Zainuddin Makhdum, an Islamic Arabic text hardly known in Europe outside Portugal, it is almost certain that Rowlandson’s name would have sunk into almost total obscurity.21 It is, however, valuable to examine the views of a forgotten British colonial Orientalist scholar on Islam and especially on jihad. Indeed, it will be argued in what follows here that Rowlandson, who began writing in the 1830s, fills a gap between the well-­known British Orientalist figures from earlier generations, such as Sir William Jones, and famous British scholars of the second half of the nineteenth century, such as Sir William Muir.

a sixt eenth-century ji had tr e a tis e ­ | 299 An Analysis of Rowlandson’s Preface and Footnotes to his Tohfut Translation Preface to the Translation Rowlandson introduces his translation of the Tohfut with a ten-­page explanatory preface, outlining the historical context in which Zainuddin (d. 1583) wrote his treatise.22 Rowlandson’s tone in his preface is calm, un-­polemical, and at times even laudatory of the Malabari Muslims. Rowlandson explains that Zainuddin lived in the reign of Sultan ‘Adil Shah, the fifth ruler of the ‘Adil Shahi dynasty in Bijapur. Zainuddin dedicates his book to ‘Adil Shah and praises him for his ‘unwearied zeal and activity’ in fighting the infidels and in particular for his vigorous resistance against the ‘Christian heretics’ who had invaded Malabar.23 Rowlandson singles out the term ‘Al-Afrunj’ [sic] (Franks) used by Zainuddin to refer to the Portuguese.24 Rowlandson then describes the structure of the Tohfut. The first chapter discusses how the Prophet Muhammad explained to his followers ‘the meritorious nature and ultimate reward’ of fighting non-­believers. Thus, says Rowlandson, Zainuddin aims to arouse his fellow Muslim brethren to wage ‘a holy war against the infidel ­intruders – ­the cursed “Franks”’.25 After two more background chapters about the origins of the indigenous peoples of Malabar, Rowlandson turns to the fourth chapter of the Tohfut, in which Zainuddin tells how the Portuguese arrived in Malabar in 1498.26 Here Rowlandson praises Zainuddin for the ‘fidelity of his narrative’ and its ‘very minute and extraordinary agreement with the Portuguese sources’. He adds that when Zainuddin mentions the ‘furious and persecuting spirit which the Portuguese invariably displayed throughout their Indian rule’ he was not guilty of exaggeration.27 Thus Rowlandson’s preface shows clear approval of the historical accuracy of Zainuddin’s account and an admiration for the spirited resistance shown by the Malabari Muslims against the Portuguese colonial invaders from the arrival of Vasco da Gama onwards. Any hostility in the main body of Rowlandson’s preface is directed at the Portuguese Catholics. No evidence of anti-­Muslim sentiment or proselytising Christian zeal is expressed in his preface. It should, moreover, be emphasised that Rowlandson’s translation is couched in grand, resonant English prose.

300 | classi ca l is l a m Rowlandson’s Footnotes It is unfortunate that Rowlandson does not number his footnotes. Instead, on each page he uses a series of symbols. His footnotes providing geographical or historical information about Malabar, its Muslim rulers and the Portuguese invasions are generally sound. He draws on earlier sources in Latin, French, Persian and Arabic. He includes lengthy Latin quotations (which he does not translate) from the work of the seventeenth-­century Jesuit scholar, Joannes Petrus Maffeius (Giovanni Pietro Maffei, 1533–1603), as well as providing references to revered early British Orientalists such as Pococke and Sale. For a number of his footnotes about Islam, Rowlandson cites Muslim sources such as the well-­known works of Abu’l-Fida’ (d. 1331), al-­Suyuti (d. 1505), al-­Baydawi (d. between 1282 and 91), al-­Shafi‘i (d. 820), al-­Bukhari (d. 870) and others. It is clear, however, from the very outset that Rowlandson’s stance in his footnotes is often polemical. Zainuddin’s treatise opens with a preface in praise of the Islamic revelation, exalted above all other creeds, and of the Prophet Muhammad. But already in Rowlandson’s third footnote,28 there are clear signs of nineteenth-­century Christian apologetic and anti-­Muslim feeling. When speaking of chapter 3 of the Qur’an, Surat ‘Imran, Rowlandson says that the Qur’an gives an account of Jesus’ birth ‘very similar to that recorded by the Evangelists’ but he then strongly denies in very intemperate tones that Jesus brought to life a ‘bird that he had made of clay’,29 a story that he attributes to the Prophet Muhammad. He seems to be unaware that this narrative is found in one of the Apocryphal Christian Gospels, The Infancy Gospel of Thomas.30 Rowlandson’s views on the concept of jihad, such as they are, are revealed in his footnotes to chapter 1 of the Tohfut,31 which has the lengthy title ‘Regarding certain divine commands, wherein war against infidels is enjoined. Treating, also, of the reward that shall await that act of religious duty, and being an exhortation of it’.32 This chapter sets out the views of Zainuddin on the meaning of jihad and the reward for those who engage in it. Rowlandson provides copious footnotes with his own interpretation of the contents of the chapter. In his first footnote for this chapter Rowlandson expresses opinions about the Qur’an, and in particular about the concept of jihad, which would certainly not be acceptable to pious Muslims.33 He clearly disapproves of

a sixt eenth-century ji had tr e a tis e ­ | 301 the promises of good things in the hereafter for those who fall in the pursuit of jihad. But in general he is much more interested in explaining the basic tenets of Islam than in the details of jihad. Rowlandson quotes from a work written in Latin, De fatis linguarum orientalium, some fifty years earlier. Its author, unnamed by Rowlandson, the Austrian scholar Bernard von Jenisch (d. 1807), praises in Latin the matchless style of the Qur’an. Rowlandson then quotes some derogatory comments by Sir William Jones (d. 1796), the founder of the Asiatic Society of Bengal, significantly couched in Latin rather than English, about the authorship of the Qur’an, and those of the Anglican divine Jeremy Taylor (d. 1667) about the Prophet Muhammad. All this is frankly scurrilous and it sits ill with the otherwise neutral tone that dominates the footnotes. Rowlandson himself then ridicules the details of the paradise promised to Muslim believers. The first footnote on page 26 of Rowlandson’s translation continues in this anti-­Muslim polemical vein, strongly criticising the Qur’anic denial of Jesus’ crucifixion, and he refers to Islamic belief in Dajjal (the Antichrist) as ‘idiotic vagaries’.34 Such material in his footnotes reveals Rowlandson’s underlying Christian evangelical agenda. And he often lets himself down with snide sarcasms.35 Why Did Rowlandson Translate the Tohfut? It is worth considering why Rowlandson chose to translate a sixteenth-­century Arabic text about the Malabari Muslims’ jihad against the Portuguese in Madras in 1833. A partial answer to this question can be found in the preface and in his footnotes. In addition, the fact that he was living and working in Madras could no doubt have produced other reasons for his choosing to translate this particular treatise. The neighbouring region of Malabar, the area from which the Tohfut originated, had a large number of Muslims. This would have been relevant to the British administrators, policy-­makers and military men who were working in Madras. How Rowlandson came to gain access to the Tuhfat al-mujahidin is not clear, but the copy of it shown here (Figure 16.2) indicates that Edward Law, Lord Ellenborough, the Governor-­General of India 1842–4, had asked for it to be printed for him. The English translation of the Tohfut would certainly have highlighted for the British administrators in Madras the ­versatility of the classical Islamic theory of jihad, as it had been applied to

302 | classi ca l is l a m certain specific historical episodes of great significance involving European invasions of Muslim territory, firstly the Levant in the Crusading period from 1099 to 1291, and then the colonial enterprise of the Portuguese, who seized much of the coastal lands of south-­west India in the sixteenth century.36 The relevance of these parallels to British officers and administrators ruling Indian Muslims would have been obvious to all. It is likely that, as the local interpreter and teacher of Persian and Arabic at Fort St George, Rowlandson would have been seen as a suitable person to translate the manuscript copy of the Tohfut in the possession of Lord Ellenborough. The tone and content of Rowlandson’s footnotes suggest several possible motives, or a combination of these, that would help to explain why he translated this text. It is reasonable to assume that selected folios from the Arabic text of Zainuddin, together with copies of Rowlandson’s translation and footnotes, would have been a convenient teaching tool. They would have been useful for his pupils from the Indian Civil Service, both military and administrative, at Fort St George for studying classical Arabic and also for learning about the Qur’an, and in particular jihad. Moreover, Zainuddin’s scathing attacks on the Catholic Portuguese colonising invaders in the sixteenth century would have had familiar anti-­ Catholic resonances in the Protestant evangelical context of the Indian Colonial Service and the British rivalry with the Portuguese in the nineteenth century. Sir William Muir was to be openly critical of the ‘harmful’ presence of Catholicism in Goa,37 but Rowlandson hints at animosity towards Catholics back in England in his tract entitled Specimens of Gold. In that work he is hostile to Roman Catholicism and the Anglo-­Catholic Oxford movement, condemning both the Pope and Edward Pusey who ‘cause Christian believers to have doubts about their own salvation’.38 As already mentioned, Rowlandson’s translator’s preface reveals that he is sympathetic to the plight of the Muslims of sixteenth-­century Bijapur. Indeed, he writes that Zainuddin, when describing the cruelties perpetrated by the Portuguese, has been ‘guilty of no exaggeration’. Rowlandson, as a British soldier but also an Orientalist scholar from a European Christian background, who is working in the colonial period of British rule in India, argues strongly that the Muslims of Bijapur were fighting a just war (jihad) in defence of themselves and their families, their lands, and their possessions.

a sixt eenth-century ji had tr e a tis e ­ | 303

Figure 16.2  Frontispiece of the first edition of the Tohfut-ul-Mujahideen, dedicated to Lord Ellenborough of India

304 | classi ca l is l a m However, Rowlandson’s analysis of the Islamic paradise and its promised delights to the faithful believers contains unequivocally hostile remarks about Muhammad that regurgitate medieval Western European stereotypes and slurs found in the work of Dante and others.39 So Rowlandson has obviously inherited an anti-­Islamic stance which can be traced back to medieval European polemic and which, despite more tolerant attitudes to Islam during the Enlightenment, as expressed by thinkers such as Edward Gibbon and Thomas Carlyle, persisted in Christian evangelical circles throughout the nineteenth century. Rowlandson’s views on jihad accord well with those of his famous contemporary Sir William Muir (d. 1905).40 Like Rowlandson, Muir learned Arabic at Haileybury College, but unlike Rowlandson he rose very high in the Indian Civil Service, reaching the level of Lt Governor of the North-­ West Province.41 Muir is also recorded as speaking Urdu.42 Clinton Bennett points out that Muir gave a full account of the life of Muhammad but that he ‘wanted to convince Muslims that Muhammad was not worth their allegiance’. Muir’s aims were thus at the same time scholarly and evangelical.43 By the time of the Indian Mutiny in 1857, Muir was able in his Life of Mahomet to pronounce a criticism of jihad as scathing as that of Rowlandson in his footnotes more than twenty years earlier: ‘The sword of Mahomet and the Coran are the most fatal enemies of Civilization, Liberty and Truth which the world has yet known.’44 In his book The Caliphate. Its Rise, Decline and Fall from original sources, first published in 1883, and reprinted in 1915, Muir writes, with eerily misplaced assurance: If Christian nations have too often drawn the sword in propagation of their faith, it was in direct contravention of their Master’s w ­ ord . . . ­Far different is the Muslim’s case. Tribes and peoples for ages rushed into the battlefield, fulfilling what they believed their Maker’s law, ‘to fight in the ways of the Lord’; and as its immediate effect, the world was drenched in blood from the Mediterranean to the Caspian Sea.45

Avril Powell also speaks of Muir’s ‘unsympathetic understanding of Islam in scholarly publications which criticised the military propensities of both the Prophet’s early Islamic state and the subsequent caliphates.’46 It has been convincingly argued by many historians and thinkers that, in

a sixt eenth-century ji had tr e a tis e ­ | 305 the Indian context, British officials used their knowledge of the indigenous languages and culture for ‘purposes of control’.47 As prominent figures such as Lord Cromer pointed out, Christianity was a great ally in Britain’s efforts to civilise India.48 Moreover, in a recent publication Eric Germain writes that in British society of the late Victorian period, jihad was the issue most highlighted by those wishing to ‘advocate the barbarian and backwards [sic] nature of Islam, anti-­modern by essence, whose ultimate fate was to be overruled by Christianity’.49 Germain further points to an essentialist vision of Islam on the part of Christian missionary, political and military circles, a vision which emphasises, on the basis of the Qur’an and the career of Muhammad, alleged Muslim military aggression and forced conversion.50 The Reception of Rowlandson’s Translation and a Discussion of Two Recent Translations of the Tohfut-Ul-Mujahideen Rowlandson’s translation is criticised in a review by Donald Ferguson written in 1899 about a Portuguese translation of the Tuhfat by David Lopes, published in Lisbon in 1898.51 After heaping praise upon Lopes for his excellent scholarship, Ferguson writes: ‘Our only regret is, that, being in Portuguese, Mr Lopes’s work will be read by so few English scholars.’ Ferguson also remarks that Rowlandson’s work has often been quoted, although he does not cite any examples of its use, and he then launches into an attack on the inaccuracy of Rowlandson’s translation ‘in many places’ and his often erroneous citing of proper names.52 Ferguson also points out that, unlike Rowlandson who says that he has used only one manuscript of the Tohfut, Lopes drew on the evidence of four manuscripts.53 In their famous book Hobson-Jobson, Henry Yule and A. C. Burnell also criticise Rowlandson’s translation, writing that ‘the want of editing in this last book is deplorable’.54 This bad press apart, Rowlandson’s translation of the Tohfut remained neglected for a long time. Two English translations of the Tohfut have appeared in recent years.55 The relationship between these two books is very close. The first translation was published by Muhammad Husayn Nainar in Madras in 1942 and revised and republished in Kuala Lumpur in 2006. The second translation, by Ahamad Ilyaas Vilayatullah, appeared in 2012. These recent publications provide footnotes with solid, uncontroversial historical and geographical information and explanations of Islamic terms. Both the Nainar and

306 | classi ca l is l a m Vilayatullah books claim that there have been many translations of the Tohfut but at no point are any references given to such works. To quote Vilayatullah: ‘Portuguese, Latin, French, German, Spanish, English etc. are a few of the foreign languages in which it appeared at various stages and in different shapes.’56 He also states that the Tohfut has been translated into English previously on several occasions by many people and for various purposes. He says that these works are either out of print or not available for modern readers or inadequate for other reasons: ‘Some translations are available only in fragments and some others are not sufficiently annotated.’57 These remarks remain totally unsubstantiated and unreferenced and one may question their accuracy. According to the foreword of Nainar’s book written in July 2005 by K. K. N. Kurup, Director of the Malabar Institute for Research and Development in Vatakara, the Tohfut has been translated into many languages, including Latin, French, Spanish, Czech, Malayalam and Tamil.58 Once again no details of these alleged translations are mentioned. However, a recent discussion by David Thomas provides more concrete information; he notes, giving titles and full details, that the Tohfut has been translated into Persian, Malayalam, Portuguese and English.59 Vilayatullah remarks that the most important section of the Tohfut is the fourth, consisting of fourteen chapters, that truthfully describes the Malabar people’s heroic resistance to the Portuguese invasion. Describing this resistance as a glorious episode in the history of the global Muslim community, Vilayatullah sees the Malabaris’ struggles against the Portuguese, ‘the fore-­most imperialistic power of the time’, as inspirational, as in the past against the British and Portuguese, and now for the present generation in resisting the imperialistic ambitions ‘of the US and its allies’.60 So the notion of jihad once again proves highly adaptable to changing times and situations. It is regrettable that the powerful analogy made by Zainuddin between the Crusaders in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries and the Portuguese in the sixteenth century is lost in the translations of both Nainar and Vilayatullah by the use of the word ‘Portuguese’ instead of ‘Franks’ when translating the term ‘Al-­Afranj’ in the Arabic text. Thus the impact of the reused trope of the ‘Franks’ is lost in these modern English translations produced in India. It is, of course, well known now that modern Islamic anti-­Western propaganda,

a sixt eenth-century ji had tr e a tis e ­ | 307 such as that used by Osama bin Laden (d. 2011), involves Crusading imagery to denote the USA and the Western powers more generally. Concluding Remarks This discussion has shown how a sixteenth-­century Arabic text, the TohfutUl-Mujahideen, written by Zainuddin Makhdum, a Malayalam-­speaking Muslim scholar from South India, drew on concepts of jihad which had inspired Muslims in the Middle East in their struggles again the Crusaders (the Franks) in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. In the nineteenth century, Rowlandson, a serving British army officer and Persian interpreter, found time to produce an English translation of the Tohfut; this is an isolated early example of Orientalist interest in jihad in an Indian Muslim context. In the twenty-­first century this text has reappeared in two English translations prepared by two Keralan scholars, Nainar and Vilayatullah, who, as will shortly appear, have their own reasons for drawing attention once again to the Tohfut. It is clear from the preface to Rowlandson’s translation of the Tohfut that as a military man he admires the courageous armed struggle of the Malabari Muslims in the sixteenth century against violent Portuguese invaders and that he is very interested in this episode of South Indian history. Rowlandson is careful to praise the historical accuracy of Zainuddin’s account, having consulted for himself the relevant European sources to include in his copious footnotes. Given his firmly held evangelical Protestant Christian beliefs, he was no doubt pleased to translate a text which portrays the Catholic Portuguese in a most unfavourable light. They were, after all, in his own time Britain’s main rivals for the control of South India. However, when Rowlandson, as a member of the British colonial class serving in India, launches into the religious aspects of Zainuddin’s text and begins to write explanatory footnotes to explain Islamic doctrines to his students and other readers, he attacks and ridicules certain Islamic doctrines, including the rewards of jihad, with full evangelical fervour. Drawing on deep-­rooted prejudices and stereotypical views, he perpetuates the Western European medieval Christian image of jihad. He says nothing about the precise rules of jihad laid down in the books of the Shari‘a nor about Sufism and the greater jihad. Rowlandson feels it imperative to underline the superiority

308 | classi ca l is l a m of Christianity over Islam. Indeed, just like Muir, Rowlandson would no doubt have believed that ‘If Christianity is anything, it must be everything’.61 In short, then, Rowlandson’s book reveals several distinct facets of this enigmatic man. At one level he is a competent professional ‘Orientalist’, using that word in its familiar pre-­Saidian sense. He was obviously a gifted linguist, using Latin, French, Arabic and Persian with facility. He cites his references in the approved manner of his time. So far so good. Next, he is a military man with a particular pedagogical brief to help both Indian and British employees of the East India Company acquire the linguistic skills required for their work. The translation of the Tohfut admirably dovetailed with these two aspects of Rowlandson’s life. The fact that his book dealt with the history of the principal Muslim state close to Madras was a further and obvious bonus, and ensured a lively local interest in his project. But this context, detailed as it is, is by no means the full story. Rowlandson also cherished an anti-­Catholic and anti-­Muslim agenda, and it is hard to deny that these were factors in his choice of text. This double bias does not, it seems, affect the translation itself, but its presence in the footnotes is unmistakable. Rowlandson’s evangelical, missionary zeal frequently breaks through the tone of academic impartiality that characterises most of the footnotes. The change of tone triggered by references to Jesus (for example, on the issue of his crucifixion)62 and to Muhammad (for example in the context of the Battle of Badr)63 and paradise64 is nothing short of disturbing to a modern reader. The chords touched here seem to take us to the very heart of this complex man and to what made him tick. The discussion above has sought to contextualise him against the wider background of the nineteenth-­century civilising and Christianising mission pursued by many of the British ruling elite in India. But one has only to read Gibbon and Carlyle on Islam to recognise that more temperate British assessments of that faith were possible immediately before and after Rowlandson’s work. By that standard, Rowlandson’s comments on the Prophet Muhammad take on the colouring of a rant: crude and tasteless vilification that belongs firmly to the Middle Ages, more worthy of Dante than Diderot. There are of course parallels for such intemperate language on the Muslim side too, for example the descriptions in Muslim sources of how Saladin cleansed the holy places of Jerusalem from the filth of Christian occupation; but such sentiments seem

a sixt eenth-century ji had tr e a tis e ­ | 309 thoroughly out of place in a nineteenth-­century English gentleman wearing a frock coat and breeches. Rowlandson, then, partakes of both Jekyll and Hyde. Nainar and Vilayatullah have a different agenda in their treatment of Zainuddin’s text. As well as a justified pride in their Keralan ancestors who stood up against the Portuguese, they are concerned to point out to the global Muslim community how this sixteenth-­century jihad struggle can serve as a role model for combating current Western military interference across the Muslim world today. Thus the capacity of the classical jihad concept to speak to Muslims and non-­Muslims (Rowlandson) of very varied backgrounds and traditions is as strong today as it was in the twelfth or sixteenth centuries. The main purpose of this chapter has been to exhume a long-­buried work of British scholarship on the South Asian Muslim world. But that task has inevitably led into a series of cognate enquiries. For while the text’s purpose in its own time was, it seems, s­ traightforward – ­namely to inspire beleaguered Deccani Muslims to fight for their faith against the rapacious ­Portuguese – ­its revival in the nineteenth and twenty-­first centuries was nothing of the kind. In both those periods it demonstrated how certain concepts like jihad are evergreen, and how easily they can adapt to new situations and acquire sometimes startling new resonances. There is no telling what Rowlandson’s South Indian Muslim students really thought of the text which Rowlandson was interpreting for them, and whether a connection that is obvious to a modern eye, namely the similarity between the Portuguese imperialists and the British ones, was equally plain to them. Similarly, whether they picked up on a Christian misappropriation of a Muslim text for missionary aims pursued under the cover of academic study and research remains unclear. What is certain is that modern South Indian Muslims working on this same text are in no doubt about the modern implications of this sixteenth-­century text. In some quarters, at least, the concept of jihad is every bit as alive and well in Kerala today as it is in Syria, Iraq or Afghanistan. It merely takes a different form. Notes   1. Zainuddin Makhdum, Tuhfat al-Mujahidin: History of the Early Muhammadans in Malabar and Their Struggles with the Portuguese, Journal of the Royal Asiatic

310 | classi ca l is l a m Society, Arabic ms. 28. Copied in Madras in 1830. For the sake of consistency, the transliteration of the name of the work under discussion here will follow throughout that of M. J. Rowlandson, Tohfut-Ul-Mujahideen, although such transliteration is unacceptable today in academic circles.  2. JRAS Arabic ms. 28, folio 0046.  3. JRAS Arabic ms. 28, folio 0046.  4. N. Christie, ‘“Curses, foiled again!” Further research on early use of the “Khadhala-­hum Allah” invocation during the Crusading period’, Arabica 58 (2011), 561–70.  5. Tohfut-Ul-Mujahideen: An Historical Work in The Arabic Language (1833), translated into English by Lieut. M. J. Rowlandson (London, 1833).   6. C. Bennett, Victorian Images of Islam (London, 1992), 104.   7. Rowlandson does not, for example, appear in A. J. Arberry, British Orientalists (London, 1943).   8. I was fortunate to find by chance a rare copy of Rowlandson’s translation of the Tohfut in the library of the Islamic Art Museum in Qatar in its collection of rare nineteenth-­century European books on the Crusades.  9. England and Wales, National Probate Calendar (Index of Wills and Administrations), 1858–1966 (available at (last accessed 6 May 2021)); India Office Family History Search (available at (last accessed 6 May 2021)). 10. Alphabetical list of the officers of the Indian Army; with the dates of their respective promotion, retirement, resignation, or death, whether in India or in Europe, from the year 1760 to the year 1834 inclusive, corrected to September 30, 1837 (available at (last accessed 6 May 2021)). 11. Collection of Nineteenth Century British Divorce Proceedings, 4 vols (London, 1824–57), 2 (1829), 45, 56–7. e-­book, see (last accessed 6 May 2021). 12. D. Ferguson, ‘Review of Historia dos Portugueses no Malabar, por Zinadim, Manscripto Arabe de Seculo XVI, publicado e traduzido por David Lopes, Lisboa, 1898’, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society (July 1899), 677–8. 13. India Office Family History Search (available at (last accessed 6 May 2021)). 14. M. J. Rowlandson, An Analysis of Arabic Quotations which Occur in the Gulistan of Muslih-ud-Deen Sheikh Sadi (Madras, 1828). 15. Rowlandson, Gulistan, 1.

a sixt eenth-century ji had tr e a tis e ­ | 311 16. A. A. Powell, Scottish Orientalists and India: The Muir Brothers, Religion, Education and Empire (Woodbridge, 2010), 94. 17. The date and place of publication of the first of these two titles is unknown. The second is still in print: M. J. Rowlandson, Specimens of ‘Much Fine Gold’: or, The Unsearchable Riches of Divine Grace. By the author of ‘A basket of fragments and crumbs for the children of God’ (London, 1852). Hugh Goddard quotes a passage from Muir’s The Mohammadan Controversy which speaks of the ‘light and teaching of the Gospel’ and which uses the same imagery as that of Rowlandson in Specimens: ‘England now pours forth her gold in the merciful and blessed work of enlightening the people’. See H. Goddard, A History of Christian–Muslim Relations (Edinburgh, 2000), 133. 18. Rowlandson, Specimens, 2. 19. Rowlandson, Specimens, 9. 20. Rowlandson, Specimens, 44. The phrase ‘as Europeans dwell in India’ is written in brackets in Rowlandson’s text. 21. For a rare reference to Rowlandson’s Tohfut, see M. Anderson, Arabic Materials in English Translation: A Bibliography of Works from the Pre-Islamic Period to 1977 (Boston, 1980), 126. 22. Rowlandson, Tohfut, vii–xvi. 23. Tohfut, vii–viii. 24. Tohfut, ix. 25. Tohfut, xi. 26. Tohfut, xiv–xv. 27. Rowlandson concludes by thanking two British officials in Madras: the Hon. W. Oliver, a Council member at Fort St George, who gave him the manuscript, and Mr J. Lushington, the Secretary of the Madras Auxiliary Branch of the Royal Asiatic Society, who provided him with valuable information about the Arabic original. The copy of the Arabic manuscript of Tohfut used in this paper has Rowlandson’s name on folio 0038; written in a sloping hand which is hard to decipher are the words: ‘Copy of the Tohfat al-­Mujahedeen to accompany Capt. Rowlandson’s Translation when sent to the Oriental Translation Committee’. The date of completion of the translation was probably 1830. 28. Rowlandson, Tohfut, 2–3. 29. Qur’an 3: 49. 30. The Infancy Gospel of Thomas, see , II, I (last accessed 6 May 2021). 31. JRAS, Arabic ms. 28, ff. 0040–0059; Rowlandson, Tohfut, 15–16.

312 | classi ca l is l a m 32. Rowlandson, Tohfut, 15. 33. Rowlandson, Tohfut, 15–16. 34. Rowlandson, Tohfut, 41. 35. Rowlandson, Tohfut, 34, 36, 40. 36. A rare reference to Rowlandson’s translation of the Tohfut is given by Serjeant. He writes that ‘The cruel, ruthless, and insulting attitude of the Portuguese towards the Muslims has been described by Zain al-­Din Ma‘bari’; R. B. Serjeant, The Portuguese off the South Arabian Coast, Hadrami Chronicles (Oxford, 1963), 30. Note 4 cites Rowlandson, 103–10. 37. Powell, The Muir Brothers, 94. 38. Rowlandson, Specimens, 38. 39. Rowlandson, Tohfut, 16. 40. Avril Powell speaks of the Muir brothers’ ‘decisions, early in their Indian service, to lend their linguistic training and historical interests to support missionary agendas’; Powell, The Muir Brothers, 14. 41. Bennett, Victorian Images, 103. 42. Powell, The Muir Brothers, 214. 43. Bennett, Victorian Images, 113. 44. Quoted in Bennett, Victorian Images, 109. 45. W. Muir, The Caliphate: Its Rise, Decline, and Fall, from Original Sources (London, 2013), 608. 46. Powell, The Muir Brothers, 179. 47. B. S. Cohn, Colonialism and its Forms of Knowledge: The British in India (Princeton, 1996), 1–5; Goddard, A History, 124–5. 48. D. E. Nix, ‘Muhammad Iqbal: restoring Muslim dignity through poetry, philosophy and religious political action’, in H. C. Hillier and B. B. Koshul (eds), Muhammad Iqbal: Essays on the Reconstruction of Modern Muslim Thought (Edinburgh, 2015), 203; M. Q. Zaman, The Ulama in Contemporary Islam: Custodians of Change (Princeton and Oxford, 2002), 63. 49. E. Germain, ‘“Jihadists of the Pen” in Victorian England’, in E. Kendall and E. Stein (eds), Twenty-First Century Jihad: Law, Society and Military Action (London and New York, 2015), 297. 50. Germain, “Jihadists of the Pen”, 297. 51. Ferguson, ‘Review of Historia dos Portugueses’, 677–8. In his book Lopes provides a long introduction which covers the history of Malabar from ancient times until the seventeenth century. His sections include Indian trade, a history of the St Thomas Christians, the Malabar Church and the arrival of Vasco

a sixt eenth-century ji had tr e a tis e ­ | 313 da Gama; see D. Lopes, Historia dos Portugueses no Malabar, por Zinadim, Manscripto Arabe de Seculo XVI, Introducção (Lisbon, 1898), ix–lxxxi. 52. Ferguson, ‘Review’, 678. 53. One in the British Museum Library, one in the Royal Asiatic Society, and two in the India Office Library: Ferguson, ‘Review’, 678. 54. H. Yule and A. C. Burnell, Hobson-Jobson (originally published 1903; republished New Delhi, 2000), 159. See also their comment ‘Very badly edited’, xlv. 55. Zainuddin Makhdum, Tuhfat al-Mujahidin, English translation by S. Muhammad Husayn Nainar Shaykh Zainuddin Makhdum: Tuhfat alMujahidin: A Historical Epic of the Sixteenth Century (Kuala Lumpur and Calicut, 2006). Zainuddin Makhdum, Tuhfat al-Mujahidin, English translation by A. I. Vilayatullah as Sheikh Zainuddin Makhdum’s Tuhfatul Mujahideen: A Twenty First Century Translation (Saarbrücken, 2012). 56. Vilayatullah, ‘Tuhfatul Mujahideen’, 9. 57. Vilayatullah, ‘Tuhfatul Mujahideen’, 5. 58. Nainar, ‘Tuhfat al-Mujahidin’, xiv–xv. 59. D. Thomas, ‘Al-­Ma‘bari’, in D. Thomas and J. A. Chesworth (eds), Christian– Muslim Relations: A Bibliographical Survey (Leiden: Brill, 2015), 7: 887. 60. Vilayatullah, ‘Tuhfatul Mujahideen’, 10. 61. Powell, The Muir Brothers, 261 and n. 59. 62. Rowlandson, Tohfut, 27. 63. Rowlandson, Tohfut, 18–19. 64. Rowlandson, Tohfut, 33.

17 Ancient Iranian Kings in the World History of Rashid al-Din*

F

our of the most celebrated ancient kings of Iran make a perfunctory and somewhat unexpected appearance in the pictorial cycle of the Edinburgh fragment of the Jami‘ al-tawarikh or World History of Rashid al-­Din (d.1318), produced in Tabriz, the Mongol capital of Iran, in the lifetime of the author.1 The relevant text, with its accompanying images, comes almost at the beginning of the manuscript in its present truncated f­orm – ­for the volume lacks both a frontispiece and the appropriate introductory matter. This was removed at an indeterminate date. So now it begins in medias res, describing the wonderful city of Iram, though the current f. 1a is probably quite close to the original opening of this chronicle.2 The text on these Persian kings is now found on folios 2a–3b and is thus sandwiched between a detailed account of the pre-­Islamic Arab prophets, Hud and especially Salih, and brief presentations of the life of Abraham (who is allotted a single image) and some of his descendants (none of whom rates a picture), followed by a lengthy though curiously incomplete narrative of the life of Moses3 which segues into the story of Joshua. So these ancient Iranian kings, while not prophets ­themselves – ­though Rashid al-­Din notes that non-­Arabs regard Tahmurath as a prophet4 – are presented to the reader in the context of salvation history rather than mere chronology. This heightens their status within the predominantly Islamic ambience of the text. It may even represent an attempt to give the Iranian tradition its place in the sun alongside the more established Iranian and Hebrew prophets. The presence of personalities from the Shahnama in a history of the world, particularly one written in Iran, is not strange in itself. But the insertion of 314

anc ie nt ir a ni an k i ng s i n the world history  | 315 secular matter into the sacred history that was the normal starting point for universal chronicles does, as already noted, give one pause. Moreover, while this is a short passage of text, its four accompanying ­illustrations – o­ ne for each of the four kings mentioned and each following close after the previous ­one – s­erve to give it extra prominence. And given the generous length allotted to the accounts of the prophets before and after this short passage, its sheer brevity is also noteworthy. Nor is it easy to explain why only four of the many kings mentioned in the Shahnama should be introduced at this point, and why the passage should end with an abrupt transition from the death of Zahhak to the birth of Abraham. Why are these two personalities, polar opposites to each other, presented cheek by jowl? Zahhak, after all, is a creature of Iblis, the devil, while Abraham is one of the supreme prophets of God. Mere chronology is the reason given in the text for this strikingly inept juxtaposition: ‘And because the birth of Abraham (peace be upon him) was in the days of al-­Dahhak, it is necessary to give an account of him.’5 And in the absence of any attempt to propose a date for the personalities discussed in this section of the manuscript, chronology is better than nothing as a device to organise disparate material. But such crashing d ­ iscords – a­ nd also major unexplained ­omissions – ­render this text enigmatic. As it happens, previous scholarship has not tackled these questions in appropriate detail, although a welcome recent article by Charles Melville6 has broached the wider issue of Rashid al-­Din and the Shahnama. His main focus is on the historiography of the Persian text of Rashid al-­Din and its relation to the material on the early Persian kings in the Persian texts of Bal‘ami, Baidawi and Hafiz-­i Abru, and he makes only limited reference either to the Arabic text of the Edinburgh fragment or to the images that accompany it. In fact, it is striking that Rashid al-­Din’s treatment of the five Pishdadian kings discussed in the present article clearly comes from a tradition substantially different from several of the versions in Persian discussed by Professor Melville, though two of those are clearly related, as he shows, to the Edinburgh fragment. The present article is therefore a natural pendant to his and offers ample material for future researchers to compare these versions in the requisite detail. It will present the first translation of Rashid al-­Din’s unedited and hitherto untranslated Arabic text that deals in sequence with ­Kayumars – ­who, despite his importance as the ancestor of mankind, is not

316 | classi ca l is l a m allotted an i­llustration – H ­ ushang, Tahmurath, Jamshid and Zahhak; it will comment, in necessarily brief and preliminary fashion given the scope of this article, on that text; and it will analyse the images themselves in depth. One significant context for the text and pictures dealing with the ancient Persian kings in the Edinburgh fragment is the sudden boom in the production of illustrated Shahnama manuscripts in the period c. 1300–c. 1350.7 While only a single literary reference to an earlier illustrated Shahnama has come to ­light – ­it was made for a Qarakhanid monarch in the late twelfth century8 – there are sufficient pointers to the use of scenes or figures from the Shahnama on luxury lustre9 and mina’i10 ceramics in the pre-­Mongol period to indicate that potters at least had begun to recognise the value of the Shahnama as a quarry for visual material. Metalworkers were not far behind.11 And the presence of lengthy Shahnama inscriptions on lustre tiles decorating the palace of the Mongol Ilkhan Abaqa at Takht-­i Sulayman in 1265 is collateral evidence of interest in Firdawsi’s text at the highest level of government.12 But none of this adds up to the development of anything approaching an iconography of the Shahnama. Given the total absence of surviving Shahnama illustrations in manuscripts before c .1300, then, this boom, which is represented by manuscripts containing in total hundreds of illustrations13 – and the 8 Shahnama-type images in Bal‘ami’s Persian summary of al-­Tabari’s History should be added to this total14 – represents a sea-­change of massive proportions in the art of the Ilkhanids. The illustrated book had well and truly arrived, and was attracting the patronage of the wealthiest members of society, at least some of whom held the highest rank.15 It was inevitable that a luxury illustrated Shahnama should be produced for the sultan himself and the Great Mongol Shahnama – by far the finest illustrated manuscript of its t­ime – ­duly met this need.16 When the text and images of the ancient Persian kings inserted somewhat awkwardly into the World History of Rashid al-­Din are considered in this wider context, they make excellent sense as an expression of a contemporary fashion. But it is hard to ignore that awkwardness, and one cannot avoid the conclusion that this Shahnama material does not fit easily into Rashid al-­Din’s chronicle. Indeed, it feels like something of an afterthought. Moreover, at best the treatment of the Shahnama in Rashid al-­Din’s text is piecemeal. The only passage which is not linked to a king is the death of Rustam, whose inclusion in this

anc ie nt ir a ni an k i ng s i n the world history  | 317 text is something of a puzzle; so the adventure element in the Shahnama is virtually unrepresented. But it would be wrong to give the impression that it was in the fourteenth century that the Shahnama first made an appearance in ambitious universal histories; early Iranian kings figure, for example, in the narratives of al-­Tabari and Ibn al-­Athir among others.17 That said, it is only fair to point out that the Edinburgh fragment, which totals 150 folios and was originally twice as long, is strangely put together.18 What comes across is a rather jumbled version of universal history, chaotic in its presentation and innocent of any attempt to detect a pattern in events or to drive home over-­arching ideas or interpretations. It is by no means an organic whole. Its emphases are erratic. Thus, Abraham is comprehensively overshadowed by Moses,19 yet the story of Moses, long though it is in this manuscript, is strangely lacunary, and indeed only a few somewhat random portions of the Old Testament figure in the Edinburgh fragment. The absence of Solomon is especially noticeable. The focus then shifts to the Shahnama again, but once more there is no attempt to present a continuous narrative, even in the most reduced form; instead, isolated episodes are interspersed with tales taken from the Old Testament. Thereafter, a brief account of the Virgin Mary is followed by the early life of the Prophet Muhammad, which is presented in consistent detail, though there is no mention of events after the hijra. For the period from 622 to the late tenth century, which accounts for some fifty folios, the text is very concise and indeed is more of a précis than a substantial narrative. And then, at folio 107, with scarcely any warning, it presents a long, detailed history of the Ghaznavids, with brief excurses on other contemporary dynasties. The literary style of this section of the manuscript is often florid and extravagant, and the level of detail can be overpowering. It seems safe to assume that this is not the work of Rashid al-­Din, and that he is reproducing the work of another chronicler. Perhaps, this particular copy of Rashid al-­ Din’s text was intended to be sent to a destination in the eastern part of the Ilkhanid ­domains – ­perhaps to some city in Khurasan like Herat, Nishapur or Marv. At f. 138a, the pictorial narrative switches to the Seljuq dynasty, whose fortunes are recounted up to the time of Tughril III, who died in 1194. By any count, that is an uneven and idiosyncratic account, even when one bears in mind that half of the original manuscript is ­missing – ­a marginal note states that it was stolen20 – with no clue as to what it contained.

318 | classi ca l is l a m It should be stressed that this odd mixture of unrelated bits and pieces of history is not due to the fragmentary nature of the sources available to Rashid al-­Din. For much of the material he covers, especially the scenes from the Old Testament and the life of Muhammad, the sources are full and easily available. Even for Islamic history after the death of the Prophet, there would have been no shortage of sources to use. But they have been ruthlessly gutted by whoever put this particular version of Rashid al-­Din’s text together, and the reasons behind this curious melange of very disparate material, including the nature of the audience at which it was aimed, await explanation. That is a challenge for future research. It is now time to consider the nature of Rashid al-­Din’s treatment of early Iranian h ­ istory – i­f ‘history’ is the right word for an account so redolent of ­myth – ­and, in due course, the role played by the paintings that accompany this rather jejune text. Jejune it may be, but in its Arabic version this text has so far scarcely received any close attention from scholars, and so the translation will take pride of place here. On f. 1b Rashid al-­Din sets the scene as follows: The beginning of the account of the kings of al-­Furs and the events which happened in the time of each of them, from the appearance of the prophets, and events other than this, from the time of Kayumars until the end of the period of Ibn Dajrdin Shahriyar, the last of the kings of the non-­Arabs . . . The first of those who held the sultanate and brought it into the world was Kayumars.

He goes on to state (f. 2a) that: the ‘ulama’ of Fars have agreed that Kayumars was ­Adam . . . a­ nd that all created beings are among his descendants and his children. They say that he had a son called Masha and a daughter called Mashan. They married each other and two sons were born to them, Siyamak and Siyami, and from their coupling sons were born. The name of the eldest was Farwal and he had a sister whose name was Afarin. Farwal married his sister, and Hushang who was the father of the Persians and Qar who was the father of the Arabs were born.

The obscurity of this passage is typical of Rashid al-­Din’s account of the Pishdadiyan. Indeed, he goes on to cite the various views held by scholars

anc ie nt ir a ni an k i ng s i n the world history  | 319 about Kayumars: that he was Noah’s son Ham; that he was one of the sons of Arpachshad b. Shem; and that he was Noah. But it is noticeable that the initial opinion that he cites is that Kayumars was Adam, and that therefore mankind began in Iran. Rashid al-­Din continues: The majority consensus is that the building of the country was begun by him. His sultanate lasted thirty years and the birth of Hushang came 223 years after his death. He became sultan 295 years after the death of Kayumars, and they called him S­ haddad . . . ­The first of the sultans and kings of Fars were from his lineage and they have been arranged in four generations in this exposition: the Pishdadian, the Achaemenids, the Askaniyya, the Sasanians.21

Rashid al-­Din summarises the rule of the early kings by noting that it lasted 2,735 years, comprising the rule inter alios of Kayumars for thirty years, Hushang for forty years; Tahmurath for thirty years; then Jamshid for 700 years; Zahhak for 1,000 years; Faridun for 500 years, Manuchihr for 120 years and finally the much shorter reigns of Nuwadar, Afrasiyab, Zuin Tahmasb and Kishashab. He makes no comment on the huge disparities in the length of the reigns of these monarchs. He then doubles back, launching into a new section entitled ‘the rule of Hushang22 and his picture’, which follows immediately. Beneath the painting the text continues (Figure 17.1): He was knowledgeable and just. Amongst what is attributed to him is the book Jawidan Khirad.23 . . . And his capital was Istakhr and there he24 sat on the throne of the kingdom. The non-­Arabs assert that he was a prophet. He held command of the sultanate for a period of forty years. He was the one who established the custom of placing the crown on the heads of kings and he extracted iron from stone and made weapons from it. He built many more buildings in Istakhr, which was the seat of the kingdom of Kayumars, and he built up the two towns Babul and Sus, which is now the burial place of ­Daniel . . . M ­ ost people mention that Zahhak built it . . . 25

Rashid al-­Din continues (Figure 17.2): ‘The account and picture of Tahmurath.’26 (Figure 17.2) He is Tahmurath27 b. Anujihan b. Anukhahd b. Hushang. He is the one who conquered the

320 | classi ca l is l a m

Figure 17.1  ‘Hushang enthroned’, Rashid al-Din’s Jami‘ al-tawarikh, Iran, 1314 (Edinburgh University Library Ms. Arab 20, fol. 2a)

Figure 17.2  ‘Tahmurath enthroned’, Rashid al-Din’s Jami‘ al-tawarikh, Iran, 1314 (Edinburgh University Library Ms. Arab 20, fol. 2b)

anc ie nt ir a ni an k i ng s i n the world history  | 321 seven climes and he became established instead of Hushang. He championed the citizens and the protection of the kingdom and he walked the road of justice and equity. He continued in the sultanate for a period of three hundred years. He built Kaharrdar (?) in Marv28 and he restored the two towns of Marbin29 and Saruya in Isfahan. Marbin is now a village and it is known by another name. And Saruya is now a quarter. Some people attribute the building of Nishapur and Fars to him.30 In his time the worship of idols appeared. The cause of that was that in some buildings a plague of frogs occurred in which many people perished. Everyone who died had a family member or a relation who took a statue in his image. He looked at it and visited it and he found comfort in looking at it. That became established to such an extent that it became a custom and ceremony for the whole period and time until idols were worshipped. In his time fasting was also revived. The reason for that was that a group of wretched poor people found it a struggle to find food. They were deprived and were not eating anything in the daytime; indeed, every day and night they ate a single meal in the evening and they were satisfied with that. And wherever the days continued for them in that manner, that became a permanent custom . . . When Islam came they became Sabians. Some of them mentioned that the reason for fasting was that in the time of Tahmurath the people suffered from drought and there was a great lack of rain. He ordered the . . . 31 to be satisfied every day and night with one meal in the evening and that they should give what they had prepared to eat to the homeless. And that gradually became a well-­known custom. And Tahmurath was called Tahmurath Riyawabad . . . He is the one who used to say that every group takes delight in its belief and religion.32

Rashid al-­Din’s account of Kayumars, Hushang and Tahmurath is translated here in extenso to give the flavour of this text. Several features are worth noting, though there is not enough space in this article to develop them in full, let alone to outline their place in the historiographical tradition, their context and their implications. The text is plainly derivative, but the specific sources on which Rashid al-­Din drew are not cited, nor does he comment on their reliability. The author has not tried to collate the very disparate information that his account contains. The rambling quality of this narrative betrays

322 | classi ca l is l a m

Figure 17.3  ‘Jamshid enthroned’, Rashid al-Din’s Jami‘ al-tawarikh, Iran, 1314 (Edinburgh University Library Ms. Arab 20, fol. 2b)

its lack of organisation. It contains troubling inconsistencies, for example, in its contradictory accounts of the parentage of Kayumars and of Hushang, or the length of the royal reigns. It is full of unrelated snippets of information. The genealogical information is confused. These same features can also be detected in his accounts of Jamshid and Zahhak, which now follow. Rashid al-­Din says rather more about Jamshid (Figure 17.3) than he does about Hushang and Tahmurath, but here too (f. 2b) he presents a farrago of facts innocent of any integrated narrative. The full text reads: The account of Jamshid b. Nujahan. He is the brother of Tahmurath and his name was Jam and Shid, the one possessed of radiant rays. He had perfection of beauty, splendour of form, and purity of face and purity of colour. He was called Jamshid, and together with the abundance of his beauty and his aforementioned splendour, he had knowledge and intellect. The nobles of Fars gathered to him and they gave him precedence over themselves, out of knowledge of the nobility of his position, and they swore oaths of servitude and submission and obedience to him. This is his picture (Figure 17.3) and he concerned himself with organising matters, improving the public weal, organising

anc ie nt ir a ni an k i ng s i n the world history  | 323 materials, devising weapons of war, designing crafts and building the town of Istakhr. He enlarged it and he had renovated it (f. 3a) . . . and he stretched it from its extremity and made it bigger. He calculated its measurement as twelve farsakhs in length and ten farsakhs in width and he built in it a great building, and there have remained of it now ruins and pillars of an extreme height to the degree that they are called the pillars of the column of forty minarets. There he sat on the throne of the kingdom at sunrise at the first point of the station of Aries, and that is called today Nauruz. He promised everyone justice, compassion and equity. Amongst all the great things which he authorised was the building of an aqueduct on the Tigris at al-­Mada’in,33 and it remained until the age of Alexander, and Alexander destroyed it. The ruins of it have remained until now from the western side of the Tigris near the construction of buildings and towns which were in al-­Mada’in. Not one of the sultans could build the above-­mentioned aqueduct after its destruction. They were incapable of it and they restricted themselves to the building of bridges. He was the one who built the town of Ctesiphon,34 one of the biggest towns in al-­Mada’in. When he became established in the k­ ingdom . . . ­600 years and he became overweening in his kingdom, wealth, chattels, men and power, conceit invaded him, tyranny and foolishness overcame his temperament. He laid claim to divinity and he ordered the people to worship him and to make statues in his image. He sent them to the climes so that he might be worshipped. Almighty God sent to him al-­Dahhak35 whom the Persians call Varasp and He gave him power over him. Al-­Dahhak sought him out and he gained control of his s­ tate . . . ­Jamshid fled, defeated, in hiding for a hundred years, driven away, fugitive, afraid of him, until the opportunity came to al-­Dahhak. He took him by force and he cut him up piece by piece in captivity. The period of his rule was 700 years and he was defeated. Of those years he ruled for 600 years, ­expanding . . . ­and for the period of 100 years he endured ­adversities . . . ­sometimes defeated, sometimes fearful. God knows best.

From the purely historical point of view, this passage is valuable on several counts. It associates Jamshid firmly with Fars and thus highlights the importance in the medieval historiographical context of southern and western Iran, the homeland of the Sasanians, as distinct from northern and eastern

324 | classi ca l is l a m Iran, the homeland of the Parthians. It connects him with the founding of the festival of Nauruz. Before Jamshid falls from grace, the notion of farr,36 the royal splendour that radiates from the legitimate king of Iran, is clearly implied. The passage also sheds light on how Jamshid was associated in medieval times with the ruins of ­Persepolis – ­hence the still popular appellation of the site as Takht-­i Jamshid, ‘the throne of Jamshid’ – and also with Istakhr, remembered by Muslims as a centre of pre-­Islamic Iranian culture and often, as here, conflated with Persepolis.37 This is of a piece with the tendency to mythologise the majestic survivals of the architecture and sculpture of pre-­Islamic Iran. Hence the cluster of Achaemenid and Sasanian remains just outside Persepolis is still popularly known as Naqsh-­i Rustam; the gigantic unfinished rock sculpture near Taq-­i Bustan is known as Tarash-­i Farhad, and Taq-­i Bustan itself became a repository for legends about Khusrau, Shirin and Farhad.38 There is no room here to explore the manifold implications of this potent brew of myth and history. One may also note that the image of Alexander as a great destroyer, a tradition fostered by the Zoroastrian priestly class, now extends beyond Iran proper into Mesopotamia. Finally, what of Zahhak, or al-­Dahhak as the Arabic text dubs him? (Figure 17.4) Rashid al-­Din’s text is so damaged and faded that in several places it resists decipherment,39 but what is legible may be rendered as follows: (f. 3a) The account of al-­Dahhak who is known as Bewarasp.40 There is disagreement about his genealogy. A group of Arabs mentioned that he was Ibn ‘Alwan, the brother of Shaddad b. ‘Ad,41 and they traced his genealogy to Iram and Sam and Arfahshad, as was mentioned at first. It is said that Shaddad sent him to attack Jamshid. The Persians assert that his name is Bewarasp b. Arwandasp b. Zinkaw b. B ­ ads . . . ­r.h(?) b. Taz b. Farwal. And among their assertions is that Taz b. Farwal is the father of the Arabs, and that has already been mentioned too. It was said that he was called Bewarasp Dahal. Its meaning is that in him there w ­ as . . . ­Wherever Arabic was spoken, Dahal was called Dahhak, ‘the one who smiles’; that ugly title42 was made into a good one. The people of Yemen, amongst whom are the Seveners, say that Dahhak is derived from ‘cheerfulness’ and ‘smiling’. He came from amongst them and he was the first of the Pharaohs. He seized

anc ie nt ir a ni an k i ng s i n the world history  | 325

Figure 17.4  ‘Zahhak enthroned’, Rashid al-Din’s Jami‘ al-tawarikh, Iran, 1314 (Edinburgh University Library Ms. Arab 20, fol. 3a)

power and established himself on the throne of the kingdom. This is his picture (Figure 17.4). He began shedding blood and slaughtering. His rule lasted a thousand years and his tyranny over the citizens was continuous. They did not demand justice from him until the people tired of his behaviour. Finally two cracks appeared for him ­on . . . ­and with their image43 on both his shoulders. He was unable to cure them both and he could nothing whatsoever. Iblis appeared to him in the image of a human being and said to him: ‘The cure for that is to daub with the [brains] of the head of a human.’ He could not daub with that at all. So he hid them both under his clothes and the people thought that they were two ­serpents . . . ­He would take from the treasure of a t­ own . . . Th ­ e citizens wrote that down and they felt oppressed by what he owed them. For this reason many people were killed. There was from the people of Isfahan a person called Kava the Blacksmith. Two of his sons had been killed in t­his . . . ­He went out and took the leather which the blacksmiths left on their [aprons] above their clothes if they wanted to work. He lifted that leather onto a piece of wood,

326 | classi ca l is l a m he called the people to himself and reviled al-­Dahhak . . . ­out of fear that he would kill their sons unjustly and tyrannically. So they went out of the town. When al-­Dahhak heard that, he fled since he had no resistance against the populace. The people with Kava the Blacksmith were numerous and he took possession of that land. Since there was nobody from the family of the government, nobody came forward to claim the sultanate. Afridun son of Athfiyan from the sons ­of . . . ­out of fear of al-­Dahhak. The Blacksmith did not cease to search for him so that he could defeat him, and he sought him. The chiefs of the Persians agreed to appoint Afridun as head of the state. He had gone into hiding out of f­ ear . . . a­ nd they sat him on the throne of government. He sent helpers after al-­Dahhak and they defeated and killed him. Afridun was victorious with troops and armies and he took that leather which ­was . . . ­and they blessed him and called him Darafsh Kabiyan . . . [f. 3b] The armies of Islam entered al-­Mada’in and took possession of their king who was Darafsh Kabiyan with what they plundered from him and they brought him to the caliph. ‘Umar (may God be pleased with him) in Medina and he ordered them to cut him because of the jewels and rubies which al-­Dahhak had distributed. Amongst the monuments of al-­Dahhak was Babul on the borders of Iraq and the city of Damascus and Tyre in Syria. Aqlid.s was the architect of Tyre. And because the birth of Abraham (peace be upon him) was in the days of al-­Dahhak, it is necessary to give an account of him.

As in the account of Jamshid, the story of Zahhak veers erratically and unpredictably across many lands (Arabia, Syria, Iraq and Iran) and epochs, from Abraham to the caliph ‘Umar, who is introduced into the story almost by sleight of hand. After the well-­nigh obligatory rehearsal of his genealogy, which is contested, as in the case of other Pishdadian monarchs, and of the etymology of his name – ‘he of the ten vices’ or alternatively ‘the one who smiles’– Rashid al-­Din notes Zahhak’s Yemeni origin and calls him the first of the Pharaohs, the very exemplar of pride and tyranny. The problem with this account is that keywords are missing or indecipherable, but the story as told in this rather confusing way by Rashid al-­Din is well known from other sources, of which the fullest and most easily accessible is the

anc ie nt ir a ni an k i ng s i n the world history  | 327 Shahnama of Firdawsi. In brief, its highlights are that the devil (Iblis), kissed him on both shoulders and from each of those imprints there issued a snake which tormented Zahhak and had to be fed daily by fresh human brains. This was the most grievous of the many injustices which Zahhak inflicted on his subjects, and eventually it caused the popular rebellion led by the blacksmith Kava which deposed Zahhak, though according to Rashid al-­Din it was Afridun (that is, Faridun) who had him killed. There is no mention of Zahhak being fastened to Mount Damavand, as Firdawsi describes, and dying of exposure, which in time became a cliché of Shahnama illustration.44 Afridun is presented as being a contemporary of the caliph ‘Umar, while the passage ends by introducing Abraham, who was born in the reign of Zahhak. The time frame is thus thoroughly obscure. The very terse accounts of the first three kings in Rashid al-­Din’s text give away very little to inspire the artist. Even so, some opportunities were missed, such as the accounts of a plague of frogs and the beginning of idol-­ worship in the reign of Tahmurath. In any case, it is clear that the person in charge of the illustrative ­programme – ­one might term him ‘The Master of Works’– decreed that there should be pictures for virtually every ruler mentioned in the text. This is perhaps a nod to the illiterate, who could instantly understand how many early, or at least important, rulers there were. Even so, in comparison with, say, Moses, where there is a meaty narrative, these kings are treated in rather summary fashion. Nevertheless, when the text is sufficiently informative, as in the cases of Jamshid and Zahhak, the artist does try to bring that information into the picture, as noted below. But even so, the Edinburgh fragment presents a history of the earliest Iranian kings that is notably sparse in relation to many of the versions written in Persian, though Professor Melville has underlined its connections with the Persian chronicle Nizam al-tawarikh of Qadi Baidawi, composed in 1275, and an undated Persian version of the World History in the British Library (B.L. Add. Ms. 7268). In short, in the case of the Pishdadian kings the Edinburgh text too often gives the minimum of context for the accompanying images. It is now time to discuss in appropriate detail how the painter (or painters) interpreted the rather quirky texts on these mythical kings which they were required to illustrate. The four pictures crammed into folios 2a, 2b and 3a, two of them placed in quite exceptional fashion one below the other

328 | classi ca l is l a m on folio 2b,45 are the first of a whole series of enthronement images in this manuscript.46 No two illustrations of that series are identical, but their simi��larities are far more striking than their differences. There is no denying their formulaic character. The standard format places the ruler centre stage and flanked by bodyguards, or officials, or both. And in every case, he is seated on a throne. Hence the unmistakably formal, ceremonial flavour of these scenes: this is the ruler on display, every inch a king. It is not the ruler at ease. Often enough the overriding importance of the ruler is emphasised by the fact that he is so much larger than those around him, and by his commanding ­pose – t­ he only figure in the picture to be depicted seated cross-­legged, with his left hand clamped to his thigh. In all four images strict frontality, the traditional pose for asserting power and dominance, is abandoned in favour of a slight turning of the face to right or left, which underlines a connection between the ruler and his attendants or subjects and creates a sense of narrative. But the power and unique status of the monarch is sufficiently stressed by the fact that he wears a crown and is seated on a splendid throne while those who serve him stand or are hunched forward on a stool while engaged in writing, or indeed kneel submissively. Three of the four ­images – ­the exception is the enthronement of Hushang, which takes place in the open ­air – e­ mploy the motif of a knotted and folded canopy, either folded in a continuous bolt or divided into swags and sometimes garnished by fluttering ribbons, whether these are purple with a scarlet hem or deep blue and gold-­spangled. It can serve either as backdrop or frame for the enthroned monarch. The idea of placing an honorific covering over the ruler of course has an ancient pedigree. The oblong landscape format used for all four of these paintings favours a composition in which the figures are strung along the frontal plane, so that the eye moves naturally from one to the next. Thus the picture resolves itself into a sequence of discrete accents, most of them vertical. The occasional overlap does not affect this process; nor does the presence of seated or kneeling figures. So the artist can easily ring the changes on the formula from one painting to the next. But the effect nevertheless is to weaken the overall impact of an image. By contrast, a vertical or portrait format, or indeed a square one, allows a greater degree of visual build-­up and concentration, a clearer and indeed better division between what is significant and what is

anc ie nt ir a ni an k i ng s i n the world history  | 329 not. That is harder to achieve in the oblong format, which favours large-­sized figures and minimal detail. The setting itself varies from the natural to the neutral. The enthronement of Tahmurath in what looks like a garden chair made of bamboo takes place in a full-­blown outdoor setting somewhat uneasily combined with the standard file of attendants. The artist is unfazed by obvious anachronisms; thus, Jamshid has his hair dressed in a long pigtail and has a mandarin square emblazoned on his caftan, and indeed in the case of Tahmurath the same design runs unbroken across its fold.47 In fact, East Asian elements are so predominant in all four pictures that these monarchs are Iranian in name only.48 Although all of them wear crowns of broadly Seljuq type, and Turkic caftans, they sit on Chinese thrones with scarlet frames featuring languid curves and curled trilobed supports (also found on the scarlet footstools), plus brass fittings, including trilobed finials and others of dramatic dracontine form, and maroon upholstery dominated by Chinese floral forms such as the peony. The vertical sides of some of these thrones boast flat extensions in red and blue with bilobate leaves, hooked re-­entrant curves and bulging globular protrusions. Beside the throne of Tahmurath stands a massive Chinese vase, apparently made of metal, with splayed foot, a rounded body with concave depressions and a tall neck carrying a much wider rim. Its sheer size announces its importance as a status symbol. A graceful rose-­coloured orchid with wide leaves on a slender stem emerges from it and underlines the theme of exotic gracious living. A smaller, shorter and simplified version of that vase, obviously made of the same material with a design that similarly subdivides the squat globular body into adjoining compartments or cells, but now has circular handles and a bulging neck, is set in the foreground of the scene of Jamshid enthroned. It has long, narrow, spikey leaves and a quartet of blossoms. The faces of Tahmurath and Hushang are East Asian, with almond eyes, pencil moustaches and tiny single or double goatees, whereas both Jamshid and Zahhak are fully bearded. Most of the attendant soldiers or bodyguards are of distinctly East Asian appearance; they tend to be young and clean-­shaven, and their hair follows various fashions: bunched below the ear,49 formed into a pigtail or shoulder-­length and crimped. Older bodyguards are bearded and have their hair bunched at the back. The hats worn by the bodyguards have distinctive wide, sweeping broad or narrow brims, richly coloured and patterned,50 and high padded or

330 | classi ca l is l a m quilted crowns topped with metal funnels, spikes51 or lozenges, or a frontal badge. Some of these hats are trimmed with fur; others combine upturned and downturned crescent forms in contrasting red and blue, as in Tahmurath’s bodyguard, or have double upturned brims in similar tones. Many further sub-­varieties of hat occur in the later enthronement scenes, and this absence of standard forms provides cumulative evidence suggesting52 that hats were a matter of personal choice and did not connote a particular office or rank. Hats of this kind seem not to figure in earlier Iranian art, which in turn indicates that they reflect contemporary fashions. The scene depicting Hushang is set in the open air, and like many a later enthronement in Iranian painting the surroundings are lush. The artist conjures up a landscape in a few sure strokes. A blossoming sapling rears up between two seated courtiers; its body bends extravagantly to mimic the curved posture of the courtier facing Hushang. The drooping foliage of a weeping willow cascades down from the upper frame on either side of the tree’s dramatically twisted trunk, which has a jagged errant branch growing behind the main trunk and at almost right angles to it. This branch is cut off by the upper frame. The treatment of this tree, with its obligatory knobbly base and lightly sketched internal modelling, is intended to add visual interest to the right-­hand section of the painting; it acts as a natural separator between the enthroned Hushang and the counsellor who sits next to him. It is a tree of a kind that recurs repeatedly in this manuscript, with a thickening and deepening of colour (in this case reddish purple) to emphasise its outline, which is further asserted by an expressive scattering of nodes and bulges in its bark. Towards the far right of the painting, and framing Hushang to his left, are the brown leaves and trunk of another tree whose base juts out at a pronounced 50° diagonal in the direction of the vertical frame, drawing the eye to the bodyguard standing to Hushang’s left and creating an alternative line of sight for the painting. It has the divided base so frequently found in the trees depicted in Ilkhanid painting. Other components of the standard landscape format used in this manuscript and featured here include the centrally placed and gently curved mound, the irregular patches of grass, rendered in black and red, that sprout along the black horizon lines or at the very bottom of the picture, and the depiction of secondary planes by means of a single black line. A sickle-­shaped rock, ultramarine in colour, obscures

anc ie nt ir a ni an k i ng s i n the world history  | 331 the base of the tree to Hushang’s right and another blue rock with a large round hole in it, marks the extreme right of the painting. These rocks are also borrowed Chinese features; rocks of unusual shape were a traditional element in Chinese garden design. Hushang’s throne deserves more than merely passing notice, for it is of a kind not encountered elsewhere in this manuscript. It looks more like a garden chair than a throne, and this open-­air function may explain the lack of a valance. It is only the artist’s ambitious but unsuccessful attempt at a rational perspective view that gives it the appearance of a rocking chair. Its emphasis on slender lines and extravagant curves suggests that it is made of bamboo. The open decorative arches, conceived as separate panels rather than as a continuous arcade, are also a feature not found on the other thrones depicted in this manuscript. The exact interplay between the heavily bearded balding courtier and Hushang is unclear, but since the former is holding out an open book, it may be that this is a copy of the king’s work Jawidan Khirad – a manual of ­statecraft – ­mentioned by Rashid al-­Din. Its leather binding is dyed crimson. The three seated figures in this painting are carefully distinguished from the royal soldiery by means of their dress. None of them wears the caftan that is standard issue for the bodyguards or courtiers wearing Mongol headgear; they all have a flowing under-­robe that covers their arms and reaches right up to the neck, one coloured beige and the other two blue, with a looser and shorter brown garment thrown over it. The shaven-­headed courtier has a more elaborate belted outer red robe. All of this clothing is indicated with the utmost economy by a few strokes in blue, brown or red to indicate folds. None of these seated figures wears any headgear and all are barefoot. Clearly, then, the artist is at pains to distinguish between the Iranians and the non-­Iranians. Admittedly, two monarchs are shown in not entirely stereotypical guise: Jamshid and Zahhak. These deserve separate treatment. The image of Jamshid has two unusual elements: first, the reference to weapons and secondly, the presence of a seated suppliant, bare-­headed and barefoot, who is trying to catch the royal eye. In later centuries, Iranian painters concentrated on depicting Jamshid as teaching his people various crafts;53 here the painter alludes to this detailed narrative merely by showing an attendant advancing on the

332 | classi ca l is l a m throne with a pair of unstrung bows. Close behind is an attendant holding a sheathed sword. And this picture breaks with the standard formality of these early enthronement scenes by a telling detail: a watchful bodyguard restrains an obviously eager suppliant from interrupting the king as he gives his orders to various craftsmen. This little drama is played out by the interaction of glances and the play of ­fingers – ­the outstretched arm and splayed fingers of the bodyguard counter the raised fingers of the pleading hand extended by the hopeful kneeling man. It would be too much to expect of the painter that he should seek to depict the architectural marvels attributed by Rashid al-­Din to Jamshid, such as the great aqueduct and his building of towns, but this material enriches the otherwise typical image of him as the teacher of crafts to mankind. The other ancient Iranian king whose image is not entirely formulaic is Zahhak/Dahhak. Rashid al-­Din’s text is undeniably a rambling narrative, but the painting that accompanies it zeroes in on its most horrific ­element – ­Zahhak’s definitive descent into the dark side following the fatal moment when Iblis kisses his shoulders. This is the earliest depiction of that fearful event in Iranian book painting. It has a dreadful immediacy and is full of drama. But the text does not go into any complementary detail, so that the image very much reflects the painter’s imagination. Some later reader of the manuscript was clearly sufficiently upset by this story and its depiction to attempt to rub out the face of the miscreant monarch, something easily done by moistening a finger and rubbing Zahhak’s face. An attempt was made to repair the damage but this was far too clumsily executed to achieve any success. Happily most of the painting was unaffected, and its principal features are plain except for the expression on Zahhak’s face, which cannot now be reconstituted with certainty, though it seems to have been melancholy. The expressions of all the onlookers are sombre, and one can read sorrowful resignation, pity and barely suppressed horror in all these faces; one of the attendants has wrenched his face away from the scene and is looking the other way in his distress. The tall figure dressed in turban and blue robe and grasping a sword in a red scabbard, its cord wrapped round his right arm, gazes appalled at the tableau before him, his eyes wide with dismay. The foremost kneeling ­man – ­barefoot, half naked and with his hands bound behind his b­ ack – h ­ as his mouth open in shock as he stares death in the face. He is held down

anc ie nt ir a ni an k i ng s i n the world history  | 333 firmly by an attendant whose face has also been rubbed out. Behind him kneels the next victim, also bound and half naked; his captor, too, has had his face rubbed out. Zahhak himself is stretched out at ease on his throne, legs negligently crossed, his left hand outstretched as he gives the order to proceed while the executioner looks down compassionately at his victim. Tubular extensions for Zahhak’s surcoat accommodate the serpents sprouting in wide arcs from his shoulders. It may be significant that the margin is repeatedly broken in this picture, most noticeably by the turban ornament of the senior official nearest to Zahhak on the monarch’s right, but also by the boot-­tips of some of the attendants. This may be an attempt to trespass beyond the picture space into the space of those who view the image, and thus to involve them in this heartrending spectacle. That device was destined to have a rich future.54 The setting of this macabre scene is not fully defined, and indeed is downright ambiguous, for its left-­hand side is neutral and presumably depicts an interior, while to the right of Zahhak there develops a curiously tentative, incomplete and scrubby exterior setting, whose scattered rocks and clumps of grass in front of the first v­ ictim – r­ eally more of a nod to a landscape than a real ­one – ­clearly indicate that this is happening in the open air, even though the attendants to Zahhak’s right are standing on a floor rather than on the earth. The contradiction implied by the maroon canopy placed directly over the stunted landscape heightens this ambivalence. Seen as a group, the images of the earliest mythical kings of Iran discussed in this paper could be regarded as repetitive and thus somewhat uninspiring. Nevertheless, they are full of pointers to the future of Persian painting, from the varied uses they make of landscape to the breaking of the frame, from the development of royal iconography to their evocation of the Mongol court and its ceremonies, from the confident wielding of the language of propaganda to an absorption in realia such as costume, weapons, luxury items, textiles and furnishings. This wealth of material is all the more striking given that the text, with its curiously genealogical bias, and its overload of information that does not lend itself to taking visual form, gave the painter little enough to go on. But that text, too, has its distinctive value for the evidence that it presents of an alternative history of the Pishdadian kings to that presented by other sources, notably Firdawsi, whose Shahnama was gaining increasing traction at this very time.

334 | classi ca l is l a m Acknowledgements This is also the place to acknowledge with deep gratitude the key role played by Sir Gerald and Lady Elliott in our ambitious joint project to publish the Edinburgh fragment of Rashid al-­Din’s World History in appropriate detail. Without their wonderfully generous and unstinting support we would not have been able to embark on this daunting enterprise. Notes   * It is a pleasure to devote this article to the memory of Edmund Bosworth in token of a friendship that lasted almost fifty years. By a fortunate conjunction, he supervised one of our doctoral theses (Robert Hillenbrand) and examined the other (Carole Hillenbrand), and he and his wife Annette were frequent guests in our house, as we were in theirs. The British Institute of Persian Studies was close to his heart, and in his diffident way he expressed that commitment in an unparalleled forty-­year stint as editor of its journal, Iran. He was a major force in building up its reputation as one of the leading journals in Iranian studies in the widest sense. Hence it is thoroughly appropriate to publish this article there as a tribute to him.  1. Edinburgh University Library, Ms. Arab 20; the basic publication is Rice, Illustrations.  2. Blair, Compendium, 24 and 27.   3. Natif, ‘Alter Ego’; Milstein, ‘Moses’, Hillenbrand, ‘Holy figures’.   4. Ms. 20, f. 2b.   5. Ms. 20, f. 3b.   6. Melville, ‘Rashid al-­Din’.   7. Gray, ‘Shahnama Illustration’; Adamova, Medieval Persian Painting, 2–5 and 14–29. For the interest in the Shahnama in the early Ilkhanate see Melville, ‘Rashid al-­Din’, 202.   8. Malikian-­Chirvani, ‘Miroir du destin’, xxx.   9. Schmitz, ‘Bowl’ and Grube, Cobalt and Lustre, 152–3, 208–9 and 244; Grube, Keir Collection, 199–200 and colour plate facing 200 (Faridun) and 248 and 250 (Rustam and Bizhan). 10. Simpson, ‘Narrative Structure’. 11. Auld, ‘Characters’. 12. Ghouchani, Persian Poetry; Malikian-­Chirvani, ‘Miroir du destin. II’, 54–74. 13. The best general account of them is that of Simpson, Manuscripts, though it is

anc ie nt ir a ni an k i ng s i n the world history  | 335 limited to a select group, excluding for example the Shahnama manuscripts in St Petersburg and Istanbul, the 1341 Inju copy, the so-­called Stephens Shahnama and the one in the Cama collection. 14. The Freer Bal‘ami has a further ten Shahnama scenes (Fitzherbert, ‘Bal‘ami’s Tabari’). 15. Blair, ‘Development’. 16. Grabar and Blair, Epic Images. 17. It is interesting to note where such Iranian material was inserted. In the case of al-­Tabari, the account of Oshajanj/Hushang (tr. Rosenthal, 341–2) follows those of Adam, Cain and Seth; after Oshajanj, the narrative turns to Jared and Enoch/ Idris before embarking on the story of Tahmurath (tr. Rosenthal, 344–5). More space is then allotted to revisiting the stories about Jared and Enoch/Idris, followed by Methuselah, Lamech and Noah, who lived in the time of Bewarasb (Zahhak). It is at this point that al-­Tabari devotes a whole section to Jamshid and Zahhak (tr. Rosenthal, 348–52). As for Ibn al-­Athir, the material on the mythical Persian kings is also interspersed with Biblical figures like Seth and Noah, and can be found at I: 61 (Tahmurath), 1: 64–6 (Jamshid) and 1: 74–7 (Zahhak). 18. See Hukk, Ethé and Robertson, Catalogue, 15–17. 19. The story of Abraham extends to fifty-­three lines; that of Moses occupies 202 lines. 20. Blair, Compendium, 21. 21. Ms. 20, f. 2a. 22. Hushang (Haoshanha) was the first king of the mythological dynasty known as the Paradata dynasty (Pishdadian in the Shahnama); Curtis, Persian Myths, 25 and 31. He is the grandson of Kayumars/Kiyumars and the son of Siyamak. He is praised for his achievements in developing civilisation: ibid., 31. Rashid al-­Din says (f. 2a) that some assert that Hushang was Mihla’il, others that he was Arpachshad, the ancestor of both Zahhak and Faridun. 23. ‘Eternal Wisdom’; for a discussion of this, see Melville, ‘Rashid al-­Din’, 207. 24. Here f. 2a ends. 25. Ms. 20, f. 2b. The section on Hushang in the Edinburgh fragment closely echoes Baidawi’s Nizam al-tawarikh and part of the Persian text of Rashid al-­Din as presented in the Tehran edition by M. Raushan (Melville, ‘Rashid al-­Din’, 2008). But it leaves out key elements of the story of Hushang as given, for example, by Firdawsi. 26. Ms. 20, f. 2b. Tahmurath, the son of Hushang, was known as the ‘Demon-­ binder’; Levy, Shah-Nama, 9.

336 | classi ca l is l a m 27. His name appears in the Avesta I as Takhmo urupa azininavea (‘the strong one in the fox-­skin’): cf. Bosworth, ‘Tahmurath’, 110b. Justi writes his name as Tayma-­urupan: Justi, Namenbuch, 320. 28. Melville cites here the British Library ms. (Ms. Add. 7628, a Persian version of Rashid al-­Din’s text, undated but formerly in the library of Shah Rukh): ‘he built Kuhandiz [Ar. Karhardar] in Marv’ (Melville, ‘Rashid al-­Din’, 208; cf. ibid., 204). This manuscript is accessible at (last accessed 6 May 2021). It is obviously related closely to the Edinburgh fragment in this portion of the text. The details of that relationship are an obvious topic for future research. 29. The text has M*hrin; the British Library ms has Mihrin, and Saduyeh for Saruyah (Melville, ‘Rashid al-­Din’, 208). The Marbin district to the west of Isfahan was the site of an ancient fire-­temple, built by Tahmurath, ‘The Demon Binder’; Le Strange, Lands, 206. 30. The text has ‘to them’. 31. The sense demands some such phrase as ‘the wealthier people’ here. 32. Ms. 20, f. 2b. 33. That is, Ctesiphon. 34. Taysaf un in the text. 35. ‘He of the ten vices’. 36. Soudavar, Aura, 7–39. 37. Soucek, ‘Persepolis’. 38. Soucek, ‘Taq-­i Bustan’. 39. These are indicated in the present article by multiple dots. 40. New Persian Bewarasp/Bewarasb (‘master of ten thousand horses’); al-­Tabari, tr. Rosenthal, 344, n. 1024. 41. Cf. Fahd, ‘Shaddad b. ‘Ad’, with the information that he is associated with the city of Iram Dhat al-‘Imad, a reference that takes the reader back to the current beginning of this manuscript. 42. Namely, ‘He of the Ten Vices’. 43. The illegible text here presumably referred to the familiar tradition that two openings appeared in his shoulders from each of which a serpents grew that had to be fed daily with human brains. Cf. the account by Firdawsi, Shahnama, tr. Warner, I, 138–9. 44. For a representative selection, see the Cambridge Shahnama database: (last accessed 6 May 2021). 45. This arrangement is found only once more in the entire manuscript, on f. 122a.

anc ie nt ir a ni an k i ng s i n the world history  | 337 46. There are two further images of ancient Persian ­kings – M ­ inuchihr and L ­ uhrasp – ­and the remaining enthronement scenes are all associated with the Seljuq kings. 47. The use of such chest designs is not confined to the kings; one of Tahmurath’s attendants sports a similar design. For further discussion of this motif, see Kadoi, ‘Mandarin Square’. 48. Oh, ‘Characteristics’. 49. The bodyguard attending Jamshid has his bunched hair, in the form of a curled plait, covered with the same patterned cloth that is used for the brim of his hat: clearly a sharp dresser. 50. The commonest design features tiny golden stars against a bright blue background. 51. In one of Zahhak’s attendants, this spike sprouts an m-­shaped extension. 52. But not proving; some of these forms may reflect the artist’s fantasy or his ignorance of the finer details of court and military protocol. Eric Schroeder’s valiant attempt to make sense of the plethora of headgear in Ilkhanid ­painting – ­he studied no less than 127 h ­ ats – ­ended in resounding failure. See Schroeder, ‘Ahmad Musa and Shams al-­Din’, 122–3 and figs 1–2. 53. Blair, ‘Jamshid’. 54. Brend, ‘Beyond the Pale’.

Bibliography Adamova, A. T. Medieval Persian Painting: The Evolution of an Artistic Vision. Translated from the Russian and edited by J. M. Rogers. New York: Bibliotheca Persica, 2008. Auld, S. J. ‘Characters Out of Context: The Case of a Bowl in the Victoria and Albert Museum.’ In Shahnama. The Visual Language of the Persian Book of Kings, edited by R. Hillenbrand, 99–116. Aldershot: Ashgate; Varie. Occasional Papers II, 2004. Blair, S. ‘The Development of the Illustrated Book in Iran.’ Muqarnas 10 (1993): 266–74. Blair, S. S. A Compendium of Chronicles: Rashid al-Din’s Illustrated History of the World. London: The Nour Foundation in Association with Azimuth Editions and Oxford University Press, 1995. Blair, S. ‘Jamshid Invents the Crafts.’ In Heroic Times: A Thousand Years of the Persian Book of Kings, edited by J. Gonnella and C. Rauch, 54–7. Munich and Berlin: Museum für Islamische Kunst; Staatliche Museen zu Berlin; Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin; Edition Minerva, 2012.

338 | classi ca l is l a m Bosworth, C. E. ‘Tahmurath.’ Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd edn. Vol. X, cols 110b– 111a. Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1998. Brend, B. ‘Beyond the Pale: Meaning in the Margin.’ In Persian Painting from the Mongols to the Qajars: Studies in Honour of Basil W. Robinson, edited by R. Hillenbrand, 39–55. London: I. B. Tauris, 2000. Curtis, V. S. Persian Myths. London: British Museum Press, 1993. Fahd, T. ‘Shaddad b. ‘Ad’.’ Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd edn. Vol. X, col. 169a. Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1995. Firdawsi, Abu’l-­Qasim. The Shahnama of Firdausi I. Translated by A. G. Warner and E. Warner. London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner & Co. Ltd, 1903. Fitzherbert, T. ‘‘Bal‘ami’s Tabari’. An Illustrated Manuscript of Bal‘ami’s Tarjama-­yi Tarikh-­i Tabari in the Freer Gallery of Art, Washington (F59.16, 47.19 and 30.21).’ Unpublished PhD thesis, University of Edinburgh, 2001. Ghouchani, A. Persian Poetry on the Tiles of Takht-i Sulayman. Tehran: Iran University Press, 1992. Grabar, O., and S. Blair. Epic Images and Contemporary History: The Illustrations of the Great Mongol Shah-Nama. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1980. Gray, B. ‘Shahnama Illustration from Firdausi to the Mongol Invasions.’ In The Art of the Saljuqs in Iran and Anatolia. Proceedings of a Symposium Held in Edinburgh in 1982, edited by R. Hillenbrand, 96–105. Costa Mesa: Mazda, 1994. Grube, E. J. Islamic Pottery of the Eighth to the Fifteenth Century in the Keir Collection. London: Faber and Faber, 1976. Grube, E. J., M. Bayani, D. Kennet, P. Morgan, N. Nassar, A. Northedge and C. Tonghini. Cobalt and Lustre: The First Centuries of Islamic Pottery. Edited by J. Raby. London: The Nour Foundation in association with Azimuth Editions and Oxford University Press, 1994. Hillenbrand, R. ‘Propaganda in the Mongol ‘World History’.’ British Academy Review 17 (2011): 29–38. Hillenbrand, R. ‘Holy Figures Portrayed in the Edinburgh Fragment of Rashid al-­ Din’s World History.’ Iranian Studies 50, no. 6 (2017): 843–71. Hukk, M., H. Ethé and E. Robertson. A Descriptive Catalogue of the Arabic and Persian Manuscripts in Edinburgh University Library. Hertford: Stephen Austin, 1925. Ibn al-­Athir, ‘Izz al-­Din. Al-Kamil fi’l-Ta’rikh. Edited by Carl J. Tornberg. Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1851 onwards. Justi, F. Iranisches Namenbuch. Hildesheim: Georg Olms Verlagsbuchhandlung, repr., 1963.

anc ie nt ir a ni an k i ng s i n the world history  | 339 Kadoi, Y. ‘Beyond the Mandarin Square: Garment Badges in Ilkhanid Painting.’ Hali 138 (2005): 41–50. Le Strange, G. The Lands of the Eastern Caliphate. Mesopotamia, Persia and Central Asia from the Moslem Conquest to the Time of Timur. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1905. Levy, R. 1967. The Epic of the Kings. Shah-Nama the National Epic of Persia by Ferdowsi. London and Boston, MA: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Translated and revised by A. Banani. Malikian-­Chirvani, A. S. ‘Le Livre des Rois, miroir du destin. I­ I – ­Takht-­e Soleyman et la symbolique du Shah-­Name.’ Studia Iranica 20 (1991): 33–148. Melikian-­Chirvani, A. S. ‘Le Shah-­Name, la gnose soufie et le pouvoir mongol.’ Journal asiatique 222 (1984): 249–338. Melikian-­Chirvani, A. S. ‘Le Livre des Rois, miroir du destin.’ Studia Iranica 17 (1988): 7–46. Melville, C. 2008. ‘Jame’ al-­tavarik.’ In Encyclopaedia Iranica. Vol. XIV/5, edited by E. Yarshater, 462–8. New York: Encyclopaedia Iranica Foundation. Melville, C. ‘Rashid al-­Din and the Shahnameh.’ Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, Series 326, nos 1–2 (2016): 201–14. Milstein, R. ‘The Iconography of Moses in Islamic Art.’ Jewish Art 12‒13 (1987): 199–212. Natif, M. ‘Rashid al-­Din’s Alter Ego: The Seven Paintings of Moses in the Jami‘ al-­tawarikh.’ In Rashid al-Din. Agent and Mediator of Cultural Exchanges in Ilkhanid Iran, edited by C. Burnett and A. Akasoy, Warburg Institute Colloquia 24, 15–37. London: The Warburg Institute, 2013. Oh, L. J. ‘The East Asian Characteristics of Ilkhanid Royal Manuscripts.’ Persica XIX (2003): 69–105. Rice, D. T. The Illustrations to the ‘World History’ of Rashid al-Din. Edited by B. Gray. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1976. Schmitz, B. ‘A Fragmentary mina’i Bowl with Scenes from the Shahnama.’ In The Art of the Saljuqs in Iran and Anatolia. Proceedings of a Symposium Held in Edinburgh in 1982, edited by R. Hillenbrand, 156–64. Costa Mesa: Mazda, 1994. Schroeder, E. ‘Ahmed Musa and Shams al-­Din: A Review of Fourteenth Century Painting.’ Ars Islamica VI, no. 2 (1939), 113–42. Simpson, M. S. The Illustration of an Epic. The Earliest Shahnama Manuscripts. New York: Garland Publishing, 1979. Simpson, M. S. ‘The Narrative Structure of a Medieval Iranian Beaker.’ Ars Orientalis 12 (1981): 15–31.

340 | classi ca l is l a m Soucek, P. P. ‘Farhad and Taq-­i Bustan: The Growth of a Legend.’ In Studies in Art and Literature of the Near East in Honor of Richard Ettinghausen, edited by P. J. Chelkowski, 27–52. New York and Salt Lake City: Middle East Center, University of Utah and New York University Press, 1973. Soucek, P.P. ‘The Influence of Persepolis on Islamic Art.’ In Actes du XXIX Congrès des Orientalistes, 195–200. Paris, 1975. Soudavar, A. The Aura of Kings: Legitimacy and Divine Sanction in Iranian Kingship. Costa Mesa: Mazda, 2003. Tabari, Muhammad b. Jarir al-. Ta’rikh al-rusul wa’l-muluk. Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1879 onwards. Translated as The History of al-Tabari in 39 volumes. See in particular Volume I. General Introduction and from the Creation to the Flood, translated by Franz Rosenthal. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1989.

18 Al-Ghazali: In Praise of Sufism

Introduction

A

l-­Ghazali was a true intellectual colossus. Indeed, he may be regarded as the major Muslim intellectual of the Middle Ages. He belongs with Augustine and Aquinas. Like Augustine, he wrote a riveting spiritual autobiography; like Aquinas, he mastered a huge body of book knowledge, and wrote at least fifty books; like both of them, he spent many years living the ascetic life. Over the centuries generations of scholars have made extravagant claims for him, likening him also to Pascal and Descartes. A Brief Biography of Abu Hamid Muhammad al-­Ghazali Al-­Ghazali was born in 1058 in Tus in eastern Iran, in Tus. At an early age he and his brother Ahmad, himself to become a Sufi poet of distinction, are said to have been orphaned. They had a guardian, a Sufi called al-­Farmadhi. As is evident from these skeletal facts, there is very little that we know for certain about these crucial early ­years – ­but it requires very little imagination to realise that he was subjected to significant trauma at a very young age. What we do know is that he and his brother learned at an early age about Sufism. We may speculate that Sufism was a precious source of comfort to the two boys. Between 1077 and 1085 al-­Ghazali studied with the most celebrated theologian of the eastern Islamic world, al-­Juwayni, who was based at Nishapur in eastern Iran. He taught al-­Ghazali the rational sciences, Shafi‘ite law, theology and logic. Al-­Ghazali’s studies with al-­Juwayni continued until his master died. It is probable that he quickly proved himself to be a prodigy and 341

342 | classi ca l is l a m even eclipsed his master. He must have attracted notice in the highest circles even at this early age, for before he was thirty he had also acquired a very powerful mentor, Nizam al-­Mulk, the vizier of the supreme ruler, the Turkish Seljuq sultan Malikshah. Nizam al-­Mulk was, like al-­Ghazali, from Tus and this might have helped to forge a bond between them. At the remarkably young age of thirty-­three, al-­Ghazali was appointed to a most prestigious job, as head of the Nizamiyya madrasa, the most famous theological legal college in Baghdad, which was then the capital of the entire Islamic world. Here was a Persian taking the top job in the Arab metropolis of Baghdad. It was like being both Archbishop of Canterbury and Regius Professor of Law at Oxford. In matters intellectual, he was the man of the moment. His range was a­ stonishing – ­he wrote on philosophy, ethics, theology and statecraft, on law and political thought. In short, he was a polymath. He moved with consummate ease between the Arabic-­speaking court of the caliph and the Persian-­speaking court of the sultan. Four years of this high-­profile life led to what would now be called a ‘mid-­life crisis’. In 1095 he left Baghdad and for a long period, possibly as long as ten years, he wandered as an ascetic Sufi, visiting the holy cities of Jerusalem, Mecca and Medina. He meditated in the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem, he spent two years in the minaret of the Great Mosque of Damascus and he made the pilgrimage to Mecca. He finally returned home to Tus and lived in seclusion with a circle of Sufi disciples. And then, all of a sudden, the world of high politics seemed to beckon him back a­ gain – ­but this time not to Baghdad. Instead, he was invited to Nishapur by the Seljuq sultan Sanjar to take on an important teaching post but he stayed there for only two or three years. Thereafter, he went back to his birthplace, Tus, where he remained almost continuously until his death, at fifty-­three, in 1111. There he lived a retired life, s­ taying – ­it ­seems – i­ n a khanaqah which he had founded, teaching disciples and meditating. Moreover, he wrote important books there, completing his last work in the month of his death. Al-­Ghazali ’s Spiritual Journey In his spiritual ‘autobiography’, the Munqidh min al-dalal (The Deliverer from Error) there is a very moving account of al-­Ghazali’s personal crisis in

al - ghazali : i n prai se of suf is m ­ | 343 Baghdad in 1095. This mature work was written in Nishapur between 1106 and 1107 and it looks back at his time in Baghdad and thereafter.1 Al-­Ghazali himself says that he wrote the book when he was in his fifties and around the time he returned to teaching.2 In this book, having finished his examination of three religious ­sciences – ­philosophy, theology and Isma‘ili Shi‘ite ­doctrines – ­al-­Ghazali says that he has now turned to the study of Sufism. In this moving analysis of his personal crisis, he finds the solution in the way of the Sufis. He says that for him knowledge of it has been easier than action. He has read classical Sufi books and learned what can be learned by study and listening. But that is not enough; the essence of Sufism can only be acquired by ‘tasting’ (dhawq), experiencing mystical states and a change of personal attributes. He writes that the Sufi path aims at removing personal defects from the soul and at purifying a person’s heart so that it ends up being adorned only with the name of God.3 He makes an analogy between knowing intellectually the definition of something (such as sobriety/intoxication or health/illness) and actually experiencing intoxication or illness personally. The same applies to Sufism. He has learned for certain that Sufis are not pedlars of words; they are possessor of mystical states. By studying both the religious and rational sciences he has acquired an unshakable faith in God, prophetic revelation and the Last Judgement. These three principles have become implanted in his soul, not by specific written proof but by other factors too numerous to list. But he has realised that he must flee all human attachments and ambitions and turn to God wholeheartedly if he can hope for happiness in the afterlife: ‘I saw clearly too that I could not hope for eternal happiness except by fearing God, removing my ­passions – ­that is to say, breaking the attachments of my heart with the world.’4 He goes on to praise the Sufi path: ‘Their conduct is perfect, their path is straight, their character virtuous.’5 He has scrutinised his lifestyle and realised that he is entangled in attachments on all sides. He has also examined his ­activities – ­the best of which is his ­teaching – a­ nd he finds them useless for the way to the afterlife. He has examined his motivation for teaching and found it to be not directed towards God but towards the acquiring of fame and reputation. He records that he remained hesitating for a while, unable to decide whether to leave Baghdad

344 | classi ca l is l a m or to stay.6 He vacillated: ‘I would put one foot forward, and the other backward.’ Ambition pushed him towards remaining there; the call of faith urged him to leave. Satan would tempt him to stay in Baghdad, pointing out to him the dangers of leaving. In July 1095, after six months of vacillation, the matter passed from choice to compulsion. He fell into a deep depression. He found that he could not digest food or drink. In the middle of a lecture he could not speak; as he says, ‘God put a lock on my tongue’. He felt himself to be ‘on the edge of a crumbling bank’. He would be consigned to the Fire if he did not put his situation right. On a personal level, this great intellectual had clearly realised that he must flee all human attachments and ambitions and turn to God if he could hope for happiness in the afterlife. For someone who has reached the very top of the tree in worldly terms, this is a life-­changing insight. The doctors could not cure him of the malady that afflicted him. Sensing his powerlessness, al-­Ghazali sought refuge with God, who answered his prayer and made it easy for him to leave his fame, money, relatives, children and friends. Whilst secretly planning to travel to Damascus, al-­Ghazali pretended publicly to be going to Mecca, out of fear that the caliph and his advisers would find out about his decision to go to Damascus. He left Baghdad, having resolved never to go back there again. Al-­Ghazali stayed in Damascus for nearly two years, spending his time in solitude, retreat, spiritual discipline and purifying his heart. He stayed for a while in the Damascus mosque, passing the day in the minaret with the door closed. From there he went to Jerusalem, visiting the Dome of the Rock every day and shutting himself inside it. After having visited (the tomb) of the Friend (that is, Abraham) in Hebron, he then decided to go on the Pilgrimage and to seek help from the blessings of Mecca and Medina and visiting (the tomb) of the Prophet of God. Thereafter he felt called to return to his homeland to attend to his family affairs, despite his reluctance to leave his life of solitude. Worldly preoccupations then tended to obstruct his pursuit of the mystical path. Nevertheless, the mystical state was achieved, but only intermittently.7 He remained in this situation for around ten years, in the course of which innumerable and inexplicable things were revealed to him. But he will say this much: it is the Sufis who are especially on the path of God. Their way is the best one. He goes even further in his praise of them:

al - ghazali : i n prai se of suf is m ­ | 345 Indeed, were one to combine the insight of the intellectuals, the wisdom of the wise, and the lore of the scholars versed in the mysteries of revelation in order to change a single item of Sufi conduct and ethic and to replace it with something better, no way would be found! For all their motions and quiescences, exterior and interior, are learned from the light of the niche of prophecy. And beyond the light of prophecy there is no light on earth from which illumination can be obtained.8

Two medieval scholars have left biographical accounts of al-­Ghazali; ‘Abd al-­Ghafir al-­Farisi (d. 529/1134–5), whose evidence is the earliest extant biography of al-­Ghazali, and al-­Subki (d. 771/1369). Al-­Farisi writes most favourably of al-­Ghazali:9 After studying the subtle sciences and applying himself to the books written about them, he was overwhelmed and followed the path of asceticism and godliness, and he gave up his entourage and cast away the rank he had attained to devote himself to the causes of piety and the provisions for the Afterlife.

Al-­Farisi adds more positive comments about al-­Ghazali once he was back in Nishapur and Tus: I often visited him and I did not find in him what I had formerly been familiar with in his regard, namely maliciousness and making people uneasy and regarding them disdainfully . . . He had become the exact opposite and had been cleansed of those impurities.10

Al-­Subki also has laudatory comments to make about al-­Ghazali: His heart enclosed a piety and a solitude in which his chosen companion was none other than obedience to ­God . . . ­He left the world behind him and devoted himself to God, dealing (only) with Him privately and publicly.11

Al-­Ghazali ’s Writings on Sufism When writing about Sufism, al-­Ghazali draws on the concepts and symbols used by his predecessors, including Hasan al-­Basri (d. 728) and al-­Qushayri (d. 1074). He is especially influenced by two important Sufis, al-­Muhasibi (d. 837) and al-­Makki (d. 996). The name al-­Muhasibi is concerned with

346 | classi ca l is l a m self-­discipline (muhasaba means self-­examination) and this term describes very well the nature of his writing with its emphasis on the examination of one’s conscience.12 Al-­Ghazali actually acknowledges his debt to al-­Muhasibi; indeed he says at one point in the Munqidh that he has copied sentences word for word from a passage in the work Kitab al-nasa’ih of al-­Muhasibi.13 It is quite likely that the autobiographical introduction to this book of al-­Muhasibi may well have influenced al-­Ghazali when he came to write the Munqidh. Al-­ Muhasibi writes: ‘With all my heart I sought the path of salvation.’14 Another important source for al-­Ghazali was the work of al-­Makki (d. 996), who composed a work called Qut al-qulub (The Food of Hearts) in which he wrote about Islamic ritual practices from a mystical standpoint, laying emphasis on the three major doctrines of sabr (patience), mahabba (love) and ma‘rifa (gnosis).15 Al-­Ghazali’s admiration for the Sufi way is summed up in moving terms in the Munqidh: I learnt with certainty that it is above all the mystics who walk on the road of God; their life is the best life, their method the soundest method, their character the purest character.16 It became clear to me, however, that what is most distinctive of mysticism is something which cannot be apprehended by study, but only by immediate experience (dhawq – literally ‘tasting’), by ecstasy and by a moral change.17

Al-­Ghazali strives for a Sufism based on sober piety, a mingling of the teachings of Islamic law and the profound inner spirituality of the Sufis. There should be a natural harmony between Sufism and the Law. In addition to his famous so-­called spiritual autobiography, the Munqidh, there are many other writings of al-­Ghazali; they number at least sixty. A good number of these are short treatises, such as the Mishkat al-anwar18, Al-Qistas al-mustaqim19 and Al-Arba‘in fi usul al-din.20 Whatever their length, al-­Ghazali’s books emphasise the importance of Sunni Islam and the Shari‘a, whilst often highlighting the overarching mystical dimension of the Sufi path. Clearly, then, he is seeking to unite the path of orthodoxy with that of Sufism; he does not see one as excluding the other. The following discussion about al-­Ghazali’s thoughts on Sufism will focus only on two major books of his, the massive Revivification of the Sciences

al - ghazali : i n prai se of suf is m ­ | 347 of Religion (Ihya’ ‘ulum al-din) which is written in Arabic and the Alchemy of Happiness (Kimiya-yi sa‘adat) in Persian. To turn first to the Ihya’. This is undoubtedly al-­Ghazali’s longest, most impressive and grandiose work. Arberry calls it ‘in many ways the greatest religious book composed by a Muslim’. 21 It is constructed as a book of jurisprudence. N ­ evertheless – ­and this is a remarkable ­feat – ­it is permeated with the mystical dimension. He constantly stresses the role of the heart; this is no dry, legalistic treatise. It offers a Muslim theory of knowledge, followed by detailed guidance on matters of faith, ritual, daily life, virtue and vices, and the mystical experience of God. The Ihya’ consists of four sections – ‘ibadat (cult obligations to God), ‘adat (customs), ‘aja’ib al-qalb (wonders of the heart) and munjiyat (religious virtues); each of these is divided into ten chapters. The ‘aja’ib al-qalb section is focused on Sufi symbolism. Al-­Ghazali describes the heart as follows: ‘It is a subtle tenuous substance of an ethereal spiritual sort, which is connected with the physical heart. This heart is the part of man which perceives and knows and experiences.’22 For al-­Ghazali, it is the heart that equips man for knowledge of God. In this context, the heart is an organ through which the human being may gaze upon the beauty of the Divine Presence; this is the culmination of happiness. In the Ihya’ al-­Ghazali explains the difference between the way in which the Sufis discover the truth and how those who use reasoning and the process of learning attempt to do so. This is a very important and moving description: Know that the preference of the men of tasawwuf (the Sufis) is for inspirational rather than for instructional cognitions. Hence they are not intent on the study of a science and the acquisition of what authors have written and the investigation of the teachings and proofs set forth. Rather they affirm that the (right) way is to give preference to spiritual combat and eradicating blameworthy qualities and cutting off all attachments (to human beings) and applying oneself with utmost ardour to God Most H ­ igh . . . ­When God takes charge of the heart’s affairs His mercy floods it and His light shines in it and man’s heart is dilated and there is disclosed to him the mystery of the Kingdom and there is lifted from the face of his heart by the favour of the (Divine) mercy the veil concealing God’s glory and there gleams in it the realities of the divine things.23

348 | classi ca l is l a m If this advice is followed, the disciple will experience the wonders of proximity to God. The Sufi path, he says, aims at removing personal defects from the soul and purifying a person’s heart until it is adorned only with the name of God. The Sufi strives to ‘see’ God with the ‘inner eye’, the ‘eye of the heart’. There are several terms in Arabic which refer to the human organ used symbolically for spiritual communication with ­God – ­heart (qalb), spirit (ruh), secret (sirr) and jewel (jawhar). The Sufi tries to remove ‘obstacles’ (that is, earthly desires) on the path to God. Another metaphor to help explain this is that Sufism involves tasting. Just one single aspect of the conduct and morals of the Sufis cannot be surpassed by the total accumulated intellect of the intellectuals, the wisdom of the wise and the knowledge of the ‘ulama’ who are experts in the secrets of revelation. Al-­Ghazali attempts to describe the Sufi way. He says it begins with purifying the heart and then with its being totally absorbed in the remembrance (dhikr) of God. The final stage is being completely lost in God. Yet this final stage is really only the beginning, as the hall (of a house) is only the entry to it. Revelations and visions are possible from the very beginning of the Sufi path. Then later, levels of revelation are achieved which are beyond the power of speech to explain: Then one retires ­alone . . . ­and confines oneself to the religious duties and rituals. One sits with heart empty and attention c­ oncentrated . . . ­And after one sits down in seclusion one unceasingly says with the tongue ‘Allah, Allah’ without interruption concomitantly with the presence of the heart until one reaches a state in which he gives up moving his tongue and see it as though it were flowing on his tongue.24

This is an eloquent and sensitive attempt by al-­Ghazali to describe the way in which Sufis carry out the practice of dhikr (remembrance [of God]). The culmination of this deep contemplative process will be that gleams of light will shine in the believer’s heart. According to Seyyed Hossein Nasr, a practising Sufi himself, dhikr is the ‘primary spiritual technique of Sufism, through which man returns to God’; it is ‘prayer unified with the rhythm of life itself’.25 Dhikr involves remembrance, the constant repetition of the name Allah, accompanied by rhythmic, controlled breathing.

al - ghazali : i n prai se of suf is m ­ | 349 Al-­Ghazali’s Writings in Persian It was perhaps inevitable that most of al-­Ghazali’s writing is in Arabic, since that ensured its wide dissemination throughout the Muslim world, from Spain to Central Asia. But he also composed several works in Persian. It is highly likely that it was after his journeys in Syria and the Holy Land and his return to eastern Iran that he began writing works in his native language. Once home in Iran, he nevertheless continued to compose major books in Arabic, and above all the Munqidh and his legal masterpiece, the Kitab al-mustasfa.26 A fundamental problem in studies of al-­Ghazali is that most scholars in this field have focused on the works in Arabic that account for most of his literary output. Fair enough. But a good many of them do not know Persian, and so his Persian works have been unfairly neglected ­or – ­worse ­still – ­misunderstood and undervalued. The Kimiya-yi sa‘adat (The Alchemy of Happiness – an allusive and challenging title) is his longest extant work in Persian.27 This still relatively little-­known book of al-­Ghazali, written in Persian, has been described as a summary of his Arabic magnum opus, the Ihya’. This is partly true. However, the Kimiya is much more than this. It is replete with many beautifully expressed and valuable insights into the Sufi path; these reflections, which are often lengthy, are not to be found in the Ihya’. It is a masterpiece of Persian religious literature. This seems to be al-­Ghazali’s first work in Persian. It was written for those living in areas where Persian was the language of the ­majority – ­Iran, Central Asia, Afghanistan and northern India. The work was probably completed between 1102 and 1106 after al-­Ghazali had finished the Ihya’. It is addressed to a new audience. It is written in a simple style at a time when Persian was enjoying a renaissance as a cultural language in the eastern Islamic world. Al-­Ghazali tells his readers that he wishes to explain his message in understandable, accessible words. The work comprises forty books. These are divided into four quarters, each containing ten books. To distance the Kimiya from the Ihya’ and to reinforce the new emphasis and independent nature of the Kimiya, al-­Ghazali gives this latter work a new title. As in other medieval cultures, the ‘science’ or pseudo-­science of alchemy presented writers with a potent set of images. Alchemists believed that metals formed a hierarchy of increasing purity until

350 | classi ca l is l a m one attained the mystical perfection of gold. The transformation of base metals, which were imperfect, into gold can serve as an evocative symbol of humanity’s spiritual regeneration through travelling along the Sufi path. Al-­Ghazali was no stranger to these symbols. Indeed, it is very likely that his brother Ahmad al-­Ghazali, as a well-­known Sufi, exerted an important influence on him throughout his life. Al-­Ghazali is positive in his analysis of why and how human beings have been created; he writes that, although their bodies are made of clay and are lowly, the essence of their spirit is sublime and godly. Initially their substance is mixed and ‘contaminated with beastly, ferine and devilish qualities’,28 but when they are placed in the crucible of conflict they are cleansed of this pollution and contamination and they become worthy of proximity to the threshold of God. Human beings should rid themselves of the grip of lust and anger. At that point they become worthy to contemplate the beauty of the Divine Presence. Al-­Ghazali’s spiritual crisis is a paradigm for all Muslims seeking experiential knowledge of God. Alchemical imagery is expressed in the introduction to the Kimiya: Just as that alchemy that transforms copper and bronze to the purity and beauty of pure gold is difficult and not known by everyone; so too the alchemy that will transform the essence of man from his baseness and bestiality to the purity and preciousness of the angelic state, in order to achieve eternal happiness, is also difficult to find and not known by all.29

The opening part of the Kimiya is especially important, for here al-­Ghazali bares his heart and defines what he regards as true Muslim spirituality. This prelude is written in praise of God, who has created the heavens and the earth; it is addressed especially to those who seek knowledge of Him as they move along the Sufi path in their striving towards proximity with Him: Abundant gratitude and thanks, in the number of the stars in the sky, the droplets of the rain, the leaves of the trees, the grains of sand in the desert and the particles of the earth and the sky, to that God Whose attribute is Oneness and Whose special nature is Majesty and Grandeur, Greatness and Superiority, and Glory and Goodness. No one other than He may penetrate the true reality of His knowledge.30

al - ghazali : i n prai se of suf is m ­ | 351 Addressing the Sufis specifically, al-­Ghazali stresses that ‘the ultimate end of the journey of the wayfarers and disciples in their search for proximity to His awesome beauty is astonishment’.31 This prelude in the Kimiya which is devoted to extolling the glory and splendour of God reaches a magnificent climax in the following words: Let no-­one reflect upon the Nature and the What of the vastness of His essence! Let no heart neglect for one moment the wonders of His creation and (question) the nature and origin of His existence, so that one necessarily recognizes that all are signs of His power and the lights of His grandeur. All these are the inventions and marvels of His wisdom. All are the rays of the beauty of His presence.32

Certain symbols recur often in the Kimiya. First among them is the image of the heart. Al-­Ghazali believes that faith has its outward and inner aspects, both of which are necessary and inter-­dependent to achieve balance; the inner aspects he calls ‘the activities of hearts’. Faith based on inner certainty, attained through ‘unveiling’, is better than faith based on tradition and reason. It is the ‘heart’, a delicate transcendental entity, that equips humanity for knowledge of God. In this context, the ‘heart’, as al-­Ghazali says, is not the organ of flesh, situated on the left side of the chest. It is an organ through which human beings may gaze upon the beauty of the Divine Presence; this is the culmination of their happiness: ‘It is the heart which knows God, which draws near to God, which strives for God, which speeds towards God and which discloses what is in and with God.’ 33 Like other Sufi writers al-­Ghazali used the symbol of the mirror, which in medieval times was often made of metal. The heart is usually dirty, rusty, and soiled with sin and human passions. It must be cleansed of the rust (of this material world) and polished to become the receptacle for knowledge of God. As in the Ihya’, al-­Ghazali emphasises in the Kimiya the symbolism of the heart as a mirror. He writes as follows: The actions from which bad qualities come are called disobedience, and those from which good qualities come are called ­obedience . . . ­The heart is just like a shining mirror. The ugly qualities are like smoke and darkness which on entering it (the heart) darken it, so that tomorrow it cannot see

352 | classi ca l is l a m the Divine Presence and it becomes veiled from it. The good qualities are like a light which on entering the heart polishes it clear from the darkness of rebellion.34

The role of music is also stressed in the Kimiya. Al-­Ghazali believes that music is in some way able to affect man’s inner being, the jewel of the heart. He writes in the Kimiya: The heart of man has been so constituted by the Almighty that, like a flint, it contains a hidden fire which is evoked by music and harmony, and renders man beside himself with ecstasy. These harmonies are echoes of that higher world of beauty which we call the world of the spirits.35

Al-­Ghazali wrote a number of other works in Persian after his return home to eastern Iran. They are much shorter than the Kimiya and are heavily dependent on the ideas found in that great work. They are nevertheless worthy of mention, since they demonstrate al-­Ghazali’s wish to express his views regularly in public to guide the faithful along the right path. These works are homiletic in tone and they are addressed to sultans, governors, military commanders as well as to his own Sufi disciples. The principal theme of these shorter works in Persian is the absolute necessity of upholding the Shari‘a. Islamic law and stable government are inextricably linked. One such work of al-­Ghazali in Persian attacks those Sufis who dispense with the law; it is called the Hamaqat-i ahl-i Ibahiyya (The Folly of the Ibahiyya). For Sufis the Qur’an and the hadith are believed to contain a batin, a secret spiritual meaning. Some Sufis felt that following the batin allowed them to dispense with observance of the precepts of the Shari‘a. Within the spectrum of Sufism, there were those like al-­Ghazali who still upheld the importance of following the Shari‘a and who attacked all those who accepted any sort of antinomianism (ibaha). Al-­Ghazali vehemently attacks this lawless group: As for these free-­thinkers (Ibahatiyyun) and these useless wearers of tall hats (mutawaqqan),36 who have appeared ­nowadays . . . ­who have got hold of a few fraudulent phrases from the incoherent speech of the Sufis. . . they deserve to be put to death. They are utterly devilish people and enemies of God and the Messenger.37

al - ghazali : i n prai se of suf is m ­ | 353 Given the earthly and escatalogical dangers of straying from the ‘straight path’ it is clear that al-­Ghazali sees the need to write about the importance of ‘true Sufism’, that which is conducted within the framework of the Shari‘a. It should be noted that just because al-­Ghazali spoke a great deal about Sufism, this does not mean that he ceased to be a jurist. As late as 1109 he wrote an impressive work, a masterpiece of jurisprudence, the Kitab al-mustasfa.38 Al-­Ghazali explicitly states that he wishes the Kimiya to have wide circulation and to be understood with ease: We shall withhold our pen from lengthy, obscure expressions and subtle, difficult meanings, so that it (the book) may be ­understood . . . ­This aim of this book is people at large (‘awamm-i khalq) who have asked for this subject (to be explained to them) in Persian, and beyond the limit of whose understanding the discussion will not pass.39

It would be naïve to assume that al-­Ghazali really does mean the ‘common people’ in this context. It is much more likely that he is referring here to the Persian-­speaking urban elites in Khurasan, as well as their Turkish overlords who were more likely to know Persian rather than Arabic. And of course the Kimiya is also directed to his disciples. The style of the Kimiya is typical of the Persian prose produced in Khurasan in the fifth/eleventh century and the early sixth/twelfth century. It is beautiful, pellucid language.40 Concluding Remarks Mysticism in I­slam – ­for that is what Sufism i­s – ­existed from the earliest period. At times it encountered difficulties, hostility and persecution. Certain figures within Sufism were perceived to have gone too far in their ecstatic utterances and were condemned, such as al-­Hallaj, who was executed in 922, accused of claiming that he was God. However, many of the greatest Muslim thinkers were indeed followers or admirers of Sufism. Above all, it was the Sufis who served as the major emotional focus for ordinary people, those unable to understand the legal and theological intricacies of religious debates. According to al-­Ghazali, Sufism should be seen not as an alternative to, but as a complement to, or completion of, Islamic worship. In the opinion of al-­Ghazali – a­ man who was an absolute master of the written word in both

354 | classi ca l is l a m Arabic and ­Persian – ­Sufis are not pedlars of words; they have experienced mystical states which are beyond words. And al-­Ghazali’s practice of holding his tongue about the details of Sufi closeness to God is not surprising. It is integral to the entire Sufi tradition, and also fits in with the millennial practice of Christian mystics. Sufism is more a way of life than a school of thought. Sufis emphasised the importance of asceticism, sincere piety, self-­purification, genuine love of God. They believed that every single person was capable of some direct experience of God. Everything the Sufis do is learned from the light of the niche of prophethood. It is only from that niche that enlightenment can be found on the face of this earth. Al-­Ghazali was, above all, a Sunni Muslim through and through. He regards the religio-­legal role of the Sunni caliphate in the lands of Islam as an absolute necessity, seeing it as a sure foundation for the stability and health of the whole community. He cannot, he will not, contemplate the idea of there being no Sunni c­ aliph – ­that way lies disaster. Although he is a great supporter of m ­ ysticism – ­remember his early exposure to its d ­ octrines – ­Sufi practice must, in his view, remain within the safe framework of Sunni Islam. It cannot replace Islamic law, the Shari‘a. It can only complement and ­perfect  it. To what extent can it be said that al-­Ghazali himself was a practising Sufi? Al-­Ghazali has certainly had a few opponents in the academic world. A relatively recent attack on him was made by Julian Baldick in his book, Mystical Islam, published in 1989. He writes that al-­Ghazali ‘has received a vast amount of attention in the West, which he hardly deserves since his work has neither the spirituality nor the philosophical rigour with which it has been credited’.41 However, whilst there may be some doubt as to whether al-­Ghazali himself actually experienced the mystical dimensions of Sufism which he describes so eloquently in the Ihya’, the Munqidh, the Kimiya and other lesser-­known works of his, it is abundantly clear that he thought that the Sufi path was the right one for Muslims to follow, provided, as already mentioned, that it was situated within the bounds of Islamic law (the Shari‘a). In particular, whilst his spiritual ‘autobiography’ has a definite didactic purpose, its tone is eloquent, persuasive and moving. As Knysh shrewdly writes:

al - ghazali : i n prai se of suf is m ­ | 355 In al-­Ghazali’s view, together with a meticulous observance of the ordinary rules and routines of Muslim piety, Sufi moral and spiritual discipline is essential in leading the believer to religious truth, intellectual serenity and, eventually, to salvation.42

According to al-­Ghazali, all Muslims, in short, should observe the outward signs of the faith. Yet al-­Ghazali is well aware that this is not sufficient without the direct, ecstatic contemplation of God in the divinely illuminated ­heart – t­ he inner fire of Sufism. Al-­Ghazali believes that faith has its outward and inner aspects, both of which are necessary and interdependent to achieve balance; he calls the inner aspects ‘the activities of hearts’. Faith based on inner certainty, attained through ‘unveiling’, is better than faith based on tradition and reason. So, like al-­Makki and other scholars before him, al-­ Ghazali examines the five pillars of Islam and tries to invest them with inner significance. A major milestone in the history of Sufism came with the career of al-­Ghazali, who is probably the most famous scholar in classical Islam. Even today, he is much respected not only in the Arab world and in his homeland of Iran, but also in the Indian subcontinent, Malaysia and Indonesia. His engagement with Sufism is significant not because his ideas are especially ­new – ­for they are n ­ ot – ­but because he is able to present them in a systematic, structured and eloquent way. For al-­Ghazali, the Sufi path toward true knowledge should not imply a divorce from the Shari‘a, the well-­trodden path of the revealed law of Islam. Indeed, a scrupulous observance of outward religious practices is a necessary part of inner piety. He underlines this point in his long masterpiece, the Ihya’, The Revivification of the Religious Sciences, where he explains that Sufism is not an alternative to formal Islam, but a completion of it. The Revivification is directed not just at the majority of Muslims; it is also addressed to certain groups of Sufis, who had dared to express the opinion that Islamic law could be ignored. Al-­Ghazali’s passionately positive advocacy for the Sufi way formed the culmination of the work of his predecessors al-­Muhasibi and al-­Makki, and he helped to integrate a moderate form of Sufism into Islam. In retrospect, much of his importance seems to lie in the fact that his Sufism was embedded in the Shari‘a, the wide path for all Muslims to follow,

356 | classi ca l is l a m rather than in the tariqa, the narrow and often controversial path trodden by Sufi adepts. So his teaching is fully integrated into the life of the Muslim community. It does not require prodigies of self-­denial, but it does require living in the presence of God, and it shows very pragmatically how that can be done. So his teaching not only challenges the believer but also provides abundant hope. Nearly all the attention devoted to al-­Ghazali in Western scholarship has been paid, not surprisingly perhaps, to his numerous works in Arabic. These do, indeed, form the overwhelming majority of al-­Ghazali’s oeuvre. It is important, however, to note that al-­Ghazali was a Persian who also composed works in his native tongue and these have been largely neglected by all but a few ­scholars – a­ lthough all seem to accept en passant that al-­Ghazali did write in Persian too. A symptom of this neglect is that for a long time now a body of scholars have alleged that the Kimiya is merely a Persian summary of the Ihya’. Thanks to frequent repetition, this assertion has become deeply entrenched, so much so that the Kimiya is rarely, or more often, never, consulted by those who are specialists on al-­Ghazali and who on the whole until recently have not even bothered to learn Persian. It is high time for this situation to be recognised so that al-­Ghazali’s work and his spiritual evolution can be assessed in their full context. For al-­Ghazali Sufism is the path of choice towards true knowledge, gnosis (ma‘rifa). In one of his surviving letters he writes: ‘Gnosis or ma‘rifa is a knowledge given in ecstasy to saints who behold God with their hearts.’43 He does not believe that the truth lies either with theology or with philosophy, let alone with the charismatic authoritarianism of the new Shi‘ite missionary teaching of Hasan-­i Sabbah, the Nizari Isma‘ili in Alamut. Al-­Ghazali is also irrevocably opposed to extreme forms of Sufism, such as those antinomian tendencies which dispense with adherence to God’s Revealed Law, the Shari‘a. For al-­Ghazali, the Sufi path towards true knowledge should not imply a divorce from that well-­trodden path. Indeed, it is worth repeating that in his view, scrupulous observance of outward religious practices is a prerequisite of inner piety. Al-­Ghazali examines the five pillars of Islam and tries to invest them with inner significance. It is the ‘heart’, that elusive entity, which equips man for knowledge of God. Like others who attempted to theorise Sufi doctrine,

al - ghazali : i n prai se of suf is m ­ | 357 al-­Ghazali feels that the heart is the entity which allows the human being to progress along the path of spiritual exercises which leads to greater proximity to God. For al-­Ghazali Sufism should not be an alternative to the usual formal rituals of Islam but a completion of them. He is passionate about ­Sufism – ­that is clear ­enough – ­but he is equally passionate about the law and its abiding importance. And so, in the last decade of his life the two most formative influences in his early years came together and found expression in his native tongue. The Kimiya is a lasting monument to Sufism, to the law, and its author’s commitment to the public good. And for that reason al-­Ghazali’s moral stature has remained undimmed across the centuries. Notes  1. F. Jabre, Al-Ghazali, Al-Munqid min Adalal (Erreur et Délivrance) (Beirut, 1959); R. J. McCarthy, Freedom and Fulfillment: An Annotated Translation of Al-Ghazali’s al-Munqidh min al-Dalal and Other Relevant Works of al-Ghazali (Boston, 1980). W. M. Watt, The Faith and Practice of al-Ghazali (London, 1953).   2. Jabre, 59, 113–14.   3. Ibid., 35.   4. Ibid., 97.   5. Ibid., 39.   6. Ibid., 36.   7. McCarthy, 93–4.   8. Ibid., 94.   9. ‘Abd al-­Ghafir al-­Farisi, in McCarthy, Freedom and Fulfillment, xvi. 10. Ibid., xvii–xviii. 11. Al-­Subki, Tabaqat Al-Shafi‘iyya, eds A. F. M. Hilw and M. al-­Tanahi, vol. 6 (Cairo, 1967), 210–11; McCarthy, Freedom and fulfillment, xiv. 12. M. Smith, ‘A forerunner of Ghazali’, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society (1936), 65; J. van Ess, Die Gedankenwelt des Harith al-Muhasibi (Bonn, 1961), 3; A. J. Arberry, Sufism: An Account of the Mystics of Islam (London, 1963), 47. 13. Jabre, Arabic text, 35; Arberry, Sufism, 47; van Ess, Die Gedankenwelt, 3; Smith, ‘A forerunner of Ghazali’, 35. 14. Arberry, Sufism, 47. 15. S. Yazaki, Islamic Mysticism and Abu Talib al-Makki: The Role of the Heart (Abingdon, 2013).

358 | classi ca l is l a m 16. 17. 18. 19.

Watt, 24. Ibid., 22. Mishkat al-anwar, tr. D. Buchman as The Niche of Lights (Utah, 1998). Al-Qistas al-mustaqim, ed. V. Chelhot (Damascus: Bulletin d’Études orientales X, 1958). 20. Al-Arba‘in fi usul al-din, ed. M. M. Jabir (Cairo, 1964). 21. Arberry, Sufism, 79. 22. Al-Ghazali: Wonders of the Heart, tr. W. J. Skellie (Kuala Lumpur, 2007), 6. 23. McCarthy, Freedom and Fulfillment, 379. 24. McCarthy, Freedom and Fufillment, 380. 25. S. H. Nasr, Ideals and Realities of Islam (Boston, 1966), 142. 26. Al-­Ghazali, Al-Mustasfa min ‘ilm al-usul (Beirut, 1904–7). 27. Ed. H. Khadivjam, Tehran, 1341/1976; H. Ritter, Al-Ghasali: Das Elixir de Glückseligkeit (Munich, 1929); A. A. Khismatulin, The Kimiya-yi Sa‘adat (‘Elixir schast’ya’). Part 1: Rukn 2 (St Petersburg, 2002); Part 2: Rukn 2 (St Petersburg, 2007); Al-­Ghazali, The Alchemy of Happiness (Kimyâyi Sa‘âdat), tr. H. A. Homes (Albany, 1873); Al-­Ghazali, The Alchemy of Happiness, tr. C. Field, revised and annotated by E. L. Daniel (London, 1991). 28. Kimiya, ed. Khadivjam, vol. 1, 4. 29. Al-Ghazzali, Alchemy of Happiness, tr. J. R. Crook (Chicago, 2005), 2–3. 30 Ibid., 1. 31. Ibid. 32. Ibid., 1–2. 33. McCarthy, 363. 34. Khadivjam, 25. 35. Field, 57. 36. R. Dozy, Supplément aux dictionnaires arabes (Beirut, 1968), vol. 2, 71. 37. Kimiya, ed. Khadivjam, vol. 1, 38. Munqidh, tr. McCarthy, 103–4, 108 and n. 230; O. Pretzl, Die Streitschrift des Ghazali gegen die Ibahija (Munich, 1933). 38. Al-­Ghazali, Al-Mustasfa min ‘ilm al-usul (Baghdad, 1970). 39. Kimiya, ed. Khadivjam, vol. 1, 9. 40. J. van Ess, ‘Quelques remarques sur le Munqidh min ad-­dalâl’, in Ghâzâli. La raison et le miracle, editor unidentified, Table Ronde Unesco, 9–10 décembre 1985 (Paris, 1987), 59–60. 41. J. Baldick, Mystical Islam (London, 1989), 65–6. 42. A. Knysh, Islamic Mysticism: A Short History (Leiden, 2000), 144. 43. A. Qayyum, Letters of al-Ghazali (Lahore, 1982) 182.

19 Life in Pre-­Mongol Marv According to the Medieval Muslim Geographers

Introduction

B

efore the Mongol conquests, Marv was one of the most important cities of Khurasan. Indeed, at certain moments it was the cultural and administrative centre of that vast province of the eastern Islamic world, enjoying greater prestige than the now more famous Central Asian cities of Bukhara and Samarqand. Unlike them, however, the glory of Marv did not outlast Seljuq times. Its major flowering occurred under the early ‘Abbasids and again under Seljuq Turkish rule, and this paper will concentrate on the history of Marv during these two periods. It is fortunate that numerous medieval Muslim Arab and Persian geographers recorded in some detail their impressions of this most interesting city. They identify two towns called Marv. Some attention is paid in the sources to Marv al-­Rud, which was situated at a distance of a five-­day journey away from the more famous oasis city of Marv al-­Shahijan. The discussion in this paper will be focused on the latter. According to Le Strange, ‘Shahijan is probably merely the Arab form of the old Persian Shahgan, ‘kingly’, or ‘belonging to the king’, though Yaqut and others explain the term as Shah-i Jan to mean ‘of the soul of the king’.1 This is an indication of the size and importance of this city since ancient times.2 Historical Overview Before discussing in some detail the history of Marv in its two major periods of efflorescence, when it was under ‘Abbasid and then Seljuq rule, it is 359

Figure 19.1  Map of the Seljuq empire

li f e i n pre-mong ol marv ­ | 361 important to emphasise the interest in pre-­Islamic Marv shown by many medieval Muslim geographers. One of them, Ibn Hawqal (d. c. 978), writes about Marv with great reverence: ‘It is a city whose foundation goes back to the highest antiquity.’3 According to legend, the city of Marv was founded by Tahmurath4 or Dhu’l-­Qarnayn (Alexander).5 Medieval Muslim sources record that when Tahmurath, the third king of the Pishdadian dynasty in Iran,6 came to power, he built the citadel (quhandiz) of Marv.7 The anonymous Persian work Hudud al-‘alam provides further details about Marv at that time: ‘It is a pleasant and flourishing place with a citadel built by Tahmurath; in it there are numerous castles. It was the abode of kings. In all Khurasan there is no town better situated.’8 Another geographer, Ibn al-­Faqih (d. early tenth century) adds that for the building of the citadel Tahmurath employed a thousand workmen. He set up for them a market supplied with food and drink and in the evenings each worker would receive a dirham with which to buy food and everything else he needed.9 In Sasanian times the oasis of Marv was the military centre on the empire’s eastern front, and it was well fortified. In the early Islamic period Marv became the base for Arab military expansion eastwards. It was in Marv in 31/651 that the last Sasanian king, Yazdagird III, is said to sought refuge from the Arab troops that were following him. He was murdered by a miller in the village of Zarq.10 In Umayyad times Marv was the seat of the governor of Khurasan. By the time of the ‘Abbasid revolution of 132/750, many Arab tribesmen were settled in Marv. It was in Marv that signs of ‘Abbasid power had emerged, when on 25–6 Ramadan 129/9–10 June 747 Abu Muslim unfurled the black flag of the ‘Abbasids as the prelude to their overthrow of the Umayyad dynasty. Moreover, it was in Abu Muslim’s Dar al-Imara, a house also in Marv, that for the first time the clothing of the ‘Abbasid troops was dyed black.11 It was, however, mostly thanks to the future caliph al-­Ma’mun that Marv achieved a very prominent position and glowing reputation in early ‘Abbasid times. When he was appointed ruler of the eastern Islamic world by his father, Harun al-­Rashid, al-­Ma’mun opted to live in Marv, which he made his capital. He served as prefect of Khurasan, having authority over all the cantons and dependencies of the province.12 Marv had four gates; outside the fourth of these, the Dar-i Mishkan, stood the great palace of

362 | classi ca l is l a m al-­Ma’mun, dated 198/813,13 where he held his court until his succession to the caliphate.14 According to Ibn Khallikan, al-­Ma’mun held parties in Marv.15 After he had been invested with the caliphate in 197/813, he chose to stay several more years in Marv and left the city probably in Jumada II, 202/ December 817–January 818.16 Later in that century, breakaway dynasties in Khurasan such as the Tahirids and the Samanids chose to rule from Nishapur and Bukhara and this removed some of the former pre-­eminence of Marv. Indeed the city declined for a time to no more than a provincial capital, with governors appointed from Baghdad, and in Marv as elsewhere, there was evidence of a general fall in the standard of living. The power and prestige of Marv were improved markedly with the advent of the Seljuq Turks. Tughril’s brother, Chaghri Beg (d. 1060), chose to live in Marv and the city became both regional capital and a frontier outpost.17 Malikshah built walls around the city.18 In later Seljuq times Marv was to enjoy a long spell of great prosperity during the reign of Sultan Sanjar (ruled 511–52/1118–57). The beginning of the city’s decline may be traced to its sack by the Ghuzz during their invasion of Khurasan in 548/1153; Marv was pillaged for three consecutive days. The city had just begun a process of recovery when the Mongols irrupted into Khurasan and ruined the province irrevocably. The Coming of the Mongols to Marv As with other important cities of Khurasan, Marv was treated with extreme severity when it was captured by the Mongols in 618/1221.19 The sources vary as to the details of the horror but they all lament the tragedy of the ruin of the ‘pearl of the east’, Marv, which had been the biggest city in eastern Islam after Baghdad. Juvayni (d. 1283) records that ‘Marv was the residence of Sultan Sanjar and the rendezvous of great and small. In the extent of territory it excelled among the lands of Khurasan, and the bird of peace and security flew over its confines.’20 Ibn al-­Athir (d. 1233) describes the disaster as follows: Then the Tatars set fire to the city and burned down the mausoleum of Sultan Sanjar, having dug up his grave in search of precious objects. They continued in this way for three days. On the fourth day he (Tolui) com-

li f e i n pre-mong ol marv ­ | 363 manded the entire population to be killed, saying ‘These people rebelled against us’, so they were all massacred. He ordered the slain to be counted and they were about 700,000.21

Juvayni also describes the terrifying tale of the Mongol attack on Marv. He writes that Chinghiz Khan sent his son Ulugh-­Noyan Tolui to invade Khurasan ‘with men of action and lions of battle’. En route Tolui assembled an army of 7,000 men from territories subject to the Mongols.22 Juvayni continues ‘On 1 Muharram 618 (25 February 1221) Tolui, that furious lion, arrived with an army like unto the dark night and a raging sea and in multitude exceeding the sands of the desert.’23 Juvayni gives the figure of 1,300,000 persons killed at Marv.24 Clearly such high numbers as these are probably exaggerated, but undoubtedly this was a horrifying and colossal massacre. In his account Juvayni adds that the Marv citadel was levelled to the ground and the maqsura of the Hanafi mosque was set on fire. These two extant accounts of the Mongol destruction of Marv show clearly that the heyday of Marv was now at an end.25 It is now time to turn to certain topics discussed by medieval Muslim geographers in relation to Marv which are worthy of further treatment here. Not surprisingly they refer primarily to early ‘Abbasid and Seljuq times when Marv was its most flourishing. The Irrigation System of Marv The city of Marv was watered by the river Murghab. Ibn Hawqal provides an extended description which is worthy of mention here: Marv is watered by a big river which is divided into several branches . . . It takes its source behind Bamiyan and is called the Murghab . . . The distribution points of the water begin at the village of Zarq where the centre for the distribution of the water of Marv is found: each quarter and each group of houses have the right to a little canal, strengthened by planks of wood, provided with holes of a fixed diameter, and it was forbidden for anyone to enlarge or make smaller these holes. Thus everyone receives drinking water in equal proportions, benefitting from floods in a uniform way and receiving less water when the water level is low. This removes all advantage of some people over others.26

364 | classi ca l is l a m This account by Ibn Hawqal raises certain interesting points. Firstly, it would appear reasonable to assume that had such an irrigation system been in widespread use elsewhere in the Islamic world it is unlikely that Ibn Hawqal would have taken such pains to describe it in such detail. It must therefore have seemed novel to him. Secondly, it is noteworthy that he praises this system of irrigation because of the way in which it distributes water equally to all citizens of Marv, both rich and poor. This suggests that in other medieval Muslim towns water distribution systems may have depended on criteria such as wealth and social influence.27 The question of the ownership of the irrigation system is a further crucial point to consider. Doubtless, to own whole or part of such a system would give considerable power to rulers, landowners and local notables. Irrigation systems such as the one described by Ibn Hawqal for Marv must have been expensive to build and maintain. Sometimes rulers and notables would endow a qanat as a waqf; this was a pious act which helped the local community but was always vulnerable at a later stage to malversation. On other occasions, when a local ruler or rich man actually owned a qanat it was doubtless a source of considerable personal wealth for him. Ibn Hawqal goes on to mention a special official whose job it was to superintend the water system of Marv (the muqassim al-ma’) and whose authority was greater than that of the city’s police chief. Ibn Hawqal was informed that the chief of the water system had more than 10,000 men working for him, each with a specific task.28 If this account is to be believed and especially if such a large body of men worked on supplying Marv with water, then it is no wonder that the city in its heyday thrived both agriculturally and commercially. Agriculture and Commerce in Medieval Marv The terrain of Marv is not a first glance very promising as an area in which agriculture might thrive. The city is described by Ibn Hawqal as standing on a vast plain far from every mountain. The soil is salty and sandy.29 However, the inherent saline qualities of the soil must have been reduced by the irrigation system described above. Certainly, it would appear that much of the area around Marv was under cultivation and the yield of its grain was spectacular.30 Al-­Muqaddasi mentions the dates and raisins of Marv,31 whilst

li f e i n pre-mong ol marv ­ | 365 the delicious melons of the city are praised by Yaqut.32 Such melons were often dried and then exported to many lands.’33 On the watered field in the Murghab valley there grew barley, millet, melons and other fruits, especially pears and quinces.34 In the oasis of Marv the cultivation of mulberry trees was widespread and the mulberry leaf was used to feed the silkworms.35 The Hudud al-‘alam praises the market in Marv for its goods such as sweets, vinegar and condiments.36 Al-­Istakhri notes that ‘the fruits of Marv are finer than those of any other place’.37 Much is written in the sources about the various kinds of cloth made in Marv. The gold-­threaded mulham cloth of Marv was famous all over the world.38 Even North Africa and Spain imported or imitated cloth from Marv. Ibn Hawqal reports that the wardrobe of the notables of Ardabil ‘consisted of the most precious fabrics of Marv’.39 Ibn al-­Faqih mentions refined clothing in Tibet which comprised garments from Marv.40 Sadly, the pre-­eminence of the silks and cottons of Marv was to cease with the Mongol conquest, as indeed was its position on the celebrated Silk Road. And Marv produced its full quota of celebrities, including the greatest of Sasanian viziers; the greatest of Sasanians musicians, Barbad; and the famous Sasanian physician, Barzuya, forever associated with the book of animal fables known as the Kalila wa Dimna.41 The Major Monuments of Medieval Marv The buildings of Marv mentioned by medieval sources date predictably from the two great periods of the city’s prosperity; early ‘Abbasid times and the Seljuq era. The information on the buildings of Marv presented here is deliberately restricted to the material available in the literary sources. These sources naturally do not give anything like a complete picture of the building of medieval Marv. To correlate this literary evidence with the very substantial body of material amassed by archaeologists, and especially Georgina Hermann, in the course of her excavations at Marv, is a separate task which is not undertaken here.42 According to Hamdallah Mustawfi and Ibn Hawqal,43 amongst the oldest monuments of Marv is a dar al-imara (government house) built by Abu Muslim when he took Khurasan for the ‘Abbasids. This building is also mentioned by al-­Istakhri who describes it as a domed chamber of burnt brick.

366 | classi ca l is l a m Creswell argues that it must have been built between Rabi‘ II or Jumada I 130 (December 747 or January 748) and Sha‘ban 137(January or February 755) when Abu Muslim was executed by the second ‘Abbasid caliph, al-­Mansur.44 Al-­Istakhri records the following details: Among the buildings of Abu Muslim is the dar al-imara, and it is at the back of the mosque. And in this dar is a domed chamber (qubba) which Abu Muslim built, in which he used to sit, and for this reason the Emirs of Marv used to sit in this Qubba. It is a domed chamber made of burnt brick and its measurement is 55 cubits. There is access to the flat part of the roof from the interior. And the domed chamber has four doors, each leading to an iwan and in front of each iwan is a square courtyard.45

This was therefore an impressive, monumental building which staked an obvious claim to rulership. Its kinship to the palace built by the ‘Abbasid caliph al-­Mansur at the centre of the Round City of Baghdad is unmistakable. Marv also possessed an ‘id-gah (an open enclosure reserved for ‘id prayers), outside or on the outskirts of the city. There were four main city gates. It was near one of these, the gate of Darmishkan, that al-­Ma’mun camped and there he kept his tents during his stay at Marv until the day when the caliphate became his.46 By the tenth century Marv could boast of a lofty citadel ‘itself the size of a town, surrounded by the inner city with its four gates, beyond which were extensive suburbs, stretching along the bank of the great canals’.47 In the tenth century the city had no fewer than three Friday mosques.48 Already in Seljuq times there is mention of a Nizamiyya madrasa set up in Marv by the famous vizier, Nizam al-­Mulk. His master, Sultan Malikshah, had built a fortified citadel at Marv, a citadel which had a circumference of 12,300 paces.49 Yaqut mentions that when he was living in Marv (616/1219) there were two large mosques in use, one belong to the Shafi‘ites and the other to the Hanafites.50 Under Sultan Sanjar Marv was a great centre for the Islamic religious sciences and the city must have boasted a number of madrasas where scholars such as al-­Sam‘ani (562/1166), who is accorded a lengthy biography by Ibn Khallikan, must have taught. Yaqut also praises the splendid libraries of Marv: ‘Marv possessed, when I left, ten libraries richer in choice than those of any other city. It was in these different libraries that

li f e i n pre-mong ol marv ­ | 367

Figure 19.2  The tomb of Sanjar at Marv

I spent almost my whole time, forgetting in the charms of study my country and my family.’51 According to Yaqut, ‘Sultan Sanjar, son of Malikshah, the Seljuq, preferred Marv to any other city: it was his usual residence and he died there’. The most important monument in Marv was his turba, which Yaqut goes on to describe as follows: ‘It is in a turba separated from the great mosque by a grilled window. It is covered by a dome painted52 blue which can be seen at a day’s distance.’53 Yaqut’s personal comments record in moving tones the difference between Marv before the coming of the Mongols and the situation after they had left. He had left the city just two years before the disaster. He writes: I left Marv in 616;54 it was then in the most flourishing condition. Its two big mosques, one belonging to the Shafi‘ites and the other to the Hanafites, were linked together in a common enclosure. Without the invasion of the Tartars and the calamities which resulted from it I would have wished to finish my life in Marv, so much was I seduced by the gentleness, benevolence and urbanity of its inhabitants.55

368 | classi ca l is l a m Conclusions In its heyday, Marv must have been a most stimulating and attractive place in which to live. The caliph al-­Ma’mun is said to have praised the city in the following words: ‘There are three things in Marv which the poor man enjoys as much as the rich one: its delicious melons,56 its water always fresh, thanks to the abundance of snowstorms, and its soft cotton.’57 Al-­Tha‘alibi, who devotes a long section to Marv in his chapter on the ‘specialities of different lands’ cites the words of a certain poet who praises Marv thus: ‘a healthy spot,58 abundant running water and earth whose sweetness surpasses even that of subtly compounded perfume! Whenever a man plans to depart from there, its very name prevents him from leaving’.59 This is of course a pun in Marv marav (Persian for ‘do not go away’). Notes   1. Le Strange, 398.   2. Frye, 13. There are four ways of spelling the city under discussion h ­ ere – ­Marw, Merw, Marv and Merv.   3. Ibn Hawqal, 420.   4. Al-­Istakhri, 215.   5. Ibn Hawqal, 420; al-­Muqaddasi, 243; al-­Tha‘alibi, 135; Hudud al-‘alam, 105; Al-­Istakhri, 215.   6. According to the Shahnama of Firdawsi, Warner and Warner, I, 126–8 (with no mention of Marv).  7. Ibn Hawqal, 420; al-­ Dimashqi, 145; Yaqut, 527; Ibn Khordadbeh, 162; Hamdallah Mustawfi, 154.  8. Hudud al-‘alam, 105.   9. Ibn al-­Faqih, 378–9; Yaqut, 528. 10. Al-­Dimashqi, 67; Ta’rikh-i Sistan, 63; Ibn Hawqal, 422. 11. Ibn Hawqal, 422. 12. Ya‘qubi, 134–5. 13. Al-­Muqaddasi, 312; Herzfeld, 165. 14. Le Strange, 400. 15. Ibn Khallikan, II, 550. 16. Kennedy, 161. 17. Nasir-­i Khusraw, 103.

li f e i n pre-mong ol marv ­ | 369 18. Hamdallah Mustawfi, 154. 19. Juvayni, I, 125. 20. Juvayni, I, 153. 21. Ibn al-­Athir, III, 226–7; Juvayni, I, 166. 22. Juvayni, I, 159. 23. Juvayni, I, 160. 24. Juvayni, I, 166. 25. Juvayni, I, 162. 26. Ibn Hawqal, 421; Agadzanov, 28. 27. For further information, cf. Bosworth, Ghaznavids, 155–7. 28. Ibn Hawqal, 422. 29. Ibn Hawqal, 420. 30. Hamdallah Mustawfi, 154. 31. Al-­Muqaddasi, 244. 32. Yaqut, 528. 33. Hamdalllah Mustawfi, 154. 34. Hamdallah Mustawfi, 154. 35. Al-­Istakhri, 216–17; Agadzanov, 29–30. 36. Hudud al-‘alam, 105. 37. Al-­Istakhri, 216. 38. Al-­Tha‘alibi, 135. Serjeant, 89, explains that mulham cloth in Marv was outstanding: it had a double warp. Dozy defines mulham as a ‘sorte d’étoffe dont la chaîne est de soie, mais non la trame; on la fabriquait surtout à Merw’: R. Dozy, Supplément aux Dictionnaires Arabes, vol. II, Beirut, 1968, 530. 39. Ibn Hawqal, 327. 40. Schwarz citing Ibn al-­Faqih, 235. 41. Hamdallah Mustawfi, 154: cf. al-­Istakhri, 216. 42. Herrmann, Georgina, Monuments of Merv: Traditional Buildings of the Karakum, London, 1999. 43. Hamdallah Mustawfi, 154; Ibn Hawqal, 420. This building is analysed in some detail by Creswell, 3. 44. Creswell, 3. 45. Cited by Creswell, 3, along with several other sources; Le Strange, 399. 46. Ibn Hawqal, 421. 47. Al-­Istakhri, 260–1; Ibn Hawqal, 315. 48. Le Strange, 399. 49. Hamdallah Mustawfi, 154.

370 | classi ca l is l a m 50. Yaqut, 529. 51. Yaqut, 530. 52. This is of course erroneous; it was tiled. 53. Yaqut, 529; Cohn-­Wiener, 115, describes the mausoleum of Sultan Sanjar as ‘one of the most impressive monuments imaginable’. 54. AD 1219. 55. Yaqut, 529. 56. Hamdallah Mustawfi, 154. 57. Yaqut, 528. 58. Hamdallah Mustawfi, 154, disagrees, noting ‘the climate here is damp. And sickness is common, more especially the malady of the guinea -­worm . . . ­the water of the underground channels is brackish’. 59. Al-­Tha‘alibi, 135.

Bibliography Primary Sources al-­Baladhuri, Kitab futuh al-buldan, tr. Philip Khuri Hitti, Beirut, 1966. al-­Dimashqi, Manuel de la Cosmographie du Moyen Âge, tr. M. A. F. Mehren, Amsterdam, 1864. Anon., Hudud al-‘alam, tr. V. Minorsky, as The Regions of the World: A Persian Geography 372 a.h.–982 a.d., London, 1970. Anon., The Tarikh-e Sistan, tr. M. Gold, Rome, 1976. Hamdallah Mustawfi, The Geographical Part of the Nuzhat al-qulub Composed by Hamd-Allah Mustawfi of Qazwin in 740 (1340), tr. G. Le Strange, London, 1919. Ibn al-­Athir, The Annals of the Saljuq Turks, tr. D. S. Richards, London and New York, 2002. Ibn al-­Athir, The Chronicle of Ibn al-Athir for the Crusading Period from al-Kamil fi’l-ta’rikh, Part 3. The Years 589–629/1193–1231: The Ayyubids after Saladin and the Mongol Menace, tr. D. S. Richards, Aldershot and Burlington, 2008. Ibn al-­Faqih al-­Hamadhani, Abrégé du Livre des Pays, tr. H. Massé, Damascus, 1973. Ibn Hawqal, Kitab surat al-ard, trs J. H. Kramers and G. Wiet, as Configuration de la Terre (Kitab Surat al-Ard), Beirut, 1965. Ibn Khallikan, Kitab wafayat al-a‘yan, tr. Baron M. de Slane, as Ibn Khallikan’s Biographical Dictionary, repr. Beirut, 1970.

li f e i n pre-mong ol marv ­ | 371 Ibn Khurdadbih, Le Livre des Routes et des Provinces par Ibn-Khordadbeh, tr. C. A. C. Barbier de Meynard, Paris, 1865. Juvayni, ‘Ata-­Malik, The History of the World-Conqueror, vol. 1, tr. J. A. Boyle, Manchester, 1958. al-­Mas‘udi, Muruj al-dhahab, trs P. Lunde and C. Stone as The Meadows of Gold: The Abbasids, London and New York, 1989. al-­Muqaddasi, Ahsan al-taqasim fi ma’rifa al-aqalim, tr. B. Collins as The Best Divisions for Knowledge of the Regions, Reading 2001. Rawandi, Rahat al-sudur wa-ayat al-surur, ed. M. Iqbal, London, 1921. al-­Tha‘alabi, The Lata’if al-Ma‘arif of Tha‘alibi: The Book of Curious and Entertaining Information, tr. C. E. Bosworth, Edinburgh, 1968. al-­Ya‘qubi, Kitab al-buldan, tr. G. Wiet as Les pays, Cairo, 1937. Yaqut, Mu‘jam al-buldan, tr. C. A. C. Barbier de Meynard, Paris, 1861. Secondary Sources Agadzanov, S. G., ‘Selğukiden und Turkmenien im 11.–12. Jahrhundert’, tr. R. Schletzer, Turkmenenforschung, Band 9, n.d. Barthold, W., Turkestan down to the Mongol Invasion, London, 1968. Bosworth, C. E., ‘Marw al-­Shahidjan’, Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd edn, Vol. VI, eds C. E. Bosworth, E. Van Donzel, B. Lewis and Ch. Pellat, 618–21, Leiden, 1991. Bosworth, C. E., The Ghaznavids: Their Empire in Afghanistan and Eastern Iran, Edinburgh, 1963. Cohn-­Wiener, E., ‘Die Ruinen der Seldschuken-­Stadt von Merv und das Mausoleum Sultan Sandschars’, Jahrbuch der Asiatische Kunst ii (1925), 114–22. Creswell, K. A. C., Early Muslim Architecture, Vol. II: Early ‘Abbasids. Umayyads of Cordova. Aghlabids, Tulunids, and Samanids a.d. 751–905, Oxford, 1940. Frye, R. N., The Golden Age of Persia, The Arabs in the East, London, 1975. Herrmann, G., Monuments of Merv: Traditional Buildings of the Karakum, London, 1999. Herzfeld, E, ‘Khorasan. Denkmalsgeographische Studien zur Kulturgeschichte des Islam in Iran’, Der Islam 11 (1921), 107–74. Jackson, P., The Mongols and the Islamic World: From Conquest to Conversion, New Haven and London, 2017. Kennedy, H., ‘Medieval Merv: an historical overview’, in G. Herrmann, Monuments of Merv: Traditional Buildings of the Karakum, London, 1999, 25–44. Kennedy, H., The Early Abbasid Caliphate: A Political History, London and Sydney, 1981.

372 | classi ca l is l a m Le Strange, G., The Lands of the Eastern Caliphate, London, 1966. Mez, A., The Renaissance of Islam, trs S. Khuda Bakhsh and D. S. Margoliouth, Patna, 1937. Miquel, A., La Géographie humaine du monde musulman jusqu’au milieu du XI siècle, Paris, 1967. Morgan, D., The Mongols, Oxford, 1986. Paul, J., Herrscher, Gemeinwesen, Vermittler: Ostiran und Transoxiana in Vormongolischer Zeit, Stuttgart, 1996. Schwarz, P., Iran im Mittelalter nach den arabischen Geographen, VII, Leipzig, 1929. Serjeant, R. B., Islamic Textiles: Material for a History up to the Mongol Conquest, Beirut, 1972. Spuler, B., Iran in früh-Islamischer Zeit, Wiesbaden, 1952. Spuler, B., Die Mongolen in Iran. Politik, Verwaltung und Kultur der Ilchanzeit 1220–1350, Leiden, 1985.

20 Bernard Lewis: 31 May 1916–19 May 2018

R

aised in a London Jewish family, Bernard Lewis early showed a flair for languages and history, taking a SOAS history MA and then PhD. He served in Intelligence in the war, returning to SOAS where he gained a chair in 1949 and stayed until 1974, when he moved to Princeton, retiring in 1990. He taught and published extensively, and was involved in controversies over Orientalism and the ‘Clash of Civilizations’. Subsequently he achieved prominence, regularly advising the US government on Middle Eastern issues, while maintaining a steady output of books and articles until his death just before his 102nd birthday. I. Life until 1938 Bernard Lewis was born in London on 31 May 1916. He was the only child of middle-­class Jewish parents who were both immigrants from Eastern Europe. He was interested in history from an early age and he showed an unusual aptitude for learning languages. He went first to a small private school in London called Wilson College and then moved to the Polytechnic London Day School at the age of fourteen. He especially enjoyed learning French, Latin and history. He also mentions in his autobiography, Notes on a Century: Reflections of a Middle East Historian, that from the age of thirteen he was privately taught all kinds of Hebrew, including the Hebrew Bible, and that a year later he began to acquire a good reading knowledge of Italian on his own initiative.1 Besides the detailed aspects of his autobiography which Lewis gave in Notes he provides an earlier account of his early life and academic career in the introduction to his book From Babel to Dragomans.2 He describes how 373

374 | classi ca l is l a m

Figure 20.1  Bernard Lewis (photograph by Bassano and Vandyk, 1966)

much he enjoyed learning Hebrew from the age of thirteen. This began with the need to study the rudiments of Hebrew to prepare for his Bar Mitzvah, but his interest went much further. He really loved studying the grammar of Hebrew in the way that he was already learning Latin and French at school, and the introduction to Hebrew proved the gateway to his lifelong fascination with exotic languages.3 He studied some Aramaic but admitted that he ‘never made much progress’ with it, preferring instead to begin Classical Arabic. And his Latin reached a formidably high level, enabling him to compose substantial passages of verse in hexameters in that language, a training quite widely offered at that time. In 1933, when the prospect of a university education presented itself, Lewis did not apply to study at Oxford or Cambridge. He was happy to

bernard lewi s ­ | 375 remain in the closeness of a comfortable and tightly knit Jewish community in north London. It is plain from his account of his early life that this was a society in which he felt firmly anchored and one can therefore well understand why he resisted the blandishments of Oxbridge. He writes in Notes that, although his headmaster was keen for him to try for an Oxford scholarship, his father ‘didn’t like the idea of my going to Oxford, as he thought it was just a place where students spent all their time drinking and partying’.4 So he began an Honours degree in History, with special reference to the Middle East, at the University of London. In his first year he chose Hebrew, Latin, history and Greek at University College, as well as learning Arabic at what was then called the School of Oriental Studies. This curriculum displayed to the full his love of languages. In the second and third years of his undergraduate degree he studied history and Arabic there.5 His father had wanted him to be a lawyer, so he also studied law at the same time for a while, but he soon returned to what he really wished to learn ­about – M ­ iddle Eastern history. He was awarded a first-­class BA Honours degree in history in 1936. He had already become very interested in the Muslim Shi‘ite sect known as the Isma‘ilis and he decided to work on this subject for his PhD under the supervision of Professor Sir Hamilton Gibb. Lewis was a great admirer of this great Scottish scholar of Islamic history, who had encouraged him in his studies in SOAS. Gibb recommended that Lewis should study for a while in Paris with the famous scholar of Islam, Louis Massignon. This one-­year stay (1936–7) proved very valuable for Lewis; he began to study Persian and Turkish and he was awarded the Diplôme des Études Sémitiques in 1937. Once Lewis had returned to London, Gibb suggested that he should go to the Middle East and recommended him for a travelling fellowship from the Royal Asiatic Society. He went first to Egypt, where he learned some Egyptian colloquial Arabic, and then moved on to Palestine and Syria, and made a very brief stay in Turkey. Whilst in Syria he visited the Isma‘ili villages there and he especially enjoyed seeing the magnificent Crusader castle, Krak des Chevaliers. II. Life from 1938 to 1974 Once back in London in 1938, Lewis was appointed Assistant Lecturer in Islamic History at SOAS and he turned seriously to finishing his PhD thesis.

376 | classi ca l is l a m He was promoted to the post of Lecturer in 1940. That same year, his thesis was published with remarkable speed as The Origins of Ismailism: A Study of the Historical Background of the Fatimid Caliphate.6 1940 saw him publish a second book, Turkey Today,7 followed in 1941 by a booklet called British Contributions to Arabic Studies, an assured, penetrating survey of how this field developed in Britain between the Middle Ages and the early twentieth century.8 However, this unusually early success in publishing three books on Middle Eastern subjects so soon was not followed up immediately, although it augured well for his scholarly future. The outbreak of the Second World War caused a halt in his academic activities. Lewis writes in his autobiography that in 1939 he had married an Anglo-­ Jewish woman called Jean but that during the war their marriage ‘faltered and failed’.9 Nevertheless, his book Turkey Today bears the dedication ‘To my wife. Without whose help and co-­operation this book could not have been written’. He joined the army in 1940 and was first placed in the Royal Armoured Corps and the Intelligence Corps. At the beginning of 1941 he was moved to MI6 in London where his linguistic skills must have proved invaluable in briefings, information gathering, decrypting messages, and so on. In the summer of 1945 the British Foreign Office sent him to the Middle East where he visited Cairo, Jerusalem, Baghdad, Damascus and Beirut. In 1947 he married a Danish Jewish woman, Ruth Hélène Oppenhejm. They later had a son, Michael, and a daughter, Melanie. At the end of the war he returned to SOAS, where he was soon promoted in 1949 to become Professor of the History of the Near and Middle East. From 1949 onwards he was a very successful lecturer and prolific scholar who published an astonishingly copious number of books, articles and chapters on a very wide range of Middle Eastern subjects. While his earliest studies had been in medieval Islamic history, he said that the war years had ‘awakened and nourished’ his interest in the contemporary Middle East. He spent the academic year 1949–50 in Turkey and, for the first time, Iran. In Istanbul he applied for permission to use the Imperial Ottoman Archives, the central archives of the Ottoman Empire. He did so, as he put it, ‘with little expectation of success’, since so far only Turkish scholars had been given access to them. He writes modestly that his application came at a time when the custodians of the archives were beginning to adopt a more liberal

bernard lewi s ­ | 377 policy. As a ­result – ­and not, as he explains, because of ‘any particular merit on my part’ – he was given ‘the coveted permit’. In sheer delight at what had happened, he writes the charming lines: ‘Feeling rather like a child turned loose in a toy shop, or like an intruder in Ali Baba’s cave, I hardly knew where to turn first.’10 He was proud to be the first Westerner to be allowed access to the Ottoman archives in Istanbul. Given the innate difficulty of Ottoman Turkish, he is to be congratulated on his continuing achievement in publishing a wide variety of books and articles on Ottoman history and even translations of Ottoman poetry. During the thirty-­five years he spent at SOAS, in addition to his undergraduate teaching responsibilities, Lewis supervised many doctoral students from the Middle East and other parts of the world. He was very pleased with their subsequent achievements; he writes in Notes: ‘One of the great satisfactions of my profession is watching the success of former students becoming themselves independent scholars and teachers and researchers of renown.’11 Striking confirmation of this statement emerges from a letter which Bernard Lewis sent on 10 September 1992 to the British Academy, in response to a request for ‘material which might be of help to a future obituarist’. This letter shows clear evidence of the early success of his postgraduate teaching at SOAS. It contains two most laudatory contributions written entirely in Arabic by two of the postgraduate students whom Lewis had supervised for their PhD in London. Both of these students are now well-­known scholars in the Arab world: Dr Faruq ‘Umar,12 who was later Professor of Islamic History at the University of Baghdad, and Dr Suhayl Zakkar, who became Professor of Islamic History at the University of Damascus. In a message of thanks, Dr Faruq ‘Umar writes that he wishes to dedicate his translation into Arabic of his PhD thesis to Professor Bernard Lewis, in recognition of all the care and attention he has received from him during his time at SOAS. Here is part of his Arabic dedication translated into English: Dedicated to Professor Bernard Lewis. I am happy to acknowledge that I am indebted to him for revealing and explaining to me the significance and value of history. I also wish to mention with appreciation and pride his erudite participation and learned enthusiasm in the treatment of many topics in this book during the period of my being in London to carry out

378 | classi ca l is l a m scholarly research. The dedication of this book to him is a symbolic expression of my gratitude and esteem.

Dr Suhayl Zakkar also wrote a very complimentary notice in Arabic about his supervisor. Here is his Arabic text translated into English: In dedication: Professor Lewis is the most revered professor of the current generation of those scholars working on Islamic history in the Middle East and other parts of the world. I had the honour to work under his supervision to obtain a PhD. After Professor Lewis published his study of new Isma‘ili missionary activity, I asked him to allow me to translate it into Arabic. He agreed, with thanks.13

Below this Arabic notice is the date 7/6/1971. At SOAS Lewis also increasingly had a public profile outside the world of academe. He enjoyed receiving invitations from famous people and travelling to exotic locations. He mentions in Notes that in the period he worked in London he had ‘meetings with kings, presidents, prime ministers’.14 He went to Pakistan in 1957 for the opening of the University of the Punjab;15 in the 1960s he had a one-­month trip to Japan; and he paid a visit to meet the Queen in Buckingham Palace.16 On several occasions he travelled to Jordan where he began a long-­standing personal relationship with the royal family; he especially enjoyed meeting King Husayn at a tribal Bedouin gathering in the eastern desert.17 Much later, a very prestigious public event occurred in October 1971, when Lewis received an invitation from the Iranian Embassy in London to attend at Persepolis the Shah’s grandiose celebration of the 2,500th anniversary of Cyrus’ founding of the Persian empire. Whilst working at SOAS (1937–74) Lewis published eleven books, one edited and six co-­edited books, one collection of his articles and book chapters, one booklet, and 103 articles and chapters in books (including four in Turkish, four in Hebrew, two in Arabic, two in German and one in French). Lewis was a Visiting Professor at UCLA in 1955–6 and at Columbia and Indiana Universities in 1960. He was elected a Fellow of the British Academy in 1963.

bernard lewi s ­ | 379 III. Life in the USA, 1974–90 Everything changed dramatically in 1974. In that year Lewis and his wife Ruth divorced. Avrom Udovitch, a Visiting Professor at SOAS from Princeton, arranged that on the very day of the divorce Lewis would receive telegrams, one offering him a Chair at Princeton in the Department of Near Eastern Studies, and another from the Director of the Institute for Advanced Studies, also at Princeton, an institution independent of the university, inviting him to become a Member.18 Such a double offer was nothing short of extraordinary. Lewis decided to move from London to Princeton, for motives that were perhaps rather more complex than his own account of the move might suggest.19 In the event, this dramatic change of location proved to be a great success. Indeed, Lewis writes in Notes: ‘I have never for one moment regretted moving to Princeton.’20 He also reveals that he did not travel alone to begin his new life in the USA. He writes enthusiastically that after a ‘devastating divorce’ he arrived in Princeton, facing ‘a new country, two new jobs and a new home, with a new woman’.21 He describes his new partner as ‘an aristocratic Turkish lady’ whom he had met early in 1974. She accompanied him to Princeton and helped him to rebuild his life and, incidentally, to improve his Turkish. The relationship ended amicably after ten years.22 Later on, the identity of the ‘aristocratic Turkish lady’ was revealed to be none other than Perizad, an Ottoman princess, the great-­granddaughter of Sultan Mehmet V. In Notes Lewis mentions that at the time of his move to Princeton his daughter, Melanie, had recently married a physician and migrated to the US. He later writes regretfully that although he now had an all-­American ­family – ­his children, grandchildren and great grandchildren being scattered across the ­US – h ­ e saw them only rarely and on special occasions. Phone calls and emails compensated for this, but it was not enough.23 On arrival in Princeton in 1974 Lewis served as Cleveland E. Dodge Professor of Near Eastern Studies and simultaneously as a Member of the Institute for Advanced Studies at Princeton. His joint appointment gave him a great deal more free time than he had had at SOAS. He taught only one semester a year. But there is much evidence that Lewis enjoyed teaching both at undergraduate and postgraduate levels.

380 | classi ca l is l a m To quote the words of Udovitch, who headed the Princeton Department of Near Eastern Studies when Lewis arrived there: ‘He was a conscientious teacher and very dedicated to his students. His door was always open; any student could come ­in . . . ­He taught graduate and undergraduate students, and mentored graduate students who are now scholars around the globe.’24 Not surprisingly his history students were proud to be taught by the eminent author of worldwide best-­selling books such as The Arabs in History and The Assassins. Moreover, he had a steady number of graduate students and he claimed that relationships with them were ‘amongst the most rewarding that the academic profession has to offer’. Lewis also relished the fact that he was free from the administrative and bureaucratic responsibilities that were prevalent in England. He wrote frankly that if he had wished for that kind of work, he would either have gone into business, in pursuit of real money, or into government, in pursuit of real power.25 The division of his academic work at Princeton into two halves enabled him to enjoy giving lectures and seminars and also, above all, to pursue his strong desire to publish his research regularly. He describes how it was at Princeton that he began closing the numerous files which he had kept over the previous decades, adding ideas and information as opportunity offered, and turning them into books. As he himself notes with modest irony,26 ‘This is the explanation of what might otherwise seem an extraordinary output in my post-­retirement – ­15 books as contrasted with a rather small output in the much longer period of my teaching career.’ ‘Small output’ is a curious way to describe twelve books, four edited books, and 104 articles and book chapters. But his rate of publication became nothing less than turbo-­charged after his arrival in the US. Within a year of starting at Princeton he had already published with Princeton University Press a book of his lectures entitled History Remembered, Recovered, Invented.27 As time passed he published an amazing number of new books, articles and book chapters. Such publications were increasingly about modern Middle Eastern topics and issues. He felt strongly that academics in Islamic studies should engage with such material, and it may be that the seeds of this abiding interest in current affairs in the Muslim world were sown in the course of his wartime service, about which he maintained a discreet silence. His fame grew rapidly. He soon showed his

bernard lewi s ­ | 381 feelings of contentment with his new American environment and he became a US citizen in 1982. It is most impressive, given his age when he moved to the US, that Lewis published far more books, articles and chapters there than he did in the UK. It is moreover truly astonishing to take in the enormous diversity of his publications, the profound linguistic expertise needed to write such works and the beautiful style that adorns them. A Princeton colleague, Charles Issawi, praises ‘his terse, subtle and precise style’.28 Packed with unobtrusive literary allusions, enlivened by puns, anecdotes and wit, laced with irony and capable of the most felicitous and recondite rhythms, it gives readers continuous pleasure and ensures that they keep turning the pages. Lewis points out that during his time in the UK he had been mainly interested in early Islamic history. He never entirely lost this interest, and it consistently enriched and informed his thinking. But once he had settled in the US it was no longer his sole concern. He certainly retained in his later years his devotion to Turkey, in the medieval, Ottoman and modern periods. But in his view no specialist on the Middle East should avoid the contemporary scene altogether and he admitted that, since moving to America, he had written at greater length about political issues to do with Islam and the modern Muslim world.29 Like his teacher Gibb, Lewis argued that Western scholars of Islam who are interested in advising policymakers are the best people to explain what is going on in the Middle East. Once in the US, Lewis’ confidence in discussing current controversial political issues in media interviews and in the press clearly revealed that he could have had a highly successful career in journalism. As Zachary Lockman pointed out, Lewis’ gravitas, erudition and British air of authority made a real impression in his public appearances.30 However, the situation for Lewis in the US was not always tranquil. Two highly polemical issues soon made his name even more widely known. The first concerned the role of Western Orientalist scholars in the study of Islam and the fierce controversy about this issue that arose between him and Edward Said. In his famous book Orientalism, published in 1978, Said, the Palestinian professor of comparative literature at Columbia University, argued that Western Orientalist scholars were not interested in Islam as Muslims see it. Said criticised Lewis for his sarcastic scholarship and called

382 | classi ca l is l a m his work ‘aggressively ideological’.31 He labelled Lewis an agent of American imperialism, saying that ‘the whole purpose of his exposition is to frighten his audience, to make it never yield an inch to Islam’.32 Lewis wrote a most critical response to Said in 1982, entitled ‘The Question of Orientalism’.33 Lewis emphasised the significant contribution of European Orientalists to a deeper understanding of Islamic history and he firmly denied that they had an imperialist agenda.34 Thereafter, a protracted and bitter difference of opinion about the interpretation of the term Orientalism between Said and Lewis continued and it became known publicly right across the world. In a later work, Islam and the West, Lewis attacked Said’s interpretation of Orientalism, criticising him for ignoring German, Austrian and Russian Orientalism. Said in turn accused Lewis of being a frequent visitor to Washington to meet Senator Henry Jackson, writing that ‘for the past several years Lewis has been engaged in preaching scholarship and practising politics’. Lewis replied that ‘it is difficult to argue with a scream of rage’.35 Both Lewis and Said had staunch supporters and hostile detractors and the debate about Orientalism has continued apace. Much later on, when he was long since retired, Lewis reflected in Notes that he had been very affected in his life and particularly in his role in academic and public affairs by what Said had written about him: ‘He (Said) imputed to me an especially sinister role as what he called the leader of the Orientalists.’36 For Lewis, the term ‘Orientalist’ was not a badge of shame but of pride, for he saw himself as one in a long line of scholars, who had laboured diligently to make the Islamic world better known in the West. The second contentious and widely discussed debate in which Lewis played a leading role was on the subject of the ‘Clash of Civilizations’. In his old age Lewis devotes a whole chapter in Notes to a detailed analysis of this theme, which he describes as ‘one of the great problems of our time’.37 Already in 1990 he had written an essay called ‘The Roots of Muslim Rage’ in which he wrote: We are facing a mood and a movement far transcending the level of issues and policies and the governments that pursue them. This is no less than a clash of c­ ivilizations – ­the perhaps irrational but surely historic reaction of an ancient rival against our Judeo-­Christian heritage, our secular present, and the worldwide expansion of both.38

bernard lewi s ­ | 383 The political scientist Samuel P. Huntington, mentioning Bernard Lewis, then borrowed the phrase ‘Clash of Civilizations’ in an influential article of his own in Foreign Affairs, in 1993.39 This term has now taken on a life of its own as a concept, both popular and controversial, which refers to the relationship between Muslim-­majority societies and the West. In Notes Lewis praises Huntington for making ‘a real contribution to our better understanding of one of the great problems of our time’.40 In a later chapter in Notes, also entitled ‘The Clash of Civilizations’, Lewis takes the opportunity to criticise the position of women in Islamic society and he praises the speeches of Atatürk in which the recurring theme was the need to make women equal participants in modern Muslim countries. Lewis adds that in his view ‘the greatest defect of Islam and the main reason they fell behind the West is the treatment of women’. He makes the powerful point that repressive homes pave the way for repressive governments.41 IV. Retirement, 1990–2018 Bernard Lewis had an extraordinarily long and unusually busy so-­called ‘retirement’, which lasted until his mid-­nineties. He officially retired in 1990 at the age of seventy-­four. The years that followed were made extremely happy by the presence of his new partner in life, Buntzie Churchill, the President of the World Affairs Council of Philadelphia. In Notes he wrote the joyful words: ‘Who would expect at the age of eighty to fall in love?’ Buntzie Churchill, who was a widow, described in a most charming way the happiness she now shared with Bernard Lewis: ‘Then an exceptional man came to occupy a place in my life . . . Because we had been friends, moving into a romance wasn’t h ­ ard – i­n 42 fact, it was delicious.’ Their relationship began in earnest in 1994, meeting at weekends or on holidays, and they remained devoted to each other until Lewis died in 2018. Lewis’ last two books, Islam: The Religion and the People, 2008, and Notes on a Century, 2012, both dedicated to Buntzie, include her name on the front covers.43 In his dedication to her in Notes Lewis writes that without Buntzie’s presence and participation ‘this last and best part of my life could not have been lived’. Indeed, as he describes it, the time he spent with Buntzie proved to be the most fruitful period of his career in which he produced more publications than in the whole of his previous l­ife – f­ ourteen new books, three revised books and fifty-­one articles and chapters: an incredible achievement.

384 | classi ca l is l a m As he had done in London, Lewis continued in the US, and especially in his retirement, to meet royalty, heads of state and other prominent people. These celebrities included the president of Turkey, Turgut Özal, in 1992, the Israeli prime minister, Yitzhak Rabin, in 1995 shortly before his assassination, and Colonel Gaddafi in 2006. Lewis was especially pleased to meet Pope John Paul II on several occasions between 1987 and 1998; he writes in Notes that he was ‘on friendly, personal terms with this Pope’.44 He was a close friend of Teddy Kollek, the Mayor of Jerusalem.45 He went in person to the funeral of King Husayn of Jordan in February 1999.46 Already by 1993, Lewis had become closely involved in discussions with US political leaders. He was present that year in the White House at an event hosted by President Clinton with the prime minister of Israel, Yitzhak Rabin, and the PLO leader Yasir Arafat who had together come to sign a Declaration of Principles for peace between the Palestinians and the Israelis.47 Later on, it so happened that just before the horrific 9/11 attack Lewis had already sent to his publisher a new book, called What Went Wrong? Western Impact and Middle Eastern Response, which dealt with what he viewed as the decline of the Muslim world. It became an instant bestseller. After 9/11 he published another book entitled The Crisis of Islam: Holy War and Unholy Terror; this too was a bestseller.48 Lewis became a regular presence in the media, and the vice-­president, Dick Cheney, and the Pentagon’s top officials turned to Lewis for advice. Already aged eighty-­five, he travelled to Washington to visit Cheney’s home and office several times. In Notes Lewis explicitly insists that it was certainly not his job to offer policy suggestions to those in power in Washington; his role was to explain the background to why the Muslim world felt increasing animosity towards Western intervention.49 In 2006, when Lewis was ninety, former Vice-­President Cheney could confidently declare that ‘no one offered sounder analysis or better insight than Bernard Lewis’. Mike Pompeo, the seventieth US Secretary of State, was also a great supporter of Lewis, calling him ‘a true scholar and great man’. It is interesting to note that later in 2006 Lewis was invited by Colonel Gaddafi to visit Libya to have ‘some private conversations’ about Iran and Saudi Arabia. From there Lewis and Buntzie, who had accompanied him to Libya, flew on via Cyprus to Israel.50 In his later retirement they used to spend three months every year in his flat in Tel Aviv, overlooking the Mediterranean. He asked to be buried in Israel.

bernard lewi s ­ | 385 Lewis enjoyed two very unusual birthdays a decade apart from each other. A one-­day celebratory conference, organised by Buntzie Churchill under the auspices of the World Affairs Council of Philadelphia, took place there on the occasion of his ninetieth birthday (31 May 2006). Its theme was ‘Islam and the West’. Many of his admirers came from all over the world to attend it. Lewis records that over 600 people were there. Among those attending the conference were Vice-­President Dick Cheney, Secretary of State to President Richard Nixon, Henry Kissinger, and Professor Fouad Ajami (d. 2014), the Lebanese-­American historian. At the end of the conference, Lewis, without using any notes, gave a moving speech full of perfectly memorised quotations. Once again his eloquence had ‘cast its usual spell’.51 It was also an extremely happy day for him when he celebrated his 100th birthday in Tel Aviv in 2016. Reflecting on the amazing length of his life, Lewis writes in the opening sentence of the first chapter of Notes: ‘When I look back over the ten decades of my life, I realise how extraordinarily fortunate I have been.’52 Bernard Lewis died on Saturday 19 May 2018 in Voorhees Township, NJ. This date was only eleven days away from his 102nd birthday. As he wished, he was buried in Israel. He is survived by his partner, Buntzie Churchill; his children, Melanie Dunn and Michael Lewis; seven grandchildren; and three great-­grandsons. V. Some Books by Bernard Lewis Chosen for Special Discussion It really is difficult to select which of Lewis’ publications to highlight from amongst the phenomenal number of his excellent books written over seventy-­ five years. Their wide range of subject matter demonstrates his versatility, his outstanding linguistic expertise, and his rare ability to make his deep knowledge of a given subject accessible to non-­specialists as well as his fellow-­scholars. During the first period of his academic career in London he published excellent, meticulously researched and clearly written books on medieval Islamic history and thought. After his move to America, Lewis did not, as already noted, lose this deep interest in pre-­modern subjects. But he began to widen his research to include more recent and even contemporary Middle Eastern topics and to publish on them regularly. In Notes, Lewis lists the number of his single-­authored books as thirty-­ four, as well as six edited or co-­edited books. However, as he himself explains,

386 | classi ca l is l a m he did actually publish even more books than those he mentions in Notes and he adds that many of his books were regularly re-­published, often over many years. On occasion he revised, recast or expanded some of his early books and published them under another title. His books have been translated into twenty-­nine languages. His articles and book chapters number 203. The following selected and by no means exhaustive list of books written by Lewis is divided amongst the major subject areas of Lewis’ publications. As well as the books that he himself had authored, he obviously greatly enjoyed the challenge of translating into English a number of valuable medieval primary sources, written in various difficult Middle Eastern l­anguages – ­Arabic, Turkish, Hebrew and Persian. He also composed poetry in Latin. He argued that the surest way to understand a text in another language is to translate it into one’s own. His love of translation frequently extended to Middle Eastern poetry, which is never an easy task,53 and he even translated verses by Pushkin.54 1. Books about the History and Culture of Turkey Turkey Today (London, 1940) It is clear that from a very early stage Lewis really liked Turkey. This rare little book of 127 pages and some 44,000 words was written when Lewis was only twenty-­four; it is dedicated to his first wife, whom he does not name there. Its aim, explained in the Preface, is ‘to present the main facts about the internal and external development of Turkey during recent years’.55 The book has no footnotes and it is hard to guess where the very confidently presented survey about Ottoman and more recent Turkish history, packed with solid data and careful assessments of key issues, has come from, especially as he had paid only one very brief visit to Turkey before he wrote the book. Perhaps Lewis was able to use reports from UK government sources. At all events the positive narrative about the importance of Turkey was clear and useful at a time of war. Notes and Documents from the Turkish Archives (Jerusalem, 1952) Lewis was very proud of the fact that he was the first Westerner to be allowed access to the Ottoman archives in Istanbul in 1950. That permit was to be of crucial importance to his career; the only two other countries where he could

bernard lewi s ­ | 387 have been allowed, as a Jew, to work on historical archives were Iran and Israel. This early work already shows Lewis’ interest and expertise in Ottoman history. Over the years this book was supplemented by a flood of detailed, highly specialised articles which utterly transformed scholarly knowledge about Ottoman Palestine. The Emergence of Modern Turkey (London, 1961) This very long, compendious and magisterial book covers the history of modern Turkey, from the decline of the Ottoman empire up to the present day. It has rightly become the classic work on the history of the evolution of modern Turkey and its transformation into a modern nation state. It was originally published in 1961. Lewis produced a revised edition in 2002 for which he wrote a new chapter about more recent events in which he discussed Turkey’s Western orientation, its inclusion in NATO and its application to join the EU. This is the first book in which the development of modern Turkey is examined in detail over a period of two centuries, with extensive use of Turkish as well as Western sources. No fewer than 104 editions were published between 1951 and 2009 in seven languages. 2. Books about the Isma‘ilis The Origins of Isma‘ilism: A Study of the Historical Background of the Fatimid Caliphate (Cambridge, 1940) The first version of this book was finished in 1939 and was submitted as a PhD in the University of London. Lewis admitted that after the thesis was accepted he intended to make substantial revisions to it and to look further into the early history of the Isma‘ili sect and the emergence of the Fatimid caliphate in Egypt. However, he did not follow up this plan. He explained apologetically that the temptation to have a book published so early in his career proved too tempting, especially in view of the momentous advent of the Second World War. So his book, in a form unchanged from the thesis, appeared in March 1940. Many years later, in Notes, Lewis writes about this first book of his, saying ‘Looking back, I am not very proud of it’.

388 | classi ca l is l a m The Assassins: A Radical Sect in Islam (London, 1967) In this still famous book, read enthusiastically by many generations of students, Lewis describes the origins of the ‘notorious’ Assassin breakaway Isma‘ili sect and he analyses the life of their Persian founder Hasan-­i Sabbah, whom he calls ‘a revolutionary genius’. He describes the Assassin doctrines, preached by Hasan from his centre at Alamut in northern Iran, and his use of carefully planned murders of prominent Sunni rulers and military and religious leaders. Lewis also traces the precarious rule of Hasan’s successors in Iran until the coming of the Mongols, as well as the fascinating history of the Assassins of Syria and their most famous leader, Rashid al-­Din Sinan, who came to be known in Europe as ‘the Old Man of the Mountain’. This book, which has often been re-­published and translated into a large number of languages, is clearly one of the most impressive of Lewis’ achievements; it combines deep knowledge, comprehensive coverage and great readability. No wonder it is still popular today. 3. Books about Middle Eastern History and Culture The Arabs in History (London, 1950) This book, probably still even now the most famous book that Lewis ever wrote, was first published in 1950, and it has been reprinted many times ever since. It has long been viewed as probably the best short presentation of the history of the Arab peoples. It shows an admirable ability to highlight the essential aspects of this subject and has the additional bonus of being written in a limpid, lapidary style. Now brought completely up to date, this classic study considers the achievement of the Arab peoples and their place in world history, from pre-­Islamic times to the present-­day. There is no doubt that this was a brilliant book at the time when it was first written and it has remained so ever since. It is an astonishing achievement for a man only thirty-­four years old. Islam in History: Ideas, Men and Events in the Middle East (London, 1973) This book was republished in 1993 and newly edited in 2001. It is a collection of revised and updated versions of twenty-­one articles written by Lewis in well-­known popular locations such as Encounter and The Times Literary

bernard lewi s ­ | 389 Supplement, as well as in academic journals. The collection covers a very wide range of fascinating themes, such as travel to the Middle East, the career of the famous Jewish doctor Maimonides from Muslim Spain, heresy in Islam, revolutions, and the decline of the Ottoman empire. The book also gives essential background on modern Middle Eastern conflicts with the West, and how Islam, from its first expansion to the exploits of Saddam Husayn, has been fatefully involved with the Western world. This is Lewis at his most exciting and e­ soteric – ­a rare combination of qualities. The Muslim Discovery of Europe (New York, 1982) While in Princeton in 1979 I was able to attend weekly seminars given by Bernard Lewis in which he discussed the evolution and nature of Muslim knowledge of Western Europe from the fifteenth century onwards. It was a fascinating topic, an intriguing corrective to Eurocentric approaches, and in 1982 Lewis turned it into a sparkling and challenging book, shot through with wit and pathos, which was enthusiastically received. For the first time students and general readers were treated to a clear analysis of how Muslims viewed European culture and society before the nineteenth century. The Jews of Islam (London, 1984) This pioneering book is based on lectures given by Lewis at the Hebrew Union College–Jewish Institute of Religion in Cincinnati, Ohio in 1981. In it he analyses the formative and classical periods of the Judaeo-­Islamic tradition in medieval Islam, its development during the Ottoman empire, and its eventual disappearance in the twentieth century. Of special interest is his discussion of the Jews of medieval Spain and their rich Hebrew literature written there before 1492. Seventy-­one editions were published between 1977 and 2014 in six languages. Race and Slavery in the Middle East: An Historical Enquiry (New York, 1990) This is a revised and expanded edition of a book, entitled Race and Color in Islam, which Lewis published in New York in 1971. It deals with a very sensitive subject. It is a fascinating and meticulous analysis of the culture of slavery and the evolution of racial prejudice in the Middle East. It provides a detailed

390 | classi ca l is l a m account of how, despite Qur’anic legislation banning ‘the enslavement of free persons except in strictly defined circumstances’, Africans were treated as slaves in the Muslim world from late antique times until the twentieth century. The message of the book is brilliantly enhanced by twenty-­four illustrations, from Syria, Egypt, Iraq, Turkey, Afghanistan, Iran and India, dating from the thirteenth to the eighteenth century. They give clear evidence of the life of black slaves and ­eunuchs – ­as objects to be sold in a slave market, as domestic servants, as wrestlers, as magicians and other lowly roles. In Notes Lewis explains that he tried to deal fairly and objectively with a subject of great historical and comparative importance and to do so without recourse to either polemics or apologetics. He then says ruefully: ‘It is an interesting reflection on the subject that Race and Slavery, of all my books, is the poorest seller and the least translated.’56 Nevertheless, this remarkable, ambitious and lengthy book, covering the theme of slavery from ancient times until the twentieth century, has received many glowing reviews, praising its scholarly depth and encyclopedic knowledge. Lewis’ insights are almost all backed up by references in the footnotes only to primary historical sources, in Latin, Hebrew, Arabic, Persian and Turkish. It is a model of scholarly writing suitable for both students and the general reader. Forty-­three editions of this book were published between 1995 and 2014 in English and French. Despite the profoundly serious nature of its subject matter, Lewis lightens the heavy burden of its message by his trademark wit. He recounts how, when he joined the British army in 1940, he had to fill in a form which among other details required him to state his ‘race’. The sergeant in charge of raw recruits explained to him that ‘Jewish’ would not do, since the appropriate place for that word on the form was ‘religion’. He continues: ‘The sergeant explained to me, slowly and carefully, that as far as the British Army was concerned, there were four races, and I had a free choice among the four: English, Scottish, Welsh and Irish.’57 What Went Wrong? Western Impact and Middle Eastern Response (London, 2002) In the preface to this book, Lewis writes that it was already with the publisher when the events of 9/11 took place. In it he analyses ‘the events, ideas and attitudes that preceded and in some measure produced them’. This book

bernard lewi s ­ | 391 about the modern history of the Islamic world, written at the age of eighty-­ six, reveals Lewis’ ability to find just the right words to express penetrating insights into controversial, contemporary issues. As already mentioned, it proved to be a bestseller. He provides here a fascinating portrait of a culture in turmoil. Twenty-­seven editions of this book were published between 1993 and 2003. 4. Books about Language and Translations A Handbook of Diplomatic and Political Arabic (London, 1947) This little book, which Lewis wrote very early in his career, is an example of his enthusiasm for learning and teaching Middle Eastern languages and it reveals his great interest in the practical inner workings of politics. No doubt he drew on his experiences during the war, when he worked for MI6 and met officials and diplomats during his travels in the Middle East, about which very little detailed information exists in the public realm (though we learn that at the end of the war he was in Cairo). This book contains vocabulary in current diplomatic and political usage, and, given the inevitable changes that time brings to such highly specialised vocabulary, it is of historical interest as a record of what has now vanished. He explains that it is intended as a supplement to the standard Arabic–English and English–Arabic dictionaries. The book also adds glossaries of honorifics, civil ranks and titles and an appendix of terms used by the UN. This is Lewis the born philologist at work. Solomon Ibn Gabirol, The Kingly Crown, translated by Bernard Lewis (London, 1961) This book is a wonderful and inspiring translation of the greatest Hebrew religious poem of the Middle Ages. Little is known about the author, Solomon ibn Gabirol (d. c. 1058), except that he lived in Saragossa and was interested in philosophy. Lewis describes the poem as being beautifully written ‘in rhymed prose of a Biblical simplicity, and divided into a series of symmetrically constructed stanzas, each ending with a Biblical quotation’. The poem is arranged in three parts: the first part praises God ‘who is the ultimate and sole cause of all being’, the second part describes the wonders of God’s creation, and the third part is a hymn of glory ‘to the greatness of God’.

392 | classi ca l is l a m Music of a Distant Drum: Classical Arabic, Persian, Turkish, and Hebrew Poems (Princeton, 2001) Once again Lewis, a world-­famous specialist in Islamic history, returns to a longstanding interest of his, namely poetry. This is a very unusual book. The phrase Music of a Distant Drum, unexplained by Lewis, quotes the famous Fitzgerald translation of the Rubaiyat of the Persian poet ‘Umar Khayyam, but Lewis is content for his less cultivated readers to miss this allusion. The book presents a beautifully chosen collection of 150 poems dating from the sixth to the eighteenth centuries. They are translated into English from four ­languages – A ­ rabic, Persian, Turkish and Hebrew. The book, published when Lewis was eighty-­five, includes a finely judged introduction, which highlights the important role played by poetry in the cultural and religious life of the Middle East, Spain, North Africa, Turkey and Iran. Some of the chosen poems are court panegyrics, whilst others are written by black slaves or Sufi mystics. Not only does Lewis have rare linguistic diversity; he has also produced translations of a very high literary quality. Islam from the Prophet Muhammad to the Capture of Constantinople, 2 volumes (New York, 1974) Lewis himself felt especially proud of his two-­volumed book, Islam, from the Prophet Muhammad to the Capture of Constantinople, which contains many excerpts from medieval Arabic sources about Islamic history across the centuries, which he himself translated in preference to using, as his publisher had suggested, existing translations by various scholars. He describes this book as ‘probably the most frequently cited and accepted of my various publications’ and thinks it ‘will still be read in a hundred years from now’.58 It will also stand as a monument to his philological vigour and his fine-­tuned ear for le mot juste. 5. Autobiography Notes on a Century: Reflections of a Middle East Historian (London, 2012) This book is an enlightening and often riveting survey of its author’s remarkably long and impressive life. It is a continuously fascinating account of the events of his career and personal experiences and at the same time it is a penetrating analysis of the history of Islam and the Muslim world, a world

bernard lewi s ­ | 393 to which he dedicated his exceptionally long professional life. He is beyond any doubt the most celebrated and prolific scholar of that world in the entire twentieth century. VI. Concluding Comments Bernard Lewis, then, was a towering giant in the field of Islamic and Middle Eastern Studies. His devotion to scholarly research proved to be phenomenal. Indeed, he published books, articles and book chapters for a period that extended to an incredible seventy-­five years.59 His research covered multiple aspects of the medieval and contemporary history of the Muslim world. He deliberately eschewed a ‘theoretical’ approach in his research, disdaining the fashionable jargon that so often accompanies such theory-­driven work, and preferring instead to draw on the information and ideas which he gained from a very deep knowledge of primary source materials in Arabic, Turkish, Persian and Hebrew. A lucid and elegant writing style embellished his extraordinary range of subject interests. Well might it be said of h ­ im – ­as of Francis Bacon, another master of ­style – ­that he wrote ‘what oft was thought but ne’er so well expressed’. Lewis was a superb historian, who educated millions through his books. His penetrating insights and prolific writings helped ordinary citizens as well as powerful heads of state to engage with the perennial complexities of the Middle East. Already in 1989, Lewis was presented with a Festschrift of fifty-­two chapters, as a tribute to his outstanding scholarship.60 The roll-­call of the great and the good in Islamic studies who joined in honouring Bernard Lewis, make this perhaps the most many-­splendored Festschrift of the past century. On the cover of the Festschrift is written: ‘There is no period of Middle Eastern history that Bernard Lewis has not touched, and none he touched that he has not adorned.’ The Economist called Lewis a ‘latter-­ day dragoman’, ‘the doyen of 61 Orientalists’. He was showered with praise both at h ­ ome – ­Hugh Trevor-­ Roper wrote that ‘Bernard Lewis has no living rival in his field’ – and also in the Middle ­East – ­the key Arab newspaper, Al-Ahram in Cairo, declared that ‘When it comes to Islamic studies, Bernard Lewis is the father of us all’. Many admiring obituary notices about Bernard Lewis soon appeared across the world. Professor Gilles Kepel, the best-­known French scholar of

394 | classi ca l is l a m the modern Middle East, wrote on 22 May 2018 a very fine panegyric of Bernard Lewis:62 ‘With the demise of Bernard Lewis on Saturday, 19 May, a whole tradition of orientalist erudition, mingled with passionate intervention in public debate, has been extinguished.’ The Saudi journalist Mamdouh al-­Muhaini, of Al-Arabiya TV, wrote: ‘He was blessed with profound historic knowledge and [the capability for] rational analysis. In this world, Lewis will remain forever one of the most important historians of the modern era.’63 Dominic Green in the Spectator USA expressed a very positive view of Lewis, saying that he was ‘the English-­speaking world’s most eminent modern scholar of the Middle ­East . . . ­Lewis was a superb historian, probably the last in the line of the Western Orientalists’.64 As well as many more words of praise written about Lewis after his death from a good number of Arab commentators, there were also hostile views about him expressed in the media with accusations that he had promoted a Zionist ideology. His request to be buried in Israel was also mentioned in this context. It is clear that during his very unusually long life Lewis never forgot his Jewish heritage. Brought up in a Jewish milieu in north London, he demonstrated more openly in his advanced old age his unfailing devotion to the Jewish faith and his support for a peaceful solution to the Israel– Palestine dilemma. In a public statement, the Israeli prime minister Benjamin Netanyahu said: ‘Bernard Lewis was one of the great scholars of Islam and the Middle East in our time. We will be forever grateful for his robust defense of Israel.’65 In his splendid obituary of the great Orientalist scholar, Joseph Schacht (d. 1969), Bernard Lewis writes the following tribute: Schacht was a truly great scholar, one of the last in the great tradition of European ­orientalism . . . ­at the same time his work possessed those qualities of profundity, of originality, of controlled imagination which alone can raise scholarship from the level of antiquarianism to that of creative achievement.66

These very qualities may justifiably be applied even more appropriately to Bernard Lewis himself, the scholar who has been called by many ‘the last Orientalist’.67

bernard lewi s ­ | 395 It is only when one contemplates the vast panorama of this man’s century of life, teeming with people and places, events and episodes, experiences of high and low alike on a global canvas, that the true lineaments of his colossal, awe-­inspiring achievement gradually take shape. His ferocious work ethic ensured that very little that he learned was wasted. His description of how he gradually closed more and more of his files from the mid-­1970s onwards does not do justice to his phenomenal achievements. The contents of each file had to be absorbed and refined. His crystalline intellect discerned the underlying patterns beneath surface events and disparate facts and moulded them into an integrated whole. And his people skills merged with his historical imagination so that with his inner eye he saw the human beings who triggered the seismic changes of the past. He was blessed in his ability to see both the wood and the trees, and to respect the twigs as well. His philological rigour underpinned but did not block the speculative activity of his mind. And his felicitous style, with its intricate rhythms, its grace notes of wit and wisdom, was the ideal vehicle for ensuring that what he wrote reached millions of readers. He never lost touch with his early grounding in the major Islamic languages and that kept his feet on the ground. And running through all his ­scholarship – ­sometimes to the fore, sometimes in the ­background – ­is his lifelong loyalty to his beloved Hebrew heritage, which weaves like a golden thread across the loom of his long life. Appendix Honours and Prizes Received Fellow of the British Academy, 1963; Membre Associé, Institut d’Égypte, Cairo, 1969; Honorary Member, Turkish Historical Society, Ankara, 1972; Member, American Philosophical Society, 1973; Citation of Honour, Turkish Ministry of Culture, 1973; Honorary Doctorate, Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1974; Fellow, University College, London, 1976; The Harvey Prize, The Technion, Haifa, 1978; Honorary Doctorate, Tel Aviv University, 1979; Member, American Academy of Arts and Sciences, 1983; Honorary Member, Société Asiatique, Paris, 1984; Honorary Member, Atatürk Academy of History, Language, and Culture, 1984; Annual Education Award for Outstanding Achievement in the Promotion of American–Turkish

396 | classi ca l is l a m Studies, 1985; Honorary Fellow, School of Oriental and African Studies, 1986; Honorary Doctorate, State University of New York, Binghamton, 1987; Honorary Doctorate, University of Pennsylvania, 1987; Honorary Doctorate, Hebrew Union College, Cincinnati, 1987; Board of Directors, Institüt fur die Wissenschaften vom Menschen, Vienna, 1988; Tanner Lecturer, Oxford University, 1990; Jefferson Award, 1990; George Polk Award, 2001; National Humanities Medal, 2006. Academic Positions Held SOAS, University of London, 1940–74; Visiting Professor, UCLA, 1955–6; Columbia University, 1960; Indiana University, 1960; Institute for Advanced Study, Princeton, 1974–86; Collège de France, 1980; École des Hautes Études, Paris, 1983, 1988; Cornell University, 1984–90; Honorary Incumbent, Kemal Atatürk Chair in Ottoman and Turkish Studies, Princeton, 1992–3. Notes  1. B. Lewis and B. Churchill, Notes on a Century: Reflections of a Middle East Historian (London, 2012), 17–19. This book is hereafter cited as Notes.   2. B. Lewis, From Babel to Dragomans: Interpreting the Middle East (Oxford, 2004), 1–11.  3. Lewis, From Babel, 1.  4. Lewis, Notes, 25.   5. In 1938 renamed the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS).   6. B. Lewis, The Origins of Isma‘ilism: A Study of the Historical Background of the Fatimid Caliphate (Cambridge, 1940).   7. B. Lewis, Turkey Today (London and Melbourne, 1940).   8. B. Lewis, British Contributions to Arabic Studies (London, 1941).  9. Lewis, Notes, 71. 10. Lewis, Notes, 5. 11. Lewis, Notes, 163. 12. Dr ‘Umar died in March 2020. 13. The translated book is probably B. Lewis, The Assassins (London, 1967). 14. Lewis, Notes, 158. 15. Lewis, Notes, 199.

bernard lewi s ­ | 397 16. Lewis, Notes, 151. 17. Lewis, Notes, 195. 18. Lewis, Notes, 171. 19. Lewis, Notes, 168–73. 20. Lewis, Notes, 175. 21. Lewis, Notes, 172. 22. Lewis, Notes, 173. 23. Lewis, Notes, 174–5. 24. E. Aronson, ‘Bernard Lewis, eminent Middle East historian at Princeton, dies at 101’ (Princeton University, 22 May 2018). 25. Lewis, Notes, 176. 26. For his comments on the importance of irony, see Lewis, Notes, 176. 27. Lewis, Notes, 178. 28. C. E. Bosworth, C. Issawi, R. Savory and A. L. Udovitch (eds), Essays in Honor of Bernard Lewis: The Islamic World, From Classical to Modern Times (Princeton, 1989), xii. 29. Lewis, Notes, 10. 30. Z. Lockman, Contending Visions of the Middle East (Cambridge, 2004), 251. 31. E. Said, Orientalism (New York, 1978), 315–16. 32. M. Sakeenah, ‘Us versus Them’ and Beyond: An Oriental–Islamic Rejoinder to the Clash of Civilizations Theory (Kuala Lumpur, 2010), 30. 33. B. Lewis, ‘The question of Orientalism’, New York Review of Books (24 June 1982), 44–8. 34. B. Lewis, ‘The question of Orientalism’, Islam and the West (Oxford, 1993), Chapter 6; reprinted in A. L. Macfie (ed.), Orientalism: A Reader (2000), 249–70. 35. E. W. Said and O. Grabar; reply by B. Lewis, ‘Orientalism: An exchange’, New York Review of Books (12 August 1982). 36. Lewis, Notes, 267. 37. Lewis, Notes, 258. 38. B. Lewis, ‘The roots of Muslim rage. Why so many Muslims deeply resent the West, and why their bitterness will not easily be mollified’, Atlantic Monthly 266 (1990), 47–60, at 60. 39. S. Huntington, ‘The clash of Civilizations?’, Foreign Affairs 72/3 (1993), 22. 40. Lewis, Notes, 258. 41. Lewis, Notes, 257. 42. B. Churchill, ‘I was and am most fortunate’, Chapter 7, in B. Kretchmar,

398 | classi ca l is l a m Widows – Our Words and Ways: A Collection of Personal Stories (Mill City Press, 2019), 54. 43. B. Lewis and B. E. Churchill, Islam: The Religion and the People (New York, 2008). 44. Lewis, Notes, 283. 45. Lewis, Notes, 225. 46. Lewis, Notes, 220. 47. Lewis, Notes, 209–10. 48. Lewis, Notes, 261. 49. Lewis, Notes, 330. 50. Lewis, Notes, 338–41. 51. F. Nirenstein and H. Rhode, ‘Happy birthday to Bernard Lewis, the centenarian scholar who explained Islam’, Times of Israel blog (1 June 2016). 52. Lewis, Notes, 7. 53. Lewis, Notes, 6. 54. Lewis, Notes, 37. 55. B. Lewis, Turkey Today, 5. 56. Lewis, Notes, 304. 57. Lewis, Notes, 313. 58. Lewis, Notes, 170. 59. 1937–2012. 60. C. E. Bosworth, C. Issawi, R. Savory and A. L. Udovitch (eds), The Islamic World, From Classical to Modern Times (Princeton, 1989). 61. The Economist (22 May 2018). 62. Translated from the French article – Gilles Kepel, ‘L’historien anglo-­américain Bernard Lewis est mort’, Le Monde (22 May 2018). 63. ‘Arab writers on renowned historian Prof. Bernard Lewis (1916–2018)’, Memri, Special Dispatch No. 7517 (12 June 2018). 64. D. Green, ‘Bernard Lewis was right about “the return of Islam”’, Spectator USA (22 May 2018), 10. 65. ‘Netanyahu eulogizes Bernard Lewis as “great scholar, robust defender of Israel”’, Times of Israel (20 May 2018). 66. B. Lewis, ‘Obituary: Joseph Schacht’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 33/2 (1970), 381. 67. See too the finely judged encomium of C. Issawi, Essays in Honor of Bernard Lewis, xii.

21 ‘Seek Ye Knowledge, Even Unto China’: The Literature of Travel in the Lands of Islam

I

slam appeared first from the 620s as a religion and a community. By 750, if not before, it was also a c­ ivilisation – ­a civilisation, which despite political fragmentation from the mid-­eighth century onwards, reached an advanced level of unity across vast geographical areas. All branches of knowledge were pursued with vigour and enthusiasm (Plate 21.1). Muslim society valued not only religious scholars but also the adib, the man of letters, the ornament of polite urban society, who was a master of the secular learning long current in the pre-­Islamic Near E ­ ast – t­he heritage of Babylon and India, of Persia and Greece. This was a class of professional scholars, who did not ‘wish clerics to define their cultural horizons’. Non-­ Muslims – C ­ hristians, Jews and o­ thers – w ­ ere also prominent members of the intellectual elites who contributed much to a glorious flowering of ‘Islamic’ cultures. Muslim scientists charted the heavens, star signs included, as well as the earth and determined time and latitude with the use of metal discs known as usturlab (astrolabes). In the self-­confident scholarly milieu of ‘Abbasid Baghdad map-­making received a new impetus because of the political and administrative needs of the empire. Cartographers drew on a direct knowledge of the Islamic world derived from extensive travel and from geographical knowledge inherited from Greece, Persia and India. Their maps and detailed navigational charts served the purposes of army generals, sailors, merchants and scholars alike. It is worth mentioning that in 1497 Vasco da Gama, relying on the expertise of an excellent Muslim pilot, was able to cross the Indian Ocean in only twenty-­seven days. 399

400 | classi ca l is l a m In this lecture I shall discuss four themes: the realities of travel; travel for religious motives; travel for its own sake: and marvels, monsters and miracles. I will focus throughout on the heyday of classical Muslim travel literature, the period from 800 to 1400. The pictures I shall show are intended to provide a visual context for what I say. A number of literary genres deal directly or tangentially with t­ ravel – ­the pilgrim guide, geographical and ethnographical works written by administrators and scientists, the literature of ‘marvels’, and the Rihla (an independent travel book). Many such writers came from Spain, the western extremity of the Islamic world which bordered the lands of the infidels of northern Europe. A rich geographical literature grew up, aimed at both actual and armchair travellers. Some of these books are encyclopedic gazeteers; others are little more than timetables. Let me now explore my first theme, the realities of travel. First, who travelled? Many different categories of Muslims were ‘geographically mobile’. They included administrators, generals, judges and scholars. They sought patronage and learning in widely disparate parts of the Islamic world. The impulse to travel east to the heartlands of Islam was especially strong for the Spanish Muslims. Whole armies campaigned annually from early spring to late summer. Peasants moved during crises such as earthquake, famine, plague and nomadic invasion. But above all, people travelled on business. Merchants were constantly pushing at the boundaries of the known world. Medieval Islamic coins have been found by the hundred thousand in Scandinavia, and also in Russia. Muslim traders transported their merchandise and their Islamic faith through Central Asia to China and brought back silk and other luxury goods along the fabled Silk Road. But such men, as is so often the case, preferred to make money rather than write books. Travel in the medieval period was difficult, dangerous, uncomfortable and slow; wheeled vehicles had all but disappeared in the Near East by the advent of Islam. Transportation by camel was found to be much cheaper and the stark reality was that many travellers went on foot, not being able to afford a riding animal (Plate 21.2).

th e l it e rat ure of tra vel i n the land s o f is l a m ­ | 401 Travel by land needed secure routes. Caravans which gained special prominence in the winter months when it was not possible to travel by sea, used a network of caravanserais which provided secure if spartan accommodation where the traveller could put up under the same roof as his beast and his belongings (such buildings could house up to 400 pack animals) (Plate 21.3). Travel by sea was even more perilous. Non-­seafaring ­Arabs – ­those who lived in the desert or in towns far away from the ­coasts – ­seem to have been terrified of the sea. Qur’anic resonances and pious Islamic sayings contributed to this deep-­seated phobia. In the Qur’an, Jonah cries out in despair from his watery prison and the deeds of unbelievers are likened to ‘darkness on a vast, abysmal sea’ (see Plate 12.18 for ‘Jonah and the Whale’ from Rashid al-­Din’s Jami‘ al-tawarikh). Tales of shipwrecks abound in medieval Islamic ­literature – ­real shipwrecks in travel diaries, historical chronicles and geographical works and fantastic ones in the stories of the One Thousand and One Nights. I come now to my second major theme: travel for the sake of religion. Islam enjoined the faithful to t­ ravel – o­ n the pilgrimage, in search of religious knowledge, to visit shrines, in search of a Sufi master, or to the borders of Islam to proselytise or to prosecute jihad. In particular, young men would often journey long distances to study with renowned scholars. The concept of travel is as deeply embedded in Islamic doctrine as in Islamic practice. The Prophet’s own example was of paramount importance. Before his revelations began, Muhammad had undertaken several journeys as a merchant, and the Islamic calendar begins with another journey, the hijra, his historic move from Mecca to Medina in AD 622. Numerous sayings attributed to the Prophet himself extol the merits of travel, and works of Islamic law, which embraces all aspects of a Muslim’s everyday life, include a complete chapter on the proper conduct of the traveller. This clearly implies that travel was not only authorised in Islam but positively encouraged. Take the most famous intellectual of medieval Islam, al-­Ghazali (d. 1111). In his usual systematic way al-­Ghazali divides travel in this world into several categories, all of them with a religious flavour: these include travel in search of knowledge; travel in order to know oneself and

402 | classi ca l is l a m remedy one’s reprehensible qualities; travel to view the marvels of God’s creation and ‘to read the divine script on the cheeks of everything in existence’; and travel for the purposes of worshipping ­God – ­holy war, pilgrimage and the visitation of shrines (Plates 21.­4 – ­21.6). The Prophet Muhammad’s injunction to seek knowledge even unto China was viewed by many early scholars as an invitation to travel the length and breadth of the Islamic world to collect and categorise the religious sciences, above all Qur’anic commentaries and Islamic legal texts. Good sound learning depended on oral transmission. It was essential to sit at the feet of a great scholar and to gain knowledge from hearing him (or occasionally her) recite. Take the late eleventh-­century Spanish scholar, Ibn al-‘Arabi, who wrote a Rihla (travel diary) describing his journey eastwards. At the age of twenty-­four he set out with his own father, to perform the pilgrimage but also in his own words ‘desirous of seeking knowledge in the utmost extremities’. As a Muslim from al-­Andalus he aspired to know what scholars in the eastern Islamic world could teach him. He survived a terrifying shipwreck off the North African coast when the ship broke into pieces near Barqa. Like other Spanish Muslims before him, once the enormous effort of the long journey had been made, he lingered in the east for many years. He stayed mainly in Jerusalem. On his return home he passed his newly acquired knowledge on to his own countrymen, most of whom did not have the means to travel themselves. One of the five pillars of Islam, pilgrimage, involves the most important earthly journey of a Muslim’s life. The reality of the journey to perform the pilgrimage is truly extraordinary, from the joyful fanfare of departure onwards. It is amazing that so many Muslims actually managed to go, given the enormous distances, the hardships endured, the expense involved, the deprivation for the family left behind. Yet go they did, ‘swayed’, as the great Muslim traveller Ibn Battuta so eloquently put it, ‘by an overmastering impulse within me’. At a human level, performing the shared rites of pilgrimage is an act of ­reinforcement – t­he unity of all believers is palpably demonstrated. The experience is unforgettable. Ziyara (the visitation of shrines) was also a multi-­dimensional phenomenon in medieval Islam. Many Muslims could not afford to go on pilgrimage

th e l it e rat ure of tra vel i n the land s o f is l a m ­ | 403 to Mecca, so they came on foot over great distances to other holy places to perform rituals, and to gain blessing from the proximity of the graves and shrines of holy men and women (Plate 21.7). A favourite location was the Holy Land, which was sacred to Christians and Jews as well as Muslims, and where adherents of all three faiths would visit one another’s shrines. Muslims wrote devotional literature and pilgrimage guides on the Holy Land and they mentioned Christian and Jewish sacred places as worthy of visitation. For Muslims Jerusalem itself, and especially the Dome of the Rock (Plate 21.8), was second only to Mecca and Medina: indeed, it was the place where Muhammad was believed to have made his spiritual journey into heaven. Not only Jerusalem but the whole of Palestine was viewed as sacred landscape. Missionary zeal was a powerful spur to the undertaking of perilous journeys. An extraordinary piece of travel ­writing – u ­ sed incidentally in the novel Eaters of the Dead by Michael Crichton (of Jurassic Park fame) – is the Risala (Letter) of Ibn Fadlan. The work is an account of a year-­long journey made in 921 to the frozen north, the territory of Southern Russia, then occupied by nomadic Turkic tribes. Ibn Fadlan, a scribe, formed part of a delegation sent by the caliph at Baghdad to a Turkic group known in the Arabic sources as the Bulghars. Their king, who had already converted to Islam, had sent a letter to Baghdad asking for religious teachers to instruct his people in the faith. Ibn Fadlan stayed a month in Central Asia and then moved northwards to the borders of Islamic territory. This urbane metropolitan courtier describes the people of this region as ‘the wildest in words and customs’ and their language as ‘the croaking of frogs’. Here the river Oxus froze for three months, the animals bearing the delegation walked on thick ice and the landscape was like a ‘cold door of hell’. The travellers were obliged to spend several weeks by a ‘friendly fire’; as Ibn Fadlan reports: Coming out of the bath-­house and returning to the house, I looked at my beard. It was just a piece of ice that I had to melt in front of the fire.

Progressing further north in February 922 after the river began to thaw, the journey made with Turkish camels and foldable boats of camel skin

404 | classi ca l is l a m remained extremely difficult: the camels waded up to their knees in snow (Plate 21.9). Ibn Fadlan was not the caliph’s ambassador, although he presents himself as the principal actor in his tale, not the first or last traveller to do that. His powers of observation are acute and the ­information – ­and it is probably information rather than hearsay or ­legend – ­on the environment of the nomadic Turks is of great value. He discusses their marriage and funerary customs, is fascinated by the sight of unveiled women and is particularly struck by the squalor and poverty in which they live and by the fact that they never wash and that they keep their clothes on permanently until they fall to pieces. The work of Ibn Fadlan is a true piece of travel writing. It also demonstrates the enormous efforts that a Muslim would make to spread the faith far away from the warmth and comfort of Baghdad (Plate 21.10). I come now to my third major theme: travel for its own sake. I have already mentioned seen how al-­Ghazali sets out a series of overtly religious incentives for Muslims to travel, but I should note also that he does concede rather grudgingly that travel for sightseeing and recreation is also permissible, provided that ‘it is limited and occasional’. But the intellectual dynamism and curiosity of many Muslim travellers swept such false distinctions aside. They admired the beauties of the natural world, visited the wonders of antiquity and occasionally crossed the frontiers into non-­Muslim lands. The Muslim heritage in discovering the world by land and by sea has been passed on to Western Europe in many well-­known ways. Navigation eastwards depended on knowledge of the monsoon, thought by some to derive from the Arabic word, mawsim, meaning season, and the memory of Muslim land travel is enshrined in the word safari (from the Swahili form of the Arabic word safar – travel) and in the Persian word caravan with its romantic evocation of the stately procession across desert and mountain, now debased into the meaning ‘mobile home’. For many medieval Muslim travellers, the world of Islam was always sufficient. The vast deserts of Arabia, the cradle of Islam, were the focus of the work of a Yemeni traveller (and proto-­art historian), al-­Hamdani (d. 945).

th e l it e rat ure of tra vel i n the land s o f is l a m ­ | 405 Wandering through this inhospitable terrain he concentrated in his travels on descriptions of the buildings, inscriptions, buried treasures and castles of Yemen. He also provides ethnographic information and gives details about climate. He marvels at the ability of the pre-­Islamic Arabs to build skyscrapers, the ‘wonders of Yemen’. And the Yemenis have still not lost this art (Plate 21.11). By far the most famous medieval Muslim traveller is Ibn Battuta, a Berber from Tangier who died in 1368. Often dubbed in Europe the ‘Marco Polo of Islam’, his long travel book claims to be a chronological account of trips made in a period of twenty-­nine years (from 1324 to 1353) over a vast area of the world. Indeed, he is the only medieval Muslim traveller known to have visited every Islamic country of his time as well as Byzantium, Ceylon and China. In particular, he provides invaluable first-­hand information about East Africa, Turkey, Southern India and the Maldives. He crossed the Sahara and visited the Muslim lands of West Africa. He had access to royal courts as well as to other classes of society in the lands to which he travelled (Plate 21.12). In the usual way, Ibn Battuta set out at the age of twenty from distant Morocco in the far west of the Islamic world to study with scholars in the east and to go on the pilgrimage. Such was his original purpose. However, already by the time he had reached Egypt he hints at what was to be the passion of his life, globe-­trotting, ‘to travel through the earth’, and he declares that he has made it a rule ‘never as far as possible, to cover any road a second time’. Just like his European and Chinese counterparts, Marco Polo and Shwan Zang, Ibn Battuta did not compose the finished work which bears his name. In 1357 he dictated his experiences to the secretary of the sultan of Fez, who wrote down and edited the work. It is flawed by inconsistencies of dates, unbelievable distances covered and itineraries invented or conflated; on his own admission Ibn Battuta lost some of his notes when attacked by Chinese pirates and he must have had to rely heavily on his memory. Scholars have pointed out that he could not possibly have made the journey of 800 miles twice in one month to the land of the Volga Bulghars. Otherwise, he probably did go where he said he had been, except that for his accounts of Constantinople and the interior of China he may well, as was the custom, have drawn on, and even copied verbatim, earlier travel accounts.

406 | classi ca l is l a m Some of his personality traits peep through the ­narrative – h ­ e disliked Shi‘ites, he was obviously interested in food and was addicted not only to travel but also to serial matrimony. He gives frequent descriptions of women at home and abroad and is fascinated by their more liberated status in Turkey. His description of I­ndia – a­lways a land of marvels and the ­outrageous – a­ roused sceptical reactions back home in Fez, for his accounts seemed as fantastic as the fabulous Sinbad stories; but what he wrote is founded on excellent powers of observation. One of the most curious specimens of medieval Muslim travel literature is an anonymous Iraqi tenth-­century work entitled the Kitab al-ghuraba’ (The Book of Strangers). Its author was a travel addict and his work is a collection of poetic graffiti which he claims to have seen. He mentions how travellers recorded their most intimate f­ eelings – ­anxiety, misery, ­homesickness – ­with ink, charcoal and knife, on trees, stones, rocks, gates, doors, ship’s rudders, on mausolea, madrasas, mosques, minarets and caravanserais. The dangers and discomforts of travel are taken for granted. Relationships, not only deep ones back home but also passing ones, occupy the foreground of the book. Almost all the authors of the graffiti bemoan the vicissitudes of fate which has forced them to leave their homes and families and they yearn for reunion with their loved ones. But travel also frees them from the usual moral and ethical restraints. A number of the graffiti speak of wine-­drinking and casual sexual encounters. One such graffito remarks sagely: Whatever you do, you will not experience anything more sweet or delightful than behaving badly.

Christian monasteries were well-­known watering holes where the pleasures of wine and the flesh could be enjoyed. Clearly then the tone of the book is distinctly secular, with few Qur’anic or other Islamic resonances. Much of the material in the Book of Strangers is too scurrilous to mention here; incongruous as it may seem, the oldest manuscript of this work, recently published, is in the library of an Iranian ayatallah. That travellers did actually compose literary graffiti is confirmed in spectacular fashion by the example of al-­Harawi (d. 1215), an eccentric Persian scholar who was an expert in military matters, poetry and magic. A contem-

th e l it e rat ure of tra vel i n the land s o f is l a m ­ | 407 porary biographer remarks rather laconically that al-­Harawi was famous for writing his name on the walls of all the cities which he visited. It is, moreover, clear from the work of al-­Harawi himself that he was indeed addicted to writing graffiti and that these involved much more than the mere scratching of his name on the monuments that he saw on his travels. He pays considerable attention to the Pharaonic marvels of Egypt and records that at Luxor there was an enormous granite statue. On i­t – i­nspired, perhaps, by the hieroglyphic writing a­ round – h ­ e wrote a Qur’anic inscription with a pen carved out of a palm twig. Apart from recording for posterity his own presence at a famous site, al-­Harawi is here proclaiming the superiority of Islam over preceding revelations and civilisations (Plate 21.13). What of the lands of Europe? Accounts of journeys there were much rarer but a few have survived. A lost Arabic work by a tenth-­century traveller called Ibrahim b. Ya‘qub al-­Isra’ili al-­Tartushi is quoted many times either directly or through citations from it in other well-­known geographical works. Around the year 965 Ibrahim b. Ya‘qub made a long journey from Spain via Bordeaux to territories known in the Muslim sources as Frankish or Slav. His trip took him therefore to lands that we now call France, Germany, Czechoslovakia, Poland. Scholars differ on the matter of why Ibrahim made this journey. Was he a trader in slaves or horses? Was he a doctor? Was he a spy sent by the Spanish Umayyad government in Cordoba? His name indicates that he came from Tortosa and that he may have been a Jew or perhaps a Jewish convert to Islam. What seems probable, however, was that as a member of the élite class in al-­Andalus Ibrahim recorded his travels in the lingua franca of Muslim Spain, Arabic. But knowing Hebrew would have been far more useful to him on his journey to Frankish and Slav territory and it would have given him an entrée into Jewish circles there. Ibrahim must have been seen during his journey as a person of considerable importance since he mentions that he was received in an audience in Magdeburg by the Holy Roman Emperor, Otto I. Ibrahim’s writing seems to have been a probable source for the topoi customarily used to describe the Franks in later medieval Muslim writings, where they are depicted stereotypically as unwashed but brave in war. He praises the Holy Roman Emperor whom he describes as valorous and strong and the soldiers of Ifranja (the land of the Franks) as having extraordinary

408 | classi ca l is l a m courage: ‘When fighting, they would not ever know how to prefer flight to death.’ Ibrahim then writes contemptuous words about the Franks’ lack of hygiene and honesty, comments often repeated verbatim in later sources, such as the work of the judge Sa‘id b. Ahmad writing in 1068 in Toledo and the memoirs of the famous twelfth-­century Syrian writer, Usama b. Munqidh: Ibrahim writes: You cannot see people dirtier, craftier and more wicked. Not knowing what cleanliness is, they wash only once or twice in the year, in cold water. They never wash their clothes, which they put on once and for all until they fall off in tatters.

It is extremely unlikely, that Ibrahim actually visited Ireland. But his long account of young whales off the coast of Ireland is memorably racy. After a long, gory description of the catching of young whales, Ibrahim writes that when sometimes a mother whale comes looking for her lost offspring the sailors hurl crushed garlic into the sea. The mother whale then retreats as she hates the smell of the garlic. The sailors then salt the young whale’s flesh which is as white as snow, unlike its skin which is inky black. There is little mention of Northern Europe in medieval Muslim travel accounts, despite the evidence that traders went as far as Scandinavia where large hoards of Muslim coins have been found (Plate 21.14). There is a very beguiling narrative attributed to Ibrahim b. Ya‘qub found in a thirteenth-­ century work written by Ibn Dihya, a chronicler from Valencia. The Vikings had attacked Seville in 844. The following year, a famous poet, called Yahya b. Hakam and nicknamed al-­Ghazal in his youth because of his slenderness and beauty, was sent with a companion by the ruler of Cordoba, ‘Abd al-­ Rahman II, northwards to Jutland to persuade the king of the Vikings not to attack Spain again. During his visit he allegedly made a profound impact on the Viking queen: When he entered her presence he stared at her for a long time, as one struck with amazement. She said to her interpreter: ‘Ask him why he is staring at me like this. Is it because he finds me very beautiful or the opposite?’ He replied: ‘It is indeed because I did not imagine that there was so beautiful a

th e l it e rat ure of tra vel i n the land s o f is l a m ­ | 409 spectacle in the ­world . . . ­If the queen wishes me to describe her ­beauty . . . ­in a poem which will be declaimed in our country, I will do so.’

These unctuous compliments worked, for the queen became quite infatuated with the exotic visitor. However, when the narrator of this story asked al-­ Ghazal: ‘Did she really approach that degree of beauty . . . ?’, he replied: ‘By your father, she had some charm; but by talking in this way I won her good graces and obtained from her even more than I desired.’ Al-­Ghazal and his companion were apparently successful in their peace mission and they returned to Cordoba after a nine-­month voyage in Atlantic waters. This tall story of the handsome, toned Arab poet and the Viking queen, which perpetuates the memory of Viking attacks in Spain, has proved popular over the years, despite the fact that Bernard Lewis finds it ‘a touch improbable’ whilst the Spanish scholar Miranda says caustically that the falseness of this story ‘is obvious at a glance’. Most probably, Ibn Dihya was drawing on popular folklore current in his own time and the story certainly plays on feelings of Arab cultural superiority and Viking gullibility. As for the Atlantic Ocean, to medieval travel writers it is a terrifying ‘Sea of Darkness’ where neither the sun nor the moon can penetrate. Long before Columbus and Vasco da Gama ventured into its waters, the famous twelfth-­ century cartographer and traveller al-­Idrisi from Cordoba, who ended up in 1138 writing at the court of the Norman king Roger of Sicily in Palermo, gives an account of a voyage of exploration made from Lisbon by eighty intrepid sailors into the Atlantic Ocean. These men, whom al-­Idrisi calls al-mugharrirun (‘those who risk their lives’), sailed on the Sea of Darkness ‘to discover what was in it’. According to al-­Idrisi, the sea had heavy waves, and it was evil-­smelling and ridden with reefs. His contemporary, al-­Gharnati, also a Spaniard, speaks of a city made of copper built by the jinn for King Solomon which was situated in the extreme west near the Sea of Darkness. You will note from the famous world map of al-­Idrisi that he dots the sea on the very edge of the Western world with a row of unnamed islands but clearly he knows neither their size nor their positions. Much greater interest is shown by medieval Muslim travel writers in the fabled Christian city of Constantinople, so much closer geographically to the heartlands of Islam. After all, Byzantium was the major Christian polity

410 | classi ca l is l a m known to the Muslims and the great Arab polymath al-­Mas‘udi (d. 956) calls Constantinople ‘the queen of cities’. An allegedly verbatim account of the city narrated by a Syrian prisoner of war called Harun b. Yahya juxtaposes allegedly precise measurements of buildings with flowery descriptions of Byzantine luxury that are clearly in the realm of fantasy. Pride of place in any Muslim description of Constantinople is consistently given to Haghia Sophia (Plate 21.15). It would appear that Harun witnessed personally a royal procession to the ‘Great Church’ on Ash Wednesday. The grandeur of the emperor’s retinue and processions deeply impresses him: The cortège is preceded by the procession of ten thousand old men, dressed in red brocade, hair flowing down their shoulders, without headgear. They are followed by ten thousand young people, dressed in white brocade, all on foot, followed by ten thousand pages, dressed in green brocade; then come ten thousand more pages dressed in sky-­blue brocade, holding in their hands double-­bladed axes encrusted with gold: then five thousand middle-­ aged eunuchs, dressed in thick white Khurasani fabrics, then ten thousand pages, Turks and Khazars, dressed in striped waistcoats, carrying lances and shields encrusted with gold . . .

This ­procession – ­which, we are invited to believe comprises 45,000 people (where in the world was there room for them in the church?) – culminates, of course, with the emperor himself. He wears a tiara and two boots, one red and one black. He carries in his hands a gold box and he goes on foot. It is obvious that Harun’s narrative is a mishmash of fact and fiction, comprising the grossest exaggerations alongside quite precise details. But the atmosphere of the fabled splendour of Byzantine ceremony is vividly recorded here, with the aim of entertaining and titillating the imagination of Muslim readers. Thus this canonical Muslim account is embellished with legendary flourishes that place it firmly in the tradition of Islamic ‘marvel’ literature. But it was the eastern extremities of the Muslim world that teased the imagination of the urban elites in Damascus, Cairo, Cordoba and Baghdad. India, the land of the Brahmins, and China were often coupled together in the medieval Muslim mind. Though still largely infidel, they were lands thought to be characterised by prosperity, wise government and comfort. In Sri Lanka (Sarandib in ­Arabic – ­whence Horace Walpole coined the English

th e l it e rat ure of tra vel i n the land s o f is l a m ­ | 411 word serendipity) was the mountain where Adam first placed his foot after he had been thrown out of Paradise. India and China are evoked in balmy and luxuriant tones, an earthly ­paradise – t­ hey are the lands of ‘aloes wood, camphor, perfumed plants, lavender, musk and precious stones’ (Plate 21.16). To medieval Muslim scholars China in particular remained an unknown and mysterious land. What of my fourth theme, marvels, monster and miracles? For their descriptions of the ‘Other’, Muslim travellers drew not on actual observation but rather on a vast treasure house of myth and folklore. The worlds of the imagination and of folklore mingle with ethnography and travellers’ tales. The taste for the fantastic was very marked and produced ‘aja’ib works, books about the wonders of creation. An island populated only by women was a widespread and attractive marvel theme in medieval Muslim travel literature. This invented island was, of course, situated far away on the periphery of the known world beyond the usual horizons of Muslim readers and storytellers. The concept of a distant island turned in on itself further enhanced the ‘marvellous’ aspect of such a legend, especially about an island over which Amazonian-­type women ruled. Where was this island, with customs so far removed from the strict and secluded lives of urban Muslim women in medieval times? The Spanish traveller Ibrahim b. Ya‘qub, who saw the free sexual mores of the pagan Slav women, allows his imagination full rein to wander westwards to an island in the ‘Western sea’ known as the ‘City of Women’ where: its inhabitants are women, over whom men have no sway. They ride horses and wage war and have great courage in combat.

Drawing on traditions that go back to Herodotus in the fifth century BC who writes about Amazonian women whose ‘business is with the bow and the spear’ and ‘whose marriage law forbids a girl to marry until she has killed an enemy in battle’, Ibrahim’s account goes further, saying that the women on this island have men slaves, and each slave in turn goes to his mistress by night. He stays with her all night, and rises at dawn and goes forth secretly at d ­ aybreak. If

412 | classi ca l is l a m one of them bears a male child, she kills it at once, but if she bears a female child, she allows it to live.

And to add verisimilitude to this tall story, Ibrahim says that it was the Holy Roman Emperor Otto who told it to him. Several later accounts of such women have survived, such as those of al-­Gharnati (d. 1170) and al-­Idrisi (d. 1166), who says that the island is situated to the north of Russia. Such versions ascribe miraculous conceptions of children to the women. Al-­Gharnati, for example, writes: These women go into water of theirs and they become pregnant from that water. Each woman gives birth to a daughter and does not give birth to a son at all.

According to other versions of this tenacious myth, the women conceive with the help of the wind, or by eating fruit. Many of the fantastic elements in medieval Muslim travel literature form an intrinsic part of the One Thousand and One Nights ­tales – t­ he Sinbad cycle, for example, is a ‘reworking of mariners’ tales about the wonders to be found in the seas of India and China’. Such works draw directly or indirectly on the marvel literature of classical antiquity with its accounts of fantastic journeys and of mysterious and bizarre natural phenomena. Indeed, the Greek conception of ethnographical m ­ onsters – r­aces and animals which lived in the e­ ast – ­survived and was transmitted to medieval Europe in the works of Marco Polo, John de Mandeville and others. The very same process occurred even earlier in the lively cosmopolitan circles of Baghdad, Cairo and Cordoba and remained alive in the Islamic world until the dawn of the modern era. It was in the so-­called Golden Age of Baghdad, namely the ninth and tenth centuries, that the impact of the fabulous was felt most powerfully and the literature of marvels began to blossom. Later centuries incorporated this material virtually unchanged into illustrated encyclopedias, presenting it as quasi-­scientific truth. Muslim travel writers, then, drew on a vast and already ancient store of mirabilia, strange and amazing creatures and ­phenomena – ­some real, some ­not – ­which they place without a moment’s hesitation next to prosaic details of their own itineraries.

th e l it e rat ure of tra vel i n the land s o f is l a m ­ | 413 Mermaids who copulate with men, fabulous birds, turtles which devour whole ships and their crews, crocodiles, giants, demons and unicorns populate medieval Muslim travel narratives and yet are clothed in the mantle of verisimilitude (Plates 21.17 and 21.18). In his chapter on seas, islands and wonderful animals, al-­ Gharnati (d. 1170) describes, for example, the rhinoceros, which he locates rather vaguely in ‘the islands of China and India’. It is, in his view, ‘100 cubits (that is, 150 feet) long with three horns, one between the eyes and two on the ears’. He is struck by the long gestation period of the rhinoceros and writes: The rhinoceros remains in the belly of its mother for four years. When its first year is finished, it pops its head out of its mother’s belly and grazes among the shrubs which are within its reach. When the four years are up, it comes out of its mother’s belly and escapes like greased lightening so that its mother cannot catch it. It is afraid that she will lick it with her tongue which has a big, coarse spike.

Whilst much of this ­description – t­ ypical of Arabic ethnographical ­literature – ­is fantasy, some elements of it have a foundation in t­ruth – t­he gestation period of the rhinoceros is indeed long (fifteen–sixteen months), it is vegetarian and some species even have a hooked upper lip for eating shrubs. The creature known as the nasnas constitutes a particularly tenacious myth. Most likely based on sailors’ yarns from the Indian Ocean and beyond and referring to gibbons, baboons, orangutans or even p ­ ygmies – f­ or Muslim geographers believed that in some remote areas people lived in t­rees – ­the creature becomes transformed in medieval Islamic travel and geographical literature into a monstrous, semi-­anthropomorphic creature with one eye and one leg. Al-­Gharnati places the nasnas in Sana‘a, the capital of Yemen (incidentally a favoured habitat for baboons). He writes as follows: In Sana‘a there is an Arab p ­ eople . . . ­Each of them is half-­man with half a head, one hand and one foot. They live in ­thickets . . . ­on the coast of the Indian Ocean. The Arabs call them nasnas . . . They speak Arabic. They call themselves by Arab names and they declaim poetry.

414 | classi ca l is l a m We have all heard of chimpanzees’ tea ­parties – ­but do they attend poetry recitals? Talmudic legend has it that some of the builders of the Tower of Babel were punished by being changed into monkeys for ever, a fate which is echoed in the Qur’an itself: ‘those whom He (God) has cursed, He has changed into monkeys and pigs’. And such metamorphoses are common in the One Thousand and One Nights. Monkeys had long fascinated the medieval Muslims, and travellers’ tales enhanced the legends and folklore associated with them. The existence of species of monkeys within the Islamic world, in Yemen, Oman, and Socotra, was known and then romanticised by geographers, such as al-­Idrisi, into an ‘island of monkeys.’ Thus the legend of the nasnas fits into a long tradition (Plate 21.19). It is now time for some concluding comments. We have seen how travel pervades many overlapping genres of medieval Islamic literature; the concept of travel, underpinned by the Prophet Muhammad’s own career and his carefully preserved sayings, and encouraged by the Muslim lawyers who constructed and refined Islamic jurisprudence, is a key theme across a wide literary spectrum. The theme of travel embraces geographical works, pilgrimage guides, travel accounts, letters, tales of the fantastic and many others. Travel in search of knowledge within the Islamic world helped to shape a cosmopolitan identity: this was especially important for Muslims ‘on the periphery’, for example those in Spain and North Africa who were accustomed to seeking education from eastern centres of learning. As you will have noticed, the vast majority of medieval Muslim travel writers came from Spain, with a few notable ones from North Africa. Such travellers left home, encountered others and returned with a sharpened awareness of difference and similarity within their own culture. The medieval Muslim did not evince great interest in the lands outside the Islamic world. His prime concern was the House of Islam, which despite political fragmentation remained a religio-­cultural entity stretching from Spain in the west to India and Central Asia in the east. This vast area shared similar religious beliefs and practices and recognised Arabic not only as the language of the Islamic revelation but also as the lingua franca of science and

Plate 21.1  Afghan man at prayer

Plate 21.2  Loading a camel in Afghanistan

Plate 21.3  Zazadin caravanserai near Konya, 1235–7

Plate 21.4  Scholars in a library, Maqamat of al-Hariri, Iraq, 1237

Plate 21.5  Dhow with Indian sailors, Maqamat of al-Hariri, Iraq, 1237

Plate 21.6  Departure of the pilgrim caravan, Maqamat of al-Hariri, Iraq, 1237

Plate 21.7  The Ka‘ba, Mecca

Plate 21.8  The Dome of the Rock, Jerusalem

Plate 21.9  Caravan of Bactrian camels in winter, eastern Afghanistan

Plate 21.10  Old woman, school of Siyah Qalam, fourteenth–fifteenth century

Plate 21.11  Skyscrapers in Shibam, Hadramawt, southern Yemen

Plate 21.12  Map showing the travels of Ibn Battuta, 1325–54 (d. 1368)

Plate 21.13  Giza, the Great Pyramid by night

Plate 21.14  ‘Abbasid coin over-stamped ‘Offa Rex’, obverse and reverse

Plate 21.15  Interior of the church of Haghia Sophia, Istanbul, 537

Plate 21.16  The Qutb Minar, Delhi, 1192

Plate 21.17  The Tibetan sannaja, from The Wonders of Creation by al-Qazwini, Iraq, 128

Plate 21.18  Rhinoceros, from On the Usefulness of Animals by Ibn Bakhtishu‘, Maragha, 1290s

Plate 21.19  The map of the world as al-Idrisi (twelfth century) knew it

th e l it e rat ure of tra vel i n the land s o f is l a m ­ | 415 trade. Indeed, a merchant from Cordoba could travel to the Central Asian borders, converse in Arabic and fulfil his religious obligations as a Muslim, unimpeded by frontiers. He would find the Arabic script everywhere too. A scholar would find himself welcome everywhere he went. The evidence I have presented illuminates a society which is vibrant and self-­assured, with few doubts about the validity of its own socio-­cultural norms. Europe, and even Byzantium, are of peripheral interest and the lands of the nomadic Turks and Slavs have mere curiosity value, as epitomising the ‘Other’. As for the civilisations of India and China, perceived by medieval Muslims as worth mentioning positively, there is little real interest in travel to these areas. They are much more an imaginary construct, a vague and alien eastern area, to be admired, certainly, but not examined or incorporated into the Muslim worldview. Travel in its broadest sense concerned primarily the vast Muslim world itself and helped to forge and reinforce an Islamic identity and its values. Yet, despite the intellectual self-­sufficiency of the House of Islam, the medieval Muslim intelligentsia evinced great curiosity about the past, about strange lands, peoples, customs and beliefs. Unlike us, they had not lost their sense of awe and wonder at the marvels of God’s creation. Select Bibliography Berger, A., ‘Sightseeing in Constantinople: Arab travellers, c. 900–1300’, in Travel in the Byzantine World, ed. Ruth Macrides (Aldershot, 2002), 179–92. Carboni, Stefano, The Wonders of Creation and the Singularities of Painting: A Study of the Ilkhanid London Qazvini (Edinburgh, 2015). Charles-­Dominique, P., Voyageurs Arabes: Ibn Fadlan, Ibn Jubayr, Ibn Battuta et un Auteur Anonyme (Paris, 1995). Eastward Bound: Travel and Travellers 1050–1550, ed. Rosamund Allen (Manchester and New York, 2004). El-­Hajji, Abdurrahman, ‘Ibrahim Ibn Ya‘qub al-­Turtushi and his diplomatic activity’, Islamic Quarterly 14 (1970), 22–40. Frankopan, Peter, The Silk Roads: A New History of the World (London, 2015). Garden, Kenneth, ‘The rihla and self-­invention of Abu Bakr Ibn al-‘Arabi’, Journal of the American Oriental Society 135/1 (2015), 1–17. al-­Ghazali, Kimiya-yi sa‘adat, ed. Husayn Khadivjam (Tehran, 1341/1976). Al-Hamdani: A Great Yemeni Scholar. Studies on the Occasion of his Millennial Anniversary, ed. Yusuf Muhammad ‘Abd Allah (Sana‘a, 1986).

416 | classi ca l is l a m al-­Harawi, Kitab al-ziyarat, tr. J. Sourdel-­Thomine as Guide des lieux de pèlerinage (Damascus, 1947). Ibn Battuta, Travels in Asia and Africa a.d. 1325–1354, tr. H. A. R. Gibb (London, 1929). Ibn Fadlan and the Land of Darkness: Arab Travellers in the Far North, trs Paul Lunde and Caroline Stone (London, 2012). Ibn Hawqal, Kitab surat al-ard, trs J. H. Kramers and G. Wiet (Beirut and Paris, 1964). Ibn Jubayr, The Travels of Ibn Jubayr, tr. R. J. C. Broadhurst (London, 1952). Ipşiroğlu, Mazhar S., Bozkir Rüzgârı Siyah Kalem (Istanbul, 1985). Nasir-­i Khusraw, Safarnama, tr. W. M. Thackston Jr as Naser-e Khosraw’s Book of Travels (Safarnama) (New York, 1986). Netton, I. R., Seek Knowledge: Thought and Travel in the House of Islam (Richmond, VA, 1996). Shboul, A., Al-Mas‘udi and His World (London, 1979). The Book of Strangers: Medieval Arabic Graffiti on the Theme of Nostalgia, trs Patricia Crone and Shmuel Moreh (Princeton, 2000). The Travels of Sir John Mandeville (London and New York, 1900). Touati, H., Islam et Voyage au Moyen Âge (Paris, 2000). Trade, Travel and Exploration in the Middle Ages: An Encyclopedia, eds John Block Friedman and Kristen Mossler Figg (New York and London 2000). Verdon, Jean, Travel in the Middle Ages, tr. George Holoch (Notre Dame, IN, 2003).

Original Sources of the Items in this Volume

 1. ‘Islamic orthodoxy or Realpolitik?: Al-­Ghazali’s views on government’, Iran XXVI (1988), 81–94.   2. ‘Al-­Mustandjid’, Encyclopaedia of Islam (2nd edition), Vol. VII, C. E. Bosworth, E. van Donzel, W. P. Heinrichs and Ch. Pellat (eds) (Leiden: Brill, 1993), columns 726a–727a.   3. ‘Al-­Mustansir’, ibid., columns 727a–729a.   4. ‘Al-­Mustarshid’, ibid., columns 733a–735b.   5. ‘Al-­Mustazhir’, ibid., columns 755a–756a.   6. ‘Some aspects of al-­Ghazali’s views on beauty’, in Alma Giese and J. Christoph Bürgel (eds), Gott ist schön und Er liebt die Schönheit. God is Beautiful and He loves Beauty: Festschrift für Professor Annemarie Schimmel (Bern: Peter Lang Verlag, 1994), 249–65.   7. New Introduction to Nasir al-­Din Shah, The Diary of H.M. the Shah of Persia during His Tour through Europe in a.d. 1873, tr. J. W. Redhouse, Bibliotheca Iranica Reprint No. 2 (Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda Publishers, 1995), v–xvi.   8. ‘A little-­known Mirror for Princes of al-­Ghazali’, in R. Arnzen and J. Thielmann (eds), Words, Texts and Concepts Cruising the Mediterranean Sea: Studies on the Sources, Contents and Influences of Islamic Civilization and Arabic Philosophy and Science: Dedicated to Gerhard Endress on his Sixty-fifth Birthday (Leuven and Dudley, MA: Peeters, 2004), 593–601.   9. ‘Muhammad and the rise of Islam’, in Paul Fouracre (ed.), The New Cambridge Medieval History, I (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 317–46. 10. ‘Sources in Arabic’, in M. Whitby (ed.), The Prosopography of the Byzantine Empire, 1024–1204 (London: The British Academy, 2007), 283–340. 11. ‘Some medieval Muslim views of Constantinople’, in Stephen R. Goodwin

417

418 | classi ca l is l a m (ed.), World Christianity in Muslim Encounter: Essays in Memory of David A. Kerr, II (London and New York: Continuum, 2009), 71–83. 12. ‘Gardens beneath which rivers flow: The significance of water in classical Islamic culture’, in S. Blair and J. Bloom (eds), Rivers of Paradise: Water in Islamic Art and Culture (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009), 27–57. 13. ‘Sayf al-­Dawla, al-­Mutanabbi and Byzantium: The evidence of a textile’, in A. al-­ Helabi, M. al- Moraekhi, D. Letsios and A. Abduljabbar (eds), Arabia, Greece and Byzantium: Cultural Contacts in Ancient and Medieval Times (Riyadh: King Saud University, 2012/AH 1433), 221–30. 14. ‘The Kimiya-yi sa‘adat (The Alchemy of Happiness) of al-­Ghazali: A misunderstood work?’, in R. Hillenbrand, A. C. S. Peacock and F. Abdullaeva (eds), Ferdowsi, the Mongols and the History of Iran: Art, Literature and Culture from Early Islam to Qajar Persia: Studies in Honour of Charles Melville (London and New York: I. B. Tauris in association with the Iran Heritage Foundation, 2013), 59–69. 15. ‘A neglected source on the life of Hasan-­i Sabbah, the founder of the Nizari “Assassin” sect’, Iran LV (2017), 3–10. 16. ‘The impact of a sixteenth-­ century jihad treatise on colonial and modern India’, in E. Kendall and A. Khan (eds), Reclaiming Islamic Tradition: Modern Interpretations of the Classical Heritage (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2016), 204–22. 17. (Jointly with R. Hillenbrand) ‘Ancient Iranian kings in the World History of Rashid al-­Din’, Iran LVI (2018), 34–46. 18. ‘Al-­Ghazali: In praise of Sufism’, in Lloyd Ridgeon (ed.), The Routledge Handbook of Sufism (Abingdon: Routledge, 2020), 63–75. 19. ‘Life in pre-­Mongol Marw according to the medieval Muslim geographers’ (a revised and updated version of ‘Medieval Arab geographers on Central Asia: The case of Marw’), in M. M. Qurashi, S. M. A. Shah, M. Hasany and F. Iqbal (eds), International Conference on Science in Islamic Polity, Papers Presented: Islamic Scientific Thought and Muslim Achievements in Science, Vol. 2 (Islamabad: Ministry of Science and Technology, National Hijra Centenary Committee and Organization of Islamic Conference, 1983), 338–41. 20. ‘Bernard Lewis: 31 May 1916–19 May 2018’, in Biographical Memoirs of Fellows of the British Academy XIX (2020), 1–24. 21. ‘Seek ye knowledge, even unto China’: The literature of travel in the lands of Islam’ (my unpublished inaugural lecture as Professor of Arabic and Islamic History in 2000).

Index

Note: italic indicates figures, pl indicates plates, n indicates notes Abaqa, 184, 316 al-‘Abbadi, Tabaqat al-fuqaha’ alShafi’iyya (The Generations of Shafi‘ite Jurisprudents), 187 Abbas, Ihsan, 150, 189 ‘Abbas II, Shah, 230 ‘Abbasids al-Ghazali and, 7–9, 15–24, 29, 90 Buyids, 1–2, 135 Byzantium, 212, 213 cartographers, 399 chroniclers, 141 coins, pl 21.14 Constantinople, 210–11 histories, 107–8, 154 Islamic unity, 43 lack of power, 134 legitimacy of, 55 Marv, 359–61, 365 status of, 11–13 Umayyads, 128 ‘Abd al-Latif al-Baghdadi, Kitab al-Ifada wa’l-i‘tibar fi’l-umur al-mushahada wa’lhawadith al-mu‘ayana bi-ard Misr (The Book of Benefit and Instruction about Matters Which Have Been Witnessed and Events Which Have Been Seen with the Eye in the Land of Egypt), 198–9 Attash, 280 ‘Abd al-Malik, 128, 129, 210

‘Abd al-Qadir al-Jilani, 38 ‘Abd al-Rahman b. Khayr, 111 ‘Abd al-Rahman b. ‘Umar al-Sufi, Kitab suwar al-kawakib al-thabita (The Book of Pictures of the Fixed Stars), 230 ‘Abd al-Rahman II, 408–9 ‘Abd al-Razzaq b. Bahram, 276 ‘Abdallah b. Muhammad, 217–18, 222n ‘Abdallah the Fisherman, 234 ‘Abdallah the Merman, 234 Abraha, 102 Abraham, 118, 314, 315, 317, 326, 327 Abu ‘Ali, 37 Abu Ayyub al-Ansari, 210–11 Abu Bakr, 120, 125 Abu Bakr al-Shashi, 30n, 289n Abu Bakr al-Siddiq, 64 Abu Firas, 243 Abu Hamid Muhammad, 265 Abu Ishaq al-Shirazi, Tabaqat al-fuqaha’ (The Generations of Legists), 187–8 Abu Lahab, 114 Abu Muslim, 276, 361, 365–6 Abu Nasr b. al-Mustazhir, 38 Abu Sa‘id b. Abi’l-Khayr, 150, 199 Abu Shama, 176 Kitab al-Rawdatayn fi akhbar aldawlatayn (The Book of the Two Gardens in the Accounts of the Two States), 151, 195–6

419

420 | classi ca l is l a m Abu Shama (cont.) Tarajim rijal al-qarnayn al-sadis wa’l-sabi‘ (Biographical Notices of the Men of the Sixth and Seventh Centuries), 191 Abu Talib, 113, 114 Abu Tammam, 213 Abu Yusuf al-Khazin, 289n Abu’l-Fida’, al-Mukhtasar fi akhbar al-bashar (The Abridged Work on the Accounts of Mankind), 177 Abu’l-Husayn Muhammad, 216 Abu’l-Qasim b. Tirad al-Zaynabi, 51 Abyssinia, 102, 105, 114, 119 ‘Adi b. Zayd, 208 ‘Adil Shah, 299 ‘Adud al-Din, 37 al-Afdal b. Amir al-Juyush, 279–80, 289n Afrasiyab, 319 Afridun, 327 Afshar, Mukhtarat min al-rasa’il (Selections from the Epistles), 153 Aghlabid basins, Tunisia, 230, pl 12.14a, pl 12.14b Ahmad al-Ghazali, 341, 350 Ahmad al-Naysaburi, 283 Ahmad b. ‘Abd l-Malik b. ‘Attash, 276 Ahmad b. ‘Attash, 277–8 Ahmad b. Hanbal, 62, 262 Ahmad b. Nizam al-Mulk, 279 Al-Ahram, 393 ‘A’isha, 227–8 ‘Ala’ al-Din Juwayni, 183 ‘Ala’ al-Din Kayqubadh I, 183 Alamut, Iran, 4, 275–92, 288n, 289n, 388 alchemy, 264–5, 267, 349–50 Aleppo, 167, 175, 179, 189–90, 243, 249, 259 Alexander the Great, 234–5, 324, 361 Alexandria, 121 Alf layla wa-layla (One Thousand and One Nights), 214, 233–4, 401, 412–14 ‘Ali, 27, 64, 125, 128, 134 ‘Ali al-Ya‘qubi, 277–9 Almohads, 168 Alp Arslan, 250 Alp Qutlugh Beg Qaymaz, 27 al-Amir bi-ahkam Allah, 279–80

Amorium, 213 ‘Amr b. al-‘As, 120 Anatolia, 104, 135–6, 141, 154, 167, 183; see also Rum Andronicos II, 218–19 angels, 224–5 animals beauty, 62 monkeys, 413–14 Nasir al-Din Shah, 79–80 poetry, 247–8 rhinoceros, 413, pl 21.18 water, 227, 231 Anis al-Dawla, 84 Anjadayn, 121 al-Antaki (John of Antioch), Ta’rikh alAntaki (The History of al-Antaki), 185 Antioch, 185, 245, 252n Anushirwan b. Khalid, 51, 169 Anushtegin Shirgir, 279, 289n Aq Sunqur al-Bursuqi, 46–7 Arab Lakhmid kings, 105 Arabic language, 93, 104, 124, 129, 294, 297, 391, 392, 414–15 Arafat, Yasir, 384 Aram, Amrad, 259, 270n Arberry, A. J., 253n, 347 archaeological evidence, 97–8, 112–13, 365 Ardabil, 365 Arkoun, M., 73n Armenia, 121, 144 Arnold, Thomas, 248, 253n, 298 Artuqids, 136, 168 Arture, General, 84 Asia Minor, 121 al-‘Asqalani, 140 Assassins, 49, 54–6, 93, 141, 172, 266–7, 275–92, 388 Aswan, Egypt, Feluccas at, pl 12.1, pl 12.19 Atatürk, 383 Atlantic Ocean, travel, 409 Aws, 114 ‘Awwad, K., 41–2 al-‘Ayni, 150 ‘Iqd al-juman fi ta’rikh ahl al-zaman (The Necklace of Pearls in the History of the People of the Time), 181

i ndex | 421 Ayyub, 176 Ayyubids, 41, 140–3, 170–7, 180, 185, 286 al-‘Azimi, Ta’rikh (History), 167 ‘Azzam, A., 245 Bab, 75 Badawi, ‘Abd al-Rahman, 262 Badr al-Din Lu’lu’, 41, 43 Baghdad ‘Abbasid caliphate, 134 Aleppans in, 56–7 authority of, 2 biographical dictionaries, 145 Buyids, 135 cartographers, 399 Fatimids, 142 al-Ghazali, 88, 92, 267, 289n, 342–4 Golden Age, 412 historiographical ‘school’, 144, 171 Ibn al-Jawzi, 168–9 Ibn al-Qalanisi, 166 jihad, 212–14 al-Khatib al-Baghdadi, 187 and Marv, 362, 366 al-Mu’ayyad fi’l-Din al-Shirazi, 196 Muhammad b. Malikshah, 34n Mustansiriyya madrasa, 41–4 al-Mustarshid, 46–51 al-Mustazhir, 54–7 Sibt b. al-Jawzi, 174 water, 231–3 Yaqut, 189 Bagley, F. R. C., 26, 27 Bahr al-fawa’id (Sea of Precious Virtues), 94, 237, 259 al-Bakri, 216 al-Baladhuri, 108–9 Bal‘ami, 316 Baldick, Julian, Mystical Islam, 354 Baldwin I, 146, 194 Banu Hashim, 113 Banu Jahir, 56 Banu Taghlib, 242 Bar Hebraeus, 142, 231–2 Barbad, 365 Bardas Phocas, 242 Barkyaruq, 14, 34n, 54–5, 56

Barqa, 402 Barzuya, 245 Kalila wa Dimna, 365 Basra, 121 Batiniyya, 9, 33n, 276–8, 280 Battle of the Ditch, 116 Battle of the Masts, 122 Baybars, 186 beauty ‘abstract’, 62–5 divine, 65–8 of God’s whole creation, 62 human, 60–2 of morality, 64–5 perceiving, 62–5 Bedouins, 98–101, 108–9, 124, 208–9, 235, 378 Beirut, 238n, 259 Benjamin of Tudela, 39 Bennett, Clinton, 304 Berbers, 122, 129 Biblical Eden, 247 figures, 335n Old Testament, 247, 317, 318 quotation, 391 stories, 114 Bihruz al-Khadim, 50 Bijapur, 293–313 Binder, L., 23, 34n biographical and autobiographical literature, 150–2 autobiographies in Arabic, 196–9 biographical dictionaries, 145–8, 186–94 biographies in Arabic, 194–9 biographies in Persian, 199–200 Biography of the Prophet, 150 al-Biruni, 229, 283 Athar al-baqiya (Vestiges of the Past), 231 Bouyges, M., 15, 30n, 262 Böwering, G., 271n Britain India, 294–309 Islamic history, 376 Mirza Husayn Khan, 76 Nasir al-Din Shah, 78, 82, 85 Brock, S. P., 127

422 | classi ca l is l a m Bukhara, 362 al-Bukhari, 227 Bulghars, 403, 405 Bulliet, R. W. Conversion to Islam in the Medieval Period: An Essay in Quantitative History, 149 The Patricians of Nishapur, 148–9 al-Bundari, 9–10, 169 Sana al-barq al-shami (The Radiance of the Syrian Lightning), 172 Zubdat al-nusra wa nukhbat al-‘usra (The Choicest Part of Help and the Pick of the Age), 171–2 Buri, 47 Burnell, A. C., Hobson-Jobson, 305 Buyids, 1–2, 42, 135, 141, 143–4, 171 Buzurgumid, 280 Byzantine empire al-Antaki (John of Antioch), 185 Christianity and Judaism in, 102, 127 Constantinople, 208–22 Ibn al-Athir, 172 prosopographical sources, 147–8 rise of Islam in, 123–4 Byzantium coins, 110–11 Constantinople, 209–11 Ibn al-Azraq al-Fariqi, 168 journeys by Muslims to, 214–19, 405 poetry, 242–57 rise of Islam in, 103–5, 119–20, 133–4, 140–1 Caesarea, 121 Cahen, Claude, 148, 155, 185 Cairo, 2, 11–12, 111, 166, 196, 213–14, 232–3 Calicut, 293 Carlyle, Thomas, 304, 308 cartography, 399, 409 Catholicism, 299, 302, 307 Central Asia, 119, 138, 140, 265–6, 403 Ceylon, 405 Chaghri Beg, 362 Chalcedonian Christianity, 103 Cheney, Dick, 384

China influence of in art, 329, 331 Talas, battle of, 123 travel to, 405, 410–13, 415 Chinghiz Khan, 363 Christianity Aden, 102 Chalcedonian, 103 Christian sources, 110, 142–3 Constantinople, 209–13, 219 European, 294, 302 Fatimids, 135 India, 304–5, 307–9 monasteries, 406 Monophysite, 102, 103, 127 Nasir al-Din Shah, 81–2 North Africa, 123 rise of Islam, 102–6, 117–23, 127, 129 Rowlandson, 298 travel, 409–10 Zainuddin Makhdum, 294–6 Ziyara (the visitation of shrines), 403 see also Franks Churchill, Buntzie, 383, 384–5 city chronicles, 140 ‘Clash of Civilizations’, 373, 382–3 Clinton, President, 384 Cohen, H. J., 149 coins, 110–11, 112, 153–4, 252n, 408, pl 21.14 College of Fort St George, 297, 302, 311n Companions, 28, 33–4n, 106, 109, 211 Conrad, Lawrence, 232 Constantine, 242, 243 Constantine Porphyrgenitus, De Ceremoniis, 249 Constantinople, 103, 120, 127, 208–22, 249, 405, 409–10; see also Istanbul Constitution of Medina, 115 Copts, 103, 142, 143, 185 Corbin, H., 4 Cordoba, 213–14, 233, 408–12, 415 Corpus inscriptionum arabicarum, 154 Creswell, K. A. C., 366 Cromer, Lord, 305 Crone, Patricia, 27

i ndex | 423 Crusaders, 56–7, 147, 228–9, 285, 293–4, 302, 306–7 Ctesiphon, 104, 121, 209 Cyprus, 122 Daftary, F., 165 Damascus Abu Shama, 191 biographical dictionaries, 145 chroniclers, 140 and Constantinople, 213–14 al-Ghazali, 344 Ibn Abi Usaybi‘a, 191 Ibn al-‘Asakir, 188 Ibn al-Qalanisi, 166 Ibn Kathir, 178 Ibn Rajab, 193 rise of Islam in, 121, 125, 127–9 Sibt b. al-Jawzi, 174 al-Subki, 193 Umayyads, 210 Danishmendids, 135–6 Dar al-Rayhaniyyin, Baghdad, 57 da‘wa, 276–80, 286 Day Marg, 49 de Fouchécour, C., 267 de Miranda, A., 409 de Slane, Baron MacGuckin, 191–2 al-Dhahabi, 40 Dhu Nuwas, 102 Dionysius of Tell-Mahre, 127 Diyar Bakr, 277, 282 Dome of the Rock, Jerusalem, 111, 129, 210, 342, 344, 403, pl 21.8 Dubays b. Sadaqa, 46–7 Dustur al-munajjimin, 283 East Africa, 405 Economist, 393 Edinburgh fragment, 315–40 Egypt ‘Abd al-Latif al-Baghdadi, 198 al-Antaki (John of Antioch), 185 Arab Muslim conquest of, 209 al-‘Ayni, 181 chroniclers, 141 epigraphy, 154

Fatimids, 134, 142 al-Harawi, 407 Hasan-i Sabbah, 276–82, 286 histories, 137 Ibn al-Athir, 172 Ibn al-Dawadari, 178 Ibn al-Furat, 179 Ibn al-Tuwayr, 170 Ibn Battuta, 405 Ibn Khallikan, 192 Ibn Wasil, 176 Ibn Zafir al-Azdi, 170 Imams, 5 Lewis, Bernard, 375, 387 al-Makin Ibn al-‘Amid, 185 al-Maqrizi, 180 Monophysite Christians, 103 al-Musabbihi, 165 al-Nuwayri, 177–8 rise of Islam in, 119–23 al-Safadi, 192 water, 228 Encyclopaedia Iranica, 271n Endress, C., 288n Ephrat, D., 149 epigraphy, 153–4 Ettinghausen, Richard, 59–60 Eutychios, 143 Nazm al-jawhar (String of Jewels), 185 Fakhr al-Mulk, 14, 91, 93, 263, 267, 274n Fani, Kamran, 72n faqih, 21, 55–6, 61, 71 al-Farabi, 71, 243 Farewell Pilgrimage, 117 Faridun, 319, 327 al-Farisi, 345 al-Farmadhi, 341 Fars, 323 Fatima, 113, 134 Fatimids al-Antaki (John of Antioch), 185 caliphate, 2 empire, 134–5 Hasan-i Sabbah, 276, 289n Ibn al-Azraq al-Fariqi, 168

424 | classi ca l is l a m Fatimids (cont.) Ibn al-Dawadari, 178 Ibn al-Tuwayr, 170 Ibn Khallikan, 192 Ibn Muyassar, 175 Ibn Zafir al-Azdi, 170 Lewis, Bernard, 387 al-Maqrizi, 180, 194, 286, 290n al-Mu’ayyad fi’l-Din al-Shirazi, 196 al-Musabbihi, 165 Nizari schism, 54 Nur al-Din, 38 al-Nuwayri, 178 al-Safadi, 192 sources, 141, 142, 152–3 water, 228 Feluccas at Aswan, Egypt, pl 12.1, pl 12.19 Ferguson, Donald, 305 Fertile Crescent, 103, 137 Field, Claud, 271n The Alchemy of Happiness /al-Ghazzali, 260 fiqh, 15, 42, 51, 92 Firdawsi, 316, 327, 333 Foreign Affairs, 383 France, 80–2 Franks biographical dictionaries, 146, 148 biographies, 151 Fatimids, 135 histories, 141 Ibrahim b. Ya‘qub al-Isra’ili al-Tartushi, 407–8 al-Maqrizi, 194 Usama b. Munqidh, 197 Zainuddin Makhdum, 293–4, 299, 306–7 Fürstenspiegel genre, 25–8, 87–96 Gabrieli, F., 192 Gaddafi, Colonel, 384 gardens ‘beneath which rivers flow’, 223–41 carpets, 224, , pl 12.5a, pl 12.5b ‘A garden’, by Mansur Bihbahani, pl 12.22 Gardens of Delight, 224

at Mahyan, Iran, pl 12.4 Taj Mahal, pl 12.23, pl 12.24 ‘Two Gardens’, 195 Geneva, 80 Geniza documents, 232 Germain, Eric, 305 al-Gharnati, 409, 412–14 Ghars al-Ni‘ma, 144, 174 Ghassanids, 103, 208 al-Ghazali Ayyuha al-walad, 266 Batiniyya, 4, 9 Bidaya, 263 Hamaqat-i ahl-i Ibahiyya (The Folly of the Ibahiyya), 352–3 Ihya’ ‘ulum al-din (Revivification of the Sciences of Religion), 23–6, 59–74, 88, 91–2, 260–4, 269–70, 346–7, 349, 355 Jawahir al-Qur’an, 263 Judaeo-Christian figures, 90 Kimiya-yi sa‘adat (The Alchemy of Happiness), 25–6, 59–74, 87–96, 258–74, 347, 349–53, 356–7 Kitab al-Iqtisad fi’l-i‘tiqad, 15–23 Kitab al-maqsad al-asna fi sharh asma’ Allah al-husna, 59–74 Kitab al-mustasfa, 3, 349 Kitab al-Mustazhiri, 2–15, 19–21, 25, 26, 29, 55, 266–7, 278, 288–9n Kitab fada’ih al-Batiniyya wa-fada’il alMustazhiriyya, 90 ‘little Mirror’, 91–4 ‘Mirrors for Princes’, 25–8, 87–96 Mishkat al-anwar, 263 Mi‘yar al-‘ilm, 3 al-Munqidh min al-dalal (The Deliverer from Error), 3, 13, 55, 87, 152, 196–7, 263, 342–9, 354–5 al-Mustazhir, 54–6 Nasihat al-muluk, 26–9, 35n, 91, 93–4, 262–3, 266 neo-Platonist, 69, 70–1 Qistas al-mustaqin, 3 Sufism, 341–58 travel, 401–2 views on beauty, 59–74

i ndex | 425 views on government, 1–36 writings in Persian, 349–53 Ghazan, 184 Ghaznavids, 317 Ghuzz, 362 Gibb, Sir Hamilton, 375 Gibbon, Edward, 211, 304, 308, 381 Gimaret, Daniel, 70 Les noms divins en Islam, 60 Giza, the Great Pyramid, pl 21.13 Goa, 302 Goitein, S. D., 232 Goldziher, I., 2–4, 9, 30n, 35–6n Grabar, O., 248 graffiti, 406–7 Great Mosque, Damascus, 224, 342, pl 12.6 Great Mosque, Kairouan, Tunisia, 226–7, 229 Green, Dominic, 394 Green Prophet, 234–5 Guy, king of Jerusalem, 229 al-Hadath, 213 hadith angels and water, 224–5 Constantinople, 209, 211 al-Ghazali, 25–6, 28, 71, 89–90, 262 as historical source, 109–10 al-Khatib al-Baghdadi, 187 al-Mustarshid, 51 al-Sam‘ani, 188 Shari‘a, 156–7n Sufism, 352 water, 227–8 Hadramawt, 97, 102 Haghia Sophia, 214–15, 217, 219, 220, 222n, 410, pl 21.15 al-Hakim, 134, 185 hajj, 117, 119 al-Hallaj, 353 Hama, Syria, 177, 230 Hamadhan, 48–9 Hamd Allah, Ta’rikh-i guzida (The Choice History), 184 Hamdallah Mustawfi, 365 al-Hamdani, 404–5 Hamdanids, 242, 252n

Hamra’, 126 Hanafites, 366 Hanbalism, 38, 168–9, 174, 193 Harat, 187 al-Harawi, 217, 222n, 406–7 Harba bridge, 44 al-Hariri, Maqamat, pl 21.4, pl 21.5, pl 21.6 Harith b. Jabal, 208–9 Harun al-Rashid, 27, 90, 213 Harun b. Yahya, 214–15, 216, 410 Hasan al-Basri, 345 Hasan-i Sabbah, 4, 266–7, 275–92, 356, 388 Hattin, Battle of, 229 Hawadith al-jami‘a, 41–2 Hebrew, 149, 373–4, 389, 391, 392, 407 Heliopolis, 121 Heraclius, 103, 105, 111 Herbert, George, The Elixir, 258 Hermann, Georgina, 365 Herzfeld, E., 248 Hijaz, 101–3 hijra, 114, 118, 317, 401 Hilal al-Sabi’, 143–4, 166, 174 Himyar, 97, 102, 103 Hinduism, 294 Hira, 104, 121 Hisham, 230 histories in Arabic, 165–82 Christian in Arabic, 185–6 city chronicles, 140 dynastic, 140 in Persian, 182–4 see also Universal History Homes, Henry, The Alchemy of Happiness by Mohammed al-Ghazzali, 260 Horovitz, J., 249, 253n Hud, 314 al-Hudaybiyya, 116 Hudud al-‘alam, 361, 365 al-Hujwiri, 69 Humphreys, R. S., 149 al-Hunayn, 116 Huntington, Samuel P., 383 Husayn, 113, 228 Husayn, King of Jordan, 378, 384

426 | classi ca l is l a m al-Husayni, Akhbar al-dawla al-Saljuqiyya (The Accounts of the Seljuq State), 138, 140, 171 Hushang, 316, 319–22, 320, 328, 329–31, 335n Jawidan Khirad, 319, 331 Hypocrites, 115 Ibahis, 267 Ibn ‘Abd al-Hakam, 122 Ibn Abi Tayyi’, 139, 179, 181 Ibn Abi Usaybi’a, ‘Uyun al-anba’ fi tabaqat al-atibba’ (Choice News about the Generations of Doctors), 191 Ibn al-‘Adim, 244, 251n Bughyat al-talab fi ta’rikh Halab (The Desired Object of Seeking in the History of Aleppo), 189–90 Zubdat al-halab fi ta’rikh Halab (The Cream of the Milk in the History of Aleppo), 175 Ibn al-‘Alqami, 41 Ibn al-Anbari, 47, 50 Ibn ‘Aqil, 54, 57 Ibn al-‘Arabi, 232, 402 Ibn al-‘Asakir, 145 Ta’rikh madinat Dimashq (The History of the City of Damascus), 188–9 Ibn ‘Attash, 280 Ibn al-Athir Abu’l-Fida’, 177 chroniclers, 141 editions, 150 Hasan-i Sabbah, 275–6, 282, 286, 288n Ibn Wasil, 176 Iranian kings, 317, 335n al-Kamil fi’l-ta’rikh (The Complete in History), 144, 172 Marv, 362–3 al-Mustarshid, 51 al-Mustazhir, 57 Ta’rikh al-bahir fi’l-dawlat al-atabakiyya (The Brilliant History about the Atabeg State), 173 Universal History, 140 Ibn al-Azraq al-Fariqi, Ta’rikh Mayyafariqin

wa-Amid (The History of Mayyafariqin and Amid), 168 Ibn Bakhtishu, On the Usefulness of Animals, pl 21.18 Ibn al-Baladi, 37 Ibn Barraq al-Hudhali, 233 Ibn Battuta, 42, 218–19, 222n, 402, 405–6 map showing the travels of, pl 21.12 Ibn al-Bawwab, 42 Ibn Bibi, al-Awamir al-‘Ala’iyya fi’l-umur al‘Ala’iyya (‘Ala’id Commands about ‘Ala’id Matters), 183 Ibn al-Dawadari, Kanz al-durar wa jami‘ al-ghurar (The Treasure of Pearls and the Collection of Shining Objects), 178 Ibn Dihya, 408–9 Ibn Fadlan, 403–4 Ibn al-Faqih, 221n, 361, 365 Ibn al-Furat, 142, 150 Ta’rikh al-duwal wa’l-muluk (The History of States and Kings), 179 Ibn Gabriol, Solomon, The Kingly Crown, 391 Ibn Hamdun, 38 Ibn Hawqal, 216, 230, 361, 363–4, 365 Ibn Hisham, Sira, 109–10 Ibn Hubayra, 37, 38 Ibn al-‘Imad, Shadharat al-dhahab fi akhbar man dhahab (Fragments of Gold in the Accounts of Those who have Passed on), 194 Ibn Ishaq, 115, 226 Sira, 109–10 Ibn Jahir, ‘Amid al-Dawla, 56 Ibn Jahir, Za‘im al-Ru’asa’, 56 Ibn al-Jawzi, 38, 144, 250, 285 Kitab al-Muntazam, 174 Kitab al-Mustanjid, 38 al-Muntazam fi Ta’rikh al-muluk wa’lumam (Systematic Arrangement in the History of Kings and Nations), 168–9 Ibn Kathir, al-Bidaya wa’l-nihaya fi’l-ta’rikh (The Beginning and the End of History), 178 Ibn Khafaja, 236 Ibn Khaldun, 98–9, 120, 143

i ndex | 427 Ibn Khallikan Abu Bakr al-Shashi, 289n biographical dictionaries, 146 editions, 150 Kitab Wafayat al-a‘yan wa anba’ abna’ alzaman (The Book of the Deaths pf the Famous and Information about the Sons of the Time), 191–2 Malikshah, 34n al-Ma’mun, 362 al-Mustanjid, 38 Mustazhiri, 30n al-Mutanabbi, 244 Nasihat al-muluk, 27 prosopographical sources, 147 Sadaqa, 56 al-Sam‘ani, 366 Sayf al-Dawla, 243 Ibn al-Ma’mun, 142 Ibn Muhammad Ibrahim, The Ship of Sulaiman, 238 Ibn al-Munawwar, Asrar al-tawhid fi maqamat al-Shaykh Abu Sa‘id (The Secrets of Oneness in the (Mystical) Stages of the Shaykh Abu Sa‘id), 199–200 Ibn Muqla, 42 Ibn Muyassar, 288n Akhbar Misr (Accounts of Egypt), 175 Ibn al-Najjar, 40, 42 Ibn Nubata, 243 Ibn al-Qalanisi, 50, 140 Dhayl ta’rikh Dimashq (Supplement to the History of Damascus), 166 Ibn Rajab, 38 Kitab al-Dhayl ‘ala tabaqat al-hanabila (The Book of the Appendix to the Generations of Hanbalites), 193 Ibn Rusta, 216 Ibn al-Sa‘i, 40, 42 Ibn Sa‘id al-Maghribi, 236 Ibn Shaddad, 151, 243, 251n al-Nawadir al-sultaniyya wa’l-mahasin alyusufiyya (The Sultanal Rarities and the Josephal Virtues), 194–5 Ibn Sina, 71, 74n Ibn al-Tiqtaqa, 40, 49 Ibn al-Tuwayr, Nuzhat al-muqlatayn fi

akhbar al-dawlatayn (The Entertainment of the Eyes in the Accounts of the Two Dynasties), 170 Ibn Wasil, 40–1, 140 Mufarrij al-kurub fi akhbar Bani Ayyub (The Dispeller of Anxieties about the Accounts of the Ayyubid Family), 176 Ta’rikh al-Salihi, 185 Ibn Zafir al-Azdi, Kitab al-Duwal almunqati‘a (The Book of Discontinued Dynasties), 170 Ibrahim b. Ya‘qub al-Isra’ili al-Tartushi, 407–8, 411–12 al-Idrisi, 409 map of the world, pl 21.19 ijma‘ (consensus), 5–6, 16, 156–7n Il-Ghazi, 47 Ilkhanids, 316, 317, 337n ‘Imad al-Din al-Isfahani, 38, 137, 151, 172, 194 al-Barq al-shami (The Syrian Lightning), 151, 198 Kitab al-Fath al-qussi fi’l-fath al-qussi (The Book of Eloquent Rhetoric in the Conquest of Jerusalem), 169 Nusrat al-fatra (Help for Lassitude), 169 Imams, 4–10, 12, 15–23, 33n, 155n Imperial Ottoman Archives, 376–7, 386–7 ‘Imru’l-Qays, 208 Mu’allaqat, 235 India, 119, 153, 293–313, 355, 405, 410–13, 415 Indian Civil Service, 302, 304 Indian Colonial Service (ICS), 296, 302 Indian Mutiny 1857, 304 Indonesia, 355 Institute of Oriental Studies, St Petersburg Branch, 259 Iqbal al-Sharabi, 41 Iran Assassins, 141, 388 al-Bundari, 171 Buyids, 135 coins, 111 Hasan-i Sabbah, 281–2 Kimiya-yi sa‘adat (The Alchemy of Happiness), 259

428 | classi ca l is l a m Iran (cont.) kings, 314–40 languages, 137, 138 Mirza Muhammad Salih, 78 Nasir al-Din Shah, 75–6 New Persian, 265–6 prosopographical sources, 148–9 Rashid al-Din, 184 Rawandi, 183 sources, 153 Tahmurath, 361 water, 229–30 Iraq ‘Abd al-Latif al-Baghdadi, 198 Buyids, 135 chroniclers, 141 coins, 111 Ibn al-Athir, 172 al-Khatib al-Baghdadi, 187 al-Mustansir, 41 al-Mustarshid, 46–7, 49, 51 rise of Islam in, 119–23 Sasanian Persia, 104–5 Seljuqs exclusion from, 38 Irbil, 41 al-Irbili, 27, 28 Ireland, 408 Irene, Empress, 213 irrigation, 98, 229–30, 363–4 Isaacs, H. D., 27, 35n Isfahan, 230, 277, 280 Iskandarnama (Book of Alexander), 234–5 ‘Isma Khatun, 57 Isma‘ilis Alamut, Iran, 289n alchemy, 267 Fatimids, 134–5 al-Ghazali, 2–15, 92, 343 Goldziher, I., 30n Hasan-i Sabbah, 276–7, 281–2, 288n histories, 141 Lewis, Bernard, 375, 387–8 missionaries, 2 al-Mu’ayyad fi’l-Din al-Shirazi, 196 al-Musabbihi, 165 al-Mustazhir, 55–6 Israel, 384, 394

Issawi, Charles, 381 Istakar, 324 al-Istakhri, 365, 365–6 Istanbul, 376–7, 386–7; see also Constantinople Italy, 81, 84 ‘Izz al-Din, 37 Izzeddin, M., 222n Jabre, F., 14 Jackson, Henry, 382 Jacob of Edessa, 127 Jacobites, 142 Jalal al-Din Hasan b. ‘Ali b. Sadaqa, 51 Jalal al-Din Khwarazmshah, 41, 44 Jalal al-Din Rumi, 94 Jamal al-Din El-Shayyal, Majmu‘at alwatha’iq al-fatimiyya (Anthology of Fatimid Documents), 153 Jami’ al-Qasr, Baghdad, 44 Jamil, 236 Jamshid, 316, 319, 322, 322–4, 329, 331–2, 335n, 337n Japan, 378 al-Jazari, Book of Ingenious Devices, pl 12.13 Jazira, 41, 104, 168, 242, 277, 282 al-Jaziri, 43, 217–18 Jerusalem, 121, 134, 169, 342, 344, 349, 402, 403 Jesus al-Ghazali, 262 Kimiya-yi sa‘adat (The Alchemy of Happiness), 90 Nasihat al-muluk, 27 Nasir al-Din Shah in France, 82 rise of Islam, 118 Rowlandson, 298, 300–1, 308 water, 225 Jews see Judaism Jibal, 277 jihad, 115–16, 151, 212, 243, 293–313 John I of Ibelin, 238n John of Antioch, 143 Ta’rikh al-Antaki (The History of alAntaki), 185 John of Ephesus, 209 Johns, J., 136

i ndex | 429 Jonah, 231, 401, pl 12.18 Jones, Sir William, 298, 301 Jordan, 378 Joshua, 314 Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, 296 Judaism Constantinople, 218 Fatimids, 135 Jerusalem, 129, 210 Lewis, Bernard, 373–5, 387, 389, 394 Muhammad, Prophet, 114–16 al-Mustanjid, 39 Rashid al-Din, 184 rise of Islam, 102–6, 117–18, 123 Rothschild, 81 sources, 110 translations, 403, 407 water, 232 Justinian, 208 Justinus, 209 Jutland, 408–9 al-Juwayni, 12, 30n, 56, 275, 280, 286, 287–8n, 288n, 289n, 341–2, 362–3 Ka‘b b. Zuhayr, 236 Ka‘ba, Mecca, 118–19, 228, pl 21.7 Kahina, Queen, 122 Karbala shrine, Iraq, 76, 228 al-Kawthar, 224–5 Kaykhusraw I, 183 Kayumars, 315–16, 318, 319–22, 335n Kepel, Gilles, 393–4 Kerala, 294, 309 Khadija, 113–14 Khadivjam, Husayn, 259, 270n Khalid b. al-Walid, 120, 121 al-Khatib al-Baghdadi, 145 Ta’rikh Baghdad (The History of Baghdad), 187 Khaybar, 116 Khazraj, 114 al-Khidr, 234–5 Khismatulin, Alexei, 259, 260, 272n Khurasan Arabs, 123 al-Ghazali, 2, 72n, 88, 90–4, 265–6, 268, 353

Hasan-i Sabbah, 277, 281 Marv, 359–72 al-Sam‘ani, 188 Seljuqs, 46 Yazdagird III, 121 Khusraw I Anushirwan, 104 Khusraw II Parviz, 105 khutba, 34n, 38, 48, 49, 55 Khuzistan, 38 Khwaju Bridge, Isfahan, Iran, pl 12.17 al-Khwarazmi, 283 kifaya, 7–8, 10, 18 al-Kirmani, 283 al-Kisa’i, 225, 227 Qisas al-anbiya’ (Tales of the Prophets), 223–4 Kishashab, 319 Kitab al-ghuraba’ (The Book of Strangers), 406 al-Kiya al-Harrasi, 55–6 Knysh, A., 354–5 Kökbüri, Muzaffar al-Din, 41 Kollek, Ted, 384 Kufa, 121, 125, 126 Kurup, K. K. N., 306 Kusayla, 122 languages Arabic, 93, 104, 124, 129, 294, 297, 391, 392, 414–15 Aramaic, 104 French, 83 Hebrew, 149, 373–4, 389, 391, 392, 407 Lewis, Bernard, 373–5, 386, 391–2 Persian, 93, 137, 153, 258–74, 315, 349–53, 356, 392 Turkish, 153, 319, 392 Laoust, H., 4, 9, 23, 31n Law, Edward, Lord Ellenborough, 301 Le Strange, G., 359 ‘legal schools’, 5, 145, 156–7n, 157n, 187, 193, 194, 277 Leo, 242 Lewis, Bernard, 373–98 The Arabs in History, 380, 388 Assassins, 276 The Assassins: A Radical Sect in Islam, 380, 388

430 | classi ca l is l a m Lewis, Bernard (cont.) From Babel to Dragomans, 373–4 British Contributions to Arabic Studies, 376 Constantinople, 211 The Crisis of Islam: Holy War and Unholy Terror, 384 The Emergence of Modern Turkey, 387 A Handbook of Diplomatic and Political Arabic, 391 History Remembered, Recovered, Invented, 380 Islam and the West, 382 Islam from the Prophet Muhammad to the Capture of Constantinople, 392 Islam in History: Ideas, Men and Events in the Middle East, 388–9 Islam: The Religion and the People, 383 The Jews of Islam, 389 Music of a Distant Drum: Classical Arabic, Turkish, and Hebrew Poems, 392 The Muslim Discovery of Europe, 77, 389 Notes and Documents from the Turkish Archives, 386–7 Notes on a Century, 383 Notes on a Country: Reflections of a Middle East Historian, 373–98, 375 The Origins of Ismailism: A Study of the Historical Background of the Fatimid Caliphate, 376, 387 ‘The Question of Orientalism’, 382 Race and Slavery in the Middle East: An Historical Enquiry, 389–90 ‘The Roots of Muslim Rage’, 382–3 Turkey Today, 376, 386 Vikings in Spain, 409 What Went Wrong? Western Impact and Middle Eastern Response, 384, 390–1 Libya, 122, 384 Lings, Martin, 237 Liverpool, 82 Lockman, Zachary, 381 Lopes, David, 305, 312–13n Luhrasp, 337n Ma‘arif, 72n Macdonald, D. B., 14, 73n madhhabs, 5, 156–7n, 157n, 187, 193, 277

Madras, 296, 297, 301–2, 308, 311n Maffeius, Joannes Petrus, 300 Mahmud, 46–7 Maimonides, 389 al-Makin Ibn al-‘Amid, 143 Akhbar al-Ayyubiyyin (Accounts of the Ayyubids), 186 al-Majmu‘ al-mubarak (The Blessed Collection), 143, 185 al-Makki, 345–6, 355 Qut al-qulub (The Food of Heaven), 262, 346 Malabar, 293–313, 312–13n Malaysia, 355 Maldives, 405 al-Malik al-Kamil, 41 al-Malik al-Nasir Dawud, 41 Malikshah death of, 11, 22, 54, 92, 266 al-Ghazali, 2, 14 Hasan-i Sabbah, 277–8, 289n Marv, 362, 366 al-Muqtadi, 55 Mamluks biographical dictionaries, 145 editions, 154 historians, 142 Ibn al-Dawadari, 178 Ibn al-Tuwayr, 170 Ibn Wasil, 176 al-Makin Ibn al-‘Amid, 186 al-Maqrizi, 180, 286 prosopographical sources, 149 proverb, 246 al-Safadi, 192 al-Ma’mun, 279–80, 361–2, 366, 368 al-Mansur, 27, 366 Mansur b. Sarjun, 127 Mansur Bihbahani, ‘A garden’, pl 12.22 Mantzikert, battle of, 174, 250 Manuchihr, 319 al-Maqrizi, 142, 288n, 290n Itti‘az al-hunafa’ bi-akhbar al-a’imma alfatimiyyin al-khulafa’ (Warning of the Pious about the News of the Fatimid Imam Caliphs), 180, 276, 280, 286, 288n, 289n

i ndex | 431 Kitab al-Muqaffa’ al-kabir, 275–87 Kitab al-Suluk li-ma‘rifat duwal al-muluk (The Book of Access to the Knowledge of the Dynasties of Kings), 180 Kitab al-Ta’rikh al-kabir al-muqaffa li-misr (The Great History Limited to Egypt), 193–4 Maragha, 49, 50 Marbin, 321, 336n Marib dam, 98, 124 Marin, Manuela, 133, 148 Marv, 104, 188, 359–72, 418n ‘marvel’ literature, 216, 233, 410–14 Marwan b. Abi Hafsa, 213 Maslama, 211 Massignon, Louis, 375 Mas‘ud, 46–50 al-Mas‘udi, 108, 215, 410 Mawdud, 57 Maximos the Confessor, 121 Mayyafariqin, 168 Mazyadids, 38, 46, 56 Mecca, 101–3, 113–14, 116–17, 342, 344 Meccans, 115–16, 118, 127 Medieval Prosopography, 148 Medina Bedouins, 98, 100 al-Ghazali, 88, 342, 344 Qur’an, 103 rise of Islam in, 113–25 ’Uthman, 128 Meisami, J. S., 259 Melkites, 142, 143, 185 Melville, Charles, 315–16, 327 Milan cathedral, 84 Minorsky, V., 242 Studies in Caucasian History, 144 Minuchihr, 337n Mirkhwand, 250 ‘Mirrors for Princes’, 87–96, 153, 173, 183, 259, 261, 263, 267 Mirza Husayn Khan Mushir al-Dawla, 76 Mirza Malkam Khan, 85 Mirza Muhammad Salih, 78 Mirza Taqi Khan-i Amir Kabir, 75

Miskawayh, 73n Tajarib al-umam (The Experiences of Nations), 143, 165 missionaries Christianity, 103, 305 Fatimids, 134, 152 Hasan-i Sabbah, 277–8, 282–4, 356 Isma‘ilis, 2, 196, 378 Judaism, 103 Muir brothers, 312n Rowlandson, 294, 298, 308–9 travel, 403–4 Mongols in art, 331, 333 Juwayni, 275 Marv, 362–3, 365 Mu’ayyad al-Din al ‘Alqami, 40 al-Mustansir, 41, 44 Rashid al-Din, 184 Shahnama, 316 monkeys, 413–14 Monophysite Christians, 102, 103, 127 Montesquieu, Lettres Persanes, 77 Morocco, 123, 405 Morray, D., 149 Moses, 226, 234–5, 314, 317, 327, pl 12.7 Mosul, 48 Mu‘awiya, 122, 128–9 Mu’ayyad al-Din al ‘Alqami, 40 al-Mu’ayyad fi’l-Din al-Shirazi, Sirat alMu’ayyad fi’l-Din da‘i al-du‘at (The Biography of al-Mu’ayyad fi’l-Din the Chief Missionary), 152, 196 al-Mu‘azzam ‘Isa, 171 al-Mughira b. Sa‘d, 108–9 al-Muhaini, Mamdouh, 394 Muhammad, Prophet, 97–132, 305, 308, 317, 318, 401–2, 414 Muhammad b. Malikshah, 27, 34n, 46, 56–7, 279, 289n Muhammad Tapar, 54–6 al-Muhasibi, 345–6, 355 Kitab al-nasa’ih, 346 Muir, Sir William, 298, 302, 304, 308, 312n The Caliphate. Its Rise, Decline and Fall from original sources, 304

432 | classi ca l is l a m Muir, Sir William (cont.) Life of Mahomet, 304 The Mohammadan Controversy, 311n al-Muqaddasi, 364–5 al-Muqradi, 55 al-Muqtadi, 11, 54, 92 al-Muqtafi, 37, 38, 44, 51 al-Musabbihi, 142 Akhbar Misr (Accounnts of Egypt), 165 al-Musta‘li, 278 al-Mustanjid, 37–9 al-Mustansir, 40–5, 135, 196, 276–8, 280–1, 286, 287–8n, pl 12.20 al-Mustarshid, 46–53, 57 al-Musta‘sim, 40, 41 Mustansiriyya madrasa, Baghdad, 41–4 al-Mustazhir, 2–7, 11–15, 22, 30n, 34n, 46, 54–8, 289n Muta episode, 119 al-Mutanabbi, 213, 235, 242–57 Sayfiyyat, 244–57 Muthanna b. al-Harith, 121 al-Nadir, 114, 116 Nainar, Muhammad Husayn, 293, 305–7, 309 Najaf shrine, Iraq, 76 najda, 7–10, 31n Najran, 102 al-Nami, 243 al-Nasir, 41, 43–4, 51 Nasir al-Bukhara’i, 231 Nasir al-Din b. Muhammad b. al-Naqid, 40 Nasir al-Din Dawud, 43 Nasir al-Din Jaqar, 48 Nasir al-Din Shah, The Diary of HM the Shah of Persia during His Tour through Europe in ad 1873, 75–86 Nauruz, 324 al-Nawawi, 226 Nedim, 236–7 Negus, 102, 114, 119 Nejati, 236 Nestorianism, 104 Netanyahu, Benjamin, 394 New Persian, 137, 156n, 265–6 Nicephorus, 242

Nicholson, R. A., 253–4n Nihawand, 121 Nile at Aswan, Egypt, pl 12.2 Nilometer, Cairo, Egypt, 229, pl 12.12 9/11, 384, 390–1 Nishapur, 93, 267, 278, 341–5, 362 Nishapuri, 183 Saljuqnama (The Book of the Seljuqs), 182 Nizam al-Mulk death of, 11, 54, 92, 266 al-Ghazali, 2, 3–4, 12, 14, 342 Hasan-i Sabbah, 277, 287 Marv, 366 Siyasat-nama, 3, 94 Nizami ‘Arudi, Cahar maqala, 49 Nizamiyyas Abu Bakr al-Shashi, 30n, 289n al-Ghazali, 2, 87–8, 93, 267, 278, 342 Marv, 366 Nizar b. al-Mustansir, 278–9, 280, 281, 285, 286, 288n Nizari schism, 54 Nizaris, 275–92 Noah, 225–6, 238 nomads, 98–101, 102, 105, 135, 403 North Africa, 119, 122, 123, 134, 138, 209, 365, 402, 414 Nu’man, 105 numerology, 283–5, 288n Nur al-Din, 38, 43, 135, 151, 169, 195, 198 Nuwadr, 319 al-Nuwayri, Nihayat al-arab fi funun al-adab (The Attaining of the Goal in the Arts of Culture), 150, 177–8 One Thousand and One Nights (Alf layla walayla), 214, 233–4, 401, 412–14 oral tradition, 97, 107–8, 122 Orientalism Dome of the Rock, Jerusalem, 111 editions and translations, 150 Lewis, Bernard, 373, 381–2, 393–4 Minorsky, 242 Muhammad, Prophet, 109–10 Rowlandson, 297–8, 300, 307–8 ‘Other’, 208, 298, 411, 415

i ndex | 433 Otto I, Holy Roman Emperor, 407–8, 412 Ottoman empire, 76, 236–7, 376–7, 386–7, 389 Imperial Ottoman Archives, 376–7, 386–7 Oxford movement, 302 Özal, Turgut, 384

Prosopography of the Byzantine World (PBW), 133–207 Protestants, 302, 307 Psalter of Basil II, 248 Psellos, Michael, 147 Pseudo-al-Ghazali, 259 Pusey, Edward, 302

painters, 327–33, 337n Pakistan, 104, 378 Palestine Franks, 141 Ibn al-Qalanisi, 166 Lewis, Bernard, 375, 384, 387 rise of Islam in, 119, 121, 209 Seljuqs, 135 Zayd, 117 Ziyara (the visitation of shrines), 403 Perizad, 379 Persepolis, 324, 378 Persia, 41, 46, 48–9, 105, 129 Persian language, 93, 137, 153, 258–74, 315, 349–53, 356, 392 Petry, C. F., 149 pilgrimage, 118–19, 228, 344, 402–3, 405 hajj, 117, 119 Maqamat of al-Hariri, Iraq, pl 21.6 Pishdadian kings, 315, 318–19, 326, 327, 333, 335n, 361 Plato, Symposium, 71, 74n Plotinus, 70–1 poetry Bedouins, 208 Byzantine empire, 212–13 Lewis, Bernard, 392 al-Mustanjid, 38–9 al-Mustarshid, 51 Sayf al-Dawla, 243, 244–57 water, 235–7 Poitiers, battle of, 120, 211 Pompeo, Mike, 384 Pope John Paul II, 384 Portuguese, 293–313 Pouzet, L., 149 Powell, Avril, 297–8, 304, 312n Princeton, 379–83 prosopographical sources, 144–50

Qadi al-Fadil, 195 Qadi Baidawi, Nizam al-tawarikh, 327, 335n al-Qadir, 49–50 Qadisiyya, battle of, 108–9, 121, 126 al-Qahir b. Nur al-Din Arslan, 173 al-Qa’id Abu ‘Abdallah Muhammad b. Fatik, 279–80 al-Qa’im, 49–50 Qalat Bani Hammad, Algeria, 230 Qataban, 97 Qaynuqa, 114, 116 Qayrawan, 122–3 Qayrawan, Tunisia, Aghlabid basins, 230, pl 12.14a, pl 12.14b Qazvin, 277, 282 al-Qazwini, The Wonders of Creation, pl 21.17 qiyas (analogy), 156–7n al-Qummi, Muhammad, 40 al-Qushayri, 345 Quatremère, É. M., 275 Qur’an beauty, 68, 70–1 biographical and autobiographical literature, 151 Byzantium, 209 coins, 154 gardens, 246 Germain, Eric, 305 al-Ghazali, 26, 28, 89, 261–2 Ibn Shaddad, 194 madhhabs, 156–7n monkeys, 414 al-Mustarshid, 51 rise of Islam, 103, 109, 111, 114–19, 124, 129 Rowlandson, 300–2 Sabians, 156n

434 | classi ca l is l a m Qur’an (cont.) slavery, 390 Sufism, 352 travel, 401–2, 406–7 ‘Uthman, 128 water, 223–7, 232–5, 237 Quraysh tribe, 18, 113, 128, 228 Qurayza, 114, 116 Qusayr ‘Amra, 249 Qutb al-Din Qaymuz, 37 Qutb Minar, Delhi, pl 21.16 Rabin, Yitzhak, 384 Rajab, 38 Rashid al-Din, 50, 184, 250, 275, 280, 286 Jami‘ al-tawarikh (The Compendium of Histories), 184, 320, 322, 325, pl 12.7, pl 12.8, pl 12.10, pl 12.18, pl 12.20 World History, 314–40 Rashid al-Din Sinan, 388 Raushan, M., 335n Rawandi, Rahat al-sudur wa-ayat al-surur dar ta’rikh-i al-i Saljuq (The Ease for Breasts and the Marvel of Joy in the History of the Seljuq Family), 183 Rayy, 276, 280, 281 Recueil des historiens des croisades (RHC), 155, 181 historiens orientaux, 200 Redhouse, Sir James, 78–9 Répertoire chronologique d’épigraphie arabe, 154 Reuter, 75, 84 Reynald of Châtillon, 146, 229 Reynolds, D. F., 152 ‘Rightly Guided’ caliphs, 125, 127–8, 134 Rihla (travel diary), 402 Risala (letter), 403–4 Ritter, Helmuth, 260, 271n Romanus IV Diogenes, 250 Rosenthal, F., 10–11, 35n Rothschild, 81 Rowlandson, Michael John, 293–313, 311n, 312n An Analysis of Arabic Quotations which Occur in the Gulistan of Muslih-udDeen Sheikh Sadi, 297

A Basket of Fragments and Crumbs for the Children of God, 298 Specimens of ‘Much Fine Gold’ or The Unsearchable Riches of Divine Grace, 298, 302, 311n Royal Asiatic Society, 375 Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, 296 Rum, 242, 243, 251n, 277, 282; see also Anatolia Rumi, 237 Russia, 84, 403 Rustam, 108–9, 316–17 Sabians, 143–4, 156n Sadaqa, 56 Saddam Husayn, 389 Sadr-i A’zam, 83 Safad, 192 al-Safadi, Kitab al-Wafi’ bi’l-wafayat (The Supplement to the Necrologies), 150, 192–3 Safavids, 230 Sagan, Carl, 107 Said, Edward, 381–2 Orientalism, 77, 381–2 Sa‘id b. Ahmad, 408 Sa‘id b. Batriq, Nazm al-jawhar (String of Jewels), 143, 185 Saladin Abu Shama, 195 biographies, 151 Fatimids, 135 Ibn Abi Tayyi’, 139 Ibn al-Athir, 173 Ibn al-Tuwayr, 170 Ibn Shaddad, 194–5 ‘Imad al-Din al-Isfahani, 169, 198 water, 228–9 Salih, Mirza Muhammad, 314 al-Sam‘ani, 366 al-Ansab (Genealogies), 188 Samanids, 362 Sana‘a, Yemen, 413–14 Sanjar Baghdad, 34n al-Ghazali, 27, 93–4, 267, 342 Marv, 362, 366–7, 367

i ndex | 435 al-Mustarshid, 46–9 al-Mustazhir, 55–6 Sasanian empire Byzantium, 209 coins, 110–11 al-Ghazali, 25, 27–8 Marv, 361, 365 Rashid al-Din, 323–4 rise of Islam in, 102–5, 109, 119–27 Sayf al-Dawla, 248 Sayf al-Dawla, 213, 242–57 Scandinavia, 408 Schacht, Joseph, 394 Schimmel, A., 260, 288n Schroeder, Eric, 337n sciences alchemy, 264–5, 267, 349–50 astronomical, 230, 399 beauty, 71 cartography, 399, 409 Hasan-i Sabbah, 283 Sayf al-Dawla, 243 Seljuqs, 135–6, 360 in art, 329, 337n Baghdad, 2 al-Bundari, 171 exclusion from Iraq, 38 al-Ghazali, 3–4, 14–15, 21–2, 29, 55, 87–96, 266 Hasan-i Sabbah, 280, 287 al-Husayni, 171 ‘Imad al-Din al-Isfahani, 169, 198 Laoust, H., 31n Marv, 359–62, 365–7 al-Mustarshid, 46, 48–51 al-Mustazhir, 54–5 New Persian, 137 Nishapuri, 182 Rawandi, 183 Romanus IV Diogenes, 250 Seljuqs of Rum, 136, 183 Serjeant, R. B., 312n ‘Seveners’, 155n Sha’ban, 277 Shaddadids, 144 al-Shafi‘i, 64 Shafi‘i madhhab, 12, 51, 187, 193

Shafi‘ites, 2, 30n, 188, 193, 366 Shahnama, 314–15, 316–17, 327, 333 al-Shahrastani, Kitab al-milal wa’l-nihal, 282 Shari‘a ‘Abbasid caliphate, 11–12, 109 al-Ghazali, 7, 25, 29, 346 Ibahis, 267 Imams, 20, 22 Isma‘ilis, 5 madhhabs, 156–7n Sufism, 352–6 water, 228–30 shawka (military strength), 6, 7, 8–9, 18, 22, 23–4 Shibam, Hadramawt, Yemen, pl 21.11 Shihab al-Din ‘Umar al-Suhrawardi, 43 Shi‘ites biographical dictionaries, 145 dynasties, 242 Fatimids, 134 al-Ghazali, 343 Hamd Allah, al-Mustaqfi al-Qazwini, 184 Hasan-i Sabbah, 282–3, 356 Ibn Abi Tayyi’, 179 Ibn Battuta, 406 law, 341 al-Mustansir, 40, 43 ‘Seveners’, 155n sources, 125, 141 ‘ulama’, 76 Umayyads, 128 water, 228 Shirkuh, 38, 176 Shirvan, Anthology, 231 Shumla, 38 Sibt b. al-Jawzi, 41, 43, 141, 144, 150, 250 Mi’rat al-zaman fi ta’rikh al-a’yan (The Mirror of the Time in the History of Famous Men), 174 Mi’rat al-zaman (The Mirror of the Time), 144 Sicily, 134, 136 Siddiq, 64–5 al-Sijistani, 283 Sinbad the Sailor, 233–4, 406, 412 Sind, India, 123

436 | classi ca l is l a m sira (biographical work devoted to one individual), 145 Six Kings at Qusayr ‘Amra, 248 Siyah Qalam, school of, pl 21.10 SOAS, 375, 376–8, 379 Solomon, 317 Sophronius, 121 sources ancillary, 152–4 in Arabic, 133–207 biographical and autobiographical literature, 150–2 biographical dictionaries, 145–8, 186–94 biographies in Arabic, 194–9 biographies in Persian, 199–200 Christian, 110 Christian Arabic, 142–3 documents, 152–3 Fatimid, 142 Jewish, 110 medieval Arabic and Persian narrative, 138–44 problem of, 106–13, 140–1 prosopographical, 145–8 sira (biographical work devoted to one individual), 145 tabaqat (generation) books, 145 tarjama (translation), 145 see also histories Spain Alhambra Palace, Granada, pl 12.16 Constantinople, 216 Judaism, 389 Marv, 365 Muslim historians, 138 Muslims, 210, 400, 402 prosopographical sources, 148 rise of Islam in, 119, 123 travel, 400, 407–9, 414 water, 230, 236 Spectator USA, 394 Sri Lanka, 410–11 St Catherine, monastery of, Sinai, 152 Straits of Gibraltar, 122 al-Subki, 345 Tabaqat al-shafi‘iyya (The Generations of Shafi‘ites), 193

Sufism beauty, 69–70 biographical dictionaries, 146 biographies, 150 al-Ghazali, 25–6, 28, 71, 72n, 88–9, 92, 196–7, 262–8, 272n Lings, Martin, 237 al-Mustanjid, 38 al-Nasir, 44 Sulayman b. ‘Abd al-Malik, 211 Suleymaniye Complex, Istanbul, Turkey, ablutions fountain, pl 12.9 Sunni Islam Abu Bakr, 125 Assassins, 388 biographies, 151 chroniclers, 141 dynasties, 242 Fatimids, 135, 142 al-Ghazali, 4–5, 11–14, 93, 266, 346, 354 madhhabs, 42–4, 145–6, 156–7n al-Maqrizi, 180, 284, 286 al-Musabbihi, 165 Nizaris, 281–2 ‘Rightly Guided’ caliphs, 134 Seljuqs, 2 al-Suyuti, 40, 50, 224–5 Syria Abu Shama, 191 al-Bundari, 171 Christianity, 102–4 chroniclers, 141 Crusaders, 56–7 Fatimids, 134 al-Ghazali, 349 Hamdanids, 242 Hasan-i Sabbah, 277, 282, 388 Ibn Abi Usaybi‘a, 191 Ibn al-‘Asakir, 188 Ibn al-Athir, 168, 172 Ibn al-Qalanisi, 166 Ibn Wasil, 176 ‘Imad al-Din al-Isfahani, 169, 198 Lewis, Bernard, 375 Muhammad, Prophet, 117 rise of Islam in, 119–23, 209

i ndex | 437 Seljuqs, 135 sources, 127, 137, 142, 144 al-Subki, 193 Umayyads, 128, 210 Usama b. Munqidh, 197 water, 230 tabaqat (generation) books, 145 al-Tabari, 126, 224, 317, 335n History, 316 Tabaristan, 231 Tabriz, 314 Tabuk, 117, 119 Tahir, Mukhtarat min al-rasa’il (Selections from the Epistles), 153 Tahirids, 362 Tahmurath, 314, 316, 319–21, 320, 327, 329–30, 335n, 337n, 361 Takht-i Sulayman, 316 Talas, battle of, 123 Ta‘limiyya, 3, 4–5 Tamim tribe, 126 Taq-i Bustan, 324 tarjama (translation), 145 Taylor, Jeremy, 301 Tehran Gazette, 76 Temürtash, 168 al-Tha‘alibi, 243, 368 Thailand, 238 The Infancy Gospel of Thomas, 300 Theophanes, 113, 115, 121 Thomas, David, 306 Tibet, 365 Tibetan sannaja from The Wonders of Creation by al-Qazwini, pl 21.17 al-Tibrizi, 227–8 Tiflis, 168 Tohfut-ul-Mujahideen, 295, 303 Tolui, Ulugh-Noyan, 363 Transcaucasia, 144 translations, 154–5 books about, 391–2 English, 260 German, 260 Hindustani, 260 Ottoman Turkish, 260, 271n Rowlandson, 311n, 312n

Russian, 260, 272n Tohfut-ul-Mujahideen, 305–7 Transoxiana, 277, 282 travel, 399–416, pl 21.5 Trevor-Roper, Hugh, 393 Tughril, 47–8, 48 Tughril III, 317 Turkey, 375, 376–7, 381, 386–7, 405, 406 Turks in art, 329 folk tradition, 214 al-Ghazali, 7–10, 12–13, 15, 87–96, 268, 353 Ibn al-Athir, 172 Khusraw I Anushirwan, 104 Laoust, H., 31n al-Safadi, 192 Tus, Iran, 265–6, 341, 342, 345 Tutush, 14, 54 Twelver Shi‘ism, 135 Udovitch, Avrom, 379, 380 Uhud, battle of, 116 ‘ulama’ ‘Abbasid caliphate, 12–13 Binder, 34n biographical dictionaries, 146 Bulliet, R. W., 149 al-Ghazali, 25–6, 89 Imams, 18, 22–3 Mustansiriyya madrasa, Baghdad, 42 al-Mustarshid, 49 al-Mustazhir, 7 Nasir al-Din Shah, 76, 82 Nizamiyyas, 2 Ülken, H. Z., 260 ‘Umar, Dr Faruq, 377–8 ‘Umar b. al-Nu’man, 214 ‘Umar I, 25, 27, 90, 120–1, 125–8, 262, 326–7 ‘Umar II, 25, 27, 90 ‘Umar Khayyam, 283 Rubaiyat, 392 Umayyad Mosque of Damascus, 129, 246 Umayyads, 112–13, 122, 125, 127–9, 210–11, 224, 230, 361 umma, 114–17, 119–20, 125–6, 138

438 | classi ca l is l a m Universal History, 140, 179, 184, 185 Usama b. Munqidh, 48–9, 285, 408 Kitab al-I‘tibar (The Book of Instruction by Example), 152, 197–8 ‘Uthman, 121–2, 125, 127–8, 210 ‘Uthman b. Nizam al-Mulk, 51 van Berchem, Max, 111 Van Ess, J., 13 Vasco da Gama, 293, 299, 399 Versailles, France, 83–4 Victoria, Queen, 76, 82, 83 Leaves from the Journal of Our Life in the Highlands, 76 Vikings, 408–9 Vilayatullah, Ahamad Ilyaas, 293, 305–7, 309 von Jenisch, Bernard, De fatis linguarum orientalium, 301 al-Walid II, 230 Walker, P., 276, 290n Walzer, R., 71 wara‘, 7, 10, 18 water basins, 230, pl 12.14a, pl 12.14b cisterns, pl 12.11 floods, 231–2, 238 fountains, pl 12.9, pl 12.21a, pl 12.21b as God’s punishment, 225 imagination and symbolism, 232–7 in Islamic ritual, 226–7 in Muslim geographical and scientific writings, 229–32 proper governance of, 227–9 rain, 227–8, 235 significance in classical Islamic culture, 223–41 ‘Water of Life’, 234–5, 237 ‘waterclock’, from al-Jazari’s Book of Ingenious Devices, pl 12.13 waterwheels, pl 12.3, pl 12.15, 230 wells, 226–7 Watt, W. M., 35–6n, 72n Welin, U. S. Winder, 248, 252n Wensinck, A. J., 70–1 West Africa, 405

Wickens, G. M., 35n William of Oldenburg, 238n women biographical dictionaries, 146 Ibn Battuta, 406 Ibn Fadlan, 404 Lewis, Bernard, 383 ‘marvel’ literature, 411–12 Nasir al-Din Shah, 82–4 role and education of, 149 school of Siyah Qalam, pl 21.10 World Affairs Council of Philadelphia, 385 Wright, Sir Denis, The Persians Among the English, 78, 82 Yahya al-Antaki, Dhayl (Appendix), 143 Yahya b. Hakam, 408–9 al-Ya‘qubi, 108 Yaqut, 365, 366–7 Yaqut al-Rumi al-Hamawi, Mu‘jam al-udaba’ (The Dictionary of Men of Letters), 189 Yarmuk, battle of, 121 Yathrib, 114 Yazd, 153 Yazdagird III, 25, 105, 111, 121, 361 Yazid, 211 Yellow Tribe (Banu’l-Asfar), 212–13, 221n Yemen, 111, 326, 404–5 Yufrus, Yemen, pl 12.11 Yule, Henry, Hobson-Jobson, 305 Yurun-Qush, accent, 47 Yusuf As’ar (Dhu Nuwas), 102 Zahhak, 315–16, 319, 324–7, 325, 329, 331–3, 335n, 337n al-Zahir, 40 Zainuddin Makhdum, Tuhfat al-mujahidin fi ba‘d ahwal al-Burugaliyyin, 293–313 Zakkar, Dr Suhayl, 377–8 Zamzam, Mecca, 226–7, pl 12.10 Zamzamiyyat, 227 Zayd, H., 117 Zengi, 46, 47, 48 Zengids, 140, 173, 176 Ziyara (the visitation of shrines), 402–3 Zoroastrianism, 103, 104, 123, 324 Zuin Tahmasb, 319