Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East 9780755607969, 9781780763620

Citation preview

Contributors

Atef Alshaer is Postdoctoral and Senior Teaching Fellow in the Department of Near and Middle Eastern Studies at SOAS, University of London. He has published numerous articles and reviews on the literature, politics and culture of the Arab world. He grew up and studied in Palestine and London. Having spent a year in Egypt on military service, with a first opportunity of studying the country’s antiquities, Robert Anderson read Classics and Egyptology at Cambridge, researching the works of an early Coptic monk. He has taken part in excavations at Saqqara and also in Nubia as a member of the UNESCO rescue campaign. For 12 years he was Honorary Secretary of the Egypt Exploration Society, responsible for negotiating with Egyptian officials about British archaeological work. He has lectured on numerous Nile cruises, and visited the country in various capacities more than 100 times. He has written many Egyptological articles and books. Tamar S. Drukker is a senior lector in Hebrew at SOAS, University of London, where she teaches Modern Hebrew language and literature and Israeli culture. Educated at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem and the University of Cambridge, her research touches literary modes of historical narratives and literature of war. She has recently published a study of a Modern Hebrew docu-novel of the Great War. Andrew George studied Assyriology at the University of Birmingham and for a while kept a public house in Darlaston. Since 1983 he has taught Akkadian and Sumerian language and literature at SOAS, University of London, where he is now Professor of Babylonian. He has been elected

00_Warfare&Poetry_Prelims-i-xviii.indd 7

05/07/2013 11:07

viii

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Fellow of the British Academy and Honorary Member of the American Oriental Society, and is a former member of the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton. His best-known books are a critical edition of the Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic for Oxford University Press and a prizewinning translation of Gilgamesh for Penguin Classics. Most recently he has published three volumes of new texts from cuneiform tablets now in Norway: Babylonian Literary Texts, Cuneiform Royal Inscriptions and Babylonian Divinatory Texts in the Schøyen Collection. Marlé Hammond (PhD, Columbia, 2003) is Lecturer in Arabic Popular Literature and Culture at SOAS, University of London. Previously she worked in Oxford, where she was British Academy Postdoctoral Fellow (2007–2010) at the Oriental Institute (2007–2010) and Research Centre Fellow in the Programme of Arabic Poetry and Comparative Poetics at St John’s College (2002–2006). She is the author of Beyond Elegy: Classical Arabic Women’s Poetry in Context (Oxford University Press, 2010). Her other publications include Takhy∞l: The Imaginary in Classical Arabic Poetics (Gibb Memorial Trust 2009), which she produced with Geert Jan van Gelder, and Transforming Loss into Beauty: Essays on Arabic Literature and Culture in honor of Magda Al-Nowaihi (American University in Cairo Press, 2008), which she edited with Dana Sajdi. Hugh Kennedy (PhD, Cantab, 1977) was appointed as Lecturer in the Department of Mediaeval History at the University of St Andrews. From 2007 he has been Professor of Arabic at SOAS, University of London. He has written numerous books and articles including The Prophet and the Age of the Caliphates (1986), Crusader Castles (1994), The Armies of the Caliphs (2001), The Courts of the Caliphs (2004) and The Great Arab Conquests (2007). He is Fellow of the British Academy and a Fellow of the Royal Society of Edinburgh. Wen-chin Ouyang is Reader in Arabic Literature at SOAS, University of London. She is the author of Politics of Nostalgia in the Arabic Novel (2013), Poetic of Love in the Arabic Novel (2012) and Literary Criticism in Medieval Arabic Islamic Culture (1997), editor of New Perspectives on the Arabian Nights (2005) and co-editor (with Stephen Hart) of A Companion to Magical Realism (2005). After a career in banking, where he was involved for 30 years in ‘project finance’, Peter Phillips came to SOAS to study Arabic in 2000. Following

00_Warfare&Poetry_Prelims-i-xviii.indd 8

05/07/2013 11:07



Contributorsix

a BA in Arabic and an MA in Arabic Literature, he has recently completed his PhD with a thesis on ‘Bravery and Eloquence: Poetry in the siyar sha≤biyya’. He is currently studying Turkish at SOAS, with a view to researching the areas where Ottoman and Arabic literatures overlap. Stefan Sperl was born in Stuttgart and brought up in Luxembourg. He studied Arabic at Oxford and the American University in Cairo and did his postgraduate research at SOAS. In 1978 he joined the office of the UN High Commissioner for Refugees and held several assignments in the Middle East and Geneva. He returned to academic life in 1988 and now teaches Arabic language and literature at SOAS. His publications include Mannerism in Arabic Poetry (1989), Qasida Poetry in Islamic Asia & Africa (1996, with Christopher Shackle), as well as numerous articles on comparative literature and refugee studies. He also edited a special volume of the SOAS Bulletin entitled Scripture and Modernity: A Tribute to Professor John Wansbrough (2008). Peter Webb is an AHRC-funded doctoral student in the Near and Middle East Department at SOAS, University of London. He researches the history, literatures and cultures of the classical and medieval Muslim world, and his doctoral thesis (expected completion in 2013) analyses the Muslim reconstructions of pre-Islamic history. It examines how writers in the early ≤Abbasid period narrated the history of ‘al-JÆhiliyya’ (the pre-Islamic ‘Age of Ignorance’) and developed what became the canonical conceptions of Arab history and Arab ethnic identity. He has been teaching the Arabic language and classical Arabic literature at SOAS since 2009, and previously worked as a solicitor at Clifford Chance LLP in London. Mark Weeden completed his PhD in Hittite at SOAS in 2007 and has since worked in various temporary positions: as Departmental Lecturer in Assyriology at Oxford University, as part-time Lecturer in Ancient Near Eastern Studies at SOAS and as part-time Teaching Fellow in History at UCL. He participates regularly in archaeological excavations in Turkey and is affiliated to the teams of several Turkish, Japanese and Italian digs there as an epigrapher. His research interests are centred around the transmission of cuneiform writing from Mesopotamia to Anatolia, the study of the Anatolian Hieroglyphic writing system, as well as philological and historical issues connected with these fields.

00_Warfare&Poetry_Prelims-i-xviii.indd 9

27/06/2013 11:07

Preface

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East grew out of a series of informal discussions among members of the Department of the Languages and Cultures of the Near and Middle East at SOAS, University of London. With the exception of Robert Anderson whose ‘guest’ chapter on ‘Warfare in ancient Egyptian Poetry’, we very much appreciate, all the authors of these chapters are members of the Department. I am very grateful to all those colleagues who contributed their knowledge, insights and time to creating this important series of essays from very different eras of Middle Eastern literature but all focussed on a common theme. As editor I am especially grateful for the help of Dr Marlé Hammond who gave me a huge amount of help in gathering and collating the essays.

00_Warfare&Poetry_Prelims-i-xviii.indd 10

27/06/2013 11:07

Introduction

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East from the Third Millennium bc to the Twentieth Century Hugh Kennedy War can bring out the best in writers and poets, as well as the worst, and responses to violence and death tell us so much about societies, ancient and modern, and how men can transform even the most dreadful experiences into the most moving literature. This collection of essays shows the responses to warfare in a variety of Middle Eastern cultures. All the contributions focus on the theme of man’s response to violence. They vary between the exulting and triumphant to the grief-stricken and bitter. There are pro-war poems glorifying battle and heroic combat, as might be expected, but a surprising number of anti-war poems, telling of the sadness and waste of fighting to balance them. This book deals with the same issues and themes over a very wide time span from the third millennium bc right down to the present day, and in the different languages of ancient Egyptian, Sumerian, Hittite, Akkadian, Hebrew biblical and modern and Arabic classical and contemporary. Despite these differences of time and language, it is striking how many of the issues and ideas are constant and pervasive. At a time when the Middle East seems to be permanently at war and wracked by violence, it is salutary to look back at the ancient roots of modern attitudes and to see that in the past, as in the present, these attitudes are much more varied, and the emotions much more nuanced, than is often realised. The relationship between poetry, song and warfare is long and complicated and runs through a complex gamut of emotions. At one end we have the poetry of heroic boasting, the Egyptian pharaohs proclaiming

00_Warfare&Poetry_Prelims-i-xviii.indd 11

27/06/2013 11:07

xii

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

their triumphs with unself-critical pomp. At the other end there is the celebration of individual prowess, the single warrior whose deeds make him outstanding among his peers and contemporaries and ensure his name lives on for posterity. Yet in this book it is the triumphant or the heroic that stands out. There is little celebration of that ‘drunk delight of battle’ in which Tennyson’s ‘Ulysses’ says he rejoiced in. Instead, from all the ages and cultures covered there are witnesses to the ambiguities of warrior status, and above all to the grief and suffering which war causes. Many of these motifs are brought together in Chapter One by Stefan Sperl. He discusses the function of poetry as a means of coping with the experience of defeat and destruction in warfare by analysing comparatively texts drawn from different periods of Middle Eastern history. The oldest is the Sumerian lamentation over the destruction of Ur which dates back to around 1500 bc. The second is the Book of Lamentations by Jeremiah, composed after the conquest of Jerusalem by the Assyrians (sixth century bc). The third is Ibn al-R∑mi’s elegy on the destruction of Basra by the Zanj (tenth century ad). Using Heidegger’s notion of poetry as a ‘founding’, the comparison identifies the similarities and differences between these texts with respect to two principal questions: what devices and themes are used to give vent to the affliction and seek to comprehend it; and in what way can literary form serve to re-establish order in the face of an experience in which the very foundation of existence appears to have been erased. The findings are discussed in the light of critical writings on modern war-poetry, with a view to elucidating further the therapeutic and cathartic function of verse in situations of extreme communal distress. In Chapter Two, A. R. George discusses a Babylonian poet’s view of war. He first considers the general literature of the description of warfare in Sumerian and Akkadian, beginning with the first description of war in world literature, an account of the war between the city states of Lagash and Umma in the mid-third millennium bc. In the second part of the chapter, he moves forward to the first half of the first millennium bc to discuss the poem of the wars of Erra and Ishum. He finds it opposed to conventional Babylonian ideas about the glory of war. The poem describes the horrors of war, and identifies war, in the person of its divine protagonists, as the most irresistible and powerful force at large in human affairs. Thus the people of Iraq, ancient and modern, have had the misfortune to witness war at both extremes of human history. War has returned to them on many occasions during the interval of 4,500 years that elapsed between Enmetena, ruler of Lagash, and Saddam Hussein.

00_Warfare&Poetry_Prelims-i-xviii.indd 12

27/06/2013 11:07



Introductionxiii

In Chapter Three, Mark Weeden investigates warfare and poetry in Hittite literature. The Hittites, perhaps less well-known than the Babylonians and ancient Egyptians, ruled a kingdom and then an empire in central Anatolia from the seventeenth to the twelfth centuries bc. Their language is attested on thousands of cuneiform tablets from their capital city Hattusa from at least the fifteenth century bc, if not before, and is the earliest written IndoEuropean language. Identification of poetry is difficult, not least because of the intricacies of the writing system, but advances have been made recently. The so-called ‘Soldier’s Oath’ is embedded in a tale of military adventure and stands out for its repetitive, chant-like structure. Further military stories also contain highly vivid imagery and poetic themes, acting as a mythicopoetic re-enactment of episodes from Hittite history. Heavy use of dialogue may point to a performance context for some of these. Some of these narratives do not contain entirely favourable perspectives on the shared past. Hittite rituals also contain incantations of a clearly poetic nature, often phrased in the closely related language known as Luwian. Many of the rituals have an explicit military context. Mention should be made of an obscure group of songs in this language that is held by some scholars to contain elements of a Luwian poem about the Trojan War, a so-called Wilusiad, although this is rather unlikely. Beyond native material the Hittites also imported a great deal of literature from the neighbouring Hurrians in northern Syria, as well as from the Babylonians in Mesopotamia. One such piece, preserved in Hurrian with a Hittite translation, is clearly poetic and appears to contain a narrative on the siege of a Syrian city transposed into an analogy with a myth concerning the detention of the Storm-God in the underworld. These items are considered in the context of a discussion of the functions of ancient poetry in a warlike context. These functions range from the practical aspect of achieving influence on history through ritual, to the not always positive construction of community identity through historical narrative and the reception of foreign belles-lettres in a scholastic environment. In Chapter Four, Robert Anderson takes a long view of what is apparently a very conservative body of literature. He begins with a discussion of what ancient Egyptian poetry was and how we can identify it in the surviving texts, an issue also discussed in Mark Weeden’s chapter on the Hittites. He then goes on to discuss surviving poetry from the beginning of the second millennium bc to the conquest of Egypt by Alexander the Great in 332 bc. Apart from some early verses describing the, often unedifying, conflicts of the gods, this corpus is essentially official poetry, recording the

00_Warfare&Poetry_Prelims-i-xviii.indd 13

27/06/2013 11:07

xiv

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

triumphs (though not of course the defeats) of the great pharaohs. Often recorded in great public inscriptions, it clearly uses the rhythms and structures of verse to emphasise the heroic military achievements of the rulers. While often magnificent in its evocations of triumph, it shares none of the doubts and sadnesses that we find in other poetic traditions discussed in this book. The next chapters pursue many of the same themes in an early Islamic context. In Chapter Five, Peter Webb discusses the use of poetry in early Islamic historical literature. Poetry, he argues, played a more significant role in narrating the history of the early Islamic state’s military adventures than has hitherto been acknowledged. Although ‘classical’ Muslim historical writing of the fourth/tenth generally exhibits a trend away from poetry and there is no Islamic Iliad-like epic, the earlier historical texts were different, and in the first centuries of Islam, poetry and the transmission of history were closely linked. He analyses Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s (d. 212 bc) Waq≤at ßiff∞n (an extended account of the confrontation between the forces ≤Al∞ b. Ab∞ ∏Ælib from Iraq and Mu≤Æwiya b. Ab∞ SufyÆn from Syria in 37/657) and demonstrates that poetry is central to its narrative, while the prose is often merely a gloss on the poems. He shows that poetry forms a central core of the earliest accounts of the Fitna (inter-Muslim war) story and the prose coalesced around the poetry gradually, thus indicating that much of the ‘military history’ of the Early Islamic state may have been remembered and transmitted via poetry in the first and second Islamic centuries. In this way, he argues, Waq≤at ßiff∞n shares a similar genesis to the AyyÆm al-≤Arab (accounts of the battles between Arab tribes in pre-Islamic Arabia), in which prose commentary was added over time to the original poetic core. However, while pre-Islamic tales retained their poetry, Islamic military history increasingly converted to prose. This process demonstrates an important step in the canonisation of Islamic history that saw the separation of ‘history’ from the ‘qi∆a∆’ (storytelling) genre as scholars took over the telling of history from ‘bards’. Too important to leave in the hands of the ‘qu∆∆Æ∆’, Islamic history eschewed the ‘heroism’ of the earlier poetic narratives and was turned into ‘serious history’. Webb’s chapter argues that the rise of historical thought in Islam has connections with the RuwÆt and qu∆∆Æ∆ and that the later maligning of these professions closely mirrors the stripping of the heroic poetic element from Islamic history. Qu∆∆Æ∆ and heroic history survived in other contexts, but theologically ‘important’ Islamic history became increasingly monopolised

00_Warfare&Poetry_Prelims-i-xviii.indd 14

27/06/2013 11:07



Introductionxv

by traditionalists. Modern historians should therefore be aware that the poetry in Islamic history may be some of the ‘earliest’ material we have, and that the narration of Islamic history was achieved partially through poetic transmission which inevitably exerted significant and particular influences on the way in which that history was remembered. In Chapter Six, Hugh Kennedy continues with the use of poems in historical writing, but in the context of the history of the ≤Abbasid Caliphate in the third/ninth century. We are not seeing a body of poetry which is earlier, and in a sense, more authentic, than the prose, but rather the contemporary poetry quoted by the greatest of the prose compliers of the period, Ab∑ Ja≤far al-∏abar∞, to enliven his narratives and provide a vigorous and radical commentary on events. In the years following the death of Caliph HÆr∑n al-Rash∞d in 193/809, the caliphate was split by a great civil war between the partisans of his sons, al-Am∞n and al-Ma≥m∑n. This culminated in a 14-month siege of the great capital city of Baghdad, marked by street fighting in the city and massive suffering by the civilian and non-combatant population. Their sufferings were lamented in a series of poems by anonymous or lesserknown authors. They are remarkable for the vividness of the descriptions, but also by their anti-military, anti-elite rhetoric and the condemnation of violence. These poems have never been seriously studied before and their form, content and context are the subject of this chapter. In Chapter Seven, Wen-chin Ouyang moves into the world of military encounters between the Arab Muslims and the Christian Byzantines in the fourth/tenth century in what is now northern Syria and south-eastern Turkey. Ab∑ FirÆs al-√amdÆni (230/932–357/968), poet, prince and warrior, is perhaps best noted for his poems of nostalgia composed during his second Byzantine captivity (351–962) known as al-R∑miyyÆt, with their moving expressions of longing for his mother, family and homeland. Disappointed with his lord Sayf al-Dawla’s slow response to his captivity and betrayed by his former allies, who now counselled against his ransom, he rallied and stood tall in the face of his captors. He saw himself above his jailers, boasting often of his superior Arab descent, military skills and moral values. Seen through the prism of these al-R∑miyyÆt and the anecdotes surrounding his captivity, warring seems to define Hamdanid-Byzantine relations, perhaps even along the lines of religion (Muslim vs. Christian) and ethnicity (Arab vs. Greek). This is clearly problematic. Reading al-R∑miyyÆt in the broader context of Ab∑ FirÆs’s other poetry of war (conducted against other Arab tribes, the ≤Abbasids, and other ‘dynasties’ at the time), and of

00_Warfare&Poetry_Prelims-i-xviii.indd 15

27/06/2013 11:07

xvi

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

narratives of captivity recorded in the fourth/tenth century (al-Tan∑kh∞), reveals that the jingoism of war rhetoric, made up of stock tropes and figures of speech, silences significant cultural encounters taking place in the contact zone mapped by border-crossing captives. Wars are rarely ‘total’, and captives are often one culture’s ambassadors to another. In Chapter Eight, Peter Phillips discusses the depiction of warfare in a genre of poetry, which has been largely ignored by scholars both within and outside the Arab world. That is the poetry of the siyar sha≤biyya, which are the Arabic popular epics or romances chronicling the exploits of heroes such as ≤Antar, Z∞r SÆlim and Sayf ibn Dh∞ Yazan. Although based loosely on historical characters and events, the siyar are works of fiction that began life as oral recitations in the Middle Ages before being written down and finally printed in cheap editions in the nineteenth century. They could be described as an early form of ‘historical novel’, or perhaps ‘soap opera’. War and poetry are constant companions in these works, for war and fighting provide the core of their plots, and they are works of prosimetrum in which prose and poetry alternate. The chapter focuses on the use of poetry in the s∞ra of ≤Antar, which is based on the life of one of the most celebrated pre-Islamic poets whose mu≤allaqa was said to be one of the seven odes hung in the ka≤ba. The chapter shows how poetry is used in the narrative to present ≤Antar’s development as a warrior: from the youth defending the tribe’s flocks against marauding wolves, to a mature victor in single combat against his enemies and finally to the leader on whom his tribe depends in time of trouble. A detailed examination of individual poems illustrates how poetry depicts chivalric ideals, as well as the warrior’s might, and combines these with the more personal themes of ≤Antar’s enduring love for ≤Abla and his concern about his own inferior status as the black son of a slave. The poetry also strikes a very modern note in its treatment of the soldier’s relationship to a society which values him only in times of war. ≤Antar is shown to personify a combination of war and poetry, which is embodied in the siyar sha≤biyya’s twin ideals of ‘courage and eloquence’, and both these qualities are displayed, albeit with some ironic twists, in the account of how he comes to hang a poem in the ka≤ba. In Chapter Nine, Marlé Hammond straddles the centuries, linking twentieth-century literature and film making to classical Arabic poetry. Incitement to war figures centrally in the early Arabic poetic canon and, like the lament, it has been closely associated with women poets. The apparently ancient lyrics to the Mu≈ammad al-Qa∆abj∞ song ‘Layta

00_Warfare&Poetry_Prelims-i-xviii.indd 16

27/06/2013 11:07



Introductionxvii

lil-BarrÆq ≤Aynan’, popularised since the late 1930s through the recordings of Asmahan amongst others, represents one such female-authored call to arms. In it we hear the voice of a young woman speaking of the physical degradation she suffers at the hands of her (Persian) captors and inciting her brothers to war. It is an extract from a widely circulated pre-Islamic poem ascribed to a certain LaylÆ bint Lukayz. The trouble is that although her persona is ancient – she is said to have died in the fifth century ad – her legend is not. Rather, it turns out that this tale of a damsel-in-distress-type probably originated in folkloric story cycles as recently as the late eighteenth century and was only integrated into ‘official’ literary history over the course of the nineteenth century. A comparative analysis between this particular specimen of incitement and its more authentically ancient prototypes is revealing. Whereas in ancient forms of incitement the provocative element rests in the female poetic persona’s graphic descriptions of a defiled male body (typically a slain warrior), in this latter-day reformulation the woman’s voice invites her audience to visualise her own body’s defilement. This chapter assesses this paradigmatic evolution and attempts to situate it within the cultural environments of nineteenth- and twentieth-century Egypt, and its nascent feminist, nationalist and anti-imperialist movements, especially with regard to notions about gender relations and armed conflict. With Chapter Ten by Tamar S. Drukker, we are firmly in the twentieth century. In a rented room in Budapest in January 1948, a young Jew from Palestine reads in an American newspaper about the killing of 35 Palmach soldiers. They formed a convoy sent to assist a besieged settlement south of Jerusalem, a mission from which none returned. Among the fallen were close friends and comrades of Haim Gouri, born in Tel Aviv in 1923, who learns of their death while in Europe on a mission to help Jewish Holocaust survivors prepare for immigration and life in Israel and train them for military service. The native-born sabra described his encounter with the survivors, and with the aftermath of the Holocaust, as the one event that changed his life. And while engulfed by the enormity of suffering and loss experienced by his Jewish brethren in Europe, he mourns the friends he lost fighting the next war, the war that would lead of the establishment of the State of Israel. In Budapest he writes one of his most celebrated poems, ‘Here our bodies lie’ (1947), dedicated to his friend Danny Mass, the commander of the convoy. In the poem, Gouri speaks on behalf of the dead, in the first person plural. Haim Gouri returned to Israel and fought in its war for independence. The war he knew not, the war ‘over there’, and the war he partook in, both

00_Warfare&Poetry_Prelims-i-xviii.indd 17

27/06/2013 11:07

xviii

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

play a major role in his poetry, as does a strong sense of the inevitability of war, and an attempt to understand its nature and historical meaning. The final Chapter Eleven by Atef Alshaer, ends this collection in the late twenty-first century. He gives us a theoretical and empirical reading of the poetry of the great Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish (1941–2008) with its main themes of humanism, nationalism and violence within the context of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Alshaer puts Darwish’s poetry in a broad cultural context, comparing it with the views of Sigmund Freud and Frantz Fanon. These thinkers have enhanced our understanding of the human condition within conflict-ridden contexts. Freud engaged critically with Jewish nationalism in its formative years in the 1920s and 1930s, whereas Fanon was directly involved with the Algerian struggle against French colonialism in the 1950s. Darwish was a poetic chronicler of the Palestinian question in all its dimensions, particularly after the 1960s. All of them articulated aspirations for universal justice and freedom while taking part in their peoples’ struggles and dilemmas. As will be argued, in stressing the complementary roles of all members of society in the struggle against the colonisers in his portrayal of the Palestinian struggle, Darwish appears closer to Fanon’s anti-colonial nationalism. Nevertheless, while emphasising the historical conditions that gave rise to Palestinian nationalism, Darwish grew to be critical of it in a tone that is reminiscent of Freud’s criticism of nationalism and of collective identities in general.

00_Warfare&Poetry_Prelims-i-xviii.indd 18

27/06/2013 11:07

Chapter 1

‘O City Set Up Thy Lament’: Poetic Responses to the Trauma of War1 Stefan Sperl Sometimes among men you can find a polished nugget of primal grief Or a chunk of petrified rage from an ancient volcano2

Within the rich legacy bequeathed by the Middle East is a poetic record stretching back some five millennia across different languages, cultures and religions. It provides an unparalleled range of sources to document continuity and change in the evolution of human consciousness and artistic creativity, virtually from as far back as the beginning of writing up to the present time. In this chapter I propose to mine this treasury in order to examine one particular aspect of the interface between poetry and warfare: casting into words the experience of defeat and catastrophic loss. The three texts I have chosen deal with what is surely the most calamitous event that could have befallen the communities that produced them: the destruction of their city and the massacre and abduction of its inhabitants. Each dates from a different millennium. The oldest is the Sumerian Lament over the devastation brought upon Ur by the Elamites, which dates back to around 1940 bc.3 Next in line is a biblical text which has often been compared with it, the Book of Lamentations, which mourns the destruction of Jerusalem by the Babylonian King Nebuchadnezzar in 586 bc.4 Third, there is the elegy composed in ad 871 by the Arab poet Ibn ar-R∑m∞ in response to the sacking of Basra by the Zanj, a group of African slaves reportedly working in the fields and salt-marshes of southern Iraq who rose

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 1

27/06/2013 11:24

2

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

up against the Abbasid Caliphate under their charismatic leader Ali Ibn Mu≈ammad.5 My reflections end with comparative remarks on a modern lamentation with surprising Middle Eastern roots, the Duino Elegies by Rainer Maria Rilke, which were composed between 1912 and 1922. Graphic depictions of the horrors suffered by the inhabitants of the destroyed cities abound in the three ancient texts. The losses incurred, however, extend to more than life and property, for in each case the city is not only a place of human habitation; it is also, and perhaps first and foremost, a sacred domain. At its heart are sanctuaries which embody the faith from which the inhabitants derive spiritual sustenance, identity and purpose. Their ruin figures in all three texts and, perhaps more than any other act of outrage, conveys the magnitude of what is at stake.6 The people appear to have lost their place in the divinely sanctioned cosmic order. Without it the survivors of the disaster have no hope of recovery. This is the central experience the three texts are each seeking to confront, notwithstanding the differences between them. In bearing witness to the devastating effect of violence on the human psyche, the three texts can be read as early manifestations of a condition which figures all too prominently in the literature of our time. However, rather than reading them in the light of literary studies of modern texts which bear the mark of trauma,7 this chapter aims to approach them in the light of insights gained into trauma therapy. For, seen from today’s vantage point, the gravity of the crisis described in the texts carries all the symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), a medical condition which has been recognised as commonly affecting persons who have been exposed to severe violence. In a much acclaimed study of the condition and its treatment, Judith Herman summarises the comprehensively destabilising effect of trauma as follows: Traumatic events […] shatter the construction of the self that is formed in relation to others. They undermine the belief systems that give meaning to human experience. They violate the victim’s faith in a natural or divine order and cast the victim into a state of existential crisis […] They ‘destroy the victim’s fundamental assumptions about the safety of the world, the positive value of the self and the meaningful order of creation’.8

Recovery can be a prolonged and difficult process. According to Herman, three key stages are usually involved: the re-establishment of safety; the mournful remembrance of the traumatic event; and the restoration of the connections between the victim and his or her community. Because trauma

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 2

27/06/2013 11:24



‘O City Set Up Thy Lament’3

damages these connections and, with them, the self’s own inner coherence, ‘recovery can only take place in the context of relationships; it cannot occur in isolation’.9 In the modern treatment of PTSD, it is the role of the psychotherapist to establish a healing relationship with the patient in order to help him or her negotiate the phases of recovery. As I intend to show in the coming pages, in the ancient disasters described in the three texts, the healing relationship between victim and therapist appears to be voiced by the poets. Assuming the combined role of both in one, they recall the traumatic event in full, give ample expression to mourning, and show their people a way to reconnect both to each other and to the divine realm. They thus appear to follow the principles of modern psychotherapy long before a theoretical understanding of PTSD and its treatment were established. The poets are singularly well equipped to fulfil this crucial role for their task is to master language, and it is precisely language that often fails in the face of trauma. As Herman points out: Traumatic memory […] is wordless and static. The survivors’ initial account of the event may be repetitious, stereotyped and emotionless. One observer describes the trauma story in its untransformed state as a ‘prenarrative’. It does not develop or progress in time, and it does not reveal the storyteller’s feelings or interpretation of events.10

The most telling word in the above citation is ‘untransformed’; for the fundamental task to be undertaken in voicing the traumatic event is to transform it through and into language, and hence to give it a form able to absorb the pain and distress of the inner wound, and so to unburden the emotion and rescue the mind. What is at stake is a creative process through which alone delivery can be achieved. Martin Heidegger’s famous essay on ‘Hölderlin and the Essence of Poetry’, perhaps not fortuitously written in memory of a friend killed in the First World War, goes straight to the heart of the matter. Language, he argues, is not merely a communicative tool; instead, ‘man’s being is grounded in language’; ‘only where there is language is there world’.11 It follows that where language has vanished, man’s entire being, too, is under threat. Finding words, on the other hand, can be the first step back to a bearable form of existence. For Heidegger, that emanation and preservation of the world through language is rendered possible by the poet, because poetry is a founding; a naming of being and the essence of all things – not just any saying, but that whereby everything first steps into the open, which we

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 3

27/06/2013 11:24

4

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East then discuss and talk about in every day language. Hence poetry never takes language as a material at its disposal; rather poetry itself first makes language possible.12

In the face of severe trauma where the victims may find themselves deprived of the rudiments of verbal expression, the founding act of poetry can assume particular importance. It can help to rescue the existential foundations that appear to have been swept away. Since in the three texts here under consideration these foundations are portrayed as religious, Heidegger’s concluding observations on the poet’s position as an intermediary between ‘the gods’ and his people are particularly apt. The tragic challenge faced by Hölderlin, in whose work Heidegger saw the ‘essence of poetry’ conveyed in its purest form, was his historical position ‘in a time of need’: ‘in the no-longer of the gods who have fled and in the not yet of the god who is coming’.13 It is just such a hiatus in which the authors of our three texts found themselves: in the ‘no-longer’ of divine powers who appear to have abandoned mankind to a dreadful fate, and the ‘not-yet’ of a return to the blessing of divine favour. In the following, my analysis begins by introducing the three texts separately in order to show what kind of ‘founding’ the poets have undertaken in their attempt to bridge the void. I will then compare their treatment of the stages of recovery with reference to the terms and symptoms of PTSD and its treatment as described in Herman’s study. Lastly, we will turn to the question to what extent the three works can be seen as evolutionary stages in man’s attempt to come to terms with trauma, and what the implications may be for our understanding of conflict and trauma in general and in the modern Middle East in particular.

Three foundational structures The first point to note is that all three texts are composed in metered speech known also from other works in their respective literary traditions and thus undoubtedly qualify as poetry rather than prose. In the context of trauma the use of metered speech itself is significant, for it imposes a regular, predictable pattern upon a subject matter where chaos reigns. The imposition of order, however, is most clearly manifest in the structure of the three works, which in each case is clearly designed to lead the hearer in a coherent fashion through a range of different insights and emotions that together form a meaningful whole. The approaches taken thereby are quite

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 4

27/06/2013 11:24



‘O City Set Up Thy Lament’5

different though, and reflect the varying historical, cultural and religious circumstances from which the texts emanate. The Sumerian work was composed to mark the reconstruction of Ur and the rebuilding of the temple; tangible hope was therefore at hand, which is reflected in the concluding passages of the poem.14 In the Hebrew text, however, Jerusalem appears as still irretrievably lost, and hope is only found in an act of soul-searching and profound self-recrimination. As for the Arabic text, it marks a tragic moment in an ongoing conflict; with the conquest of Basra by the enemy, a battle had been lost but the war itself could still be won; the poem therefore concludes with a rallying cry for revenge. While these differences are important for the structure and content of the works, it will be seen that from a trauma-healing perspective they are rather less important. Though clad in different guises, the key stages in the search for psychological recovery are equally manifest in all three. Before examining this in more detail, let us briefly survey and compare their compositional structures.

The Ur Lament The Ur Lament consists of 11 cantos (kirugu in Sumerian) of which all but the last is followed by a brief refrain or ‘antiphon’ (gišgigal). Together they provide the reader with a dramatic re-enactment of the events surrounding the destruction of the city. The chief actors in the drama are the members of the Sumerian pantheon: the moon God Nanna and his consort Ningal who, as the local deities of Ur, are most affected by the tragedy; and Anu and Enlil, supreme leaders of the assembly of gods, who decided to have it destroyed. Canto one begins the poem with the gods of Sumer collectively abandoning their sanctuaries ‘to the winds’, a metaphor for the coming onslaught which is later likened to a devastating storm. In canto two the poet addresses the city and surrounding localities to evoke the grief over their fate, with Nanna as principal mourner: a-še-er-zu gig-ga ga-ša-an-zu mu-lu er2-re en3-še3 mu-un-kuš2-u3 a-še-er-zu gig-ga dnanna mu-lu er2-re en3-še3 mu-un-kuš2-u3 How long will your bitter lament grieve your lord who weeps? How long will your bitter lament grieve Nanna who weeps? (45–46)

Cantos three and four turn to Ningal in particular, as she first describes her personal distress and then narrates her fruitless attempt to dissuade

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 5

27/06/2013 11:24

6

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Anu and Enlil from carrying out their decree to destroy the city.15 In cantos five and six, Ningal vanishes from the scene as the reader is faced with the full horror that is unleashed upon the city: an evil, ‘land-annihilating’ storm which spares no one. Old and young, women and children are slain, and their possessions looted and burnt. It is only here, in canto six, that the actual perpetrators of the outrage are briefly mentioned: ‘the people of Šimaški and Elam, the destroyers’ (243). With cantos seven and eight, Ningal once more assumes centre stage. We hear her describe in full detail the loss and devastation she has suffered, at the core of which is the destruction of her ‘house’ – the temple in which she used to reside. In response, the poet in canto eight addresses Ningal and describes how her rites of worship are no longer conducted and her temple lies deserted. Faced with the calamity, the people feel she has abandoned the city like an enemy. He then implores her to return: nin-gu10 uru2-zu ama-bi-gin7-nam er2 mu-e-ši-še8-še8 urim2ki-ma dumu sila Óa-lam-ma-gin7 ki mu-e-ši-kig2-kig2 My queen, your city weeps before you as its mother. Urim, like a child lost in a street, seeks a place before you. (369–370)

Cantos nine and ten both appeal to Nanna that the dreadful, ‘city-ravaging’ storm that has afflicted the land should be made to cease forever and ‘the door be closed against it, like the great city-gate at night-time’ (413). Canto eleven concludes the poem with a prayer addressed to Nanna, vowing allegiance to him and seeking his help for the restoration of the city. When viewing the thematic development as a whole, it is to be noticed that the tragedy itself, the unleashing of the storm and the death of the inhabitants, occupies the centre where it is the subject of cantos five and six. These are flanked on either side by two cantos in which Ningal appears as speaker or addressee. Each contains a lament and an appeal: cantos three and seven are laments, while canto four recounts Ningal’s failed appeal to gods and canto eight leads up to the poet’s appeal to Ningal to return to the city once more. The outer cantos, one to two and nine to eleven, mark introduction and conclusion respectively, beginning with the theme of abandonment and ending with the banishing of the storm and the hoped for recovery. If cantos nine and ten, which are both short and, unlike the other cantos, deal with the same topic, are taken together, a remarkably symmetrical structure arises (see Table 1).

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 6

27/06/2013 11:24



‘O City Set Up Thy Lament’7 Table 1: Cantos of the Ur Lament

Sequence

Canto Topic

Lines

Introduction: severance

1 2 3 4

38 37 60 36

Lament and appeal

Centre: trauma relived Lament and appeal

5 6 7 8

Conclusion: reconnection 9–10 11

The Gods abandon Ur Lament over the fate of Ur Ningal’s personal lament Ningal’s failed plea to the Gods to save Ur The ‘storm’ unleashed upon Ur Massacre and destruction Ningal’s description of her loss Poet’s hopeful plea to Ningal to return to Ur Poet’s plea to Nanna to banish the storm Prayer to Nanna for Ur’s restoration

35 47 77 59 30 19

It follows that the poet leads the reader by stages back into the very heart of the disaster which occupies the core of the composition, thus providing a cathartic moment of remembrance, before proceeding towards a hoped-for new beginning. At the same time he reveals an explanation of how the events have come about through an inalienable decree of heavenly forces.

The Book of Lamentations The Hebrew poem faces us with an altogether different structure. The Book of Lamentations is composed of five chapters (kinot in Hebrew), with scholarly opinion divided whether they are the work of one or several authors. For the purpose of our analysis, this need not concern us. What matters is that the five chapters have been assembled together and are therefore meant to be experienced as a unified whole.16 From a purely formal point of view, the coherence is evident in the pattern generated by the number of verses of the five chapters: Chapters One, Two, Four and Five have 22 verses each, whereas the central Chapter Three has 66 verses. Of particular interest here is the verse structure of the first four chapters, which exhibits an ordering principle that is purely formal: they are acrostics in that each verse, and in Chapter Three each three successive verses, begin with a letter of the Hebrew alphabet taken in order. Numerous explanations have been advanced for this feature: it was meant to invoke

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 7

27/06/2013 11:24

8

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

the magical power of the letters, it functioned as an aide-memoire, or it symbolised the plenitude of grief expressed in the poems. A more complex explanation was put forward by Johan Renkema who argued for the existence of ‘parallel acrostics’, whereby all the verses starting with the same letter of the alphabet relate to each other by ‘parallelism, identical, additional or antithetical, in language and content’.17 If we take account of the vital need for the reawakening of language in order to overcome the loss of speech induced by trauma, the use of acrostics appears in a new light. In his act of founding, the poet here resorts to the most elemental, constitutive components of language, the letters, and uses their sequence as stepping stones on the path through the traumatic memory he is obliged to relive in order to transcend it. In the acrostic, language itself is reborn; it reasserts its existence in full, as the letter sequence determines outer form, inner progression and completeness of the chapters. The predictability of the sequence, as letter follows upon letter in a well-known pattern, furthermore conveys something of the inevitability of the event, all of whose stages have to be undergone till the cup is filled. Two questions then arise: what marks out the long, triple acrostic of the middle chapter; and why is the last, despite its 22 lines, not acrostic? A brief survey of the thematic structure might help to gauge some answers. Chapter One starts, like the Ur Lament, with the image of the abandoned city. Instead of the Sumerian pantheon, however, the sole overlord here is the one God to whom the lament is addressed. And, instead of a female city deity, here we find the city herself appearing in the guise of a woman. Reviled and unclean, she has ‘sinned greatly’ and ‘her nakedness was seen’ (1:8). Thereupon:

The adversary stretched out his hand To seize all her treasures Then it was that she saw Gentiles Entering her sanctuary Gentiles forbidden by thee to enter The assembly for it was thine (1:10)

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 8

27/06/2013 11:24



‘O City Set Up Thy Lament’9

At this point the city herself, like Ningal, raises her voice in lamentation to bemoan her fate. The desecration of the temple appears once more in the second chapter, which describes the destruction as a punishment visited upon Jerusalem by divine decree. With Chapter Three, the poet assumes the voice of an individual victim who, in an act of introspection, struggles to come to terms with what has happened. His reflections progress in three phases, each of which corresponds to 22 of the 66 verses which make up the chapter as a whole. In the first phase, the speaker relives his affliction in all its dread but, miraculously, out of this very act of remembrance a sense of hope arises:

. The memory of my distress and my wanderings Is wormwood and gall. (3:19) Remember, O remember, And stoop down to me. (3:20) All this I take to heart And therefore I will wait patiently. (3:21) The Lord’s love is surely not spent, Nor has his compassion failed. (3:22)

Verse 3:20 must detain us, for it marks the point at which the victim regains confidence and strength in faith. The translation implies that the verse is addressed to God, who is being asked to remember the victim and ‘stoop down’ to him. However, the Hebrew original appears to be ambiguous, for in a footnote the editors of the New English Bible offer an alternative reading which, moreover, corresponds to the King James version, as well as to the French and German translations of the verse which I consulted: ‘I remember, I remember them and sink down.’ Instead of God remembering the victim, this reading implies that the victim is remembering his afflictions. A closer look at the Hebrew text shows, however, that there is no pronoun to indicate who or what is being remembered. The verse begins with two emphatic imperatives, which appear to command the addressee to engage in an act of ‘Remembrance as such’, one so intense that it causes the remembering subject to stoop or sink down. As shown in the alternative translations in the New English Bible, that subject may with equal

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 9

27/06/2013 11:24

10

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

justification be understood to be the victim or God. Indeed, in a religious context, remembrance in an absolute sense can only mean remembrance of, or by, God. The ambiguity in the verse offers, I would argue, the key to understanding why the act of remembrance marks the turning point in the victim’s mental state. The issue at hand is also the subject of a Qur≥Ænic verse which encapsulates, in the most succinct manner, the reciprocal efficacy of man’s god-consciousness. In it the divine speaker declares: ‘remember me and I shall remember you’ (udhkur∑n∞ adhkurkum, Qur≥Æn 2:152). Thus any act of true remembrance of God may be rewarded with an awareness of His blessing and comfort, which are themselves the fruit of His reciprocal remembrance. Seen from this perspective, the ambiguity of the biblical verse conveys in the most meaningful manner how the act of remembrance, for all its pain, suddenly leads to patience and confidence in the existence of divine love and compassion. In the next 22 verses, which mark the centre of the Book of Lamentations as whole, the protagonist reflects further on the bounty of the Lord and, in the final verses, reaches yet again a new insight:

Let us examine our ways and put them to test And turn back to the Lord. (3:40) Let us lift up our hearts, not our hands to God in heaven. (3:41) We ourselves have sinned and rebelled And thou hast not forgiven. (3:42) In anger thou has turned and pursued us And slain without pity. (3:43) Thou hast hidden thyself behind the clouds Beyond reach of our prayers. (3:44)

The act of introspection here has at last attained a lucid understanding of the events that have taken place: the disaster is self-inflicted, the punishment deserved, but – most importantly for survival – faith in the Lord’s ultimate bounty has been restored. The final 22 verses of the chapter revisit

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 10

27/06/2013 11:24



‘O City Set Up Thy Lament’11 Table 2: The Chapters of Lamentations

Chapter Topic 1 2 3

4 5

Desolation of the city and Jerusalem’s guilt God’s wrath and Jerusalem’s grief Soul-searching of victim: – Mourning and remembrance of God’s mercy (1–22) – God’s bounty and man’s transgression (23–44) – Mourning over loss and plea for God’s vengeance (45–66) Agony and suffering of survivors Collective prayer of remembrance and plea for salvation

Number of Verses 22 22 66 [22] [22] [22] 22 22

the affliction once more, till tears are shed, then reassert confidence in God’s help and end the chapter with another new conclusion: the plea for retribution.18 While Chapter Three probes the depth of man’s soul in his affliction, Chapter Four resurfaces to depict the aftermath of the destruction in unmitigated horror. The chapter is thus the closest counterpart to cantos five and six of the Ur Lament. With the fifth and final chapter an altogether different stage appears to have been reached. While in the previous four chapters the poet assumes a number of different voices and personas – about which more is to be said below – the whole of Chapter Five is a single collective prayer. This fact would indicate that language has here been regained by the community at large, that words are once again within the grasp of man. Hence the crutch of the acrostic is no longer needed: words flow on their own accord as the people ask the Lord to remember them in their affliction (5:1) and plead with Him to ‘renew our days as in times long past’ (5:21).19 Viewing the composition of Lamentations as a whole we can see, like in the Ur Lament, a symmetrically composed structure (see Table 2). However, while in the former the trauma is revisited in the very heart of the composition and finally overcome at the end, in the latter the traumatic situation faced by the people is not overcome as such. What occupies the heart of the composition is the inner search for reassurance through faith in the very midst of affliction. The fruit of the journey at the end is the recovery of language by the people, the restoration of their collective ability to utter words of prayer. Herein lies their ‘reconnection’ to each other and to God.

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 11

27/06/2013 11:24

12

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

The Basra Elegy Unlike the Ur Lament and the Book of Lamentations, Ibn al-R∑m∞’s ‘Elegy on Basra’ is not a liturgical text. It is a war poem which encourages the defeated to rise again and resume the fight, spurred on by the zeal for revenge. In his masterful study on the poetry of Ibn al-R∑m∞, McKinney remarks that ‘the entire elegy is actually an elaborate plea for revenge, known within the tradition as ta≈r∞∂, or incitement to vengeance’.20 As McKinney himself notes, however, revenge only occupies the concluding 12 verses of the poem. The remaining 71 are, like our previous two texts, devoted to mourning, remembrance and the search for reconnection. If anything, the elegy exhibits these characteristic phases of recovery from trauma with even greater clarity, for they structure its thematic development. Moreover, the issue of language lost and regained figures as one of the poem’s principal motifs. The work begins with the poet distraught and in utter disbelief at the misfortune of Basra. In a mournful 12-line prelude, he proceeds to address the city. Like Jerusalem and Ur, it is a sacred precinct conceived as a female figure:

My soul cries alas for thee O Basra With a sigh like a blaze of conflagration (8) My soul cries alas for thee, O tabernacle of Islam With a sigh whence my anguish is prolonged (10)

The poet then proceeds to recall the details of what happened, down to the rape and abduction of the women of Basra, which is visualised over several lines (23–28). Having further contemplated the extent of the destruction, the poet, who has up until now been alone, turns to two unnamed companions with the following words:

Make halt, companions of mine, at Basra the luminous As one wasted with sickness makes halt, (36)

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 12

27/06/2013 11:24



‘O City Set Up Thy Lament’13 And ask her – but she has no answer to any question And who is there to speak for her? (37) Where is the clamour of those who dwelt in her? Where are her bustling markets? (38)

Unlike Ur and Jerusalem, Basra is bereft of speech. In her silence we recognise an ancient theme of Arabic poetry, which Ibn al-R∑m∞ has here woven into a different, highly topical context. It is the silence of the abandoned campsite, the aπlÆl, which marks the customary beginning of the pre-Islamic ode, the qa∆∞da. To this desolate spot that once thronged with life, the poet returns after years of absence in order to contemplate the ruins and grieve over the memory of a long-lost love which is reawakened by the encounter. Two companions frequently witness the scene, as in this most famous of Arabian beginnings:

Stop, both of you, and let us weep over the remembrance of a beloved…21

Conjuring up an abandoned nomadic encampment as an image for the ruins of Basra has, within the Arabic poetic tradition, profound emotional resonance. In Middle Eastern poetic lore, however, its echo reaches much further back in time. For just such an image marks the beginning of the Ur Lament, where the gods are shown to forsake their cities ‘as herders, at the end of the grazing season, will abandon to the winds the temporary quarters, pens, or folds out in the desert (..) where they have tended their animals during spring’.22 Repeated 33 times, it dominates the whole of canto one: tur3-ra-na muš3 mi-ni-in-ga amaš-a-na lil2-e am-e tur3-ra-na muš3 mi-ni-in-ga amaš-a-na lil2-e u3-mu-un kur-kur-ra-ke4 muš3 mi-ni-in-ga amaš-a-na lil2-e He has abandoned his cow-pen and has let the breezes haunt his sheepfold. The wild bull has abandoned his cow-pen and has let the breezes haunt his sheepfold. The lord of all the lands has abandoned it and has let the breezes haunt his sheepfold. (1–3)

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 13

27/06/2013 11:24

14

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

The ‘speechlessness’ of the ruins that are unable to answer the poet’s question, a conventional topos of Arabic poetry, has been seen as an image of transience, of the irretrievable nature of the past. Seen from the perspective of the poet’s grief and his mourning over lost love, this silence also reflects his own inner pain in the face of which language fails.23 It is regained in the poem in his own creative act, through which he rises beyond his predicament and thus lends his own voice to the silent stones. That it is the poet himself, who speaks on their behalf, is quite clear in Ibn al-R∑m∞’s elegy. Basra has no answer to give to the two companions, but the poet does. His response forms the centre of the 83-line composition, as does the entire question and answer sequence between the poet and his companions. With 13 lines in all, it mirrors both the introductory lament and the concluding call for vengeance, which consist of 12 lines each. A symmetrical overall structure thus emerges once more, at the centre of which features the dialogue in which the poet speaks for the silenced city. His words disclose the epicentre of the tragedy, a scene of total fragmentation, with severed limbs and broken skulls: a veritable embodiment of the ‘disconnection’ which is the hallmark of trauma. The passage is the equivalent of cantos five and six of the Ur Lament, with which the elegy thus shares a comparable thematic progression. Annihilation is re-experienced at the very core of the structure:

Those palaces have been changed into hills Of ashes and heaped dust. (41) Flood and fire have been made to govern them And their columns have crumbled down in utter destruction (42 = central verse of the poem) Empty of the inhabitants, they have turned into wasteland. The eye discerns nothing between these mounds (43) Except severed hands and feet And flung among them skulls split asunder. (44)

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 14

27/06/2013 11:24



‘O City Set Up Thy Lament’15

Not content with requesting his two companions to stop and contemplate this scene, he now urges them to proceed to what remains of the congregational mosque and to ask it about those who once worshipped there. The ruins do not respond, but their silence prompts yet more questions, all focused on the desecration of the sanctuary and the murder of the worshippers. Awareness of these events brings about a crucial turning point in the poem, which is marked by another reappearance of the question and answer theme and the loss of language. Suddenly stricken by guilt for not having helped the victims in their time of need, the poet, now speaking for himself and the survivors, realises they will be lost for words when called to account by the Almighty:

What excuse do we have and what answer When we are summoned above the heads of mankind? (57)

Instead of once more replying on behalf of the speechless, the poet, in a daring move, assumes the voice of God himself as he imagines Him chiding His people for their failure to defend both His holy sanctuary and their womenfolk (57–63). Next the poet asks his people to ‘picture the words of the Prophet’ as he reproaches them for their failings. In a final, culminating manifestation of the language leitmotif, the poet then assumes the voice of the Prophet Mu≈ammad. Speaking from beyond the grave, he declares to have heard a cry for help from a woman of Basra; however:

I did not answer her for I was dead; why Did no living being answer her on behalf of my bones? (69)

It is at this point, after verses of customary blessings for the Prophet, that the theme of vengeance is finally unleashed, with no less than nine imperatives urging the people into ferocious action (72–84). What has brought about the transformation of consciousness, from disempowered and grief-stricken mourner to determined fighter, is the reconnection through language conveyed in Ibn al-R∑m∞’s skilful adaption of the ancient theme of the speechless ruins. Speaking first on his own behalf, then for Basra and lastly for God and the Prophet, the poet, in his act of ‘founding’, has

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 15

27/06/2013 11:24

16

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

reopened the lines of communication between the survivors and the realm of the sacred, while at the same time passing through and transcending the very heart of the traumatic event. Speech, and with it action, have become possible again. The symmetrical structure of the work is summarised in Table 3. As noted above, beginning and conclusion have the same number of verses. The long middle sections of the first and second half, comprising 23 each, have distinct structures of their own. The element that links them is the theme of defilement, physical and spiritual. At the core of the first half feature six verses on the rape of the women of Basra (23–28). These are mirrored at the onset of the second half by six verses on the desecration of the city’s congregational mosque and the murder of the worshippers (45–54). Both themes are taken up in the speeches of God and the Prophet, and are clearly interconnected as acts of equally intolerable outrage which call for revenge. The gender theme in the elegy thus ranks second in dominance only to the theme of language. Rape also figures in the Book of Lamentations24 and appears to be hinted at in the Ur Lament,25 without assuming the importance it has in the Basra Elegy. The prime manifestation of female gender shared by all three works is the city herself, whether as grieving mother goddess, as fallen woman or as speechless, violated victim.

Table 3: Themes and structure of the Basra Elegy

Section

Theme

1 2

Introduction: mourning over loss (1–12) Destruction witnessed (13–35) – Scale of misfortune (13–22) – Fate of women (23–28) – Remembrance of disaster (29–35) Companions asked to view the fate of Basra (36–48) Sacrilege, guilt and divine censure – Destruction of mosque (49–54) – Realisation of guilt (55–57) – Words of God and Prophet (58–71) Conclusion: vengeance urged (72–83)

3 4

5

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 16

Number of Verses 12 23

13 23

12

27/06/2013 11:24



‘O City Set Up Thy Lament’17

Three dramatis personae Having given a structural overview of the three poems, and briefly presented their distinct ways of voicing, reliving and reinterpreting the traumatic event, I would like to examine some of their shared literary features in more detail. In particular, I wish to argue that the healing relationship between therapist and trauma victim, as conceived by modern psychotherapy, helps to explain the similarities which exist between these texts, despite their being of entirely different historical, linguistic and cultural origin. My focus thereby is not on the traumatic events themselves, which are evidently similar in all three cases, but on the manner in which the three texts use literary devices to reflect and manage the psychological consequences for the survivors. Judith Herman speaks of a ‘therapy contract’ between patient and therapist in which both partners ‘commit themselves to the task of recovery’.26 The therapist contributes knowledge and skill. He/she must be able to bear witness in an objective and disinterested manner, but also to display emotional solidarity with the patient. In return, the patient agrees to full and honest self-disclosure. The latter is a long and difficult process, in which the therapist ‘facilitates naming and the use of language and shares the emotional burden of the trauma’.27 He/she thereby ‘plays the role of a witness and ally, in whose presence the survivor can speak of the unspeakable’.28 The relationship between patient and therapist shows that the recovery of language is not a one-way street but rather the fruit of a dialogue: two different voices must be in communion with each other. When viewed over the duration of treatment, however, not only two but at least three different voices can be distinguished. The voice of the therapist as disinterested witness will not change over time and remains the same. The patient, nonetheless, is meant to undergo a transformation. His/her voice will firstly be that of the traumatised and incapacitated victim who is in the thrall of mourning; and lastly – if the treatment is successful – that of the reactivated seeker and decision maker who has recovered a sense of purpose and direction. What I wish to show in the following is that these three voices are enacted in the dramaturgy of the three texts. That all three poems exhibit a multiplicity of voices and personae has been remarked before. Green points out that the Ur Lament, like the other Sumerian laments, varies the ‘authorial voice, alternating between [the dialect] emesal and Standard Sumerian and between first, second and third person presentation’.29 She does not, however, discuss the significance of

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 17

27/06/2013 11:24

18

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

the phenomenon in further detail beyond pointing out that it is not limited to lamentations but also found in other Sumerian texts.30 As for the Basra Elegy, Beatrice Gruendler briefly mentions the variety of voices in the poem as further evidence of Ibn al-R∑m∞’s skill at ‘dramatising issues of secular or religious ethics’: ‘the dramaturgy highlights the respective central theme, personal grief and the duty to rescue and avenge fellow Muslims’.31 Only for the Book of Lamentations has the phenomenon been discussed in greater detail. In an article devoted to the topic, W. Lanahan declares that ‘the variety of voices sketches the topography of a unique spiritual consciousness which can realize itself only by projecting its grief in its constituent phases by adopting different personae’.32 He proceeds to identify five different voices, which he terms the reporter and the city (alternating in Chapters One and Two), the defeated soldier (Chapter Three), the bourgeois (Chapter Four), and lastly a choral voice (Chapter Five). For him, this polyphony of voices flows ‘from a single controlling awareness’ and therefore shows that the book is the work of one author. While Lanahan’s scheme is in itself revealing, the personae he has identified are, with one exception, too specific to the Book of Lamentations to be helpfully compared with the other texts. The three voices specified above, however, are general categories and hence more appropriate for our purpose. I will henceforth call them the witness, the mourner and the seeker, and show that each is manifest in the three texts and forms part of a dialogue which marks the path to recovery.

The witness Herman states that the therapist is ‘called upon to bear witness to a crime’. He/she must show understanding of the injustice that has taken place and maintain ‘a moral commitment to truth-telling without evasion and disguise’.33 She cites the example of a psychologist who works with Holocaust survivors. When her patients speak of relatives who have ‘died’, she will instead affirm that they have been murdered because ‘the use of the word “death” appears to be a defence against acknowledging murder as possibly the most crucial reality of the holocaust’.34 Confronting the event head-on, in order to acknowledge and name what it represents, is the task of the witness. The persona is manifest in all the three texts. It describes the scenes of death, devastation and suffering in extended passages, which testify to the need for a complete rendition of the utter dismemberment which has taken place. From a therapeutic perspective these passages stand for the ‘organised, detailed, verbal account,

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 18

27/06/2013 11:24



‘O City Set Up Thy Lament’19

oriented in time and historical context’, which patient and therapist assemble together as part of their dialogue.35 As Herman points out, however, a factual account alone is not enough: ‘a recitation of facts without the accompanying emotions is a sterile exercise, without therapeutic effect […] The description of emotional states must be as painstakingly detailed as the description of facts.’36 Of all the three texts, it is the Ur Lament that most poignantly contrasts and combines the twin focus on event and accompanying emotion in the witness-bearing passages. The witnessing voice is first heard in canto one, which is entirely terse and factual: it simply enumerates the sanctuaries abandoned by the gods. By contrast, canto two, couched in the same enumerative style, is wholly devoted to the description of the emotion generated by the event: še-eb urim2ki-ma a-še-er gig-ga-am3 a-še-er-zu gar-ra e2-kiš-nu-gal2 a-še-er-zu gig-ga-am3 a-še-er-zu gar-ra eš3 agrun-kug a-še-er gig-ga-am3 a-še-er-zu gar-ra O brick-built Urim, the lament is bitter, the lament made for you. O E-kiš-nu-gal, your lament is bitter, the lament made for you. O shrine Agrun-kug, the lament is bitter, the lament made for you. (47–49)

The witnessing voice is heard again in cantos five and six, where it discharges its principal task, describing the destruction itself. Here, event and emotion are not separated as in cantos one and two, but interwoven. As the factual and detailed account proceeds, it is interspersed no less than 26 times with a refrain that captures the accompanying emotion: ‘the people groan’. The witnessing voice in the Book of Lamentations has been recognised as such by Lanahan. He aptly terms it ‘the reporter’ who ‘is, in the main, detached, objective, descriptive, analytical, and yet not devoid of compassion’.37 His voice is heard in the narrative accounts given in Chapters One and Two. Description of fact and emotion alternate throughout, as in the following two verses which mark the beginning of the book:

How solitary lies the city once so full of people. Once great among nations, now become a widow;

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 19

27/06/2013 11:24

20

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East Once queen among provinces, now put to forced labour. (1:1) Bitterly she weeps at night, Tears run down her cheeks… (1:2)

The voice of the witness appears once more in Chapter Four which, as noted above, is the principal account of the city’s ruination. Lanahan attributes the chapter to a different persona, ‘the bourgeois’, which he extrapolates from the text. He points out, however, that this chapter, too, provides a witness statement: ‘the speaker is describing the total collapse of the state as nation, as a people and as a culture’.38 In the Basra Elegy, the act of bearing witness becomes an independent poetic theme which, like the themes of language and gender, reappears repeatedly and performs a structural role in the work’s development. It is manifest most plainly in the emphasis placed on the physical act of seeing itself. Indeed, the verb ra≥Æ, ‘to see’, and its derivatives are repeated no less than ten times in the first half of the poem, as ever more aspects of the tragedy are brought into view. The theme is hinted at already in the introductory lines, with the poet declaring in the very first verse that his eyes refuse to close and, some verses later, that a shocking sight has been witnessed:

My eyes have been deprived of sweet sleep By their preoccupation with copious tears (1) Wide awake we have seen matters That would suffice us had they been viewed in a dream (5)

The actual ‘witness statement’ itself begins in line 13 as the poet depicts what has happened until he comes to the fate of the women, where the act of seeing engenders the outrage. Here the theme reappears in the form of a thrice-repeated rhetorical question, which conveys the intensity of feeling:

Who has seen them driven along as captives Bleeding from head to foot? (26)

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 20

27/06/2013 11:25



‘O City Set Up Thy Lament’21 Who has seen them apportioned among the Zanj And divided between them by lots? (27) Who has seen them reduced to maids When they themselves had maids and servants? (28)

The ‘seeing’ sequence reaches its culmination at the centre of the poem, in the above cited verses 43–44, where the eye is described as seeing nothing but dismembered bodies. A second, no less important manifestation of the witness theme in the elegy comes to the fore in the above-mentioned relationship between the poet and the two companions. Just as it is the therapist’s task to encourage the patient to face the trauma in order to transcend it, so here the poet, in his persona as witness, urges the two companions to stop at ‘Basra the luminous’ and become cognisant of its fate. Their questioning the city and its destroyed mosque brings the witness section of the Basra Elegy to its end. Out of the full, unimpeded visualisation of the events a new voice is to arise.

The mourner Herman describes what she calls ‘the descent into mourning’ as ‘the most necessary and the most dreaded task’ in the initial stage of the patient’s recovery.39 It is often resisted out of fear of being permanently engulfed by it, or out of pride and reluctance to show weakness and hence concede victory to the perpetrator. However, ‘only through mourning everything that she has lost can the patient discover her indestructible inner life’.40 Helping the patient to negotiate this descent, and to re-emerge from it, is therefore a most critical phase in the therapeutic dialogue. As though heeding the insight of psychotherapy, the authors of our three texts give pronounced and ample scope to the expression of mourning. In the Ur Lament and the Book of Lamentations, the theme appears in two distinct guises. It is objectively described in the witness-bearing passages which dwell on the grief of the victims, as illustrated in the verses cited above. Second and more importantly, it is also subjectively experienced and given direct, unmediated expression in the voice of the mourner, who in both poems is the personification of the city: the goddess Ningal in one case and Jerusalem herself in the other. Particularly striking here is the fact that, as the act of mourning reaches its greatest intensity, the voices of witness and mourner are heard in succession. In an extended passage in canto seven of the Ur Lament, Ningal quite literally mourns ‘everything

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 21

27/06/2013 11:25

22

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

that she has lost’: not only her city, but her oxen, her sheep, her orchards, her fields, her silver and gems, her servants and slaves, and the temple which was her home. The poet, as witness, observes the scene and reports her words, in which the use of emesal, a distinct Sumerian dialect, for Ningal’s speeches, must have contributed to the dramatic effect: lu2 siki-ni numun2-bur-gin7 šu mu-ni-in-dub2-dub2 gaba-ni ub3 kug-ga-am3 i3-sag3-ge a uru2-gu10 im-me igi-ni er2-ra mi-ni-ib-zi-zi-i-zi er2 gig i3-še8-še8 me-li-e-a uru2-gu10 nu-me-a me-e ga-ša-an-bi nu-gen The woman tears at her hair as if it were rushes. She beats the holy ub drum at her chest, she cries ‘Alas, my city’. Her eyes well with tears, she weeps bitterly: ‘Woe is me, my city which no longer exists – I am not its queen’. (299–302)

In the Book of Lamentations, the duet between the voices of witness and mourner occupies the whole of Chapters One and Two. The stages of their interaction are too manifold and subtle to be examined here in detail. The concluding verses of their encounter, however, are of particular relevance for our argument, for the two are here engaged in a virtual enactment of a therapeutic dialogue. The witness turns to Jerusalem, telling her to give free and unfettered rein to her feelings:

Cry with a full heart to the Lord O wall of the daughter of Zion; let your tears run down like a torrent by day and by night Give yourself not a moment’s rest, let your tears never cease (2:18)

His words prompt Jerusalem’s descent into the abyss of grief that terminates Chapter Two. In the lucid structure of the Basra Elegy, the theme of mourning is not woven into a dialogue but occupies the introductory section, with the poet himself assuming the persona of the mourner. The initial verse describes

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 22

27/06/2013 11:25



‘O City Set Up Thy Lament’23

him being kept awake by his tears. The section concludes with the sevenfold reiteration of the phrase ‘my soul cries alas for thee’, each followed by a different exemplification of his sorrow. As in the Ur Lament, the literary device of repetition here conveys the unfettered intensity and persistence of the emotion.

The seeker The voices of witness and mourner disclose essentially static mental states. One portrays from the outside, the other from the inside, the core experience of psychological trauma: ‘disempowerment and disconnection from others’.41 The voice that I term ‘the seeker’ springs from a process of inner change and aims to engender change in turn. It reflects a future-oriented consciousness, which seeks to act, engage and reconnect. In our texts, the change of voice from mourner and witness to that of seeker takes a variety of shapes, but all of these are motivated by a single underlying thrust: the search for renewed communion with the divine presence. The chief instance of it in the Book of Lamentations is found in the central chapter. Here the crucial moment of transformation is the recovery of faith through remembrance, as voiced in verses 3:19–22 that we discussed above. From there flows action, first in the form of the introspection which leads to the speaker’s understanding of man’s guilt and God’s abiding presence, and finally in the form of the prayer for divine retribution against the aggressors, which ends the chapter. As also noted above, the Book of Lamentations as a whole ends on a collective act of prayer uttered in Chapter Five. It revisits the tribulations of the city, not in order to bear witness or to mourn, but to seek the Lord’s attention and thereby to reconnect with him:

Remember, O Lord, what has befallen us; Look, and see how we are scorned… (5:1)

The Ur Lament also concludes with appeals to divinity, which form the subject of cantos eight to 11. Here, too, we can observe a crucial moment when the voice of mourning gives way to the voice of the seeker after god. As shown above, mourning reaches its climax with Ningal’s great lament in canto seven. It ends with the despairing antiphon ‘Alas, my city, alas, my house’ (329), whereupon canto eight begins with words that seek to assuage the grieving goddess and gain her attention and trust:

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 23

27/06/2013 11:25

24

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East nin-gal šag4-zu a-gin7 du3-mu-un za-e a-gin7 i3-til3-le-en munus zid lu2 uru2 ba-e-da-gul-la i3-ne-eš2-gin7 i3-e-am3-mu2 d

O Ningal, how is your heart ……! How you have become! O good woman whose city has been destroyed, now how do you exist? (332–333)

Assuming the voice of the seeker, the poet continues by reminding the goddess of all she has lost by leaving her city. This long list mirrors Ningal’s own enumeration of her losses in canto seven, but the purpose here is not to witness or to mourn, but rather to persuade her to return once more to the city which needs her still, for only in this way can she make up for her loss. The canto concludes with an emphatic plea for her return: ama dnin-gal gud-gin7 tur3-zu-še3 udu-gin7 amaš-zu-še3 gud-gin7 tur3 ud-bi-ta-še3 udu-gin7 amaš-zu-še3 Mother Ningal, return like a bull to your cattle-pen, like a sheep to your fold, like a bull to your cattle-pen of former days, like a sheep to your fold. (378–379)

The imagery here harks back to the very beginning of the composition, which portrays the gods as having let ‘the breezes haunt their sheepfolds’. With Ningal’s return, this time of abandonment is due to end. Similar appeals to Nanna in cantos nine to 11 also portray hope for, and confidence in, the reacquisition of divine favour. Lastly we must turn to the Basra Elegy, in which a no less clear-cut moment of transition is to be found. Having viewed the full extent of the destruction, the search for reconnection to the divine presence ensues. It is here sparked off, however, by sudden awareness of the speaker’s personal responsibility for the victims of the disaster:

O how I regret I deserted them But little avails my regret for their loss. (55) How shall I be shamed before them When we meet before the Judge of Judges? (56)

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 24

27/06/2013 11:25



‘O City Set Up Thy Lament’25

This type of response is, according to Herman, ‘congruent with the thought processes of traumatised people of all ages, who search for faults in their own behaviour in an effort to make sense of what happened to them’.42 In the Book of Lamentations, it is manifest in Jerusalem’s bitter selfrecrimination and woven into her mourning. In the Ur Lament, an unspoken sense of guilt would seem to occasion Ningal’s effort to deny responsibility by narrating her fruitless attempt to intercede with the supreme gods. In the Basra Elegy, guilt is the force which prompts the seeker to realise he will be lost for words on judgement day and to imagine the chastisement of God and Prophet. The search for reconnection and reconciliation with the divine realm must pass through atonement for this failing, which can only happen by exacting revenge upon the perpetrators. Exhorting the hearers to resume the war and if need be sacrifice themselves for the sake of their salvation, the poem concludes:

So purchase with the lowliest goods that which abides; And sell severance from them in return for Eternity. (83)

In identifying the voices of witness, mourner and seeker, we have only touched upon the surface of the dramatic presentation in the texts. Further timbres and variations can be discerned in the Ur Lament and the Book of Lamentations in particular. In each work, they emanate from a single consciousness which transits through cognate phases in order to withstand the experience of near-annihilation and cope with loss. The principal means of coping is language: casting the unspeakable into words and with them into a coherent formal patterning, which in itself embodies the resurgence of the fragmented self. Examining the foundational structure of the three works has revealed something of the ordering principle each poet has chosen to adopt. The dramaturgy of the texts shows, most importantly, that, in each of them, language is not unidirectional but dialogic. The voices alternate with each other, commune with or address each other; they speak to the divine realm or emanate from it. Heidegger’s views on the ‘essence of poetry’ with which our inquiry began are relevant also here: Man’s being is grounded in language; but this actually only occurs in conversation. Conversation, however, is not only a way in which language takes place, but rather language is essential only as conversation.43

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 25

27/06/2013 11:25

26

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Heidegger proceeds to argue that human existence as such is essentially a conversation. Echoing a verse of Hölderlin, he declares ‘we are a conversation – and that means that we are able to hear from one another’.44 However, the reciprocal communion which is the hallmark of existence through language is not restricted to the human realm alone. In remarks of particular poignancy for our texts, Heidegger, still following Hölderlin, comments that it is only through language as conversation that the gods come to expression: ‘And it is precisely in the naming of the gods and in the world becoming word that authentic conversation, which we ourselves are, consists.’45 Seen from this perspective, the dramaturgy of the three texts acquires a deeper meaning. In transcending trauma not only through language, but through voices in communion with each other, and in sought after communion with the gods, existence itself is refashioned. The core of the message is this: we still are. But who, in fact, is meant by ‘we’? Who is included and who excluded?

Poetry and the dialectics of trauma The three texts each end with focus on the collective that has been afflicted by the disaster. Individual voices are heard in the earlier parts of the poems, but the finales are choral: the peoples are assembled together, speak together or are addressed together. Thus the Ur Lament declares in its final verses: šag4 kalam-ma gal2-la-zu Óe2-em-ma-an-ši-kug-ge d nanna uru2 ki-bi gi4-a-za me-teš2 Óe2-i-i May the hearts of your people who dwell in the Land be pure before you. Nanna, in your restored city may you be fittingly praised. (436–437)

Similarly, Lamentations ends with a collective prayer, while the Basra Elegy ends with the emphatic appeal for collective action we have discussed. These endings in the plural mode make it clear that the poems are meant to speak for, and to, everyone. Each work emanates from one psyche, which represents the people as a whole. In composing them, the poets discharge a public function. The peoples of the cities are contrasted with another no less important plurality: the invaders who defeated them. Their portrayal differs markedly

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 26

27/06/2013 11:25



‘O City Set Up Thy Lament’27

in the three texts. In the Ur Lament they are almost airbrushed out of the narrative. The affliction is not described as the work of human hands, but attributed to supernatural forces in the shape of the divinely ordained ‘storm’. Human agency by comparison is almost irrelevant. Only once, in canto six, are the actual perpetrators of the outrage briefly mentioned: the Sua people and the Elamites.46 The preponderance of the supernatural as causing agent chimes with the absence of the theme of revenge in this poem. Man here is a mere instrument of the gods.47 The Book of Lamentations, too, portrays the affliction as divinely ordained. The principle agent of destruction is the Lord in His wrath. Nevertheless the adversaries feature far more prominently in the narrative than in the Ur Lament, appearing as merciless persecutors who desecrate the temple and glory in the humiliation they have brought upon Jerusalem (see 2:15–16). Concomitantly, they arouse the impotent rage of their victims, and the plea for divine retribution to be visited upon them in turn is repeatedly heard: it concludes Chapters One, Three and Four, arising each time as a consequence of remembering the event and mourning the losses incurred. In the Basra Elegy, by contrast, God is divested of all responsibility for the event: He is not described as having decreed it, but merely witnesses and comments on a tragedy which the people themselves have brought about by their own failings. With the supernatural ruled out as causing agent, the invaders themselves here appear in the full spotlight of the narrative. In contrast to the earlier poems, they are fully identified, their leader is named, and their actions are described in a series of verses, with plural verbs of which they are the subject. Their portrayal as prime agents of destruction is designed to make them stand out as targets of vengeance. Unlike Lamentations, however, vengeance here does not figure as a hoped for divine retribution but is to be enacted by the victims themselves, as shown by the string of imperatives that urge the listeners to bring it about. Retribution here is not God’s work, but man’s means of regaining His favour. It follows that the differences in the portrayal of the invaders derive from the differences in the relative prominence of the divine and the human realms, which appear to represent distinct stages of human consciousness in its relation to the divine. In the Sumerian poem, the divine realm and the members of the pantheon dominate the stage and are virtually the sole actors, with man shown only as victim, instrument or supplicant. In Lamentations, man’s scope of accountability is larger, and he appears as both sinner and destroyer, but the principal actor is the Lord who does

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 27

27/06/2013 11:25

28

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

‘what he planned to do’ (2:17). In the Basra Elegy, by contrast, human agency is paramount: man causes the disaster, carries it out and atones for it, with God functioning only as witness and judge. The changing prominence of the human factor has, however, no bearing on the fundamental cleavage all three texts establish between the collective ‘we’ and the invaders. In seeking healing through ‘reconnection’, the texts not only aim to renew the link with the divine realm but, equally importantly, to re-forge a sense of communal identity among the victims, which comes to the fore in the plural address which concludes them. This resurrected identity, however, is exclusive and exists in contradistinction to that of the others: in the Sumerian text, they are, by their absence, virtually divested of human existence: in Lamentations, they are anonymous ‘enemies’ who have to pay for their evil deeds, while in the Basra Elegy they are dehumanised as ‘vile slaves’ and ‘pieces of the night’ (14, 72). From the perspective of the modern observer, a noteworthy paradox here comes into view. The analysis of the three texts through the lens of trauma therapy appears to show that the human psyche’s manner of being affected by, and coping with, trauma is trans-historical and transcultural, and hence essentially one and the same. Only in this way can the parallels between the modern therapeutic approach to trauma healing and the thematic structure of these ancient and otherwise entirely different poems be explained.48 We are here faced with the fundamental unity of the human psyche which surfaces more clearly in the confrontation with extreme events and the reactions they cause. Much in contrast to this, the texts also show that this same psyche seeks meaning and coherence in the construction of identities whose hallmark is the exclusion of others and hence the very denial of that unity. What is more, in the collective response to trauma, that denial may become even more pronounced as the preservation and aspired resurgence of an injured identity leads to the erection of yet higher separation walls between itself and others, who are excluded as irreconcilably different at best and outside the human fold at worst. Paradoxically, it is often a variant of that same attitude, this time adopted by the perpetrators, which will have brought about the trauma of the victims in the first place. The dialectics between collective trauma and the rise of exclusive, potentially aggressive conceptions of identity, to which the three texts bear witness, is evidently not limited to the distant past from which they stem. It is perceptible in numerous ongoing conflicts, and none more so than in the Israeli-Arab struggle over Palestine. Underlying this confrontation, and largely contributing to its intractability, is the legacy of two collective

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 28

27/06/2013 11:25



‘O City Set Up Thy Lament’29

traumas: the murder of European Jews by Nazi Germany and the enforced exile of much of the population of Palestine by the nascent State of Israel. Particularly poignant here is the fact that one trauma was instrumental in bringing about the other. Indeed: among the most powerful illustrations of the tragic nature of the conflict in the Middle East is that a state created as a refuge for persecuted Jews […] in turn created the problem of Palestinian refugees.49

Gilbert Achcar, the author of these words, has examined the abiding and mutually disputed legacy of this dual trauma as manifest in what he called the ‘Arab-Israeli war of narratives’. His work provides a telling insight into the mental divides to which these traumas have given rise and which continue to feed, prolong and deepen the conflict. Reverberating together with the memory of the Holocaust as principal justification for the existence of the Jewish state is that far more ancient tragedy whose memory has been preserved in one of the three poems here under study: the destruction of Jerusalem in 586 bc. Indeed, the Book of Lamentations is one of the principal literary and liturgical texts which has come to encapsulate the experience of Jewish suffering and loss, not only with respect to this historical event but at a timeless, universal level. In terms of the current conflict, one would imagine that this ‘nugget of primal grief’ provides further emotional ground for the current Israeli government’s claim of exclusive sovereignty over Jerusalem. From this perspective, the progressive marginalisation of the city’s Arab population appears as nothing but the purging of an ancient injustice. In voicing the trauma, the poet, or poets, of these verses have overcome it through language, but have also preserved it in equal measure and thus ensured its enduring impact down to the politics of the present day. The power of the poetic word is no less palpable on the Palestinian side of the divide. The symptoms of trauma – in essence, ‘disconnection’ at all levels – and the struggle to cope through remembrance, mourning and the search for ‘reconnection’ and renewed action, all the themes we have encountered above, are amply in evidence also in the large corpus of Palestinian poetry composed in the wake of the 1948 war. ‘Renewed action’ also here means first and foremost the assertion that ‘we still are’, with added poignancy since the Palestinian people for long saw their very existence denied. Then it means the elaboration of a national consciousness and the call for resistance. As for the poetry-trauma nexus itself, it is quite explicitly explored in many works of Palestine’s most famous poet,

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 29

27/06/2013 11:25

30

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Mahmoud Darwish. An example is the early poem entitled ‘elegy’, which begins as follows:

I have stitched your wound, father, With the eyelashes of my poems, And the people’s eyes cried With my grief … and with my fire.50

Expressed in these four lines is the essence of all that we have identified above in our analysis of the far longer ancient texts: the poet as source of the word that addresses, converses and hence reconnects, the word that gives form to grief, releases mourning and hence consoles. What distinguishes these lines from the earlier poems, however, is the poet’s own conscious awareness of the process he is engaged in. The therapeutic function of the poetic word is not a product of the work as in the earlier texts; instead, here it is the subject matter of the work itself. As such, the poem stands for an altogether different stage in the evolution of human consciousness: it not only gives meaning to the event, but is aware of the underlying psychological process by which meaning is given. Once this is recognised, however, that meaning is potentially no longer immutable and absolute, but relativised as the fruit of another, wider and more fundamental reality. It is precisely in such enhanced consciousness that the only real hope for moving beyond this and other inveterate conflicts resides. Its bedrock must be acceptance of the principal fact we have encountered in this journey: the fundamental oneness of the human psyche, a principle which for this state of awareness is no less vital than the oneness of God is for the monotheist creed. The uniquely poignant Arabic term for the assertion of God’s unicity, taw≈∞d, must be applied with equal fervour and justification also to that humanity in which we all share. Once this is accepted, exclusivist identities, including those spawned by the legacy of trauma, reveal themselves as what they are: mental prisons which hide from view, which disguise and disfigure that which actually makes us human. Dismantling the absolutist and narrow, and yet so often greatly cherished, claims of such identities, whether nationalist, religious, ethnic or otherwise, opens the way to a different inner attitude which makes dialogue and

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 30

27/06/2013 11:25



‘O City Set Up Thy Lament’31

compromise not only possible, but incumbent as the logical consequence of the widened vision thereby attained. In conflict situations, this step must be undertaken equally by all sides, but the onus to make the first move is on the stronger party. A pertinent example in the Middle East concerns the status of Jerusalem, that crucible which symbolises the very heart of the conflict. No bigger and more hopeful signal could be set – one that would have a truly global impact – than if that city were no longer claimed as one party’s exclusive property, but instead could be shared as a jointly owned and administered centre of political power and religious observance. The trauma of the original dispossession would then be truly overcome, and the ongoing spiral of tragedy and counter-trauma might be halted at last. Such a seismic change in collective consciousness seems illusory at the present time, though come it must eventually if peace is ever to prevail.51 However, rather than dwelling further on the socio-political implications raised by the three texts, I would like to end by viewing them once more as what they are in the first instance: aesthetic objects, works of art in which a transformation has taken place that bears witness to another human universal which is habitually taken for granted, but which should not cease to arouse astonishment. Gruesome events and untold sufferings are here remembered and relived, but refashioned into forms whose contemplation uplifts the spirit and, with increasing scrutiny of the richness of invention, arouses not only solace but delight. A poet who has pondered over this strange miracle more than most is Rilke, whose Duino Elegies can be read as a profoundly illuminating sequel to these ancient lamentations. Though not war poems as such, the Elegies were composed before and after the Great War and as such carry its imprint. Images of violence and mass slaughter are lacking, however; instead, leave-taking has become an existential condition, bringing in its wake a subtle but all-pervasive trauma which the author seeks to comprehend. The ultimate fruit of his search for meaning is the recognition that the perennial sorrows caused by transience are not to be shunned but to be cherished. They are ‘our winter-enduring foliage’, our ‘dark evergreen’, they constitute our ‘place, foundation, settlement, soil and residence’,52 for it is these very sorrows that set in motion the creative act in which the poet – and, with him or her, every creative being – is engaged. Through this act reality is, in Rilke’s words, rendered ‘invisible’ by being transformed into a different medium and thereby not only preserved from obliteration, but granted the garb of an aesthetic form which renders it into a source of a joy and a means of transcending vision. As his insight deepens, Rilke sees the earth altogether as animated by the hidden desire to be thus transformed

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 31

27/06/2013 11:25

32

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

into a higher realm of being, of which man is but the transforming agent, a realm in which sorrow itself is crystallised into luminosity. Herein perhaps lies the ultimate reason for the therapeutic function of the poetic word that we sought to trace in our study of the three texts. Remarkably, the Duino Elegies have a Middle Eastern pedigree, for the angel to which they are addressed was, according to the poet’s own admission, inspired by the angel figures of the Qur≥Æn.53 They are, he stated, in possession of an ‘infinite consciousness’ in which ‘the transformation of the visible into the invisible which we are accomplishing already appears in its completion’.54 As such, these figures also represent the pinnacle of that ‘evolution of consciousness’ of which we caught certain glimpses in the course of our deliberations. In the Ninth Elegy, the poet, having understood the accomplishment he is called upon to undertake, urges himself to address the angel by transforming world into word: Sag ihm die Dinge. Er wird staunender stehen; wie du standest bei dem Seiler in Rom, oder beim Töpfer am Nil. Zeig ihm, wie glücklich ein Ding sein kann, wie schuldlos und unser, Wie selbst das klagende Leid rein zur Gestalt sich entschliesst, dient als ein Ding, oder stirbt in ein Ding – und jenseits selig der Geige entgeht. – Und diese, von Hingang lebenden Dinge verstehen, dass du sie rühmst; vergänglich, traun sie ein Rettendes uns, den Vergänglichsten, zu. Tell him of Things. He’ll stand astonished; as you stood by the rope-maker in Rome or the potter along the Nile. Show him how happy a Thing can be, how innocent and ours, How even lamenting grief purely decides to take form, Serves as a Thing, or dies into a Thing – and blissfully escapes far beyond the violin. And these Things, which live by perishing, know you are praising them; transient they look to us for deliverance; us, the most transient of all.55

Rilke’s view ultimately implies that every work of art is in a certain sense a lamentation. It is fitting therefore that the spiritual journey of the Duino Elegies should conclude with an encounter with personified ‘laments’ who, like Ningal and personified Jerusalem, are represented as women. Residing in the Hereafter, they welcome a newly dead young man – perhaps a victim of the Great War? – who has the temerity to enter their realm. One of the elder ‘laments’ then:

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 32

27/06/2013 11:25



‘O City Set Up Thy Lament’33 leitet ihn leicht durch die weite Landschaft der Klagen zeigt ihm die Säulen der Tempel oder die Trümmer jener Burgen, von wo Klage-Fürsten das Land einst weise beherrscht. Zeigt ihm die hohen Tränenbäume und Felder blühender Wehmut… guides him through the vast landscape of Lament shows him the pillars of the temples, and the ruined walls of those castles from which, long ago, the princes of Lament wisely ruled the land. Shows him the tall trees of tears and the fields of blossoming grief…56

Through this sombre landscape the neophyte has to pass before being ultimately led to the ‘mountain range of primal grief’, beneath which flows the ‘fountainhead of joy’. The scene traversed along the way would seem to be the very one inhabited by the three texts we have perused, were it not for one major difference. Ancient ruins, tears and grief do indeed abound, but exclusion here does not exist, nor counter-violence or revenge. Instead, wise rule was once promulgated by ‘princes of Lament’, thus relegating into the distant past the vision we are in fact called upon to aspire to – a vision in which sorrow remains a creative force while the destructive dialectics of trauma are transcended and left behind.

Notes   1

With gratitude to Andrew George, Peter Phillips, Savitri Sperl, Yair Wallach and Owen Wright for their precious help. Special thanks go to Dr Ibrahim Gameel Ameen and family.  2 ‘Bei Menschen findest du manchmal ein Stück geschliffenes Ur-leid oder, aus altem Vulkan, schlackig versteinerten Zorn’, from Rilke, ‘Tenth Duino Elegy’ in Steven Mitchell (ed and tr), Ahead of All Parting: The Selected Poetry and Prose of Rainer Maria Rilke (New York, 1995), pp.392–393.  3 In the ensuing discussion the text and translation are cited according to the Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature (see http://etcsl.orinst.ox.ac.uk/ cgi-bin/etcsl.cgi?text=t.2.2.2# for the translation and http://etcsl.orinst.ox.ac. uk/cgi-bin/etcsl.cgi?text=c.2.2.2&display=Crit&charenc=gcirc# for the text, accessed on 30 May 2012). For another recent critical edition of the Sumerian text see W. H. Ph. Römer, Die Klage über die Zerstörung von Ur (Münster, 2004). For other English translations see Samuel N. Kramer, ‘A Sumerian Lamentation’ in James B. Pritchard (ed), Ancient Near Eastern texts relating to the Old Testament (Princeton, 1950), pp.455–463, and Thorkild Jacobsen, That Harps That Once… Sumerian Poetry in Translation (Yale, 1987), pp.447–474. The title of this article is a citation from Kramer’s translation (456).

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 33

27/06/2013 11:25

34

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

 4

Unless otherwise indicated, the text of Lamentations is cited according to the translation in the New English Bible. The Hebrew text is cited according to http://www.mechon-mamre.org/p/pt/pt3205.htm, accessed on 30 May 2012.  5 For the Arabic text see ∏arrÆd, M., √aydar, U., Aslim, F., Nu≤ayyim, A. and MÆy∑, Q. (eds), D∞wÆn Ibn al-R∑m∞ 6 (Beirut, 1998), pp.2377–2382. The translation is adapted from that of Arthur J. Arberry which appears in his book Arabic Poetry, A Primer for Students (Cambridge, 1965), pp.62–73. The destruction of Basra which is the subject of the poem is attested also in other contemporary sources. For the historical background see al-∏abar∞, Mu≈ammad b. Jar∞r, History xxxvi, The Revolt of the Zanj, tr D. Waines (Albany, 1992), A. Popovic, The Revolt of African Slaves in Iraq in the 3rd/9th Century (Princeton, 1999) and H. Kennedy, ‘Caliphs and their chroniclers in middle Abbasid period (third/ninth century)’ in Texts, Documents and Artefacts: Studies in Honour of D.S. Richards, edited by C.F. Robinson (Leiden, 2003). For a general survey of classical Arabic city laments see Hussein Bayyoud, Die Stadt in der arabischen Poesie, bis 1258 n.Chr. (Berlin, 1988), pp.82–123. Another Arabic city lament is discussed in Hugh Kennedy’s contribution to this book (Chapter 6).   6 The enormous symbolic importance of sanctuaries in war time is undiminished to this day. We need only think of the image of St Paul’s Cathedral withstanding the Blitz, or the destruction of the Golden Dome in Samarra in 2006 that nearly plunged Iraq into civil war.   7 For a survey of major literary studies on trauma and memory see Abdennebi Ben Beya, ‘The Question of Reading Traumatic Testimony: Jones’s Corregidora and Morrison’s Beloved’, in Alif 30, ‘Trauma and Memory’ (2010), pp.85–108.   8 Herman, Judith Lewis, Trauma and Recovery from Domestic Abuse to Political Terror (London, 2010), p.51.  9 Herman, Trauma, p.133. 10 Herman, Trauma, p.175. 11 Heidegger, Martin, ‘Hölderlin and the Essence of Poetry’ in Martin Heidegger, Elucidations of Hölderlin’s Poetry, translation and introduction Keith Hoeller (New York, 2000), p.56. 12 Heidegger, ‘Hölderlin’, p.60. 13 Heidegger, ‘Hölderlin’, p.64. 14 For a survey of scholarly opinions on the cultic setting of the Ur Lament see Römer, Die Klage, pp.4–5. 15 On the ‘Weeping Goddess’ in Sumerian literature generally, see Samuel N. Kramer, ‘The Weeping Goddess: Sumerian Prototypes of the Mater Dolorosa’ in The Biblical Archaeologist, xlvi/2 (1983), pp.69–80. 16 To be noted here is the detailed structural analysis of the book undertaken by Johan Renkema, which reveals numerous interconnections between the five chapters that show them to be ‘a well-thought out composition’ possibly composed by poets working as together as a team. See Johan Renkema, ‘The Literary Structure of Lamentations I – IV’ in Willem van den Meer and Johannes C. de Moor (eds), The Structural Analysis of Biblical and Canaanite Poetry (Sheffield, 1988), p.391. 17 Renkema, Johan, ‘The Meaning of Parallel Acrostics in Lamentations’ in Vetus Testamentum xl (1995), p.379. 18 For different approaches to the structure of Chapter Three of Lamentations see Gordis, who divides it into five different sections of unequal length (Robert Gordis, ‘Commentary on the Text of Lamentations’ in The Jewish Quarterly Review, New Series, lxx/1 (1967), pp.18–20), and Renkema, who divides it

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 34

27/06/2013 11:25



‘O City Set Up Thy Lament’35

into two mirroring cantos of 33 lines each (Renkema, ‘The Literary Structure’, pp.321–334). 19 For a different view on the lack of acrostics in the final chapter of Lamentations see William F. Lanahan, ‘The Speaking Voice in the Book of Lamentations’ in Journal of Biblical Literature, xciii/1 (1974), p.49. 20 McKinney, Robert C., The Case of Rhyme versus Reason. Ibn al-R∑m∞ and his Poetics in Context (Leiden, 2004), p.490. 21 The Mu≤allaqa by the pre-Islamic poet Imru al-Qays on which see among others Arthur J. Arberry,The Seven Odes (London, 1957), pp.31–66. 22 Jacobsen, The Harps, p.448. 23 Understanding the topos of speechlessness, and with it the entire aπlÆl scene of the qa∆∞da as the manifestation of a ‘trauma’ that the poem itself is there to overcome, has significant implications for the qa∆∞da form as a whole. Its conventional sequence of separation, desert journey and concluding praise of tribe or self has been interpreted as a poetic manifestation of the rite of passage with its three stages of separation, liminality and reaggregation (on this see notably Suzanne Stetkevych, ‘Structuralist Interpretations of Pre-Islamic Poetry: Critique and New Directions’ in Journal of Near Eastern Studies xlii/2 (1983), pp.98–107). Though in many ways fecund as interpretative model, a concrete link between the qa∆∞da and an actual ‘rite of passage’ as a social ceremony has never been established. Seeing the form as a progression from mourning and remembrance to the individual’s ‘reconnection’ both to himself and to his social group would seem to be a more appropriate and meaningful understanding of its psychological progression. The desert journey of the pre-Islamic ode, which lies between separation and concluding return to the human fold, then also appears in new light: it is the long and arduous journey to healing, much helped by a ‘therapeutic relationship’, namely that between the poet and his camel which is in fact the principal topic of the journey section. These observations will be the subject of a further study. 24 See Lamentations 5:11. 25 Jacobsen, The Harps, p.465. 26 Herman, Trauma, pp.147, 148. 27 Herman, Trauma, p.179. 28 Herman, Trauma, p.175. 29 Green, Margaret Whitney, ‘Eridu in Sumerian Literatures’, PhD Thesis submitted to the University of Chicago (Chicago, 1975), p.88. 30 Green, Eridu, pp.313–314. 31 Gruendler, Beatrice, Medieval Arabic Praise Poetry: Ibn al-R∑m∞ and the Patron’s Redemption (London & New York, 2003), p.265. 32 Lanahan, ‘The Speaking Voice’, p.42. 33 Herman, Trauma, p.135. 34 Ibid. 35 Herman, Trauma, p.177. 36 Ibid. 37 Lanahan, ‘The Speaking Voice’, p.47. 38 Ibid. 39 Herman, Trauma, p.188. 40 Ibid. 41 Herman, Trauma, p.133. 42 Herman, Trauma, p.103. 43 Heidegger, ‘Hölderlin’, p.56.

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 35

27/06/2013 11:25

36

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

44 Heidegger, ‘Hölderlin’, p.57. 45 Heidegger, ‘Hölderlin’, p.58. 46 Jacobsen, The Harps, p.462. 47 Revenge generally does not figure as a principal theme in Sumerian city laments. According to Green’s summary only one of them contains ‘prayers for the downfall of the enemy’ (Green, Eridu, 292; see also her summary of the themes of the city laments in which vengeance does not figure, pp.295–310). 48 Though it has been argued that the Sumerian city laments, and the Ur Lament in particular, influenced the biblical Book of Lamentations, the issue remains a matter of dispute. Following a comparative study of the texts, Thomas McDaniel concluded that any such claim of literary dependence should be abandoned, since the similarities are only of a general nature and there is no evidence of literary transmission from Sumerian to Hebrew sources (see Thomas F. McDaniel, ‘The Alleged Sumerian Influence on Lamentations’ in Vetus Testamentum iixx/2 (1969), pp.198–209). 49 Achcar, Gilbert, The Arabs and the Holocaust: The Arab-Israeli War of Narratives (New York, 2011), p.29. 50 Darwish, Mahmoud, D∞wÆn 1 (Beirut, 1994), p.16. 51 ‘How many millions share the view that a global nous exists, that it is becoming more aware, that it understands the time has come for humanity’s killing habits to end?’, Adriaan De Hoog, Natalia’s Peace (Ottawa, 2011), p.119. 52 Mitchell, Rilke, p.389 (Tenth Elegy). 53 On this see Karen J. Campbell, ‘Rilke’s Duino Angels and the Angles of Islam’ in Alif: Journal of Comparative Poetics xxiii (2003), pp.191–211. Rilke was profoundly moved by the Qur≥Æn and at one point declared that ‘it takes on a voice for me, in which I’m immersed with all my strength, like the wind in the organ’ (196). 54 Letter by Rilke to his editor in Briefe in zwei Bänden, ed Horst Naleweski, (Frankfurt am Main & Leipzig, 1991), vol. 2, p.377. 55 Mitchell, Rilke, pp.385–387. 56 Mitchell, Rilke, p.393.

Bibliography Achcar, Gilbert, The Arabs and the Holocaust: The Arab-Israeli War of Narratives (New York, 2011). Arberry, Arthur J., Arabic Poetry, A Primer for Students (Cambridge, 1965). ———, The Seven Odes (London, 1957). Bayyoud, Hussein, Die Stadt in der arabischen Poesie, bis 1258 n.Chr. (Berlin, 1988). Ben Beya, Abdennebi, ‘The Question of Reading Traumatic Testimony: Jones’s Corregidora and Morrison’s Beloved’, in Alif: Journal of Comparative Poetics, 30, ‘Trauma and Memory’ (2010), pp.85–108. Campbell, Karen J., ‘Rilke’s Duino Angels and the Angels of Islam’ in Alif: Journal of Comparative Poetics xxiii (2003), pp.191–211. Darwish, Mahmoud, D∞wÆn (Beirut, 1994). De Hoog, Adrian, Natalia’s Peace (Ottawa, 2011). Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature, ‘The Lament for Urim’, translation, available at http://etcsl.orinst.ox.ac.uk/cgi-bin/etcsl.cgi?text=t.2.2.2#, text, available

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 36

27/06/2013 11:25



‘O City Set Up Thy Lament’37

at http://etcsl.orinst.ox.ac.uk/cgi-bin/etcsl.cgi?text=c.2.2.2&display=Crit&chare nc=gcirc#, accessed 30 May 2012. Gordis, Robert, ‘Commentary on the Text of Lamentations – Part Two’ in The Jewish Quarterly Review, New Series, lviii/1 (1967), pp.14–33. Green, Margaret Whitney, ‘Eridu in Sumerian Literatures’, PhD Thesis submitted to the University of Chicago (Chicago, 1975). Gruendler, Beatrice, Medieval Arabic Praise Poetry: Ibn al-R∑m∞ and the Patron’s Redemption (London & New York, 2003). Heidegger, Martin, ‘Hölderlin and the Essence of Poetry’ in Martin Heidegger, Elucidations of Hölderlin’s Poetry, translation and introduction Keith Hoeller (New York, 2000). Herman, Judith Lewis, Trauma and Recovery from Domestic Abuse to Political Terror (London, 2010). Jacobsen, Thorkild, The Harps That Once… Sumerian Poetry in Translation (Yale, 1987). Kennedy, Hugh, ‘Caliphs and their chroniclers in the middle Abbasid period (third/ ninth century)’ in C. F. Robinson (ed), Texts, Documents and Artefacts: Studies in Honour of D. S. Richards (Leiden, 2003). Kramer, Samuel N., ‘A Sumerian Lamentation’ in James B. Pritchard (ed), Ancient Near Eastern texts relating to the Old Testament (Princeton, 1950), pp.455–463. ———, ‘The Weeping Goddess: Sumerian Prototypes of the Mater Dolorosa’ in The Biblical Archaeologist xlvi/2 (1983), pp.69–80. Lanahan, William F., ‘The Speaking Voice in the Book of Lamentations’ in Journal of Biblical Literature xciii/1 (1974), pp.41–49. McDaniel, Thomas F., ‘The Alleged Sumerian Influence on Lamentations’ in Vetus Testamentum iixx/2 (1969), pp.198–209. McKinney, Robert C., The Case of Rhyme versus Reason. Ibn al-R∑m∞ and his Poetics in Context (Leiden, 2004). Mitchell, Steven (ed and tr), Ahead of All Parting: The Selected Poetry and Prose of Rainer Maria Rilke (New York, 1995). Popovic, A., The Revolt of African Slaves in Iraq in the 3rd/9th Century (Princeton, 1999). Renkema, Johan, ‘The Literary Structure of Lamentations I–IV’ in Willem van den Meer and Johannes C. de Moor, The Structural Analysis of Biblical and Canaanite Poetry (Sheffield, 1988), pp.249–369. ———, ‘The Meaning of Parallel Acrostics in Lamentations’ in Vetus Testamentum xl (1995), pp.379–383. Rilke, Rainer Maria, Briefe in zwei Bänden, ed Horst Naleweski (Frankfurt am Main & Leipzig, 1991). Römer, W. H. Ph., Die Klage über die Zerstörung von Ur (Münster, 2004). Stetkevych, Suzanne, ‘Structuralist Interpretations of Pre-Islamic Poetry: Critique and New Directions’ in Journal of Near Eastern Studies xlii/2 (1983), pp.98–107. al-∏abar∞, Mu≈ammad b. Jar∞r, History xxxvi, The Revolt of the Zanj, tr D. Waines (Albany, 1992). ∏arrÆd, M., √aydar, U., Aslim, F., Nu≤ayyim, A. and MÆy∑, Q. (eds), D∞wÆn Ibn al-R∑m∞ (Beirut, 1998).

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 37

27/06/2013 11:25

01_Warfare&Poetry_Ch1_001-038.indd 38

27/06/2013 11:25

Chapter 2

The Poem of Erra and Ishum: A Babylonian Poet’s View of War A. R. George Introduction The history of war begins in ancient Iraq. The earliest reported conflict in human history was fought by neighbouring city-states, Lagash and Umma, in the mid-third millennium bc. The early course of the war is reported by Enmetena, ruler of Lagash, in a Sumerian cuneiform inscription preserved on clay objects (a cone, a cylinder, two votive jars) that commemorate his restoration of a religious building that had been damaged in the war (Cooper 1986:54–57 La 5.1; Frayne 2008:194–199). The text records a succession of aggressive acts and retaliations. The prose is bald and matter-of-fact. The following passage is typical. It recounts the invasion of Lagash’s territory by Ur-Lumma of Umma and his allies during the time of Enmetena’s father, Enannatum, and their repulse by forces commanded by his son: kur-kur e-ma-Óun e ki-sur-ra dnin-gír-su-ka-ka e-ma-ta-bal en-an-na-túm en5-si lagaški-ke4 gána-úgig-ga a-šàaša5 dnin-gír-su-ka-ka giš ur-ur-šè e-da-lá en-te:me-na dumu ki-ág en-an-na-túm-ma-ke4 tùn-šè ì-ni-sè ur-lum-ma ba-da-kar šà ummaki-šè e-gaz anše-ni érin 60-am6 gú íd-lum-ma-gír-nun-ta-ka e-šè-tag nam-lú-ùlu-ba gìr-pad-rá-bi eden-da e-da-tag4-tag4 saÓar-du6-tag4-bi ki-iá-a ì-mi-dub Enmetena 28–29 iii 1–27

He enlisted (troops from) all countries and crossed over the boundary ditch of the god Ningirsu (i.e. of Lagash). Enannatum, ruler of Lagash, joined battle

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 39

27/06/2013 11:39

40

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East with him at close quarters in Wheatfield, land belonging to the god Ningirsu (i.e. to Lagash). Enmetena, Enannatum’s beloved child, defeated him. Ur-Lumma ran away but was killed in Umma. He abandoned his chariotry, sixty teams strong, at the bank of the Lumma-Girnunta canal. The bones of their personnel were left scattered all over the plain. (Enmetena) heaped up burial mounds for them in five different places.

This and other accounts of the war from Lagash are already vivid in detail but do not make for impartial history-writing: Umma is always the unjust aggressor and Lagash always triumphs after initial defeat. Nevertheless, the detail encourages a belief that the sequence of events reported in the narrative of this and other inscriptions from Lagash is chronologically accurate, even if tendentious. On this basis, modern scholars have confidently written histories of the conflict (e.g. Lambert 1956, Cooper 1983, Bauer 1998:445–495). The war was fought over the rich arable land that lay between the two city-states. The territories of Lagash and Umma straddled what is now the road north from Nasiriya to Kut al-Imara in southern Iraq. The road runs parallel to the Shatt al-Gharraf, also known as the Shatt al-Hai, a watercourse that brings water from the Tigris to the country north of Nasiriya. In antiquity an ancestor of the same watercourse was considered part of the Tigris itself, and acknowledged as the source of Lagash’s prosperity, for it provided water to irrigate the land and produce the enormous yields of barley that were typical of the whole country and, much later, astonished Herodotus. One may reflect with melancholy that this fertile plain is now largely a barren waste, and that the road through it not long ago provided an easy route for tanks going into battle in the invasion of Iraq. Like many conflicts over natural resources, the war between Lagash and Umma was no short affair, for the inscriptions of Enmetena and others tell that it flared up during the reigns of successive rulers across several generations. Victory eventually fell to Umma, whose ruler Lugalzaggesi (fl. 2350 bc) sacked Lagash, destroyed its sanctuaries and brought a temporary end to its existence as an independent state. Thus the people of Iraq, ancient and modern, have had the misfortune to witness war at both extremes of human history. War has returned to them on many occasions during the interval of 4,500 years that elapsed between Enmetena and Saddam Hussein. This chapter considers a long Akkadian composition of the first millennium bc, in which a Babylonian poet reflects on his own experience of war in the land that is now Iraq. The composition is usually called the poem of Erra and Ishum. In order

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 40

27/06/2013 11:39



The Poem of Erra and Ishum41

to understand it better, it is apt first to examine other literary responses to war that survive in the extant poetry and prose of ancient Mesopotamia. These responses occur in texts composed in the two literary languages of Babylonia: Sumerian (mostly older) and Akkadian (mostly later).

Heroic war in Babylonian literature There is no shortage of literary description of war in ancient Mesopotamia. The Akkadian annals of Assyrian kings, especially, are punctuated by accounts of military campaigns. Some of these are written in highly literary language. A fine example is the composition known as Sargon’s Eighth Campaign, in reality a campaign report by an Assyrian king, Sharru-ken II (biblical Sargon, reigned 721–705 bc). There he debriefs the national god Assur on the outcome of a long and difficult campaign conducted in the Zagros mountains of Iraq and Iran, present-day Kurdistan, in 714 bc (Mayer 1983, Foster 2005:790–813). The report is notable for unusual and original descriptions of the terrain crossed by the Assyrian army. The major battle scene also deploys literary language but is comparatively brief. A more extended description of battle from ancient Mesopotamia occurs in the account of the eighth campaign of Sargon’s son and successor on the throne of Assyria, Sîn-ahhe-er∞ba (biblical Sennacherib, 704–681 bc). This campaign was fought against Elam (modern Khuzistan) and its Babylonian allies in 691 bc, and culminated in a great battle at Halule, a town on the Tigris perhaps somewhere near modern Samarra. This is Sennacherib’s version of events: ina qib∞t Aššur beli rabî bel∞ya ana šiddi u p∑ti k∞ma t∞b meÓê šamri ana nakri az∞q ina kakk∞ Aššur bel∞ya u t∞b tÆÓÆz∞ya ezzi irassun ane’ma suÓÓurtašunu aškun ummÆnÆt nakiri ina u∆∆∞ mulmull∞ ušaqqirma gimri pagr∞šunu upalliša UD-ziziš Humban-undaša nÆgiru ša šar Elamti eπlu pitqudu muma”er ummÆnÆt∞šu tukultašu rabû adi rabût∞šu ša patar šibbi ÓurÆ∆i šitkun∑ u ina šemir∞ a∆pi ÓurÆ∆i ruššî rukkusÆ rittešun k∞ma š∑r∞ marûti ša nadû šummannu urruÓiš upallikšun∑tima aškuna taÓtâšun kišÆdÆtešunu unakkis asliš aqrÆti napšÆtešunu uparri’ g∑’iš k∞ma m∞li gapši ša šam∑tu simÆni umunn∞šunu ušardâ ∆er er∆eti šadilti lasm∑ti murnisq∞ ∆imitti ruk∑b∞ya ina damešunu gapš∑ti išallû nÆriš ša narkabat tÆÓÆz∞ya sÆpinat raggi u ∆eni damu u paršu ritmuk∑ magarr∑š pagr∞ qurÆd∞šunu k∞ma urq∞ti umallâ ∆era sapsapÆte unakkisma baltašun Æbut k∞ma b∞n∞ qiššê simÆni unakkis qÆt∞šun šemer∞ a∆pi ÓurÆ∆i ki.sag ebbi ša ritt∞šunu amÓur ina nam∆ar∞ zaqt∑ti Óu∆ann∞šunu

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 41

27/06/2013 11:39

42

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East uparri’ patr∞ šibbi ÓurÆ∆i kaspi ša qabl∞šunu ekim … š∑ Umman-menanu šar Elamti adi šar BÆbili nasikkÆni ša mÆt Kaldi Ælik∑t id∞šu Óurbašu tÆÓÆz∞ya k∞malê zumuršunu isÓup zarÆtešun umaššer∑ma ana š∑zub napšÆt∞šunu pagr∞ ummÆnÆt∞šun uda”iš∑ etiq∑ k∞ ša atmi summati kuššudi itarrak∑ libb∑šun š∞nÆtešun u∆arrap∑ qereb narkabÆt∞šunu umaššer∑ni zûšun ana radÆd∞šunu narkabÆti sisîya uma”er ark∞šun munnaribšunu ša ana napšÆte ∑∆û ašar ikaššad∑ urassab∑ ina kakki Oriental Institute Prism v 76–vi 16, 24–35 (text Luckenbill 1924:183–185)

By command of the great lord Assur, my lord, I blasted against the enemy to front and side like the onslaught of a violent tempest. With the weapons of my lord Assur and the fierce onslaught of my battle I turned their advance and put them into retreat. With arrows and darts I pierced the enemy’s troops and perforated their entire bodies like pin-cushions(?).   Humban-undaša, the marshal of the king of Elam, a well-trusted fellow who commanded his army, his main hope, along with his officers, whose belts were equipped with gold daggers and arms girt with sling-bands of ruddy gold – I butchered them forthwith like fattened steers tethered by rope and brought about their demise. I slit their throats like sheep. I sliced through their precious necks as through thread. I made their blood course over the broad earth like a flood cresting in the rainy season. The thoroughbred stallions harnessed to my vehicle plunged at a gallop into deep pools of their blood as into a river. The wheels of my battle chariot, which lays low wicked and evil, were awash with blood and gore. I filled the plain like grass with the corpses of their warriors. I cut off their moustaches and robbed them of dignity. Like the fruit of a ripe cucumber I cut off their hands and took from their arms the sling-bands of pure gold and silver. With sharp swords I severed their belts. I robbed them of the daggers of gold and silver at their waists…   Umman-menanu, the king of Elam, along with the king of Babylon and sheikhs of Chaldaea who accompanied him – terror of my battle overwhelmed their persons like a spectre. They abandoned their tents and, to save their lives, escaped by trampling over the corpses of their soldiers, their hearts pounding like a hunted pigeon-chick’s. Scalding their chariots with urine they fouled them with excrement. I commanded my chariotry to chase after them, in order to cut down those running for their lives wherever they could catch up with them.

We know from the Babylonian chronicle, a less partial source, that the outcome of this battle, for all Sennacherib’s claims of a rout, was actually an Assyrian reverse.1 Leaving aside the historical context and turning to

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 42

27/06/2013 11:39



The Poem of Erra and Ishum43

literary issues, the passage is notable for its bombastic style and rhetorical ambition, conveyed especially in its choice of vocabulary and relentless (but often mundane) imagery. This can be seen in translation. So too can the literary allusions that give the account a ‘mythical dimension’ by recalling the primeval battle of the gods that gave order to the cosmos (Weissert 1997). Less visible is a syntactical feature, in which the verb of some clauses is placed in the penultimate position.2 In normal Akkadian, verbs fall at the end of the clause. In prose, unlike in poetry, the penultimate placing of a verb in its clause does not occur where the conjunctive enclitic particle (-ma) binds the clause to what follows. Its function thus seems to be pausal. Penultimate placing of the verb is a standard feature of elevated Akkadian prose, going back to the third millennium (George 2007a:41). It marks the present passage, and indeed Sennacherib’s inscription as a whole, as a deliberately literary artefact. As a literary artefact, a piece of writing can exhibit more than just elevated language and special syntax. It can also display a particular tone. In this case, the tone is heroic. The heroic style is not only achieved by language; it is also achieved by the ideas that the language conveys. This is important for the present purpose. The idea expressed here is that the battlefield is a place of carnage, but the carnage is glorious. The gory details so carefully composed redound to the glory of the king, giving the impression of a heroic figure charging through the field in his chariot, impervious to danger and laying low the enemy on all sides. The text speaks of the ideal kingly exploit rather than reality, for Sennacherib was probably at home in his palace when the battle was fought. This gave the composer all the more leeway to present a heroic embellishment of the battle rather than a purely factual description. The heroic view of war articulated in Sennacherib’s annals and other royal inscriptions is characteristic of much ancient writing on war, not least in Mesopotamia. It can be explored by a brief exposition of one particular trope, the idea that war is a festival. This idea is typical of poets of ancient Mesopotamia and firmly entrenched in their repertory. The exact word ‘festival’ occurs in this context in two compositions of the early second millennium. The Sumerian narrative poem Lugale elaborates a myth in which a young warrior-god defeats a demonic mountain that threatens order. In the course of the god Ninurta’s preparations for battle, one of his weapons cautions against doing battle with the monstrous Asag: en mè ne-en rib-ba-šè ba-ra-ab-ši-gen-né-en giš tukul-sìg-ge ezen nam-guruš-a

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 43

27/06/2013 11:39

44

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East ešemen dinanna-ke4 á-zu ba-ra-ni-zi en mè-maÓ-a la-ba-e-du-un na-ab-ul4-en gìri ki-a si-bí-ib d nin-urta á-sàg-e kur-ra gìri mu-e-ši-ni-gub-gub Lugale 135–139, second-millennium text, van Dijk 1983/I 69

My lord, do not go forth to a combat so giant! Do not raise your arm where weapons clash, in the festival of young men, the dance of Inanna! My lord, do not go rushing to a battle (so) serious, keep your feet fixed here! O Ninurta, on the mountain there lurks in wait for you Asag.

The motif of the cautious servant who advises against a fight occurs elsewhere in Mesopotamian literature, notably in the Babylonian Epic of Gilgamesh, where the hero’s companion Enkidu cautions him against attacking the monster Humbaba in the mountain of the Cedar Forest. An Old Babylonian version of this Akkadian poem reads thus: ∞dema ibr∞ ina šadî I knew him, my friend, in the  uplands, in∑ma attallaku itti b∑lim when I roamed here and there with   the herd. ana š∑ši berÆ nummât qištum All about for sixty leagues the   forest’s a wilderness, mannu ša urradu ana libb∞ša who is there would venture inside it? HuwÆwa rigmašu ab∑bu Huwawa’s roar is the Deluge, p∞šu Girrumma nap∞ssu m∑tum his mouth is Fire, his breath is  Death! amm∞nim taÓšiÓ anni’am epešam Why desire to take this action? qabal lÆ maÓÆr šupat HuwÆwa Huwawa’s ambush is a battle  unwinnable. OB Gilgamesh III (Y) 106–116, George 2003:198

The two passages, Sumerian and Akkadian, elaborate the exact same theme in the very similar circumstances, and are an example of the common ideas that could inform literary creativity in both languages. Apart from the motif of the cautious servant, this passage of Babylonian Gilgamesh shares with Lugale the image of the monstrous opponent lurking ready to surprise the hero in unfamiliar territory, but it does not express the heroic idea that battle is a festival (Sumerian ezen in Lugale).

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 44

27/06/2013 11:39



The Poem of Erra and Ishum45

Elsewhere in Gilgamesh, however, the idea is explicit. Enkidu’s early misgivings are set aside when it becomes clear that his king will go to the Cedar Mountain, come what may. On the journey to the forest Gilgamesh has a series of nightmares, and Enkidu’s task is to give them a reassuring explanation. Each explanation is a prophecy of perilous combat leading to ultimate success. The following lines explain a nightmare in which Gilgamesh is pinned down by a mountain avalanche but then extricated: inanna HuwÆwa ša nillak∑šum Now this Huwawa whom we go  against, ul šadûmma nukkur mimma is he not the mountain? He is   different in every way! tennemmidÆma išti’at teppuš You and he will come face to face   and you will do a thing unique, par∆am ša mutim šipirti zikari the rite of a warrior, the task of a man. urta”ab uzzašu el∞ka He’ll make his fury rage against you, ulawwa puluÓtašu birk∞ka he’ll wrap his terror tight around   your legs. OB Gilgamesh Schøyen, 16–20, George 2009:30

The context in which the poet inserts the line par∆am ša mutim šipirti zikari is clear enough. Gilgamesh will encounter his monstrous enemy and combat will ensue, unique because never before experienced in the history of heroism: a mortal king will fight a god. The line that occupies us here expresses the idea of battle through metonyms, ‘the rite of a warrior, the task of a man’. Combat is a masculine activity but, more than that, it is a divinely ordained duty (par∆um). The word par∆um in the previous passage is close in meaning to ‘festival’ and there takes the same function. Other Old Babylonian compositions in Akkadian use isinnum ‘festival’, a loanword from Sumerian ezen, the word encountered already in Lugale 136. In Lugale, battle was not only a ‘festival’ but also the ‘dance of Inanna’. Inanna was the Sumerian name for the ancient Mesopotamian goddess of war and sex. According to the poet of one Sumerian hymn in her honour, war was an expression of her joy, the very music of her being: šà-Óúl-la-ka-ni šìr nam-úš-a edin-na mu-un-gá-gá šìr šà-ga-ni gá-gá-da-ni giš tukul-bi úš lugud mu-un-tu5-tu5 Inninšagurra 43–45, Sjöberg 1975:182

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 45

27/06/2013 11:39

46

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East With joyous heart she brings a song of death to the field (of battle), and while her heart performs the song, she soaks their weapons in blood and gore.

The Babylonians called this goddess Ishtar. Her nature as a goddess of sex has been much explored, but there have been fewer studies of the textual evidence for her as war-goddess (e.g. Bottéro 1987, Zsolnay 2010). The Old Babylonian poem of Agushaya eulogises Ishtar in her aspect as divine patron of warfare, among others, and asserts once more that isinša tamÓÆru ‘her festival is battle’ (text Groneberg 1997:76 iii 7 // 11). The metaphor is part of the repertoire in poems that describe battle, and at least two more occurrences of it survive in Akkadian poetry. One is also Old Babylonian, in a heroic poem about the inimitable conquests of a legendary third-millennium king, Sargon of Akkade. In a passage that celebrates the qualities of a warrior, the poet looks forward to battle on the morrow, when isinnum ša mut∞ innepuš ‘the festival of men will be enacted’ (text Westenholz 1997:62 i 19).3 A long narrative poem about the Assyrian king Tukulti-Ninurta II’s conquest of Babylonia employs the trope twice. First the Assyrian looks forward to battle as an occasion when divine justice will be meted out to his untrustworthy adversary, king Kashtiliash of Babylon, and hopes that ina isin tamÓÆri šâtu etiq mam∞ti ay elâ ‘he who broke his vow [i.e. the Babylonian enemy] shall not survive the festival of combat’ (text Kuk 1981:99 IIIa 20). A battle duly won, and the coward Kashtiliash put to flight, the Assyrian warriors urge their king to have them attack the Babylonian army and march on Babylon, reflecting how, since the beginning of Tukulti-Ninurta’s reign, they have enjoyed nothing but warfare, and qablu u ippiru isinnani Óid∑tni(?) ‘combat and fighting are a festival and a joy to us!’ (text Kuk 1981:106 V 11). The heroic vision of war is a young man’s idea. First-hand experience of battle often leads to a revision of that idea. General William Sherman (1820–1891) knew much of war, for he rose to command Union forces in the American Civil War and thereafter led the US army in the Indian wars of the 1870s. In 1880 he gave an impromptu address to a large crowd of veteran soldiers and civilians in Columbus, Ohio, and made the much quoted observation: ‘There is many a boy here today who looks on war as all glory but, boys, it is all hell.’ These simple words of an old soldier neatly assert the divide between the juvenile idealism of the heroic view of war and the realism of those who have been through it. The same divide exists in literature, between the heroic idea of war, documented above for Babylonia, and a very different response. To the latter we now turn.

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 46

27/06/2013 11:39



The Poem of Erra and Ishum47

Non-heroic war in Babylonia: The poem of Erra and Ishum The Babylonian poem of Erra and Ishum, like many literary compositions in Akkadian, is currently in the process of reconstruction. It was last subject to a critical edition 40 years ago (Cagni 1969), but a more up-todate reconstruction informs the most recent English translation (Foster 2005:880–911). Much of it is now extant, but further discoveries of text are needed in order to gain complete knowledge of it. For the moment we have the text in five sections (‘tablets’) of unequal length, yielding a total of nearly 700 lines of poetry. The middle of the poem is especially fragmentary (Tablets II–III), but the poem was probably about 800 lines when complete.4 The poem’s date of composition is disputed. The oldest manuscripts come from the royal library of Nineveh (mid-seventh century bc), but scholars have judged variously from the poem’s content that it is anything from 400 to 100 years older than that (Machinist 1983:221, Beaulieu 2000:25–29, Frahm 2010:7). The content is mainly a succession of long speeches, through which is described the destruction of Babylonian cities in a combination of civil war and foreign invasion. The historical background is a long period of weak rule in Babylonia punctuated by violent disorder, which began with the Aramean incursions of the eleventh century and continued to the eighth century. For much of this period very little is known of Babylonian history, and only slightly more of Assyrian. The poem is formally kin to the traditional Babylonian mythological narrative poetry, often called ‘epic’, as in the Creation Epic (Talon 2005, Lambert 2008:37–59) and the Epic of Gilgamesh (George 2003), but represents a radical departure from it in style (Foster 2007:106–109). Its form is much less the customary narrative and much more extended rhetorical monologue; the speeches serve to tell the story and thus function as narrative. In this respect it recalls the old Sumerian genre of city laments (see Sperl, Chapter One of this book). Like the city laments, its topic is war among humans, and so it bears comparison with the Iliad. Its protagonists, even more than the Iliad’s, are gods: Erra, god of war, his minister Ishum, and Marduk, king of the gods. There are no named human characters at all, only a milling mass in the background, like the extras in a Hollywood blockbuster. I have previously observed that, in Fowler’s typology of the development of epic, the poem of Erra and Ishum belongs in the tertiary stage, for it serves as an allegorical reinterpretation of the old myth in which gods make war on mankind (George 2007b:56).5

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 47

27/06/2013 11:39

48

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Its generic kinship with the older Babylonian ‘epics’ should alert us to the possibility that, like some of them, especially the Epic of Gilgamesh, the poem of Erra and Ishum is a vehicle for reflection on the human condition. The Epic of Gilgamesh is, in its last version, partly a meditation on the fact of death and the meaning of life. The Creation Epic gives an answer to questions about mankind’s origin and place in the great order of things. It seems that in the Babylonian literary system, philosophical and religious discourse concerned with existential problems was embedded not only in what is often called ‘wisdom literature’, but also in mythological narrative poetry. For all its divine cast of characters, the poem of Erra and Ishum is nevertheless a composition that grasps a very human problem, the problem of war, and attempts to understand it. It has long been recognised that, for all that elsewhere in ancient Mesopotamian sources Erra is a god of plague, in the poem of Erra and Ishum he is a warrior, who longs only to practise his metier (e.g. Bottéro 1978:138–139). His metier is nowhere more fully described than in this poem, where the accounts of war and its consequences are unrelenting and graphic. The absence of glory makes it clear that the poem is a forceful repudiation of war. Benjamin Foster has commented of the poem that its ‘denunciations of violence are so eloquent and lengthy that the poem can scarcely be read as anything but a condemnation of civil strife as a violation of the cosmic order’ (Foster 2007:67). In my view, the condemnation is not restricted to civil war. In rejecting the Erra of the poem as an ‘epic hero’, Luigi Cagni rightly observed that he ‘represents the hellish aspect of war’ (Cagni 1977:9), and found him not so much a character as an allegorical mask. It is legitimate to go further and assert that in this poem Erra is a divine personification of war in general, and that the poem’s principal statement is of war’s incomparable horror and irresistible force. The poem’s plot can be summarised briefly, but I shall dwell awhile on the opening passage, whose formal construction is tricky to parse but which contains a crucial message. As understood here, it begins with a fiveline invocation to Erra’s minister Ishum in his name Hendursanga, who is eulogised as king of the earth and creator of all things: šar gimir dadme bÆnû kib[rÆti…] Hendursanga apil Ellil rešt[û…] nÆš Óaππi ∆∞rti nÆqid ∆almÆt qaqqadi re’û [tenešeti] Išum πÆbiÓu na’du ša ana našê kakk∞ ezz∑ti qÆtÆšu asmÆ u ana šubruq ulmešu šer∑ti Erra qarrÆd il∞ in∑šu ina šubti Erra and Ishum I 1–5

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 48

27/06/2013 11:39



The Poem of Erra and Ishum49 King of all habitations, creator of the world [regions, …]   O Hendursanga, foremost son of Enlil […!] Who bears an august staff, herdsman of the black-headed race, shepherd [of mankind,]   O Ishum, renowned butcher whose hands are suited to bear fierce weapons, who, flashing his terrible battle-axe, makes even Erra, most warlike of gods, quake in his dwelling.6

We can note at once something important about the poem’s form. In much Babylonian poetry (as well as other Ancient Near Eastern poetry) lines conventionally coincide with syntax, so that a pause occurs at the end of the line, and lines combine by sense in pairs, so that a longer pause attends the end of the even line. Thus a poem proceeds couplet by couplet. Often couplets themselves are paired to form four-line stanzas, but identifying these can sometimes be problematic and a subjective exercise. The formal construction of this poetry has the advantage of flagging up the boundaries between units of sense and marking the extent of topics. The first four lines of Erra and Ishum constitute a four-line stanza of two balanced couplets (lines 1–2, 3–4), in each of which the second line is headed by one of the addressee’s names.7 The topic of the first couplet is Ishum’s cosmic status: he is invoked as ruler of the world and son of the supreme deity. The second couplet dwells on his functions as first pastor, then warrior. The application of grand cosmic epithets to Ishum, the lowly minister of Erra, has disturbed many scholars, who have sought to place another god’s name in the lacuna at the end of line 1.8 This is unnecessary because, as we shall see later, the poem has good reason, in the particular context of war, to exalt Ishum above all others. Line 5 presents a departure in form, because although it starts a new couplet, it is syntactically dependent on line 4. It serves to introduce Erra, who is the topic of the next line, as we shall see. The couplet lines 5–6 is thus a hinge between Ishum, the addressee, and Erra, the protagonist. The disjunctive syntax, which places a sentence-final pause in between the two lines, results in an irregular couplet, after which the text again proceeds in regular couplets (lines 7–8, 9–10, 11–12, etc.). Perhaps this violence to the poem’s third couplet is a deliberate device to give force to the shift in topic, from Ishum to Erra. The burden of line 5, that even Erra is afraid of Ishum, restates the poet’s very exalted view of Ishum. The poet follows the five-line invocation by showing Ishum (and the audience) a scene in which Ishum’s master, lying in bed, ponders the pros

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 49

27/06/2013 11:39

50

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

and cons of going to war. The arguments are articulated as an internal dialogue between Erra’s mind (libbu, literally ‘heart’) and his physical self. The heart wants to make war, and to that effect addresses in turn Erra’s weapons (the Seven), his vizier Ishum and finally Erra himself, in particular urging Ishum, as Erra’s torch or firebrand (his name means ‘fire’),9 to show the others the way. The latter detail clearly alludes to the military tactic of surprise attack before dawn, and fixes the scene at night: ∞riss∑ma libbašu epeš tÆÓÆzi ∞tammi ana kakk∞šu litpatÆ imat m∑ti ana Sebetti qarrÆd lÆ šanÆn nandiqÆ kakk∞kun iqabb∞ma ana kâša l∑∆∞ma ana ∆eri atta diparumma inaππal∑ n∑rka atta Ælik maÓrimma il∑ […] atta nam∆arumma πÆbiÓu […] Erra tibema ina sapÆn mÆti k∞ namrat kabtatka u Óadu libbuk Erra and Ishum I 6–14

  His (Erra’s) heart desired of him the waging of war. It talked to his weapons, ‘Smear yourselves with lethal poison!’   and to the Seven, peerless warriors, ‘Strap on your weapons!’ It spoke to you (Ishum), ‘I would go forth to the (battle)-field!   ‘You are the firebrand, they watch your light! ‘You are the vanguard, the gods [do follow you!]   ‘You are the sword that slaughters [the enemy!] ‘O Erra, arise! How your mood will be bright,   ‘your heart joyous, when laying the land low!’

Erra’s body is too sleepy to obey his mind and he chooses to stay in bed. War is not so easily started. The poet then resumes his address to Ishum, now in his name as the torch-bearing night watchman Engidudu: Erra k∞ ša ameli dalpi idÆšu an[ÓÆ] iqabbi ana libb∞šu lutbe lu∆lalma ∞tamma ana kakk∞šu ummedÆ tubqÆti ana Sebetti qarrÆd lÆ šanÆn ana šubtekunu t∑rÆma adi atta tadekkûšu ∆alil uršuššu itti Mammi Ó∞ratuš ippuša ul∆amma

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 50

27/06/2013 11:39



The Poem of Erra and Ishum51 Engidudu belu muttallik m∑ši muttarrû rubê ša eπlu u ardatu ina šulmi ittanarrû unammaru k∞ma ∑mi Erra and Ishum I 15–22

Erra’s arms were exhausted, like a man without sleep,   said he to his heart, ‘Should I rise or lie asleep?’ He spoke to his weapons, ‘Go stand in your alcove!’   to the Seven, peerless warriors, ‘Return to your places!’ Until you (Ishum) yourself rouse him he lies in his bedchamber sleeping,   making love with Mammi, his wife; O lord Engidudu, who goes about at night, guiding the nobleman,   who guides man and woman in safety, shining a light bright as day!

The key to understanding this opening passage of 22 lines is the identification of who is speaking and where they stop. Because cuneiform writing lacks punctuation, translators of the passage have been uncertain where to place the quotation marks. In addition, the passage’s formal construction has not always survived translation clearly, because it is not generally recognised that the little narrative of Erra in bed continues the poet’s address to Ishum. In my view the correct interpretation has been clearly demonstrated by Gerfrid Müller (1995, also 1994:783 n. 7a), but his important and convincing study of the passage has not achieved the attention it merits. It is tacitly rejected by Walter Farber’s treatment of this passage (2008) and overlooked completely by Frauke Weiershäuser’s discussion of it in her study of Ishum (2010:361). For this reader, these most recent attempts to interpret the passage make for a step back into the hermeneutic mire that characterised discussion of it before Müller’s breakthrough.10 Lest it be forgotten, Müller’s reading demands restating. Ishum, as the addressee of the invocation, is the second person of lines 9 and 19. The third-person subject of the verbs of speech in lines 7 and 9 cannot therefore be Ishum, but must be Erra’s heart: it speaks to Erra and is then answered by him. The heart addresses one couplet to the weapons (lines 7–8), two to Ishum (9–12) and one to Erra himself (13–14). Erra’s reply to his heart occupies one couplet (15–16) and his orders to the weapons a further couplet (17–18). He does not speak to Ishum at this point. The focus returns to Ishum, however, with a four-line stanza that reprises the poet’s invocation (19–22). As punctuated here, the opening 22 lines of the poem thus form 11 couplets that display very careful composition as a unit. It has already been observed that the two invocations to Ishum (I 1–5, 19–22) act as a frame or inclusio (Machinist 1983:223). What now emerges

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 51

27/06/2013 11:39

52

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

more clearly is that the material so framed is the poet’s revelation to him, Ishum, of a dialogue going on not between Ishum and his master but solely in Erra’s mind (6–18). The important point is that it is not, after all, Ishum who urges Erra to combat (pace Machinist) but Erra’s own heart. The identification of the second person of lines 9 and 19 as Ishum shows nevertheless that Ishum has the capability of rousing Erra to action and thus initiating warfare (19 tadekkûšu), even if he does not do it on this occasion. The poem now turns its attention from Ishum to Erra’s weapons, the Seven.11 It first describes their origin, created by the sky-god Anu, and their function, which is to destroy human and animal life when Erra’s tolerance of such things is exhausted (I 23–44). The only figure who stands between the Seven and action is not Erra but Ishum (I 27 Išum daltumma edil panuššun ‘Ishum is a door bolted before them’). Ishum is thereby again identified as an initiator of violence, but the image is a double-edged sword, for doors close as well as open. Ishum, as we shall see, is a force of moderation; he can terminate warfare as well as start it. The poem returns to the present, and the first true line of narrative, which describes the weapons’ fury at Erra’s rejection of them. From their corner they harangue him with a long speech which goads him into action (I 45–91). Part of the speech is a paean to the virtues of a soldier’s life. The passage, like the whole speech, is firmly cast in the heroic mould, and contains a further instance of the ‘war is a festival’ motif introduced above: k∞ lÆ Ælik ∆eri nikkala akal sinniš k∞ ša tÆÓÆz∞ lÆ n∞dû niplaÓa nir∑da alÆk ∆eri ša eπl∑ti k∞ ša isinnumma Æšib Æli l∑ rubû ul išebbi akla šumsuk ina pî niš∞š∑ma qalil qaqqassu ana Ælik ∆eri ak∞ itarra∆ qÆssu ša Æšib Æli l∑ puggulat kubukkuš ana Ælik ∆eri ak∞ idannin m∞na akal Æli lullû ul ubbala kamÆn tumri šikar našpi duššupi ul ubbal∑ mê nÆdi ekal tamlî ul ubbala ma∆allatu ša [∆eri] qurÆdu Erra ∆∞ma ana ∆eri turuk kakk∞ka Erra and Ishum I 49–60

Shall we eat women’s bread like those who do not go on campaign?   Shall we tremble with fear like those untried in battle? For men to go on campaign is like a festival,   but he who stays in town can never eat enough, not even as ruler.

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 52

27/06/2013 11:39



The Poem of Erra and Ishum53 He is vilified by his people, his standing diminished,   how can he measure up to a veteran soldier? However sturdy a civilian’s muscles,   how can he wax strong as a veteran soldier? The luxury bread of town cannot compare with a loaf baked in ashes,   sweet pale ale cannot compare with water from a leather bottle. A palace on a terrace cannot compare with a bivouac [in the open;]   O valiant Erra, go forth on campaign and rattle your weapons!

The speech eventually turns to the reasons for the weapons’ desire for action. These are two familiar motivations. The first is that the human and animal population has grown so much that the economy is in danger (I 79–86). War is thus justified, as in Greek literature (West 1997:481), as a mechanism for controlling the numbers who compete for the planet’s resources. The second motivation is that the weapons are going rusty: u nenu m∑dê nereb šadê nimtašši ÓarrÆnu ina muÓÓi tillê ∆er∞ni šatâ qê ett∑tu qašatni πÆbtu ibbalkitma idnina eli em∑q∞ni ša u∆∆∞ni zaqti kepâta lišÆnšu patarni ina lÆ πabÆÓi ittadi šuÓtu Erra and Ishum I 87–91

And we who (once) knew mountain passes, have forgotten every route,   cobwebs are spun on our battle kit. Our sweet bow’s turned rebel, too stiff for our strength,   our sharp arrow’s tip is blunt. Our dagger’s gone rusty for lack of bloodshed.

This poet understood that, among the many causes of war, the desire of generals to test their men and equipment is a potent factor. As a military man, Erra is roused by these words, and proposes to go on campaign after all (I 92–99). Ishum asks why he plots war against mankind, but Erra silences him with a paean of self-praise (I 100–123). The reason he gives for war is this: no god has recently brought conflict to the world, so men have lost their respect for the divine powers, and in particular do not fear Erra himself: leqû š∞π∑t∞ ‘they hold me in contempt’, he says, not once but over and again (I 120, III D 15, IV 113). This is, again, a true insight. A generation that has not known war is less likely to fear it. Terror of war is learned most surely through experience. Erra intends to regain the respect he has lost.

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 53

27/06/2013 11:39

54

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Erra goes to Babylon, to visit Marduk, the king of the gods, in his temple Esangil. Marduk is characterised as distinctly past his prime. The purpose of Erra’s visit seems to be to encourage Marduk to leave Babylon, on the pretext that his holy statue needs refurbishing, for then the world would be ungoverned and chaos could prevail. Marduk consents to Erra’s plan, but only when Erra promises to maintain order in his absence. When Marduk returns Erra takes offence, either at some slight or because he has been tricked out of the opportunity to use his power. He delivers a long monologue in which he vows to give Marduk and the other senior gods cause to remember him, and again brags of his warlike prowess and destructive power. The effect of Erra’s anger is immediate bloodshed and anarchy, at least in the city of Nippur, where the local god, Enlil, abandons his dwelling. This is told in a report of Ishum to Erra, as if in remonstration with his master; here Ishum is a force for restraint. The violence in Nippur is not the result of Marduk leaving his cosmic station a second time. Rather it seems that his earlier absence from his temple has produced an instability in the cosmos which has repercussions even after he reoccupied it. Erra’s fury is then itself enough to unleash war. It is now Ishum’s turn to vaunt Erra’s power. He does so in the most lofty of terms: [qur]Ædu Erra ∆erret šamê tamÓÆt [napÓ]ar er∆etimma gammarÆta mÆtumma beleta tâmtamma dalÓÆta šaddîmma gamrÆta niš∞ma redâta b∑lamma re’Æta EšarrÆma pÆnukka E’engurrÆma qÆtukka ŠuannÆma tapaqqid Esangilma tuma”ar gimir par∆∞ma ÓammÆta il∑ma palÓ∑ka… ša lÆ kâšÆma tÆÓÆzu Erra and Ishum III D 3–9, 13

O valiant Erra, you grasp heaven’s halter,   you master the entire world, you rule the people! You roil the very ocean, master even the mountain,   you herd mankind, you drive the livestock! Heaven’s at your disposal, Hell’s in your hands,   you have charge of Babylon, give orders to Esangil: You’re master of all the cosmic powers, even the gods are in terror of  you…   is there warfare without you?

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 54

27/06/2013 11:39



The Poem of Erra and Ishum55

Here Ishum voices the poet’s view, that there is no force on earth, nor in the entire universe, that can master Erra, who eclipses even the king of the gods in Babylon. Ishum’s speech continues with a vivid description of the chaos that Erra has wrought. What he describes is nothing less than political events in Babylonia, its invasion by an enemy army and subsequent civil war. There is nothing heroic about the fighting. The description is notable for brutality: il∑tka tušann∞ma tamtašal ameliš kakk∞ka tannediqma teterub qerebšu ina qereb Šuanna k∞ ša ∆abÆt Æli taqtabi Óabinniš mÆr∑ BÆbili ša k∞ma qanê api pÆqida lÆ ∞šû napÓaršunu el∞ka iptaÓr∑… ∞mur∑kÆma ummÆn∑ kakk∞šunu innadq∑ ša šakkanakki muter gimil BÆbili ∞teziz libbašu k∞ šallat nakiri ana šalÆli uma”er ∆ÆbÆšu Ælik pÆn ummÆni ušaÓÓaza lemutta ana Æli šâšu ša ašappar∑ka atta amelu ila lÆ tapallaÓ lÆ taddar ame[la] ∆eÓru u rabâ išteniš šum∞tma eniq šezbi šerra lÆ tezziba ayyamma Erra and Ishum IV 3–6, 22–29

You altered your divine being and became like a man,   you strapped on your weapons and entered the city. Inside Babylon you spoke subversively(?), as if to take over the town,  like reeds in a marsh, having no leader, the men of Babylon all   gathered around you… The soldiers saw you and strapped on their weapons,   Babylon’s governor, the city’s protector, was taken with fury. He commanded his troops to loot as if looting a foe,   inciting the generals to acts of wickedness: ‘You, my man, whom I send to this city,   ‘respect no god and fear no man! ‘Do young and old to death just the same,   ‘and spare not even any babe unweaned!’

The city is so polluted by bloodshed that Marduk cannot any longer abide in his temple and, amid bitter lament, leaves his station at the centre of the cosmos. Erra now has the whole world at his mercy. One further excerpt

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 55

27/06/2013 11:39

56

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

will give an idea of the poem’s preoccupation with the effects of his war. Ishum is quoting Erra: ša mÆra uldu mÆr∞ma iqabbi annâ urtabb∞ma utâr gimill∞ mÆra ušmâtma abu iqabbiršu arka aba ušmâtma qebira ul ∞ši ša b∞ta ∞pušu gan∑n∞ma iqabbi annâ etepušma apaššaÓa qerbuššu ∑m ublanni š∞mat∞ a∆allal ina libb∞šu šâšu ušmâss∑ma ušaÓraba gan∑nšu arka l∑ Óarbumma ana šanîmma anamdin Erra and Ishum IV 95–103

‘He who had a son and said “This is my son!   ‘“Thus I have raised him, so he will return my favour!” — ‘I shall do the son to death and his father shall bury him,   ‘then I shall do the father to death and he shall have none to bury him. ‘He who built a house and said, “This is my home!   ‘“Thus I have built it, so I may rest inside it!   ‘“When fate has carried me off, I shall sleep within!” — ‘him I shall do to death and his home make a ruin,   ‘then, even as a ruin, I’ll give it to a stranger.’

This passage expresses the denial, through Erra’s violence, of the most basic human aspiration, to leave behind a lasting family. In a Babylonian household, where ancestors were often buried beneath the floor, it was a son’s duty to lead commemorative rites for his family’s ghosts. He thus ensured both the ancestors’ comfort after death and the survival of the family as a social unit. The premature death of a son and the destruction of the home were considered a terrible violation of the natural order. The passage states that war made this fear a reality for many. The emphasis of these two passages of Ishum’s speech just quoted, and of the speech as a whole, is on the voracity of the war god and the indiscriminate violence he brings. The poem does not celebrate Erra’s violence as glorious. It concentrates on the plight of the victims. It does so not because the manner of their deaths redounds to a victor’s glory, as in Sennacherib’s campaign report quoted above, but to demonstrate the horrors of warfare as suffered by those caught up in it. Similarly, the poetry of Wilfred Owen (1893–1918) and others that served in the trenches of Flanders provides

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 56

27/06/2013 11:39



The Poem of Erra and Ishum57

countless images of helpless soldiers, gassed, maimed and dismembered. The readers of Owen’s poems and of Erra and Ishum identify with the anonymous and numberless victims of war, defenceless in the face of war’s ferocity (‘though from his throat the life-tide leaps, there was no threat upon his lips’). It is this empathy with the victim that, above all, makes the mood non-heroic. Next, Erra vows to destroy the seat of cosmic government so that all voices of moderation are silenced (IV 127): ana šubat šar il∞ l∑’irma lÆ ibbašši milku ‘I will attack the seat of the king of the gods, so no voice of reason will survive!’ And the effect of Erra’s ambition then becomes yet more terrible, as he launches on the world a conflict that will bring all countries to civil war: Tâmta Tâmtu Subarta Subartu Aššurâ Aššurû Elamâ Elamû Kaššâ Kaššû Sutâ Sutû Qutâ Qutû Lullubâ Lullubû mÆtu mÆta Ælu Æla b∞tu b∞ta amelu amela aÓu aÓa lÆ igammel∑ma linÆr∑ aÓÆmeš Erra and Ishum IV 131–135

Sealander must not spare Sealander, nor Subartian Subartian, nor Assyrian Assyrian, nor Elamite Elamite, nor Kassite Kassite, nor Sutean Sutean, nor Gutian Gutian, nor Lullubean Lullubean, nor nation nation, nor city city, nor house house, nor man man, nor brother brother, but they shall all slay each other!

Only then will Erra permit the carnage to cease, when a new ruler will arise in Babylonia (IV 136). To facilitate this new order, Erra allows Ishum to bring an end to the conflict, which he does by making war on Mount Sharshar (formerly read Hehe).12 This place was the symbolic homeland of the nomadic peoples whose uprising had brought chaos and civil war to Babylonia, so Ishum’s campaign is a war not of aggression but of selfdefence. His mission, with its clearly demarcated goal, is very different from Erra’s indiscriminate rampage. It is told in briefest style and without blood: Išum ana Šaršar šadî ištakan pÆn∞šu Sebettu qarrÆd lÆ šanÆn išappis∑ ark∞šu ana Šaršar šadî iktašad qurÆdu

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 57

27/06/2013 11:39

58

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East išš∞ma qÆssu ∞tabat šadâ šadâ Šaršar imtanu qaqqaršu ša qišti Óaš∑ri uktappira gupn∞ša k∞ aÓra Haniš ∞tiqu eme q∞šumma Æl∞ igmurma ana namê ištakan šadî ubbitma b∑lšunu ušamqit tâmÆti idluÓma miširtašina uÓalliq ap∞ u q∞š∞ ušaÓribma k∞ Girra iqmi b∑la ∞rurma uter ana πiddi Erra and Ishum IV 139–150

Ishum set out for the mountain Sharshar,   the Seven, peerless warriors, following(?) behind him. At the mountain Sharshar the warrior arrived,   he raised his hand and destroyed the mountain. The mountain Sharshar he turned into a void,   he felled the trees of the forest of cedar. The woodland looked as if traversed by the Deluge,   he took control of the towns and made them desert. He destroyed the uplands and slew their flocks,   he roiled the oceans and wiped out their produce. He laid waste reedbeds and woodlands, and burned them like Fire,   he cursed the livestock and turned them to dust.

Ishum’s campaign is devoid of horror: it is without explicit human casualties, aside from the impersonal ‘towns’, and adopts instead the language of mythology, where gods do battle with mountains, seas and forces of nature. And with this bloodless passage the war is over. As the gods look on in horror at Erra returning from the field, this is what he says to them: q∑lÆma napÓarkunu amât∞ya limd[Æ] mindema anÆku ina Ó∞πi maÓrî aÓsusa lemutt[a] libb∞ Ægugma niš∞ asa[ppan] k∞ agir ∆eni immer pÆni ušella ina pitqi k∞ lÆ zÆqip ∆ippati ana nakÆsi ul umâq k∞ šÆlil mÆti k∞na u ragga ul umassâ ušamqat ina pî labbi nÆ’iri ul ikkim∑ šalamta u ašar išten ra’bu šanû ul imalli[kšu] Erra and Ishum V 5–12

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 58

27/06/2013 11:39



The Poem of Erra and Ishum59 ‘Be silent, all of you, and learn what I say:   ‘Have no doubt:13 I intended evil when earlier I did wrong! ‘I was in a rage to lay low the people!   ‘Like a hireling shepherd I’ll send the bellwether up from the pen,14 ‘like one who’s never planted an orchard I’ll not hesitate to cut it down,  ‘like one who pillages the land, I’ll kill upright and wicked without  discrimination. ‘You cannot snatch a corpse from a ravening lion,   ‘and where one is in a rage, another cannot counsel [him.]’

The gist of this passage is that it is the very nature of Erra, who nurtures nothing, to destroy without thought, and his excuse is that when he is angry no one can control him. The gods, as well as men, have seen for themselves the full extent of Erra’s power and witnessed the blind arbitrariness of his indiscriminate deeds. Erra then commends to his fellow gods the role of Ishum, who brought the war to an end: lÆ Išum Ælik maÓr∞ya minû baš∞ma ali zÆninkunu en∑kunu ayyinna ali nindabêkunu e te∆∆inÆ15 qutrinna Išum pâšu epušma iqabbi ana qurÆdi Erra amâte izakkar qurÆdu q∑lamma šime qabâya mindema enna n∑Óamma nizziza maÓarka ina ∑m∞ uggat∞ka ali mÆÓirka Erra and Ishum V 13–21

‘Without Ishum, my vanguard, what now would exist?   ‘Where your provisioner, where your high priests? ‘Where your food-offerings? You would smell no incense!’   Ishum opened his mouth to speak, saying a word to the hero Erra:   ‘O hero, be silent and listen to what I say! ‘Have no doubt: be calm and we shall stand at your service!16   ‘At the time of your fury, who could withstand you?’

Erra thereby acknowledges that Ishum saved the world from complete destruction, so that once again a king might perform the task traditionally his, to look after the care and feeding of the gods in their temples. Ishum, in turn, acknowledges on behalf of all that there is no power in the universe

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 59

27/06/2013 11:39

60

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

to match Erra when roused. Recognition of this truth, self-evident from the events reported in Tablets III and IV, pleases Erra. At last he is content, basking in the gods’ acknowledgement of the supremacy of his power. He commands that the country shall thrive in a period of new prosperity under the rule of a king in Babylon (V 25–38). Erra gives to Ishum the tasks of perpetuating Ishum’s victory over the enemies of Babylon. Thus it is Ishum who will ensure that the Babylonians enjoy a future of order and prosperity: akû mÆt Akkade danna Sutâ lišamqit išten sebe l∞bu[k] k∞ma ∆eni Æl∞šu ana karme u šadâšu tašakkan ana namê šallassunu kabittu tašallala ana qereb Šuanna il∑ mÆti ša iznû tusallam ana šubt∞šunu Šakkan u Nissaba tušerred ana mÆti šadê Ói∆ibšunu tâmta tušaššâ bilassu qerbeti ša uštaÓribÆ tušaššâ biltu Erra and Ishum V 27–34

The weakest Babylonian shall fell the strongest Sutean,   one shall lead seven captive like sheep! You shall turn his towns into ruins, his mountain into wastes,   you shall bring their weighty plunder back to Babylon! You shall reconcile to their homes the gods of the land who were angry,   you shall send down to the land the gods of livestock and grain! You shall make uplands produce their plenty, the ocean its yield,   you shall make bear crops the meadows laid waste!

The poem’s conclusion follows. It begins with a summary of what the poem has been about and how it was transmitted to the poet. The first line and a half, however, complete Erra’s instruction to Ishum: zÆnin Esangil u BÆbili šakkanakk∞ kal dadme šubel šâšu[n]17 šanat la n∞bi tanitti beli rabî du.gur u qurÆdu Išum ša Erra ∞gug∑ma ana sapÆn mÆtÆti u Óulluq niš∞šin iškunu pÆn∞šu Išum mÆlikšu uniÓÓ∑š∑ma ∞zibu r∞ÓÆniš kÆ∆ir kammešu Kabti-ilÆni-Marduk mÆr DÆbibi ina šÆt m∑ši ušabr∞š∑ma k∞ ša ina munatti idbubu ayyamma ul imπi eda šuma ul uraddi ana muÓÓi18 Erra and Ishum V 38–44

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 60

27/06/2013 11:39



The Poem of Erra and Ishum61 ‘Have the provisioner of Esangil and Babylon rule19 them, the   governors of all habitations (var. of each and every city),   for years without number.’20 The praise-(song) of the great lord   Nergal (= Erra) and hero Ishum – how Erra went into a rage and set out to lay the lands low and destroy   their people, but his counsellor Ishum calmed him so sparing a remnant – the compiler of its text was Kabti-ilÆni-Marduk, son of DÆbibu: he (Ishum) revealed it to him in a nocturnal vision and, just as he   (K.i.M.) declaimed it while wakeful, so he left nothing out, he added to it not a single line.

This passage is much cited as a rare example of the attribution of a Babylonian literary composition to an author (e.g. Foster 1991). The statement that Kabti-ilÆni-Marduk received the poem in a dream is perhaps not a literary conceit, for it can readily be compared with Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s ‘Kubla Khan’ (1798). Coleridge wrote that the poem came to him in sleep as a text of many hundreds of lines, but he had only managed to write out the beginning when interrupted by a visitor (Coleridge 1967: 295–296). To return to the theme of war: at the beginning of the poem Ishum was invoked as a catalyst for war, but here at the end, in the passage just quoted, the poet identifies him as Erra’s appeaser and the initiator of peace. A very revealing earlier line, repeated twice by Erra, makes clear in the briefest possible form of words that Ishum has both functions (I 99 // III C27): u atta Ælik maÓr∞ya Ælik a[rk∞]ya ‘and you are the one who precedes me, the one who follows me’. This makes no sense in spatial terms, for no soldier travels both as vanguard and rearguard, but understood in a temporal sense it is fully meaningful: Ishum both leads Erra into action and makes him desist from action. The gods Erra and Ishum, who initiate, prosecute and end the war among men: both embody war. Both are warriors, qurÆdu. Not even the king of the gods can stand in their way. He too is subordinate to war’s power. But the two war-gods, Erra and Ishum, have different attitudes to their work. When Ishum recounts Erra’s destruction, he stands in nervous awe at the destructive power of war. When Erra boasts of his destruction, he revels in the brutal power of war. Ishum repeatedly demands to know how Erra justifies his actions and tries to make him desist. Erra has no such scruples. The different attitudes of Erra and Ishum to war arise from their different functions. Erra is, in Jean Bottéro’s words, ‘la Guerre pour la Guerre’

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 61

27/06/2013 11:39

62

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

(1978:155), war waged for the sake of it, with indiscriminate slaughter. Bottéro saw Ishum as Erra’s opposite, ‘la Guerre positive’. Ishum has a conscience: he is a force for peace, and acts to moderate Erra’s violence. As seen above, Müller’s reading of the poem’s introduction reveals that Ishum has the capability of starting war but does not do so. He is only himself stirred to fight when commanded by Erra to repulse the enemy and deal him destruction. He represents just war, waged in self-defence and morally justified. As we have seen, two such wars are acknowledged by the poem. The first is the bloodless campaign that brought an end to the conflict in which Erra revelled, when Ishum razed Mt Sharshar (IV 139–150). The second is envisaged when Erra charges Ishum with maintaining Babylonia’s political and military power, which is to be done by waging war – war with an expressly positive motive (V 27–39). Thus the two war gods Erra and Ishum are clearly distinguished by character, by function and by method and purpose. The distinction is not confined to the poem of Erra and Ishum. As Weiershäuser has observed (2010: 370–371), Ishum’s essentially just nature is implicit in a fragmentary Old Babylonian narrative poem, which identifies his father as the sun god Shamash, who was the quintessential god of justice, and is fully explicit in an Assyrian composition which accords Ishum the epithet rÆ’im k∞nÆti ‘lover of truth’.21 The difference between Erra and Ishum, between war of aggression (unjust) and war in self-defence (just), explains Ishum’s high status in the poem. Ishum, the prosecutor of just war, is the only power that can vanquish Erra. That is why Ishum is the real hero of the poem, as Bottéro saw (1978:163, Bottéro and Kramer 1989:718), and why it opens with an invocation to Ishum that attaches to him such extraordinary attributes and status. Ishum alone in the universe has the capability of defeating Erra. That makes him the greatest power of all. The poem’s distinction between two gods of war further implies a profound idea that not all wars are equal. Warfare conducted by Erra – random, unlimited and without excuse – differs from warfare conducted by Ishum, which has a just pretext and limited aim. Ishum’s victory leads us to a moral conclusion, that just war is a greater force than an unjust war and morally superior to it. Differentiation between Erra and Ishum thus allows for the paradox that, though war is in itself evil, on those occasions when aggression can only be ended by fighting back, it becomes a force for good. Ishum fights a just war of defence to save Babylonia and is charged with continuing to do so in order to preserve its rightful hegemony. The poet does not make it explicit that he considers war of aggression morally

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 62

27/06/2013 11:39



The Poem of Erra and Ishum63

inferior to war of defence, but that is certainly a response that a reader might voice. What the poet does say is that even Erra is afraid of Ishum (I 5), which perhaps speaks for a view that fear of just retribution resides even in the lawless. There is another ethical issue, however, on which the poem of Erra and Ishum is not silent: war is evil and yet created by the gods. How, when the gods created the world, can they allow such terrible events to occur in it? The usual explanation in ancient Mesopotamia was that the gods were angered by some human failing or sin. In this poem, only Erra is angry, and his is not an anger owed to any doing of men; it is his very nature. The poem finds a different way to explain the problem: when the balance of the cosmos is upset, the normal rules of human and divine life do not apply. The unbalancing of the cosmos is expressed metaphorically on three separate occasions. First, the king of the gods, Marduk, warns Erra of what happened when he, Marduk, left his position at the centre of the universe at the time of the Deluge (I 133): ina šubt∞ya atbema šib∞t šamê u er∆eti uptaππir ‘I rose from my dwelling and the seams of heaven and earth were split apart’. The same will happen again, if Marduk does as Erra asks (I 170): [ina] šubteya atebbûmma šib∞t [šamê u er∆eti] uptaππar ‘if I arise from my dwelling the seams of [heaven and earth] will be split apart!’22 Then, just as the Seven are unleashed and war breaks out, Ishum begs Erra to give reason for his actions, and Erra replies that Marduk has left his dwelling and (IIIc 49) qabal ili u ameli ippaπrÆ[ma] ana rakÆsi iššiπa ‘the beltstrap of god and man has come undone [and] will be difficult to refasten’. The description of the war that follows is recounted in a long address of Ishum to Erra, which holds Erra alone responsible for the strife. Among Erra’s deeds is the capture of Babylon, the centre of the Babylonian cosmos, in this function known as Dimkurkurra, a Sumerian epithet that means Bond of the Lands. ‘Bond’ in this epithet is a means of cosmic control. The cosmic bonds ensured order and stability in the universe, and are expressed figuratively as lead-ropes and mooring-ropes; that is, the means by which animals are led and rivercraft tethered (George 1992:261–262, 1997:128–129). The result of Erra’s offensive is that the cosmic bonds disintegrate, as Ishum points out (IV 2): ša Dimkurkurra Æl šar il∞ rikis mÆtÆti taptaπar rikissu ‘You have undone the bonds of Dimkurkurra, the city of the king of the gods, the bond of the lands.’ All three metaphors – split apart seam, loosened belt, released rope – signify a universal absence of control, leading to chaos and the overturning of order. One consequence of cosmic disorder is negation of the civilised values by which men normally live. Implicit here is an acknowledgement

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 63

27/06/2013 11:39

64

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

of a fact fundamental to war, that it turns upside down the normal rules of human society. The worst possible sin suddenly becomes, in an overturning of all moral education and ethical standards, a virtue, encouraged and rewarded by those who stand in moral authority. This is a profoundly unsettling truth, and if the poet of Erra and Ishum was the first to articulate it, it has surely been expressed since in other terms. John Steinbeck captures the idea in his novel East of Eden (1952), when an old soldier, like Sherman a veteran of the American civil war, gives advice to his reluctant son, shortly to enlist as a cavalryman in the Indian wars: In all of history men have been taught that killing of men is an evil thing not to be countenanced. Any man who kills must be destroyed because this is a great sin, maybe the worst sin we know. And then we take a soldier and put murder in his hands and say to him, ‘Use it well, use it wisely.’ We put no checks on him. Go out and kill as many of a certain kind or classification of your brothers as you can. And we will reward you for it… East of Eden Part One, Chapter 3, III

When this moral inversion has occurred, it is difficult to reverse. Even the king of the gods, having once abandoned his cult-centre in Babylon, cannot restore equilibrium to the cosmos and regain control until Erra is sated and his task done. War carries all before it, and will run its course no matter what power may be opposed to it. This chapter began with passages that articulate the heroic ideal of war. In the poem of Erra and Ishum the poet’s characterisation of Erra necessarily leads him to reject that notion. The only place where heroic ideas intrude into his poem is when Erra’s weapons eulogise the life of the soldier. But that is exactly what one expects of objects fashioned solely to take life. The actual descriptions of Erra’s war in the poem are vivid and unflinching. They do not turn a blind eye to the horror but focus on the massacre of the innocent. They are anything but heroic. The explicit purpose of the poem of Erra and Ishum was to bear witness to the might of Erra, so that none among gods and men may again hold him in contempt. It ends with the following words, spoken by Erra himself: zamÆru šâšu ana mat∞ma liššakinma lik∑n qadu ulla mÆtÆti napÓaršina lišmâma linÆdÆ qurd∞ya niš∑ dadme l∞murÆma lišarbâ šum∞ Erra and Ishum V 59–61

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 64

27/06/2013 11:39



The Poem of Erra and Ishum65   Let this song exist for ever, let it endure for all time, so all nations may hear it and extol my warlike deeds,   so the people of the world may learn to magnify my name!

If we remove the cloak of allegory, what Kabti-ilÆni-Marduk wants of his poem is that it open the eyes of people – everywhere and at all times – to Erra as the most violent power in the world, that is to the terrible reality of war, to what Tolstoy in The Sebastopol Sketches (1855) called ‘war in its most authentic expression – as blood, suffering and death’ (McDuff and Foote 2006:192); and that it serve as a warning not to hold Erra ‘in contempt’, that is not to go to war lightly. Speaking to the crowd in Ohio in 1880, Sherman added an injunction to the listening veterans, ‘You can bear the warning voice to generations yet to come.’ This solemn duty, to warn future generations of the realities war, lies at the heart of the poem of Erra and Ishum. The poem itself carries at its end, immediately before the three lines just quoted, a claim of apotropaic function: those rulers, singers, scribes and householders who honour and repeat its words will win success and fame and be kept safe from plague, Erra’s more routine speciality (V 49–58). This passage encouraged the use of the poem, especially Tablet V, as an amulet to protect a household from harm (Reiner 1960, Hruška 1974:356–357). The claim has a less tangible implication, but one that resonates more strongly outside Babylonian culture. The greater the audience for poetry that denounces war, the wider will its message spread: the vain but irrepressible hope that less war will be waged.

Notes 1

2

3

Chronicle 1 iii 18 (Grayson 1975, p.80): ina Halule ∆altu ana libbi mÆt Aš∆ur ∞tepušma nabalkattu mÆt Aššur iltakan ‘(Humban) did battle with Assyria at Halule and forced Assyria to retreat’ (see also Grayson 1965, p.342). On the course of the battle itself see Scurlock 1997, pp.517–523. There are 15 in this passage: upalliša UD-ziziš, rukkusÆ rittešun, nadû šummannu, aškuna taÓtâšun, unakkis asliš, uparri’ g∑’iš, ušardâ ∆er er∆eti šadilti, išallû nÆriš, ritmuk∑ magarr∑š, umallâ ∆era, unakkis qÆt∞šun, itarrak∑ libb∑šun, umaššer∑ni zûšun, uma”er ark∞šun, urassab∑ ina kakki. By contrast, there are also 15 occasions where the verb falls at the end of a clause including other members, and could thus have taken the penultimate position. Westenholz identifies an ambiguity in this clause, where the signs can also be read as isinnum ša m∑ti ‘festival of death’, and considers it intentional (1997, p.63 sub 19). Such an ambiguity cannot be ruled out at the removal of nearly four millennia, and might also be asserted for par∆am ša mu-tim in the line of Gilgamesh

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 65

27/06/2013 11:39

66

4

5 6

7

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East quoted earlier. However, in the passage of Lugale quoted above, the Sumerian ezen nam-guruš-a is unambiguously ‘festival of young men’, and the parallelism between par∆am ša mu-tim and šipirti zikari(m) in Gilgamesh only holds good if mutum and zikarum are rough synonyms. The idea, first and foremost, is that battle is heroes at play, even if death lurks there hidden. In 1977 the poem reconstructed by Luigi Cagni had 642 extant verses (1977, p.10), while he estimated the whole to have been between half as much again (i.e. 960+ lines) and 750 lines (1977:11). Tablets I (192 lines), IV (151 lines) and V (61 lines) were already complete, but II and III were beset with long lacunae. Cagni’s figures can be refined by two further discoveries of text. The manuscript of Tablet II excavated at Tell Haddad (Mê-Turnat) and published in 1989 added knowledge of another 45 lines (Al-Rawi and Black 1989) to Cagni’s 113. Al-Rawi and Black estimated the point of turn from col. i to col. ii at lines 42–43, and counted 42 lines also in col. ii, 40+ in col. iii and 35 in col. iv. That yields a total line-numeration of Tablet II as 159+ lines. A two-column Neo-Assyrian manuscript of Tablet III, at one time in Mosul museum, known to me only from photographs taken by Farouk Al-Rawi, will be a major advance when it is published. It is almost completely preserved, except for the middle of col. iv, which held the end of Tablet III, the catch-line and a colophon. The photographs do not permit a complete decipherment, but are good enough to allow the disconnected passages known to Cagni to be placed in a running line-numeration. The tablet shows that an interval of 40 lines separates Cagni’s Perikope A (lines 1–35) from Perikope B, whose 21 lines match 20 on the Mosul tablet (i.e. III 76–95). A further interval of 19 lines elapses before the onset of Perikope C, whose 72 lines are III 115–88 on the Mosul tablet. I have not been able to tie Perikope D’s 15 lines to the damaged text of col. iv of the Mosul tablet, but reckon that it cannot have begun before III 210. Tablet III thus had a minimum line-count of 224, almost 100 lines more than Cagni was able to reconstruct. The Mosul tablet is the major source for lines 1–c.210. It is to be hoped that is quickly located and published. As regards the poem as a whole, the total line-numeration would on present evidence be a little less than 800. See earlier Cagni (1977, p.14): ‘One might hazard presenting the poem of Erra as a sort of vast allegory.’ I have avoided a literal translation of this line as overly cumbersome, but Assyriologists will expect it: ‘and at whose causing his terrible battle-axe to flash, also Erra, the warrior of the gods, quakes in his dwelling’. Cagni’s analysis, that ana šubruq and ana našê are both governed by qÆtÆšu asmÆ, and that in∑šu in line 5 is indicative, wrecks the syntax, as Machinist acknowledges (1983, p.223 n. 15), and is best rejected. The verb in∑šu is subordinative in a relative clause; so also Labat (1970, p.117), Wilcke (1977, p.195), CAD N/2 114 (1980), Müller (1994, p.783, 1995, p.350) and Farber (2008, p.264). That Hendursanga, a deified staff of office, is here a name of the vizier Ishum is not in doubt (see the evidence collected by Cagni 1969, pp.139–140). The formal division between the opening two couplets is not impaired by the fact that the epithets in line 3 arise through scholarly speculation on the name in line 2 (so already Bottéro 1978, p.160): Óendur(PA) = Óaππu ‘staff’, sag = ∆∞rtu ‘august’, PA = nÆqidu ‘herdsman’ (because PA+DAG.KISIM5×GAG = nagada = n.), PA = re’û ‘shepherd’ (because PA+LU = sipa = r.). The less recondite example of etymologically based epithetry in line 4, i = na’du ‘renowned’ and šum(TAG) = πÆbiÓu ‘butcher’, was first expounded by W. G. Lambert (1957–58:400); see further Noegel (2011, pp.171–172).

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 66

27/06/2013 11:39



The Poem of Erra and Ishum67

8

See most recently W. Farber (2008, p.265), who argues for Erra’s name to be restored at the end of the line. 9 The etymology of Išum as ‘fire’ (the common noun is feminine, išÆtum) is doubted by some, but even so Ishum’s connection with fire is accepted as well established (Edzard 1976–80). As the passage under study later makes clear, Ishum (as Engidudu) was envisaged as a night watchman patrolling the streets, who shone a light to lead people home through the dark (Tablet I 21–22). For other evidence for his fiery nature see George forthcoming. 10 See further, especially on Farber’s translation of line 20, B. R. Foster’s review of Weiershäuser (2010) (Foster 2011, p.685). 11 On seven as a special number in Babylonia, as elsewhere in the Ancient Near East, see most recently Reinhold (2008); for the seven warrior-gods, Wiggermann (2010). 12 On the reading Šaršar see George (2009, p.12). 13 For the modal particle minde as a marker of a speaker’s high level of confidence in what he says, see now Wasserman (2012, pp.43–63). 14 That is, send it for slaughter, with the disastrous consequence of leaving the whole flock leaderless. 15 Spelled te-e∆-∆i-na (NB manuscript), though te∆inÆ is expected. The irregular closing of the first syllable also occurs in manuscripts of Erra and Ishum V 50 (from Aššur and Ur), a-a i∆-∆i-na = aj i∆∆ina instead of ay ∞∆ina; and in a manuscript of Ištar’s Descent, li-i∆-∆i-nu (CT 15 47 rev. 58, from Nineveh) = li∆∆in∑ instead of l∞∆in∑. All are jussive forms of the same verb, a fact which makes it probable that the spellings are phonologically motivated. On irregular consonantal doubling see, for example, Mayer (1991, p.47) (with further literature), George (2000, p.273), Luukko (2004, p.35). 16 This is an example of the modal particle minde before a quasiconditional construction, where it emphasises the ‘speaker’s assurance, his commitment to its [the second clause’s] actualization’ (Wasserman 2012, p.52). 17 KAR 166 rev. 3 (Aššur): kal Æl∞ kal∞šunu li-bi-lu šá-a-[x]; Bu. 91-5-19, 69+ (Nineveh, Lambert 1962 pl. 36): kal ⎡da-ád-me⎤ šu-bé-el šá-a-š[un]; BM 36734 rev. 8’ (Babylon, unpub. copy W. G. Lambert Folio 421): [-e]l šá-a-šú-u[n]. 18 Line division according to BM 55363 (Lambert 1980, p.80). 19 In this parsing of šubel (Nineveh ms.) as III/1 bêlu ‘to rule’, I follow Brinkman (1968, p.285 n. 1852). The variant li-bi-lu (Aššur ms.) is singular, that is, I/1 libel ‘let him rule’ + extra (überhängend) vowel; the extra vowel is redundant, or perhaps an Assyrianism, for in Assyrian writing such a vowel can be syntactically motivated (e.g. Luukko 2004, pp.108–109). 20 Despite the ruling that intervenes between lines 38 and 39 on the Ur ms., the adverbial phrase šanat lÆ n∞bi belongs to the preceding clause, as seen by Brinkman (1968, p.285 n. 1852). The result is a rare enjambement that disrupts the conjunction between poetic line and syntax, but frees tanittu to act as the nominal referent of the pronominal suffix (-šu, = fem. in NB) on kÆ∆ir kammešu (line 42), which is otherwise an orphan. Like its Sumerian counterpart, zà-mí ‘(hymn of) praise’, Akkadian tanittu ‘praise’ very often refers to a specific composition, written or sung. 21 The Old Babylonian fragment is CT 15 5–6 vii 8’, ed Römer (1966, p.139); the Assyrian text is the Underworld Vision of Kummâ, most recently edited by Livingstone (1989, pp.68–76 n. 32, at rev. 16). 22 Note the alliteration, šubteya … šib∞t, in these lines. I take atebbûmma (a-te-ebbu-ma) as present conditional with ventive in -u(m).

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 67

27/06/2013 11:39

68

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Bibliography Al-Rawi, F. N. H. and J. A. Black, ‘The second tablet of “Išum and Erra”’, Iraq 51 (1989), pp.111–122. Bauer, Josef, ‘Die vorsargonische Abschnitt der mesopotamischen Geschichte’ in J. Bauer, R. K. Englund and M. Krebernik (eds), Mesopotamien. SpäturukZeit und Frühdynastische Zeit. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 160, 1 (Freiburg: Universitätsverlag and Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998), pp.431–585. Beaulieu, Paul-Alain, ‘A land grant on a cylinder seal and Assurbanipal’s Babylonian policy’ in S. Graziani (ed), Studi sul Vicino Oriente antico dedicati alla memoria di Luigi Cagni (Naples: Istituto Universitario Orientale, 2000), pp.25–45. Bottéro, Jean (1978), ‘Antiquités assyro-babyloniennes’, Annuaire de l’École Pratique des Hautes Études, IVe Section, sciences historiques et philologiques (1977–1978, pp.107–164). Reprinted as ‘Le poème d’Erra. Les infortunes de Babylone et sa résurrection expliquées’, in J. Bottéro, Mythes et rites de Babylone (Paris: Honoré Champion, 1985), pp.221–278. ———, ‘La femme, L’amour et la guerre en Mésopotamie ancienne’ in Poikilia: Études offertes à Jean-Pierre Vernant (Paris: École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales, 1987), pp.165–183. ——— and Samuel N. Kramer, Lorsque les dieux faisaient l’homme. Mythologie mésopotamienne (Paris: Gallimard, 1989). Brinkman, J. A., A Political History of Post-Kassite Babylonia 1158–722 B.C. Analecta Orientalia 43 (Rome: Pontificium Institutum Biblicum, 1968). CAD, The Assyrian Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. 21 vols (Chicago: Oriental Institute, 1956–2010). Cagni, Luigi, L’epopea di Erra. Studi semitici 34 (Rome: Pontificium Institutum Biblicum, 1969). ———, The Poem of Erra. Sources from the Ancient Near East 1, 3 (Malibu, Calif.: Undena Publications, 1977). Coleridge, Ernest Hartley (ed), Coleridge, Poetical Works (London: Oxford University Press, 1967). Cooper, Jerrold S., Reconstructing History from Ancient Inscriptions: The LagashUmma Border Conflict. Sources from the Ancient Near East 2, 1 (Malibu, Calif.: Undena Publications, 1983). ———, Sumerian and Akkadian Royal Inscriptions 1. Presargonic Inscriptions (New Haven, Conn.: American Oriental Society, 1986). Dijk, J. J. A. van, LUGAL UD ME-LÁM-bi NIR-ǦÁL. Le récit épique et didactique des Travaux de Ninurta, du Déluge et de la nouvelle Création, 2 vols (Leiden: Brill, 1983). Edzard, Dietz Otto, ‘Išum’, Reallexikon der Assyriologie 5 (1976–80), pp.213–214. Farber, W., ‘Die einleitende Episode des Erra-Epos’, Altorientalische Forschungen 35 (2008), pp.262–267. Foster, Benjamin R., ‘On authorship in Akkadian literature’, Annali, Istituto Universitario Orientale (Naples) 51, 1 (1991), pp.17–32. ———, Before the Muses. An Anthology of Akkadian Literature, 3rd edn (Bethesda, Md.: CDL Press, 2005). ———, Akkadian Literature of the Late Period. Guides to the Mesopotamian Textual Record 2 (Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2007).

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 68

27/06/2013 11:39



The Poem of Erra and Ishum69

———, Review of D. Shehata, F. Weiershäuser and K. V. Zand (eds), Von Göttern und Menschen. Beiträge zu Literatur und Geschichte des Alten Orients: Festschrift für Brigitte Groneberg (Leiden, 2010), Journal of the American Oriental Society 131 (2011), pp.683–686. Frahm, Eckart, ‘Counter-texts, commentaries, and adaptations: Politically motivated responses to the Babylonian Epic of Creation in Mesopotamia, the biblical world, and elsewhere’, Orient 45 (2010), pp. 3–33. Frayne, Douglas R., Presargonic Period (2700–2350 BC). Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia, Early Periods 1 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2008). George, A. R., Babylonian Topographical Texts. Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 40 (Leuven: Peeters, 1992). ———, ‘Babylon, the cosmic capital’ in G. Wilhelm (ed), Die orientalische Stadt: Kontinuität, Wandel, Bruch. Colloquien der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft 1 (Saarbrücken: Saarbrücker Druckerei, 1997), pp.125–145. ———, ‘Four temple rituals from Babylon’ in A. R. George and I. L. Finkel (eds), Wisdom, Gods and Literature. Studies in Assyriology in Honour of W. G. Lambert (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2000), pp.259–299. ———, The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic. Introduction, Critical Edition and Cuneiform Texts, 2 vols (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003). ———, ‘Babylonian and Assyrian: A history of Akkadian’ in J. N. Postgate (ed), Languages of Iraq, Ancient and Modern (London: British School of Archaeology in Iraq, 2007a), pp.31–71. ———, ‘The Epic of Gilgameš: Thoughts on genre and meaning’ in J. Azize and N. Weeks (eds), Gilgameš and the World of Assyria. Proceedings of the Conference Held at Mandelbaum House, the University of Sydney, 21–23 July 2004 (Leuven: Peeters, 2007b), pp.37–65. ———, Babylonian Literary Texts in the Schøyen Collection. Cornell University Studies in Assyriology and Sumerology 10 (Bethesda, Md.: CDL Press, 2009). ——— (forthcoming), ‘The gods Išum and Hendursanga: Street-lighting and streetlamps in Babylonia’. Grayson, A. Kirk, ‘Problematical battles in Mesopotamian history’ in H. G. Güterbock and T. Jacobsen (eds), Studies in Honor of Benno Landsberger on his SeventyFifth Birthday, April 21, 1965. Assyriological Studies 16 (Chicago, Ill.: University of Chicago Press, 1965), pp.337–342. ———, Assyrian and Babylonian Chronicles. Texts from Cuneiform Sources 5 (Locust Valley, NY: J. J. Augustin, 1975). Groneberg, Brigitte, Lob der Ištar. Gebet und Ritual an die altbabylonische Venusgöttin. Cuneiform Monographs 8 (Groningen: Styx Publications, 1997). Hruška, Blahoslav, ‘Zur letzten Bearbeitung des Erraepos’, Archív Orientální 42 (1974), pp.354–365. Kuk Won Chang, Dichtungen der Zeit Tukulti-Ninurtas I. von Assyrien (Seoul: Sung Kwang Publishing Co, 1981). Labat, René, Les religions du Proche-Orient asiatique: textes babyloniens, ougaritiques, hittites (Paris: Fayard-Denoël, 1970). Lambert, Maurice, ‘Une histoire du conflit entre Lagash et Umma’, Revue d’Assyriologie 50 (1956), pp.141–146. Lambert, W. G., Review of F. Gössmann, Das Era-Epos (Würzburg, 1955), Archiv für Orientforschung 18 (1957–58), pp.395–401. ———, ‘The fifth tablet of the Era epic’, Iraq 24 (1962), pp.119–125 and pl. 36.

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 69

27/06/2013 11:39

70

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

———, ‘New fragments of Babylonian epics’, Archiv für Orientforschung 27 (1980), pp.71–82. ———, ‘Mesopotamian creation stories’ in M. J. Geller and M. Schipper (eds), Imagining Creation (Leiden: Brill, 2008), pp.15–59. Livingstone, Alasdair, Court Poetry and Literary Miscellanea. State Archives of Assyria 3 (Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1989). Luckenbill, D. D., The Annals of Sennacherib. Oriental Institute Publications 2 (Chicago, Ill.: University of Chicago Press, 1924). Luukko, Mikko, Grammatical Variation in Neo-Assyrian. State Archives of Assyria Studies 16 (Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project of the University of Helsinki, 2004). Machinist, Peter, ‘Rest and violence in the poem of Erra’, Journal of the American Oriental Society 103 (1983), pp.221–226. Mayer, Walter, ‘Sargons Feldzug gegen Urartu – 714 v. Chr. Text und Übersetzung’, Mitteilungen der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft 115 (1983), pp.65–132. Mayer, Werner R., ‘Ein Hymnus auf Ninurta als Helfer in der Not’, Orientalia 61 (1991), pp.17–57. McDuff, David and Paul Foote, transl., Leo Tolstoy, The Cossacks and Other Stories (London: Penguin Classics, 2006). Müller, Gerfrid G. W., ‘Ischum und Erra’ in Karl Hecker et al., Mythen und Epen II. Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testaments III, 4 (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1994) pp.781–801. ———, ‘Wer spricht? Bemerkungen zu “Išum und Erra”’ in M. Dietrich and O. Loretz (eds), Vom alten Orient zum Alten Testament: Festschrift für Wolfram Freiherrn von Soden zum 85. Geburtstag. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 240 (Kevelaer: Verlag Butzon & Bercker and Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1995), pp.349–360. Noegel, Scott B., ‘“Wordplay” in the Song of Erra’ in W. Heimpel and G. Frantz-Szabó (eds), Strings and Threads: A Celebration of the Work of Anne Draffkorn Kilmer (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2011), pp.161–193. Reiner, Erica, ‘Plague amulets and house blessings’, Journal of Near Eastern Studies 19 (1960), pp.148–155. Reinhold, Gotthard G. G. (ed), Die Zahl Sieben im Alten Orient: Studien zur Zahlensymbolik in der Bibel und ihrer altorientalischen Umwelt (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2008). Römer, W. H. Ph., ‘Studien zu altbabylonischen hymnisch-epischen Texten (2). Ein Lied über die Jugendjahre der Götter Sîn und Išum (CT 15, 5-6)’, Journal of the American Oriental Society 86 (1966), pp.38–47. Scurlock, JoAnn, ‘Neo-Assyrian battle tactics’ in G. D. Young, M. W. Chavalas and R. E. Averbeck (eds), Crossing Boundaries and Linking Horizons: Studies in Honor of Michael C. Astour on his 80th Birthday (Bethesda, Md.: CDL Press, 1997), pp.499–525. Sjöberg, Åke W., ‘in-nin šà-gur4-ra. A hymn to the goddess Inanna by the en-priestess EnÓeduanna’, Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 65 (1975), pp.161–253. Steinbeck, John, East of Eden (New York: Viking Press, 1952). Talon, Philippe, The Standard Babylonian Creation Myth En∑ma eliš. State Archives of Assyria Cuneiform Texts 4 (Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project of the University of Helsinki, 2005). Wasserman, Nathan, Most Probably: Epistemic Modality in Old Babylonian (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2012).

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 70

27/06/2013 11:39



The Poem of Erra and Ishum71

Weiershäuser, Frauke, ‘Weiser Išum, der du den Göttern vorangehst’ in D. Shehata, F. Weiershäuser and K. V. Zand (eds), Von Göttern und Menschen. Beiträge zu Literatur und Geschichte des Alten Orients: Festschrift für Brigitte Groneberg. Cuneiform Monographs 41 (Leiden: Brill, 2010), pp.351–376. Weissert, Elnathan, ‘Creating a political climate: literary allusions to En∑ma eliš in Sennacherib’s account of the battle of Halule’ in H. Waetzoldt and H. Hauptmann (eds), Assyrien in Wandel der Zeiten. Heidelberger Studien zum Alten Orient 6 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1997), pp.191–202. West, M. L., The East Face of Helicon. West Asiatic Elements in Greek Poetry and Myth (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997). Westenholz, Joan G., Legends of the Kings of Akkade: The Texts. Mesopotamian Civilizations 7 (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1997). Wiggermann, Frans A. M., ‘Siebengötter (Sebettu, Sebittu, Sibittu). A. Mesopotamien’ in M. P. Streck et al. (eds), Reallexikon der Assyriologie und Vorderasiatischen Archäologie 12, 5–6 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2010), pp.459–466. Wilcke, Claus, ‘Die Anfänge der akkadischen Epen’, Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 67 (1977), pp.153–216. Zsolnay, Ilona, ‘Ištar, “goddess of war, pacifier of kings”: An analysis of Ištar’s martial role in the maledictory sections of the Assyrian royal inscriptions’ in L. Kogan, N. Koslova, S. Loesov and S. Tishchenko (eds), Language in the Ancient Near East. Proceedings of the 53e Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale. 2 vols. Babel und Bibel 4, 1–2 (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2010), pp.389–402.

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 71

27/06/2013 11:39

02_Warfare&Poetry_Ch2_039-072.indd 72

27/06/2013 11:39

Chapter 3

Poetry and War among the Hittites Mark Weeden Who were the Hittites? During the nineteenth century, European visitors to central Anatolia came upon the ruins of a large ancient city near the village of Bo©azköy, modern-day Bo©azkale. Already during the initial period of investigation that ensued over the next 50 years, links were made with Iron Age (first millennium bc) inscriptions in an as yet undeciphered hieroglyphic script that were known from northern Syria, and the people known to readers of the Hebrew Bible as the Hittites. As it turned out, these indirectly related phenomena were separated by several hundred years from the Late Bronze Age (c.1600–1200 bc) civilisation that had its seat at Bo©azköy.1 At the beginning of the twentieth century joint German and Turkish excavations at this site brought to light thousands of clay tablets inscribed with the cuneiform script, many in Akkadian – the lingua franca of the Ancient Near East in the Late Bronze Age – but many others in a language that bore resemblance to an Indo-European dialect already known from two letters found in the cuneiform archive from Amarna, Egypt. The Akkadian documents, especially treaties with the great powers of the time, soon made it clear that this was the ancient city of Hattusa, capital of the Hittite Empire. By 1917 the language, known to its speakers as Nesili (the language of Nesa), was officially deciphered and became known to the modern world as Hittite, the oldest attested member of the Indo-European language family.2 Excavations continue at the site to this day, and the number of cuneiform tablets and fragments recovered thus far amounts to some 30,000.3 Between around 1600 and 1200 bc, the period known archaeologically as the Late Bronze Age, the people we call the Hittites ruled first a kingdom in central Anatolia and later, after several short-lived attempts at imperial

03_Warfare&Poetry_Ch3_073-098.indd 73

27/06/2013 11:42

74

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

expansion, an empire covering most of Anatolia and northern Syria from around 1350 bc. It was a Hittite king, Mursili I, who sacked the city of Babylon in the sixteenth century bc, although the expedition to this distant city of Mesopotamia can be called little more than a raid.4 Periodic Hittite adventures into Syria are documented at least from the time of Mursili’s predecessor, Hattusili I, and continued sporadically through to the time of the fifteenth century bc king Tudhaliya I, who also campaigned extensively in western Anatolia. However, Hittite history was constantly shaped by the environment in which it was played out, with a centre high on the Anatolian plateau and roads being impassable for much of the winter. They were separated from Syria by the Taurus Mountains and from much of the rest of Anatolia, especially the west, by similarly intractable terrain. Temporary Hittite gains abroad were frequently thwarted by their inability to control events at home, where they were repeatedly threatened by other Anatolian ethnic, tribal and regional groupings. This cycle of conquest and loss was effectively cut short by the Hittite king Suppiluliuma I in the late fourteenth century bc. He established his son, Piyassili, as a viceroy in Karkamish on the Syrian Euphrates, from where a dynasty of his descendants controlled Hittite affairs in Syria, including the conclusion of a famous peace-treaty with the Egyptian pharaoh Ramesses II. The dynasty survived even until after the demise of Hittite rule in central Anatolia. The Late Bronze Age Hittite Empire disappeared in the general conflagration that weakened civilisations around the Ancient Near East in the twelfth century bc. When written documents become available again in Iron Age Syria, Cappadocia and Malatya, the script that they use is Anatolian Hieroglyphic, and the language in which they write is entirely the related Anatolian language known as Luwian.5 Hittite and its speakers had vanished from the historical stage.

What did the Hittites write? The archives at Hattusa, stemming mainly from the find-contexts of a large temple, Temple I, as well as from the royal palace on the citadel, known in Turkish as Büyükkale, have brought forth cuneiform documents in a wide variety of the languages that were in use during the Late Bronze Age in the Ancient Near East. Beside Hittite we have Akkadian, the language of international diplomacy and scholarship; Sumerian, the language for which the cuneiform script was developed, and which had clearly died out by the time of the Hittite archives, remaining only in scholastic use; and Hurrian,

03_Warfare&Poetry_Ch3_073-098.indd 74

27/06/2013 11:42



Poetry and War among the Hittites75

the language of the Empire of Mittani, which preceded Hittite dominion in Syria during the fifteenth century bc. Beside these international idioms we also find traces of other local languages, such as Hattic, the poorly understood language of the pre-Hittite inhabitants of central Anatolia; and Palaic and Luwian, languages closely related to Hittite as part of the Anatolian branch of Indo-European. This was clearly a multilingual era and scholarship flourished at the ancient capital Hattusa just as in any of the contemporary major centres.6 The cuneiform script itself, named after its construction of signs through using wedge-shaped impressions in clay (Latin cuneus = wedge), had originated in Mesopotamia.7 The Hittites are likely to have inherited the script from Syria, although it is not clear precisely when. Wherever the script went, however, Babylonian cultural elements were transported with it, both for use in learning to write and to master the languages needed for diplomacy, Akkadian and Hurrian, although the latter more temporarily. These Mesopotamian works included large lexical lists and vocabularies, which were used in various forms across the Ancient Near East to learn to write cuneiform, but also some of the major works of Akkadian poetry, such as the Epic of Gilgamesh.8 In the fragments of these poems recovered at Bo©azköy we see the attempts of Hittite scribes to reproduce Babylonian narratives in the original, beside translations or paraphrases into Hittite that may reflect a more complex transmission, particularly via the Hurrian kingdom of Mittani in northern Syria and Upper Mesopotamia.9 Original Hurrian works were also translated and disseminated at Hattusa, as we shall see below. Apart from literature, scholastic texts, historical narratives, letters, laws and treaties, the bulk of Hittite writing in cuneiform was made up of ritual and festival texts. These detailed in precise language the programme of action to be followed during rituals performed at certain times of the year, sometimes over a period as long as a month or more. Ritual texts were also imported from abroad, ostensibly as the ‘words’ of male and female ritual practitioners from various regions, and redacted at Hattusa over many years. Particularly important here are imports from western Anatolia (the land of Arzawa) and from the area of Kizzuwatna, a region with strong Hurrian and Luwian-speaking population elements roughly coterminous with plain Cilicia and the Cilician Gates leading into Syria. Cuneiform texts have not yet been found here in any significant numbers, and our information on local composition practices and scribal habits comes entirely from Kizzuwatnean texts, in the Hittite language, which were imported to and copied at Hattusa.10

03_Warfare&Poetry_Ch3_073-098.indd 75

27/06/2013 11:42

76

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Some works of Hittite literature are apparently embedded as narratives into ritual or festival performance. The numerous myths recounting the tales of disappearing gods, especially that of Telipinu, son of the stormgod, frequently contain ritual episodes which doubtless replicate or parallel procedures of analogical magic performed in real time and designed to secure the return of fertility to the land.11 By contrast, the narrative of the battle of the storm-god against the serpent Illuyanka is told in two different versions on one tablet as an aetiology for a spring festival at a particular location in Anatolia, and depicts a victory of the forces of order over chaos, although by using underhand and despicable means.12 Trickery, abuse of hospitality and a cold disregard for the value of human life on the side of the gods feature as themes in this tale. Some ritual texts contain elements of dialogue performed by participants, and one is left to wonder whether the immediate context of some of the mythological and even historical tales, which frequently contain significant sections of direct speech, might not have been performative, although this is currently not verifiable.13 The step to the Greek tragedies, which were performed at the festival of Dionysus in Athens hundreds of years later, would not be so great. We must be careful, however, not to let our imaginations create contexts that are not clearly indicated by the textual and archaeological evidence. One group of texts conspicuous by its absence from the Hattusa archives is that of private economic documents.14 These are well represented in other collections from the Ancient Near East, including from centres in Syria. The disparity observable at Hattusa may lead one to think that cuneiform was almost exclusively associated with the interests of the ruling class centred around the extended royal family and its bureaucracy.15 This sociological observation has clear ramifications for the study of Hittite written culture. The audience of the texts we read will doubtless have been restricted. If the texts are at some distance reflections of more widespread oral traditions, which many of them surely are, these are something to which we can have no access.

The Hittites and martial poetry from abroad It has proved extremely difficult to identify poetry in Hittite texts. Contrary to the Babylonians, but in keeping with the practice of cuneiform writing in Syria, the Hittites did not divide lines of poetic text into lines of written text on a clay tablet. This applies not only to texts written in Hittite, but

03_Warfare&Poetry_Ch3_073-098.indd 76

27/06/2013 11:42



Poetry and War among the Hittites77

also to clearly poetic texts written in Akkadian, such as the fragments of the Babylonian Epic of Gilgamesh found at Hattusa. It is only for compositions of foreign origin that the term SÌR, the Sumerogram meaning ‘song’, is used on colophons (i.e. notes at the end of tablets giving information about the text and its scribe). As we shall see, however, Hittite texts also refer to people ‘singing’, and some of these ‘songs’ also have poetic features.16 In some cases it is clear that the Hittite scribes were receiving poetic texts and translating them into prose. This is apparent in the paraphrase of the Epic of Gilgamesh, but more transparently the case in a bilingual Hittite-Hurrian text-ensemble known from its colophon (a note appended to the composition at the end of the tablet), as ‘The Song of Release’.17 The tablets it is written on are dated by means of palaeography to the early fourteenth century bc or somewhat earlier, and were found in a temple in the Upper City at Hattusa. The tablet is divided into two columns on each side, with a Hurrian composition facing its Hittite translation paragraph to paragraph. The artistic language of the Hurrian, its clear syntactic and lexical parallelisms, repetitions and variations, its paratactic grammatical structures and its division into syllable-counting lines, all make it clear that this is a poetic composition. The line of poetry is the organising principle defining the unit of sense. By contrast, the Hittite version uses an equation of sense and sentence, typical of prose, and tends to use a subordinating syntax as opposed to parataxis. This does not prevent the Hittite language prose version from using artistic language, however.18 The context is a martial one, the siege of the Syrian city Ebla, which must have occurred sometime in the seventeenth century bc. The first tablet, preserved only in its Hurrian version, starts with a proem introducing the topic of the song in typical epic style: ‘let me tell of Teššub, the gr[eat] king of Kummani, let me praise Allani, the ma[iden], bond of the earth’.19 The mention of these gods, the Hurrian storm-god, Teššub, and the queen of the underworld, Allani, introduces a divine parallel to the human story that will be told in following tablets. Only in line 7 do we encounter a mortal human protagonist and the names of human settlements: ‘Let me speak of Pizikarra, (of?) E[bla].’ Tablets two to three recite a series of moral parables concerning animals, objects or humans that try to be something they are not, essentially the crime of hybristic rebellion against a perceived natural order. Then in tablet four we are treated to a tale of how the storm-god Teššub went down to the underworld for a feast, and was presumably imprisoned there, although the text does not tell us this explicitly. This widespread mythologem, the god or hero who descends to the underworld and cannot immediately return, is presumably

03_Warfare&Poetry_Ch3_073-098.indd 77

27/06/2013 11:42

78

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

narrated here as a foil to the ensuing depiction of the siege enveloping the city of Ebla. The precise narrative connections are not clear, but what interests us here is the juxtaposition of the verse Hurrian version with a prose Hittite one:20 Hurrian Teššub farišanna || afallivena Teššub agav || Allaniwa šeÓlu Óaikalli kilÆnav kešÓini naÓÓav kešÓi naÓÓoša kifutu || aviÓarrivena uril || šarri Teššub fašumai šeÓan admine kelikeštov Hittite TarÓunnas mahhan iyattat n=as=kan taknas Istanuwas Óalent∑was andan iyannis nu=ssi GIŠŠÚ.A [Óandan] TarÓunnas Óassus maÓÓan askaz andan uet

nu=ssan irÓas (?) kueras ŠÚ.A TarÓunnas pargawan esat

GIŠ

kueras sapta tawall-as=ma=ssan Óapsalliya padus parknut

Hurrian Hittite Teššub, after leaving, stepped into Allani’s palace His throne is ready for his sitting King Teššub, entering, stepped in Teššub the leader, raising himself, sat on a throne (as big as) an avali He raised his feet on a stool (as big as) an aviharri

Tarhunna, when he went off, walked into the palace of the sun-goddess of the earth. His throne [(is) ready] for him, Tarhunna the king, when he came in from the gate, Sat raised, Tarhunna, on a throne of a hectare, but he raised his feet on a stool of seven acres

The Hurrian makes frequent use of sound patterning in order to reinforce the parallelisms necessarily produced by the verse divisions. This is not evident in the Hittite version. As frequently found in translations, the Hittite takes up more space than the Hurrian. It is quite possible that the function of the text as found was as an aid to learning the Hurrian language, which was much needed for diplomacy of the time, and clearly had a prestige literature

03_Warfare&Poetry_Ch3_073-098.indd 78

27/06/2013 11:42



Poetry and War among the Hittites79

associated with it. Note also the way in which Hurrian cultural concepts are translated into Hittite: instead of calling the storm-god Teššub, with his Hurrian name, as he is in the original tale, the Hittite version calls him Tarhunna, using the Hittite name for this deity. Unfortunately the state of preservation of the tablets is such that it is very difficult to derive a literary message from the text-ensemble, such as a view of warfare as presented in poetry, or even to know in detail what happened in the story. Another case where we appear to have a Hittite translation from a now mainly lost Hurrian original is the epic poetic series often referred to as ‘Kingship in Heaven’.21 The story tells in five instalments of how Teššub, the storm-god, came to be king of the gods. After a proem addressing the Hurrian divine pantheon as audience, doubtless a flattering co-reference to the royal or courtly audience that may have heard the original song, we are told in swift succession of the extremely violent usurpation of power from one generation to the next. The god Kumarbi wrests power from his predecessor, Anu, by biting off his ‘manhood’, but in so doing sows the seeds of his own destruction, in that he conceives a son in his stomach, Teššub, whose birth, which is described in agonising detail, signals his father’s downfall. The remaining poems in the series enumerate the attempts by Kumarbi to regain power in heaven by summoning various demons, beings or gods to challenge Teššub, all of which are defeated, with the storm-god emerging triumphant as the king of the gods. The poem thus tells the tale of how the current order was established through war in heaven, a worthy subject for a royal audience, but tells it in a manner that can only be described as partially humorous. The repeated humiliation of Kumarbi, especially in the arena of giving birth, where his skin is ripped like a torn cloth and he repeatedly needs to be sewn up, stands near the beginning of a long tradition of grotesque comic pillory. By contrast to the Hittite prose translation of the Hurrian poem on the siege of Ebla, numerous scholars have contended that the Hittite version of ‘Kingship in Heaven’ is in fact poetic. After a remark to this effect by H. G. Güterbock, pioneering work was done on identifying lines of verse in the Hittite version by I. McNeill and S. Durnford.22 These investigations were all the more important because they involved producing a theory of Hittite word-stress, which is something about which we know pitifully little.23 More recently, H. C. Melchert made refinements to these initial findings by integrating observations on the behaviour of post-tonic enclitic particles in prose texts into the analysis of the verse structure, arguing that the Hittite verse incorporated stress patterns available to natural language.24 Most recently, A. Kloekhorst has investigated the reflection of

03_Warfare&Poetry_Ch3_073-098.indd 79

27/06/2013 11:42

80

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

word-stress in orthography, once more bearing out Durnford’s idea that the Hittite line of verse in this poem is essentially divided into two cola of two stressed words each.25 However, the identification of verse-lines in other Hittite texts remains in its infancy, with one notable exception that we shall address below.26 A. Archi has addressed a further aspect of the ‘Kingship in Heaven’ cycle.27 The frequency of direct speech as part of the narrative is interpreted by him as providing evidence for an oral performance context for these poems. The proportion of the narrative that is taken up by direct speech is compared with that in the works of Homer. It is, however, the case that most Hittite literature contains large amounts of direct speech. In most cases we would hesitate to ascribe the character of poetry to these texts, or even the possibility that they may in some sense be related to ritual performances, although this can rarely be excluded, even in the case of historical texts.

Verbal art of native origin in a martial context These grand poems of epic style based on imported Hurrian material with divine protagonists providing a backdrop for historical human endeavours, or appearing as humorous entertainment for a refined courtly audience, stand in stark contrast to texts produced within the native Anatolian environment.28 As mentioned above, Anatolian literary texts, whether they be mythological narrations partly inherited from the earlier Hattic population of central Anatolia, or brought with them as part of the Hittite’s inherited Indo-European folk memory, tend to be embedded in ritual contexts, although this is a view that has come under criticism in recent literature on the subject.29 These are goal-oriented, practical uses of verbal art, intended to play a part in larger rituals that are designed to have an effect on the physical world. In the same way as the rituals use analogical magical practices to prime their efficacy, manipulating objects and materials of everyday life in order to mimic and anticipate the desired effects of the ritual, so too the use of analogy, metaphor and simile in language is apparent in the verbal incantations, spells and sometimes narratives that form integral parts of the ritual procedure. This direct relationship between word and social function, often involving a concretisation in the materia magica employed on the spot and visible to all participants, is a far cry from the allusive literary style of the poetic epics. Occasionally, the ritual background is explicitly warlike.

03_Warfare&Poetry_Ch3_073-098.indd 80

27/06/2013 11:42



Poetry and War among the Hittites81

The term ‘Soldier’s Oaths’ refers to two texts, one running over two tablets, of which three fragmentary copies are preserved, and one for which we only have one tablet extant. The colophon to the second tablet of the first oath tells us that it was used ‘when they bring the soldier to the oath’. The texts are characterised by short sections describing sequences of analogical magic followed by the words of the oath, which resume the magical actions as a verbal simile. The attempt to render the spoken words as poetic text involves many assumptions due to our poor knowledge of Hittite stress patterns and the imperfections that our current knowledge of the script bring to a phonetic realisation of the words. The following is an attempt to divide the spoken words into units of sense that may or may not correspond to rhythmic ones. Even with the broadest definition of verse structure, and numerous assumptions about the stress of certain words, we have to accommodate an enjambment between lines (d) and (e), and a variation in the number of stress-units between a usual three and four in (b) and (e).30 Potential stress units are underlined:31 (19) nu=smas BÙLUG BAPPIR INA Q≠TøŠUNU dÆi (20) n=at lippanzi nu=smas kisan tezzi (a) (21) k∞=wa BAPPIR mahhan IŠTU NA4ÀRA mallanzi (b) (22) n=at wetenit imiyanzi n=at zanuanzi (23) n=at harranuskanzi (c) kuis=a=kan ke NøŠ DINGIRMEŠ (24) sarradda (d) nu=ssan hassuwi hassussari (25) ANA DUMUMEŠ LUGAL Hattusas utne (e) idalu takkizzi (26) n=an ke NEŠ DINGIR-LIM appandu (f) nu hastaisitit! kissan mallandu (27) n=an kissan inuskiddu! (g) (28) n=an kissan harrauskitta! (29) nu idalu hinkan pedau apema taranzi apÆt (30) esdu ‘(19) And he puts malt (and) beer-herb in their hands (20) and they lick them and he speaks to them thus (a) (b) (c) (d) (e) (f) (g)

‘(21) just as they grind this beer-herb with a millstone ‘(22) and mix it with water and boil it (23) and pound it ‘(23–24) so whoever crosses these oath-gods ‘and to the king, to the queen, (25) to the princes, to the land of Hattusa ‘does evil (26) may these oath-gods seize him ‘and let them grind up his bones thus, (27) and let them! heat him thus ‘(29) and let them! pound him thus and may he bear a bad death”.

They then say (30) “let that be the case”’.

03_Warfare&Poetry_Ch3_073-098.indd 81

27/06/2013 11:42

82

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

The spoken word continues comparing malt, which does not germinate, to the desired infertility of the evil-doer and annihilation of his line. Such similes are well known from the curse-formulae which are found in the many treaty-texts preserved at Hattusa. If the lines as we have them are metrical in any way, it is the rhythm of natural language, artistically organised by means of repetition and syntactic parallelism, which dictates the meter. To call this verse would be daring indeed. Then the priest continues with a further analogy, in which armies are explicitly mentioned. A woman’s dress, a distaff and a spindle are brought on, as well as an arrow, which is broken on the spot. The oath-gods are again called upon, this time to turn the armies of the one who breaks the oath and does ill to the king, to his family and to the land of Hattusa, into women, to dress them as women and to break their bows, arrows and weapons in their hands. A blind and deaf woman is brought on, and the oath-gods are enjoined not only to turn the oath-breaker and evil-doer into a woman, but additionally to make him blind and deaf. A model of a person is crushed, as should the oath-breaker and evil-doer be crushed. In all these cases it is very difficult to define this language as poetry over and above it being ritualistic in context and content, and thus, unsurprisingly, possessing a certain natural rhythm and the repetitive syntax of intonation.

History, guilt and incompetence Historical texts form an important and clearly highly prized part of the Hittite literary patrimony. Later texts (from the reign of Mursili II onwards, late fourteenth century bc) are infused with a desire to put the record straight, to show whatever audience, possibly even the gods, that the Hittite king had always acted impeccably. Perhaps most conspicuously self-apologetic is the autobiographical text of Hattusili III (mid-thirteenth century bc), who had usurped the throne from his nephew and then sent him into exile.32 Of course, this was not his fault; he had in fact been guided all the way by his patron deity, Ištar of Samuha. A masterpiece in accusatory blame, by contrast, is the so-called ‘Indictment of Madduwatta’ from the late fifteenth or early fourteenth century. Madduwatta, an ally from the west, is sharply rebuked for his trickery.33 While faithful Hittite generals were killed due to his underhand machinations, Madduwatta just laughed about it! Treaties with other peoples and powers are usually prefaced by a historical preamble that delineates the developments leading up to the

03_Warfare&Poetry_Ch3_073-098.indd 82

27/06/2013 11:42



Poetry and War among the Hittites83

conclusion of the pact in question. Often the Hittites could look back over a long history of relations with other powers and the latest treaty would be the most recent of many. It is sometimes surprising how honest these documents can be, or at least claim to be, depicting malpractice on both sides of agreements.34 Similarly, prayers will also often contain a historical preamble, designed to set the stage for the demand being made by the king of the god. Usually these demands concerned expiation for presumed past sin that may have caused a present misfortune. In a society where guilt or sin, particularly that involving the spilling of blood, was considered an impurity that needed to be removed by physical ritual action, it was important for the prayer to address all the historical circumstances that could possibly have led to a god’s displeasure.35 Relating to events at the beginning of the Hittite kingdom (late seventeenth and early sixteenth century bc), one composition, the story of the town of Zalpa, may have a similar background.36 Although not a prayer, it can possibly be construed as an argument for Hittite innocence in the matter of the destruction of a historically important town, tracing the roots of bad relations back to a mythical accidental incest between the 30 sons and 30 daughters of the queen of Kaneš. It is likely that the text was composed long after the events described in the historical portions of the narrative took place; certainly the versions we have of it date much later. Whether the narration formed part of a ritual context, possibly designed to obviate a possible guilt, is also unclear, the evidence being very thin.37 Otherwise, we have a number of lively, and partially humorous, narrative compositions relating to the exploits of the first Hittite kings, particularly Hattusili I, from the beginnings of the Hittite period. Hittite humour is of the basic variety, poking fun at incompetent or corrupt officials as in the ‘Palace Chronicles’, or at the ineptitude of military subordinates to the Great King as in the ‘Siege of Uršu’.38 The language in these texts is vibrant, direct and full of imagery, but again difficult to describe as poetry. Within the narrative of the ‘Siege of Uršu’ there is also specific reference to the singing of a song, although at this point the text becomes largely incomprehensible. The ‘Siege of Uršu’ is written in Akkadian and deals with military exploits of the Hittite king in northern Syria. He commands his generals, from a remote base, to complete the siege of the eponymous city. He berates them for lacking manliness and even appears to use biting sarcasm in order to belittle their efforts. Two lines and several phrases in one passage are in Hittite, presumably either because the text is a translation of a Hittite

03_Warfare&Poetry_Ch3_073-098.indd 83

27/06/2013 11:42

84

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

composition and the translator was perplexed by the obscure Hittite, or because a Hittite composer did not know how to express these particular concepts in Akkadian, should the original composition have been in Akkadian.39 Unfortunately for us too, the Hittite sections are impossible to understand completely. KBo 1.11 rev.! 10. [Š]ánda πfmam úblam úmma šarrµma ana minim tÆÓåza lÆ tfpuš 11. […] ina narkabåti ša mê´ tázzaz ana m‰-man tatµrma (12) [tÆ]tállika?40 12. šúmman ana pÆnišu tákmis lµ-man tadµkšu 13. ∑? lµ-man tupallíÓšu inánna kula≥µtam tfpuš 14. DUMUMEŠ Lariya Lariyas Óuskiwantes zamåra Zabåba ízmur∑ 15. KISLAH laÓnit seÓuwen UR.TUR kurziwanis GUD.SAG? KISLAH (16) ublµnim la-zi-la ítbal∑ 16. piláqqa ublµni qan‰ ítbal∑ kirássa (17) ublµni SAG.GUL.GIŠ? ítbal∑ 17. kulessar šaddágda TúdÓaliya (18) ipuš 18. inánna átta tfpuš kula≥µtam 19. úmma šarrµma álik šålšunu inµma ana Úrši tállakÆ abullÅ tašárrapÆ?(20) tÆÓåza téppušÆ 20. úmma šunµma ana samÆnfšu tÆÓåzam nippúšma 21. [π]fmšunu nupárradma ålam nuÓállaq úmma šarrµma dámiq 10. Sanda brought the message, thus (spoke) the king: “why have you not done battle?” 11. [l…] on chariots of water you stand, you have turned into water and you have kept flowing to me. 12. If you had bowed before him you would either have killed him 13. or frightened him. Now you have acted effeminate.’ 14. The sons of Lariya and Lariya, while waiting, sang the Song of Zababa 15. ‘We have swept the threshing floor with a laÓna, the puppy is kurziwani, a ‘chief ox of the threshing floor (16) they brought, the lazila they took away 16. ‘A spindle they brought, the reeds (= arrows) they took away, a hair-clasp

03_Warfare&Poetry_Ch3_073-098.indd 84

27/06/2013 11:42



Poetry and War among the Hittites85 17. ‘They brought, the mace they took away 18. ‘Last year Tudhaliya acted effeminate!, now you have acted effeminate.’ 19. Thus the king (spoke): ‘go ask them, when you go to Uršu will you burn the gate-house, (20) will you do battle?’ 20. Thus they (spoke): ‘eightfold we will do battle and (21) we will terrify their minds and destroy the city’. 21. Thus the king: ‘it is good’.

The lines are difficult to divide into Akkadian verse, and the division offered here is only tentative. Akkadian syllable-stress rules are not crystal clear, but better known than in Hittite, and stressed syllables are here indicated with the ictus-accent. A division into lines of verse is favoured by the partially regular number of words per sense-unit and by the parallel syntax of those sense-units. On the other hand the number of irregularly stressed verse-final words speaks against this division being poetic.41 The last two syllables in an Akkadian verse-line should be trochaic, but this is not the case in eight out of 20 lines here. The range in the number of stress-beats per line varies wildly, from three stress-beats per line of verse to five. The ‘Song of Zababa’, a Babylonian war-god also worshipped by the Hittites, although unclear in much of its precise meaning, clearly mimics and inverts material we have already encountered in the Soldier’s Oath. Feminine utensils are brought in and warlike implements removed. The inversion serves to express a presumed cause for the inefficacy of the generals’ efforts. Someone must have performed a successful ritual, presumably to the god Zababa, which transformed the male warriors into women. The precise meanings of Akkadian kula≥∑tum and Hittite kulessar are not the same, but the latter seems to be used to express the former in line 17.42 The meaning of the Akkadian word has more relevance here. The function of the song appears to be to encourage the generals to fight. In the further narrative they fail once more and the king is again infuriated by their incompetence. Narrative technique here also deserves comment. A message is brought by Sanda, but it is not spoken. Immediately we have the response of the king. Similarly in lines 19–22, a messenger is commanded to ask ‘them’ a series of questions, which are expressed. Immediately we are given ‘their’ answer, as if they were present, without a description of the messenger’s asking them. This elliptical use of narrative builds heavily on a shifting focalisation, switching between the perspectives of the protagonists in an almost cinematic fashion. Such switching of focus is also found in other

03_Warfare&Poetry_Ch3_073-098.indd 85

27/06/2013 11:42

86

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Hittite narratives, like the tale of Zalpa, and suits well a style that uses frequent direct speech. The social function of such poetry, which unlike traditional epic does not seek to glorify the deeds of its protagonists but to expose them to ridicule, clearly lies in reinforcing the superiority of the king over and above his subordinate nobles.43 Unfortunately the poor state of preservation of this intriguing tablet – its beginning and end are missing – prevents our having anything but a speculative idea of how the story was intended to play out. Possibly the king himself sallied forth from his command centre and saved the day. One might assume that the campaign against Uršu was a great success otherwise the Hittites would hardly have been laughing about it. Another somewhat obscure military narrative is generally held to concern the crossing of the Taurus Mountains, the opening of the way into Syria by Hattusili I in the seventeenth century bc, and also contains two songs.44 The narrator is Puhanu, the ‘servant of Sarmassu’, who is not otherwise known from Hittite documents. He appears to be narrating the actions of someone else, whose identity is not entirely clear. Suggestions range from the Hittite king to an enemy of the king, the storm-god of Aleppo or one of his supporters, whose help Puhanu may be advising the Hittite nobles to ask for in the Syrian campaign.45 The following interpretation largely follows that of Gilan (2004), with the text largely based on Soysal (1987). KUB 31.4+KBo 3.4146 1. [UMM]A PuÓÆnu ÌR Sarmassu .... antuwahhas=si 2. [TÚG.G]Ú.È.A DAR.A westa || Óarsani[=ssi] pattar ki[t]ta 3. [GIŠ.B]AN-ZU Óarzi || nu uwÆrra Óalzais || kuit iyanun kuit

Thus Puhanu the servant of Sarmassu ... (a man to him ...) A colourful cloak he wears, on his head there is placed a basket He has his bow and he has called out for help, ‘what have I done, what?

4. 6.

natta=sta kuitki || kuedanikka daÓÓun GUD-n=asta natta || (5) kuedanikka dÆÓÓun UDU-n=asta natta || kuedanikka dÆÓÓun ÌR[ME]Š?-n=asta GÉME-san || natta kuelka daÓÓun



‘I have not taken anything from anyone, not an ox have I taken from anyone, not a sheep have I taken from anyone, not anyone’s male servants, (or) his female servant have I taken.

03_Warfare&Poetry_Ch3_073-098.indd 86

27/06/2013 11:42



Poetry and War among the Hittites87 7. [k]uwat sara=mmu kissan iyatten || nu=mu=ssan k∞ iukan isÓaisten 8. uwami k∞danda pattanit || ekan utiskimi ta zaÓÓiskimi 9. tÆ utne Óarnikmi k∞danda natidda || t=an karda=sma salikti ‘Why have you acted thus upon me and bound this yoke on me? I come carrying ice in this basket and waging war And I will destroy the lands with this very arrow and you (arrow) will   reach their hearts 10. Arinna kuin peÓutetten || uni Óurtalimman n[att=as] (11) ANŠE-is=mis || nussessan eskaÓÓa || nu ammuk peÓutett[en] 12. utne[=m]a Ó∑man kuis Óarzi || natta ∑k ÍDMEŠ-uš HUR.SAGMEŠ-uš arunuss=a || (13) [app]a tarma∞skimi 13. HUR.SAG-an tarmaemi || ta=sta edi natta neari 14. arunan tarmÆmi || nu Æppa natta lÆhui

‘The one you have taken to Arinna, that sworn enemy47 of mine Is he n[ot] my donkey? I will ride him, take me (there) The one who holds all the lands, is it not I? I nail down the rivers, mountains and seas The mountain I nail down, so that it does not move away The sea I nail down so that it does not flow back’

15. [app?]a=ma=smas! GUD.MAH k∞sati || n=asta karÆwar=set tepu lips[an]48 16. […] punuskimi || karÆwar=set kuit handa lipsan || UMMA ŠªMA 17. […] mÆn lahheskinun || nu=nnas HUR.SAG-aš nakket kÆsa GUD.M[AH (18) || x-u]š esta 18. mÆn=as ueda || nu uni HUR.SAG-an karpta s=an=asta [edi (19) nÆ]es || arunan=a tarÓuen 19. nu karÆwar=set apeda lipsan [eszi?]

But [the]n he became a bull for them, and his horns were a little bent I further asked […] why his horns (were) bent, thus he (spoke): When I was campaigning […], a mountain was causing us difficulties This here bu[ll] was [x] So when he came, he lifted that mountain And he [mov]ed it [away], so we conquered the sea And his horn [is] for that reason bent

Once again, it is very difficult to describe this as poetry, although an attempt is made in the above presentation of the text to demonstrate the

03_Warfare&Poetry_Ch3_073-098.indd 87

27/06/2013 11:42

88

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

parallelism of the syntax alongside divisions into matching units with similar numbers of potentially stress-carrying words, by means of indicating a caesura and underlining the hypothetical and highly speculative stressunits. At best this could be called rhythmic prose. It has been suggested that the depiction of the figure dressed in a colourful garment, perhaps clothed as a clown and carrying a basket of ice on his head, is supposed to appear ridiculous to the audience.49 If this figure is supposed to be the storm-god of Aleppo or connected with him, it is likely that Puhanu is recommending that the Hittites sue for the support of this deity.50 It was customary that victory over enemy cities was thought to be due to the surrender of that city by its patron god to the invading army.51 The bull is the theriomorphic aspect of the storm-god. It is thus only natural that a storm-god turn himself into a bull. The narration of the incident in the mountains also serves as an aetiology of why the bull’s horns are bent, but it does not appear to be narrated by the storm-god/ bull himself. The object of the verb punuskimi ‘I continue asking’ is lost in a break.52 The ‘conquest of the sea’ has been thought to be a reference to a separate mythologem, that of the battle of the storm-god against the sea.53 This was a widespread myth, manifested in many forms throughout the literature of the Ancient Near East.54 The mention of this story as the context for the removal of a mountain by a bull would not have to refer to the actual crossing of the Taurus by Hattusili, but may in this case merely serve to recommend the support of the stormgod of Aleppo in the prosecution of an endeavour that involves moving mountains.55 This rhetorical intention may be present in the text, but the fact that the ‘conquest of the sea’ is accomplished by ‘us’ (tarhuen ‘we conquered’), that it happened while ‘I was on campaign’ and was facilitated by ‘this bull’, all speaks against the storm-god bull being the one answering the questions. It is thus less likely that the phrase ‘we conquered the sea’ refers to the storm-god’s activity. Whose ‘conquest of the sea’ is being referred to remains unclear. As a reaction to the story of the bull, men are sent with orders to Aleppo, this time by the sun-god, who is presumably identical with the king, Hattusili I.56 The boundaries between mythological and historical narrative are here somewhat porous by modern standards. The text states clearly that the sun-god sends the men, but the Hittite king was referred to at least in later periods by the title ‘My Sun’, and the men who are sent appear to be historical individuals. Although the men are sent to Aleppo, it appears that the desired destination of the Hittite armies is a

03_Warfare&Poetry_Ch3_073-098.indd 88

27/06/2013 11:42



Poetry and War among the Hittites89

town known to them as Zalpa, otherwise known as Zalwar, in northern Syria, not to be confused with the northern Anatolian Zalpa of the eponymous tale. After a break, the story resumes with ‘young men/warriors’ attempting to ‘cut’ (karsikanzi) a mountain and singing a song, which is too fragmentary to be understood.57 It is followed by a further assurance from Puhanu, that the storm-god of Aleppo is the appropriate divine supporter of such efforts. A further episode from the same text concerns an attack by Hurrian enemies after some time has elapsed. Puhanu comes across two ‘fighters’, who are singing a song:58 Nes[as waspu]s Nesas waspus || tiyammu tiya nummu annasmas katta arnut || tiya[mmu t]iya nummu uwasmas katta arnut || [t]iyammu tiya ‘shrouds of Nesa, shrouds of Nesa, bind me, bind ‘take me down to my mother, bind me, bind ‘take me down to my wet-nurse, bind me bind’

These verses have received ample treatment by scholars as they appear to provide a clear example of Hittite verse structure with a division into three lines of two cola, each with two stress units using phrasal stress analysis.59 Indeed, these lines lay some claim to being the oldest securely established verse in an Indo-European language thus far known. Aside from the obvious sound-patterning and syntactic parallelisms it is interesting that this second example of a song in a warlike context is also somewhat negative in tone, just as the ‘Song of Zababa’ in the narrative concerning the siege of Uršu.60 In the Puhanu-text we appear to be dealing with a lament, welcoming death. The place-name Nesa is the Hittite name for ancient Kaneš, modern Kültepe near Kayseri, a location the Hittites regarded to a degree as their ancestral home. Puhanu’s reaction to the song is certainly one of horror: kuit walkuan, he shouts, a phrase whose precise meaning is not clear, but which is otherwise used to express displeasure or horror: ‘what a monstrosity!’61 The fighters tell him that the Hurrian enemy has indeed attacked the land and has been biting it ‘like a dog’. Presumably a reaction to this Hurrian threat is contained in the following narrative, but it is too broken to make any sense. The language of the whole Puhanu-text is undoubtedly artistic, if not clearly in verse. Where verse occurs, and it is indicated by the use of the

03_Warfare&Poetry_Ch3_073-098.indd 89

27/06/2013 11:42

90

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

verb ‘to sing’, it marks heightened negative emotion and has the narratological function of calling forth a response or intervention from our informant, Puhanu. In the first case of ‘singing’, where we cannot be sure that the ‘song’ is in verse as it is not well preserved, he reacts by continuing his advocacy for the storm-god of Aleppo. In the second case, where the song is in verse, it is not clear exactly how he reacts, due to the tablet’s fragmentary state. In both cases the use of ‘song’ accompanies failure or demoralisation, much like the ‘Song of Zababa’, sung by Lariya and his sons in the Uršu text.62

Conclusion We have seen that the Hittites used poetry, or at least artistic language, for various purposes. Whenever poetry clearly occurs they refer to the composition as a ‘song’, a term that is usually reserved for an imported literary epic. These long compositions treat broad moral issues in an epic manner, with human action writ large against a divine foil. Their purpose can be to entertain, humorously as well as by shock, to inform about the natural order of things and its historical divine sanction, and to elevate their audience through comparison with a divine court. By contrast, the use of artistic language in native contexts serves quite different functions. In the soldier’s oath we saw the rhythmic and repetitive prose of incantation, expressing analogies that are directly enacted in ritual performance in front of the participants. The imagery stems partly from the typical repertoire of analogy used to prevent the breaking of an oath in treaty-contexts, and partly from the specific military field, where manliness and armament are among the attributes to be lost by the oath-breaker. In the ‘Siege of Uršu’ text, a song ostensibly criticising pusillanimous generals uses similar imagery, and possibly refers to an inversion of just such a ritual as that found in the ‘Soldier’s Oath’. Here the inefficacy of the generals is accounted for by their alleged effeminacy. It is not to be expected that the singers of the song are implying that the generals have broken their oaths to the king. ‘Song’ we find once again in the context of a major military expedition in Syria. It is the critical and negative stance of such ‘singing’ that surprises the modern, Western audience in these contexts. However, much in the tradition of the lyric poet, the song presumably lends emotional intensity to the utterance; ‘song’ as a response to crisis.

03_Warfare&Poetry_Ch3_073-098.indd 90

27/06/2013 11:42



Poetry and War among the Hittites91

Addendum In Altorientalische Forschungen 39/2 (2001, appeared 2012), pp. 285–308, an article was published entitled ‘The Meter of Hurrian Narrative Song’ by M. Bachvarova. This article appeared too late for me to include it in this paper. There, on pp. 298–300, an analysis of the poetry of the passage of the Hurrian ‘Song of Release’ was conducted which is, in some respects, different to mine (here p. 78). In particular, the Hittite translation is there analysed as being poetic, a conclusion with which I still cannot agree, although the fragility of our understanding of Hittite word-stress patterns hinders definite conclusions for now.

Notes  1 For an overview of the history of Hittite archaeology see Matthews (2011, pp.38–43) with further literature.   2 Hrozny (1915, 1917); overview at Kloekhorst (2008, pp.2–3).  3 Hittite cuneiform tablets are published as hand-copies in the main series Keilschrifturkunden aus Boghazköi (Berlin, 1926–1990), abbreviated KUB, and Keilschrifttexte aus Boghazköi (Leipzig/Berlin, 1916 to present), abbreviated KBo. They are catalogued online in S. Košak’s Konkordanz der hethitischen Texte at www.hethiter.net. This includes access to photographs and bibliography. The initial typological cataloguing of Hittite texts appeared in E. Laroche’s Catalogue des textes hittites (Paris, 1971), abbreviated as CTH.   4 For Hittite history see Bryce (2005); Beal (2011). General works on Hittite literature are Güterbock (1964); van den Hout (2002); Haas (2006).   5 For Luwians see Melchert (2005); Yakubovich (2011).   6 Woodard (2004).   7 Radner and Robson (2011).   8 On Gilgameš at Hattusa see Beckman (2003); George (2003, pp.306–326).   9 On the Hurrians see Wilhelm (1989). 10 Miller (2004). 11 Disappearing god myths from Hattusa are collected at Haas (2006, pp.103–115); Hutter-Braunsar (2011). 12 For this perspective see Gilan (2011), who repudiates the conventional view that the Illuyanka tale was embedded in the Purulli festival as part of its basic framework. However, even interpreters belonging to the ‘myth and ritualist’ school of thought have identified the narrative as an aetiology for the festival. See Haas (1970, p.46). Gilan (2011, p.108) takes the position that the preserved tablets of the Illuyanka-myth contain a compilation of three stories providing aetiologies for different local religious institutions in northern Anatolia, told with the intention of gaining support for their continued existence from the Hittite king. The narration of the tales would thus have a rhetorical function and not specifically a religious one. See, otherwise, Haas (2006, pp.96–103). 13 On the difficult and controversial question of ‘performance’ of mythological narrative see literature at Gilan (2011, pp.104–105). 14 Van den Hout (2002); Weeden (2011b). 15 Van den Hout (2002). 16 See de Martino (2002); Beckman (2005).

03_Warfare&Poetry_Ch3_073-098.indd 91

27/06/2013 11:42

92

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

17 18 19 20

Wilhelm (1992); Neu (1996). English translation Hoffner (1998, pp.65–77). Melchert (1998, pp.483–484). KBo 32.11 obv. i 1–3. Neu (1996, p.30). KBo 32.13 obv. i–ii 1–8. Neu (1996, pp.220–221). The passages are given in bound transcription rather than sign for sign transliteration. Hittite texts frequently use Sumerian or Akkadian words as logograms to indicate Hittite ones. Where we do not know the Hittite word corresponding to the Sumerian or Akkadian one, the logogram is transliterated in capital letters. The use of the macron over a vowel (/Æ/, /e/, /∞/, /∑/) in a Hittite text solely indicates the presence of a plene-spelling (consonant+vowel-vowel, vowel-vowel+consonant) and is not intended to indicate length of the vowel. In an Akkadian text, the macron indicates vowel length, the circumflex indicates a contracted vowel. Hittite sibilants written with signs using [š] in the cuneiform are rendered with /s/ in Hittite-bound transcription, but with /š/ in Hurrian and Akkadian transcription. Transliterated as opposed to transcribed elements are joined with /-/. Enclitic elements are indicated by means of /=/: n=at ‘and it/they’. 21 For the identification of Hurrian language fragments of this epic at Hattusa see Giorgieri (2001). 22 Güterbock (1951, pp.142–144); McNeill (1963); Durnford (1971). See further Eichner (1993). 23 Eichner (1980). 24 Melchert (1998). 25 Kloekhorst (2011). 26 See further Carruba (1998); Melchert (2007). Further Haas (2006, pp.288–302) on poetic language. 27 Archi (2009). 28 Watkins (1986, pp.58–62) makes the intriguing suggestion that there was a Luwian language Wilusiad on the subject of the town Wilusa, thought by many to be identical to Homer’s Ilion. The basis for this hypothesis is one line in the Luwian ‘Songs of Istanuwa’ which uses poetic syntax and alliteration (KBo 4.11 rev. 46): aÓÓa=ta=tta alati awita wilusati ‘when they came from high Wilusa’. This would be the first line of a larger narrative composition. For related literature see Haas (2006, p.287). 29 Gilan (2011). 30 The identification of stress units mainly follows the criteria laid out in Kloekhorst (2011). It is unlikely that maÓÓan, the subordinating conjunction meaning ‘just as’, carried stress. It does not carry the post-tonic clitic =ma, ‘but’: see GIŠ SERDUM=ma=z mÆÓÓan Ì-ŠU ŠÀ-it [Óarzi] (KUB 17.10 ii 19) ‘but just as the olive [holds] its oil inside …’; maÓÓan meaning ‘when’, by contrast, does carry =ma, cf. Chicago Hittite Dictionary L-N 107. I know of no evidence which could indicate one way or the other whether its correlative adverb kissan ‘thus’ carries stress, but the demonstrative pronoun ka- ‘this’, from which it is derived, certainly can do, in that it can carry =ma. The assumption that one of either k∞ ‘this’ or its noun (e.g. BAPPIR, ‘beer-herb’) does not carry stress when they are together, and thus count as one stress unit, is highly suspect. Without making this assumption even the most rudimentary verse-like rhythm cannot be achieved in these lines. 31 KBo 6.34+ obv. ii 19-30. Oettinger (1976, pp.10–11), 34; Collins (2003, p.166). Particularly in lines 26–28 there are spelling and grammatical mistakes that may partly result from confusion in textual transmission. Line 27 translates literally as ‘may he heat him thus and he will be pounded thus’.

03_Warfare&Poetry_Ch3_073-098.indd 92

27/06/2013 11:42



Poetry and War among the Hittites93

32 33 34 35 36 37

Otten (1981). English translation van den Hout (2003, pp.199–204). Goetze (1928); Beckman (1999, pp.153–160). Beckman (1999). Singer (2002). Otten (1973); Holland and Zorman (2007); Zorman (2008). See the ‘ritual of Zalpa’ at KBo 12.63, 3’, which is interpreted as a historical reference to a ‘ritual in Zalpa’ at Corti (2002, p.173). 38 Beckman (1995); Dardano (1997). 39 For a brief summary of the arguments on provenance and language of authorship for this tablet see Weeden (2011a, p.75). 40 [t]a?-tal-lik-ka. The verb alÆku ‘to go’, here S2m Gtn ventive, is otherwise used of water flowing, see Chicago Assyrian Dictionary A/1 (1964), p.299. The reading proposed by myself here is problematic in that it requires an unusual doubling of consonants at the morpheme boundary (-kk-). The sign RI is not used otherwise in the text with the value /tal/, which is also problematic. The third sign is read as UR, with the value /lik/ on the basis of collation of photographs. The hand-copy in KBo 1.11 has the sign IB. Güterbock’s suggestion [e]-re-eb-ka ‘I will replace you’ is not sufficient to fill the space in the gap at the beginning of the line and involves an obscure dialect form for expected Babylonian arâbka or ar∞abka, as well as a peculiar change in tense (Güterbock 1938, p.128). Beckman’s suggestion [t]e?-ri-ib {ka} (1995, p.25) involves a redundant sign {ka}. 41 The Akkadian verse line typically has a trochaic ending. Irregular stress, seen from the perspective of the traditional accent rules, is to be found in the following line endings: [t]Ætallíka for expected tÆtállika, izmúr∑ for expected ízmur∑, itbál∑ for expected ítbal∑, šÆlšúnu for expected šålšunu, tallákÆ for expected tállakÆ, teppúšÆ for expected téppušÆ (i.e. eight out of 20 lines of alleged poetry!). For the existence of such cases see Knudsen (1980, p.14), but these are very rare in normal Akkadian verse. The conjunction in∑ma ‘when’ (line 19) is supposed not to have carried stress in Old Babylonian according to Knudsen’s analysis of the distribution of plene-writings, which he sees as evidence of stress (ibid. p.13). The form šålšunu is very unlikely to have moved its stress to the second syllable. Perhaps a pronunciation with the ‘poetic’ apocopated form of the suffixed pronoun šålšun is to be anticipated. In this case, why didn’t the scribe write the apocopated form? 42 Hittite kulessar appears to mean ‘calm, inertia, idleness’ (Beal 1988), while Akkadian kula≥∑tum is the status or quality of being a kulu≥u, see Chicago Assyrian Dictionary K 529. The ancient translator has misunderstood one of these terms, or has simply been led to use one word for the other as a kind of phonetic writing. A kulu≥u was a dancer, actor or devotee of the goddess Ištar. In a Middle Babylonian letter someone is described as being a kulu≥u rather than a ‘(he-)man’ (Archiv für Orientforschung 10, 3, 21; CAD loc. cit.). 43 Beckman (1995, p.32). 44 Editions: Soysal (1987, 1999); Steiner (2002, pp.807–818); Gilan (2004). English translation Hoffner (2003, pp.184–185). 45 Gilan (2004, pp.281–287). 46 Duplicates: KBo 12.22 obv. i 1–14; KBo 13.78 obv. i 1–15. See Soysal (1987, p.173). 47 ‘Lästerer’ Soysal (1999, p.113); Gilan (2004, p.267). ‘Opponent’ Hoffner (2003:183). The present translation is based on the word’s derivation from Hittite Óurtai- ‘curse’.

03_Warfare&Poetry_Ch3_073-098.indd 93

27/06/2013 11:42

94

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

48 Text: [a-ap-p]a-ma-ša-aš with haplography (Imparati and de Martino 2003, p.258). 49 Imparati and de Martino 2003. I do not agree with the authors that the use of the phrase kuit iyanun ‘what have I done’ indicates a reference to the ‘Substitute King’ ritual, in which the king left his palace in the charge of a prisoner, who was supposed to suffer the consequences of any evil the gods might have in store for him. During the ritual the king asks the sun-god of heaven ‘what have I done?’ (KBo 15.2 rev. 14’; Kümmel (1967, p.62)). This parallel is in my view simply too allusive and the phrase not highly marked enough to be considered an intertextual reference. 50 Gilan (2004, p.275). 51 Singer (1994, p.87). Gilan (2004, p.275) sees the emphasis on a dispute as to which god should lead the Hittite campaign in Syria. 52 Soysal (1987, pp.187–188) restores [ú-ku-un] or [ú-ga-an] on the basis of KBo 3.40 rev. 15’, when Puhanu asks the fighters: ú-ku-uš pu-nu-uš-ki-m[i]. This must be uk=us ‘I (ask) them’. It is quite possible that a different object is to be restored in KUB 31.4+KBo 3.41 obv. 16. The question of who is being asked, and therefore who is narrating the story of the mountain’s removal, needs to be left open. If it is the bull who is talking, we have to assume a complex paranoia with the storm-god talking about his actions as a bull in the third person. 53 Gilan (2004, p.279). 54 Schwemer (2001, pp.226–237). 55 Gilan (2004, p.279). 56 Gilan (2004, pp.274–277). 57 KBo 3.40 obv. 1’–11’, dupl. KBo 13.78 rev. 1’–14’. 58 KBo 3.40 obv. 13’–14’. 59 For literature see Melchert (1998, pp.492–493), fn. 16. The transcription waspus (acc. pl.) follows Eichner 1993, p.104. The original text has the logogram TÚGHI.A, which could be either nominative (waspes) or accusative plural. Eicher (loc. cit.) presents a different analysis of the metre. 60 Gilan (2004, p.270 fn. 48); further de Martino (2002, p.627). 61 The expression is uttered by the queen of Kaneš in the tale of Zalpa after she has given birth to 30 sons: KBo 22.1 obv. 2. 62 See further de Martino (2002).

Bibliography Archi, A., ‘Orality, Direct Speech and the Kumarbi Cycle’, Altorientalische Forschungen 36 (2009), pp.209–229. Beal, R. H., ‘Kule- and Related Words’, Orientalia NS 57 (1988), pp.165–180. ———, ‘Hittite Anatolia: A Political History’ in S. Steadman and G. McMahon, The Oxford Handbook of Ancient Anatolia (Oxford, 2011), pp.579–603. Beckman, G. M., ‘The Siege of Uršu Text (CTH 7) and Old Hittite Historiography’, Journal of Cuneiform Studies 47 (1995), pp.23–34. ———, Hittite Diplomatic Texts; 2nd Edition. SBL Writings from the Ancient World 7 (Atlanta, 1999). ———, ‘Gilgamesh in Hatti’ in G. M. Beckman, R. H. Beal and G. McMahon (eds), Hittite Studies in Honor of Harry A. Hoffner Jr. on the Occasion of His 65th Birthday (Winona Lake, 2003), pp.237–257.

03_Warfare&Poetry_Ch3_073-098.indd 94

27/06/2013 11:42



Poetry and War among the Hittites95

———, R. H. Beal and G. McMahon (eds), Hittite Studies in Honor of Harry A. Hoffner Jr. on the Occasion of His 65th Birthday (Winona Lake, 2003). ———, ‘Hittite and Hurrian Epic’ in J. M. Foley (ed), A Companion to Ancient Epic (Oxford, 2005), pp.255–263. Bryce, T., The Kingdom of the Hittites (Oxford, 2005). Carruba, O., ‘Hethitische und anatolische Dichtung’ in J. Prosecký (ed), Intellectual Life of the Ancient Near East, Papers Presented at the 43rd Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, Prague 1996 (Prague, 1998), pp.67–89. Collins, B.-J., ‘The First Soldiers’ Oath’ in W. W. Hallo and K. Lawson Younger (eds), The Context of Scripture Volume I. Canonical Compositions from the Biblical World (Leiden/Boston, 2003), pp.165–167. Corti, C., ‘I frammenti “minori” di CTH 3: ipotesi di interpretazione’ in S. de Martino and F. Pecchioli Daddi (eds), Anatolia antica. Studi in memoria di Fiorella Imparati (Firenze, 2002), pp.171–180. Dardano, P., L’aneddoto e il racconto in età antico-hittita: la cosiddetta ‘Cronaca di Palazzo’ (Rome, 1997). Durnford, S. P. R., ‘Some Evidence for Syntactic Stress in Hittite’, Anatolian Studies 21(1971) pp.69–75. Eichner, H., ‘Phonetik und Lautgesetze des Hethitischen – ein Weg zu ihrer Entschlüsselung’ in M. Mayrhofer, M. Peters and O. E. Pfeiffer (eds), Lautgeschichte und Etymologie. Akten der VI. Fachtagung der Indogermanischen Gesellschaft, Wien, 24.-29. September 1978 (Wiesbaden, 1980), pp.120–165. ———, ‘Probleme von Vers und Metrum in epichorischer Dichtung Altkleinasiens’ in G. Dobesch (ed), Hundert Jahre Kleinasiatische Kommission der Österr. Akad. der Wissenschaften: Die epigraphische und altertumskundliche Erforschung Kleinasiens, Akten des Symposions, 23.-25. Oktober 1990 (Denkschriften der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, phil.–hist Klasse 236, Vienna 1993), pp.97–169. George, A. R., The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic (Oxford, 2003). Gilan, A., ‘Der PuÓÆnu-Text – Theologischer Streit und politische Opposition in der althethitischen Literatur’, Altorientalische Forschungen 31 (2004), pp.263– 296. ———, ‘Das Huhn, das Ei und die Schlange. Mythos und Ritual im IlluyankaText’ in M. Hutter and S. Hutter-Braunsar (eds), Hethitische Literatur. Überlieferungsprozesse, Textstrukturen, Ausdrucksformen und Nachwirken. Akten des Symposiums vom 18. Bis 20. Februar 2010 in Bonn. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 391 (Münster, 2011), pp.99–114. Giorgieri, M., ‘Die hurritische Fassung des Ullikummi-Lieds und ihre hethitische Parallele’ in G. Wilhelm (ed), Akten des IV. Internationalen Kongresses für Hethitologie, Würzburg, 4.-8. Oktober 1999. Studien zu den Bo©azköy-Texten 45 (Wiesbaden, 2001), pp.134–155. Goetze, A., Madduwattaš. Mitteilungen der Vorderasiatisch-Ägyptischen Gesellschaft 32 (Leipzig, 1928). Güterbock, H. G., ‘Die historische Tradition und ihre literarische Gestaltung bei Babyloniern und Hethitern bis 1200 (2 Teil: Hethiter)’, Zeitschrift für Assyriologie und vorderasiatische Archäologie 44 (1938), pp.45–149. ———, ‘The Song of Ullikummi. Revised Text of the Hittite Version of a Hurrian Myth’, Journal of Cuneiform Studies 5 (1951), pp.135–161. ———, ‘A View of Hittite Literature’, Journal of the American Oriental Society 84 (1964), pp.107–115.

03_Warfare&Poetry_Ch3_073-098.indd 95

27/06/2013 11:42

96

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Haas, V., Der Kult von Nerik. Ein Beitrag zur hethitischen Religionsgeschichte (Studia Pohl 4, Rome, 1970). ———, Die hethitische Literatur (Berlin, 2006). Hallo, W. W. and K. Lawson Younger (eds), The Context of Scripture Volume I. Canonical Compositions from the Biblical World (Leiden, 2003). Hoffner, H. A., Hittite Myths. 2nd edition (Society for Biblical Literature, Writings from the Ancient World 2, Atlanta, 1998). ———, ‘Crossing of the Taurus’ in W. W. Hallo and K. Lawson Younger (eds), The Context of Scripture Volume I. Canonical Compositions from the Biblical World (Leiden, 2003), pp.184–185. Holland, G. and M. Zorman, The Tale of Zalpa – Myth, Morality, and Coherence in a Hittite Narrative. Studia Mediterranea 19 (Pavia, 2007). Hout, Th. van den, ‘Another View of Hittite Literature’ in S. de Martino and F. Pecchioli Daddi (eds), Anatolia antica. Studi in memoria di Fiorella Imparati. Eothen 11 (Firenze, 2002), pp.857–878. Hrozny, B., ‘Die Lösung des hethitischen Problems. Ein vorläufiger Bericht’, Mitteilungen der Deutschen-Orientgesellschaft 56 (1915), pp.17–50. ———, Die Sprache der Hethiter, ihr Bau und ihre Zugehörigkeit zum indogermanischen Sprachstamm. Ein Entzifferungsversuch. Boghazkheui-Studien 1 (Leipzig, 1917). Hutter, M. and S. Hutter-Braunsar (eds), Hethitische Literatur. Überlieferungsprozesse, Textstrukturen, Ausdrucksformen und Nachwirken. Akten des Symposiums vom 18. Bis 20. Februar 2010 in Bonn. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 391 (Münster, 2011). Hutter-Braunsar, S., ‘Vergleichende Untersuchungen zu den Texten über eine aus Zorn verschwundene Gottheit’ in M. Hutter and S. Hutter-Braunsar (eds), Hethitische Literatur. Überlieferungsprozesse, Textstrukturen, Ausdrucksformen und Nachwirken. Akten des Symposiums vom 18. Bis 20. Februar 2010 in Bonn. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 391 (Münster, 2011), pp.129–144. Imparati, F. and S. de Martino, ‘More on the So-Called “PuÓanu Chronicle”’, in G. M. Beckman, R. H. Beal and G. McMahon (eds), Hittite Studies in Honor of Harry A. Hoffner Jr. on the Occasion of His 65th Birthday (Winona Lake, 2003), pp.253–263. Kloekhorst, A., Etymological Dictionary of the Hittite Inherited Lexicon (Leiden, 2008). ———, ‘Accentuation and Poetic Meter in Hittite’ in M. Hutter and S. HutterBraunsar (eds), Hethitische Literatur. Überlieferungsprozesse, Textstrukturen, Ausdrucksformen und Nachwirken. Akten des Symposiums vom 18. Bis 20. Februar 2010 in Bonn. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 391 (Münster, 2011), pp.157–176. Knudsen, E. E., ‘Stress in Akkadian’, Journal of Cuneiform Studies 32 (1980), pp.3–16. Kümmel, H. M., Ersatzrituale für den hethitischen König. Studien zu den Bo©azköyTexten 3 (Wiesbaden, 1967). Martino, S. de, ‘Song and Singing in the Hittite Literary Evidence’ in E. Hickmann, A. D. Kilmer and R. Eichmann (eds), Studien zur Musikarchäologie III. Archäologie früher Klagerzeugung und Tonordnung / The Archaeology of Sound: Origin and Organisation. Vorträge des 2. Sympusiums der Internationalen Studiengruppe Musikarchäologie im Kloster Michaelstein, 17.–23. September 2000 (2002), pp.623–629. ——— and F. Pecchioli Daddi (eds), Anatolia antica. Studi in memoria di Fiorella Imparati. Eothen 11 (Firenze, 2002).

03_Warfare&Poetry_Ch3_073-098.indd 96

27/06/2013 11:42



Poetry and War among the Hittites97

Matthews, R., ‘A History of the Preclassical Archaeology of Anatolia’ in S. Steadman and G. McMahon (eds), The Oxford Handbook of Ancient Anatolia (Oxford, 2011), pp.34–55. McNeill, I., ‘The Metre of the Hittite Epic’, Anatolian Studies 13 (1963), pp.237–242. Melchert, H. C., ‘Poetic Meter and Phrasal Stress in Hittite’ in J. Jasanoff, H. C. Melchert and L. Oliver (eds), Mír Curad – Studies in Honor of Calvert Watkins (Innsbruck, 1998), pp.483–494. ——— (ed), The Luwians. Handbuch der Orientalistik I/68 (Leiden, 2005). ———, ‘New Light on Hittite Verse and Meter?’ in K. Jones-Bley et al. (eds), Proceedings of the Eighteenth Annual UCLA Indo-European Conference, November 3–4, 2006 (Journal of Indo-European Studies Monograph 53, Washington, 2007), pp.117–128. Miller, J. L., Studies in the Origins, Development and Interpretation of the Kizzuwatna Rituals. Studien zu den Bo©azköy-Texten 46 (Wiesbaden, 2004). Neu, E., Das hurritische Epos der Freilassung Bd. 1: Untersuchungen zu einem hurritisch-hethitischen Textensemble aus Hattuša. Studien zu den Bo©azköy-Texten 32 (Wiesbaden, 1996). Oettinger, N., Die Militärischen Eide der Hethiter. Studien zu den Bo©azköy-Texten 22 (Wiesbaden, 1976). Otten, H., Eine althethitische Erzählung um die Stadt Zalpa. Studien zu den Bo©azköyTexten 17 (Wiesbaden, 1973). ———, Die Apologie Hattusilis III. Das Bild der Überlieferung. Studien zu den Bo©azköy-Texten 24 (Wiesbaden, 1981). Radner, K. and E. Robson (eds), The Oxford Handbook of Cuneiform Culture (Oxford, 2011). Singer, I., ‘The Thousand Gods of Hatti: The Limits of an Expanding Pantheon’ in I. Alon, I. Gruenwald and I. Singer (eds), Concept of the Other in Near Eastern Religions (Israel Oriental Studies 14, Leiden, 1994), pp.81–102. ———, Hittite Prayers. Society for Biblical Literature, Writings from the Ancient World 11 (Atlanta, 2002). Steadman, S. and G. McMahon, The Oxford Handbook of Ancient Anatolia (Oxford, 2011). Steiner, G., ‘Ein missverstandener althethitischer Text: die sog. PuÓanu-Chronik (CTH 16)’ in S. de Martino and F. Pecchioli Daddi (eds), Anatolia antica. Studi in memoria di Fiorella Imparati. Eothen 11 (Firenze, 2002), pp.807–818. Soysal, O., ‘KUB XXXI 4 + KBo III 41 und 40 (Die PuÓanu-Chronik). Zum Thronstreit Hattušilis I’. Hethitica 7 (1987), pp.173–253. ———, ‘Beiträge zur althethitischen Geschichte (I). Ergänzende Bemerkungen zur Puhanu-Chronik und zum Menschenfresser-Text’, Hethitica 14 (1999), pp.109–145. Watkins, C., ‘The Language of the Trojans’ in M. J. Mellink (ed), Troy and the Trojan War. A Symposium held at Bryn Mawr College October 1984 (Bryn Mawr, 1986), pp.45–62. Weeden, M., Hittite Logograms and Hittite Scholarship. Studien zu den Bo©azköyTexten 54 (Wiesbaden, 2011). ———, ‘Hittite Scribal Schools outside of Hattusa?’, Altorientalische Forschungen 38/1 (2011), pp.116–134. Wilhelm, G., The Hurrians. Translated by Barnes, J., with a chapter by Stein, D (Warminster, 1989). ———, Hurritische Lexikographie und Grammatik: Die hurritisch-hethitische Bilingue aus Bo©azköy. Orientalia NS 61 (1992), pp.122–141.

03_Warfare&Poetry_Ch3_073-098.indd 97

27/06/2013 11:42

98

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Woodard, R. (ed), The Ancient Languages of Asia Minor (Cambridge, 2004). Yakubovich, I., ‘Luwian and the Luwians’ in S. Steadman and G. McMahon, The Oxford Handbook of Ancient Anatolia (Oxford, 2011), pp.534–547. Zorman, M., ‘The Conquest of Zalpa Justified’, Studi micenei ed egeo-anatolici 50 (2008), pp.861–870.

03_Warfare&Poetry_Ch3_073-098.indd 98

27/06/2013 11:42

Chapter 4

Warfare in ancient Egyptian Poetry Robert Anderson There are many factors to militate against the idea of an ancient Egyptian poetry. The various scripts employed to express the language made no use of vowels, whether long or short, until the emergence of Coptic, which employed mainly Greek letters to express the sounds current in contemporary speech. This means there is no chance of detecting rhyme, which depends on an easy alliance of vowel and consonant, even if it ever existed. Nor can stress, which would normally give shape to a line of verse, be placed with accuracy. So different criteria must be employed in any assessment of the various works that have come down to us. It is likely that a spoken ‘literature’ existed long before the invention of writing. This must inevitably have depended on memory, and verse is more easily memorable than prose. This is how the epic poetry of the ancient world originated, with its many repeated lines, paragraphs and whole scenes. It is probable, then, that the storytellers so characteristic of the Arab world had their equivalents in Egypt’s remote past. Sometimes the Egyptian scribe indicated the end of a verse line or perhaps quatrain by means of a red dot. That was a clear indication of words to be understood as part of a poetic structure. But as often as not there was no such assistance. More helpful in determining whether a passage was meant to be understood as verse was an obvious parallelism in adjacent clauses. This is a familiar practice in many books of the Old Testament, and it can be said with assurance that the pessimism of Job, the shrewdness to be found in the book of Proverbs, the delight in nature expressed in such a Psalm as no.104, the sensual eroticism of the Song of Solomon – all these were anticipated in some form by ancient Egyptians. It is the couplet invested with similar ideas, however differently expressed, that is the most common pointer to Egyptian verse. Sometimes the unit might consist of three ‘lines’ or even four.

04_Warfare&Poetry_Ch4_099-118.indd 99

27/06/2013 11:43

100

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

The Pyramid Texts, so unexpected a discovery, and drawing on ideas common centuries before they were set down in hieroglyphic characters, are an extraordinary mixture of spells, hymns and incantations. Their religious concepts must have originated in different districts of Egypt and were assembled into some sort of corpus by the priests of Heliopolis. For the most part, the medium is prose, and the matter is concerned with such practical subjects as the provision of food for the afterlife of the dead king; but occasionally the reference to some pseudo-historical event, long preserved in folk memory and hallowed by religious observance, demands the heightened expression of verse. ‘Poetry’ is probably not the word to describe such moments, as the underlying ideas are so often crude and violent. Entrance to the pyramids of Giza has long been a standard tourist attraction, and it is impossible to avoid a profound sense of awe and admiration while ascending the Great Gallery in the pyramid of Khufu towards the sarcophagus chamber roughly in the centre of the structure. The massive blocks assembled for the protection of the dead king carry no inscriptions, and attention is solemnly concentrated on the monarch’s stone coffin, empty and damaged but still in situ. Some 15 miles to the south at Saqqara, the situation is very different. In 1881, Gaston Maspero made his way into the pyramid of Unas, last king of the Fifth Dynasty (r.c.2378–2345 bc), and discovered a series of subterranean rooms covered with hieroglyphs exquisitely carved and filled with blue paste. There are four main areas so inscribed: an entrance corridor, antechamber, passage to the sarcophagus chamber, and the burial vault itself.1 The sarcophagus is again empty, having been robbed long ago. It so happens that on the southern face of the pyramid is an inscription set up by Khaemwaset, fifth son of Ramesses II (r.c.1279–1212 bc), to commemorate restoration work on the pyramid. A man greatly interested in the history and antiquities of the land, he may possibly have penetrated the depths of the pyramid and browsed among the extraordinary inscriptions there.2 The ancient texts contain inconsistencies and indeed contradictions. Their essential purpose, however, was to ensure the ascent and proper reception of the dead king in the heavenly regions of the hereafter. It has long been thought, though, that the archaeological record of prehistoric Egypt could be supplemented by historical hints contained in the Pyramid Texts.3 The conservative nature of Egyptian society ensured that many of the basic ideas in the Pyramid Texts were later used more widely on the decorated coffins of those able to afford elaborate burial. These Coffin Texts4 gained further currency in the ornate papyrus rolls that accompanied the

04_Warfare&Poetry_Ch4_099-118.indd 100

27/06/2013 11:43



Warfare in ancient Egyptian Poetry101

dead throughout ancient Egypt’s remaining years. Known as the Book of the Dead,5 it contained many spells deriving directly from those in the Pyramid Texts. Though the earliest writings lack clarity concerning the myths of Osiris and Horus, it was gradually established that Horus, the hawk god seen to hover high in the sky above and swoop also with deadly accuracy on its prey, was identified with the living king, while his father Osiris, represented in mummified human form, was both judge of those reaching the netherworld, and the monarch himself when claimed by death. Still more ambiguous was the position of the god Seth, and this is where myth may offer hints to history. In later tradition (Plutarch’s De Iside et Osiride6 is a good example), Seth is the murderer of his brother Osiris, and altogether evil in his designs. In the Pyramid Texts, Seth is brother to both Horus and Osiris, initially a ruler over much of Egypt, and only dispossessed after a bitter struggle with Horus and judicial settlement by a conclave of the gods. During much of Egypt’s ancient history, the king had five formal titles. The first was his ‘Horus’ name, but two of the others suggested a unification of once separate territories. The ‘Two Ladies’ title referred to a pair of goddesses: Nekhbet, vulture deity of the south, and the serpent Edjo of the north. ‘King of Upper and Lower Egypt’ is self-explanatory. The interesting point is that in both cases south takes precedence over north, and it is characteristic of Egyptian history that the impetus for restoration after a period of political disturbance has usually come from the south. The ‘Narmer’ palette in the Egyptian Museum (Cairo),7 associated with Menes, first king of the First Dynasty, who traditionally unified the Two Lands, graphically illustrates the point. On one side of the palette he clobbers an enemy with the white crown of Upper Egypt on his head, while Horus holds captive by a rope a man of the Delta marshes. The other side shows him wearing the red crown of Lower Egypt and approaching a row of decapitated enemies; below are two men apparently restraining the combat of two long-necked mythical animals. Horus is here associated with the southern conqueror. But his origin was also firmly located at Behdet, a minor township towards the north-eastern limit of the Delta. In the case of Seth, his seat was always at Ombos in southern Egypt. It may be, therefore, that a northern Horus, perhaps supported by infiltrators from Syria and Palestine, at one time conquered a southern Seth, only to find that he had later to dislodge a northern enemy for pacification of the whole country. There is ample evidence in the Pyramid Texts of fierce struggle between Horus and Seth, expressed in dramatic poetical terms. Their potential

04_Warfare&Poetry_Ch4_099-118.indd 101

27/06/2013 11:43

102

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

antagonism is powerfully worded: ‘You are born, Horus, in your name of him at whom the earth quakes; you are conceived, Seth, in this your name of him at whom the sky trembles.’8 The conflict is elemental: You have relieved Horus of his girdle, That he may punish the followers of Seth. Seize them, remove their heads, Cut off their limbs, disembowel them, Cut out their hearts, drink their blood, And claim their hearts in this your name of Anubis.9

Anubis, the jackal-god associated particularly with concern for the dead and mummification, is invoked because he presided over the dismemberment and eventual reconstitution of the human body. Seth tore out one of the eyes of Horus, symbolically associated with an Egyptian crown, and cast it beyond the Winding Waterway. Horus in his turn seized the testicles of Seth, which are shown in the Ramesseum Dramatic Papyrus (84–86) as two sceptres and therefore characteristic of royal authority: Horus has cried out because of his Eye, Seth has cried out because of his testicles; And there leaps up the Eye of Horus, Which had fallen on the far side of the Winding Waterway, So that it might protect itself from Seth. Thoth saw it on the far side of the Winding Waterway, When the Eye of Horus leapt up on the far side of the Winding Waterway And fell on Thoth’s wing on the far side of the Winding Waterway.10

As ibis or baboon, Thoth was considered the god of wisdom and all knowledge. It was he who restored the Eye of Horus, which had been trampled on by Seth. The completed Eye became one of the commonest amulets in Egyptian culture and was an important factor in Egyptian calculations. To the various parts of the Eye were assigned different fractions; finally, Thoth had to add one-sixty-fourth to make the Eye whole again. In another spell, Thoth explains his search and function differently: I am he who prevents the gods From becoming weary in seeking the Eye of Horus; I searched for it in Buto, I found it in Heliopolis, I took it from the head of Seth in that place where they fought.11

04_Warfare&Poetry_Ch4_099-118.indd 102

27/06/2013 11:43



Warfare in ancient Egyptian Poetry103

Buto was the Delta capital sacred to the serpent-goddess Edjo. This spell suggests Seth may have achieved some advantage in the northern areas, whereas there is no doubt concerning his authority further south: ‘Provide yourself with the Great of Magic [the crown], Seth who dwells in Ombos, lord of Upper Egypt.’12 There are also hints in the Pyramid Texts of a homosexual episode during the struggle, made explicit in the Saqqara Magical Papyrus: ‘The seed of Seth is in the body of Horus, since Seth has ejaculated within him.’13 This is a sign of temporary humiliation for Horus. But there is no quarter for Seth: ‘Fall down on your face! Be dragged away!’14 Reconciliation was eventually achieved by a divine council, chaired appropriately enough by the earth-god Geb. The original decision was to divide Egypt between the warring parties; but finally control of the Two Lands was given to Horus, while Seth became associated with the desert, its storms, and foreign countries. Yet evidence of the essential dichotomy, vague memories of prehistoric warfare, and perhaps lingering traditions of earlier religious loyalties, survive in the latter years of the Second Dynasty (c.2890–2686 bc). King Peribsen uses the Seth animal rather than the Horus hawk as his royal symbol, while Khasekhemwy favours both together, surmounted equally with the double crown of Upper and Lower Egypt. The Pyramid Age is not rich in royal historical documents. There is much lamentation over the collapse of the Old Kingdom, marking the end of a millennium’s remarkable development, made possible by the security of Egypt’s borders, with deserts to east and west, Mediterranean and cataract to north and south. It was indeed from the south that political order was eventually restored. It is not until the Twelfth Dynasty (c.1991–1786 bc), and in particular the reigns of three kings called Sesostris, that records of warfare and conquest abound. Their memory had great resonance throughout Egyptian history. Herodotus visited Egypt some time during the Twenty-Seventh Dynasty (525–404 bc), when the Persians were in control of the land. His priestly informants were ready to regale him with tales of an Egyptian Sesostris who had outdone Cambyses in penetration of Nubia, and Darius as regards Scythia.15 The invasion and subsequent history of Alexander the Great gave excuse for further eastern extensions to the Sesostris legend. The exploits of many Egyptian kings had been compounded thus to bolster Egyptian historical confidence. Among them certainly was Sesostris III (1878–1843 bc), whose extension of Egypt’s southern boundary was so impressive an achievement that he was subsequently numbered among the Nubian gods. The Second Cataract extends for some 40 miles; at its southern end, Sesostris III established on either

04_Warfare&Poetry_Ch4_099-118.indd 103

27/06/2013 11:43

104

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

bank of the river the forts of Semna and Kumma as his frontier. At the former fortress was discovered a granite stela commemorating his achievement in poetical language, now in the Berlin Museum: I have extended my southern boundary further than my fathers, I have increased what was bequeathed to me. I am a king who speaks to act, My arm fulfils the plans of my heart. One who attacks to conquer, sure in success, Whose heart allows no plan to sleep. Thoughtful for allies, steadfast in mercy, Pitiless to the attack of an enemy. First to attack an attacker, But ready to cease at cessation, Dealing fittingly in all matters. To hesitate under attack strengthens the enemy’s heart; While the bold attack, the coward retreats, And a coward is thrust from his border. The Nubian hearkens to a man’s word; He will surely retreat when answered. Under attack he will show his back; Only retreat, and he will then attack. They are not a people to respect, Just wretches, with a broken spirit. My majesty has observed in very truth. I have seized their womenfolk, Removed those dependent on them, Made use of their wells, slain their cattle, Cut their crops, and fired them. As god my father abides, this is truth. My mouth will never boast.16

It is a curious aspect of this particular reign that statues of the king look strangely careworn. The large ears, heavily lidded eyes and downturned mouth give a strong impression that control of the Two Lands has become a very burdensome responsibility. This can clearly be seen in the sculpture gallery of the British Museum.17 Yet Sesostris is further honoured on a papyrus from Illahun now in the Petrie Collection. It is probably a chance of archaeological survival that only Sesostris is celebrated in this way. There are six hymns in all, of which only the first emphasises the ruler’s prowess:

04_Warfare&Poetry_Ch4_099-118.indd 104

27/06/2013 11:43



Warfare in ancient Egyptian Poetry105 Hail to you, Sesostris, our Horus of godlike form, Protecting a land of ever wider borders, Subduing foreign countries with your crown, Embracing the Two Lands in your strong arms, Controlling foreigners with your hands’ grip, Slaying bowmen without a club, Shooting an arrow with unstrung bow, Terrorising the bedouin in their haunts, Striking fear into Egypt’s foes. Slaughter has bought down enemies by thousands, Those intending to invade the land. His arrows fly like those of Sekhmet, Felling thousands who ignored his might. Your majesty’s tongue controls the Nubian, Your words make Asiatics flee.18

The Eighteenth and Nineteenth Dynasties saw the Egyptian Empire reach its fullest extent, Thebes as religious capital of the land achieve the most magnificent of its buildings, and the Valley of the Kings on the west bank of the Nile witness the majority of its most sumptuous burials. But the Hyksos invaders (c.1660–1552 bc) of the Second Intermediate Period had demonstrated very effectively how open to attack was Egypt’s north-eastern border. Tuthmosis III (r.c.1479–1425 bc) had to share the first two decades of his reign with Hatshepsut (r.c.1479–1458 bc), widow of his predecessor. As sole ruler, he launched 17 military campaigns in Palestine and Syria to the north-east, including even a punitive raid across the Euphrates that brought a remarkable access of wealth to Egypt and its main god, Amun-Re. The annals of these ventures were inscribed within the temple of Karnak. There was the taking of Megiddo, a record of strange plants and creatures seen in the northern lands, account of boat-building at Byblos for crossing the mighty river that seemed to flow in the wrong direction, according to Egyptian experience, and the education of captured foreign princes in the ways of the Egyptian court. To summarise these achievements, Tuthmosis had a black granite stela set up nearby, though now in the Egyptian Museum, purporting to be a hymn of triumph uttered by the god himself: I put your strength, your terror in all lands, Your fear has touched the heavens’ four supports. Awe of you pervades men’s souls the more, Your reputation crushes Egypt’s foes.

04_Warfare&Poetry_Ch4_099-118.indd 105

27/06/2013 11:43

106

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East Your fist restrains the mighty of all lands, For you I stretched my arm to bring control. I culled the Nubians by tens of thousands, Northern captives in their myriads. I placed your enemies beneath your feet, That you might crush rebellion and falsehood. I granted you the fullest extent of earth; Thus East and West must join to do your will. With joyful heart you paced all lands’ extent, None dares attack your majesty’s awful presence, I am your guide for their complete destruction. You crossed the waters of the far Euphrates, In victorious strength bestowed by me, the god; Your war-cry bids them seek their secret dens. I denied their hostile nostrils the breath of life, Making fear of you pervade their hearts. The uraeus on your brow destroyed them all, Making easy spoil of the malignant. Her serpent flame consumed the lowland men, Her blade cut off the Asiatics’ heads, Allowing none to escape her fatal blow, Fallen and abased before her might. I spread your victories through every land, My dazzling crown subjects them in defeat, The encircling sky brooks no defiant threat. They came with tribute wealth upon their back, Prostrating at my nod before your majesty. Invaders were made weak at my behest, Their hearts as ashes, and with trembling limbs. I came to let you trample chiefs of Palestine, Spread beneath your feet throughout their lands; As radiant lord they now behold your majesty, Shining before them as likeness of your god. I came to let you tread on Asiatics, To smite in Syria such Asiatic chiefs; That they might gaze on you in fullest splendour, In your chariot wielding weapons of war.

04_Warfare&Poetry_Ch4_099-118.indd 106

27/06/2013 11:43



Warfare in ancient Egyptian Poetry107 I came to let you tread the eastern bounds To overcome the inhabitants of God’s Land, Beholding your majesty as a shooting star, Scattering the sparks of fire as it spreads its bane. I came to let you tread on western lands, Crete and Cyprus lie in awe of you, Regarding your majesty as a youthful bull, Firm-hearted, strong of horn, and never bowed. I came to let you tread on distant lands, Mitanni’s districts subject to your dread; I display your majesty as crocodile, Unapproachable in water’s realm. I came to let you trample islanders, Your battle cry resounds throughout the sea; As avenger now appears your majesty. Triumphant borne upon your enemy’s back. I came to let you trample Libyan lands, The isles of Utjena are in your grasp; Your majesty appears a ferocious lion, Making corpses their sole valleys’ stock. I came to let you tread the ends of earth, The Ocean’s bounds are held within your grasp; You appear through me as winged like Horus hawk, Seizing what he spies as he desires. I came to let you tread the border folk, To bind sand-dwellers as your captive thralls; You seem to them a jackal of the south, A speedy runner, coursing the Two Lands. I came to let you tread the Nubian strand, Controlling distant boundaries in your grasp; As Seth and Horus they behold their king, Whose hands are joined for you in victory.19

04_Warfare&Poetry_Ch4_099-118.indd 107

27/06/2013 11:43

108

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Such an encomium had been well earned, and the king’s military annals give also a vivid impression of the wealth he devoted to the temple of Amun-Re at Karnak. Tombs of the period paint a vivid picture of tribute coming to Thebes from northern lands as far as Mitanni beyond the Euphrates, as also the south, from islands such as Cyprus and Crete (the location of Utjena is unknown), from the African hinterland, and far-distant spice-producing countries.20 The text of this particular stela clearly made a considerable impression on the successors of Tuthmosis III. Some of its phrases resound in royal documents for at least 300 years, and its tone dictates the sentiments expressed by later rulers who had earned less right to utter them. Hence an inevitable monotony in this class of writing, that was designed essentially to glorify pharaoh and bolster royal power. In more recent times, the name of Tuthmosis has spread far and wide. Obelisks of his adorn cities as different and distant as Istanbul, Rome, London and New York.21 Furthermore, the Albert Memorial in Kensington Gardens has a large sculptural group by William Theed, symbolising ‘Africa’ at its north-eastern corner. A main feature of the composition is a royal sphinx bearing the cartouche of Tuthmosis III as Egypt’s pre-eminent conqueror.22 The son and successor of Tuthmosis III was Amenhotep II (r.c.1427–1401 bc), a monarch who prided himself on his physical strength and athletic achievements. A monumental stela near the pyramids at Giza describes how even as a youth he had been allowed by his father to ride the finest horses from the stables at Memphis over the desert towards the Sphinx, and had rejoiced at viewing the extraordinary monuments of his ancestors. He claimed to have acted as stroke-oar for 200 men, remaining fresh while his team sank down in exhaustion. He tested 300 bows, carefully examining their craftsmanship. Subsequently, riding in his chariot, he shot at four targets made from Asiatic copper and penetrated them so that the arrows emerged from the other side.23 This astonishing feat is recorded on a block now outside the Luxor Museum. Amenhotep seems to have undertaken two northern campaigns. The first was in year seven. There are two sources for the campaign. One is a damaged and badly restored stela south of the Eighth Pylon in the Karnak Temple;24 the second is now in the Egyptian Museum, but had been reused as a roofing-block for the Memphis tomb of a prince belonging to the Libyan Twenty-Second Dynasty (c.945–715 bc):25 His Majesty has trodden near the River Euphrates, A land subdued and crushed by the might of his bow; In the likeness of Montu, fully equipped for war, He imposed defeat in victorious might and power.

04_Warfare&Poetry_Ch4_099-118.indd 108

27/06/2013 11:43



Warfare in ancient Egyptian Poetry109 His heart can now relax when he views those men, Shorn of their heads when they contemplated attack; The first campaign concerned the Syrian lands, Striving to extend the Two Lands’ frontiers. He seized the lands of those disloyal to him, Raging furious like the goddess Bastet, Like tempestuous Seth in his moment of angry vengeance, Reaching the Palestinian town of Shamash-Edom. With speedy deeds he hacked it into pieces, Like a fierce-eyed lion pacing foreign lands, Campaigning in his chariot of war, Bearing the fearsome name of Amun the Valiant. His majesty crossed the turbulent Orontes river, Dangerous like the Theban god of war. He turned to watch those following in his rear, And spied some furtive Asiatic foes. Equipped with dreadful weapons of war, thus armed They prepared to attack the royal troops of the king. The might of his majesty straightway burst upon them, Terrible as the flight of a divine falcon. The confidence of their spirits was laid low, So that each one tumbled on his fellow. They quailed when they saw his majesty alone, Having felled their leader with his battle axe. His majesty had no companion for this fight; Victory was solely due to his mighty arm. His archery was sure with deadly aim; He left the conquered field with battle done. In triumph thus his heart could now rejoice, Like Theban Montu, immortal god of war. Noble princes, chariots, horsemen, arms, Were captured to supply the temple lands.

04_Warfare&Poetry_Ch4_099-118.indd 109

27/06/2013 11:43

110

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

The god Montu came originally from Armant, a town not far to the south of Thebes. He was closely associated with the family that made up the Eleventh Dynasty (c.2133–1991 bc), whose effective campaigning restored unity to Egypt after the First Intermediate Period. It was thus he became essentially a god of war. Indeed his prime position at Thebes was taken over by Amun, a primeval deity from Hermopolis. The cat-goddess Bastet is most familiar from Late-Period statuettes of bronze, showing her in domestic attitude, standing with a basket and sistrum on either arm. Herodotus, however, describes the wildness and licence that took place at her festivals (II.60), and she could assume the character of a raging lioness at will. By the time Amenhotep II’s grandson came to the throne as Amenhotep III (r.c.1390–1352 bc), Egypt was at the peak of her prosperity. Egyptian gold dominated the economy of the Middle East, dynastic marriages were arranged with the most important neighbouring rulers, and diplomatic correspondence thrived over a large area. Military activity was less important than before and Amenhotep III was able to concentrate on building works, about which he intended to inform posterity. In his mortuary temple on the Theban West Bank, behind the so-called Colossi of Memnon, a traditional link to the Ethiopian warrior who fought for Troy against the Greeks, he set up a stela, now in the Egyptian Museum, commemorating his structures in honour of the state god, Amun-Re. First among them was the temple in which the stela itself was situated; next came the Luxor Temple on the other side of the river, and the sacred barge that would transport the divine statues there from Karnak at the festival of Opet. In the Karnak Temple itself, Amenhotep recorded the splendour of the Third Pylon, where subsequently have been found embedded many remarkable earlier structures, including a jubilee-shrine of Sesostris I (r.c.1971–1928 bc), bark-shrines of Amenhotep I (r.c.1527–1506 bc), Hatshepsut and Tuthmosis IV (r.c.1401–1390 bc), along with many statues and stelae. The final structure mentioned by Amenhotep III is the temple of Soleb, south of the Second Cataract, where he is shown worshipping himself as a god.26 It is then that he recalls on his stela the hymn of Amun in honour of Tuthmosis III, echoing some of its sentiments and phrases: My heart rejoices when I see your beauty; I worked a wonder for your majesty, So as to renew your eternal youth, Creating you as Sun of the Two Lands.

04_Warfare&Poetry_Ch4_099-118.indd 110

27/06/2013 11:43



Warfare in ancient Egyptian Poetry111 Turning my face to the south, I worked a wonder, I made the wretched chiefs of Kush approach, Bearing all their tribute on their back. Turning my face to the north, I worked a wonder, I made the counties of furthest Asia come, Bearing all their tribute on their back. They present to you their persons and their children, Requesting that you give them breath of life. Turning my face to the west, I worked a wonder, I let you capture Libyans, and none survive. They build this fort named after my majesty, Surrounded by a wall that reaches heaven, And settled with the princely sons of Nubia. Turning my face to the east, I worked a wonder, I made the lands of Punt approach you here, Bearing the pleasant savours of their land, To crave your peace and breath of life you give.

The stela was removed more than a century later by Merenptah (r.c.1212–1202 bc), 13th son of Ramesses II, to his own mortuary temple, and there inscribed on the other side with an account of his victory over the Libyans, who had invaded Egypt in year five of his reign, demonstrating that the eastern desert with its line of fortresses was no longer a sure defence.27 The Meshwesh of the poem’s second stanza can probably be equated with the Maxyes of Herodotus (IV.191): Libyans who till the soil and possess houses; they are called Maxyes; they wear their hair long on the right side of their heads and shave the left, and they paint their bodies with vermilion. These claim descent from the men who came from Troy.

A final paragraph suggests that all potential foes are immobilised, and it is here that occurs the sole mention in Egyptian inscriptions of Israel: The sun, unveiling clouds which covered Egypt, Allowed the land to see the rays of the disk, Removing the weight of metal from the people’s back,

04_Warfare&Poetry_Ch4_099-118.indd 111

27/06/2013 11:43

112

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East To provide air for those who had been captive. Rejoicing the heart of Memphis over its enemies, And making Ptah exultant at his foes. He that opened the closed gates of Memphis, Allowing the temples to receive their offerings. King Merenptah, the son of Re, unique, Who strengthens hearts for many hundreds of thousands, For nostrils breathe again when he appears. Quelling the land of Libya in his lifetime, He has struck terror in the Meshwesh tribesmen. He has repulsed the foreigners who trampled Egypt; Dread possessed their hearts because of Egypt. Their advancing troops forgot to guard the rear, Their legs could no more stand but just retreat. The archers threw away their unstrung bows, Their runners were exhausted by the toil. Their water-skins were loosed and cast away; Their packs lay all abandoned on the ground. The wretched fallen chief of defeated Libya Fled in the depth of night himself, alone, Without the waving feather on his head, Nor could his faltering feet make out the way. His womenfolk were seized before his face, Supplies of food were plundered while he escaped, So that no water remained to quench his thirst. Murderous hate glared from the eyes of friends, His army commanders fought among themselves; Their camp was fired and reduced to smouldering ash, While his provisions satisfied our men. He reached his native country grieving sore, While fellow Libyans nursed their bitter rage: ‘The prince whose feather evil fortune downed’ – So murmured fellow citizens in shame. ‘He is thrall to Egyptian gods, the lords of Memphis, Pharaoh of Egypt has cursed his hateful name. He is an abomination to the Memphites,

04_Warfare&Poetry_Ch4_099-118.indd 112

27/06/2013 11:43



Warfare in ancient Egyptian Poetry113 Generations of his line for ever. The Son of Re will now pursue his children, Merenptah is appointed as his fate.’ Libyans regard him as a legendary figure; Generations tell each other of his victories: ‘It was never done like this since the time of Re’ – Thus speaks every old man to his son. * * * The foreign princes lie prostrate suing for mercy. Not one among the Nine Bows lifts his head. Libya is vanquished, the Hittites are at peace, Ashkelon is plundered, Gezer seized, Yenoam is now as if it never existed, Israel lies wasted, stripped of seed, Palestine is as a widow for Egypt. All the restless roamers have been tamed By the King of Upper and Lower Egypt, Merenptah, the truthful Son of Re, Granted life like Re every day.

The end of Merenptah’s triumphal hymn makes it clear that he campaigned also in Palestine; but there is no mention in this text of the northern confederates who joined with Libya in the assault on Egypt. For their names and significance it is necessary to consult a lengthy inscription on the inner side of the western wall linking the main Karnak Temple with the Seventh Pylon. They were the first hint of the ‘sea peoples’ who were to destroy in the fulness of time the Hittite Empire and Homer’s ‘well-built city’ of Troy. The first to be mentioned were a people who can probably be equated with the Achaeans of Mycenaean Greece, tireless warriors in the Trojan War, incomparably celebrated by Homer. Next were the Tursha, thought to be the Tyrsenoi and therefore ancestors of the Etruscans. The Luka can be identified with the Lycians in Asia Minor, who assisted the Hittites against Merenptah’s father, Ramesses II, at the Battle of Kadesh. It is at the beginning of the same reign that the Sherden make their first appearance in Egyptian records, arriving ‘in their warships from the midst of the sea, and none were able to withstand them’. Obviously Mediterranean pirates at the time, they are also seen as part of the pharaoh’s entourage, and are supposed to have settled later in Sardinia. The last group of northern

04_Warfare&Poetry_Ch4_099-118.indd 113

27/06/2013 11:43

114

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

allies mentioned by the Libyans are the Shekelesh, who finally made their home in Sicily. As had happened in the time of the Jewish patriarchs, Egypt seemed to the Libyans a land of comparative plenty, so that the invading forces contained not only warriors, but their wives and children too. They managed to approach Memphis before Merenptah was able to repel them.28 The Libyan threat had not been eliminated. About a quarter of a century later, near the beginning of the Twentieth Dynasty, Ramesses III (r.c.1186–1154 bc) had to face two more western assaults, in his regnal years five and 11. His second victory is celebrated in a poem carved into the face of the northern tower at the first pylon of his Medinet Habu mortuary temple: The flame consumes their bones, scorching their limbs. They tread the land, as fallen in a trap. Their heroes die as they march; their speech is lost. They all are overthrown at one assault. The leaders at their head are overpowered. They are safely bound like birds caught by a hawk, Which lurked unseen within the darkened thicket. Lying in wait for unexpecting foe. They do obeisance now within defeat. Again the hostile foe had taken thought To spend their life within the bounds of Egypt, Occupying hills and plains as theirs. The enemy advanced towards my land Marching towards its border with steadfast tread, Approaching the fearsome heat of flaming fire, Which burned within the Delta’s lowland marsh. Like Baal in heaven raged the monarch’s heart, His limbs endowed with strength and mighty power. He prepared to charge ahead and fight on foot, Engaging hand to hand with multitudes Ranged against him both on right and left, Meeting them face to face in fearless march Like an arrow shot to bring them down, Wielding resistless force like his father Amun.29

04_Warfare&Poetry_Ch4_099-118.indd 114

27/06/2013 11:43



Warfare in ancient Egyptian Poetry115

Equally significant for present and future was the increasing menace of the ‘sea people’. In addition to those encountered by Merenptah, Ramesses III had to face in year eight also the Danu or Danaoi, best known to Homer and the Greek world as inhabitants of ancient Troy; the Tjekker, who settled on the coast south of Mount Carmel; and the Pelesti, perhaps originally from Crete, but dwelling eventually in Palestine to which they gave their name.30 These roaming sea-pirates moved their families and chattels on land, coming southwards into Syria and hoping eventually, perhaps, for a favourable reception in Egypt. The northern outer wall of the Medinet Habu temple, however, has a graphic representation of a naval battle off the coast of Egypt. This is the first hint in Egyptian history that the Mediterranean was no longer a safe bulwark against invasion. The latter years of Ramesses III’s reign were much troubled domestically. There occurred the first ‘strike’ known to history, that of the workmen employed on the royal tomb in the Valley of the Kings, because of a shortfall in the supplies due to them.31 It seems there was also an attempt on the king’s life, planned largely in the palace harem.32 Such evidence of decline was accelerated in succeeding dynasties, so that triumphal poetry was no longer a suitable medium for later monarchs. The Twenty-Second Dynasty was dominated not by Egyptian pharaohs but by a Libyan family, while the Twenty-Fifth (c.747–656 bc) introduced for the first time Nubian rulers from the south, thus effectively breaching the defences of the First Cataract. Egypt had now learned that her natural boundaries might be open to two-way traffic, so that the seafarers of Greece and Rome could in their turn dominate the Nile. The poetry of warfare and its aftermath had also reached new heights on the Ionian coast as part of the Greek world. Homer, whether man, woman or committee, depicted a society in which kings had lost their divinity (the pharaonic son of Re seemed an outmoded concept), and now led a company of often quarrelsome military commanders, for or against whom the very human gods took sides. In bitter strife with his leader Agamemnon, Achilles gives what is probably an anachronistic impression of the Egyptian religious capital (Iliad IX.361–364): ‘Thebes of Egypt, where treasures in greatest store are laid up in men’s houses, – Thebes which is a city of a hundred gates, through each of which sally forth two hundred warriors with horses and chariots.’ Eventually it was by land that a Greek reached Egypt as conqueror in 332 bc. By his visit to the Siwa Oasis, Alexander the Great, when apparently addressed by the oracle as ‘son of Zeus’, virtually restored to Egypt the divine right of kings. An epigram, probably by the

04_Warfare&Poetry_Ch4_099-118.indd 115

27/06/2013 11:43

116

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

third-century bc Asclepiades of Samos, nevertheless puts the king of gods firmly in his place, when extolling a famous statue: Lysippus shaped emboldened Alexander’s form. The bronze itself exudes a conqueror’s power. The brazen king eyes Zeus the god and says: ‘With earth beneath my feet, the sky is yours.’

In Egypt it remained for the invading armies of Islam to demonstrate in ad 641 that the eastern desert was equally porous.

Notes   1   2

Piankoff, A., The Pyramid of Unas (Princeton, 1968). Porter, Bertha and Rosalind L. B. Moss, Topographical Bibliography of Ancient Egyptian Hieroglyphic Texts, Reliefs and Paintings, Memphis, Part 2. Saqqâra to Dahshûr (rev.2/ Málek, Jaromír, Oxford, 1981), pp.393–432.   3 Sethe, K. H., Die Altaegyptischen Pyramidentexte, vols 1–4 (Berlin, 1908–1922); R. O. Faulkner, The Ancient Egyptian Pyramid Texts, vols 1–2 (Oxford, 1969).   4 Faulkner, R. O., The Ancient Egyptian Coffin Texts, vols 1–3 (Warminster, 1973).   5 Faulkner, R. O., The Ancient Egyptian Book of the Dead (London, 1985).  6 Plutarch, Moralia, vol. 5, tr F. C. Babbitt (London & Cambridge, Mass., 1962).  7 Saleh, M. and H. Sourouzian, The Egyptian Museum, Cairo (Mainz, 1987), Catalogue no. 8.  8 Pyramid Texts, Spell 143.  9 Pyramid Texts, Spells 1285–1287. 10 Pyramid Texts, Spell 594. 11 Pyramid Texts, Spell 1242. 12 Pyramid Texts, Spell 204. 13 Griffith, F. L., Saqqara Magical Papyrus. 14 Pyramid Texts, Spell 685. 15 Herodotus, Book II.102–111. 16 Ägyptische Inschriften aus den königlichen Museen zu Berlin, vol. 1 (Leipzig, 1913), pp.257–258; Breasted, J. H., Ancient Records of Egypt, vol. 1 (Chicago, 1906, repr. New York, 1962), paras 653–660; M. Lichtheim, Ancient Egyptian Literature, vol. 1 (University of California, 1973), pp.118–120. 17 Quirke, S., Who were the Pharaohs? (London, 2010), pp.40–41. 18 Griffith, F. L., Hieratic Papyri from Kahun and Gurob (London, 1898), pls.i– iii,1–3; A. Erman, tr A. M. Blackman, The Literature of the Ancient Egyptians (London, 1927), pp.134–135; Lichtheim, Ancient Egyptian Literature 1, 198–199. 19 Lacau, P., Stèles du nouvel empire, vol. 1 (Cairo, 1909), pp.17–21, pl. vii; Breasted 2, paras 655–662; Erman-Blackman, 254–258; J. A. Wilson in J. B. Pritchard (ed), Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament (Princeton, 1950,

04_Warfare&Poetry_Ch4_099-118.indd 116

27/06/2013 11:43



20 21 22 23

24 25 26 27

28 29 30 31 32

Warfare in ancient Egyptian Poetry117 2/1955, 3/1969), pp.373–375; Faulkner in W. K. Simpson (ed), The Literature of Ancient Egypt, pp.285–288; Lichtheim 2, pp.35–39. Porter and Moss, Theban Necropolis, Part 1 (Oxford, 1960). Habachi, L., The Obelisks of Egypt. Skyscrapers of the Past (London, 1978). Read, B., Victorian Sculpture (Yale University Press, 1982), p.100, pl.100. Sethe, K. and W. Helck, Urkunden des ägyptischen Altertums IV: Urkunden des 18. Dynastie (Leipzig and Berlin, 1906–1958), pp.1276–1283; Wilson in Pritchard (ed), Ancient Near Eastern Texts, pp.244–245; Lichtheim, Ancient Egyptian Literature 2, pp.39–43. Sethe and Helck, 1299 ff.; Breasted, Ancient Records 2, paras 780–790. Edel, E., ‘Die Stelen Amenophis II aus Karnak und Memphis’, Zeitschrift des Deutschen Palästina-Vereins lxix (Leipzig, Wiesbaden, 1953), pp.98–176; Wilson in Pritchard (ed), Ancient Near Eastern Texts, pp.245–247. Lacau, Stèles I, pp.47–52, pls.xv–xvi; Sethe and Helck, 1646–1647; Breasted, Ancient Records 2, paras 878–892; Wilson in Pritchard (ed), Ancient Near Easter Texts, pp.375–376. Lacau, Stèles I, pp.52–59, pls. xvii–xix; K. A. Kitchen, Ramesside Inscriptions, Historical and Biographical (Oxford, 1969), pp.12–19; Breasted, Ancient Records 3, paras 602–617; Erman-Blackman, pp.274–278; Wilson in Pritchard (ed), pp.376–378; Lichtheim, Ancient Egyptian Literature 2, pp.73–78. Porter, B. and R. L. B. Moss, Theban Temples (Oxford, 1972), p.131. Kitchen, Ancient Near Eastern Texts, V, pp.67–71; Breasted, Ancient Records 4, paras 94–96; W. F. Edgerton and J. A. Wilson, Historical Records of Ramses III (Chicago, 1936). Kitchen, Ancient Near Eastern Texts V, pp.78–86; Breasted, Ancient Records, 4, para. 64. Gardiner, A. H., Ramesside Administrative Documents (Oxford, 1948), pp.49–57. Kitchen, Ancient Near Eastern Texts V, pp.350–366; Breasted 4, paras 416–456.

Bibliography Ägyptische Inschriften aus den königlichen Museen zu Berlin, vol. 1 (Leipzig, 1913). Baines, J. and J. Málek, Atlas of Ancient Egypt (Oxford, 1984). Bierbrier, M., The Late New Kingdom in Egypt (Warminster, 1985). Breasted, J. H., Ancient Records of Egypt, vols 1–5 (Chicago, 1906, repr. New York, 1962). Cˇerny´, J., Ancient Egyptian Religion (London, 1952). ———, A Community of Workmen at Thebes in the Ramesside Period (Cairo, 1973). Dawson, W. R. and E. P. Uphill, rev.3/ Bierbrier, M. L., Who was Who in Egyptology (London, 1995). Edel, E., ‘Die Stelen Amenophis II aus Karnak und Memphis’, Zeitschrift des Deutschen Palästina-Vereins lxix (Leipzig, Wiesbaden, 1953), pp.98–176. Edgerton, W. F. and J. A. Wilson, Historical Records of Ramses III (Chicago, 1936). Erman, A., tr A. M. Blackman, The Literature of the Ancient Egyptians (London, 1927). Faulkner, R. O., The Ancient Egyptian Pyramid Texts, vols. 1–2 (Oxford, 1969). ———, The Ancient Egyptian Coffin Texts, vols 1–3 (Warminster, 1973).

04_Warfare&Poetry_Ch4_099-118.indd 117

27/06/2013 11:43

118

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

———, ed C. Andrews, The Ancient Egyptian Book of the Dead (London, 1985). Gardiner, A. H., Ancient Egyptian Onomastica, vols 1–3 (Oxford, 1947). ———, Ramesside Administrative Documents (Oxford, 1948). ———, Egypt of the Pharaohs (Oxford, 1961, repr. 1962). Griffith, F. L., Hieratic Papyri from Kahun and Gurob (London, 1898). Griffiths, J. G., The Conflict of Horus and Seth (Liverpool University Press, 1960). ———, Plutarch’s De Iside et Osiride (Cardiff, 1970). Habachi, L., The Obelisks of Egypt. Skyscrapers of the Past (London, 1978). Helck, W. and E. Otto, Lexicon der Agyptologie, vols. 1–7 (Wiesbaden, 1975–1992). Kitchen, K. A., Ramesside Inscriptions, Historical and Biographical (Oxford, 1969). Kozloff, A. P. and B. M. Bryan, Egypt’s Dazzling Sun. Amenhotep III and His World (Bloomington, 1992). Lacau, P., Stèles du nouvel empire, vol. 1 (Cairo, 1909). Lichtheim, M., Ancient Egyptian Literature, vols. 1–3 (University of California, 1973–1980). Lloyd, A. B., Herodotus Book II, vols 1–3 (Leiden, 1975–1988). Loprieno, A. (ed), Ancient Egyptian Literature (Leiden, 1996). Málek, J., Egypt: 4000 Years of Art (London, 2003). Nims, C. F., Thebes of the Pharaohs (London, 1965). O’Connor, D. and D. P. Silverman (eds), Ancient Egyptian Kingship (Leiden, 1995). Piankoff, A., The Pyramid of Unas (Princeton, 1968). Plutarch, Moralia, vol. 5, tr F. C. Babbitt (London & Cambridge, Mass., 1962). Porter, B. and R. L. B. Moss asstd. by E. W. Burney, Topographical Bibliography of Ancient Egyptian Hieroglyphic Texts, Reliefs and Paintings, vols 1–7 (Oxford, 1927–1952, rev.2/ Málek, J., vols 1, 3, 8, 1960–1999). ——— and R. L. B. Moss, Theban Temples (Oxford, 1972). Pritchard, J. B. (ed), Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament (Princeton, 1950, 2/1955. 3/1966). ———, The Ancient Near East in Pictures Relating to the Old Testament (Princeton, 1954). Quirke, S., Who were the Pharaohs? (London, 2010). Read, B., Victorian Sculpture (Yale University Press, 1982). Saleh, M. and H. Sourouzian, The Egyptian Museum, Cairo (Mainz, 1987). Sethe, K. H., Urkunden der 18.Dynastie (1906–1909). ———, Die Altaegyptischen Pyramidentexte, vols 1–4 (Berlin, 1908–1922). ——— and W. Erichsen, Historisch-biographische Urkunden des Mittleren Reiches, (Berlin, 1935). Simpson, W. K. (ed), The Literature of Ancient Egypt (Yale University Press, 1972).

04_Warfare&Poetry_Ch4_099-118.indd 118

27/06/2013 11:43

Chapter 5

Poetry and the Early Islamic Historical Tradition: Poetry and Narratives of the Battle of S·iffı¯n Peter Webb

The analysis of poetry in medieval Arabic historiography amongst Western scholars often begins and ends with the observation that the Arabic historical tradition never produced an epic poem.1 Scholars note that no historical-poetic epic akin to the Iliad, Aeneid or ShÆhnÆme has been preserved in Arabic, and they rightly discount the occasional versified histories in classical Arabic literature, such as Ibn al-Mu≤tazz’s panegyric of the Caliph al-Mu≤ta∂id and Ibn ≤Abd Rabbihi’s praise poem of ≤Abd al-Ra≈mÆn III, as literary flourishes of belles-lettristes rather than descendants of an epic tradition.2 Furthermore, scholars can also point to an absence even of shorter narrative poems in the classic history texts written since the fourth/tenth century,3 such as Ibn Khald∑n’s ≤Ibar, Ibn al-Ath∞r’s al-KÆmil, al-Mas≤∑d∞’s Mur∑j al-Dhahab and al-∏abar∞’s TÆr∞kh. But this does not represent the totality of Arabic historical writing. As we shall explore, earlier Arabic histories composed before the close of the third/ninth century, in fact used markedly prosimetric methods, and cited poetry and prose together in the narration of historical memories. The first generations of Arabic compilers of historical traditions crafted their narratives by collecting both anecdotal stories (akhbÆr) and short poems (ash≤Ær), which together formed the raw material of the early community’s historical consciousness. Later historians from the fourth/ tenth century onwards would increasingly eschew the ash≤Ær in favour of prose akhbÆr, which may account for the modern scholarly inattention to poetry’s role in Arabic historiography.4 But despite poetry’s scarcity in

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 119

27/06/2013 11:47

120

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

later Arabic historiography, during the first two and a half centuries of Islam there are strong indications that poetry had an enhanced status and impacted early interpretations of history in ways deserving fresh analysis. This paper will re-open the question, too seldom posed hitherto, of poetry in the early Arabic historical consciousness. To introduce the types and functions of poetry in early historiography and the advantages for modern historians in closely reading these poems, we shall explore the extensive corpus of poetry preserved in the early third/ninth-century historical text Waq≤at ßiff∞n (the Battle of ßiff∞n), attributed to Na∆r ibn MuzÆ≈im (d.212/827).5 The Battle of ßiff∞n, fought in 36–37/657 between the Fourth Caliph ≤Al∞ and his Iraqi army against the Syrians under Mu≤Æwiya ibn Ab∞ SufyÆn, then governor of Syria and eventual first caliph of the Umayyad dynasty, was the climactic event of the Islamic community’s first civil war. Though the battle itself was inconclusive, ≤Al∞ eventually lost the power struggle and, for Muslim historians, the battle marks the end of an era, the passing of control from the ‘Rightly-Guided Caliphs’ (the first successors of the Prophet Mu≈ammad) to the Umayyad dynasts that are portrayed with distinctly worldly motivations and questionable piety. This battle’s significance has fascinated Muslim writers who, to varying degrees, have generally sided with ≤Al∞ in their narrations and castigated Mu≤Æwiya’s camp for initiating a moral decline in the leadership of the Islamic state. Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s text is the earliest extant account of the battle and contains a large volume of poetry. In what follows, we shall explore the ways which this poetic corpus coloured Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s version of the battle. Rather than being a mere rhythmic approach to the past, we propose here that poetry shaped the interpretation of the past among early Muslim audiences. To illustrate this we shall compare Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s Waq≤at ßiff∞n with al-∏abar∞’s early fourth/tenth-century account of the same battle in which poetry is much less prominent.6 The removal of poetry from the historical narrative caused changes in interpretation and hints towards a shift in the canonical portrayal of the Battle of ßiff∞n in Muslim historiography. The oft-overlooked poems of the early texts are relics of an early age of history telling and provide modern scholars insight into how the early Muslim community developed conceptions of its heritage.

Poetic beginnings: The role of poetry in early Arabic historiography Poetry in Arabic historiography usually, but not exclusively, takes the form of shorter fragments of verse (qiπa≤), and rarely do we find long poems in

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 120

27/06/2013 11:47



Poetry and the Early Islamic Historical Tradition121

the structured qa∆∞da format which scholars of Arabic poetry consider to be the ‘classical mode’ and ‘high style’ of Arabic poetic expression. As a result, modern scholars have roundly dismissed ‘historical poems’ as ‘pre-qa∆∞da models’, sung by ‘few poets of renown’ and ‘almost all devoid of literary merit’.7 Beeston and Conrad appropriately critiqued these perceptions,8 but with the exception of Wolfhart Heinrichs’s important reappraisal of the status of poetry in Arabic prose literature (including historiography) and the welcome and very recent book Poetry and History, scholarly attention to ‘historical poetry’ has remained surprisingly superficial, especially in comparison to the extensive coverage of the well-known ‘literary’ poets from the pre-Islamic to the ≤AbbÆsid periods.9 In terms of the early poetic-historical tradition, Heinrichs’s contribution illuminated the complex interaction of poetry and prose in classical Arabic literature. His analysis expressly limited itself to the categorisation of poems in prose texts wherein he found that some poems appear as ‘action poems’ which form part of the story itself, whereas others served as ‘commentary poems’ narrated after prose sections to summarise the prose story, provide additional information or serve to authenticate the prose.10 The poetry in our text, Waq≤at ßiff∞n, generally parallels Heinrichs’s categories, and our analysis shall take a different path in order to explore the extent to which the text’s poetry evidences a certain ‘poetic memory’ operating on the early Muslim interpretations of the past. By ‘poetic memory’, we mean the impression of the past generated by and narrated through poetry. Setting aside Rosenthal’s somewhat dated belief that Arabic poets had no concern for history,11 we still ought to query first how a historical consciousness could operate through poetry in classical Arabic writing. Given Heinrichs’s thesis that poetry and prose are inextricably intertwined, it is both difficult to neatly separate prose accounts from their accompanying poems, and challenging to isolate distinctly ‘poetic’ aspects of texts. Furthermore, Heinrichs’s term ‘prosimetrum’, to describe this dual presence of poetry/prose in Arabic literature, has been recently declared largely redundant by van Gelder since practically all classical Arabic literary writings freely mix the two.12 In the case of early historical texts, however, we ought not to assume that poetry simply dovetails with prose anecdote. As analysis of Waq≤at ßiff∞n shall illustrate, poetry enhanced particular conceptions of the battle story which lost prominence in later histories that omitted these poems: our early text’s poetry engendered epic, heroic and sometimes didactic lessons from history, which markedly differ from the later poetry-less accounts of the battle.

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 121

27/06/2013 11:47

122

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

The scholarly neglect of poetry in Arabic historiography is curious, since it is often suggested that the heroic and semi-legendary oral and prosimetric accounts of the pre-Islamic Arabian ‘battle days’ (AyyÆm al-≤Arab) were one of the models upon which Islamic history, particularly its military history, would be narrated.13 Accounts of these ancient battles thoroughly mix poetry and prose, and were themselves a source for both classical Arabic historical writing and ‘literary’ anthologies of pre-Islamic poetry compiled by collectors such as al-Mufa∂∂al al-∫abb∞, Ab∑ TammÆm and al-Sukkar∞ between the late second/eighth and mid-third/ninth centuries.14 Poetry is so integral to these battle tales that modern scholars have yet to determine conclusively whether the history of the battles was originally remembered entirely via poetry or by a mixture of poetry and prose.15 Whatever the case, our conception of pre-Islamic Arabian history, as seen through the lens of al-AyyÆm, is a kaleidoscope of bravery, honour, rivalry and cyclical tribal antagonism – and these interpretations are unequivocally a product of reading the heroic poems of the individual warriors from this era. Whether or not such characteristics accurately reflect the socio-political reality of northern Arabia before Islam does not concern us: such was the fashion in which the Muslim narrators of pre-Islamic history seem to have chosen to remember it, and the heroic, virile and martial poetry which they selected as the historical testaments of that era are crucial in underpinning this stereotype in the historical consciousness of the medieval Islamic world.16 Were we to ignore the poetry in al-AyyÆm, we would entirely misunderstand how the medieval Muslim community understood this heritage. I suggest the same is true of early Islamic history, whereby early narrators intentionally included poetry to engender specific interpretations of the events. The centrality of poetry as a legitimate source for history in the early Arabic tradition is further reflected in lists of the earliest Muslim historians compiled by Ibn Qutayba (d.276/889) and Ibn al-Nad∞m (fl.377/987),17 which reveal that the first generations of scholars identified as specialists in akhbÆr (stories of the past), and who were the predecessors of the better known historians of the later second/eighth and third/ninth centuries, counted both pre-Islamic battle stories and Arabian poetry in their repertoire.18 According to the lists, only towards the end of the second/ eighth century did poetry lose its close association with the narrators of ‘history’ (labelled al-akhbÆriyy∑n), and in the third/ninth century more rigid concepts of genres began to form whereby poetry specialists emerge as a separate class in the scholarly taxonomy of the Muslim civilisation.19 The divisions of genre as detailed by Ibn al-Nad∞m ought not be read too

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 122

27/06/2013 11:47



Poetry and the Early Islamic Historical Tradition123

strictly, but it does strongly suggest that the study of history, poetry and other fields initially overlapped, and categories were more fluid during the first centuries of Islam. In this milieu, poetry would not initially have seemed such an entirely ‘alien’ or ‘inappropriate’ source for writers of history. The inference that third/ninth-century historians deliberately decoupled poetry from historical narrative is also expressly attested. A well-known example of poetry-reduction occurred when Ibn Is≈Æq’s (d.c.151/767) classic biography of Mu≈ammad was edited and abridged by Ibn HishÆm (d.218/833–834). Ibn HishÆm and his contemporaries appear to have adopted new approaches to authenticating poetry, new methodologies for poetry criticism and new opinions about the place of poetry in historical narrative. Accordingly, Ibn HishÆm (echoing views recorded in other contemporary sources) declared much of the earlier poetry to be spurious and no longer acceptable in historical texts, and so justified his pruning much of the poetic component of Ibn Is≈Æq’s earlier work.20 The shift away from poetry in Mu≈ammad’s biography thus evidences two trends: on the one hand, poetry seems to have been more regularly cited in second/eighthcentury historiography within an environment of less rigid categories for scholarly activity; and, on the other, the third/ninth century witnessed the development of an increasingly problematic relationship between poetry and history which may be at the root of the shrunken presence of poetry in later history writing. The new types of scrutiny to which poetry was subjected in the third/ ninth century point to a maturation of scholarly methodologies in Muslim Arabic culture, whereby the poetic corpus was taken out of the hands of the akhbÆr∞ ‘historian’ narrators, and systematised by a developing community of poetry scholars and grammarians who assumed the primary responsibility for poetry narration. Concurrently, the field of akhbÆr was itself developing more systemised styles of tÆr∞kh (annals/‘dating’/history), and by the evidence of surviving texts, the role of poetry in this new ‘discipline’ progressively narrowed. Nonetheless, in the third/ninth century, the fault lines between poetry and history appeared permeable: in this century poetry definitively adopted the label ‘D∞wÆn al-≤Arab’,21 the ‘compendium of Arabian knowledge and history’, and this term would be used by third/ ninth-century poetry scholars and historians alike to underline poetry’s elevated status in providing a means to understand the history of the Arabians. Therefore, we find that both the third/ninth-century ‘adab-historian’22 al-Ya≤q∑b∞ (d.284/897) and his contemporary ‘ad∞b’ belles-lettriste Ibn

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 123

27/06/2013 11:47

124

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Qutayba (d.276/889) identify poetry’s historiographical importance in narrating the history, beliefs, personalities and wars of Arabia.23 But the more literary oriented Ibn Qutayba24 compiled a biographical dictionary of poets including lengthy selections of their verse, whereas al-Ya≤q∑b∞’s universal history of the world merely lists the names of important poets without including any of their poems whatsoever.25 It seems al-Ya≤q∑b∞ felt that the compilation of poetry anthologies was best left to poetry specialists, but he did at least cite several poems elsewhere in connection with the history of Arabia, Yemen and pre-Islamic Lakhmid Iraq.26 The third/ninth century does appear to have been a period of transition where poetry, though in decline in some history books, remained quoted for Arabian history. Turning back one or two generations to the time of Na∆r ibn MuzÆ≈im and Waq≤at ßiff∞n, we find poetry much more pervasive in Islamic history within a seemingly different approach to the past in the nascent historical consciousness. Waq≤at ßiff∞n may be an ideal example of a historical text where poetry and prose operate on a more level footing, more deserving of the brand ‘prosimetric’ in the sense recently delineated by van Gelder.27

The poetry of Ibn Muz≠√im’s Waq≤at ßifføn The quantity of poetry in Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s history starkly contrasts with later accounts of the same battle. By my count, his text contains 398 poems (240 ash≤Ær and 158 rajaz-style war poems) of varying length: some are fragments of only two hemistichs, while others run to more than 20 lines. On average, each poem is approximately five lines long, bringing the total number of verses in Waq≤at ßiff∞n to about 2,000. In comparison, the lengthy account of the battle in al-∏abar∞’s fourth/tenth-century TÆr∞kh al-Rusul wa-l-Mul∑k contains only 35 poems (17 ash≤Ær and 18 arjÆz) of 84 lines in total. Only two poems run longer than five lines (the longest is eight).28 Citation of poetry for the story of ßiff∞n thus shrunk over 20-fold between Ibn MuzÆ≈im and al-∏abar∞. Al-∏abar∞’s account is by no means abridged, dry or prosaic: he provides numerous direct quotations of disputes, exhortations to combat and oaths between warriors, which add immediacy and personality to the events. Furthermore, there are manifold similarities in the prose anecdotes of both al-∏abar∞ and Ibn MuzÆ≈im, and in a number of cases al-∏abar∞’s narrative tracks the older Ibn MuzÆ≈im word for word, indicating that each constructed their histories from a similar pool of sources.29 The most blatant difference between the two

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 124

27/06/2013 11:47



Poetry and the Early Islamic Historical Tradition125

versions, therefore, concerns al-∏abar∞’s omission of the truly vast corpus of poetry, which Ibn MuzÆ≈im evidently accepted as part of the historical narrative.30 Given the rather close prose textual similarities between Ibn MuzÆ≈im and al-∏abar∞’s texts, al-∏abar∞’s omissions of poetry are easy to find. In line with Heinrichs’s description of classical Arabic prosimetrum, poetry and prose usually occur together, and most poems in Waq≤at ßiff∞n are tied in some way to prose anecdote and it is through a differing treatment of these prosimetric bodies of text that al-∏abar∞’s omission of poetry manifests itself in three ways. In the majority of cases where Ibn MuzÆ≈im relates a poem and associated prose anecdote, al-∏abar∞ omitted both. In some other cases, al-∏abar∞ retained the prose but deleted the poetry attached to it. Here al-∏abar∞’s narrative often follows Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s prose closely and usually relies on the same transmitters, but the poetry is simply absent.31 In a small number of cases, al-∏abar∞ reports both the prose anecdote and poetry in a similar fashion to Ibn MuzÆ≈im, but truncates the poetry.32 I found no instances where al-∏abar∞ had added a poem that Ibn MuzÆ≈im had not cited, nor any cases where al-∏abar∞ narrated additional verses for poems cited by Ibn MuzÆ≈im. Al-∏abar∞ was not alone in ignoring the poetry associated with the Battle of ßiff∞n: most later historians also left the poetic material of Waq≤at ßiff∞n untransmitted, rendering the text’s 2,000 verses essentially a historiographical dead-end, culled wholesale along with many of the akhbÆr which explain or complement these poems.33 For the sake of completeness, one later history, written by a near contemporary of al-∏abar∞, deserves mention. Ibn A≤tham’s (d.c.312/926) KitÆb al-Fut∑≈ does relate extensive poetry from ßiff∞n; however, this text appears to record an entirely different poetic tradition to that narrated by Ibn MuzÆ≈im. Almost none of Ibn A≤tham’s poetic material overlaps with Waq≤at ßiff∞n.34 Ibn A≤tham’s poetry also manifestly differs from the poems of Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s account in its thrust: Ibn A≤tham’s poems and his narrative in general possess a thematic unity in which a severe anti-Syrian and strong pro-Iraqi, pro-≤Alid ideological bent predominates, whereas Ibn MuzÆ≈im narrates a more varied array of poems giving multiple points of view of the battle. While the persistence of poetry in Ibn A≤tham’s relatively late text is deserving of analysis as to why, in contrast to other historians of his era, he included so much verse, his poetic corpus is almost entirely unconnected to the poetry of Waq≤at ßiff∞n and its pool of sources. Lacking the blatantly pro-≤Alid thematic unity of Ibn A≤tham’s text, the 2,000-odd lines of Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s poetry are harder to systematise. They

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 125

27/06/2013 11:47

126

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

do not connect in a continuous narrative as an Iliad-style epic poem, nor, on their own, do the poems provide a coherent narrative. Rather, the poems have different rhymes and metres, are scattered throughout the text and complement the prose anecdotes of the Battle of ßiff∞n. The poems are also polyphonic: there is no interjecting voice of a ‘bard’ imposing narrative order; instead, the poems are almost exclusively attributed to the battle’s participants and appear as their direct ‘quotations’. Overall, the idiosyncratic nature of the vast poetic component of Waq≤at ßiff∞n confounds a neat structuralist analysis. Moreover, the various styles, vocabularies and occasionally anachronistic elements embedded within the poems of Waq≤at ßiff∞n point to the hands of narrators adding new poems over time. While all of the poems are attributed to the warriors themselves, the poetic corpus is clearly a mixture of some fragments of perhaps original, or at least very early, verse and many layers of embellishments and expansions by later storytellers from multiple traditions over the first centuries of Islam. For example, consider a poem of one of ≤Al∞’s supporters, which mentions wars against the ‘Turks’ and ‘R∑m’ (Byzantines)35 – peoples identified in third/ninth-century ≤AbbÆsid literature as traditional hostiles, but hardly fitting the worldview of Arabians fighting at ßiff∞n in 37/657 when Arabian contact with the faraway Turks was effectively non-existent. On the other hand, a rajaz poem attributed to ≤Al∞ contains extremely rare and archaic vocabulary, the ghar∞b (strange words) of the ancient poetic tradition, which indicates a different and likely older source.36 The latter second/eighth century was also a period when much polemical poetry was generated in praise of ≤Al∞ and in support of the Sh∞≤a cause (consider, for instance, the poetry of Di≤bil al-KhuzÆ≤∞37), and such styles and agendas can also be identified in a small number of poems from Waq≤at ßiff∞n, indicating yet another influence in embellishing the poetic corpus with an ideological bent.38 The multifarious manifestations of poetry, and its lack of both stylistic and thematic unity in texts like Waq≤at ßiff∞n, have undoubtedly exacerbated the inattention accorded to poetry’s position in Arabic historiography. In a typical expression of this, Heinrichs even pondered how Arabic poetry, represented by this disordered, nonsensical, chaotic cacophony of poetic voices, could have earned the title D∞wÆn al-≤Arab39 – and at first blush it seems difficult to glean much ‘knowledge’ from this corpus. However, meaningful narratives need not take linear or tidy forms; and akin to the structure of adab texts in classical Arabic literature, the apparent disorganisation of the poetry should not be seen as a hindrance to the narrative, but rather it colours the historical account in particular ways which

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 126

27/06/2013 11:47



Poetry and the Early Islamic Historical Tradition127

may be indicative of the early methods and aims of Arabic historiography. We shall limit our examination of this to three aspects of Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s story of ßiff∞n: the pact between Mu≤Æwiya and ≤Amr; the portrayal of ≤Al∞ through his poetry; and the poetry of the Syrian leaders at the battle.

Mu≤≠wiya and ≤Amr’s pact According to the traditional accounts, Mu≤Æwiya’s victory over ≤Al∞ was ascribed to politicking and trickery, and Mu≤Æwiya is usually described as politically savvy if not outright devious. But the sources intimate that Mu≤Æwiya, for all his guile, could not machinate his way to power without help, and that he heavily relied on the assistance of ≤Amr ibn al-≤≠∆, another shrewd Meccan aristocrat who is reported to have been convinced to ally with Mu≤Æwiya shortly before the Battle of ßiff∞n on the promise that he would be given the governorship of Egypt. Throughout Waq≤at ßiff∞n and later accounts of the battle, ≤Amr plays the role of advisor, constantly at Mu≤Æwiya’s side, proffering advice at key moments and providing the extra trickery that tipped the scales in favour of Mu≤Æwiya, leading to ≤Al∞’s eventual defeat, the founding of the Umayyad Caliphate, establishment of its capital in Damascus, and the rest, as they say, is history. The pact between Mu≤Æwiya and ≤Amr is thus a decisive moment in Islamic history. Stefan Leder, in his analysis of the creative use of khabar (prose anecdote) in constructing historical accounts, has considered in some depth the manipulation, arrangement and embellishment of the prose sections of this narration by historians to heighten its dramatic effect.40 While poetry was not of immediate relevance to Leder’s thesis, its role in Waq≤at ßiff∞n’s account is also crucial to the dramatisation of the narrative. Waq≤at ßiff∞n’s poetry also represents a striking difference to al-∏abar∞’s history, both in terms of volume and effect. Quantitatively, al-∏abar∞ narrates two lines of poetry against 60 lines in six different poems in Waq≤at ßiff∞n; qualitatively, the poems reveal specific agendas at work within the narrative. The first two poems of this section are attributed to ≤Amr himself, allegedly sung when he was first confronted with the choice between siding with Mu≤Æwiya or remaining neutral in the impending civil war. In the first, ≤Amr sings of his dilemma in ethical terms, and in the second he states his rationale for ultimately choosing Mu≤Æwiya. These poems, in ≤Amr’s ‘own words’ and revealing ‘his’ innermost thoughts, are dramatic soliloquies embedded in the historical story.

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 127

27/06/2013 11:47

128

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Our narrators were clearly aware of the dramatic aspect offered by these soliloquies, and they specifically play to this, setting the first poem at the point when ‘the night enveloped [≤Amr]’ (jannahu al-layl),41 a naturally portentous time, and also a time commonly associated with momentous decisions in pre-Islamic poetry.42 Furthermore, ≤Amr bursts into verse with an opening line evocative of distress and the night, which is also a style immediately reminiscent of anguished heroes and poets of the pre-Islamic tradition:

My night grows long with nocturnal visits of worry43

The poem continues, introspective and moralising. ≤Amr describes Mu≤Æwiya’s request for alliance, his own indecision, awareness of the situation’s gravity, his fear of death and the ultimate dilemma facing him: to join Mu≤Æwiya as suggested by one of his sons, ≤Abdullah, and so feed what he describes as his soul’s desire for power and influence, or to remain neutral as proposed by Mu≈ammad, his other son:

Should I stay at home, where there’s rest for an old man hounded by death? [But] ≤Abdullah’s words have enticed my soul, if I’m not to be held back by fate. His brother Mu≈ammad disagreed – But I can surely rise strongly to the occasion.44

The indecision evidenced in this first poem was, however, short-lived. In the morning, despite fresh advice to remain neutral, ≤Amr broke into his second poem with a sharp rebuke of his cautious advisor, WardÆn: ≤Amr starts, ‘God strike WardÆn’,45 and then lyrically confirms his intention to join the Syrian camp. Again, this poem is cast in ethical language, vividly explaining ≤Amr’s motivation by greed:

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 128

27/06/2013 11:47



Poetry and the Early Islamic Historical Tradition129 When worldly gain presented herself, I turned myself to her with covetous soul. Character is a capricious, pliable thing: One soul is pure, the other won by greed – Man will [even] eat straw when he’s hungry. ≤Al∞ represents religion, unsullied by the material world, The other [Mu≤Æwiya] has [riches] and power. So I deliberately chose the worldly – There’s no other proof of my choice.46

These emotive soliloquies, absent in al-∏abar∞, make for an entertaining encounter with the historical event and explain the progression of history at a personal level, transferring the act of decision making to a psychological plane where moral dilemmas rise into stark relief. ≤Amr’s decision, expressed as between virtue and greed, thereby becomes universalised, and can be judged as a matter of ethics and shown to be manifestly wrong. The prose text surrounding these poems and throughout the rest of the book reiterates the ethical dichotomy of virtue and greed (lit. d∞n [religion] vs. dunyÆ [the material world]), but the poetry has special significance. In Waq≤at ßiff∞n, ≤Amr’s crucial decision is exclusively related through poetry. The poems stand out from the surrounding prose, and poetry, by virtue of its nature, engenders a more dramatic, intimate and emotive response from its audience than prose. Furthermore, poetry’s terser, more deliberate register enables the audience’s imagination to linger on the verses and thoughts of ≤Amr, thereby assisting the narrator’s efforts to isolate and magnify the significance of the decision. The narration of key events in a poetic register also draws parallels with the pre-Islamic battle story tradition. Lexically, ≤Amr’s poems are not written in a deliberately archaic style, but the trope of pensive protagonists expressing their thoughts in verse is common in the AyyÆm, hinting towards a point of similarity at a narrative level between this early account of the Battle of ßiff∞n and the earlier tradition which may be relevant to how this story was intended to be read. In contrast, the matter-of-fact portrayal in al-∏abar∞’s account lacks ≤Amr’s poetry and portentous allusion to ≤Amr’s night of agitated deliberation, and has little in common with the narrative structure of the AyyÆm style. Al-∏abar∞’s removal of poetry withholds from the reader the opportunity to consider ≤Amr’s moral dilemma at length and to explore how ≤Amr, as a person, chose to act. Consequently, al-∏abar∞ acquaints us with a ‘historical ≤Amr’, for whom a character does emerge through

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 129

27/06/2013 11:47

130

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

prose narration, but without the intimate flourish of Waq≤at ßiff∞n’s ‘ethical’ ≤Amr. The poetry in Waq≤at ßiff∞n thus not only provides entertaining flavour, but also shifts the historical discourse towards the moralising and personal, explaining world history via the individualised motivations of vividly portrayed characters. Poetry’s role in developing the ethical discourse of greed is manifest in the other poems of this section of Waq≤at ßiff∞n. During the negotiations, we read that ≤Amr feared Mu≤Æwiya would try to cheat him, so chided Mu≤Æwiya, reminding him in verse:

Oh Mu≤Æwiya, I will not relinquish for you my salvation Unless there’s worldly gain in the bargain; Consider what you do! If you give me Egypt, I’ll profit And you’ll have secured an old man Both dangerous and useful.47

According to our narrative, Mu≤Æwiya was only convinced to acquiesce to ≤Amr’s demand of Egypt after hearing another lengthy poem (set again at night) in which ≤Amr’s relinquishment of his d∞n (salvation) in return for dunyÆ (worldly goods) is once again stressed. Poetry also closes the chapter: we read of a young Syrian who witnessed the deal, and, repulsed by the debased moral decision of ≤Amr, composed sharp invective for both ≤Amr and Mu≤Æwiya in a long poem before fleeing to Iraq to join ≤Ali’s army. In sum, poetry drives the narrative in this section of Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s text and explains the characters’ motivations. This structure closely parallels the methods of the AyyÆm storytelling tradition, and it enables the characters to ‘speak’ directly to the audience, revealing themselves in starkly intimate and moral terms. The historical event thus becomes a real-life example of moral dilemma to which the audience is tacitly invited to react, shifting the discourse from the annals of the past into the consciousness of the present. In this prosimetric interpretation of the Battle of ßiff∞n, ≤Amr’s poetic soliloquies which purport to represent the ‘inner thoughts’ of a real, historical person in fact present us with a stock character who is revealed as a quintessential greedy villain in the moralistic drama between good and evil that will be played out during the battle. Such a portrayal of ≤Amr indicates

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 130

27/06/2013 11:47



Poetry and the Early Islamic Historical Tradition131

that already by the time of Ibn MuzÆ≈im, the Battle of ßiff∞n had been established, at least in part, as an event of ideological significance whereby the old political battle lines had been transformed into normative ones of right and wrong. Across most world literatures, historical writing exhibits some moralising and universalising tendency, but the story we encounter in Waq≤at ßiff∞n, replete with poetic interludes at critical moments, overtly engages with its audience on this level. It would seem that the original battle was reworked by its narrators who, to enable the story to engage more intimately with their audiences, embellished its plot with poetry. For is it really believable that ≤Amr mulled over his options via a well-metred poem which was then preserved across 200 years? And is it probable that poetry was actually recited during the private negotiations and duly memorised? It seems logical instead that in tandem with an ideological colouring of this event, the poetry arose to assist the event’s interpretation. Such a dramatic use of historical events in an ethical discourse is a hallmark of an oft-maligned group in early Islam: the qu∆∆Æ∆ (storytellers, sermonists). Modern research has suggested that Arabic storytellers were active in pre-Islamic times relating epic stories of Arabian battle history as popular oral entertainment, and, with the advent of Islam, the profession continued but under different parameters.48 The Muslim qu∆∆Æ∆ turned to retelling the stories of early Prophets, the Qur≥Æn, Mu≈ammad, his miracles, conquests, and the early history of the Islamic Empire to teach the basic tenants of Islam to the less-educated sections of Muslim society. They are equally well known to have been deeply politically involved, and narrated controversial material about the legitimacy of the political status quo during the Umayyad era following the Battle of ßiff∞n.49 Akin to their predecessor narrators of pre-Islamic battle stories, the qu∆∆Æ∆’s storytelling technique relied on oral performance in which historical and religious events were recast into political sermons or moral lessons. Their methods appear to have involved the eloquent delivery of both poetry and prose according to the contemporary al-JÆ≈iæ (d.255/868–869), who mentions several qu∆∆Æ∆ along with brief summaries of their material.50 The structure and function of ≤Amr’s poetic soliloquies in Waq≤at ßiff∞n appear to mirror the material of qu∆∆Æ∆ sermonisers stylistically and thematically. By attributing the poems to ≤Amr, ≤Amr appears like the protagonists of the earlier AyyÆm tradition, who also explained their actions and motivations in verse. The overt moralising embedded within ≤Amr’s verse, and its connections with the titanic event of the Battle of ßiff∞n, would also lend itself to a qÆ∆∆ expounding political agendas of antiUmayyad, pro-≤Alid groups, and, on a more universal level, sermonising

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 131

27/06/2013 11:47

132

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

on the effects of greed and base motivations in ‘corrupting’ the Muslim community during the First Civil War. The theme of d∞n against dunya and the pro-≤Alid, anti-Syrian, anti-Umayyad aspect, as evidenced in the poems identified above, continues in our text, and, given the early date of Waq≤at ßiff∞n, it may indicate that the prosimetric style of the qÆ∆∆ narrator in mixing poetry and prose within a dramatised and moralising framework had a greater role in the genesis of Arabic historiography than is usually accorded. The poetry and narrative style we encounter in the above episode of Waq≤at ßiff∞n would clearly suit a qÆ∆∆≥ didactic purpose and entertain an audience in oral public performance.51 In the third/ninth and fourth/tenth centuries, the qu∆∆Æ∆ were roundly derided by Muslim historians who described them as unreliable, unauthoritative and even dangerous characters usually associated with rabblerousing and insurrection.52 Accordingly, historians make little express acknowledgement of the qu∆∆Æ∆ as early participants in the historiographical tradition. But to assume that the qu∆∆Æ∆ had no role in shaping the early historical memory of the community falls into the hands of the later Muslim historians. Today, whilst stories attributed to Wahb ibn Munabbih, ≤Amr ibn Sharya or Ibn ≤AbbÆs, which often bear the marks of popular oral storytelling, exist primarily on the margins of Arabic historiography, these storytellers have in fact been marginalised. We saw above how Ibn HishÆm and Ibn SallÆm, representatives of a more scholarly approach to the tradition, called poems from some early narrators ‘spurious’, and scholars such as Ibn √anbal excluded the qÆ∆∆≥ prose akhbÆr from the new standards of the traditions.53 These new scholarly standards in the third/ninth century may explain why so much of Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s poetry and related anecdote was edited out of the subsequent generation of histories and is specifically missing in al-∏abar∞’s account. The moralising poetic soliloquies of historical ‘heroes and villains’, in a style reminiscent of the pre-Islamic battle tradition evidenced in Waq≤at ßiff∞n, fell short of the new standards of the self-styled sober historians who had different interests and agendas in the reconstruction of Islamic history.54 Waq≤at ßiff∞n thereby points towards an early body of material, later elided, but stylistically related to the repertoire of the qu∆∆Æ∆. Such origins for some early Arabic history writing have been proposed by Bridget Connelly, who argued that the historical tradition was originally much more ‘epic’, oral and poetic than it would later be portrayed by the likes of al-∏abar∞.55 Waq≤at ßiff∞n seems to support her hypothesis whereby poetry and prose are intimately interconnected and perhaps affords a glimpse into the early ways of the storyteller, where true prosimetrum serving a dramatic

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 132

27/06/2013 11:47



Poetry and the Early Islamic Historical Tradition133

narrative was more common than in later history writing. Although this material would be essentially elided from later canonical historiography, the narrative style would persist in the guise of popular pseudo-historical tales such as S∞rat ≤Antar, as encountered by Lane on the streets of Cairo 1,000 years later, or the Iranian pardedÆrs retelling the emotive tragedies of ≤Alid martyrs since Safavid times until this day.

Heroic poetry of ≤Alø We have noted that ‘historical poetry’ takes various forms in classical Arabic writing. Above, we identified poems that construct an ideological and moralising interpretation to the events of ßiff∞n, which may have been in part generated by sermonising storytellers. However, much of the book’s poetry is conversely less interested in the ideological issues at stake and adopts a more bellicose air, relishing the warrior ethos of combat instead. While distinctly different from the poems considered above, this second style of poetry exhibits other attributes which support Connelly’s early ‘epic’ storytelling model, but in other ways. Borrowing terminology from the genres of classical Arabic poetry, much of Waq≤at ßiff∞n’s poetic corpus can be labelled ≈amÆsa (martial poems) or ‘flytings’ (poem and counter-poem addressed between adversaries). Separate from the introspective soliloquies like those of ≤Amr and others,56 these poems relish, and embellish the tension between the warring factions. Many of these poems, almost one quarter of the total verse in Waq≤at ßiff∞n, is attributed either to ≤Al∞, ≤Amr or Mu≤Æwiya: the main protagonists are by far the text’s most poetically active characters.57 When the opposing leaders directly communicate with one another, it is almost entirely narrated in verse or in ‘preserved’ letters to which poetry is invariably appended. The characterisation of protagonists in Waq≤at ßiff∞n, therefore, is indebted to poetry as the primary means for the belligerents to emotively express their thoughts and motivations, address each other, and sing of their and their companions’ bravery and martial prowess. The styles of poetry, the ≈amÆsa and flytings, and the portrayal of protagonists in a thoroughly poetic universe are unmistakable borrowings from the narrative style of the AyyÆm battle days of the pre-Islamic Arabians, where poetry invariably accompanies the narrative of wars. Audiences familiar with these poems would, upon reading (or hearing) Waq≤at ßiff∞n, immediately draw parallels between the warrior tribal

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 133

27/06/2013 11:47

134

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

leaders of Arabian lore and the leaders of this Islamic civil war. As almost all of these poems are absent from al-∏abar∞’s and other later accounts, it would suggest that in the early period, the manner in which the battle was remembered included a portrayal of ßiff∞n as a prototypical Arabian ‘war story’. Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s indulgence in narrating war poetry, focusing on the martial boasting of individual warriors, partially obscures ßiff∞n’s political significance, and adopts a style representative of entertaining war narrative. In other words, it could approximate an attenuated ‘epic’-like narrative as hypothesised by Connelly. We noted above that Arabic historiography lacks long epic poems, and the genre of ‘epic’ in Arabic is either discounted entirely58 or relegated to popular and fictionalised tales such as Ban∞ HilÆl, S∞rat ≤Antar and al-ΩÆhir Baybars.59 In world literature, ‘epic’ itself lacks a strict definition, but concepts of ‘narrative’, ‘poetry’ and ‘heroism’ form a fairly coherent base by which it can often be identified.60 I propose here that epic, understood in this looser fashion, accurately describes much of Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s portrayal of ßiff∞n. His narrative, with a seminal place accorded to poetry and specifically poetry attributed to the major protagonists, creates a narrative of heroes in conflict whose actions are explored on a personal level of individualised experience of bravery in preference to the specific historicity of the battle. Instead of placing ßiff∞n in the scheme of world history as later Arabic historians would, Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s prosimetric text plays specifically to an archaic war narrative type, universalising the experience of war and stressing the excitement and tension through the immediacy of the first-person poetic point of view. One result of this epical narration of ßiff∞n is the creation of a ‘heroic’ persona for ≤Al∞. Unlike the pensive, mannered ImÆm of later characterisations whose prowess on the battlefield is duly acknowledged, but overshadowed by his equanimity, the ‘heroic’, poetry singing ≤Al∞ of Ibn MuzÆ≈im is as bellicose, swashbuckling and intent on victory as the stereotyped heroes of pre-Islamic lore. Hence, in the midst of fighting, ≤Al∞ sings his own praise:

I’m the one whose mother named him Haydar A lion of the thicket, horrible to see Of muscular arms, great bravery I’ll measure for you a vast portion of death!61

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 134

27/06/2013 11:47



Poetry and the Early Islamic Historical Tradition135

This rajaz poem is noteworthy for both its meaning, whereby ≤Al∞ accounts for his virtues in starkly warrior terms, and its style, which utilises archaic phrases familiar to readers of pre-Islamic ≈amÆsa war poems.62 The lexical mimicry associates ≤Al∞ with this established tradition of warriors and, considering that 15 similar rajaz battle poems are attributed to ≤Al∞, it may be reasonably suggested that the narrators were constructing a martial character for the Iraqi leader. ≤Al∞’s shared lineage with Mu≈ammad, a cornerstone of his sanctity in the tradition, is the centrepiece of another rajaz, though here his lineage is marshalled not in the more familiar terms of religious virtue, but as an example of genealogical boasting in the stereotyped tribal fakhr genre of pre-Islamic verse, particularly in the use of the first-person plural pronoun ‘we’ to connote the tribal collective:

I am ≤Al∞, son of ≤Abd al-Muπallab! We by God, have religious precedence. From us came the Prophet, the chosen, the true, [We] the people of the battle flag, the Holy Sanctum and its keepers We brought him [Mu≈ammad] victory over all Arabs. So, you deceived combatant slave, Stand [and fight], you mad dog!63

Following the delivery of this poem, ≤Al∞ clefts his foe in two with a single blow. Al-∏abar∞ does acknowledge ≤Al∞’s renown as a powerful warrior,64 but he relates none of these combative rajaz-style war poems, nor does he expressly indicate that ≤Al∞ himself killed any Syrians in combat during ßiff∞n. Al-∏abar∞’s ≤Al∞ is a statesman, reluctant to wage civil war, exasperated by his enemies and drawn into battle against his will where he sought at almost all times to end the conflict by negotiation rather than force of arms. Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s ≤Al∞, particularly revealed through this poetry, is overtly bellicose, willing to bring the fight, proud of his lineage, which via the above poem cites Islam as a tribal conquest by his family over all of the Arabians. In short, he approximates an Arabian tribal leader of the old style; not exactly the seminal religious figure of later historiography.65

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 135

27/06/2013 11:47

136

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

The association of ≤Al∞ with the tribal headman stereotype is further developed via Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s narration of poetic duels between ≤Al∞ and ≤Amr. As the two armies set out on the march, ≤Amr (in Syria), via a poem dispatched to ≤Al∞, threatens to send his squadrons against Kufa (≤Al∞’s ‘capital’) in ‘this year and the next’, whereby ≤Al∞ (in Iraq) responds, by insulting ≤Amr with a pun on his last name (which sounds similar to ‘the disobedient one’) and returns the threat with a bellicose verse of his own,66 in which he cites specific allusions to the earlier heroic poetic tradition67 without making any mention of his ideological ‘right’ to rule as would become de rigueur in later accounts of ßiff∞n. Whereas al-∏abar∞ only records one battle poem attributed to ≤Al∞ during the actual fighting in which ≤Al∞ praises his tribal allies,68 ≤Al∞’s poetry in Ibn MuzÆ≈im is narrated in a style common to the text as a whole where seemingly no important action can transpire without a lusty verse or two: poetry is treated as an expected component of the action, again mirroring the model of the pre-Islamic battle stories. Al-∏abar∞’s eschewing of this method (even though he used very similar prose sources in constructing his account) seems to be a deliberate attempt to distance the portrayal of this Islamic conflict from the style of tribal war. Also, this crucially enables al-∏abar∞ to distance his portrayal of ≤Al∞ from that of a bellicose tribal headman – a portrayal that would hardly behove a narration of the community’s Fourth Caliph, and the last ‘Rightly-Guided’ leader in the midst of a disastrous civil war. It is difficult to assert that Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s portrayal of the warrior ≤Al∞ is more ‘historically accurate’, as the authenticity of this poetry is certainly dubious. Sh∞≤a sources also frequently play to the image of ≤Al∞ as fatan (the warrior brave), and they have preserved several of these poems in Nahj al-BalÆgha, indicating that the attribution of poems to ≤Al∞ has a long history. However, in the case of Waq≤at ßiff∞n, ≤Al∞ is only one of the text’s many poetic warrior figures, and the language of his arjÆz unmistakably borrows from the vocabulary and ethos of a poetic tradition that had passed through the hands of narrators familiar with the style and imagery of the AyyÆm war poems. This is consistent with the lists of ‘historians’ compiled by Ibn al-Nad∞m and Ibn Qutayba noted above, where the first generations of akhbÆr narrators were described as specialists in Arabian history and poetry, and it is tempting to see in at least some of the preserved verses in Waq≤at ßiff∞n the handiwork of these storytellers. By generating pre-Islamic style verse and prose anecdote for the Islamic protagonists, these storytellers appear to have been less preoccupied with the ideological leanings of the Battle of ßiff∞n, depicting it instead in terms of a military

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 136

27/06/2013 11:47



Poetry and the Early Islamic Historical Tradition137

struggle and thus replete with heroes acting heroically, which meant, of course, poetically.

Mu≤≠wiya, ≤Amr and the Syrian ‘voice’ in poetry Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s inclusion of greater volumes of poetry, particularly poetry attributed to ≤Amr and Mu≤Æwiya, provides a Syrian voice to the narrative of ßiff∞n, a further dimension not encountered in al-∏abar∞ or much of the later tradition. In al-∏abar∞, Syrian soldiers are effectively automatons: except for their leaders, they are often referred to anonymously as Ahl al-ShÆm (the ‘Syrians’), and even in single combats with named Iraqis, Syrians usually are incognito. Al-∏abar∞’s Syrians fight with determination and exhibit unwavering loyalty to their leaders which is used to explain their eventual victory (contrasting ≤Al∞’s supporters who are portrayed as in-fighting during the aftermath of ßiff∞n), but readers of al-∏abar∞ can only dimly perceive personalities amongst the ranks of Ahl al-ShÆm. To cite a modern analogy, they are comparable to the faceless ‘storm trooper’ ‘enemies’ of George Lucas’s imagination. An Iraqi bias influences both al-∏abar∞’s and Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s narrative,69 but the extensive poetic oeuvre of Ibn MuzÆ≈im, gathering what appears to be a much wider pool of sources, has the effect of granting a clearer voice to the Syrian side of this conflict. The inclusion of so many poems attributed to ≤Amr and Mu≤Æwiya in their debates and dialogue with ≤Al∞ and his Iraqi allies sets the scene of active poetic intercourse between the two sides. Rather than a one-sided narrative of ≤Al∞ and his allies in combat with an intractable, faceless and voiceless foe which dominates later interpretations of ßiff∞n, the inclusion of poetry from both sides permits the audience to experience the arguments of both factions and makes for a seemingly ‘realistic’ account of the battle. This does not entail that Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s account is more historically accurate, as we have seen the issues regarding the poetry’s authenticity, but this narrative style adds a dramatic flavour and presents us with a conflict in the round in which the chaotic struggles of a civil war emerge with a bellicose communal tension between Syrian and Iraqi Muslims, absent in later accounts which largely lionise Iraq and marginalise al-ShÆm. Consideration of the poetic ‘speech’ of the Syrian leaders also leads to an interesting observation regarding Mu≤Æwiya. In Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s text, ≤Amr is the primary Syrian spokesman when threatening or otherwise communicating with ≤Al∞; Mu≤Æwiya’s direct contact with ≤Al∞ is noticeably

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 137

27/06/2013 11:47

138

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

less, particularly in terms of poetic duels where ≤Amr is the usual poetic spokesman for the Syrians. Furthermore, of the 16 poems attributed to Mu≤Æwiya, we only have one rajaz.70 We have seen that rajaz is the typical poetic medium of fighters sung in the heat of pre-Islamic battles, and the attribution of rajaz poetry to a character in the context of ßiff∞n, in keeping with the tradition of the pre-Islamic battle stories, is a seminal mark of warrior status. Whereas ≤Al∞, ≤Amr and the other reputable braves are ascribed rajaz in Waq≤at ßiff∞n, Mu≤Æwiya only sings one rajaz and never takes part in actual combat. A further aspect of the poetry sung by Mu≤Æwiya is that he quotes poems of famous pre-Islamic poets instead of reciting poems of his own composition.71 These ‘quoted poems’ can be found in the anthologies of famous pre-Islamic poets such as al-√atim al-∏Æ≥∞, or in the collections of pre-Islamic and early Islamic verse such as al-Mufa∂∂aliyyÆt, which further indicates the close nexus between ‘literary’ poetry collection and historical writing in the early period. Waq≤at ßiff∞n clearly borrows poetry that would later be the exclusive preserve of poetry anthologies; and allusions to this pre-Islamic poetic heritage of Arabia quoted by Islamic-era historical figures are relatively infrequent in later historical writing.72 Returning to Mu≤Æwiya’s character, if we consider the importance ascribed to poetry in Arabian culture and the assertion by classical scholars of the poet’s role as tribal spokesman, and indeed the development of the qa∆∞da poem as a vehicle for praise of tribal leaders, the unusual aspects of Mu≤Æwiya’s verse call for explanation. He is one of the few belligerents not accorded much rajaz poetry and he is the only character to cite the verses of past poets frequently. Whereas the poet warrior ≤Al∞ is portrayed as poetically eloquent and the epitome of virtue, bravery, manliness and martial prowess, and while this is shared to an extent by ≤Amr, Mu≤Æwiya appears the opposite: poetically ‘challenged’ and therefore implicitly unworthy of the role of poet/warrior/leader. The nature of the poetry associated with Mu≤Æwiya is thus a device by which the narrators, denying him both skill in the martial rajaz form and the ability to compose his own verses in times of stress on the battlefield, can denigrate Mu≤Æwiya’s character and insinuate he had no skills in actual fighting. This further supports our hypothesis of the centrality of poetry in the early Arabic narrations of ßiff∞n, whereby poetry plays a central role in the construction of warrior personae for the protagonists in a starkly dramatic and martial portrayal of the battle. The device of heroic/anti-heroic characterisation, exemplified by the contrasting verses of ≤Al∞ and Mu≤Æwiya in Waq≤at ßiff∞n, disappears, however, once poetry was generally purged

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 138

27/06/2013 11:47



Poetry and the Early Islamic Historical Tradition139

from historiography and the AyyÆm-style presentation of the early Islamic battles faded, while citations of old poems became the preserve of literary anthologies. Consequently, ≤Al∞’s character migrated away from the warrior ideal, and the attempt of narrators to impart Mu≤Æwiya’s ineptitude as an unworthy, and perhaps even effeminate, opponent became invisible.

Further considerations Given the some 2,000 verses of Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s narration of ßiff∞n, this chapter was restricted to the portrayals of the story’s protagonists. While the three leaders constitute almost one quarter of the text’s poetry, large numbers of poems are also attributed to other combatants of both sides. Before concluding, some preliminary remarks shall be made considering this poetic corpus. Continuing the more favourable, or at least more visible presence of Syrians in the battle, Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s narration of Syrian poetry yields interesting observations. As an example, we read the following verses attributed to a Syrian combatant:

I’ve never seen horsemen rushing so ferociously, Nor more invincible than on that day at the Hill of Skulls: A morning when the Iraqis emerged Like lambs bursting through narrow passes. Whenever I said they’ve retreated, They came on again, Squadrons gathered, flashing white helmets at the fore. They said: ‘accept ≤Al∞!’ ‘Certainly not!’ We replied, with unbending swords. We rose up against them with sword and spear, In close-ranks, our horsemen drove them back.73

The praise of Syrian soldiers in their resolute and unabashedly heroic stance against ≤Al∞ and the Iraqis is absent from al-∏abar∞’s text. The poetry

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 139

27/06/2013 11:47

140

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

itself, replete with some archaic words and formulae reminiscent of the earlier √amÆsa (war poetry) tradition,74 again evidences the influence of what seems to be an old war poetry trope in some of the verses in Waq≤at ßiff∞n. Free of ideological considerations, this poem is an unadulterated boast of the Syrians for standing fast in battle against their foes, where issues of manhood and reputation seemed a more pressing concern than the end of the ‘Rightly-Guided’ era of Caliphs. This poem thus belies a conception of ßiff∞n in martial terms of epic reminiscence, not in terms of ideology or its place in the wider sweep of history. This is the essence of the tradition of pre-Islamic battle stories: chronology and historical relevance are reduced to the individual combat where a warrior or tribe celebrates their steadfastness and honour in the face of the foe. Much of Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s poetry from ßiff∞n can be read in this light. The battle is not represented very clearly in terms of grand strategy and tactical manoeuvres, but instead consists of a nearly unending sequence of duels between individual Iraqis and Syrians in which each has an opportunity to sing of his strength and praise his tribe’s prowess. The end of each single combat then occasions further poetry: elegies of the departed or more aggressive praise of the victor and his tribe. Too numerous to consider here, the elegies also borrow from the old tradition of pre-Islamic rithÆ≥, closely mirroring styles encountered, for example, in the elegy section of Abu TammÆm’s al-√amÆsa collection of pre-Islamic ‘literary’ poetry. The portrayal of the battle as this sequence of poemduel-poem again structurally and lexically mirrors the tradition of the pre-Islamic battle day stories. This suggests that yet another aspect of the early Islamic memory of ßiff∞n was one conceived as tribal conflict: far from the later perceived historical significance reflected in the classical Arabic history books, ßiff∞n came to be a stage for the Arabian tribes settled in the Islamic Empire to immortalise the memory of their heroes. A reading of Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s poetry from the perspective of tribal rivalries would merit further analysis. To cite one particularly interesting example, we read a poetic fragment attributed to KhÆlid ibn Mu≤ammir, a poet of the Rab∞≤a tribe fighting for ≤Al∞:

Ibn √arb [Mu≤Æwiya] hoped to pledge our women [to his men] But between him and his desire are our sharp swords.75

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 140

27/06/2013 11:47



Poetry and the Early Islamic Historical Tradition141

The particular adjective cited here for the swords – ‘sharp’ (qawÆ∂ib) – has, in this case, perhaps a covert phallic association (cf. qa∂∞b), which logically assists the trope of the defence of women, rendering this short poem an archetypal expression of tribal honour conceived in a markedly virile manner. Mu≤Æwiya promised his soldiers the women of Rab∞≤a, but in battle, Rab∞≤a’s men stood fast, preserving their womenfolk and their honour through a display of military strength. Al-∏abar∞ unsurprisingly omits this poem: his narrative is much less concerned with passionate tribal honour and rivalries at ßiff∞n which run counter to his portrayal of a colossal civil war between two ideologically opposed groups.

Conclusion In our preliminary survey of Waq≤at ßiff∞n’s poetic corpus, we have seen how large quantities of poetry enjoyed a prominent position in this early Arabic historical text. We have argued that this is not unusual, notwithstanding the much shrunken role of poetry in later histories, given the evidence which suggests that until the third/ninth century, Muslim scholars did not consider poetry, history or other disciplines so rigidly separate or with such established methodologies as they would develop over the course of that century. As such, poetry’s role in assisting the telling of history was significant, although it was not particularly systematic. Instead, different interpretations of the past spawned different poems and prose anecdotes, and, at the time of compilation, a multitude of voices and agendas found themselves in encyclopaedic texts such as Waq≤at ßiff∞n, produced by early historians working within an acquisitive approach to anecdote collection in the later second/eighth and early third/ninth centuries. This approach was not only restricted to history, and one could note a similar trend in the early collection of had∞th into the less structured musnads of the early third/ ninth century, or even in the style of literary adab texts such as al-JÆ≈iæ’s al-BukhalÆ≥, which has often been remarked as lacking a ‘schematic sense of composition’76 in the sense to which we are more accustomed today. In the case of ßiff∞n, the later account of al-∏abar∞ removed much of the dramatic verse and related anecdote and so constructed a more coherent narrative of events that also placed the Battle of ßiff∞n within the sweep of world history, whereas for Ibn MuzÆ≈im, ßiff∞n was a standalone heroic event where poetry was essential to its narration. The poetry of Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s text offers a window into the inner motivations and moral dilemmas of the protagonists, constructed epic martial heroic characters

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 141

27/06/2013 11:47

142

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

for the event, and lauded tribal achievements. Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s text thus remembers ßiff∞n as a dramatic saga experienced through the eyes of its heroic participants, and so fundamentally differs from later Arabic histories that retold the story of ßiff∞n, largely without poetry, to focus particularly on how the battle changed the fate of the Islamic Empire. The poetry may assist in pointing researchers to the earlier narrators of Islamic history. They appear to be a polyglot host of tribal storytellers, sermonisers and politically active ideologues, each of whom found in ßiff∞n important material for their conceptions of the past. It is doubtful that further analysis of poetry can ever take us back to the ‘real’ battle itself, but rather it can help peel away another layer of interpretation over which writers of history in the fourth/tenth century seemed keen to plaster; and thus the nature of early Arabic historical memory can perhaps become a little clearer.

Notes   1

See Rosenthal, F., A History of Muslim Historiography (Leiden, 1952): ‘epical treatment of history in verses remained unknown to Arabic literature’ (pp.158– 159). More recent surveys continue this theme; Khalidi laconically states ‘there is no history [in pre-Islamic poetry]’ (Arabic Historical Thought in the Classical Period [Cambridge, 1994], p.3), and the recent survey by Robinson devotes no substantive attention to poetry (Islamic Historiography [Cambridge, 2003]).  2 Rosenthal details these and several other works in verse that have historical themes. He concludes (in some cases, not unfairly) that none of these works are ‘epic’; much of their verse is ‘hackneyed’ and of ‘tiresome effect’ (Rosenthal, Muslim Historiography, pp.160–161).   3 Dates in this paper are expressed in both Islamic (ah) and Christian (ad) notations. The Islamic date is written first, followed by the date according to the Christian calendar.   4 See Mourad, S. A., ‘Poetry, History and the Early Islamic Conquests of al-ShÆm (Greater Syria)’ in Ramzi Baalbeki, Saleh Said Agha and Tarif Khalidi (eds), Poetry and History: The Value of Poetry in Reconstructing Arab History (Beirut, 2011), p.175, for critiques of the received opinion in modern scholarship that poetry’s role was limited to offering entertaining diversions in prose writings.   5 Ibn MuzÆ≈im, Na∆r, Waq≤at ßiff∞n, ed ≤Abd al-SalÆm Mu≈ammad HÆr∑n (Cairo, 1981). Akin to other texts of the early third/ninth century, it is unlikely that the book took a final, definitive form during the lifetime of its ‘author’ Ibn MuzÆ≈im, but rather existed via aural memorisation and notebook records of Ibn MuzÆ≈im and his students, and was only ‘published’ as a definitive text around the middle of the third/ninth century. See Stefan Leder, ‘The Literary Use of the Khabar’ in Stefan Leder (ed), Studies in Arabic and Islam (Leuven, 2002), pp.277–315, 298.  6 Al-∏abar∞, Mu≈ammad, TÆr∞kh al-Rusul wa-l-Mul∑k, ed Mu≈ammad Ab∑ Fa∂l IbrÆh∞m (Beirut, n.d.).

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 142

27/06/2013 11:47



Poetry and the Early Islamic Historical Tradition143

 7 Montgomery, J., The Vagaries of the Qa∆∞da (Cambridge, 1997), p.219. Montgomery cites these fairly commonly held opinions from earlier scholars such as E. Wagner and al-Nu≤mÆn al-QÆ∂∞.   8 They stress that the common perceptions of ‘historical poetry [being] of inferior quality … and, as a whole, of no particular historical importance or literary merit are simply false’. A. F. L. Beeston and Lawrence Conrad, ‘On Some Umayyad Poetry in the History of al-∏abar∞’, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 3.2 (1993), pp.191–206, 191.  9 Heinrichs, W., ‘Prosimetrical Genres in Classical Arabic Literature’ in Joseph Harris and Karl Reichl (eds), Prosimetrum – Cross Cultural Perspectives on Narrative in Prose and Verse (Cambridge Mass., 1997), pp.249–275; and Poetry and History: the Value of Poetry in Reconstructing Arab History (Beirut, 2011). 10 Heinrichs, ‘Prosimetrical Genres’, pp.258–261, 270. For another application and refinement of these theories, see P. Heath, ‘Some Facets of Poetry in Pre-modern Historical and Pseudo-historical Texts’ in Poetry and History, pp.39–60, 48–52. 11 Rosenthal, Muslim Historiography, p.158. 12 van Gelder, G. J., ‘Poetry in Historiography: the case of al-Fakhr∞ by Ibn al-∏iqπaqÆ’ in Poetry and History, pp.61–94, 73. He suggests the term prosimetrum only be applied to texts where poetry and prose are employed in a balanced fashion. Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s Waq≤at ßiff∞n may be an appropriate candidate for this category, as shall be explored below. 13 The role of the AyyÆm storytelling style in forming a template for Muslim history tellers has been noted for some time; see Rosenthal, Muslim Historiography, pp.60–61, and ≤Abd al-≤Az∞z D∑r∞, ‘The Iraq School of History in the 9th C – A Sketch’ in B. Lewis and P. M. Holt (eds), Historians of the Middle East (London, 1962). Both D∑r∞ and Rosenthal, however, denied that al-AyyÆm evidence a historical consciousness (and in this they have been recently followed by Robinson, p.44). While the debate continues, many scholars do at least still accept the influence of the AyyÆm style on early Arabic historiography (see Khalidi, Arabic Historical Thought, pp.4–5). 14 Rosenthal, citing Caskel, argued that al-AyyÆm did not appear in Muslim historiography until Ibn al-Ath∞r’s al-KÆmil in the seventh/thirteenth century. While al-KÆmil is the first annalistic history to include accounts of the pre-Islamic battles, it is simply not the first historical text to use this material. The recently published manuscript of al-BalÆdhur∞’s AnsÆb al-AshrÆf reveals much material related to the AyyÆm in a third/ninth century genealogy and history text, and even al-∏abar∞ cites extensively from the AyyÆm in his narration of the history of √∞ra and the Battle of Dh∞ QÆr (for an analysis of Dh∞ QÆr, al-∏abar∞ and the use of poetry, see Heath, ‘Some Facets’, pp.44–52). From the fourth/tenth century stories of al-AyyÆm do tend to be found in texts from other genres, indicating that this pre-Islamic history, along with poetry in general, migrated away from history books during the third/ninth century. 15 Heinrichs identifies Brockelmann with the first foray into this debate. Brockelmann proposed the AyyÆm were originally set to verse, and the prose explanations and narrative expansions emerged over time. This was refuted by Caskell, who believed that the poetry may have coalesced around already existing prose stories. It seems that there is no principle to determine whether the poetic chicken emerged before the prosaic egg; Heinrichs proposes, but can give no preference to three possibilities: either the poetry is older, the prose is older,

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 143

27/06/2013 11:47

144

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

or the two are both old and developed independent of each other (Heinrichs, ‘Prosimetrical Genres’, pp.254–255). One could venture a fourth option: that the poetry and prose developed together. 16 Al-AyyÆm are also neglected in modern scholarship. Other than Caskell’s lengthy article and the Arabic monographs al-Shi≤r wa-AyyÆm al-≤Arab f∞ al-≤A∆r al-JÆhil∞ by ≤Af∞f ≤Abd al-Ra≈mÆn (Beirut, 1984) and AyyÆm al-≤Arab Qabla al-IslÆm by ≤≠dil JÆsim al-BayyÆt∞ (Beirut, 1987), most historians have relegated the canonical Muslim portrayal of pre-Islamic history to the extreme sidelines of scholarly attention. The heroic quality of the stories and the lack of a chronology have perhaps prejudiced positivist-minded historians to discount these tales as ‘legends’ (see Robinson). But as narrative readings of history gain currency, al-AyyÆm, as deliberate poetic reconstructions of the past through the medium of poetry deserve closer attention to understand how Muslims conceived of their pre-Islamic heritage and approached historiography. For a recent preliminary investigation, see Said Saleh Agha, ‘Of Verse, Poetry, Great Poetry and History’ in Poetry and History, pp.1–38. 17 Ibn Qutayba, ≤Abdullah, al-Ma≤Ærif, ed Tharwa ≤AkÆsha (Cairo, 1958), pp.534– 539; Ibn al-Nad∞m, Mu≈ammad ibn Is≈Æq, al-Fihrist, ed Ri∂Æ Tajaddud (Beirut, 1988), pp.101–128. 18 Ibn al-Nad∞m lists 17 akhbÆriyy∑n (scholars of akhbÆr/historical reports) until the time of Ab∑ Mikhnaf and Ibn Is≈Æq, who represent the first well-known generation of Muslim historians in modern scholarship. Of these 17, eight are specifically mentioned as studying or writing about poetry, usually referred to as the ‘poetry of the Arabs’ (ash≤Ær al-≤Arab) (Ibn al-Nad∞m, pp.102–105). 19 Ibn al-Nad∞m gives some indication of this, listing poetry narrators before the middle of the third/ninth century in either the fields of akhbÆr or grammar. Poetry is given a standalone chapter in al-Fihrist, but it only details poetry narrators after the mid-third/ninth century (Ibn al-Nad∞m, pp.177–180). Note that two important poetry scholars of the early third/ninth century are listed with the ‘historian’ akhbÆriy∑n: Ibn √ab∞b and Ibn SallÆm al-Juma≈i (Ibn al-Nad∞m, p.119 and p.126, respectively). 20 Ibn HishÆm explains that he removed all poetry that was not known to ‘scholars of poetry’ in Ibn HishÆm’s day, identifying the growing recognition of ‘poetry experts’ as a distinct scholarly community (Ibn HishÆm, al-S∞rat al-Nabawiyya, eds, Mu∆πafÆ al-SaqÆ et al. (Beirut, n.d.), p.4). More stringent criticism was levied by the poetry collector and critic Ibn SallÆm al-Juma≈∞ (d.221/845), who derided Ibn Is≈Æq as ‘one of those who ruined poetry and mixed it with unworthy, poor quality verse’ (∏abaqÆt Fu≈∑l al-Shu≤arÆ≥, ed Ma≈m∑d Mu≈ammad ShÆkir (Cairo, n.d.), pp.7–8). The new standards for poetry authentication (of which Ibn SallÆm was a champion) forming in the third/ninth century clearly changed the way in which poetry and history were collected and narrated. 21 Heinrichs cites Ibn SallÆm al-Juma≈∞ (d.221/845) as the earliest to assert this encyclopaedic quality of poetry (‘Prosimetrical Genres’, p.249). 22 A term used in his biography in the Encyclopaedia of Islam (Muhammad Qasim Zaman ‘al-Ya≤ḳ∑b∞’ EI2 XI, pp.257–258, 258). 23 Al-Ya≤q∑b∞, A≈mad ibn Ab∞ Ya≤q∑b, TÆr∞kh al-Ya≤q∑b∞ (Beirut, n.d.), 162. Ibn Qutayba, ≤Abdullah, ≤Uy∑n al-AkhbÆr (Cairo, 1925), 2, p.185. 24 Separating these scholars as historian vs. belles-lettriste could be misleading, but Ibn Qutayba is not associated with writing books that we would usually consider history. Instead, his interests lay in poetry, the Arabic language and the religious

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 144

27/06/2013 11:47



Poetry and the Early Islamic Historical Tradition145

sciences as evidenced by the catalogue of his surviving books. Al-Ya≤q∑b∞, on the other hand, is primarily known for historical and geographical writings (Zaman, ‘al-Ya≤ḳ∑b∞’, pp.257–258). 25 Al-Ya≤q∑b∞, pp.262–269. Ibn Qutayba’s anthology of poets has been preserved in the two-volume al-Sh≤ir wa-l-Shu≤arÆ≥; he also authored Fa∂l al-≤Arab wa-l-Tanb∞h ≤ala ≤Ul∑mihim, in which poetry features prominently in his descriptions of the intellectual achievements of Arabian culture. 26 Al-Ya≤q∑b∞, 1, pp.190–220. 27 van Gelder, p.73. 28 Al-∏abar∞’s original text has been preserved in several manuscript recensions, whether later copiers elided poetry which al-∏abar∞ had originally narrated is a possibility, but is not particularly likely. Later historians who closely based their texts on older manuscripts of al-∏abar∞, such as Ibn al-Ath∞r, treat the poetry of ßiff∞n in a very similar manner: Ibn al-Ath∞r records many, but not all of al-∏abar∞’s verse, and only includes three additional lines which do not appear in extant versions of al-∏abar∞. As such, the urge to drastically reduce poetry seems to very much have been al-∏abar∞’s intention. 29 Preliminary analysis of the isnÆds (chains of narrators; i.e. the sources of the anecdotal material collected in these history books) indicates very close affinities. Al-∏abar∞ quotes predominantly from Ab∑ Mikhnaf, while Ibn MuzÆ≈im cites ≤Amr ibn Shamr and ≤Umar ibn Sa≤d; however, both the Ab∑ Mikhnaf akhbÆr in al-∏abar∞ and the Ibn Shamr/Ibn Sa≤d akhbÆr in Ibn MuzÆ≈im rely on exactly the same narrators from earlier generations and often contain similar, if not verbatim anecdotes. If the isnÆds are accurate, it would indicate that any alterations in the sources could first be ascribed to the time of Ab∑ Mikhnaf (i.e. the latter second/eighth century), but a pool of anecdotes must have remained fairly stable throughout the third/ninth century given the close textual similarities between Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s text and al-∏abar∞’s. 30 It is commonly reported that Ibn MuzÆ≈im differs from other narrators on account of extreme Sh∞≤a views – he is described as a ghÆl∞ (C. E. Bosworth, ‘Na∆r ibn MuzÆ≈im’ EI2 VII, 1015). Identifying any early third/ninth century figure as Sh∞≤a is in fact rather difficult, given that Sh∞≤ism as we know it today may only have been articulated in the fourth/tenth century, and the term ghÆl∞ may also have been coined only after Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s death, but in any event, Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s political persuasion is not apparent in Waq≤at ßiff∞n: his support for ≤Al∞ is not much more overt than that of al-∏abar∞, who is considered a more orthodox historical authority. D∑r∞ also commented on the absence of sheer partisanism in Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s work (49). As noted above, almost all Muslim historians of the ≤AbbÆsid period tended to favour positive portrayals of ≤Al∞ in contrast to the broadly negative characterisation of Mu≤Æwiya. 31 See, for example, the poetry of al-HammÆm recited during a duel at ßiff∞n (Ibn MuzÆ≈im, pp.268–269; al-∏abar∞, 5:28–29); the poem of Ab∑ ShaddÆd in praise of the Baj∞la tribe (Ibn MuzÆ≈im, p.258; al-∏abar∞, 5:22); and poetry recited between ≤Amr and Mu≤Æwiya (Ibn MuzÆ≈im, p.275; al-∏abar∞, 5:42). 32 See Ibn MuzÆ≈im, pp.246–247 and al-∏abar∞, 5:24; Ibn MuzÆ≈im, pp.289–290 and al-∏abar∞, 5:37–38. 33 A search for recurrences of Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s poetry reveals strikingly scant reuse in later historiography, although his book is taken as a source in the Nahj al-BalÆgha genre in which later authors, almost exclusively of a Sh∞≤a persuasion, collected the preserved speeches, sayings and poems of ≤Al∞. For these

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 145

27/06/2013 11:47

146

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

authors, ≤Al∞ possessed an ideally eloquent command of Arabic, and any statements connected with him represent a treasure trove for Sh∞≤a audiences eager to explore the language and personality of their first ImÆm. Accordingly, many of ≤Al∞’s poems from Waq≤at ßiff∞n reappear in Nahj al-BalÆgha texts, and two, surprisingly, reappear in Ibn al-Jawz∞’s (d.597/1201) al-Muntaæam, a large-scale universal annalistic history that is otherwise very sparing in its citation of poetry. Ibn al-Jawz∞ ascribes both poems to ≤Al∞ (Ibn al-Jawz∞, al-Muntaæam, ed Suhayl ZakkÆr (Beirut, 1995), 3, pp.1273, 1289), although Ibn MuzÆ≈im ascribes one to ≤Al∞ and the other to an Iraqi Majza≥a Ibn Thawr (pp.137, 305), and there is some slight variation in the verses. In the case of some extremely rare words contained in the poems, some also were included in later dictionaries (e.g. LisÆn al-≤Arab s-n-d-r 4:382). 34 For the infrequent incidents of overlap, see for example tribal praise poetry related by Ibn MuzÆ≈im (p.312) and Ibn A≤tham (KitÆb al-Fut∑≈ (Beirut, 1986), 3, pp.100–101). In other instances, some similarities in vocabulary and metre could indicate that both Ibn A≤tham and Ibn MuzÆ≈im cited different versions of what originally was one poem, but even this connection seems tenuous at best (e.g. the tribal praise poem of HamdÆn [Ibn MuzÆ≈im, p.228; Ibn A≤tham, 3:88]). Overall, despite the large volume of poetry in both texts, they seemingly represent different traditions. 35 Ibn MuzÆ≈im, p.93. 36 Ibn MuzÆ≈im, p.159. Among the ghar∞b of this poem, consider the phrases: ‘al-≈arb li-≤urÆman shararÆ’ (war for a ferocious host); ‘qÆ≥id ≤ashanzara’ (a powerful leader) and ‘≤alÆ nawÆ≈ihi mizajjan zamjarÆ’ (about him he makes quick stabs, a protector of his people). 37 Al-KhuzÆ≤∞, Di≤bil ibn ≤Al∞, Sh≤ir, ed ≤Abd al-Kar∞m al-Ashtar (Damascus, 1983). 38 Di≤bil melds a pro-Yemeni/pro-≤Alid bias in his verse, evident from numerous poems in his anthology that dated from the late second/eighth to the early third/ ninth centuries (i.e. Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s precise generation). Interestingly, poems which make the same connection of Yemeni pride in protecting ≤Al∞, who is described in starkly ideological terms in Waq≤at ßiff∞n, use similar language to that of Di≤bil: see the poem of ≤Ubayd Allah ibn ≤Umar (p.299). See also Di≤bil’s ‘T poem in praise of ≤Al∞’s family’, to which over a 100 lines were added by later Sh∞≤a partisans after Di≤bil’s death (al-KhuzÆ≤∞, pp.78–88, 291–314). Further analysis of this aspect of the text’s verse is beyond the scope of this paper. 39 Heinrichs, ‘Prosimetrical Genres’, p.253. 40 Leder, pp.293–298. 41 Ibn MuzÆ≈im, p.35. 42 For example, heroes in Arabic literature such as Lab∞d, ≤Antara and even Muhammad (in the context of his IsrÆ≥ and Mi≤rÆj Night Journey) wage their adventures at night, and various momentous events are given a nocturnal setting such as when ≤Antara was deprived of his beloved ≤Abla as her clan stole away from him in the night. 43 Ibn MuzÆ≈im, p.35. 44 Ibn MuzÆ≈im, p.35. 45 Ibn MuzÆ≈im, p.36. 46 Ibn MuzÆ≈im, p.36. 47 Ibn MuzÆ≈im, p.39. The last line parallels a pairing of words ‘damaging’ and ‘profitable’ commonly found in the Qur≥Æn. The Qur≥Ænic discourse compares idols and God in this manner – the idols can neither harm nor help, whereas God

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 146

27/06/2013 11:47



Poetry and the Early Islamic Historical Tradition147

represents succour to the believers (expressed by one of God’s names al-NÆfi≤) and perdition for non-believers (cf. another of His names, al-DÆrr). See Qur≥Æn 2:102, 10:18, 25:55, 26:73. ≤Amr’s use of this pair of words encapsulates his ‘value’ to the Syrians, as a serious actor, not an idle bystander. 48 See Pellat KÆ∆∆ EI2 IV, pp.733–735. For the role of the qu∆∆Æ∆ in the early historiographical tradition, see G. H. A. Juynboll, ‘On the Origins of Arabic Prose: Reflections on Authenticity’ in J. H. A. Juynboll (ed), Studies on the 1st Century of Islam (Carbondale, 1982). For detailed consideration of their political and religious function see ≤Athamnia, Khalil, ‘Al-Qasas: Its Emergence, Religious Origin and Its Socio-Political Impact on Early Muslim Society’, Studia Islamica 76 (1992), pp.53–74. 49 ≤Athamina, pp.59–60, 65–66. 50 Al-JÆ≈iæ, ≤Amr ibn Bahr, al-BayÆn wa-l-Taby∞n, ed ≤Abd al-SallÆm Mu≈ammad HÆr∑n (Cairo, 2003), 1, pp.367–368. These passages succinctly note their functions of relaying Qur≥Ænic exegesis alongside poetry and prose anecdote in public performance. 51 While the primacy of the oral tradition of the qu∆∆Æ∆ is generally accepted, it is proposed that during the second/eighth century and certainly by the third/ninth century, anecdotes which formed their pool of narrative components were copied into sourcebooks, and by the third/ninth century they operated in an increasingly literate milieu (Juynboll, p.166). In light of his hypothesis, the varied sourcebooks of the qu∆∆Æ∆ may have been one pool of sources utilised by Ibn MuzÆ≈im in compiling Waq≤at ßiff∞n. 52 Juynboll notes changing attitudes to the reliability of the qu∆∆Æ∆ narrators in the third/ninth century (p.165). Pedersen also dates early criticism of the qu∆∆Æ∆ to at least the beginning of that century, reaching a climax in the fourth/tenth century, although Pedersen was primarily concerned with attacks on the qu∆∆Æ∆ from mystic circles (‘The Criticism of the Islamic Preacher’, Die Welt des Islams 2.4 (1953), pp.215–231, 217–222). Pedersen notes the methods of the qu∆∆Æ∆ were described as bid≤a (impermissible innovation), a hallmark of traditionist invective against rival fields (Pedersen, 222). 53 Pellat, pp.734–735. 54 Juynboll argues that a specific conflict occurred between the qu∆∆Æ∆ style of historical storytelling and the ‘more scholarly approach to history’ of the growing class of ‘professional historians’ (p.167). While I am not convinced the early historians can be so neatly divided, a distinction between historiographical styles likely did emerge through the second/eighth and third/ninth centuries to eventually eclipse the methods most preferred by the qu∆∆Æ∆, sending remnants of their material into the margins of Arabic historiography. 55 Connelly, Bridget, Arabic Folk Epic and Identity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986), pp.9–13. 56 ≤Amr’s verse is not the only introspective soliloquy; the lead-up to ßiff∞n also includes a soliloquy ascribed to Mu≤Æwiya similarly sung at night about his problems organising his power base against ≤Al∞. This poem also commences with the same starting formula as ≤Amr’s poem: ‘tatÆwala layli’(my night grows long) (33). 57 26 ash≤Ær and arjÆz are attributed to ≤Al∞; 30 to ≤Amr; and Mu≤Æwiya is ascribed 15 ash≤Ær and one rajaz. In addition to this sum of 71 poems, these three characters, particularly Mu≤Æwiya, are quoted as singing the verses of pre-Islamic poets, bringing the total poetry sung by the three protagonists to over 80 poems, about one quarter of the poetry in Waq≤at ßiff∞n.

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 147

27/06/2013 11:47

148

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

58

See, for example, von Grunebaum’s dismissal of Arabian epics cited in Connelly, p.3. 59 Lyons, M. C., The Arabian Epic (Cambridge, 1995), p.3. 60 Lyons, Arabian Epic, p.5. 61 Ibn MuzÆ≈im, pp.390–391. 62 See, for example, ri≥bÆl for lion, frequently encountered as a metaphor for the tribal warrior (al-Sukkar∞, Ab∑ Sa≤∞d, Shar≈ Ash≤Ær al-Hudhayliy∞n, ed ≤Abd al-SattÆr A≈mad FarrÆj (Cairo, n.d.), 2:530), and the pairing of ri≤bÆl with the ajam (woods, jungle) as ‘lion of the thicket’; see Shar≈ Ash≤Ær al-Hudhayliy∞n 2:968. 63 Ibn MuzÆ≈im, p.273. 64 Al-∏abar∞, 5:42. 65 See also a long poem in which ≤Al∞ warns Mu≤Æwiya and ≤Amr not to bring battle against him, which he concludes with a citation of the battles of Badr and Khaybar in a thinly veiled allusion to the fact that during Mu≈ammad’s lifetime ≤Al∞ fought with the Prophet against the pagan Meccans led by Ab∑ SufyÆn, none other than the father of Mu≤Æwiya (pp.43–44). 66 Ibn MuzÆ≈im, pp.136–137. 67 Specifically, ≤Al∞ mentions ‘musta≈qib∞n ≈alaq al-dilÆ∆’, which refers to warhorses tied to camels during marches between battles (so as to rest the horses for battle, the warriors would ride the camels when not in combat). This is considered a ‘typical’ strategy of the pre-Islamic battle days and strikingly similar poetry occurs in those collections. See LisÆn al-≤Arab (≈-q-b) 1:326. 68 Al-∏abar∞, 5:37. 69 Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s staunch Sh∞≤a beliefs compared to al-∏abar∞ are commonly held by modern scholars, but, as noted above, this does not seem to deeply affect Ibn MuzÆ≈im’s narrative where strongly pro-≤Alid elements and remarkably proSyrian voices are both presented. See note 29. 70 By my count 15 ash≤Ær (poems with standard rhymes and metres, distinct and more polished than rajaz) are attributed to Mu≤Æwiya’s own composition. 71 See, for example, Ibn MuzÆ≈im, pp.246–247, 271. 72 This is not to say that all later histories completely eschewed the poetry of the ancient Arabian heritage. Van Gelder has identified a wide array of poetry in al-Fakhr∞ by Ibn ∏iqπÆqal however, van Gelder noted that this text is not an annalistic history in the sense of al-∏abar∞’s tradition, but rather a mixture of history and belles-lettres which falls within the genre of ‘mirrors for princes’ (van Gelder, p.262). And in this text, the citations of older poetry are dissimilar from Mu≤Æwiya’s quotations, as they are additions of the author and not, to my knowledge, attributed to the mouths of the historical characters themselves. Hence the poetry in al-Fakhr∞ can be seen as a device for edifying, and other purposes, enumerated by van Gelder. 73 Ibn MuzÆ≈im, p.294. 74 See, for example, the description of the ‘white helmets’ (al-Bay∂ Shumπ almaqÆdim), the comparison of the Syrians to sheep in ‘narrow mountain passes’ (fijÆj al-makhÆrim), and the oft-repeated description of ‘sharp swords’ as ‘suy∑f ∆awÆrim’ (ibid.). 75 Ibn MuzÆ≈im, p.294. 76 See Malti-Douglas, Fedwa, Structures of Avarice (Leiden, 1985), pp.42–43.

05_Warfare&Poetry_Ch5_119-148.indd 148

27/06/2013 11:47

Chapter 6

Pity and Defiance in the Poetry of the Siege of Baghdad (197/813) Hugh Kennedy The death of the Caliph HÆr∑n al-Rash∞d in 193/809 led to a crisis in the succession to the caliphate and ultimately to an extremely destructive civil war between his two sons, Mu≈ammad al-Am∞n and ≤Abd AllÆh al-Ma’m∑n.1 The crisis had been simmering since 186/803 when HÆr∑n had made a disastrous decision to divide up the caliphate, his son al-Am∞n being the nominal caliph with effective charge of Baghdad, western Iran and all the lands of the western Caliphate, which at this stage reached the western border of what is now Tunisia. His brother was established as heir apparent and given effectively independent control over Greater Khurasan, lands which included Transoxania as far east as Islamic rule extended and the Muslim-ruled parts of what is now Afghanistan. The effective frontier between the two zones lay at the city of Rayy, immediately to the southeast of modern Tehran. This division was made all the more dangerous by the fact that it reflected important divisions within the ≤Abbasid ruling class and especially within the military. Essentially the quarrel seems to have been about the taxation of Khurasan and the use of the proceeds to finance the army. After the ≤Abbasid defeat of the Umayyads and the assumption of the Caliphate many of their military supporters, known as the Khurasaniyya, were settled in Iraq and, after the foundation of the city in 145/762, in Baghdad. They did not, however, lose their connection with Khurasan. With the single brief exception of the rule of al-Fa∂l b. Ya≈yÆ the Barmakid (177–179/793–794–795–796) the governors of Khurasan were always chosen from the ranks of the Khurasaniyya and were appointed and dispatched from Baghdad.2 It seems probable too that the salaries (≤ÆπÆ≥ or

06_Warfare&Poetry_Ch6_149-166.indd 149

27/06/2013 12:27

150

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

rizq)3 of these troops were dependent on the taxes collected in Khurasan. This continued after most of the original Khurasaniyya had died, but their positions and rights were inherited by their descendants who became generally known in the sources as the abnÆ≥ (sons). This position was increasingly intolerable to many of the inhabitants of Khurasan, who felt that they were paying the taxes without receiving any of the rewards. Amongst these disgruntled taxpayers were a number of important aristocratic landowners including, most probably, the family of al-Ma≥m∑n’s mother MarÆjil. The position, already tense, became much more inflamed during the long governate of ≤Al∞ b. ≤øsÆ b. MÆhÆn, a leading figure among the abnÆ≥ who persecuted the Khurasani aristocrats, ruthlessly extracting money, while at the same time protecting his position by sending a stream of extravagant presents to the Caliph in Baghdad. In 191/807 a serious revolt broke out in Transoxania, led by RÆfi≤ b. Layth, grandson of the last Umayyad governor of Khurasan, Na∆r b. SayyÆr, and supported by many members of the Khurasani aristocracy. The caliph sent a trusty servant of his, Harthama b. A≤yan, who was not a member of the abnÆ≥, to Khurasan to depose and replace ≤Al∞ b. ≤øsÆ b. MÆhÆn but he also decided to go to the province himself to sort matters out, taking with him his son al-Ma’m∑n, designated ruler of the area. It was when he reached Tus with his entourage, including many senior members of the abnÆ≥, that he died. This is not the place to rehearse the details of the rapid deterioration of relations between the two brothers, but suffice it to say that within two years of the death of their father, the two brothers were at open war. On one side was the caliph al-Am∞n in Baghdad, supported by the majority of the ≤Abbasid family, the abnÆ≥ and the rest of the ≤Abbasid establishment. On the other was the heir apparent al-Ma≥m∑n in Merv, effectively the capital of Khurasan. He was supported by a number of Khurasani aristocrats, but also, perhaps reluctantly, by Harthama and some senior members of the abnÆ≥ who happen to have been with him at the time of his fathers’ death. Among these was Zuhayr b. al-Musayyab al-∫abb∞, of whom we will discuss more later. The Baghdadi supporters of al-Am∞n were determined to regain control over Khurasan and its resources, and a large army, led by none other than ≤Al∞ b. ≤øsÆ b. MÆhÆn, set out to crush al-Ma’m∑n. Al-Ma’m∑n, whose military resources were much more limited, sent a small detachment to Rayy, led by one ∏Æhir b. al-√usayn. ∏Æhir was probably of Arab descent; he and his family had established themselves in Khurasan and were, effectively, hereditary lords of a small principality of Pushang, just west of Herat. ∏Æhir never seems to have visited Baghdad or ever met a caliph: he was, in fact, for

06_Warfare&Poetry_Ch6_149-166.indd 150

27/06/2013 12:27



Pity and Defiance in the Poetry of the Siege of Baghdad151

all his powerful position in the locality of Pushang, a real outsider in the ≤Abbasid political and social structure. To most people’s surprise, including that of his master al-Ma≥m∑n, ∏Æhir won a victory against the Baghdad army and killed its commander ≤Al∞ b. ≤øsa b. MÆhÆn. Empowered by his victory he pursued the defeated and demoralised army of the abnÆ≥ to the west, defeating all attempts to prevent his advance. He crossed the Zagros Mountains and swept through southern Iraq, taking Basra, Kufa and Wasit, before leading his armies to the outskirts of Baghdad. Meanwhile, Harthama b. A≤yan and Zuhayr b. al-Musayyab had followed him and now joined him and supported him in the investiture of the city. The battle for Baghdad had begun. Baghdad had been founded by the caliph Ab∑ Ja≤far al-Man∆∑r and in the half century that had followed had expanded enormously.4 At the centre lay the great Round City, built by al-Man∆∑r with his palace and the great mosque at its centre, but by the time the siege began, the upper classes, including the caliphs themselves, had largely abandoned this, except for ceremonial use, and moved to large palaces along the Tigris. The abnÆ≥, and other members of the ≤Abbasid army, had been given properties to live on and develop, especially in the Harbiya, to the north-east of the Round City. Across the river on the east bank of the Tigris and reached either by bridges of boats or any of the numerous little ferries, another quarter, named after al-Man∆∑r’s son, ≤Askar (military camp of) al-Mahd∞, was developed. The main commercial area lay south of the Round City in the quarter known as al-Karkh. But the city had extended far beyond these formally established areas, and a vast network of lanes, alleys and cul-desacs, inhabited by craftsmen, labourers and poor immigrants, spread out in every direction. The Round City was protected by formidable walls, but the rest of the city was unfortified and there was no formal indication of its limits. It was around this huge, sprawling urban complex that the armies of the besiegers established themselves – ∏Æhir on the west bank, Harthama on the east – and began to attack the city. In the aftermath of the collapse of the abnÆ≥ army in the face of ∏Æhir’s assault, a significant social revolution occurred in the city. The nominal caliph al-Am∞n was still surrounded and advised by many of the grandees of the ≤Abbasid system, but alongside them fought a very different sort of army. The assault on Baghdad gave rise to a massive popular resistance. This was composed of men of very modest social status. They had no proper armour and no military training, but they fought determinedly to protect their families, their homes and their city. They had nothing but

06_Warfare&Poetry_Ch6_149-166.indd 151

27/06/2013 12:27

152

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

contempt for the trained (and well-paid) soldiers of the abnÆ≥ who had so conspicuously failed to prevent the advance of al-Ma≥m∑n’s forces. This was a social revolution, almost reminiscent of the Paris commune of 1870 which has, as far as I am aware, no parallel in pre-modern Islamic history, and it produced its own unique and distinctive form of popular poetry. The fighting was conducted from street to street. Unlike most campaigns in early Islamic warfare which consisted of conflicts in open countryside between armies of, essentially, professional soldiers, this fighting took place from street to street and involved not just civilian men but women and children too. Homes were destroyed on a systematic basis, whole districts were deliberately set on fire, the city was flooded with displaced persons and, at times, the roads and alleys were littered with unburied corpses. The equipment was very uneven. The attackers were mostly well-armed with swords and bows, with the metal helmets and chain mail armour typical of the period. The defenders wore thick mats of palm leaves to protect their bodies, often being referred to as ‘naked ones’ as a result, and fought with stones, slings and weapons taken from their enemies. Most destructive were the siege engines employed by the attackers, notably Zuhayr b. al-Musayyab, who seems to have been something of a specialist in their operation. The engines were of two sorts but essentially worked on the same principle, the swing beam, where a long beam is placed on a fulcrum such that one end of the beam extends much further than the other.5 A sling is attached to the long end and a stone or other sort of ammunition put into it. The short end is then pulled down causing the long end and the sling to swing rapidly up to the vertical position where the missile is discharged. The larger engines were called manjan∞q (pl. majÆniq) (a loan word from the Greek manganon though the engines were very different from anything the ancient Greeks had contrived) and the smaller ≤arrÆda. Swing beam engines were also called khaππÆra because the swinging of the beam resembled the swishing of a horse’s tail. It is easy to imagine that this sort of pre-gunpowder artillery was of very limited military effectiveness, even a bit of a joke. The references in the poetry of the siege and other literary accounts make it clear, however, that these devices could be very destructive and very terrifying. What the poets especially objected to was the way that they could be used for indiscriminate killing. They destroyed women and children as well as fighting men, and domestic houses as well as fortifications. The poetry of this prolonged and brutal war is recorded primarily in al-∏abar∞’s account of the events of the year 1976 (12 September 812–31 August 813). As is well known, there are no complete MSS of al-∏abar∞’s

06_Warfare&Poetry_Ch6_149-166.indd 152

27/06/2013 12:27



Pity and Defiance in the Poetry of the Siege of Baghdad153

Ta’r∞kh and no complete text that pre-dates the Leiden edition of 1879–1901. Different sections are based on different MSS which vary in both quality and quantity. The annal for 197 is poorly represented in the manuscript tradition. The section in the Leiden edition, edited by Stanislas Guyard (1846–1884), was based on a single manuscript in Istanbul, Koprülü 1041, which had many lacunae and other imperfections (‘imperfectum, passim parvas lacunas habens’ according to the editor). IbrÆh∞m was able to use another Istanbul MS, Ahmet III 2929, which covered almost the whole year and was substantially more complete to provide better readings. The translator of this section, Michael Fishbein, used Ibrahim’s edition to provide a much better reading than Guyard had been able to, and I have largely followed the Ibrahim/Fishbein version. Many of the poems are also collected in al-Mas≤∑d∞, Mur∑j al-dhahab, but these are often shortened versions and the Mur∑j text seldom adds significant new material. Thus the text as we have it may still be corrupt in places and a certain amount of intelligent guesswork is required to reconstruct it. The annal for this year is almost entirely devoted to affairs in the city and the numerous battles between the defenders of the city, and Harthama and ∏Æhir’s forces. The narrative is structured around a succession of battles between ∏Æhir’s forces and the resistance in a number of city districts, Qa∆r ßÆli≈, KunÆsa, Darb al-√ijÆra, DÆr al-Raq∞q and the ShammÆsiya Gate. There is no absolute chronology but it appears that the fighting happened sequentially flaring up in one area, dying down before breaking out anew in another. Along with the prose narratives, there are some 20 poems or fragments of poems, varying in length from a few lines to al-Khuraym∞’s epic lament for the distress of the city and its inhabitants, which runs to 135 verses.7 The manuscript tradition of these poems is problematic. Some of the poems are anonymous or attributed to ‘one of the fitan of Baghdad’,8 ‘one of Harthama’s companions (a∆≈Æb)’9 or ‘a secretary of Kawthar’s’,10 but most of them are attributed to known, if not exactly famous, poets. The most quoted of these named poets is ≤Amr b. ≤Abd al-Malik al-≤Itr∞, known as al-WarrÆq. Little is known of his life11 except that he was born in Basra, a mawlÆ of ≤Anaza, and came to Baghdad moving in the same circles as Ab∑ NuwÆs. His nisba al-≤Iπr∞ may simply mean ‘fragrant’, but it might also suggest that he was a perfume seller by trade. WarrÆq is a paper seller or book seller. Both these sobriquets may suggest that he came from a trade background in the city and there is nothing to suggest any court or elite connections. Confusingly, much of the poetry ascribed to al-WarrÆq by al-∏abar∞ is attributed to the blind (makf∑f) poet ‘≤Al∞ b. Ab∞

06_Warfare&Poetry_Ch6_149-166.indd 153

27/06/2013 12:27

154

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

∏Ælib’ (presumably a pseudonym) by al-Mas≤∑d∞. ‘Ibn Ab∞ ∏Ælib al-Makf∑f’ only makes a single appearance in al-∏abar∞’s account.12 Much better known is al-√usayn b. al-∫a≈≈Æk, known as al-Khal∞≤, the debauched.13 His family had originally come from Khurasan but he himself was born in Basra in 162/779 and was educated there, along with his greater contemporary Ab∑ NuwÆs. He later moved to Baghdad and made his living as a poet, not with HÆr∑n al-Rash∞d himself but with his party-loving son ßÆli≈. Now in his 30s, he also attached himself to the young caliph al-Am∞n to whom he remained loyal to the end and whose memory he continued to champion, even when it cost him the possible patronage and favour of the new caliph al-Ma≥m∑n. He retired to his native Basra until recalled to court by al-Ma≥m∑n’s successor, al-Mu≤ta∆im, and remained in favour until his death at a very advanced age in 250/864. Among the critics he had a reputation as a cheerful court poet, but his poems on the war in Baghdad are much more sombre and are clearly influenced by his position in the city alongside his master al-Am∞n. The last of the named poets was Ab∑ Ya≤q∑b Is≈Æq b. √assÆn al-Khuraym∞.14 He was a mawlÆ whose family was originally from Soghdia but who spent most of his life in Iraq. He was patronised by HÆr∑n and the Barmakids and took al-Am∞n’s side in the civil war. He was probably an eyewitness of the events of the siege of Baghdad which he describes in his lament. He survived the fighting and probably died in about 206/821 during the reign of al-Ma≥m∑n. Most of his poetry is lost and the lament is the most important of his works to have survived. Al-WarrÆq contributes 11 poems or fragments of poems to the corpus. His poems are characterised by a concern for the suffering of ordinary people and the apparent upset of the established social order, particularly the role of the ≤uryÆn, the ‘naked’ fighters with their primitive armour who so often seem to have prevailed against the better armed and more experienced professional soldiers. He rarely mentions the main cause of the war and only rarely does he make partisan comments. ∏Æhir is excoriated on several occasions and the poet seems to rejoice in the triumph of the defenders over his proud armies. Al-Am∞n, referred to always by his name (ism) Mu≈ammad, not by his caliphal title, is not singled out for special praise and the poet refers on two occasions to the defenders as ‘our rabble’ (ghawghÆnÆ); ghawghÆ≥ is not usually used in a positive sense, but on these occasions it may reflect a perverse pride in the achievements of these forces despite their lack of formal military structure. The first of the poems directly attributed to him deals with a recurrent theme in the poetry, the indiscriminate destruction caused by the majÆniq.

06_Warfare&Poetry_Ch6_149-166.indd 154

27/06/2013 12:27



Pity and Defiance in the Poetry of the Siege of Baghdad155

It also introduces another repeated theme, the violation of family privacy and the exposure of women to public gaze in shameful circumstances. He addresses those who are firing the majÆniq: O shooters (rumÆta) of the manjaniq All of you without compassion You do not care if anyone is a friend Or not a friend. Damn you, you do not know What you are shooting at. Passers by on the road. Many a tender girl, flirtatious Like a leafy bough Was driven out of the heart of her world And from an elegant life. She found no way to avoid it And was exposed on the day of the fire.15

This poem should be read with the preceding verse, attributed to ‘an anonymous poet of the East Bank’ (perhaps al-WarrÆq), attacking Zuhayr b. al-Musayyab al-∫abb∞ and his indiscriminate use of majÆniq. Once again it is the innocent man who only wants to find out what is going on, who perishes: Do not go near the manjaniq and its stones You saw the man killed, how he was buried. He went out early, that no news might escape him And came back dead, leaving the news behind. What vigour and health he had When he went out early in the morning! He did not want it to be said about him That there was an affair and he did not know who was responsible. O master of the manjaniq! What have your hands done? They have not spared or left alone. His hope for what was not decreed For alas hope will never conquer fate.16

Al-WarrÆq’s next important poem17 introduces two more important themes of his work. The first is the physical destruction of the city, especially the destruction of domestic houses during the street fighting, both attackers and defenders joining in the destruction:

06_Warfare&Poetry_Ch6_149-166.indd 155

27/06/2013 12:27

156

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East When they demolish a house, we take its roof And we wait for another one (to be demolished) While they strive to do evil to us Our mob tries even harder to do evil

The other theme developed here is the role of the ≤uryÆn, literally the naked but used in this sense for men who fight without any proper armour, but who nonetheless manage to terrify and triumph over their much better equipped enemies: You see a hero (baπal), famous in every land Showing his fear if he ever see the naked one.

In the next poem he returns to the theme of destruction and the way in which the city, to which he is clearly very attached, is being destroyed: No one remains in Baghdad Except for the poor man with a large family. Or a man who has escaped from prison, Who is neither an Arab nor one of the mawÆl∞ No mother protects her home Nor does the maternal uncle nor anyone else. He has no wealth but a spear The spear in his hand is his capital (ra’s mÆl).

In a short poem which follows, he comes back to a simple statement of his priorities; the love of the city is more important than the political dispute between the brothers: I will never leave Baghdad No matter who leaves or who stays. So long as food supports us, we do not care who is the Imam

In later poems he returns to the contrast between the ‘naked’ ≤uryÆn and his opponent in proper armour: A naked man who owns no shirt (qam∞∆) Goes out in the morning to look for a shirt. He attacks a man with a coat of mail (jawshan) Which blinds the eye with its brightness. In his hand there is banner

06_Warfare&Poetry_Ch6_149-166.indd 156

27/06/2013 12:27



Pity and Defiance in the Poetry of the Siege of Baghdad157 Red that gleams like jewels He is eager to seek fighting, More eager than a man who seeks pleasure. He is easily led Like a man going to eat al-khab∞∆. He is a marauding lion who has always been An accomplished chief of robbers. He is bolder and more resolute in advancing In battle than a wounded lion. He approaches on a miserable mount, Of the worst possible stock. He escapes, if escape is possible On something swifter than a young camel. A man in armour (kam∞) if exposed to his murderous intent Has no place of refuge. How many a brave horseman (fÆris) Has he sold for a cheap price. He calls out ‘Who will buy The head of an armoured man for a handful of dates’.18

Later he returns to the same theme with a different emphasis: How many a slain man have we seen And not asked him why.19 A man wearing mail (dÆri≤an) is met by a ‘naked one’ With violence and ferocity The former met the latter with a spear The latter met the former with boasting.20

Many of the themes of al-WarrÆq’s poetry are taken up in two anonymous poems. The first of these, attributed only to ‘one of the fityÆn of Baghdad’, is among the most eloquent laments for the destruction of the city. Here the themes are the suffering inflicted on the ordinary people of the city, the sudden death meted out by the indiscriminate fire of the majÆniq and the burning of houses. Above all it is the social dislocation and the destruction of domestic peace which is so dreadful, the way in which women and girls become victims of the slaughter: The evil eye (≤ayn) of the envious has afflicted Baghdad And has caused its people to perish by the manjaniq. Here are people who have been overcome and burned by fire And a woman is mourning for a drowned man.

06_Warfare&Poetry_Ch6_149-166.indd 157

27/06/2013 12:27

158

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

The poet stresses the way in which women from respectable bourgeois families have become victims of the destructive and random violence: ‘Here a women is shouting, “Alas the day!” And here one is crying over the loss of someone dear. Here a dark-eyed woman, so beautiful’ In a shift anointed with perfume Is fleeing from the fire into the looting While her father flees into the fire And one who stole her eyes from the gazelle And whose laughter shines like lightening Bewildered as beasts being led to the sacrifice. With necklaces around their throats. Call on a friend! But there is no-one, For friend has lost friend. People are driven out from the shade of their world And their possessions are sold in every market. Here a stranger, far from home21 lies Headless in the middle of the road. He was caught in the middle of the fighting And no one knows what side he was on. No child remains to care for his father, And a friend runs away without his friend. Whatever I may forget of the past, I will always remember the battle of DÆr al-Raq∞q.

Another anonymous poem celebrates the fighting spirit of the ‘naked’ ones with a very clear emphasis on the social effects of the fighting. The established military classes and social leaders with their fine weapons are humiliated by men and boys who clearly proclaim their pride and glory in their lowly social origins. The poet is not critical of what others might see as their pretensions or their subversive attitudes. On the contrary, he clearly rejoices in it as a su≤luk poet might rejoice in his bandit heroes: These wars have brought out men Who belong neither to war’s Qahtan nor to its Nizar. A company in woolen cloaks of mail (jawÆshin) Who go into battle like ravenous lions. They wear maghÆfir made of palm-fronds Instead of helmets and their shields are mats.

06_Warfare&Poetry_Ch6_149-166.indd 158

27/06/2013 12:27



Pity and Defiance in the Poetry of the Siege of Baghdad159 They do not even know what flight is When heroes (abπÆl) flee from the spears. One of them rushes to attack two thousand A naked man without even a waist-wrapper. A young man (fatÆ) says when he strikes a spear thrust ‘Take that (khudhha) from a young ≤ayyÆr!’ How many a shar∞f has war humiliated And raised the gamblers (maqÆmir) and rogues (πarrÆr)

The second of the named poets, al-√usayn al-Khal∞≤, contributes two poems to this small corpus, echoing some of the themes taken up by al-WarrÆq. In the first,22 a five-verse composition which may have been part of a longer poem, he laments the way both sides used the physical destruction of the city to gain a military advantage. The preceding narrative sets the context; both al-Am∞n’s supporters of ∏Æhir’s men used indiscriminate demolition and arson as a way of achieving their ends. Mu≈ammad sent one ≤Al∞ FarÆhmard to the area of the palaces of the ≤Abbasid princes, ßÆli≈ and SulaymÆn b. Ab∞ Ja≥far. Here, ‘he enthusiastically burned houses and streets (dur∑b) and destroyed them with majÆniq and ≤arrÆdÆt’, while if anyone resisted ∏Æhir ‘he fought them and burned their houses, coming and going with his commanders, horsemen and footsoldiers until Baghdad became desolate (aw≈ashat) and people feared that it would remain a ruin (kharÆb)’. The poet describes how strife has broken out everywhere, engulfing not just soldiers but civilians as well:23 Baghdad’s buildings have been torn down According to the decision of neither this man nor that.24 By destruction and fire, her people have been destroyed. Punishment has engulfed anyone who sought refuge. It will be very fortunate if Baghdad, Because of its smallness, does not (again) become BaghdÆdh.25

His second poem26 is more clearly partisan and, indeed, the only one in the corpus that could be described as a rallying cry, though the tone is more elegiac than triumphalist. Again the narrative provides a context, describing the fierce fighting around Qa∆r ßÆli≈. This was the most difficult battle for ∏Æhir and the time he met the stiffest resistance and we are told that a great deal of poetry was composed about the fighting. Much of the poetry was composed by members of the ghawghÆ and ra≤Æ≤, among them, apparently, was our poet al-Khal∞≤.

06_Warfare&Poetry_Ch6_149-166.indd 159

27/06/2013 12:27

160

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

He begins by urging al-Am∞n to trust in God, punning on the literal meaning of his royal title. This is the only occasion in the corpus in which al-Am∞n is given his titles, rather than being referred to by his ism, Mu≈ammad. He goes on to say, that despite present setbacks: Victory will be ours, with God’s help And advancing not defeat. For the traitors (marrÆq) your enemies Will come a day of evil and defeat. Many a cup that spews forth death Hateful its taste and bitter We have been made to drink of it and made them drink of it But they were the thirsty ones. That is the way with war, Sometimes it is against us and sometimes for us.

By far the longest and most developed of the poems in the corpus is the lament for Baghdad composed by al-Khuraym∞. It goes through a number of different stages and moods over its 135 verses. The poem is essentially a plea to Dh∑≥l-Ri≥Æsatayn to take control of affairs in the name of the Caliph al-Ma≥m∑n and put an end to the sufferings of Baghdad and its people. Dh∑≥l-Ri≥Æsatayn (Head of the Two Commands – i.e. both the military and the civil bureaucracy) was the title given to al-Fa∂l b. Sahl, al-Ma’m∑n’s vizier and the chief architect of his political and military success. Although he was of Iraqi origin, from a dihqÆn (gentry) family of the Sawad, he had travelled to Khurasan with al-Ma≥m∑n and had encouraged him to remain there at Merv while the struggle for Baghdad took place. Part of the purpose of the poem was to appeal to al-Fa∂l, and through him to al-Ma≥m∑n over the heads of his commanders in Baghdad, ∏Æhir, Harthama (simply referred to here as the ‘old man’ (shaykh)) and Zuhayr al-∫abb∞, stressing the destruction they had inflicted on the city and the harm they had done to its innocent citizens. Whether the poem was sent, or was actually intended to be sent, to Merv is quite unclear but it remains a fine piece of political argument, as well as driving home its message of the destructiveness of war. In the first ten verses, the poet draws an idyllic picture of the city ‘when Time had not yet made sport with Baghdad, when her misfortunes had not caused her to fall’ (1). Her residents were ‘in a pleasing garden, whose flowers shone brightly after the raindrops’. Furthermore it was the dÆr al-mul∑k ‘the home of kings’ and their minbars were established there.

06_Warfare&Poetry_Ch6_149-166.indd 160

27/06/2013 12:27



Pity and Defiance in the Poetry of the Siege of Baghdad161

In verse 11, the mood shifts abruptly. The misfortunes of the city begin. The poet lays the blame squarely on the young princes al-Am∞n and al-Ma’m∑n, though neither of them are named, who …gave to each other an intoxicating cup to drink of strife whose destructiveness cannot be told Once there had been fellowship, but now they separated into parties With the bonds between them severed (12–13).

He criticises them bitterly for breaking their pact and competing to shed the blood of their partisans (shi≤a). They were not satisfied with all the goods that had been gathered for them and strove for the luxuries of this world (fu∂∑l al-dunyÆ) and treasures were plundered by force, and they kept selling what their fathers had gathered for them, a reference to the way in which the vast sums of money bequeathed by HÆr∑n al-Rash∞d had been squandered. In verse 22 he leaves the sins of the young princes and launches into an elegy on the lost beauties of Baghdad. At the beginning the tone is pastoral. He evokes the memory of gardens, of villages established by kings and surrounded by green fields, vineyards, palm trees and fragrant herbs whose seeds on which the birds feed. There are palaces, too, whose chambers protect the women ‘like statues’ (duman sing. dumya), the first of many references to the way in which war exposed gentle women to the public gaze. Now he goes on (26), all this has gone. The villages and palaces are desolate and empty, dogs howl in them and they have become unrecognisable. Like a JÆhil∞ poet, he uses place names to evoke memories of lost delights. There is Zandaward, the old Christian monastery on the East Bank whose gardens were a place of resort for the young and fashionable of ≤Abbasid Baghdad, and the river banks where the ferries (ma≤Æbir) had ceased to run, and the mills, Upper Khayzuraniya, named after al-Mahd∞’s queen, with its lofty bridges and the palace of ≤Abd∑ya (27–31). He then turns his attention to the disintegration of the regular army that had guarded this place and the disappearance of the eunuchs and servants. The soldiers have disappeared from their stations (mawÆkib), men of Sind and Hind, Slavs, Nubians and Berbers all dispersed at random. Next (38) he returns to the pleasures of the world that has been lost. This time it is the ‘virgin gazelles in the garden of the kingdom’ with their perfumes and their silks, the dancers and the music. But all this has gone and ‘you think that in their courts had dwelt the people of ≤≠d’, a classic image of desolation.

06_Warfare&Poetry_Ch6_149-166.indd 161

27/06/2013 12:27

162

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

The poet seeks an explanation for this in the sins of the people. The city was full of sinners and religion was weak. This had bred social dislocation and the collapse of the established order and ‘the slave humiliated his master’. This had resulted in the attacks on Baghdad by ∏Æhir, Harthama and Zuhayr which were doing such damage: Behold Baghdad! No nest is built In its houses by sparrows from bewilderment Behold it is surrounded by destruction, encircled With humiliation, its proud men besieged. From the bank of the Euphrates as far as The Tigris its ferries have stopped. Fire, like the neck of a red-maned horse, stampedes And its ruddy ones gallop around it.27

Fire burns the city, robbers are everywhere and the markets of al-Karkh, the main commercial centre of pre-civil war Baghdad, are deserted. Al-Khuraym∞ then goes on to give his take on ‘naked’ soldiers. He notes with amazement how ‘lions’ emerge from the lowest classes (sawÆqiπ). The images are familiar: their shields are of reed mats and their maghÆfir of palm-leaves, while their coats of mail are made of wool. Al-Hirsh is named as their commander and his men characterised as cutpurses and gamblers (πarrÆr wa muqÆmir) (74). They do not receive any rizq or ≤aπÆ≥ and no leader (≈Æshir) forms them into troops. Like the other poets, al-Khuraymi describes the hated majÆniq: In every side-street and every neighbourhood There is a siege engine (khaππÆra) whose swinging beam raises its voice. With bits of rock like men’s heads The evil man loads the sling It is as if over their heads they were flocks Of dusky sand grouse taking flight together The people under them cry out While the swinging beams shoot

Along with the damage on the civilian population inflicted by the siege engines was the violation of civilian space, the markets and the narrow residential streets, the dur∑b and the aziqqa, caused by soldiers and armed men who rampaged through the residential areas. The sense of violation of private and family space is intense:

06_Warfare&Poetry_Ch6_149-166.indd 162

27/06/2013 12:27



Pity and Defiance in the Poetry of the Siege of Baghdad163 Have you seen the unsheathed swords That men are brandishing in the markets? Horses are prancing in its (the city’s) lanes (aziqqa) Carrying Turks with sharpened daggers Naphtha and fire are in its roads (πarÆ’iq) Its inhabitants are fleeing because of the smoke.

As in other poems, the dishonouring of the women is a repeated theme. Women who had never been exposed in public are forced into the open, running dishevelled through the streets weeping for their dead children, while the young men who strove to protect their honour lie slain in the dust of the street, their handsome faces trampled by horses hooves, their bodies devoured by dogs during the night. The poet also stresses that rich and poor are equally victims. They all have to carry food on their back and Both she who lived in poverty and she who was wealthy a stone crushes the head of one of one, now of the other. One asks about her family, having been despoiled even the rag on her head has the stolen away

Having painted the devastation of the city and the plight of the innocent victims so graphically and powerfully, the poet finally comes to the heart of his message: Will our land ever again be as rich as once it was now that we its events have brought us to this end? (107)

He immediately goes on to appeal directly to Dh∑≥l-Ri≥Æsatayn (al-Fa∂l b. Sahl) to use his influence with al-Ma≥m∑n ‘the best of rulers men have ever know when their qualities are enumerated’ to intervene directly to restore peace and prosperity. Such a course of action is not without its difficulties and dangers: Do not bring yourself into deep waters from which no-one can be saved by skill Keep to the shallow water; do not embark upon The deep when its floods are raging

Moderation and clear purpose (qa∆d) is what is needed. Finally, he goes on to protest that he has not composed this poem, ‘bright as a mirror’, from

06_Warfare&Poetry_Ch6_149-166.indd 163

27/06/2013 12:27

164

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

‘greed or insolence’, but rather ‘it has come to you to tell you about affairs as one might unroll a merchants bolt of cloth’. He has entrusted his poem to a trustworthy friend (unnamed) who ‘because of admiration for it will continually recite it’. There is no evidence that it ever reached al-Fa∂l b. Sahl, and through him al-Ma≥m∑n, but a few years later al-Ma’m∑n did decide to come to Baghdad and make the city his capital, and his rule did usher in a new age of order and prosperity in the city, just as the poet had hoped. The corpus of poetry discussed in this paper has a number of very distinct qualities. Whether or not they are great literature is not for me to discuss. What is striking is their vigorously critical tone. They represent a real protest poetry, protesting against selfish pursuit of political advantage by princes and military leaders alike. The upset of the social order, the rampages of the ≤uryÆn, mean that all the normal civilities of everyday life are lost. The manjan∞q, like the car bomb, is an indiscriminate killer. Above all, it is the ordinary people, the civilians rich and poor, who are having their lives torn apart by those for whom the achievement of a transitory military success or political power outweighs any moral considerations or the most basic kinds of human decency. Reading these poems 1,200 years after they were composed, against the background of early twenty-first-century Baghdad or Damascus, is a sad and salutary reminder of the miseries of warfare and violence, and the continuing validity and necessity of such protest.

Notes   1  2   3   4   5

 6

 7  8

For the conflict see H. Kennedy, The Early Abbasid Caliphate (London, 1981), pp.135–163. Kennedy, Early Abbasid Caliphate, pp.176–187. In the earliest phases of Islamic administration ≤aπÆ≥ referred to cash payments, rizq to payments in kind. By the early ≤Abbasid period, however, the terms were essentially synonymous and referred to a regular cash payment. For the history of Baghdad in the early ≤Abbasid period see G. Le Strange, Baghdad during the Abbasid Caliphate (London, 1909); and J. Lassner, The Topography of Baghdad in the early Middle Ages: text and studies (Detroit, 1970). For the development of these siege engines see Paul Cheveddin, ‘The Invention of the Counterweight Trebuchet: A study in Cultural Diffusion’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers 54 (2000), pp.71–116; and Paul Cheveddin et al., ‘The Traction Trebuchet: A Triumph of Four Civilisations’, Viator 31 (2000), pp.433–486. Al-∏abar∞, Mu≈ammad b. Jar∞r, Ta≥r∞kh al-rusul wa’l-mul∑k, ed M. J. de Geoje et al., 3 vols (Leiden, 1876–1901), iii, pp.868–903. This section of the Ta≥r∞kh has been excellently translated by M. Fishbein, The War between Brothers (Albany, 1992). Al-∏abar∞, Ta≥r∞kh, iii, pp.873–880. Al-∏abar∞, Ta≥r∞kh, iii, pp.883–885.

06_Warfare&Poetry_Ch6_149-166.indd 164

27/06/2013 12:27



Pity and Defiance in the Poetry of the Siege of Baghdad165

 9 Al-∏abar∞, Ta≥r∞kh, iii, p.897. 10 Al-∏abar∞, Ta≥r∞kh, iii, p.899. Kawthar was a eunuch and close companion of al-Am∞n. 11 See GAS ii, p.524. 12 Al-∏abar∞, Ta≥r∞kh, iii, pp.900–901. 13 See EI2 iii, pp.617–619 (Pellat) and GAS, ii, pp.518–519. See also his biography in Aghani (Beirut, 1959), vii, pp.143–221. 14 His diwan, which does not include his lament over Baghdad, was edited by A. J. al-Tahir and M. J. al-Mu≤aybid and published in Beirut in 1971. For accounts of his life and works see EI2 I, pp.159–160 sv. Ab∑ Yak∑b al-Khuraymi (Pellat) and GAS ii, pp.551–552. 15 Al-∏abar∞, Ta≥r∞kh, iii, p.870. 16 Al-∏abar∞, Ta≥r∞kh, iii, pp.828–829. 17 Al-∏abar∞, Ta≥r∞kh, iii, pp.887–889. 18 Al-∏abar∞, Ta≥r∞kh, iii, pp.896–897. 19 If the reading li’ayshi is correct, this seems to be an unusual use of the vernacular in poetry. 20 As Fishbein, War, p.171 n. 624 notes, faysh can also mean a swollen penis, a reference presumably to the ‘nakedness’. 21 Fishbein, War, p.154 n. 597 follows al-Mas≤∑d∞ here. 22 Al-∏abar∞, Ta≥r∞kh, iii, p.872. 23 Following the interpretation proposed by Fishbein, War, p.138 n. 513. 24 Perhaps implying that the destruction was not the deliberate policy of either al-Am∞n or ∏Æhir. 25 That is, Baghdad returns to the status of the village it was before the caliph al-Man∆∑r developed it as his capital. 26 Al-∏abar∞, Ta≥r∞kh, p.882. 27 See Fishbein, War, p.145 n. 547 for the ingenious and convincing reconstruction of this striking metaphor from the corrupt MSS.

Bibliography Cheveddin, P., ‘The Invention of the Counterweight Trebuchet: A study in Cultural Diffusion’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers 54 (2000), pp.71–116. ——— et al., ‘The Traction Trebuchet: A Triumph of Four Civilisations’, Viator 31 (2000), pp.433–486. Fishbein, M., The War between Brothers (Albany, 1992). Kennedy, H., The Early Abbasid Caliphate (London, 1981). Lassner, J., The Topography of Baghdad in the Early Middle Ages: Text and Studies (Detroit, 1970). Le Strange, G., Baghdad during the Abbasid Caliphate (London, 1909). Al-∏abar∞, Mu≈ammad b. Jar∞r, Ta’r∞kh al-rusul wa’l-mul∑k, ed M. J. de Geoje et al., 3 vols (Leiden, 1876–1901), iii, pp.868–903.

06_Warfare&Poetry_Ch6_149-166.indd 165

27/06/2013 12:27

06_Warfare&Poetry_Ch6_149-166.indd 166

27/06/2013 12:27

Chapter 7

Silenced Cultural Encounters in Poetry of War Wen-chin Ouyang Oh, woman, you who die giving birth Deserting her newborn in captivity Thou shall not be resurrected For the Master of Pain Has folded his two wings over his wounds and slept * * * I wrote on the rocks and on the waves of the sea Your name, my Beloved, But the winds erased what I had written While here I am in captivity Writing your name again on the marble sepulcher * * * I have written above the wall My final elegy So my Princess If you happen to pass tomorrow By this island You must carry a small leaf from this willow And a feather from the mythical bird And a drop of light To the deserts of my forsaken homeland Perhaps the horses of conquest, my prince, at daybreak, Will wipe out the shame of our wound ≤Abd al-WahhÆb al-BayÆt∞, ‘The Byzantine Poems of Ab∑ FirÆs’1

07_Warfare&Poetry_Ch7_167-192.indd 167

27/06/2013 11:54

168

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Preamble Ab∑ FirÆs al-√amdÆn∞ (320/932–357/968) is remembered today as a warrior prince best known for the poems of nostalgia he composed during his long (possibly second) Byzantine captivity (351/962–355/966). His ‘Byzantine Poems’, al-R∑miyyÆt, have left a lasting imprint on the Arab literary imaginary, as ≤Abd al-WahhÆb al-BayÆt∞’s (1926–1999) homage to him I quoted above shows and, more importantly, defined his literary persona as well as a set of narratives about Christian-Muslim relations in the tenth century, if not before and after. As cousin and brother-in-law of Sayf al-Dawla (reigned 333/945– 356/967), Ab∑ FirÆs grew up a courtier. He was practically raised by Sayf al-Dawla after his father, Sa≤∞d, ≤Abbasid Caliph al-RÆ∂∞’s (reigned 322/934–329/940) governor at Mosul, was murdered in 323/935 when he was three years old. Well-educated in Arabic poetry and adab as well as martial arts, he lived the life of a courtier-prince. He composed poems for important occasions, in praise of Sayf al-Dawla or other key members of the Hamdanid family, especially of their military exploits against other Muslim tribes (Arabs, Turks or Kurds) or the Byzantines, or in praise of his own heroism during Sayf al-Dawla’s campaigns, or simply in expression of his feelings towards the members of the Hamdanid inner circles. He took part in the famous lively scholarly and entertainment assemblies at court in Aleppo, engaging in debates, reciting poetry and enjoying music and song. Hunting was his favourite pastime. And, more importantly, he played a key role in Sayf al-Dawla’s government; he was given the responsibility of Manbij and Harran when he was 16 years old. This is how SÆm∞ al-DahhÆn describes his life as ‘prince of Manbij and Harran’ in his introduction to the 1944 edition of the collected poems, D∞wÆn Ab∞ FirÆs al-√amdÆn∞: Manbij was Aleppo’s fortress, a stronghold among the frontier lands and towns (thugh∑r wa ≤awÆ∆im). His task was [understandably] demanding. As a knight (fÆris) he had to defend it (Manbij) from looting tribes attacking from far-flung lands and the conquering Byzantine [army]. The former [the looting tribes] were [easily] compliant and he cut the latter [the Byzantine army] off their paths and passageways. He scored one victory after another, seizing many a fortress and sanctuary, serving the Byzantines death in wine cups under the command of Sayf al-Dawla at one time and at another leading Arab troops himself, burning cities, capturing men and women, then returning to his palace to spend his time hunting or enjoying life, composing

07_Warfare&Poetry_Ch7_167-192.indd 168

27/06/2013 11:54



Silenced Cultural Encounters in Poetry of War169 poetry and taking part in contests of self-praise (mufÆkhara). On his visits to Aleppo, he would attend the lively evenings the Prince [Sayf al-Dawla] hosted at his grand palace, al-√ilba. He competed with poets and men of letters, among whom were those who, if distributed across the ages, each would have been the shining star of his age: al-NÆm∞, al-BabbaghÆ≥, al-Wa≥wÆ≥, al-Mutanabb∞, Ibn NabÆtah, KushÆjim, al-ßanawbar∞, the KhÆlid∞ brothers, al-FÆrÆb∞, al-Khal∞≤, al-Sariyy al-RaffÆ≥, Ab∑ l-∏ayyib al-Lughaw∞, Ab∑ ≤Al∞ al-FÆris∞, al-I∆fahÆn∞, al-ShumshÆπ∞, who gathered at his cousin’s court, reciting the most wonderful words and delightful discourses, and raising a variety of subjects [for debate], in all of which Ab∑ FirÆs participated and Sayf al-Dawla adjudicated (2:11–12).

However, this life of luxury soon ended, and he was captured during a hunt expedition in 351/962. Ab∑ FirÆs was on his way back to Manbij when he was surprised by a Byzantine army of 1,000 men led by Theodore. He fought hard but was injured and taken captive. He would spend the rest of his life in Byzantium, first in Kharshana, a Byzantine fortress near Malaπya, and later in Constantinople, where he was treated like a prince: he was given the Imperial Court Palace as residence, and servants were assigned to him for his comfort. He was often a guest at the court of the Domesticus where he debated his captor-host on the merits of Islam and Christianity. He was finally ransomed by Sayf al-Dawla in 355/966, together with 3,000 Muslim prisoners of war (for 600,000 Byzantine dinars), only to lose his patron within a year – Sayf al-Dawla died in 356/967 – and to face a gruesome death himself in 356/967, decapitated in a battle instigated and led by Qar≤awayhi (or Qarghawayhi), the Turkish regent of Sayf al-Dawla’s heir to the throne, Ab∑ l-Ma≤Æl∞, his body left to rot in wilderness. He was accused of plotting to usurp the throne. In the centuries subsequent to his premature death at 37, the historians of the tenth century, especially of the Hamdanids and their courts, biographers, anthologists of poetry, and compilers of adab, of akhbÆr and stories, would preserve for posterity an image of Ab∑ FirÆs that is primarily derived from his poetry and the relevant anecdotes told in order to provide the context for the poems or lines quoted in admiration, as often is the case in classical Arabic writings. Modern literary historians and critics even turn to his poetry for information on his life and era, using it to construct his biography as well as the history of the Hamdanids. Al-BayÆt∞’s homage is inspired by Ab∑ FirÆs’s poems of nostalgia his critics, biographers and anthologists, past and present, East and West, consider the jewels on his poetic crown.2 These ‘Byzantine Poems’ in turn serve as the kernel around

07_Warfare&Poetry_Ch7_167-192.indd 169

27/06/2013 11:54

170

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

which modern narratives of his life are spawned and structured. There are always postcolonial tinges of regret in contemporary homage to or dramatisation of Ab∑ FirÆs’s life and career as poet, courtier, warrior and prince. Al-BayÆt∞’s poem may be read as a national allegory expressive of an Arab national/ist’s desire for a strong national leader who would stand up to colonial powers, ransom Arabs from political and economic subordination, and ‘wipe out the shame of our wound’. Al-BayÆt∞ impersonates Ab∑ FirÆs, and envelopes his postcolonial desire, and lament, in the form of a poem-letter, ‘my final elegy’, ‘a small leaf from this willow’, ‘a feather from this mythical bird’, ‘a drop of light’, sent from captivity to his beloved/ patron, ‘my princess’ and ‘my prince’ in ‘the deserts of my homeland’, to stir them into action, into riding on ‘horses of conquest’ ‘at daybreak’. This plea comes at a time when delay in ransom is seen as manufactured by Ab∑ FirÆs’s enemies at Sayf al-Dawla’s court, which too is inspired by the tone of his reproach, ≤itÆb, pervasive in his ‘Byzantine Poems’. This is true even of his image in contemporary Arabic media. Surfers of Arabic electronic media will find abundant articles on his Byzantine captivity, and excerpts, even recitations of his ‘Byzantine poems’, which are on occasion accompanied by soulful tunes and pictures of Ab∑ FirÆs behind bars. A Lebanese television series broadcast around the Arab world at the end of the 1970s took the conflict between Ab∑ FirÆs and Qar≤awayhi to a dramatic height for the purpose of unravelling the dark powers conspiring against the forces of good through manipulation of the ruler (Sayf al-Dawla) and working with enemies (the Byzantines), represented by Qar≤awayhi’s plot to get rid of Ab∑ FirÆs, here portrayed as the rival for both the attention of Sayf al-Dawla and the affection of a beautiful woman. In all the representations of Ab∑ FirÆs, whether in classical sources or modern poetry, drama and literary history and criticism, the war with Byzantium comes across as a continuous series of battles between Christians and Muslim and, above all, a contest of bravery and bravura. Even Ab∑ FirÆs’s long sojourn in Constantinople and at the Byzantine court is presented as episodic debates between Christianity and Islam. The D∞wÆn of Ab∑ FirÆs al-√amdÆn∞, collected by his teacher and fellow courtier, Ibn KhÆlawayhi (d. 370/890),3 has preserved two poems, one addressed to the Domesticus who captured him, and the other responsive to a debate, munÆæara, his captor-host initiated. In the first instance, Ab∑ FirÆs replied to a jeer, ‘you [Muslims] are writers and you do not know how to conduct wars (antum kuttÆb wa la-ta≤rif∑na l-≈arb)’, with ‘Have we been penetrating into your lands for sixty years by the sword or by the pen (na≈nu naπa≤u ar∂aka mundhu sitt∞na sanatan bi-s-suy∑fi

07_Warfare&Poetry_Ch7_167-192.indd 170

27/06/2013 11:54



Silenced Cultural Encounters in Poetry of War171

am bi-l-aqlÆm)?’ and a poem that boasts of a series of Hamdanid victories, events marked by the defeat and capture of named members of the family of this Domesticus (D∞wÆn 34–35; also Yat∞mat al-dahr 1:96–97). The other, a poem of nostalgia, remembers a debate between two men on the rights and wrongs of their religions (D∞wÆn 276–278). These two poems are rich in passion and pathos but short on the nitty-gritty details of quotidian encounters, of life, or lives, lived if not together in close proximity. While the first consists of a list of battles in which the Muslims, lions (asad, usd), easily defeated the Byzantines, dogs (kalb), the second is an expression of regret that he, Ab∑ FirÆs, a lion, as his nickname would have it, should fall foul of billy goats (tuy∑s) and donkeys (≈am∞r) and into captivity. They are, like most poetry of conflict or war, amongst Arab tribes or between Byzantine-Christians and Levantine-Muslims,4 more rhetorical than realistic; they are infinitely more interested in a show-off of words that wills victory should there be a showdown in swords. The vehement invectives in the two poems by Ab∑ FirÆs, which I have conveniently condensed into their underpinning semiotic code revealed in animal metaphors – I am the lion and you the dogs, goats and donkeys – already convey the superiority the Muslims had over the Christians: their kingship, nobility and ferocity (lions) puts them a cut above their opponents, who are not only followers or servants (dogs and donkeys), but also not terribly intelligent or courageous (goats and donkeys). These invectives are parts of the familiar motifs in eulogy (in which I include mad∞≈, fakhr and ≈amÆsah) and satire (hijÆ≥), which are for me two sides of the same coin, inherited from pre-Islamic and early Islamic poetry of warfare, of ayyÆm al-≤arab and naqÆ≥i∂, and continued to exert influence on Arabic poetry until today, to which even poets of towering originality, such as Ab∑ TammÆm (b. 188/804) and al-Mutanabb∞ (303/915–354/955), were not entirely immune. Why is poetry oblivious, at least on the surface, to habitual encounters with the other and cultural exchanges, most famous examples of which are those of the Crusades and the Mongol dynasties? I ask this question of poetry because its insistent silence on the cultural encounters that do and can take place even during war is in sharp contrast to the exuberance of other Arabic sources. There is an abundance of material in these sources on warfare in the Islamicate world, whether among the Muslims themselves or between Muslims and their perceived enemies, from the time of the first Islamic conquests in the seventh century up to the age of European colonisation in the Middle East in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries and, more important, on war as points of contact for people from across a plethora of cultures. The tenth century alone, during

07_Warfare&Poetry_Ch7_167-192.indd 171

27/06/2013 11:54

172

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

which Ab∑ FirÆs lived, composed poetry and conducted wars, was rife with military campaigns exchanged between, for one example, the Muslims and the Christians along the border lands and towns (thugh∑r), between Byzantines and the Hamdanids in the Levant. These thugh∑r, as contemporary historical research has shown, were sites of cultural encounters of all kinds supported, as it were, by their own economic networks and structures.5 The complex and nuanced literary representations of Byzantium in classical Arabic sources, moreover, betray the Muslim familiarity with the Byzantine Christians that could be derived only from a life lived in shared intimacy and close cross-cultural engagement.6 Even captivity, as I will show, is a potential site of cultural encounter and exchange. It will be impossible to examine thoroughly the abundant Arabic material on life in war and along the thugh∑r. I will instead focus my attention on Ab∑ FirÆs, for his entire life was marked by his participation in the Hamdanid incursions into Byzantine lands, and defence against Byzantine invasions of the thugh∑r. He practically lived his life in the thugh∑r. I will focus more particularly on his captivity, since we know that he spent his years of captivity not in prison but at the palace, that he was a regular guest at the court of the Domesticus, and that he had numerous debates with his host on the differences between Christianity and Islam. I will also focus on the ways in which his poetry reduces his interactions with the Domesticus to polarised Christian-Muslim polemics resembling conventional Arabic poetic invective and, more important, his experience among the Christians into a long sojourn in bitter nostalgia. I begin with an excursion into narratives of captivity compiled by one of his contemporary fellow courtiers, al-Tan∑kh∞ (329/941–384/994), as well as those found in Arabic popular epics (al-s∞ra al-sha≤biyya), so as to contrast his silence to the depth, complexity and expressiveness of Arabic narratives of war and captivity. Is this silence, I wish to know, indicative of the ways in which Ab∑ FirÆs, as warrior and courtier, understood the role poetry in warfare? Can the answer to this question help us to understand the relative silence of Arabic poetry on cultural encounters during wartime in general?

Narratives of captivity in al-Tanªkhø Ab∑ FirÆs is not a minor poet. He may not have the stature of al-Mutanabb∞ from among his peers, but his poetry is admired. He appears frequently in anthologies and collections of akhbÆr and stories.7 Al-Tha‘Ælib∞ clearly accords him an important place not only among the poets whom Sayf

07_Warfare&Poetry_Ch7_167-192.indd 172

27/06/2013 11:54



Silenced Cultural Encounters in Poetry of War173

al-Dawla patronised but also his predecessors and contemporaries. He was comparable to Ibn al-Mu≤tazz (248/861–296/908), another poetprince who, like him, was more famous as poet than prince, combining poetic elegance and princely pride in his poetry.8 Of interest among his biographers and anthologists is al-Tan∑kh∞.9 Ab∑ FirÆs figures in one of his famous collections of stories, NishwÆr al-mu≈Æ∂ara,10 though not in the other, Al-faraj ba≤d al-shidda.11 The latter interestingly contains two stories, which arguably provide a broader context for our knowledge and understanding of the fate and life of captives.12 These two stories, what may be called narratives of captivity, tell the tales of captives who managed to negotiate their way out of imminent mortal peril not only due to their own personal ingenuity but also because the circumstances, even those of war, made their machinations possible as well as plausible. They are, more significantly, telling of the ways in which both Muslims and Christians managed their captives. These stories are presented as historical, set in the Umayyad period, mainly during the reign of ≤Abd al-Malik b. MarwÆn (r. 685–705), for which al-ShÆlj∞, the editor of both NishwÆr al-mu≈Æ∂ara and Al-faraj ba≤d al-shidda, did not find corroboration in other Arabic historical sources. They follow a particular narrative paradigm beginning with hardship (shidda) and ending with relief (faraj), often set in the style of the Arabic fantastic writing, gharÆ≥ib and ≤ajÆ≥ib, hovering between the uncanny and the marvellous, if we were to borrow Todorov’s language in his theory of the fantastic.13 These two particular stories, one premised on the uncanny and the other the marvellous, convey the experiences of Christian and Muslim life lived in close proximity, even intimacy, of the presence of a ‘third space’ open to negotiations even at the level of individuals, and the fluidity of ‘borders’, here, between Christian and Muslim lands, past and present, and self and other, and on occasion, even the legitimacy of identification with other.

Third space: Christian captives among Muslims ‘The meeting between a Byzantine Christian grandfather and an Arab Muslim grandson (liqÆ≥ bayn al-jadd ar-r∑m∞ n-na∆rÆn∞ wa l-≈af∞d al-≤arab∞ l-muslim)’ in story no. 158 (Al-faraj ba≤d al-shidda 2:29–31) takes place during one of Maslama b. ≤Abd al-Malik’s raids on Byzantium.14 Maslama takes prisoners and subjects them to the sword until a feeble old man is brought before him. He orders him killed. The old man asks Maslama to let him go and he will bring back to him two Muslim captives in

07_Warfare&Poetry_Ch7_167-192.indd 173

27/06/2013 11:54

174

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

exchange. Maslama asks for a guarantor. The old man walks around the Muslim camps, identifies a young man and asks him. The young man agrees instinctively. The old man goes away, returns the next day with two Muslim captives. He then asks permission to take the young man back to his fortress in order to thank him. This happens. At the fortress, the old man tells the young man that they are grandfather and grandson. He then describes his daughter to the young man who recognises in the old man’s description his mother. He realises that they are his family from his mother’s side. He takes presents home to his mother, who recognises her father, mother and sister from his son’s description. This simple story of familial recognition on the basis of, let us say, uncanny physical resemblance embeds a context of captivity in war that is at once messy and unpredictable. The family reunion takes places amidst the vicissitudes of war across at least three generations and in the overlapping borders delineating the fluid and constantly shifting boundaries between two warring ‘states’, if one may thus describe ‘Christiandom’ and ‘Islamdom’ in the eighth and ninth centuries, and in the aftermath of two experiences of captivity: one of a Byzantine young woman taken by a Muslim as wife or concubine, who gives birth to a Muslim son; and another of a Byzantine old man, who recognises a family member among his Muslim captors, and is able to save himself and effect a family reunion, when he brings home his Muslim grandson to meet his maternal relatives, even if for just a short visit. The matter-of-fact tone of the narrative suggests that the scenario it presents may be commonplace. Ransom is infinitely possible, even at the individual level, and death is not necessarily the order of the day. More important, many forms of interaction take place in the third space created by war in the interstices of battlegrounds, in the thugh∑r, simultaneously separating and overlapping – and here let us think in terms of the Jihadi language in Arabic – dÆr al-islÆm (the abode of Islam) and dÆr al-≈arb (the abode of war). In this story, a bicultural family is born not to live in ignorance of its origins but to come face to face with and rejoice in its bicultural roots. But this story is uncanny in another more significant way. It may be recognisable to many Christians and Muslims who lived or were active in this third space. Ab∑ FirÆs’s mother was a Byzantine slave to whom he was extremely close – he sent many poems of nostalgia to her during his captivity – but he seems to be determined to forget his bicultural roots. On the contrary, he mentions quite often in his poems that even though the Christians are his maternal relatives (akhwÆl) he would still not hesitate to draw his sword on them. Is his purposeful amnesia rhetorical or,

07_Warfare&Poetry_Ch7_167-192.indd 174

27/06/2013 11:54



Silenced Cultural Encounters in Poetry of War175

in other words, is his vociferous bravura credible? The answer does not hinge on whether he knew his maternal relatives. There is no evidence in the biographical sources that suggests Ab∑ FirÆs met them before or during his captivity. Rather, it gestures towards a position taken, perhaps strategically, for an objective that requires pushing under the carpet his, let us say, Byzantine blood and connections. Here, the contrast between his ‘Byzantine Poems’ and another story of captivity al-Tan∑kh∞ relates in Al-faraj ba≤d al-shidda, in this case, of the experiences of a Muslim captive among his Christian captors, is illuminating in more ways than one. This narrative of captivity (story no. 197, 2:191–205) is also set in the reign of ≤Abd al-Malik b. MarwÆn. It is entirely marvellous and, in comparison with the previous story, escalates in length and complexity. It is made up of two stories, one framing another. At the same time, they mirror each other in a way that invites hesitation in assessing the credibility of the coincidence of similarity at first and marvel in the end at the authority of the destiny and trajectory of the faraj ba≤d shidda experience of captivity shared by the two narrator-protagonists. It begins with the story, set in the present, a Muslim is telling ≤Abd al-Malik about his experiences living as a captive among the Christians. It then moves to another story, set in the past, the Christian captor told his Muslim captive, who is now retelling the story to ≤Abd al-Malik. And it ends with the release of the Muslim captive from his Christian captor. This story is rich with details of the life of Muslims in captivity and their day-to-day interactions with their captors. The fortunes of the captives are varied. While some live in perpetual hardship others find relief, all dependent on the temperament and hospitality of their captors. Temporary respite may be found in the captor’s ‘recognition’ in the captive of a ‘kindred spirit’. The final relief (faraj), or more aptly, deliverance, comes in many forms as well, but they are more often than not preceded by a set of recurring signs, in this case, the extremity of tolerance, when the captive is pushed to the limit. The respective experiences of both narrators seem to break down the religious barrier between a Muslim captive and his Christian captor, as well as a Christian captive and his ‘pagan’ captor. The ‘unifying factor’ among Muslims, Christians and ‘pagans’ is, however, their knowledge of each other’s language, literary arts and culture (lugha, ÆdÆb, thaqÆfa), which are all linked to ‘reason’ (≤aql). This story privileges knowledge, not only ≤ilm but also ÆdÆb and ma≤rifa, perhaps the latter even more than the former; for the former, religion, divides humanity, but the latter, the literary arts and other forms of knowledge, unites. It also privileges cultural exchange; for it is through dialogue that relief from hardship may be realised.

07_Warfare&Poetry_Ch7_167-192.indd 175

27/06/2013 11:54

176

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Intercultural dialogue and marriage: Muslim captives among Christians ‘The story of a man captured by the Byzantines during Mu≤Æwiya’s time and released during ≤Abd al-Malik’s reign (asarahu r-r∑m f∞ ayyÆm Mu≤Æwiya wa aπlaq∑h f∞ ayyÆm ≤Abd al-Malik)’ is that of a man, a historical figure known as Ab∑ HÆshim QabÆth (or QatÆt) b. Raz∞n al-Lakhm∞ (d. 156), met and brought home by an army sent by ≤Abd al-Malik in response to an urgent letter from the postmaster of one of the Levantine frontiers (∆Æ≈ib bar∞d al-thugh∑r al-shÆmiyya). The story begins realistically with the first person account of QabÆth’s captivity. He tells of the ways in which the commanders of the Byzantine fortresses (baπÆriqa) take turn maintaining the captives, who are sent from fortress to fortress. The commander of al-BurjÆn is infamous among the baπÆriqa, known especially for his cruelty towards the Muslims. QabÆth and his fellow Muslim captives inevitably end up in al-BurjÆn. The Commander orders shackles for all. However, he stops before the narrator (QabÆth) takes a close look at him and asks him for his name, family descent and place of origin (ism∞, nasab∞, maskan∞), and whether he has memorised the Qur≥Æn well. He then asks QabÆth to recite ‘≠l ≤ImrÆn’ (Q: 3). He also asks whether QabÆth knows Arabic poetry by heart. When he finds out that QabÆth is learned, he removes the shackles from all Muslims in his honour and invites QabÆth to be his guest for the duration of his stay in his fortress. He even stops serving wine at his ‘dining table’ out of respect for QabÆth’s faith. A month later, other captives are transferred to another fortress but QabÆth remains. He feels sad for being separated from his fellow Muslim captives. When the commander of the fortress finds out, he foretells that QabÆth will be ‘delivered’ (faraj) soon, then tells his own story, also in first person account, to his captive audience (2:192–195). What unfolds is a rather fantastic tale in the style of many of the Arabian Nights stories. The only heir to Malik al-R∑m, he is taught various languages, including Arabic, by his nursemaids, and rigorously trained in the martial arts. He is hunting one day when he is captured by Malik al-BurjÆn. Dressed as a slave, he is able to escape notice for a while, and is able to live safely among the captives. He is noticed when the commander of the fortress is looking to Malik al-R∑m to send him someone to teach his daughter how to write. He volunteers. Eventually the daughter falls in love with him. When she turns 13 her father decides that it is time to separate her from her tutor. In the customs of that fortress, a woman can choose her

07_Warfare&Poetry_Ch7_167-192.indd 176

27/06/2013 11:54



Silenced Cultural Encounters in Poetry of War177

husband, so he advises her to tell her father that she wishes to marry him, for he was Malik al-R∑m. Through a test of martial skills he is able to prove that he is Malik al-R∑m. He marries the daughter and they live happily for 40 days. Then she dies. He is buried alive with her (dropped into a deep well), according to the customs of al-BurjÆn. As it turns out, she is not dead. When a group of al-R∑m sends down a bucket, he puts her onto it. She is rescued, as it turns out, by his family. In time, his story was known, and he was also rescued and reunited with his family. He becomes Malik al-R∑m and Malik al-BurjÆn (2:195–203). The story then returns to QabÆth, who tells of his final deliverance from captivity in, now, a more realistic mode. His Christian ‘kindred spirit’ recommends him to the Byzantine king (also confusingly known as Malik al-R∑m) to take part in a debate concerning the Arabs (read Muslims). QabÆth goes to court to respond to the charge that ‘the Arabs possess neither knowledge nor culture (la ≤uq∑l lahum wa la ÆdÆb)’ and that ‘they defeated the Byzantines by force and accident (bi l-ghalaba wa t-tifÆq) not skillful planning or management (≈usn al-tadb∞r)’. QabÆth arrives and agrees to debate but only with the Grand Patriarch. The Grand Patriarch is invited. The following dialogue ensues: Q: How are you? GP: In good health! Q: How is everything? GP: As you see. Q: How’s your son?

Other ‘baπÆriqa’ (laughing): The ‘baπr∞q’ claims that this is a cultured man and that he possesses reason (anna lahu ≤aqlan), but he is not even aware of his own ignorance. Does he not know that God, the exalted, has protected this Patriarch from having a son? Q: As if you were putting him above having a son! GP: Indeed, by God, we do put him above having a son, for God has put him above it. Q: How fantastic. Is a servant of God above having a son while God Himself, the creator of all, is not above having a son?

The Grand Patriarch snorted loudly and said to the king to send QabÆth away as soon as possible lest he corrupt the faith of his people (2:204–205).

07_Warfare&Poetry_Ch7_167-192.indd 177

27/06/2013 11:54

178

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Captivity as a site of cultural encounter There are two kinds of cross-cultural intercourse through which respite and deliverance from captivity are made possible in this story. Triumph may be achieved not only in military victories but also through, it seems, getting the upper hand in cross-cultural intercourses, whether in the form of interfaith dialogue or interracial marriage. QabÆth’s deliverance in this story is interestingly premised on his victory in a war of words, which offsets his earlier defeat in the war of swords. The Christian captive’s story framed by QabÆth’s story (no. 197) has in common with the earlier story (no. 158) interfaith, perhaps even interracial, marriage as a mechanism of both respite and deliverance. In these two Al-faraj ba≤d al-shidda stories the Christian captive, held in Muslim and ‘pagan’ lands respectively, mobilises this social institution as a means of survival in different ways. While the first confronts his Muslim grandson and triggers a recognition that would serve his ends, the second marries his captor’s daughter, who identifies him as her ‘kindred spirit’, and effects a respite, albeit temporary, that would in the end bring about a reunion with his family, the horrific episode in the well-of-death notwithstanding. This marriage effectively crowns him as king of both ‘lands’, his father’s and his father-in-law’s, al-R∑m and al-BurjÆn. These two Al-faraj ba≤d al-shidda stories are not alone in imparting this message. The two motifs around which al-Tan∑kh∞’s narratives of captivity are structured pervade Arabic popular storytelling,15 whether the Arabian Nights or Arabic epics. Readers of the stories of ‘Sindbad the Sailor’ can hardly miss the resemblance between the Christian captive’s story in the narrative of QabÆth’s captivity and Sindbad’s fourth voyage, in which the marooned Sindbad marries the daughter of his benefactor, also a king (malik), only to be thrown into a well-of-death upon her premature demise. The Christian captive and his bride, who comes back to life in the well, like Sindbad, survive on killing other hapless and helpless spouses and feeding on their meagre rations, and are eventually rescued, unlike Sindbad, who finds his own way out. The Christian captive’s story reads more like the Arabian Nights’ love stories in which what Hamori calls ‘patrimonial romance’ and ‘erotic romance’ overlap and intersect.16 The Arabian Nights abound with stories of love, ‘erotic romance’, bound up in and framed by stories of war, ‘patrimonial romance’. These are not stories of ‘all is fair in love and war’. Rather, they gesture towards love as an alternative to war, even though war is an integral part of life, it seems, and is not always preventable. They also point to love as a means of conquest, when war is the only

07_Warfare&Poetry_Ch7_167-192.indd 178

27/06/2013 11:54



Silenced Cultural Encounters in Poetry of War179

way of life. The story of ‘ShirkÆn (or SharrkÆn) and Ibr∞za’ in S∞rat ≤Umar al-Nu≤mÆn, a mini-epic on Byzantine-Muslim wars integrated into The 1001 Nights possibly between the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries, is a good example of this type of story. ShirkÆn, the eldest son of ≤Umar al-Nu≤mÆn, strays into a grove, ghÆba, in Byzantine lands, during one of his expeditions, and there he meets the beautiful Byzantine princess, Ibr∞za, whom he sees naked, engaged in one-on-one combats with her slave-girls. She challenges him to a combat and he loses three times. She nevertheless invites him back to her ‘palace’ (here, dayr), and they seemingly fall in love. He takes her home only to have his father, who also falls in love with her, rape his beloved. I have argued elsewhere that love stories in Arabic popular stories, especially those in which paradigmatic ‘patrimonial romance’ and ‘erotic romance’ overlap and intersect, are ultimately discourses about the legitimacy of kingship and kingdom. The harmony between the two leads to victory and coherence, and the transgression committed in one or by one against the other results in the downfall of kingship and the disintegration of kingdom. ≤Umar al-Nu≤mÆn’s rape of Ibr∞za, his son’s ShirkÆn’s object of love, and ShirkÆn’s later incest with his half-sister, Nuzhat al-ZamÆn, both illegitimate forms of sexual intercourse, have precipitated the downfall of ≤Umar al-Nu≤mÆn, family and their defeat at the hands of the conquering Byzantine army. The propriety of ‘erotic romance’ is instrumental in the triumph of ‘patrimonial romance’ and, if we restore the narrative framing the story of ‘ShirkÆn and Ibr∞za’, it becomes clear that the unravelling of their love must be juxtaposed with the coherence of the love of another pair, in the story of ‘KÆn-mÆ-kÆn and Qu∂iya-fa-kÆn’. KÆn-mÆ-kÆn will eventually lead the Muslim army to victory against their Byzantine foes.17 The Christian captive’s story, as retold by QabÆth, may be seen as ‘erotic romance’ underpinning ‘patrimonial romance’ in Nights’ fashion. His love story simultaneously overlaps with and deviates from ‘ShirkÆn and Ibr∞za’. While ShirkÆn fails in wooing Ibr∞za, the Byzantine princess who would have been the means of his conquest of Byzantium – she gives him the three jewels he seeks and goes with him willingly, the Christian captive’s deliverance from ‘pagan’ captivity, thanks to his astute love for marriage to the daughter of his captor, is instrumental in his survival, return to his family, and his eventual triumph as king of both al-R∑m and al-BurjÆn. Love is a means of conquest. Success in love, however, is preceded by a form of captivity, a willingness to be hostage to the dictates of love. Love is then transformed into a resource of power, a source of triumph.

07_Warfare&Poetry_Ch7_167-192.indd 179

27/06/2013 11:54

180

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Love in the time of war: and Maslama

Al-ßa√ß≠√, Alªf

An early episode in the S∞rat al-am∞ra DhÆt al-Himma (wa waladihÆ ≤Abd al-WahhÆb)18 or S∞rat al-MujÆhid∞n,19 which is known as akbar tÆr∞kh al-≤arab (the most comprehensive history of the Arabs) and which takes as its subject the Muslim conquests in Byzantium during Umayyad and ≤Abbasid times (parts three and four), ending with the conquest of Constantinople under al-WÆthiq’s reign (842–847), relates the story of Maslama b. ≤Abd al-Malik’s adventures (in war and in love) in Byzantine lands (1:295–343), during one of his campaigns.20 This story is reminiscent of that of the Christian captive in the story of QabÆth in Al-faraj ba≤d al-shidda. The protagonist of the story is al-ßa≈∆Æ≈, son of DhÆt al-Himma (FÆπima), the matriarch of the heroic family who will play a central role in Byzantine conquests in this epic cycle, and father of ≤Abd al-WahhÆb, the true ‘hero’ of the s∞ra, not Maslama, the Umayyad prince and military commander. Al-ßa≈∆Æ≈ is referred to as Malik al-≤Arab (king of the Arabs) and Maslama as al-Am∞r (the commander). In this epic cycle, they are fast friends and, more importantly, al-ßa≈∆Æ≈ is Maslama’s loyal ally. During one of their campaigns in Byzantium on the Mediterranean coast, Maslama sends his armies on looting expeditions on the eve of a major Christian holiday, ≤ød al-ßal∞b, knowing very well that everyone will be distracted by partying. Al-ßa≈∆Æ≈ leads a group and goes as commanded. He falls asleep on his horse and strays into a grove (ghÆba). There he sees Al∑f, a Byzantine princess, engaged in a game of martial arts with her slave-girls. She sees him and challenges him to ‘hand-to-hand combat’. In the ensuing sexually charged scenes, al-ßa≈∆Æ≈ and Al∑f get to know each other and seemingly fall in love. She invites him to spend time at her castle (qal≤a). She offers a banquet in his honour then sings for him. During the nights of merry-making filled with music (πarab) al-ßa≈∆Æ≈ realises that Al∑f is versed in the Arabic tongue and culture (poetry and music) as well as the Islamic religion (she serves him apple juice not wine). While they are happily engaged thus, a group of Byzantine soldiers arrive at Al∑f’s ‘castle’. They recognise al-ßa≈∆Æ≈ and want to kill him. She defends him, claiming that the Byzantines, in a group of 100, have an unfair advantage over al-ßa≈∆Æ≈, here totally on his own. After this incident, he bids a tearful farewell to Al∑f and returns to camp. On his way he is reunited with Maslama who, worried about al-ßa≈∆Æ≈, has come in search for him. Al-ßa≈∆Æ≈ takes Maslama to Al∑f. Maslama falls in

07_Warfare&Poetry_Ch7_167-192.indd 180

27/06/2013 11:54



Silenced Cultural Encounters in Poetry of War181

love with Al∑f. Al-ßa≈∆Æ≈ encourages the match, realising that he would rather be true to his cousin, LaylÆ, his would-be wife and future mother of ≤Abd al-WahhÆb. Maslama marries Al∑f and she joins the Muslim camp. Al-ßa≈∆Æ≈’s conduct with Al∑f and Maslama and, more importantly, with LaylÆ, has ensured the victory and coherence of, here, Arab (Umayyad) kingship and kingdom. This key episode in DhÆt al-Himma, like the story of the Christian captive in al-Tan∑kh∞, is structured around the motifs of interfaith dialogue and interracial marriage. It is framed by a statement made by a Byzantine military commander earlier in the narrative: ‘I do not like Muslim captives, for they corrupt the faith of our people, and turn us into the likes of them who claim that God is one’ (1:282), on which note al-Tan∑kh∞’s story of QabÆth ends. This love episode in DhÆt al-Himma, and equally in ≤Umar al-Nu≤mÆn, represents a respite from war, and shifts gears to love for the duration. It tells two kinds of stories. First, war never prevents love and, as we have seen, captives on occasions find love wittingly or forcibly, and get integrated into one sort of family or another. Here, the captives are willing hostages of love not war, even though the broader context of their love is of course that of war. Both al-ßa≈∆Æ≈ and ShirkÆn are arguably willing captives, albeit temporarily, for unlike al-Tan∑kh∞’s Christian captive and the Nights’ Sindbad on his fourth voyage, they choose to remain with their captors, one may argue, who are in turn wholly uninterested in keeping their captives in chains or prisons. They rather choose to become captives to their former captives in a role reversal between Christian female captors and Muslim male captives. They leave behind their family and cross into the land of the Muslims to become ‘wives’ to their captives-turn-captors and partake in the conquest of their homelands. In the stories of the transformation of Muslim captives into captors, love conquers all, it seems. Men always win the day, for in the end, women always seem to lose their edge and become the passive ‘beloved’ destined to follow in the footsteps of their ‘lovers’. Second, conquest finds expression in the language of love, and, here, love comes to be the means not only of respite but also conquest, as manifest in male domination and female subordination, noticeable even in Arabic poetics of legitimacy.21 However, such language of conquest, so intimately interlaced with that of love, points to war as a site of ‘patrimonial romance’ and ‘erotic romance’ together or separately. As a site of both together, love is the means of victory at war and conquest, but as a site of ‘erotic romance’ alone, war is paradoxically a fertile ground for marriage and family making.

07_Warfare&Poetry_Ch7_167-192.indd 181

27/06/2013 11:54

182

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

War and poetry in the D¯iwa¯n of Abu Fir≠s Set against this rich and complex tapestry of Arabic narratives of captivity, narratives of Ab∑ FirÆs’s captivity, short, factual and fragmentary – seem rather anaemic and simplistic. These narratives are, one may argue, appendices to his poetry, which remains the primary source of information on his experience in captivity. It has set the tone of all the portrayals of his life in captivity, as I have already explained, in the past or at present. His poetry on captivity spawned no fantastic tales of adventure, of interfaith dialogue that exposed the humanity of people of different religions, or of interracial marriage that promulgated the founding of multicultural families and kingdoms, fantastic tales of the type found in Al-faraj ba≤d al-shidda, the Arabian Nights and the Arabic epics. At issue is not the fact that he is a historical figure or the historicity of his experience. QabÆth and Maslama are no different in this regard. In fact, Maslama was a prince and an important general in the Umayyad army who, like Ab∑ FirÆs, led successful as well as failed military campaigns in Byzantium. Many more historical figures have been transformed into fictional characters in the Arabian Nights, the most famous of whom are Caliph HÆr∑n al-Rash∞d (170/786–193/809) and poet Ab∑ NuwÆs (130/747 and 145/762–198/813), to name but two. All the heroes of the Arabic epics are historical figures, including ≤Abd al-WahhÆb in DhÆt al-Himma. What is notable is perhaps the media in which the various experiences of captivity are conveyed: poetry and story. It is possible that Ab∑ FirÆs’s poetry has so dominated the Arab literary imaginary – and Ab∑ FirÆs is a strong poet – that it has determined even the fictional portrayal of his experience in captivity. Strong poets like ≤Antara in S∞rat ≤Antar, al-Muhalhil ibn Rab∞≤a in S∞rat al-Z∞r SÆlim, and Ab∑ NuwÆs in the Arabian Nights, have generated fantastic stories not wholly dictated by their poetry. However, these fantastic tales of their exploits are in relative congruence with their poetic persona. The fantastic tales other historical figures have spun, those of QabÆth, Maslama and HÆr∑n al-Rash∞d, who are not major poets, seem more freely and readily pliable to imagination and re-imagination. It is clear, whether we contrast poetry to story or compare stories about poets with those about other historical figures, that poetry and story belong to different literary worlds, each subject to the protocol of its own world. This is not to say that there is no traffic between these two worlds; on the contrary, dialogues between poetry and story never cease. However, here, I am less concerned with the overlap

07_Warfare&Poetry_Ch7_167-192.indd 182

27/06/2013 11:54



Silenced Cultural Encounters in Poetry of War183

between poetry and story but more interested in poetry’s difference, in what underpins its silence on war and captivity as potential sites of cultural encounter. I want to tackle this question by thinking about the ways in which the twinned issues of poetics, as a conventionalised set of compositional practices, and rhetorics, as public relations and an expression of interpersonal politics, have guided the production and reception of court poetry. Ab∑ FirÆs was a court poet par excellence, even at his most personal in his poems to family and friends, the ikhwÆniyyÆt. The bulk of his D∞wÆn, including or excluding the ‘Byzantine Poems’, comprises poems composed around ‘traditional’ motifs: love (ghazal), eulogy (mad∞≈, fakhr and ≈amÆsa) and elegy (rithÆ≥). His long poems, often of epical aspirations, are typically cast in the polythematic classical Arabic qa∆∞da, patterned in such a way that love serves as the conventional prelude to the various equally conventional themes of eulogy, frequently combining mad∞≈ with fakhr and ≈amÆsa. These long poems are punctuated by short poems, some as short as two lines, on a gamut of topics, ranging from description of nature to wisdom (≈ikma) and asceticism (zuhd), statements on his Shi‘ite partisanship (tashayyu≤), expressions of his affection and longing for his family and friends (ikhwÆniyyÆt), complaint (shakwÆ) and reproach (≤itÆb), and even satire (hijÆ≥) on occasions. His ‘Byzantine Poems’, though distinguished from his other poems by a ubiquitous sentiment of nostalgia (≈an∞n), always tinged with complaint and reproach (‘Oh, Sayf al-Dawla, why have you not yet ransomed your loyal warrior and courtier, who is now injured and rotting in captivity’), belong to the same poetic tradition and rhetorical convention. Al-r∑miyyÆt give us a portrait of a poet who may have been physically removed from Sayf al-Dawla’s court, but whose heart and soul remained there obstinately and in complete oblivion to his new surroundings. The poetic persona of Ab∑ FirÆs in these poems is that of a warrior-courtier who, despite his physical absence, continues to take an active part in Sayf al-Dawla’s wars and court intrigues. His poetry, even the most private, was produced for public consumption, addressed to court, to his patron, Sayf al-Dawla, and to his network of allies, his family and friends. Courtly poetry at a time of war is the arena in which a war of swords is re-enacted as a war of words. In this, it does not follow the itinerary of personal experience per se; rather, it pursues a line of discourse – and here I mean discourse in the Foucauldian sense – that partakes in a public display of power, of both swords and words, in which the personal and the collective merge into one perspective and position, and speak in the

07_Warfare&Poetry_Ch7_167-192.indd 183

27/06/2013 11:54

184

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

same voice. I have already alluded to the delicate relationship between the ‘war of swords’ and the ‘war of words’ earlier in my discussion of the story of QabÆth in al-Tan∑kh∞’s Al-faraj ba≤d al-shidda and the story of ‘al-ßa≈∆Æ≈, Al∑f and Maslama’ in DhÆt al-Himma. Victory in the ‘war of words’ can compensate for defeat in the ‘war of swords’ in the former, and forecast victory in the ‘war of swords’ in the latter. It is not difficult to imagine that Ab∑ FirÆs, a warrior-poet, would twin/e the two wars, of swords and words, in such a way that they form a seamless unit/y when triumphant, or would mobilise verbal bravura to offset his military or martial defeat (that led to his captivity). In the first instance, as I will show shortly, war is war, and all opponents belong to the same camp, the enemy camp, distinguished not by their religion or ethnicity (Muslims, Christians, Arabs or Turks) but by the position they have taken with regards to the Hamdanids. In the second occurrence, his captivity in Byzantium was a matter of accidental misfortune and the very Domesticus who was his captor was simply one of the Hamdanid enemies who happened to be of different religion and race. In a long poem (of 225 lines) he composed in response to another poem, also long, Ab∑ A≈mad ≤AballÆh b. Mu≈ammad b. WarqÆ≥ al-ShaybÆn∞ composed in praise of Sayf al-Dawla’s wars and victories, Ab∑ FirÆs partakes in his patron’s honour and engages in panegyrics, praising not only Sayf al-Dawla but also his entire family, clan and tribe, himself included (D∞wÆn 117–132). The lengthy love prelude (nas∞b; lines 1–27) typically transitions into his resolution to leave on the back of his lean horse and join Sayf al-Dawla and Sa≤∞d for a good battle (lines 28–43), which leads to his praise of Sayf al-Dawla, his patron, the epitome of his family honour and wisdom, to whom he is single-mindedly loyal (line 44–62), and finally to his self-praise. He extols his familial nobility, manly virtues, martial prowess, fearlessness in the face of death and military exploits. He has inherited from his family, grandfather, father, paternal uncles and brotherin-law, a warring legacy and a history of victories against the Byzantines, ≤Abbasids, Ibn RÆ≥iq and his armies, Turks in Central Asia, the Daylamids, the Egyptians, the Ikhshidids, and even the Qarmatids. The greater part of this poem of epical ambitions (lines 63–225) is what I would call a ‘laundry list’ of the Hamdanid military exploits up to Sayf al-Dawla’s time, including wars against Byzantium. Ab∑ FirÆs takes exceptional pride in the Hamdanids’ role in founding and maintaining border towns (lines 73–75, 138, 205) and, more important, their victories against the Byzantine army, especially those of his grandfather (lines 64–77) and Sayf al-Dawla (lines 141–144, 151–170).

07_Warfare&Poetry_Ch7_167-192.indd 184

27/06/2013 11:54



Silenced Cultural Encounters in Poetry of War185

These Byzantine wars, in this very long poem in particular and the D∞wÆn in general, are but vignettes in a much larger canvas of Hamdanid warfare spoken of in terms of Hamdanid will, bravery and prowess. Sayf al-Dawla’s war in Byzantium is punctuated by his victory over the Arab tribe, Numayr, and the consequent al-Ikhshidid withdrawal from the Levant (lines 145–150). Here, the Byzantine wars have no marks of distinction. Sayf al-Dawla’s victory is evidenced by the 60-day rampage his army wreaks in Byzantine lands and towns, and the capture of Constantine and his commanders, all under the watchful eyes of the Domesticus, who fled in fear. The tenet of this poem does not echo his fellow courtier-poet al-Mutanabb∞’s poems which, thriving on the same victories, celebrate the destined defeat of the Christian enemy, ‘the misfortune of the Byzantines, their crosses, and their churches’ (El Cheikh 166), but it does speak of the Hamdanid victories in the same language, rejoicing ‘at the devastation of Byzantine lands, the lamentations of the captives, and the humiliation of the vanquished’ (El Cheikh 166), much in the same vein as he speaks of the defeats of the Muslim enemies of the Hamdanids. It is in tune with his poem addressed to the Domesticus that the Hamdanids, himself included, do know how to conduct wars. This is true of his other panegyrics, notably on his military campaigns against ‘Kurds, Byzantines and the Tribes’ (D∞wÆn 278–281). The main point of his eulogy, whether in mad∞≈, fakhr or ≈amÆsa, reads like a performance of victory in words, not so much to defeat the enemy but rather to assert superiority as well as legitimacy on the basis of familial nobility and martial prowess, or to conduct a public relations campaign that, necessarily, mandates support from allies, and demands acquiescence from foes, Muslims and Christians alike. Ab∑ FirÆs understandably speaks in poetic conventions accessible to all those who could and would listen. Triumphalism in words matches triumph in swords in his poetry in such a way as I have described. This is for one simple but good reason: words can and must bring to life the battles fought on the ground, especially the contrast between the Hamdanid familial nobility, political resolve and military prowess, and their enemy’s ignoble origins, fear and ineptitude, so that enemies would know better than to go against the Hamdanids. Ab∑ FirÆs’s poetry of war is mired in the poetics of legitimacy familiar in classical Arabic panegyrics. The Hamdanid legitimacy, however, is not dependent on its successful defence of Islamic thugh∑r against Byzantine invasions alone, but also on the ability and will of the Hamdanids to gain an upper hand over other Muslims competing with them for power and influence in the region.

07_Warfare&Poetry_Ch7_167-192.indd 185

27/06/2013 11:54

186

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Love and patronage in the ‘Byzantine Poems’ There is, this said, a marked difference between the language of the victor and that of the loser. This difference, not at all subtle, is most visible in the love prelude (nas∞b) of the poems he sent to Sayf al-Dawla from his Byzantine captivity. In his pre-captivity eulogy, already taking the stylised form of what M. M. Badawi calls the ‘secondary qa∆∞da’,22 Ab∑ FirÆs deploys in the love prelude to his qa∆∞da iconic female figures, such as LaylÆ, immortalised by the love-mad Qays, to impart an image of himself as a lover ready to leave behind his beloved to join Sayf al-Dawla’s campaigns. His warrior persona, eager and seemingly in full control of his destiny, easily dominates and even erases his lover persona, sensitive and nostalgic but always ready for action on the battleground. The ultimate recipient of his loyalty (wafÆ≥), the most abiding trait of love, is Sayf al-Dawla, his patron and commander. If the love prelude in his pre-captivity eulogy addresses his beloved, here, arguably the various incarnations of Sayf al-Dawla, as lover assuring his beloved of his commitment and comradeship (we are in this together), it takes a turn, perhaps expectedly towards a heightened sentimentalism, as the abandoned beloved stubbornly clinging to the hope that the lover would one day return. Bravado, even in his preference for death in battle to captivity (D∞wÆn 95), is undermined by reproach and complaint (≤itÆb wa shakwÆ). Now, he speaks in the voice of the beloved, abandoned by the lover (Sayf al-Dawla) thanks to the machinations of envious gloaters (al-≈ussÆd al-shÆmit∑n; D∞wÆn 98) and divisive tellers-on and slanderers (al-wÆsh∞n fiyya, al-wushÆt; D∞wÆn 142, 143). These figures recur in his ‘Byzantine Poems’ and quite often set the tone of the love prelude in his poems to Sayf al-Dawla. Jocelyn Sharlet has argued in Patronage and Poetry in the Islamic World: Social Mobility and Status in Medieval Middle East and Central Asia (2011) that panegyric is the means through which poets negotiated their relationship and communicated with their patrons across a multiplicity of axes: absence and presence, intimacy and distance, and give and take.23 Eulogy in Ab∑ FirÆs’s ‘Byzantine Poems’ serves a similar purpose. They are his ‘open letters’ to his patron, urging him to come to his ransom without delay, while observing the proper court etiquette of never speaking openly about matters too delicate for public consumption. His famous poem, ‘ArÆka ≤a∆iyya d-dam≤i sh∞matuka ∆-∆abru’ (‘I see you hold back your tears, patience being your virtue’) in 54 lines (D∞wÆn 142–145), composed in a later stage of his captivity, when Sayf al-Dawla’s ransom was not forthcoming, is made up of two parts, nas∞b (lines 1–27) and fakhr

07_Warfare&Poetry_Ch7_167-192.indd 186

27/06/2013 11:54



Silenced Cultural Encounters in Poetry of War187

(28–54), and conveys at once his service to Sayf al-Dawla and expectation of him, present defeat and past victory, vulnerability in longing and defiance in waiting, and, more important, a need for his patron’s support on the basis of his contribution to their family honour. It begins in the voice of an abandoned beloved speaking to and of ‘himself’ as one who, though pained by yearning and the long wait for the fulfilment of a promise (line 5), insists on keeping his love intact but secret (line 2). The wushÆt seem to have succeeded in driving a wedge between the lover and beloved, and now devotion is rewarded with desertion (lines 6–26). The dramatisation of an encounter between the lovers, evocative of ≤Umar b. Ab∞ Rab∞≤a’s (d. 93/712 or 103/721) narcissistic pride in his personal distinction and ‘aristocratic’ background, smacks of a coded reproach meant for Sayf al-Dawla (lines 15–18): She asks me: ‘who are you?’, knowing very well who I am, for is it possible not to know a gallant young man (fatan) like me! And I say, as she wished, and as our love wished, ‘the martyr in your love’. She says, ‘which among them? For, they are many!’ I say to her, ‘if you please, do not torment me, why do you ask after me when you already know how I am!’ She says, ‘Fate has slighted you after us’, and I say, ‘God forbid! It was you not Fate’. (D∞wÆn 143)

The realisation of the newly developed tenuousness in their relationship, that she, in the form of a gazelle, takes a step forward towards him only to retreat instantly in trepidation (lines 24–25), pushes him to assert himself: ‘do not pretend you do not know me, my [female] cousin’ (lines 26–27); after all, he is one of the heroes of the family, a gallant warrior who always forged ahead in war for the sake of his people (qawm), fearless of death and desirous of glory (lines 28–54). Reproach reaches a feverish pitch here, and lament turns into resentment, almost as if he were saying: ‘How dare you forget all about me, when I have done so much for you and our family!’ Personal heroics and family ties are conspicuously mobilised and displayed, but strategically and emotively, for the benefit not only of the patron but also a public audience, especially his fellow courtiers among whom are the jealous, gloaters and slanderers. His return, after all, depends on Sayf al-Dawla’s decision, which may be spurred on by a reminder of his affection and appreciation for his son-like-cousin and brother-in-law, who has served him so well. If the slanderers have given him cause to dawdle,

07_Warfare&Poetry_Ch7_167-192.indd 187

27/06/2013 11:54

188

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

then perhaps his allies at court, family or friends, would press upon Sayf al-Dawla that kinship demanded his swift action rather than waiting for a deal to be made with the Byzantines for a larger scale exchange of war captives. To galvanise fruitfully Sayf al-Dawla’s magnanimity, he needed to succeed in his public relations campaign, to win not the ‘war of swords’ but the ‘war of words’, not in Byzantium but at home, among his family, friends and allies, especially at court. Court politics are the order of the day in the ‘Byzantine Poems’, in which only one aspect of his experience of captivity is relevant: his loyalty to his homeland, the Hamdanid homeland, his longing to be home again and to serve his patron. These poems of nostalgia are understandably imprisoned in anticipation of return, in a desire that has yet to be or may never be fulfilled, and in expectations pinned on the patron, in negotiations with the patron for his speedy relief (faraj) from the hardship of captivity (shidda) and, more important, in the etiquette of patronage and attendant poetics of eulogy.

Postscript The courtly face of poetry, it seems, imposes on it, especially eulogy, a protocol that has an impact on the poetic representation of war. It has, in the case of Ab∑ FirÆs, limited the ‘Byzantine Poems’ to expressions of nostalgia perhaps intended as a plea for his prompt ransom. But Ab∑ FirÆs’s nostalgia, even in al-BayÆt∞’s redeployment, is less about the past but more about the future; it anticipates the future rather than dwelling on the past. Remembrance of things past is a way of looking forward to more of the same past in the future, as Ab∑ FirÆs hopes, or an alternative destiny, as al-BayÆt∞ imagines rebirth for a devastated homeland (deserts now) in the aftermath of the delivery of a willow and a drop of light by a mythical bird, a rebirth taking the form of ‘horses of conquest’ that would ‘wipe out the shame of our wound’, of colonisation. Ab∑ FirÆs and al-BayÆt∞’s ‘Byzantine Poems’, framed by defeat and exile, real or symbolic, in war or tyranny, are necessarily sorrowful but expectant, for there is no way but forward. The narratives of captivity are contrarily backward looking, at least in the stories I have identified, and they rather look nostalgically on the past, whether in al-Tan∑kh∞’s tenth-century retelling of eighth- or ninth-century history, or even later Nights and Arabic epics’ remembrance of the same past. This difference is obviously not explicable in terms of ninth-century Muslim confidence and tenth-century insecurity, as proposed by El Cheikh, for understanding the distinction between tolerant representations of

07_Warfare&Poetry_Ch7_167-192.indd 188

27/06/2013 11:54



Silenced Cultural Encounters in Poetry of War189

Byzantium in earlier Arabic sources and later more xenophobic discourses.24 Nights and Arabic epics may have early origins but the versions available to modern readers have acquired throughout the centuries various historical layers including those of, for example, the Crusades, the Mongol invasions and European colonialism. More important, they cannot explain the silence on war and captivity as sites of cultural encounter in poetry. The poet’s personality, perspective and position, or the expectations of the audience, are equally inadequate in providing an answer, for they ought to be the same here. Poetry’s functional and stylistic difference from story, as I hope I have shown, remains one potentially productive area of enquiry. However, this raises questions regarding the status of poetry as a source of biography, of history.

Notes  1

‘The Byzantine Poems of Ab∑ FirÆs. ‘Abd al-WahhÆb al-BayÆt∞’, tr George N. El-Hage, Journal of Arabic Literature 36.2 (2005), pp.183–187.   2 For a convenient summary of modern Arabic and Orientalist assessment of Ab∑ FirÆs and his poetry up to 1982 see ≤Abd al-Laπ∞f ≤UmrÆn, ‘Al-muqaddima’, Shi≤r Ab∞ FirÆs al-√amdÆn∞: dalÆlÆtuhu wa kha∆Æ≥i∆uhu al-faniyya (Damascus, 1999), pp.5–13. For his biography see also ‘Abd al-Jal∞l √asan ≤Abd al-Mahd∞, Ab∑ FirÆs al-√amdÆn∞: ≈ayÆtuhu wa shi≤ruhu (≤Amman: Maktabat al-Aq∆Æ, 1981); and Mu≈ammad Ri∂Æ Muruwwa, Ab∑ FirÆs al-√amdÆn∞: al-shÆ≤ir al-am∞r (Beirut: DÆr al-Kutub al-≤Ilmiyya, 1990). For studies of his poetry see Mu≈ammad al-DallÆl, Al-aghÆn∞ li al-I∆fahÆn∞ wa Ab∑ FirÆs al-√amdÆn∞ (Susa, 2000), pp.126–207; and Mu≈ammad KarÆkib∞, Kha∆Æ≥i∆ al-khiπÆb al-shi≤r∞ f∞ d∞wÆn Ab∞ FirÆs al-√amdÆn∞ (Algiers: DÆr H∑ma, 2003).   3 The first scholarly edition was by SÆm∞ al-DahhÆn, D∞wÆn Ab∞ FirÆs al-√amdÆn∞, 3 vols, with critical introduction in Arabic and French (Damascus: The French Institute, 1944). However, references are made to Mu≈ammad al-T∑nj∞’s D∞wÆn al-Am∞r Ab∞ FirÆs al-√amdÆn∞ (Damascus: al-MustashÆriyya li al-Jumh∑riyya al-IslÆmiyya al-IrÆniyya, 1987), which is based on Ibn KhÆlawayhi, SÆm∞ al-DahhÆn, al-Tha≤Ælib∞’s Yat∞mat al-dahr, and another manuscript known as al-A≈madiyya. Selections of Ab∑ FirÆs’s poetry are available in French in Ab∑ FirÆs al-√amdÆn∞: chevalier poète/choix de poèmes traduits et présentés par Odette Petit et Wanda Voisin (Paris: Publisud, 1990).  4 See Nu∆rat ≤Abd al-Ra≈mÆn, Shi≤r al-∆irÆ≤ ma≤ al-r∑m f∞ ∂aw≥ al-tÆr∞kh: al-≤a∆r al-≤abbÆs∞ ≈attÆ nihÆyat al-qarn al-rÆbi≤ (Amman: Maktabat al-Aq∆Æ, 1977); and ZÆk∞ al-Ma≈Æsin∞, Shi≤r al-≈arb f∞ adab al-≤arab f∞ al-≤a∆rayn al-umaw∞ wa al-≤abbÆs∞ ilÆ ≤ahd Sayf al-Dawla (Cairo: DÆr al-MÆ≤arif, 1970).  5 See, for example, C. E. Bosworth, The Arabs, Byzantium and Iran: Studies in Early Islamic History and Culture (Aldershot and Burlington, 1996); J. F. Haldon and H. Kennedy, ‘The Arab-Byzantine Frontier in the Eighth and Ninth Centuries: Military Organisation and Society on Borderlands’ in Michael Bonner (ed), Arab-Byzantine Relations in Early Islamic Times (Aldershot and Burlington,

07_Warfare&Poetry_Ch7_167-192.indd 189

27/06/2013 11:54

190

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

2004), pp.141–259; and Gustave E. von Grunebaum, ‘Parallelism, Convergence and Influence in the Relations of Arab and Byzantine Philosophy, Literature and Piety’ in Michael Bonner (ed), Arab-Byzantine Relations in Early Islamic Times (Aldershot and Burlington, 2004), pp.296–316.   6 See Nadia Maria El Cheikh, Byzantium Viewed by the Arabs (Cambridge, Mass. and London: Harvard Middle East Monographs XXVI, 2004).   7 These are conveniently collected in al-DahhÆn, D∞wÆn, 3, pp.460–480.  8 Ab∑ Man∆∑r al-Tha≤Ælib∞, Yat∞mat al-dahr, 4 vols, ed Mu≈yi al-D∞n ≤Abd al-√am∞d (Cairo: al-Maktaba al-TijÆriyya al-KubrÆ, 1956), 1, p.48. This part of Yat∞ma is available in (unreliable) English translation by Arthur Wormhoudt, Dhikra Sayf al-Daula, and Dhikra Abu Firas, from Yatima al dahr (Oskaloosa, Iowa: William Penn College, 1975), and German translation by Rudolf Dvor˘ák, Abû Firâs, ein arabischer dichter und held: Mit ∏aâlibî’s auswahl aus swiner poësie (Ietîmet-uddahr, Cap III) (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1895).   9 For a thorough study of his family background, see Julia Bray, ‘Place and SelfImage: The Buhl∑lids and Tan∑khids and Their Family Traditions’, Quaderni di Studi Arabi, Nuova Serie, vol. 3 (2008), pp.39–66. 10 Biography is in 1:228–230; selections of poetry 2:255–260; 3:230–231; 4:258. References are made to ≤Abb∑d al-ShÆlj∞, ed, NishwÆr al-mu≈Æ∂ara, 8 vols (1971–1973). 11 References are made to ≤Abb∑d al-ShÆlj∞, ed, Al-faraj ba≤d al-shidda, 5 vols (Beirut: DÆr ßÆdir, 1978). 12 A story on Sayf al-Dawla ransoming Muslim captives in 351 ah appears in NishwÆr al-mu≈Æ∂ara 1, p.281. 13 Todorov, Tzvetan,The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to a Literary Genre, tr Richard Howard (Ithaca, 1975). 14 Ab∑ Sa≤∞d Maslama b. ≤Abd al-Malik b. MarwÆn (d. 120 ah), Umayyad prince and military leader, was known for his Byzantine conquests. 15 For easy travel of stories across various texts and genres in classical Arabic writing, see Julia Bray, ‘A Caliph and his Public Relations’ in Wen-chin Ouyang and Geert Jan van Gelder (eds), New Perspectives on [the] Arabian Nights: Ideological Variations and Narrative Horizons (London and New York), pp.27–38. 16 Hamori, Andras, ‘Notes on Two Love Stories in The Thousand and One Nights’, Studia Islamica 43 (1975), pp.65–80. 17 See Wen-chin Ouyang, ‘The Epical Turn of Romance: Love in the Narrative of ≤Umar al-Nu≤man’, Oriente Moderno XXII n.s. (LXXXIII), 2, 2003, pp.485–504. 18 For an interface between Arabic-Islamic history and this s∞ra, see Udo Steinback, DhÆt al-himma: kulturgeschichtliche Untersuchungen zu einem arabischen Volksroman (Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1972). 19 See Claudia Ott, Metamorphosen des Epos: S∞rat al-Mu©Æhid∞n (S∞rat al-Am∞ra DÆt al-Himma) zwischen Mündlichkeit und Schriftlichkeit (Leiden: Research School of Asian, African, and Amerindian Studies (CNWS), Universiteit Leiden, 2003). 20 References are made to the seven-volume Lebanese edition (Beirut: al-Maktaba al-ThaqÆfiyya, 1980). 21 Stetkevych, Suzanne Pinckney, The Poetics of Islamic Legitimacy: Myth, Gender, and Ceremony in the Classical Arabic Ode (Bloomington & Indianapolis, 2002). 22 Badawi, M. M., ‘From Primary to Secondary Qa∆∞das: Thoughts on the Development of Classical Arabic Poetry’, Journal of Arabic Literature 11 (1988), pp.1–31.

07_Warfare&Poetry_Ch7_167-192.indd 190

27/06/2013 11:54



Silenced Cultural Encounters in Poetry of War191

23 Sharlet, Jocelyn, Patronage and Poetry in the Islamic World: Social Mobility and Status in Medieval Middle East and Central Asia (London and New York). 24 El Cheikh, Byzantium, pp.139–187.

Bibliography ≤Abd al-Mahd∞, ≤Abd al-Jal∞l √asan, Ab∑ FirÆs al-√amdÆn∞: ≈ayÆtuhu wa shi≤ruhu (Amman: Maktabat al-Aq∆Æ, 1981). ≤Abd al-Ra≈mÆn, Nu∆rat, Shi≤r al-∆irÆ≤ ma≤ al-r∑m f∞ ∂aw≥ al-tÆr∞kh: al-≤a∆r al-≤abbÆs∞ ≈attÆ nihÆyat al-qarn al-rÆbi≤ (Amman: Maktabat al-Aq∆Æ≥, 1977). Badawi, M. M., ‘From Primary to Secondary Qa∆∞das: Thoughts on the Development of Classical Arabic Poetry’, Journal of Arabic Literature 11, pp.1–31. Bonner, Michael, ed (2004), Arab-Byzantine Relations in Early Islamic Times (Aldershot, 1988). Bosworth, C. E., The Arabs, Byzantium and Iran: Studies in Early Islamic History and Culture (Aldershot, 1996). Bray, Julia, ‘A Caliph and his Public Relations’ in Wen-chin Ouyang and Geert Jan van Gelder (eds), New Perspectives on [the] Arabian Nights: Ideological Variations and Narrative Horizons (London and New York, 2005), pp.27–38. ———, ‘Place and Self-Image: The Buhl∑lids and Tan∑khids and Their Family Traditions’, Quaderni di Studi Arabi, Nuova Serie, vol. 3 (2008), pp.39–66. Al-DahhÆn, SÆm∞, D∞wÆn Ab∞ FirÆs al-√amdÆn∞, in 3 vols (Damascus: The French Institute, 1944). Al-DallÆl, Mu≈ammad, Al-aghÆn∞ li al-I∆fahÆn∞ wa Ab∑ FirÆs al-√amdÆn∞ (Susah, 2000). El Cheikh, Nadia Maria, Byzantium Viewed by the Arabs (Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard Middle East Monographs XXVI, 2004). El-Hage, George N., ‘The Byzantine Poems of Ab∑ FirÆs. ≤Abd al-WahhÆb al-BayÆt∞’, Journal of Arabic Literature 36 (2005), pp.183–187. Hamori, Andras, ‘Notes on Two Love Stories in The Thousand and One Nights’, Studia Islamica 43 (1975), pp.65–80. KarÆkib∞, Mu≈ammad, Kha∆Æ≥i∆ al-khiπÆb al-shi≤r∞ f∞ d∞wÆn Ab∞ FirÆs al-√amdÆn∞ (Algiers: DÆr H∑mah, 2003). Al-Ma≈Æsin∞, ZÆk∞, Shi≤r al-≈arb f∞ adab al-≤arab f∞ al-≤a∆rayn al-umaw∞ wa al-≤abbÆs∞ ilÆ ≤ahd Sayf al-Dawla (Cairo: DÆr al-MÆ≤arif, 1970). Muruwwah, Mu≈ammad Ri∂Æ, Ab∑ FirÆs al-√amdÆn∞: al-shÆ≤ir al-am∞r (Beirut: DÆr al-Kutub al-≤Ilmiyya, 1990). Ott, Claudia, Metamorphosen des Epos: S∞rat al-Mu©Æhid∞n (S∞rat al-Am∞ra DÆt al-Himma) zwischen Mündlichkeit und Schriftlichkeit (Leiden: Research School of Asian, African, and Amerindian Studies (CNWS), Universiteit Leiden, 2003). Ouyang, Wen-chin, ‘The Epical Turn of Romance: Love in the Narrative of ≤Umar al-Nu≤man’, Oriente Moderno XXII n.s. (LXXXIII, 2003), pp.485–504. Sharlet, Jocelyn, Patronage and Poetry in the Islamic World: Social Mobility and Status in Medieval Middle East and Central Asia (London and New York, 2011). S∞rat al-am∞rah DhÆt al-Himmah wa waladihÆ ≤Abd al-WahhÆb, 7 vols (Beirut: al-Maktabah al-ThaqÆfiyyah, 1980). Steinback, Udo, DhÆt al-himma: kulturgeschichtliche Untersuchungen zu einem arabischen Volksroman (Wiesbaden, 1972).

07_Warfare&Poetry_Ch7_167-192.indd 191

27/06/2013 11:54

192

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Stetkevych, Suzanne Pinckney, The Poetics of Islamic Legitimacy: Myth, Gender, and Ceremony in the Classical Arabic Ode (Bloomington & Indianapolis, 2002). Al-Tan∑kh∞, al-Mu≈assin b. ≤Al∞ (1971–1973), NishwÆr al-mu≈Æ∂arah, 8 vols, ed ≤Abb∑d al-ShÆlj∞. ———, Al-faraj ba≤d al-shiddah, 5 vols, ed ≤Abb∑d al-ShÆlj∞ (Beirut: DÆr ßÆdir, 1978). Al-Tha≤Ælib∞, Ab∑ Man∆∑r, Yat∞mat al-dahr, 4 vols, ed Mu≈yi al-D∞n ‘Abd al-√am∞d (Cairo: al-Maktaba al-TijÆriyya al-KubrÆ, 1956). Todorov, Tzvetan, The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to a Literary Genre, tr Richard Howard (Ithaca: NY, 1975). Al-T∑nj∞, Mu≈ammad, D∞wÆn al-Am∞r Ab∞ FirÆs al-√amdÆn∞ (Damascus: al-MustashÆriyya li al-Jumh∑riyya al-IslÆmiyya al-IrÆniyya, 1987). ≤UmrÆn, ≤Abd al-Laπ∞f (1999), Shi≤r Ab∞ FirÆs al-√amdÆn∞: dalÆlÆtuhu wa kha∆Æ≥i∆uhu al-faniyyah (Damascus: DÆr al-YanÆb∞≤, 1999).

07_Warfare&Poetry_Ch7_167-192.indd 192

27/06/2013 11:54

Chapter 8

Courage and Eloquence: ≤Antar, the Warrior-Poet of the siyar Peter Phillips Introduction Poetry and war are constant companions in the siyar sha≤biyya. These are the Arabic popular epics or romances chronicling the exploits of heroes such as ≤Antar, Z∞r SÆlim and Sayf ibn Dh∞ Yazan.1 Although based loosely on historical characters and events, the siyar are works of fiction which began life as oral stories in the Middle Ages before they were written down and finally printed in cheap editions in the nineteenth century. They might fairly be called an early form of ‘historical novel’. They are written mainly in ‘middle Arabic’, which mixes the classical language with the colloquial, and this fact, together with the anonymity of their authors, has been among the factors which have led to their being ignored or disparaged by scholars, outside and within the Arab world, until relatively recently. Although oral recitations of the siyar have now become rare, the popular status of heroes like ≤Antar has been reinforced through modern media such as films and television. Indeed, the cyclical, paratactic, episodic structure of the works, as well as their origins as daily serialised performances, provide many similarities to the form and nature of modern ‘soap operas’. War and fighting provide the basic material of the siyar and poetry forms a significant part of each text. They have been described as ‘works of battle and romance, primarily concerned with depicting the personal prowess and military exploits of their heroes’.2 Their main topics are twofold –love and war – but war provides the all-embracing background to the love, which is expressed mainly as pain at the agony of the separation which war imposes on lovers. They are works of prosimetrum, in which prose

08_Warfare&Poetry_Ch8_193-214.indd 193

27/06/2013 11:58

194

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

and poetry alternate. Most of the poetry is put into the mouths of the main characters, either as soliloquy or dialogue, but there also occasional interventions by the narrator. These are usually in the form of anonymous quotations, prefaced by words such as ‘like the poet says [...]’. Although poetry forms a significant part of each text, the manner of its use, as part of the narrative structure, and its quantity vary considerably between the different works. In Z∞r SÆlim and Ban∞ HilÆl, for example, verse is used for almost all speech and comprises more than 25 per cent of the total text. In the other siyar, poetry is used more selectively and forms between 4 and 10 per cent of the text. This proportion may nevertheless result in a very significant volume of poetry: in DhÆt al-Himma, for example, verse forms only 4.7 per cent of the text but amounts to more than 7,000 lines. The siyar as a whole contain approximately 32,000 lines of verse. This poetry has suffered from even lower critical esteem than the siyar as a whole, which may be due to the reverence traditionally accorded to classical poetry in the Arab world, and to the fact that the poetry of the siyar often breaks the strict conventions of classical poetry. Indeed, it has received very little scholarly attention. However, it can be shown to play a major role in the literary structure of the works as well as possessing great merits of its own. One of the important roles of the poetry is to focus attention on the main themes and characters of each work. This paper explores how poetry is used to depict war and warriors in the siyar, focusing primarily on one specific s∞ra in which poetry and war are both key subjects. That is S∞rat ≤Antar, whose hero is the most celebrated poet as well as one of the mightiest warriors of the siyar as a whole.

Sørat ≤Antar3 S∞rat ≤Antar is probably the most famous of the siyar, both inside and outside Arabia. Its popularity in Arabia must rest partly on the fact that it is based on the life (however shadowy) of one of the great pre-Islamic poets, who composed one of the seven ‘golden odes’ which were allegedly honoured by being hung in the ka≤ba and are known as the ‘mu≤allaqÆt’.4 Its fame outside Arabia grew in the aftermath of the European success of 1001 Nights. Discovered by Hammer-Pugstall at the start of the nineteenth century, S∞rat ≤Antar was partially translated into English by Terrick Hamilton in 1819 and was acclaimed in France by Renan and Lamartine.

08_Warfare&Poetry_Ch8_193-214.indd 194

27/06/2013 11:58



Courage and Eloquence: ≤Antar, the Warrior-Poet of the siyar195

The plot of the s∞ra is exceptionally focused, being almost wholly concerned with the life and deeds of ≤Antar, the Ab∑ l-FawÆris.5 Apart from 80 pages of prologue and 200 pages at the end dealing with his son’s vengeance, ≤Antar strides the stage for the other 4,786 pages which describe his exploits from birth to death. The plot consists of a series of wars in which ≤Antar plays a leading role, either on behalf of his tribe, the Banu ≤Abs, against other tribes (such as the war of Dahis and Ghabra), or on behalf of wider coalitions of Arabs against foreign enemies (in which the Persians and the Byzantines are at different times both foes and allies). Other major elements of the plot include ≤Antar’s passion for ≤Abla, which remains unrequited for the first third of the s∞ra, and the episode of his hanging his mu≤allaqa on the ka≤ba.6 And there is one theme which runs right through the work and provides an important unifying element: that is the blackness of ≤Antar’s skin which, together with his birth as a bastard slave, makes him of inferior status to his fellow tribesmen and an object of scorn for them. This provides the motivation for many of his exploits and is frequently mentioned in his poetry.7 The printed s∞ra runs to over 5,000 pages in eight volumes and contains 1,167 verse passages amounting to approximately 13,000 lines. A remarkable feature of the verse is the proportion, almost half the total, spoken by ≤Antar himself.

The young warrior The first poems spoken by the main characters in the siyar are often revealing statements of personality and ethos, and ≤Antar’s first poem falls into this category. It is spoken by him when, at the age of eight, he is guarding the tribe’s flocks and they have been threatened by a marauding wolf. After throttling the wolf with his bare hands and tearing it apart, he returns to lean against a tree, and ‘poetry welled up inside him and he revealed what was in his mind, reciting...’:8

08_Warfare&Poetry_Ch8_193-214.indd 195

27/06/2013 11:58

196

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East O wolf rushing on destruction I have left you wallowing in the dust do you want the run of my herd but I have left you covered in blood you have frightened away my sheep for you did not know that I am a lion who does not stop fighting if you had known this was what you were meeting from me and that you would appear to death like a drink you would not have offended a heroic type for death has struck you quickly and fluently this is what I have done to you you desert dog although I have not taken part in wars.

The poem falls into three parts. The first two lines express ≤Antar’s defiance and his exultation at his victory, employing parallel structures of a vocative address to the wolf in the first hemistich (hÆ ayyuhÆ...a-tur∞du...) followed by a statement of his own actions, expressed in a first person past tense verb prefaced by ‘hÆ qad’ in the second hemistich. The next three lines are fakhr (boasting) about his prowess, which would normally be included in a pre-fight poem, but in this instance is expressed in terms of ‘if only you had known what you were facing...’. The sentiment is stressed through the unusual enjambment between lines 4 and 5. Finally, in line 6, he refers to his youth in describing himself as someone ‘who has not taken part in wars’. The poem provides a miniature portrait of ≤Antar as the warrior to come. He will fight ferociously to protect what he regards as under his care, so that fighting strength is allied to chivalrous motives.

The warrior War in the siyar is often preceded or interrupted by single combats, which have the advantage, from the narrator’s perspective, of allowing him to focus attention on the key characters. Such combats are often preceded by an exchange of verse between the combatants, which also helps the narrator by serving to raise the tension before the clash of arms and by providing an opportunity to present the hero in a particular light. These exchanges are also a sort of ‘war of words’ in which poetry is the weapon, with a strong

08_Warfare&Poetry_Ch8_193-214.indd 196

27/06/2013 11:58



Courage and Eloquence: ≤Antar, the Warrior-Poet of the siyar197

similarity to the naqÆ≥i∂ (flytings) of Umayyad poets such as al-Farazdaq and Jar∞r. In his study of flyting in Arabic poetry,9 Ewald Wagner traces its origins to the poems of fakhr and hijÆ≥ (lampoon) directed against the enemy by pre-Islamic poets, which are very similar in tone to the precombat poetry of the siyar. Wagner points out that they are distinguished from later flyting (by poets such as al-Farazdaq and Jar∞r) by the fact that for the pre-Islamic poets they are precursors to real conflicts: ‘Allerdings ist es hier noch nicht die spielerische Freude an gegensätzlicher Argumentation an sich, die den Dichter bewegt, sondern die Notwendigkeit, aus einem realen Konflikt als Sieger hervorzugehen’ (in any case here it is not the playful pleasure of disputatious argument which motivates the poet, but the necessity of emerging as victor from a real conflict).10 This distinction applies equally to the exchanges in the siyar. ≤Antar’s first exchange of poetry as a prelude to a single combat provides a typical example of the genre. It occurs when ≤Antar is challenged by GhÆlib, a warrior from a rival tribe whose brother he has killed in battle. GhÆlib speaks first, choosing his words to cause maximum offence:11

The vicissitudes of fate have shot at us from the bow of their mutability at the hand of a slave who is heedless of his death it is no surprise when fate has raised someone wretched and it leaves him in his weakness to fight the lions O wretched slave you have overstepped the mark you are facing a warrior whom you cannot describe so throw away your ignorance O son of Zab∞ba for how many lions I have destroyed as they advance.

Each line contains a reference to ≤Antar’s lowly status: in line 1 he is ‘a slave’, in line 2 ‘someone wretched’, in line 3 both terms are repeated in referring to him as a ‘wretched slave’, and finally in line 4 his racial origins are stigmatised in calling him ‘O son of Zab∞ba’. Each slur is emphasised by antithesis: in line 1 the ‘slave’ is opposed to the ‘vicissitudes of fate’, in

08_Warfare&Poetry_Ch8_193-214.indd 197

27/06/2013 11:58

198

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

line 2 ‘someone wretched’ is opposed to ‘a lion’, in line 3 the ‘wretched slave’ is opposed to a ‘warrior whom you cannot describe’, and in line 4 the ‘son of Zab∞ba’ is opposed to ‘lions’. ≤Antar’s reply, using the same metre (πaw∞l) and rhyme, contains the usual fakhr, but also responds to GhÆlib’s jibes:

You abuse me you wretch you child I am tormented by his vileness just as I am by the colour of darkness if I am a slave I will kill your men and overthrow you with the vicissitudes of fate I am the lion attacking in the heat of battle I attack when the champions come forward with violence the mountains incline their peaks in fear of me and anyone who wishes to oppose me is announcing his own death how many knights when the colour of my sword appeared in the face of the field of battle turned their backs all his weapons dropped from his hands and he fell biting the earth in fear of death and how many brave men I have left prostrate and I have dealt them blows in defiance of them if you want to fight a hero regardless he will give you a taste of death with a blow from his hand so take a blow from the hand of a strong lion who hunts the kings of the earth when he advances.

08_Warfare&Poetry_Ch8_193-214.indd 198

27/06/2013 11:58



Courage and Eloquence: ≤Antar, the Warrior-Poet of the siyar199

The poem falls into three parts: (i) in lines 1 and 2, ≤Antar responds to GhÆlib’s jibes. He addresses him directly in the first word of the poem: tu≤Æyirun∞ (you abuse me) and goes on to refer to his black skin. His use of the verb balÆ (punished) in the second hemistich is parallel to GhÆlib’s own use of the verb (albeit it in the derivative third form) in a similar position in his first line. It stresses the difference between GhÆlib’s sneering at his failure to recognise his certain death and his own confidence. In line 2, he responds to GhÆlib’s referring to his status as a slave, not by denying it but by pointing out that it has not prevented him from defeating GhÆlib’s fellow tribesmen. Again he echoes GhÆlib’s own choice of words by referring to ‘the vicissitudes of fate’. (ii) lines 3–7 contain ≤Antar’s fakhr, starting with the key statement anÆ l-asadu (I am the lion), which counters GhÆlib’s jibe that he will be meeting lions, and in line 4, ≈atfihi (his death), referring to his opponent, echoes the ≈atfihi in line 1 of GhÆlib’s poem referring to ≤Antar’s anticipated defeat. He refers again to colour (lawn) in line 6, but this time it is to the colour of his sword rather than the colour of his skin, thus stressing that his might as a warrior is more relevant than his black skin. In line 7, he describes his opponents as being left prostrate, which echoes the image in line 4 where the mountains incline their peaks in fear of him. (iii) in lines 8 and 9, ≤Antar issues his warning that GhÆlib will die if he insists on fighting him, describing himself as ‘a strong lion (layth sumayda≈)....when he advances’ in a reference to GhÆlib’s boast, in the last line of his poem, about ‘how many lions I have destroyed as they advance’. ≤Antar’s reply combines fakhr with responses to GhÆlib’s jibes about his birth and lowly status. The fakhr occupies the central five lines, while the first two and the last two lines respond to the equivalent lines in GhÆlib’s poem. This suggests that a similar passage of fakhr may have been omitted from the centre of GhÆlib’s poem. Two elements can be identified in these poems, which are typical of all pre-combat exchanges in the siyar. First, there is fakhr or boasting, which boosts the speaker’s confidence and demoralises his opponent, such as GhÆlib’s description of himself as ‘a warrior whom you cannot describe’. Second, there is hijÆ≥ or disparagement, used for the same purpose as the fakhr, such as GhÆlib’s description of ≤Antar as a ‘wretched slave’.

08_Warfare&Poetry_Ch8_193-214.indd 199

27/06/2013 11:58

200

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

The custom of poetic exchanges before combat belongs to a long epic tradition and it is instructive to compare the pattern found in the siyar with that in the Homeric and other traditions. Ward Parks has analysed what he calls the ‘contest pattern’ in the Homeric and Early English traditions and finds that ‘a contest typically moves from prospective speech through a trial of arms to retrospective speech’. He defines the ‘prospective speech’ – that is, the verbal exchange before combat – as containing two parts, which he calls ‘eristic’ and ‘contractual’. In the eristic (or disputatious) element, he includes all the boasting and ridicule, which would cover the two elements discussed above.12 The existence of a ‘contract’ is less clearcut. Ward Parks explains the concept when he states: ‘In effect the flyting adversaries, through their verbal disputation, are negotiating the terms of a martial display that will determine which of them has won.’13 In the case of ≤Antar and GhÆlib, the contract is formed by their agreement to fight to the death. It might also have included a statement of the reasons for their fighting, as happens in many such exchanges in the siyar: namely, the fact that ≤Antar had killed GhÆlib’s brother. There is often a further element in pre-combat exchanges, which can be called the ‘introductions’, when the combatants declare their identity to each other. This falls within the ‘contract’, since the introduction of the speakers can be seen as equivalent to the identification of the parties which is a necessary starting point for any contractual negotiation. That element is not present in the above example, since the opponents know each other, but it is often found in such exchanges in the siyar. Indeed, it is sometimes presented as part of a ritual which should, as a matter of convention and politeness, precede a chivalrous combat. The point is made very clearly in DhÆt al-Himma, when Jundaba (the hero of the first section of the s∞ra), on his travels, meets a young man (who is actually a lady, QattÆla, his future wife). The ‘young man’ attacks Jundaba without a word and is reproached by him: ‘Young man, begin with a greeting before a fight because it is one of the customs of noble people.’ The reproach is ignored and battle commences as Jundaba breaks into verse:

hey you knight who wanted the clash and launched the battle before greetings.14

Ward Parks’s ‘contest pattern’, as mentioned above, ends after the trial of arms with what he calls ‘retrospective speech’. In the siyar, this often takes

08_Warfare&Poetry_Ch8_193-214.indd 200

27/06/2013 11:58



Courage and Eloquence: ≤Antar, the Warrior-Poet of the siyar201

the form of a poem spoken by the victor either on the field of battle or at the celebration which follows. A typical example is the poem ≤Antar recites after saving the tribe’s womenfolk from a raid, when he starts with the words ‘this is my deed when opponents disparage me’ and concludes with a line which argues that his deeds are more important than his lowly birth:

I am the son of this my day and the sword is my father and in it my glory is praised and has its existence.15

The most unusual pre-combat exchange in S∞rat ≤Antar occurs in a remarkable episode when ≤Antar meets his doppelgänger, a young man who not only shares ≤Antar’s name but also has a black skin, and a mother who is called Zab∞ba, and who is madly in love with a girl called ≤Abla.16 The latter has been seized by a local bandit, Ab∑ l-AshbÆl, whose custom is to ravish all the young women of the neighbourhood, kill them and feed their flesh to the lion cubs who surround him (hence his name, meaning ‘father of the lion cubs’). ≤Antar’s namesake is unlike him in character, since he is not a man of action and can only weep at his misfortune, so ≤Antar has to go to rescue his ≤Abla for him. When he catches up with Ab∑ l-AshbÆl, they exchange verse before they fight, but the fakhr is not concerned, as usual, with fighting prowess or strength, but solely with the degree of evil or good which each of them claims to embody. Thus Ab∑ l-AshbÆl opens his poem:

I am Ab∑ l-AshbÆl the lion of the wÆd∞ the champion well-known for corruption the flesh of young girls is my food and sustenance and some of the blood quenches the thirst of my heart how many times I have left a free woman crying for help and what you see of torture is my pleasure my proud boast is that I am a killer of children and I ravish women everywhere.

08_Warfare&Poetry_Ch8_193-214.indd 201

27/06/2013 11:58

202

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

He goes on to single out poets:

all my life the only delight open to me has been the destruction of poets and versifiers.17

There can be no doubt that this poem was intended to entertain the audience and it confirms that ‘the devil has the best tunes’. However, ≤Antar’s reply is a fine statement of the ideals that underlie his life and those of all the heroes of the siyar. He opens with a general statement in response to Ab∑ l-AshbÆl:

While you seek evil and corruption goodness is my nature and virtue is my sustenance my sword is a fire which does not need kindling but which ignites spirits and bodies.

And he sums up the duties of any ‘parfait knight’:

the protector of women and children killer of the envious and enemies I honour guests and travellers and I honour versifiers and poets in me there is no inclination towards corruption and I have never for a moment swerved from the chase.18

Despite the humour in the exchange, particularly with regard to poets, this is a serious statement of the sort that is generally expressed in poetry rather than prose in the siyar. And it may carry extra significance in the context of the episode of ≤Antar’s doppelgänger, which ends with ≤Antar defeating Ab∑ l-AshbÆl, restoring ≤Abla to his namesake, refusing his offer to

08_Warfare&Poetry_Ch8_193-214.indd 202

27/06/2013 11:58



Courage and Eloquence: ≤Antar, the Warrior-Poet of the siyar203

accompany him on his travels, advising him to settle down with ≤Abla, and finally asking him to change his name to avoid future trouble from ≤Antar’s many enemies. The episode comes at a relatively early stage of ≤Antar’s life, when he has started on his career of knight-errant but is torn between that and his all-consuming love of ≤Abla. The meeting with his ‘double’ can be interpreted as his facing the option of choosing a life of love and abandoning his career in arms. His namesake, powerless to help his beloved but finally able to enjoy the bliss of her uninterrupted company, represents a temptation which he rejects for the reasons implicit and stated in his poem. He is not someone who will ever ‘swerve from the chase’.

The warrior and society ≤Antar’s life as knight-errant or career warrior is affected by two major outside influences, which nowadays would be called ‘sources of stress’. The first is his love of, and longing for, ≤Abla, which occupies his thoughts in any breaks from (and sometimes in the middle of) fighting and which enters into many of his poems. Love in the siyar is often expressed in terms of the pain of the separation which the hero’s life as a warrior entails. As ≤Antar laments:

they have parted me from my beloved and I am in a far distant land.19

The second source of stress is his relationship with his tribe and its elders. Peter Heath has pointed out that the heroes of the siyar do not fit easily into the tribal community: ‘Although heroes tend to be loyal and courageous, they are also inclined to be personally impetuous and politically naive, and thus unsettling for the ruler.’20 This is especially true of ≤Antar, who is already an outsider by birth as the son of a black slave and rejected by his father. This theme recurs constantly in his poetry. The following poem encapsulates all these pressures on the warrior’s life. ≤Antar is alone in the desert, reflecting on the problems facing him:21

08_Warfare&Poetry_Ch8_193-214.indd 203

27/06/2013 11:58

204

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

I censure fate which does not relent to a censurer and I ask for safety from the vicissitudes of fortune fate made me an enticing promise and I know for certain that it was a false promise I have served people and I have taken my relations and help against my fortune in the trial by ordeal in time of peace they call me O son of Zab∞ba and in time of war O son of the noble if it was not for love someone like me would not humble himself to someone like you indeed the lion of the desert does not fear the fox my people will remember me when the (armed) horsemen arrive and the warriors are jostling on all sides whenever they forget me the swords and lances will remind them of my deeds and the impact of the blows would that fate brought my love closer in the same way that it brings all calamities near and that your phantom would come to visit me O ≤Abla and see the torrent of tears falling from my eyelids I will depart until my censurers have rested and I know my enemies are on one side your place is far off in the skies and my hand cannot reach up to the stars

08_Warfare&Poetry_Ch8_193-214.indd 204

27/06/2013 11:58



Courage and Eloquence: ≤Antar, the Warrior-Poet of the siyar205 if Almighty God wills in his goodness it will be no wonder if I obtain my desire I will make all the envious people sick when I take possession of my desire by force through the edge of my blows.

The first line provides a striking opening to the poem, expressing ≤Antar’s feeling of helplessness in the face of his destiny. It is summed up in the first hemistich: he blames a fate which is not susceptible to blame. The point is repeated in the second hemistich, where he seeks security from ‘the vicissitudes of fate’ (∆ur∑fi l-nawÆ≥ib). This hemistich uses antithesis to make its point, by juxtaposing amnan (security) with ∆ur∑fi l-nawÆ≥ib, since it is intrinsic to the meaning of ‘vicissitudes of fate’ that they cannot offer security. The point is stressed by the binary, parallel structure of the two hemistichs, each opening with a first-person verb followed by an indefinite object (amnan – dahran), as well as by the repeated end-rhyme. The focus remains on fate in line 2, where al-ayyÆm (fate) occurs in the same position in the first hemistich as dahran (fate) in the first line, following an initial verb, but this time the speaker is the object of the verb rather than the subject. Again there is an indefinite object, wa≤dan kÆdhiban (a false promise), but it is delayed until the end of the hemistich. In the second hemistich, the grammatical structure reverts to be parallel with the first line, with an initial first-person verb followed by an indefinite object: wa-a≤lamu ≈aqqan (I know for certain). Fate is again portrayed as offering no consolation, for its promise is enticing and false (muzakhraf and kÆdhib), the adjectives stressed by coming at the end of the two hemistichs. In line 3, ≤Antar describes how he has served people and fostered relationships as a protection against fate. The first hemistich mirrors the grammatical structure of the first line, but the second hemistich changes the structure to highlight a repetition of dahr and the final phrase ≤inda ≈ukmi l-tajÆrib (in trial by ordeal), which is how he views his troubled existence. Lines 3 and 4 form a pair, in the same way that lines 1 and 2 do, and the first hemistich of line 4 mirrors line 2 in starting with a verb which has a first-person pronoun as its object. Just as line 2 commented on the futility of ≤Antar’s requesting fate for security in line 1, so line 4 points out that his efforts to protect himself through his close relationships have not worked since people only value him in time of war. The binary structure of the line serves to make the point very effectively, both hemistichs ending with vocative phrases as he compares being addressed as ibna zab∞batin (the son of Zab∞ba): that is, as the son of a black slave, in the first hemistich, with being addressed as ibna l-aπÆyib (son of the best) in the second hemistich.

08_Warfare&Poetry_Ch8_193-214.indd 205

27/06/2013 11:58

206

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Line 5 introduces the theme of his love for the first time, when he gives it as his reason for putting up with his treatment by his fellow tribesmen, and he compares himself to a lion of the desert submitting to foxes. The parallel sentiments of the two hemistichs are reflected in their openings: lÆ wa-lÆ and wa-law. After this introduction of the new element of ‘love’, lines 6 and 7 form another pair. They echo the sentiment of line 4, that ≤Antar will (only) be valued in time of war. The two lines are parallel and antithetical: line 6 opens with sa-tadhkurun∞ (they will remember me), while line 7 opens with idhÆ mÆ nas∑n∞ (whenever they forget me). These lines form the centre of the poem and mark the end of the first section, which has concentrated on ≤Antar’s relationship with his tribe. The second half of the poem moves on to focus on his love for ≤Abla. Line 8 provides a neat link between the two halves, by contrasting the approach of love in the first hemistich with the approach of calamities in the second. This echoes the arrival of (armed) horsemen in line 6. Fate (dahr) is mentioned again in the first hemistich and links back to the start of the poem. Once again, these two lines form a pair and there is partial enjambement between the lines which are both governed by fa-yÆ layta (would that…) at the start of line 8. In line 9, ≤Antar addresses the absent ≤Abla for the first time and the rest of the poem is spoken as if to her. Line 10 stands on its own. It is the one forward-looking statement, where ≤Antar stops reflecting on his problems and states what he is going to do: that is, to go away until his critics have fallen silent and things become clearer. His statement of intent in line 10 is followed by another two lines which form a pair. In line 11, he acknowledges the problem he faces: ≤Abla is beyond his reach, but line 12 is optimistic in asserting that, with God’s help, anything is possible. Line 13 concludes the poem by combining the theme of his love for ≤Abla with the theme of his resentment at his treatment, as he reflects that his winning ≤Abla (with God’s help) will be a major blow to his detractors. Thus the poem finishes by returning to its main theme, which, as noted above, is expressed in its central lines: that is, ≤Antar’s resentment at being treated as inferior. It is a theme which constantly reasserts itself in the s∞ra as a whole, just as it does here in this poem. The poem uses a ‘ring’ structure, under which the main message of the poem is contained in the central lines and there is a clear link between the end and the beginning of the poem. It is also typical of a ring structure that the poem falls into two halves, as noted above. In line 1 of the poem, ≤Antar presents himself as helpless against the ‘vicissitudes of fortune’, but in the

08_Warfare&Poetry_Ch8_193-214.indd 206

27/06/2013 11:58



Courage and Eloquence: ≤Antar, the Warrior-Poet of the siyar207

final line 13, after discussing his prowess and the roles of love and God in his life, he asserts his ability to take possession of his desire ‘through the edge of my blows’. In the central lines 6–8, he states his main point about how a soldier is regarded by the community: that is, appreciated only in times of danger. Calamities and not love are his normal lot. The problems of a warrior’s life are set out in the first half, while love and God occupy the second half, and the two halves are largely chiastic. Love is a theme in lines 5 and 9; lines 4 and 10 discuss the fickle status of the warrior and his censurers; and lines 2 and 12 contrast fate’s deceiving promise with God’s goodness and willingness to grant his desire. The poem is an effective statement of the stresses faced by a warrior who is needed but resented by his tribe. It expresses the same antithesis as Kipling, used to express the predicament of the common soldier in his poem ‘Tommy’: O It’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, go away”; But it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins”, when the band begins to play.22

The poet In view of ≤Antar’s reputation as a pre-Islamic poet, and the fact that he is one of the seven poets whose poems were hung in the ka≤ba in acknowledgement of their excellence, it is not surprising that the s∞ra includes a description of the hanging of the mu≤allaqa (the hung poem). What is surprising, however, is the treatment of the episode and its equivocal attitude to war and poetry. In the poems examined above, poetry can be seen as a tool of war as well as a means of describing it. In the episode of the hanging of the mu≤allaqa, poetry and war become rivals and fight their own battle for supremacy. The outcome of this fight is far from clear-cut. The episode occurs at the start of the second half of the s∞ra, in the middle of the fifth of the eight volumes. ≤Antar’s tribe, the Banu ≤Abs, have gathered in Mecca and have decided to remain there for the ‘holy month’. They are spending their time in ‘drinking wine, socialising with the people of Mecca, circumambulating the holy building and reading the qa∆∞das hanging on the pillars’.23 They are discussing ≤Antar’s fame as a warrior, when the comment is made that true fame can only be won by achieving eminence as a poet. A hostile tribesman, ≤UmÆra, throws ≤Antar’s inferior status in his face and comments that, despite his feats as a warrior, ≤Antar will never lose the taint of servitude (ismu l-≤ub∑diyya) unless he

08_Warfare&Poetry_Ch8_193-214.indd 207

27/06/2013 11:58

208

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

has a poem hung in the ka≤ba. The equivocal nature of the contest to come is implicit in ≤UmÆra’s statement that, if ≤Antar succeeds in hanging a poem, ‘the men of the Ban∞ ≤Abs will say that he is supreme among the leaders in eloquence, chivalry and courage’ (al-fa∆Æ≈a wa ≥l-fur∑siyya wa ≥l-shujÆ≤a).24 ≤Antar is provoked to accept the challenge, so the motivation for his poetic ambition arises from the usual touchstone of his actions: his urge to overcome the disadvantages of his birth. Extra motivation is provided when ≤Abla swears not to sleep with him until he has achieved his goal.25 The first step is for his follower Asyad to write down all of ≤Antar’s poems in a notebook and then to ask ≤Antar to select one to be hung and to check it. ≤Antar refuses, saying, ‘By God, I don’t know what will work in this affair’, and he passes the decision to ≤Abla.26 After Asyad has read out all the poems to her, one after another, she picks the winner and it is written out in alternate lines of silver and gold. When the governor of Mecca, Sheikh Abdul al-Muππalib,27 is approached to consider ≤Antar’s application to have his poem hung, he tries but fails to dissuade him in order to avoid trouble between the tribes. So the Sheikh calls all the tribes together at the ‘judgement bench’ and prepares to read the poem. The audience insists on first knowing the identity of the poet, whom they assume to be someone of high rank, and there is an uproar when ≤Antar is introduced, despite an eloquent argument from the Sheikh that bravery and eloquence deserve respect regardless of rank. The response of the tribesmen is to call ≤Antar ‘that evil bastard slave’ and to promise to kill him if he hangs his poem. A general brawl follows between ≤Antar’s supporters and his opponents, which is finally stopped by ≤Antar himself. He challenges everyone either to fight him or to ‘prostrate themselves’ in front of his poem and he promises to fight anyone else who wants to hang a poem. Then he recites a few lines of poetry. One of his opponents describes the poetry as ‘drivel’ (hadhayÆn) and ≤Antar promptly kills him. Further fights follow in which ≤Antar kills a series of rash challengers. Now is the time for the authors of the existing mu≤allaqÆt to play their parts. They have witnessed the fights and are afraid that ≤Antar is going to pull down their own poems. The first to speak is ∏arafa, described as a ‘respected knight’, who tells ≤Antar that he has the reputation of being brave but also of being base born (ma≤l∑lu ≥l-nasab), which makes him unacceptable. Nonetheless, ∏arafa says that he would like to hear some of his poetry, so as to be able to judge it, and also to test him in battle. ≤Antar is pleased, but suggests that ∏arafa should recite his own poem first, because the depth of meaning in ≤Antar’s poem might unsettle him.

08_Warfare&Poetry_Ch8_193-214.indd 208

27/06/2013 11:58



Courage and Eloquence: ≤Antar, the Warrior-Poet of the siyar209

∏arafa proceeds to recite his mu≤allaqa in full, which receives faint praise from ≤Antar: Your verse is not bad but, when my poem is hung, people will see the difference. You have compiled your piece for me over a long period of time, but I would like to hear something more spontaneous (shay≥un ≤alÆ l-bad∞ha) and after that we will fight and people will see which of us is supreme in valour and skill.28

∏arafa responds by improvising a poem, which ≤Antar answers in the same metre and rhyme. ∏arafa applauds his skill but repeats his view that ≤Antar’s base birth is an obstacle to his hanging a poem. Then he and ≤Antar fight until ∏arafa is knocked down, tied up and removed from the scene.29 Very similar confrontations follow between ≤Antar and authors of other mu≤allaqÆt. Each of Zuhair, Lab∞d and ≤Amr bin Kulth∑m recites his mu≤allaqa and is criticised for faults such as ‘rhetorical flourishes’ (zakhÆr∞f), ‘weakness’ (ta≤allul) and ‘absurdity’ (mu≈Æl), before being defeated in combat, tied up and taken away. Finally, Imru≥ al-Qays recites his mu≤allaqa and is praised by ≤Antar, but he suffers the same fate as the other poets when they fight.30 Eventually, ≤Abd al-Muππalib thinks it is time to bring things to a conclusion and advises ≤Antar to threaten his prisoners with torture and death if they do not support his poem. This strategy proves effective, but Imru≥ al-Qays insists that they must first make sure that ≤Antar has the right skills. Accordingly, ≤Antar is asked to list all the names of a series of objects and he duly provides 80 names for a sword, 42 names for a lance, 31 for armour, 48 for a horse, 59 for a camel, 45 for wine and 64 for a snake. ≤Antar is acclaimed by Imru≥ al-Qays, who announces to the audience: ‘We have admitted Prince ≤Antar into our ranks and, by God, of us all he is the most eloquent, the strongest in combat and the most courageous in battle.’31 Everyone makes peace and celebrates after the announcement and finally ≤Abd al-Muππalib asks a Meccan notable to read out ≤Antar’s qa∆∞da. The reception of the poem, so long awaited, is described very briefly: ‘When he [the reciter] had finished ≤Antar’s poem, the connoisseurs were delighted and amazed by it, saying “it is right to give it the highest honour”.’ It is noteworthy that Goethe was to describe ≤Antara’s mu≤allaqa as ‘stolz, drohend, treffend, prächtig’32 (proud, threatening, striking, splendid), which could be taken as an accurate description of ≤Antar himself. There is a further stage in the story of the mu≤allaqa, one volume later, when ≤Antar returns from his expedition to the Sudan and hears that one

08_Warfare&Poetry_Ch8_193-214.indd 209

27/06/2013 11:58

210

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

of the Ban∞ Qa≈πÆn has torn down his ode because ≤Antar is ‘only a slave’, and has hung one of his own odes in its place. This is seen as an insult to ≤Abd al-Muππalib and to the whole of the Ban∞ ≤Abs as well as to ≤Antar, who hurries to Mecca, kills the culprit, routs the Ban∞ Qa≈πÆn and asks ≤Abd al-Muππalib to summon all the tribes together to witness the restoration of his own ode. Otherwise he will tear down all the other mu≤allaqÆt. ≤Abd al-Muππalib duly summons the tribes, reminding them of the possible consequences of offending ≤Antar. When they arrive, ≤Antar improves the occasion by reciting a new ode and hangs that as well as the old one, which he promotes to the top place among the mu≤allaqÆt.33 Peter Heath has examined the section of the hanging of ≤Antar’s mu≤allaqa as an example of ‘the compositional structure and narrative invention’ to be found in S∞rat ≤Antar, and he shows how the s∞ra ‘...transforms a literary event into a war. This is how it dramatises events: it creates and resolves conflicts. In turn, it structures these conflicts by using its compositional models to create scenes of battle and single combat.’34 This is a narratological insight, but it should not be allowed to obscure the importance of the role played by the poetry, which is more than just an excuse for the fights. This importance is reinforced by the fact that poetry is spoken and criticised on the occasion of each encounter, and the basis of the whole section is the view, expressed by his opponents and accepted by ≤Antar, that poetry tops war as the ultimate source of success and renown. The outcome, however, is ambivalent and there is irony in the fact that ≤Antar’s poetry only succeeds thanks to the force of his arms.

Conclusion Combats, battles and wars form the basic narrative material of the siyar and they speak for themselves as evidence of the martial prowess of their heroes. It is, nonetheless, the poetry that expresses the thoughts and emotions that underlie the fighting, particularly on a personal level. In the examples studied in this chapter, this has been demonstrated by the expressions of personal motivation preceding the combats. It is significant that such expressions are very seldom found in prose; typically brief and simple are the words spoken in prose by Ab∑ l-AshbÆl to ≤Antar, ‘O wretched slave, there is no escape for you because I think you know nothing about me’, before he sets out his philosophy of evil in the poem quoted previously. It is also significant that ≤Antar’s continual resentment at his status as a black slave, which provides the motivation for his actions, is frequently expressed in his poetry but seldom in prose.

08_Warfare&Poetry_Ch8_193-214.indd 210

27/06/2013 11:58



Courage and Eloquence: ≤Antar, the Warrior-Poet of the siyar211

The use of poetry in the siyar also highlights the special status of poetry in Arabic life and literature. This may not be remarkable in the case of S∞rat ≤Antar, whose hero is a renowned poet, but it is a feature also of the other siyar. This is shown in the example cited above from DhÆt al-Himma, when Jundaba addresses the unknown and silent young warrior, before they fight, and urges him to use prose and not poetry:

so reply to me in poetry in the metre of my own poetry if you are indeed one of the people of poetry.35

There are situations whose importance calls for prose and not poetry. This point is made very explicitly in an exchange between Jundaba and the young warrior, after he has defeated him in the combat and discovered that he is a lady in disguise (his future wife, QattÆla). Having declined to say anything to Jundaba before their fight, when QattÆla decides to speak, following her defeat, she asks Jundaba: ‘Shall I tell you my story in prose or poetry?’ Jundaba replies emphatically: ‘I want to hear from you only poetry.’36 He may be linking poetry to truth and suggesting that now he wants to hear only the truth as compared with the previous deception of her disguise, but he also wants QattÆla to speak in poetry because it will prove her quality and status. Poetry is not only the right medium for expressing noble or chivalric thoughts, but it is also itself an element of chivalry. Jundaba’s poem above portrays metre as a weapon and poets as a special category of people, whose qualities are summarised in the line which follows the one quoted above: ‘you will be perfect with courage and eloquence’. The coupling of ‘courage and eloquence’ (shujÆ≤a and fa∆Æ≈a), which are necessary qualities for a true knight ‘protector’, highlights a theme which runs through all the siyar: poetry and valour go hand in hand and are both essential elements of a noble character. This provides the moral for the episode of ≤Antar and the mu≤allaqÆt as well as for the s∞ra as a whole.

Notes  1 The siyar are usually listed as including Qi∆∆at Z∞r SÆlim, S∞rat ≤Antar, S∞rat DhÆt al-Himma, S∞rat Ban∞ HilÆl, Qi∆∆at F∞r∑z ShÆh, S∞rat Sayf ibn Dh∞ Yazan, S∞rat

08_Warfare&Poetry_Ch8_193-214.indd 211

27/06/2013 11:58

212

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

√amza al-BahlawÆn, Qi∆∆at ≤Al∞ al-Zaybaq and, from the 1001 Nights, S∞rat ≤Umar al-Nu≤mÆn.   2 Heath, Peter, The Thirsty Sword, S∞rat ≤Antar and the Arabic Popular Epic (Salt Lake City, 1996), p.xiv.  3 All references to S∞rat ≤Antar are to the edition in eight volumes published by al-Maktaba al-ThaqÆf∞ya in Beirut in 1979.   4 Meaning ‘the hung’.   5 Literally ‘the father of knights’, meaning ‘greatest of the knights’.  6 S∞rat ≤Antar, vol. 5, pp.190–310.   7 Dover, Cedric, ‘The Black Knight’, Phylon, Atlantic University Review of Race and Culture (1954), pp.41–57 and pp.177–189. Cedric Dover’s study of the Black Knight highlights ≤Antar’s role as a symbol of resistance against racial discrimination and describes ≤Antar as ‘a lineal giant among that virile band of mulattoes whose lives have helped to sustain hope and endeavour through the centuries’. It is, however, not entirely clear whether he is referring to the historical or the fictitious ≤Antar.  8 S∞rat ≤Antar, vol. 1, p.115.  9 Wagner, Ewald, Die arabische Rangstreitdichtung und ihre Einordnung in die allgemeine Literaturgeschichte (Wiesbaden, 1963). 10 Wagner, Ewald, Die arabische Rangstreitdichtung, 8. 11 S∞rat ≤Antar, vol. 1, p.166. 12 Parks, Ward, Verbal Duelling in Heroic Narrative, the Homeric & Old English Traditions (Princeton, 1990), pp.43–50. 13 Parks, Ward, Verbal Duelling, p.43. 14 S∞rat DhÆt al-Himma, vol. 1, p.29. 15 S∞rat ≤Antar, vol. 1, p.145. 16 S∞rat ≤Antar, vol. 2, pp.50–61. 17 S∞rat ≤Antar, vol. 2, p.56. 18 S∞rat ≤Antar, vol. 2, p.57. 19 S∞rat ≤Antar, vol. 1, p.196. 20 Heath, Peter, ‘≥AyyÆr, The Companion, Spy, Scoundrel in Premodern Arabic Popular Narratives’ in Beatrice Gruendler (ed), Classical Arabic Humanities in their own terms. Festschrift for Wolfhart Heinrichs on his 65th Birthday (Leiden, 2008), p.24. 21 S∞rat ≤Antar, vol. 1, p.185. 22 Kipling, Rudyard, ‘Tommy’, in Rudyard Kipling’s Verse (Hodder and Stoughton, London, 1940), p.398. 23 S∞rat ≤Antar, vol. 5, p.194. 24 S∞rat ≤Antar, vol. 5, p.196. 25 This incident is cited by Remke Kruk as evidence of ≤Abla’s strong and independent personality. Kruk, Remke, ‘S∞rat ≤Antar ibn ShaddÆd’ in R. Allen and D. S. Richards (eds), Arabic Literature in the Post-Classical Period (Cambridge, 2006), p.300. 26 S∞rat ≤Antar, vol. 5, p.200. 27 The Prophet’s grandfather. 28 S∞rat ≤Antar, vol. 5, p.218. 29 S∞rat ≤Antar, vol. 5, p.220. 30 S∞rat ≤Antar, vol. 5, p.254. 31 S∞rat ≤Antar, vol. 5, p.303. 32 Mommsen, Katharina, Goethe und die arabische Welt (Frankfurt, 1988), p.63.

08_Warfare&Poetry_Ch8_193-214.indd 212

27/06/2013 11:58

33 34 35 36

Courage and Eloquence: ≤Antar, the Warrior-Poet of the siyar213 S∞rat ≤Antar, vol. 6, pp.640–652; and vol. 7, pp.5–11. Heath, Peter, The Thirsty Sword, pp.142–148. S∞rat DhÆt al-Himma, vol. 1, p.29. S∞rat DhÆt al-Himma, vol. 1, p.30.

08_Warfare&Poetry_Ch8_193-214.indd 213

27/06/2013 11:58

08_Warfare&Poetry_Ch8_193-214.indd 214

27/06/2013 11:58

Chapter 9

‘If only al-Barra¯q could see...’: Violence and Voyeurism in an Early Modern Reformulation of the Pre-Islamic Call to Arms Marlé Hammond If Barrak could see The sufferings I’m enduring Your sister is being tortured I’m being insulted day and night I have been chained I have been whipped Chain me, whip me! Torture me again Your tyranny disgusts me My salvation is death

The song lyrics above, ascribed to a certain LaylÆ bt. Lukayz, a preIslamic Arab maiden who is said to have been abducted from her tribe and threatened with forced marriage to a Persian king, appear on the superimposed dialogue sheets for the Arabic-language Egyptian film LaylÆ al-Badawiyya. These are located in the film’s case file at the New York State Education Department’s little-known film script archive at the State Museum in Albany.1 It seems that between 1927 and 1965, anyone wishing to screen a film anywhere in New York State had to submit an application to censors at the Motion Picture Division of that department. These applications necessarily included a complete script (or at least all dialogue

09_Warfare&Poetry_Ch9_215-240.indd 215

27/06/2013 12:11

216

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

heard in the film) and, in the case of foreign films, a translation of that script into English. The application for LaylÆ al-Badawiyya was received on 3 December 1947 and was approved only two days later2 – no doubt due to its lack of belly-dancing scenes.3 Given the film’s prior history with censorship, the applicant, a certain Sunset Film Corporation, must have been at least a little relieved. The 1944 film, entitled LaylÆ al-Badawiyya (LaylÆ the Bedouin) and directed by Bah∞ja √afiæ as well as, according to some sources, Mario Volpi,4 was the second incarnation of a film called LaylÆ Bint al-ßa≈rÆ≥ (LaylÆ, Daughter of the Desert) which was originally released in 1937 and banned soon thereafter, for it seems that the Egyptian authorities were at that time persuaded to act on Iranian sensitivities because of the engagement of the young Princess Fawzia to Muhammad Reza Pahlavi (who would become Shah in 1941);5 hence the plot of the film contained uncomfortable parallels with current events, and the film was seen as fomenting anti-Iranian sentiment. Censorship of the 1937 film extended well beyond Egyptian borders: British Colonial, Foreign and India Office files6 reveal the diplomatic furore set in motion by the film. The Iranians threatened to withdraw their ambassadors from countries where the film was allowed to be screened, and they successfully pressured both the British and the French to ban the film in their overseas territories. The British banned the film in both Palestine and India in 1937, and the French followed suit in Syria, Lebanon, Tunisia and Morocco in 1938. Italy also prohibited the film’s exhibition at the Venice film festival; there thus emerged a consensus among diplomats that the film should be banned, but on what grounds? The first paragraph of a telegram dispatched by Horace James Seymour – then His Majesty’s Minister in Tehran – and dated 18 July 1937 perhaps sums up the objections best: Political Director General of Ministry of Foreign Affairs made oral protest to me last night against exhibition of a film called ‘Leila, daughter of the desert’ which was released in Arabic in Egypt last month or in May. Film which seems a wild version of Leila Majnun legend, depicts Arabs as overthrowing Court of King Khosroes. This is unhistorical and wounding to national esteem of Persia.7

The Iranians were unwilling to permit the screening of a ‘bowdlerised’ version of the movie;8 for it was the very premise of the film, rather than incidental scenes or exchanges of dialogue, that offended them, especially

09_Warfare&Poetry_Ch9_215-240.indd 216

27/06/2013 12:11



‘If only al-BarrÆq could see...’: Violence and Voyeurism217

Reza Shah. When the film was re-released with some minor changes in 1944, it was deemed permissible by the British not so much because its content had changed significantly, but rather because Reza Shah’s successor, Muhammad Reza Pahlavi, did not seem to share what was perceived as his father’s ‘personal objections’;9 hence the British no longer feared a diplomatic row, and revoked the ban. The French, however, still considered the film problematic, and in 1947, the censors in Morocco banned it. According to Elizabeth Thompson: ‘the censorship board singled out objections to the portrayal of the monarch as a playboy’.10 The scenario of the film, like the legend upon which it is based, does contain certain parallels with the Majn∑n-LaylÆ story, such as the name of its female protagonist and the premise that the lovers are first cousins, and that the hero, al-BarrÆq, addresses love poetry to his beloved. There are also references to al-BarrÆq falling ill after LaylÆ has been taken away from her tribe. Unlike the ≤Udhr∞ tale, however, this is not a story about fatal lovesickness; rather it falls more into the type of ‘fairy tale’ one is very well acquainted with in the west of a damsel in distress being rescued by her knight-in-shining armour. Alongside this tale of abduction and rescue there is indeed a kind of politically militant subtext: to rescue LaylÆ the Arab tribes must unite against the Persians and wage war against them. LaylÆ al-Badawiyya opens with a kind of pan-Arabist anthem: We are the sons of the desert Always ready to fight Day and night we are riding We are always on the move We are always on our saddles We are the sons of liberty We worship our fatherland We are in every fight We have no fear of death We are always victorious The world is filled of our glory11

and it ends with a call to slay the tyrant: —Death... Death... Down with the tyrant. —Come on then... unite... line up... draw your swords... save your honour... forward. —Revenge... Revenge.12

09_Warfare&Poetry_Ch9_215-240.indd 217

27/06/2013 12:11

218

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East



13

But was the Iranian monarch the actual target of the film’s political polemic? Was the film really calling for the Arabs to unite and rise up against the Persians? While in my opinion there can be no doubt that the film displays some anti-Persian bigotry, it is also clear that the film was meant as an allegory about opposition to colonial rule. As if in mocking defiance of the British ban, when Bah∞ja √Æfiæ re-released LaylÆ Bint al-ßa≈rÆ≥ as LaylÆ al-Badawiyya, one of the only discernible changes she had made was that she renamed the Persian despot. Instead of KisrÆ, or Chosroes, he was now ‘Kinga’.14 That the symbol of despotism was now more explicitly associated with a British monarch by virtue of the new name’s similarity to the English word ‘king’ seems to have been lost on the British censors, who may or may not have reviewed the new version of the film, and who do not seem to have recognised the import of this change of names: the film was not calling on Arabs to unite against the tyranny of the Persians but rather against British colonial rule. This tale of a defiant Arab maiden who is abducted and threatened with rape at the hands of the Persian Empire, and who, against all odds, successfully guards her virginity, would seem to have served as a narrative conduit for nationalist, Arab nationalist and anti-colonial sentiment. In fact, one could argue, as Beth Baron has so persuasively demonstrated and thoroughly documented, the country of Egypt from the late nineteenth century is frequently personified in the print media as a woman, and at the same time rape often serves as a metaphor for colonial aggression;15 hence one could hardly hear tell of a young woman violated by a foreign king without thinking in terms of anti-colonial allegory. The supposed ancientness of LaylÆ’s abduction tale, far from making it irrelevant to the contemporary situation, serves through its association with cultural origins to heighten the cultural aspect of its polemic. Biographies of ancient women, eastern and western, historical and legendary, circulated rather widely in the women’s press, and also provided the subject matter for many important published volumes.16 They often acted as exemplary tales for the primarily female audience they addressed; both highlighting what would be possible for women in the public domain and emphasising the historical precedents for such possibilities.17 Although the film was unsuccessful, its anti-colonial allegorical force still found an audience, since one of the songs composed for its soundtrack,

09_Warfare&Poetry_Ch9_215-240.indd 218

27/06/2013 12:11



‘If only al-BarrÆq could see...’: Violence and Voyeurism219

adapted from the poem attributed to LaylÆ bt. Lukayz, a version of which is cited at the opening of this chapter, became celebrated throughout the Arab world. It is perhaps ironic that the very words that formed the crux of the battle cry18 circulated unhindered in musical form at the same time that the film faced an international ban. The song, which was set to music by Mu≈ammad al-Qa∆abj∞ and performed by AsmahÆn in a 1937 Baidaphone recording,19 provoked passionate responses in many quarters, both for its explicit representation of torture, sexualised by a narrative context of bride abduction and implied rape, and for the legal controversy that it engendered. The song had been commissioned by Bah∞ja √Æfiæ for the film LaylÆ Bint al-ßa≈rÆ≥, and √ayÆt Mu≈ammad and IbrÆh∞m Hamm∑da sang the al-Qa∆abj∞ composition repeatedly during the film, but the AsmahÆn recording presumably overshadowed their performances. In an apparently precedent-setting case, Bah∞ja √Æfiæ, claiming that the song was her intellectual property, sued Baidaphone for 10,000 pounds, and the court awarded her 500 pounds in compensation.20 The lyrics to the AsmahÆn song are excerpted from a 17-line poem in which the poetic persona addresses her brothers and her larger community and describes her humiliation in order to shame them into waging war on her captors. The poetic genre of ‘incitement’, whether to war (ta≈m∞s) or to blood vengeance (ta≈r∞∂), figures centrally in the early Arabic poetic canon and, like the lament, it has been closely associated with the female corpus. Hence the ascription of this poem to LaylÆ bt. Lukayz would seem relatively unproblematic: women were known to have composed verse in the genre, and her biography does not appear to be any more mired in legend than those of other early Arabic poets. In the early twentieth century, there would have been no reason for a layperson to cast any more doubt on the historicity of the figure of LaylÆ bt. Lukayz, otherwise known as ‘LaylÆ the Chaste’, than on those of other pre-Islamic poets. For, from the late nineteenth century onward, scholars and intellectuals had repeatedly evoked her biography as more or less factual or at least authentically anciently legendary. Perhaps the person most responsible for propagating the story of LaylÆ Bint Lukayz is Louis Cheikho, who includes entries on both al-BarrÆq and LaylÆ in his book Shu≤arÆ≥ al-Na∆rÆniyya, published in 1890, and to whom he assigns death dates of ad 47021 and ad 483 respectively.22 Cheikho’s references for these two ‘historical’ figures are either inaccurate or inadequate. At the end of al-BarrÆq’s biography he cites al-Kalb∞’s Jamharat AnsÆb al-≤Arab, Iskandar Ab∞kÆr∞y∑s’s TÆr∞kh al-≤Arab, ∏abaqÆt al-Shu≤arÆ≥, and a ‘manuscript collection of ancient poetry’.23 The

09_Warfare&Poetry_Ch9_215-240.indd 219

27/06/2013 12:11

220

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

reference to al-Kalb∞ does not pan out – a fact which has caused Irfan Shahid some consternation.24 Despite his frustration at Cheikho’s failure to reference properly, Shahid does not seem to doubt the historical validity of al-BarrÆq as a pre-Islamic Christian Arabic poet; rather he assumes that ‘Cheikho must have derived his information from some manuscript of the Jamharat at his disposal, or from a medieval Arabic text which quoted HishÆm as the source for its account of al-BarrÆq’.25 Cheikho’s other sources also turn out to be problematic: al-BarrÆq does not appear in al-Juma≈∞’s TabaqÆt Fu≈∑lat al-Shu≤arÆ≥, nor in any other book with a similar title, at least not in one that I have been able to track down; the ‘manuscript collection of ancient poetry’ is obviously too vague to be useful; and Iskandar AbkÆriy∑s does not seem to have authored a book entitled TÆr∞kh al-≤Arab. To be fair, this last reference does appear to be genuine, if not properly cited, since AbkÆriy∑s did include the story of LaylÆ and al-BarrÆq in Tazy∞n NihÆyat al-Arab, a book he published in 1867.26 The references cited at the end of LaylÆ’s entry are the same as those mentioned for al-BarrÆq, apart from ∏abaqÆt al-Shu≤arÆ≥, which is not mentioned. Between 1890 and 1897, the publication dates of Shu≤arÆ≥ al-Na∆rÆniyya and RiyÆ∂ al-Adab, Cheikho seems to have done his homework, and in his entry on LaylÆ in the latter he provides proper references.27 Instead of ‘a manuscript collection of ancient poetry’, he cites: 1) KitÆb al-RaqÆ≥iq f∞ Majm∑≤ al-Shi≤r al-JÆhil∞ al-RÆ≥iq, which he identifies as a manuscript at ‘our Eastern library’; 2) Iskandar AbkÆriy∑s’s ‘TÆr∞kh al-≤Arab’, with a page reference for the poem he cites in his entry on LaylÆ that confirms the identity of this work as Tazy∞n NihÆyat al-Arab; 3) ‘Mr. Hartmann’s manuscript in Berlin’;28 4) ‘Sprenger 1215’ in Berlin;29 and 5) the London manuscript ‘Add. 18,528’. Although the London manuscript contains only a passing reference to our warrior-poet, these references were indeed genuine, and they kick-started my quest for manuscript sources. To date, all of the manuscript sources of the legend I have traced include the story as the opening tale of a collection of folkloric romances appended to copies of al-Qurash∞’s Jamharat Ash≤Ær al-≤Arab. None of my sources, including a serialised version of the tale published in 1858 in √ad∞qat al-AkhbÆr and AbkÆriy∑s’s book, predate 1797, the year before the Napoleonic invasion of Egypt. It would seem that although LaylÆ’s persona is ancient her legend is not. Rather, it turns out that her damsel-in-distress-type tale probably originated towards the end of the eighteenth century as a semi-folkloric prequel or ‘pre-history’ to the epics of Kulayb WÆ≥il and al-Z∞r SÆlim, and that it

09_Warfare&Poetry_Ch9_215-240.indd 220

27/06/2013 12:11



‘If only al-BarrÆq could see...’: Violence and Voyeurism221

was only integrated into ‘official’ literary history over the course of the nineteenth century, through figures such as AbkÆriy∑s and Cheikho. The latter, a great champion of Christian contributions to the classical Arabic poetic legacy, seems to have taken a special interest in al-BarrÆq because he was said to have grown up under the influence of a monk who taught him how to recite the New Testament:



30

Cheikho drew this sentence verbatim from his source/s,31 and others who followed Cheikho reproduced it in kind. Aloys Sprenger, in a prolonged summary of the legend, a legend which he sees as epitomising the ‘epos’ of the Arabs, likewise highlights this sentence, no doubt drawn from the manuscript in his possession, and conveys it in English as follows: ‘When Barráq was young he used to go out to the pasture grounds, milk the camels and carry the milk to the Christian hermit, who instructed him in reading the gospel, for our hero was a Christian.’32 Not all versions of the tale refer to this monk or his influence on al-BarrÆq, and the two earliest manuscripts make no mention of him or of al-BarrÆq’s knowledge of Christianity at all. Although I cannot prove it, since there may very well be manuscripts of the tale I have not yet located, my belief is that the legend of al-BarrÆq b. Raw≈Æn and his beloved LaylÆ has a relatively recent, perhaps even ‘modern’, semi-folkloric pedigree. It may have appeared abruptly and been ‘authored’, albeit anonymously, but it seems to have been modelled on oral epics, and may have been performed through recitation. The contention that it originated recently would seem to be supported by certain formal elements that characterise the relatively new folktale, most notably: 1) the lack of fantastical themes; and 2) the generation of an ancestor for a preexisting epic hero. In connection with the first point, I am drawing on Propp and his observations, when comparing versions of a given tale and assessing the likely ages of its various constituent parts, that ‘a fantastic treatment of a wondertale component is older than a rational treatment’;33 when an apparently folkloric text has no fantastic components, perhaps it is fair to assume that it is less ancient. With regard to the second, it derives from Howard Bloch’s study of the French chansons de geste, which he avers ‘were composed in reverse chronology pointed always toward the origin of the family line… The earlier a character or event can be situated within the global cycle, the later, generally speaking, the date of its addition to the

09_Warfare&Poetry_Ch9_215-240.indd 221

27/06/2013 12:11

222

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

whole.’34 In our case, al-BarrÆq does not figure as a ‘progenitor’ for preexisting heroes but rather a cousin-in-law, but his adventure is presented as anterior to theirs.35 It is interesting to note that while the ‘ancientness’ of the tale, that is to say its pre-Islamic setting, would have made its veracity questionable to scholars at the turn of the twentieth century, its lack of fantastic components would, to the contrary, have made the story all the more believable and authentic. Jurj∞ ZaydÆn, who, in his description of the romance, clearly places it under the rubric of ‘story’ rather than ‘history’, finds that the tale of al-BarrÆq, and the other legends appended to the Jamhara36 are among those Arabic heroic narratives ( ), that mediate 37 between history and fiction. Assuming that the legend was transmitted and recorded in writing on the authority of ≤Umar b. al-Shabba,38 who died in 262 ah, ZaydÆn notes that the legend of al-BarrÆq, in comparison with that of ≤Antar, is ‘smaller in size and closer to the truth’ – the idea being that oral epics expand and become exaggerated with the passage of time. The ‘realism’ of the legend, for ZaydÆn, attested in some way to the proximity of the events described and their codification in writing. ‘Perhaps’, he writes, ‘if it had passed from hand to hand and the storytellers had transmitted it orally until the era when the story of ≤Antar was written down ( ), then it would have turned out similarly’.39 ZaydÆn’s speculation is not unlike Propp’s contention that fantastic components of a story are a function of the folkloric imagination over the passage of time, but ZaydÆn was working under a false assumption about the legend’s age. Ultimately, the age of our legend is unknown, even if the circumstantial details surrounding the sources I have located suggest a late eighteenthcentury origin. But what does seem rather clear to me, as someone who has engaged critically with women’s verse, or with verse ascribed to women, is that many of the poetic paradigms that inform LaylÆ’s poetry, are quite atypical not only of canonical women’s verse but also the more obviously folkloric specimens. A comparative analysis between this particular instance of incitement and its more authentically ancient prototypes, be they ‘literary’ or ‘folkloric’, reveals sharp discrepancies, the most prominent of which involves the poetic persona’s gaze. Whereas in ancient forms of incitement the provocative element rests in the female poetic persona’s graphic descriptions of a defiled male body (typically a slain warrior), in this latter-day reformulation the woman’s voice invites her audience to visualise the defilement of her own body. Here I will assess this paradigmatic evolution (nay ‘remove’) and attempt to situate it within

09_Warfare&Poetry_Ch9_215-240.indd 222

27/06/2013 12:11



‘If only al-BarrÆq could see...’: Violence and Voyeurism223

the nineteenth-century cultural milieu, and its nascent feminist, nationalist and anti-imperialist movements, especially with regard to notions about gender relations and armed conflict.

The poem What follows is a recension of the poem based on versions present in four manuscript sources: 1) ‘Arabe 5833’ at the Bibliothèque Nationale de Paris, copied in 1797; 2) ‘Or. 2676’ at the Leiden University Library, undated, probably originating from the late eighteenth or early to mid-nineteenth century; 3) ‘Ms. Or. Oct. 1383’ in Berlin, copied in early 1824; and 4) ‘Ahlwardt 9747’ in Berlin, copied in 1854.   1

  5

 10



40

 15

1   If only al-BarrÆq had an eye to see     the agony and distress I endure    My brothers, Kulayb, ≤Uqayl     Junayd, help me weep    Woe upon you, your sister has been tortured     by disavowal morning and night    They fettered me, shackled me, and beat     my chaste [sensitive area] with a stick

09_Warfare&Poetry_Ch9_215-240.indd 223

27/06/2013 12:11

224

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East 5   The Persian deceives whenever he approaches me     and I’m on my last breaths of life    Fetter me, shackle me, do     whatever agony you [all] will to me    For I abhor your infringement     and the certainty of death is something to desire    O men of stature, Ban∑ KahlÆn,     do you lead us to the beast?   O IyÆd∞s, your hands are tied    blindness confounds Burd’s41 view 10  O Ban∑ al-A≤yÆ∆, are you not cutting     the cords of hope for the Ban∑ ≤AdnÆn?    Be patient, stand good stead     every victory is hoped for after hardship   LaylÆ’s palms have become shackled     like the shackling of great kings    Collared and fettered in the open     asked to do base things    Say to the ≤AdnÆn, ‘You’ve been shown the way, tuck up     for retribution from the detested clan 15  Tie banners in their lands,     unsheathe your swords, and press on in the forenoon’   O Ban∑ Taghlib, press on until victory     leave off the inertia and slumber    Beware: shame is at your heels, upon you     as long as you linger in lowliness

A comparative analysis Collective grief The poetic persona opens her poem with weeping – a cry for help – as well as an appeal for others to cry alongside her. According to Ignaz Goldziher, in the ancient Arabic funerary tradition tribal women would express their grief through weeping and wailing for a period of up to a year. This keening would begin with the female relatives of the deceased, who would later call on other women to join them. ‘...The custom emerged that female neighbours and close friends assisted the women in this calling: for demands of assistance in the lamentation from females outside the family, one had the

09_Warfare&Poetry_Ch9_215-240.indd 224

27/06/2013 12:11



‘If only al-BarrÆq could see...’: Violence and Voyeurism225

.’42 Thus the imperative (as≤id∑n∞) in line 2 here plays a bifurcated term and in a way self-contradictory role. On the one hand, in the context of the narrative in which it is embedded, the phrase represents LaylÆ’s first cry for help. Here is a damsel in distress addressing male relatives and pleading with them to rescue her. The female/male damsel/knight opposition thereby emerges as the dominant gender dynamic within the poem. On the other hand, her address to her potential rescuers does contain a measure of emasculation since it involves her manly interlocutors in a collective weeping activity normally reserved for women. In modern Arabic, this fourth-form verb means ‘to make happy’, and its connotations with regard to the ancient funerary custom of women’s collective weeping may be lost on the contemporary reader. It has sometimes been interpreted as ‘help me’ rather than ‘help me weep’.43

Passivity and the poetic persona The poetic persona underscores her victimisation and helplessness by creating an exaggeratedly passive voice. In the first line she situates herself as the object of her beloved’s (as well as her audience’s) gaze. The somewhat stultified grammar of the first hemistich, layta lil-BarrÆqi ≤aynan fa-tarÆ ‘if only al-BarrÆq had an eye then it would see...’, enhances the voyeuristic element by referring explicitly to the eye as the organ of vision. It is not just that she wishes her beloved to see her in the sense of knowing where she is and how she is doing, of being acquainted with her circumstances, but rather that she wants him to visualise her mistreatment. The choice of the feminine verb tarÆ, referring back to the eye, over the masculine yarÆ, referring back to al-BarrÆq, then invites the audience to participate in this gaze. By disengaging the eye from al-BarrÆq, the poetic persona makes her visualisation less specific to al-BarrÆq himself; and more generally associated with anyone with the capacity of vision. The verb conjugation also perhaps succeeds in addressing a listener directly, since the third-person singular feminine and the second-person singular masculine are identical: tarÆ (she/it would see) = tarÆ (you would see). This ambiguity of address persists as the poetic persona employs the vocative with a number of addressees, including her brothers, her captors and no less than four clans of her greater tribal (Arab) community. LaylÆ makes herself the direct object of a verb six times: as≤id∑n∞ (help me [weep], line 2); ghallal∑n∞ (they shackled me, line 4); qayyad∑n∞ (they fettered me, line 4); yaqrubun∞ (he approaches me, line 5); qayyid∑n∞ (fetter me, line 6); and ghallil∑n∞ (shackle me, line 6). She is also the indirect or

09_Warfare&Poetry_Ch9_215-240.indd 225

27/06/2013 12:11

226

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

implied object of the verbs ∂araba and fa≤ala in lines 4 and 6. Elsewhere, LaylÆ constitutes the subject of verbs in the passive voice. In these instances the poetic persona speaks in the third person: ≤udhdhibat ukhtukum (your sister has been tortured, line 3); a∆ba≈at LaylÆ yughallalu kaffuhÆ (LaylÆ’s palm has become shackled, line 12); tuqayyad (she is fettered, line 13), tukabbal (she is collared, line 13); and tuπÆlab (she is asked [to do], line 13). In the context of the elegiac ode, this passivity is reminiscent of descriptions of the deceased as they occur in the death scene, where a beloved warrior is attacked by the enemy, abandoned by his comrades, left to die, and sometimes mutilated by scavengers. In the context of the prototypical elegy, however, images of the deceased’s passivity in death are countered by descriptions of a hero who is anything but passive. Scenes of the hero fighting, travelling, feeding and so on are composed in an active third-person masculine replete with active participles and intensive adjectives. In the following line, the deceased is shown abandoned to the enemy fighters and swords, but his agency remains through the active participle fÆris, albeit as the object of a verb: 44 You left a warrior – abandoned him    He was felled by fighters and swords in turns

This call to arms offers an intriguing contrast since LaylÆ is narrated almost entirely in the passive – with the following exceptions. LaylÆ is the subject of an active verb on two occasions, and two occasions alone. One is the aforementioned third-person a∆ba≈at in line 12, which, since it introduces a passive verbal construction does not endow LaylÆ with any subjective agency. The other instance, which occurs in the opening line of the poem and conjugated in LaylÆ’s first person, is uqÆs∞ (I suffer, I endure), and it carries much more active force, albeit a force that stems from victimisation. There is, however, a third instance of verbal agency – this time in the form of the active participle kÆriha, ‘hating’ or ‘hateful’. While in Arabic the active participle normally behaves as an adjective, serving in line 7 as the predicate of a nominal sentence, here it somewhat unusually takes a direct object, in effect acting as a verb; anÆ kÆrihatun baghyakum, or ‘I hate your infringement/violation’. These latter two formulations; ‘I endure’ and ‘I hate’, represent the sum total of LaylÆ’s subjective agency, perhaps encapsulating, rather simplistically, the role of the non-combatant in a time of war; enduring hardship and detesting the enemy.

09_Warfare&Poetry_Ch9_215-240.indd 226

27/06/2013 12:11



‘If only al-BarrÆq could see...’: Violence and Voyeurism227

The body laid bare Hence there emerges a sharp contrast between the activity and agency of the deceased in the elegiac ode and the utter passivity of LaylÆ’s poetic persona in this particular call to arms. Nevertheless, LaylÆ positions herself on the verge of death – a near corpse – in line 5, where she says ‘wa-ma≤∞ ba≤∂u ≈ushÆshÆti l-≈ayÆ’. In the pre-Islamic elegiac ode, the call for blood vengeance is built upon images of: 1) the abandonment of the deceased, rendered passive through combat; and 2) the defilement of his corpse. In connection with the latter, one often finds references to scavengers – a favourite is the hyena that was thought to fornicate with the deceased as well as to menstruate on his remains.45 As S. P. Stetkevych has shown, in poems calling for blood-vengeance (including many elegiac odes), poets would employ images of menstrual blood to evoke a ‘polluted’ corpse.46 That state of pollution could only be washed away with a revenge killing; hence such images also form the crux of the instigation to violence. An expression of female sexuality threatens the (male) deceased and threatens to bring shame on the greater tribal community. The poetic mechanism of inciting (males) to war involves a polluting female sexual threat to their masculinity as fighters. This is the case in much of the ‘classical’ corpus – poems attributed to pre- and early Islamic poets and collected in written compilations by the ninth or tenth century bc. These menstrual tropes are used to evoke shame in a variety of contexts. Typically, as suggested above, they evoke the dishonoured state of the warrior’s male survivors, such as in the following verse by al-KhansÆ≥, in which she calls upon her kinsmen to avenge her brother’s death: 47

[so that] you wash away a shame that has en-clothed you    The way menstruating women wash in the wake of the pure48

But menstrual tropes may be found in other, less belligerent contexts as well. For example, in the following line a greying man whose son – not unlike our LaylÆ – has been abducted by a Persian king speaks of his dark hair in terms of menstrual imagery: 49

The black on my head appears as if    It is blood running through the fingers of washing women50

09_Warfare&Poetry_Ch9_215-240.indd 227

27/06/2013 12:11

228

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Granted, the premise of LaylÆ’s poem differs greatly from the pre-Islamic call for blood-vengeance. What we have is not the slaying of a warrior but rather the abduction of a young woman. Nevertheless, the difference between the sexual poetics in LaylÆ’s call to arms, which is not, in my view authentically ancient but rather a product of the late eighteenth-century imagination, and that of the typical elegiac call to arms is rather striking, especially with regard to its inversion of sexual encoding. This time it is masculinity threatening to pollute femininity: the ‘impurity’ of shame expresses itself not in a menstrual trope but rather in imagery of rape. In this poem, LaylÆ’s ‘corpse’ or nearly lifeless body is abused in a variety of ways: she is beaten (line 4), shackled and fettered (lines 4, 6, 12, 13), and subjected to general humiliation and denigration (lines 1, 2, 13); but it is the image in line 4 that is the most provocative:

‘They beat my chaste place with a stick’ is highly evocative of penetration in the sense that ‘malmas’, as a noun of place derived from the verb ‘to touch’, suggests a place of touch or physical contact. Coming as it does in a construct with ‘chastity’, it would seem to refer to the poetic persona’s genitalia, which are described as beaten with a (phallic) stick. This overtly sexual line is missing from Cheikho’s recension, and one Francophone scholar attributes this omission to Cheikho’s ‘pudibonderie’ or ‘prudishness’.51 When, in line 6, the poetic persona says, ‘Do whatever [atrocity] you want to me’, she would seem to be daring her captors to rape her. For the imperfect but nevertheless noteworthy parallelism between the first hemistich of line 6, with its three verbs (qayyada/ghallala/fa≤ala) in the imperative, and line 4 and its three verbs (ghallala/qayyada/∂araba) in the past tense, link the meanings of the second hemistich of each line such that one imagines that what they want to do to her is an act of aggression against her ‘chaste place’. It is interesting to note that while the version of line 4 that is found in the song by al-Qa∆abj∞, as performed by AsmahÆn,52 desexualises the image by replacing malmas al-≤iffa with jism∞ l-nÆ≈il, so that it is LaylÆ’s frail body rather than the contact point of her chastity that is beaten with the stick. Nevertheless, the narrative context surrounding the song implied rape, and the import of line 6 was therefore not lost on the song’s listeners. A biographer of al-Qa∆abj∞ writes: In this song al-Qa∆abj∞ attains a high degree of powerful musical expression. Every word in it conveys its meaning sincerely. It depicts the feelings of a young

09_Warfare&Poetry_Ch9_215-240.indd 228

27/06/2013 12:11



‘If only al-BarrÆq could see...’: Violence and Voyeurism229 woman (LaylÆ) when she is raped by some evil men, and when they imprison her and start subjecting her to all kinds of torture, such that she prefers death to giving in to their desires, and she longs for her cousin (al-BarrÆq), who loves her, to witness the oppression and torture she endures.53

The complicit gaze The erotic element to the poem is quite intense, in that the listener, via al-BarrÆq’s eye, is invited to gaze upon LaylÆ’s beautiful body as it is being manhandled; while her body’s degradation is meant to be jarring and to incite the poem’s addressees into action, it also to some extent draws attention to her sexual desirability – after all it is for her beauty that she has been abducted in the first place. There is a paradoxical tension between the way in which the poetic persona first invites the listener to gaze upon her defenceless sensual body and then proceeds to accuse him (her male listener) as complicit in her humiliation. What I would argue is her universal accusation of complicity occurs in line 6, the dare:

Fetter me, shackle me, do/whatever agony you [all] will to me

Ostensibly, in this line she is addressing her captors (i.e. those who shackled, fettered and beat her in line 4). However, the adverb jam∞≤an in the second hemistich suggests that the second-person masculine plurality she addresses may in fact be broader than that, including, potentially, all males. This interpretation could perhaps be supported by the multiple shifts in address that occur throughout the poem; for the poetic persona addresses a number of male others. She begins with her paramour, al-BarrÆq: while this address is indirect, in the sense that she does not employ the vocative, it is worth repeating that the tarÆ of the second hemistich could be understood as ‘you [al-BarrÆq] would see’ rather than ‘it/she [al-BarrÆq’s eye] would see’. Then, in line 2, she directly addresses her brothers, and this address is sustained through line 5. Lines 6–7 are then addressed to her captors or to a more general male entity. This is followed by three lines addressing Arab tribes that are actively allied with the Persian regime (the KahlÆn in line 8, the IyÆd in line 9 and the A≤yÆ∆ in line 10), whom she is trying to shame away from cooperation with the Persians. There is thereafter a brief respite from the vocative, with lines 11–13 containing third-person reportage of LaylÆ’s predicament. Finally, lines 14–17 address the tribes of ‘AdnÆn and

09_Warfare&Poetry_Ch9_215-240.indd 229

27/06/2013 12:11

230

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Taghlib (initially via a messenger), as LaylÆ attempts to incite them to war against the Persians and their Arab allies. One could interpret this jam∞≤an in line 6 as an attempt to implicate all the male addressees in the poem as taking vicarious pleasure in her degradation, or one could argue that it is meant to implicate, more specifically, the tribes evoked in lines 8–10. Lines 6–7 address her individual captors, on the one hand, and the tribes to which they belong, collectively. It is not necessarily all men who are made complicit, but rather only those men whose tribes have somehow reneged on the cause of Arabdom.

From loincloths to flags In calling his or her kinsmen to arms, the ancient poet often deploys the second-form verb shammara, which means to ‘tuck up’ or ‘roll up’ one’s garment, often in preparation for war. Paired with this verb one often finds a synonymous expression, the phrase shadda ≤uqada l-ma≥Æzir (or a variant thereof), which means ‘to tie the knots of one’s loincloth or cover’. Such a pairing occurs in a single verse by al-KhansÆ≥: 54

Fasten your waist-wrappers in order that you are ready and able,    And tuck them up for these are days for tucking55

A further connotation of the second Arabic phrase ‘tying the loincloths’ knots’, one which is not necessarily transparent in translation but which is central to our interpretation of the poem, involves purity and pollution; for loincloths may be clean and fresh, or they may be very dirty indeed, and as al-Zamakhshar∞ tells us, one epithet for a ‘clean’ person is ≤af∞f al-izÆr or ‘chaste of loincloth’.56 Consider the following verses by Muslim b. al-Wal∞d, which use the phrase to make the transition from an image of purity to an image of warfare:

57

They wanted to hide his grave from his enemy    But the [pure] sweet smell of the dust over his grave gave it away A young man who, ever since he tied the knot of his loincloth,    Was ever effecting magnanimity or fighting at the front58

09_Warfare&Poetry_Ch9_215-240.indd 230

27/06/2013 12:11



‘If only al-BarrÆq could see...’: Violence and Voyeurism231

LaylÆ, too, employs the verbs shammara and ≤aqada in lines 14 and 15 above:

This time, however, it is not the warriors’ loincloths that are to be tied but rather their banners (rÆyÆt), or their communal flags. The notions of honour and purity that are implicit in the image and that were, in the context of pre- and early Islamic elegy and incitement to war, intimately bound to the figure of the warrior, are here transferred onto LaylÆ, the damsel in distress, and the geographical territories she allegorically embodies.

Conclusion In my analysis of the poem’s re-inscription of ancient Arabic poetic conventions, I have attempted to show that it is a product of a different literary tradition than the one in which it purports to partake. This should come as no surprise; if my theory that the legend is a product of the eighteenth-century imagination proves correct, why would it reflect a similar sensibility? But is there anything about its manipulation of classical conventions that reflects a certain ‘modernity’ of outlook, and what does the legend reveal about attitudes towards women and warfare in the precolonial society that produced it, and the colonial society that embraced and transformed it? Some conventions are so engrained as narrative and poetic formulae that there are plenty of points in the legend and its songs that do not necessarily differ from older models. Occasionally, however, phrases or images stand out as counterintuitive within the ‘classical’ folkloric framework, and would seem rather to reflect thought processes characteristic of the shifts that occurred either shortly before or at the outset of the colonial encounter. I will now, in conclusion, explore a common thread running throughout LaylÆ’s battle cry and its distinctive re-appropriation of conventions – namely the binarisation of gender polarity – and I will further substantiate the phenomenon with reference to other statements, images or actions that occur in the romance. Gender polarity is always to be expected in a grammatical system that has no category of neuter; but one tends to find sexes interact and intertwine in meaningful ways, expressed both grammatically and through imagery. The defilement of the male warrior with menstrual blood, discussed above,

09_Warfare&Poetry_Ch9_215-240.indd 231

27/06/2013 12:11

232

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

is one such interpenetration, but a touch of the feminine in the masculine is also sometimes used to heighten a male warrior’s heroism and virtue. Two such instances occur in one poem by the Umayyad LaylÆ al-Akhyaliyya, who says of her beloved Tawba: 59

And Tawba is more bashful than a maiden    And bolder than a lion lurking in a KhaffÆn lair60

While the English translation suggests that the feminising comparison is limited to the first hemistich, in fact in the original Arabic it extends into the second; for, as I explain elsewhere, the verb khadara means ‘to keep inside’ and is associated in particular with the seclusion of women.61 Later in the poem, LaylÆ al-Akhyaliyya compares Tawba’s brother ≤AbdullÆh, who is brave enough to protect his wounded sibling on the battlefield, to a dhÆt al-baww, a female camel whose deceased offspring has been stuffed so that she as a mother will continue to produce milk.62 These gender games are not limited to the verses of subversive female master-poets, but are also prevalent in the narratives and poems of the ≤Udhr∞ genre, such as that of Majn∑n LaylÆ, of which the LaylÆ and al-BarrÆq legend was thought to have been a ‘wild version’. The typical ≤Udhr∞ tale, in which a lovesick poet wastes away when his beloved first cousin is married off to someone else, tends to feature a theme of parity between the poet and the beloved.63 In the ‘AkhbÆr ≤Urwa b. HishÆm’ featured in Ab∑ l-Faraj al-I∆fahÆn∞’s KitÆb al-AghÆn∞, this parity is often expressed through grammatical gender. ≤Urwa’s beloved ≤AfrÆ≥ is frequently modified by masculine pronouns and sometimes described with words that do not take feminine endings. Often dual and plural verb conjugations that would potentially hide female presences are replaced with paired repetitions of verbs taking contrasting conjugations, such as fa-bakÆ wa-bakat, for ‘he wept and she wept’.64 Some ≤Udhr∞ tales contain scenes in which the lovesick poet cross-dresses in order to penetrate the women’s quarters and meet with his beloved. The al-BarrÆq narrative explicitly rejects this tactic when it is suggested to him by one of LaylÆ’s female friends: ‘I will not visit her in women’s clothing’, he says, ‘it is inevitable that Fate will assist me so that I meet her in the clothing of heroes’.65 No such ≤Udhr∞ parity exists in LaylÆ’s battle cry, where the gender polarity is for the most part extreme: she is the victim, her male addressees her rescuers; she is the object of desire, they are the desirers. Even when

09_Warfare&Poetry_Ch9_215-240.indd 232

27/06/2013 12:11



‘If only al-BarrÆq could see...’: Violence and Voyeurism233

they are ever so slightly feminised by being called upon to participate in collective female lamentation, they are the subject and she is the object. As≤id∑n∞ is her S.O.S. The voice of the subjugated can be a powerful thing, and there is a sense in which LaylÆ’s poem may be read as feminist; but it is elsewhere in the legend where this feminist current presents itself most explicitly:

I do long for what you mentioned    But the honour of the chaste female is like a weaving strung What power do I have against what my father wants for me?    Does one who stands at the bottom reach the precipice? Women are abased and hidden    They are known for their weak, defenceless will.66

Addressing a female relation, LaylÆ reveals her powerlessness when confronted with her father’s wish to marry her off to an Arab king rather than her beloved al-BarrÆq; her sense of belonging to a female collective serves only to heighten her vulnerability. Further on, al-BarrÆq expresses the exact opposite sentiment vis-à-vis the males surrounding him:

I am a son of Shem, a descendant of NizÆr    Of noble honour and celebrated stock I am surrounded by every formidable,    Rightly-willed, tightly-wrapped Wa≥il∞67

Note the repetition of the key words ≤ir∂ and ra≥y, and the way they relate the male/female opposition in connection with the basic human values of ‘honour’ and ‘judgement’. Ra≥y, which I have translated above as ‘will’, evokes thought, opinion and decision-making: while women are known for their weakness in this regard, the [male] WÆ≥il∞ is strong-willed and perspicacious; this is a rather straightforward binary. ≤Ir∂, on the other hand, applies to both female and male equally, yet it pivots on different

09_Warfare&Poetry_Ch9_215-240.indd 233

27/06/2013 12:11

234

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

axes for each.68 ≤Ir∂, which I have translated as ‘honour’, often has strong sexual connotations, as it certainly does here for LaylÆ: LaylÆ’s ≤ir∂ is a factor of her ‘chastity’; her honour as a chaste female rests clearly with her virginity, her resistance of all non-marital sexual contact. Indeed, the ‘happy ending’ of this romance explicitly mentions her virginity:

They married al-BarrÆq to LaylÆ and she was a virgin; neither Arab nor Persian had conquered her.69

Al-BarrÆq’s honour, on the other hand, is a factor of his lineage, his noble ancestry, his relationship to his male ancestors and his male peers. Although al-BarrÆq demonstrates sexual propriety in the romance – for example, when he resists the advances of the wife of one of his servants who attempts to seduce him – his sexual conduct is not really at issue, but rather his ability to defend LaylÆ and his kinsmen against the enemy on the battlefield. Granted, the image of the tightly wrapped WÆ≥il∞s surrounding him may contain just a hint of sexual purity. The eminent early twentieth-century Egyptian writer Malak √ifn∞ NÆ∆if can hardly be blamed for assuming that LaylÆ bt. Lukayz was ‘real’. Nevertheless, it is ironic that in her essay entitled ‘The Arab Woman, Yesterday and Today’,70 she draws on the apparently historical figure of LaylÆ to project a certain timelessness of what she sees as Bedouin values in Arab society and to propose chastity as a tool of active resistance to enemy aggression. She wrote the piece during the Italo-Turkish War of 1911–1912 in response to an incident in which a woman from Tripoli was taken captive by the Italians and subsequently rescued by members of the Bara≤i∆a tribe. The abducted woman, a certain Maryam, reportedly uttered a statement in which she ridiculed her captors as children, not men. Due to what she sees as the parallels between the two stories of abduction, near rape and verbal defiance, NÆ∆if dubs Maryam ‘LaylÆ of the Present Age’.71 NÆ∆if further describes Maryam in her captivity as an ‘honourable prisoner’ (as∞ra shar∞fa) whom the enemy are unable to see as licit instead of illicit (tastakbir an yastahillaha l-a≤dÆ≥ wa-hiya ≈arÆm) because ‘the chastity that courses through her veins’ (al-≤iffa allÆt∞ tajr∞ f∞ ≤ur∑qihÆ) repels them (ta∆udduhum ≤anhÆ).72 In the context of Italy’s colonial war in Libya, NÆ∆if sees Maryam’s chastity as a form of anti-colonial resistance, and by linking Maryam to the pre-Islamic LaylÆ, there is a sense in which the author extends the analogy beyond Libya to other Arab lands facing

09_Warfare&Poetry_Ch9_215-240.indd 234

27/06/2013 12:11



‘If only al-BarrÆq could see...’: Violence and Voyeurism235

colonial predicaments. Perhaps the allegorical adaptability of the tale, however polemically strengthened by its apparent historicity, was actually a function of its ‘modernity’, immersed as that modernity might have been in grossly exaggerated if not culturally alien binaries.

Notes  1 Leila la Bedouine, File 50803, Box 1335. The superimposed dialogue appears in both English and Spanish.  2 Leila la Bedouine.   3 In August 2011, I perused the case files of all the Egyptian films that were required to make ‘eliminations’ before their application was approved. The vast majority of these involved belly-dancing sequences that were perceived as obscene.  4 See, for example, the online catalogue entry for the film at the Bibliotheca Alexandrina, available at http://www.bibalex.org/bacatalog/catalog_ar.aspx? skin=default&lng=ar (accessed 31 December 2012).   5 Hafez, Bahiga, ‘On the Egyptian Silent Film’, al-HilÆl 10 (1965), pp.27–31, available at http://www.bibalex.org/alexcinema/articles/Bahiga_Hafez.html (accessed 31 December 2012); R. Hillauer, Encyclopedia of Arab Women Filmmakers (Cairo, American University in Cairo Press, 2005), p.30.   6 These files are: 1) CO 323/1421/3, correspondence concerning the prohibition in Palestine of the original version of the film, LaylÆ Bint al-ßa≈rÆ≥, covering the period between July and December 1937; 2) FO 371/52594, correspondence concerning the permissibility of exhibiting in Palestine the later version of the film, LaylÆ al-Badawiyya, covering the period between February and May 1946; and 3) IOR/L/PJ/7/1296, correspondence regarding the prohibition India of LaylÆ Bint al-ßa≈rÆ≥ (and the lifting of that prohibition for LaylÆ al-Badawiyya), covering the period between July 1937 and March 1946. This third file also contains copies of French correspondence dating from the years 1937–1939 about the banning of the original version of the film in France and French territories.   7 CO 323/1421/3, document 1.   8 CO 323/1421/3, document 1.   9 FO 371/52594, document 28. 10 Thompson, E. F., ‘Politics by Other Screens: Contesting movie censorship in the late French Empire’, Arab Media & Society (January 2009), p.6. 11 Leila la Bedouine, File 50803, Box 1335. These lyrics appear on the song sheets and dialogue sheets, but not in the original Arabic script, which excludes the song lyrics. 12 Leila la Bedouine, File 50803, Box 1335, script translation, p.16. 13 Leila la Bedouine, File 50803, Box 1335, Arabic script, p.16. 14 This is apparent in the comparative synopses of the two films found in the Colonial and Foreign Office files. One also finds the name ‘KisrÆ’ in the reprint of the original programme of LaylÆ Bint al-ßa≈rÆ≥. 15 Baron, B., Egypt as a Woman (Berkeley/Los Angeles, 2005). For rape as a metaphor for colonial aggression, see Chapter 2, ‘Constructing Egyptian Honor’ (40–56), especially pp.45–49. 16 An excellent introduction to woman-centred publishing in Egypt at this time is Beth Baron’s The Women’s Awakening in Egypt: Culture, Society and the

09_Warfare&Poetry_Ch9_215-240.indd 235

27/06/2013 12:11

236

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Press (New Haven, 1994). Baron focuses on the press, but she also discusses women’s forays into book-writing. A key ‘biographical dictionary’ authored by a woman in this period is Zaynab FawwÆz, al-Durr al-Manth∑r f∞ ∏abaqÆt RabbÆt al-Khud∑r (B∑lÆq, 1894–1895). Incidentally, FawwÆz’s dictionary contains no entry on LaylÆ bt. Lukayz, an omission which suggests that her persona had not yet become widely known. 17 See Booth, M., May Her Likes be Multiplied: Biography and Gender Politics in Egypt (Berkeley, 2001). In a note on p.391, Booth refers to a biographical sketch of our protagonist, ‘Shah∞rÆt al-nisÆ≥: LaylÆ l-≤Af∞fa’, FatÆt al-Sharq (15 January 1913), pp.121–122. I have not yet been able to consult this piece. 18 The song version recorded by AsmahÆn differs slightly than the version represented by the film’s subtitles; it also differs from the recension of the poem featured later in this chapter. For this reason, I reproduce the AsmahÆn version here:

19 Ma≈m∑d KÆmil, Mu≈ammad al-Qa∆abj∞: √ayÆtuh wa-a≤mÆluh (Cairo, 1971), pp.52–53. 20 KÆmil, Mu≈ammad al-Qa∆abj∞, p.53. 21 In an earlier publication Cheikho had assigned a death date of ad 525 for al-BarrÆq b. Raw≈Æn. See ‘al-BÆb al-tÆsi≤ ≤ashar f∞ l-tarÆjim’, MajÆn∞ al-Adab f∞ √adÆ≥iq al-≤Arab 4 (Beirut, 1883), p.282. 22 See Cheikho, L. [Luw∞s Shaykh∑], KitÆb Shu≤arÆ≥ al-Na∆rÆniyya, al-juz≥ al-awwal (Beirut, 1890), pp.141–147 and pp.148–150. 23 Cheikho, KitÆb Shu≤arÆ≥ al-Na∆rÆniyya, p.147. 24 He writes: ‘It is regrettable that the indefatigable Cheikho did not document this important reference accurately and in detail. He asserts twice, and in unambiguous terms, that he derived his account from the Jamharat al-Nasab of HishÆm al-Kalb∞… But the Jamharat as studied by W. Caskel has no reference in its Register to the poet al-BarrÆq…’; I. Shahid, Byzantium and the Arabs in the Fifth Century (Washington, DC, 1989), p.427n. 25 Shahid, Byzantium and the Arabs, p.427n. 26 Tazy∞n NihÆyat al-Arab f∞ AkhbÆr al-≤Arab (Beirut, 1867), pp.211–300. 27 Cheikho, L., RiyÆ∂ al-Adab f∞ MarÆth∞ ShawÆ≤ir al-≤Arab (Beirut, 1897), p.2. 28 This corresponds to (Ms. Or. Oct. 1383). 29 This corresponds to (Ahlwardt 9747). 30 Cheikho, RiyÆ∂ al-Adab, p.141. 31 This is how the sentence appears in AbkÆriy∑s, Tazy∞n, p.221; √ad∞qat al-AkhbÆr, 1.39, p.2; Ahlwardt 9747, p.78 recto; Ms. Or. Oct. 1383, p.87 verso. 32 Sprenger, A., ‘Notes on Alfred von Kremer’s edition of Wáqidy’s Campaigns’ (Second Notice), Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal 25.3 (1856), p.199. For Sprenger’s discussion of the romance as representative of the Arabs’ literary epos, see p.200. 33 Propp, V., ‘Transformations of the wonder tale’ in Anatoly Liberman (ed), Theory and History of Folklore, tr Ariadna Y. Martin and Richard P. Martin (Minneapolis, 1984), p.88.

09_Warfare&Poetry_Ch9_215-240.indd 236

27/06/2013 12:11



‘If only al-BarrÆq could see...’: Violence and Voyeurism237

34

Bloch, H., Etymologies and Genealogies: A Literary Anthropology of the French Middle Ages (Chicago/London, 1984), p.94. 35 LaylÆ’s father, Lukayz b. Murra, is the brother of Rab∞≤a b. Murra, the father of Kulayb WÆ≥il and Muhalhil. 36 They are the story of Kulayb and his consolidation of power over the Yemen, followed by the story of the War of the Bas∑s. 37 Jurj∞ ZaydÆn, TÆr∞kh Adab al-Lugha l-≤Arabiyya, vol. 2 (Cairo, 1912), p.293. 38 ZaydÆn, TÆr∞kh Adab, p.293. 39 ZaydÆn, TÆr∞kh Adab, p.294. 40 Reading the final word in this line as al-banÆ, after Paris-Arabe 5833. As a poetic licence, the final tÆ≥ has been cut off (as has that of al-≈ayÆ[t]) in line 5. 41 Burd is the half-Arab, half-Persian ‘middleman’ who oversees LaylÆ’s abduction and holds her prisoner until he can sell her on to the Persian king, called ‘Shahrmayh’ in the manuscript sources. 42 Goldziher, I., ‘Bemerkungen zur arabischen Trauerpoesie’, Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde des Morgenlandes 16 (1902), p.321. Translation mine. 43 Many modern, published recensions of the poem have ( ) rather than ( ). This is probably due to the fact that Cheikho’s Shu≤arÆ≥ al-Na∆rÆniyya (1, pp.148–149) is the most common scholarly source for the poem. See, for example, Muta≤ ßafad∞, øliyÆ √Æw∞ and Khal∞l √Æw∞ (eds), Maws∑≤at al-Shi≤r al-≤Arab∞ (Beirut, 1974), vol. 4, p.510, where ( ) is mentioned as a variant in the notes to line 2. 44 [Murra b. Suwayd al-La≈iq∞], as quoted in Ab∑ TammÆm, KitÆb al-Wa≈shiyyÆt, ed ≤Abd al-≤Az∞z al-Mayman∞ al-Rajk∑t∞, 3rd impression (Cairo, 1987), p.142. 45 See Stetkevych, S. P., ‘Sarah and the Hyena: Laughter, Menstruation, and the Genesis of a Double Entendre’, History of Religions 35 (1996), pp.13–41; and The Mute Immortals Speak: Pre-Islamic Poetry and the Poetics of Ritual (Ithaca: NY, 1993), pp.66–67 and pp.79–80. 46 Stetkevych, The Mute Immortals Speak, p.67. 47 Anwar Ab∑ Suwaylim (ed), D∞wÆn al-KhansÆ≥ shara≈ahu Tha≤lab Ab∑ l-≤AbbÆs A≈mad b. Ya≈yÆ b. SayyÆr al-ShaybÆn∞ al-Na≈w∞ (Amman, 1988), pp.290–302, line 24. 48 Hammond, M., Beyond Elegy: Classical Arabic Women’s Poetry in Context (Oxford, 2010), p.78. 49 Ab∑ ≤AddÆs al-Namar∞, as quoted in Ab∑ TammÆm, KitÆb al-Wa≈shiyyÆt, ed ≤Abd al-≤Az∞z al-Mayman∞ al-Rajk∑t∞, 3rd impression (Cairo, 1987), p.141. 50 Translation mine. 51 Bichr Farès, L’Honneur chez les Arabes avant l’Islam (Paris, 1932), 75n. Farès’s translation of the line, ‘ligotez-moi, battez-moi; l’objet de ma pudeur se trouve dans le ≤aça’, suggests that he is conflating line 4 (where the verbs in the first hemistich are in the past tense) with line 6 (where the verbs are in the imperative). Farès, drawing on the recension in the Tazy∞n, accuses Cheikho of ‘disfiguring line 6’; but actually Cheikho has omitted line 4. Farès also appears to understand ≤a∆Æ not as ‘stick’, but rather as the name of a distant star; as such, his parsing and interpretation of the line are rather different from mine. 52 According to the notes I made when viewing the film LaylÆ al-Badawiyya (shelfmark 791.4372) at the Bibliotheca Alexandrina in April 2009, when the character LaylÆ, played by Bah∞ja √Æfiæ, first recites the line she employs the phrase ‘malmas al-≤iffa’, but I am not certain that it appears in the versions of the text that are sung by √ayÆt Mu≈ammad and IbrÆh∞m √amm∑da.

09_Warfare&Poetry_Ch9_215-240.indd 237

27/06/2013 12:11

238

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

53 KÆmil, Mu≈ammad al-Qa∆abj∞, p.53. 54 Anwar Ab∑ Suwaylim, D∞wÆn al-KhansÆ≥, pp.290–302, line 13. 55 Translation Hammond, Beyond Elegy, p.77. 56 Al-Zamakhshar∞, AsÆs al-BalÆgha (Beirut, 1996), p.5. 57 Muslim b. al-Wal∞d, as quoted in Ab∑ TammÆm, KitÆb al-Wa≈shiyyÆt, p.143. 58 Translation mine. 59 Ibn Maym∑n, MuntahÆ l-∏alab min Ash≤Ær al-≤Arab, ed Fuat Sezgin, 3 vols (Frankfurt, 1986–1993); vol. 1, p.45, line 20. 60 Translation mine. Hammond, Beyond Elegy, p.82. 61 Al-Zamakhshar∞ opens his entry on the root kh-d-r (AsÆs al-BalÆgha, 102) as follows:

62 63

See Hammond, Beyond Elegy, p.94 and note. See Jacobi, R., ‘The ≤Udhra: Love and Death in the Umayyad Period’, in Friederike Pannewick (ed), Martyrdom in Literature. Visions of Death and Meaningful Suffering in Europe and the Middle East from Antiquity to Modernity (Wiesbaden, 2004), pp.137–148. For more on the ≤Udhr∞ paradigm, see Stefan Leder, ‘The Udhri narrative in Arabic literature’, in the same volume, pp.162– 189. 64 Ab∑ l-Faraj al-I∆fahÆn∞, KitÆb al-AghÆn∞ 24 (Cairo, 1935–). Some of these gender games may be found on pp.146–147, 149, 151–153, 155–157 and 160. 65 AbkÆriy∑s, Tazy∞n, p.298. 66 AbkÆriy∑s, Tazy∞n, pp.230–231. Translation mine. 67 AbkÆriy∑s, Tazy∞n, p.244. Translation mine. 68 In her book Arab Folk Epic and Identity (Berkeley, 1986), Bridget Connelly discusses the use of the term in the S∞rat Ban∞ HilÆl. See pp.123–124. 69 AbkÆriy∑s, Tazy∞n, p.300. Translation mine. 70 Malak √ifn∞ NÆsif, ‘al-Mar≥a al-≤Arabiyya amsi wa-l-yawm’ in Majd al-D∞n √ifn∞ NÆ∆if (ed), ≠thÆr BÆ≈ithat al-BÆdiya (Cairo: al-Mu≥assasa l-Mi∆riyya l-≤≠mma li-l-Ta≥l∞f wa-l-Tarjama wa-l-Nashr, 1962), pp.289–292. 71 NÆsif, ‘al-Mar≥a al-≤Arabiyya’, p.290. 72 NÆsif, ‘al-Mar≥a al-≤Arabiyya’, p.290.

Bibliography AbkÆriy∑s, Iskandar, ‘√arb al-BarrÆq’, Tazy∞n NihÆyat al-Arab f∞ AkhbÆr al-≤Arab (Beirut, 1867), pp.211–300. Ab∑ l-Faraj al-I∆fahÆn∞, KitÆb al-AghÆn∞ 24 (Cairo, 1935–). Ab∑ TammÆm, KitÆb al-Wa≈shiyyÆt, ed ≤Abd al-≤Az∞z al-Mayman∞ al-Rajk∑t∞, 3rd impression (Cairo, 1987). Anonymous, ‘RiwÆyat al-BarrÆq bin Raw≈Æn’, √ad∞qat al-AkhbÆr, 1.39–1.48 (2 October 1858–4 December 1858). Anwar Ab∑ Suwaylim (ed), D∞wÆn al-KhansÆ≥ shara≈ahu Tha≤lab Ab∑ l-≤AbbÆs A≈mad b. Ya≈yÆ b. SayyÆr al-ShaybÆn∞ al-Na≈w∞ (Amman, 1988). AsmahÆn, Les Archives de la musique arabe: Asmahan, Vol. 1 (Baidaphone compact disc, 1989).

09_Warfare&Poetry_Ch9_215-240.indd 238

27/06/2013 12:11



‘If only al-BarrÆq could see...’: Violence and Voyeurism239

Bahiga Hafez, ‘On the Egyptian silent film’, al-HilÆl, October 1965, Issue 10, pp.27– 31, available at: http://www.bibalex.org/alexcinema/articles/Bahiga_Hafez.html (accessed 31 December 2012). Baron, B., The Women’s Awakening in Egypt: Culture, Society and the Press (New Haven, 1994). ———, Egypt as a Woman (Berkeley/Los Angeles, 2005). Bichr Farès, L’Honneur chez les Arabes avant l’Islam (Paris, 1932). Bloch, H., Etymologies and Genealogies: A Literary Anthropology of the French Middle Ages (Chicago/London, 1984). Booth, M., May Her Likes be Multiplied: Biography and Gender Politics in Egypt (Berkeley, 2001). Cheikho, L., MajÆn∞ al-Adab f∞ √adÆ≥iq al-≤Arab 4 (Beirut, 1883). ———, [L∑w∞s Shaykh∑], KitÆb Shu≤arÆ≥ al-Na∆rÆniyya, al-Juz≥ al-awwal (Beirut, 1890). ———, RiyÆ∂ al-Adab f∞ MarÆth∞ ShawÆ≥ir al-≤Arab (Beirut, 1897). Connelly, B., Arab Folk Epic and Identity (Berkeley, 1986). Goldziher, I., ‘Bemerkungen zur arabischen Trauerpoesie’, Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde des Morgenlandes 16 (1902), pp.307–339. Hammond, M., Beyond Elegy: Classical Arabic Women’s Poetry in Context (Oxford, 2010). Hillauer, R., Encyclopedia of Arab Women Filmmakers (Cairo, 2005). Jacobi, R., ‘The ≤Udhra: love and death in the Umayyad period’ in Friederike Pannewick (ed), Martyrdom in Literature. Visions of Death and Meaningful Suffering in Europe and the Middle East from Antiquity to Modernity (Wiesbaden, 2004), pp.137–148. Leder, S., ‘The Udhri narrative in Arabic literature’ in F. Pannewick (ed), Martyrdom in Literature. Visions of Death and Meaningful Suffering in Europe and the Middle East from Antiquity to Modernity (Wiesbaden, 2004), pp.162–189. Ma≈m∑d KÆmil, Mu≈ammad al-Qa∆abj∞: √ayÆtuh wa-amÆluh (Cairo, 1971). Malak √ifn∞ NÆsif, ‘al-Mar≥a al-≤Arabiyya amsi wa-l-yawm’ in Majd al-D∞n √ifn∞ NÆ∆if (ed), ≠thÆr BÆ≈ithat al-BÆdiya (Cairo, 1962), pp.289–292. Ibn Maym∑n, MuntahÆ l-∏alab min Ash≤Ær al-≤Arab, ed Fuat Sezgin, 3 vols (Frankfurt, 1986–1993). Muta≤ ßafad∞, øliyÆ √Æw∞ and Khal∞l √Æw∞ (eds), Maws∑≤at al-Shi≤r al-≤Arab∞ (Beirut, 1974). Propp, V., ‘Transformations of the wonder tale’, in Anatoly Liberman (ed), Theory and History of Folklore, tr Ariadna Y. Martin and Richard P. Martin (Minneapolis, 1984), pp.82–99. Shahid, I., Byzantium and the Arabs in the Fifth Century (Washington, DC, 1989). Sprenger, A., ‘Notes on Alfred von Kremer’s edition of Wáqidy’s Campaigns’ (Second Notice), Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal 25.3 (1856), 199–220. Stetkevych, S. P., The Mute Immortals Speak: Pre-Islamic Poetry and the Poetics of Ritual (Ithaca, 1993). ———, ‘Sarah and the hyena: laughter, menstruation, and the genesis of a double entendre’, History of Religions 35.5 (1996), pp.13–41. Thompson, E. F., ‘Politics by other screens: contesting movie censorship in the late French empire’, Arab Media & Society (January 2009), pp.1–23. Al-Zamakhshar∞, AsÆs al-BalÆgha (Beirut, 1996). ZaydÆn Jurj∞, TÆr∞kh Adab al-Lugha l-≤Arabiyya, vol. 2 (Cairo, 1912). Zaynab FawwÆz, al-Durr al-Manth∑r f∞ ∏abaqÆt RabbÆt al-Khud∑r (B∑lÆq, 1894–1895).

09_Warfare&Poetry_Ch9_215-240.indd 239

27/06/2013 12:11

240

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Manuscripts and archival material Ahlwardt 9747, Berlin, copied in 1854, 77v–141v. Arabe 5833, Paris (copied in 1797), 107v–131. Ms. Or. Oct. 1383, Berlin, copied in early 1824, pp.87–147. Or. 2676, Leiden, undated, 155v–231. British Library, India Office Records, IOR/L/PJ/7/1296. British National Archives, Colonial Office, CO 323/1421/3. British National Archives, Foreign Office, FO 371/52594. √Æfiæ Bah∞ja, LaylÆ al-Badawiyya (Bibliotheca Alexandria shelfmark 791.4372/VHS 748). New York State Film Script Archive, State Museum at Albany, File 50803, Box 1335: Leila la Bedouine.

09_Warfare&Poetry_Ch9_215-240.indd 240

27/06/2013 12:11

Chapter 10

‘I am a civil war’: The Poetry of Haim Gouri Tamar S. Drukker In May 1947, Haim Gouri, a young Palestinian Jew (born in Tel Aviv, 1923) and a member of the Palmach, leaves his homeland for the first time, when he is sent as a Haganah envoy to Europe. His mission is to locate Jewish Holocaust survivors, mainly in Hungary, and to organise and prepare them for emigration to Palestine. This meeting with the survivors, and with the Jewish Diaspora, is one of the formative experiences in Gouri’s life, alongside, and in many ways closely related to, his experiences as a fighting soldier in Israel’s war of Independence in 1948. In January 1948, Gouri is still in Europe, travelling between Prague and Vienna, meeting with members of Jewish Zionist movements among the remains of the Jewish communities. While in Vienna, he comes across a headline in an English-language newspaper of the American army detailing the death of 35 Jewish militants in battle in the Judean hills. A few days later, back in his rented room in Budapest, among the pile of post awaiting him, is also a copy of Davar, the Hebrew language daily newspaper from Mandatory Palestine, listing the names of an entire unit of the Palmach whose members were killed en route to Jewish settlements in the Etzion Bloc, south of Jerusalem, where they were meant to deliver aid and supplies.1 There and then, Gouri sat and wrote a poem in their memory. According to Gouri’s own testimony, the writing was meant to allow him to express his pain, but was not intended for publication. Three or four drafts ended up crumpled and thrown on to the coal fire in his room. One such draft landed on the floor. The next morning, Gouri’s landlady presented him with his wrinkled pages, ironed, mentioning that she had found a manuscript. ‘My husband was a writer’, she added, ‘he taught

10_Warfare&Poetry_Ch10_241-256.indd 241

27/06/2013 12:12

242

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

me to never throw away any written words’. Gouri thanked her, copied his poem and sent it to the poet and literary editor Avraham Shlonsky, who published it on the first page of the literary weekly Itim on 19 March 1948.2 And this is the poem: ‘Here our bodies lie’ To Danny and his friends Look, here our bodies lie in a long, long row. Our faces have changed. Death reflects from our eyes. We do not breathe. Last twilights turn dark and the evening descends on the mountain. Look, we will not rise to roam the roads in the light of a distant sunset. We will not love; we will not strum strings in quiet and solemn tunes, We will not shout out in the gardens while the wind blows in the forest. Look, our mothers bent down and silent, and our friends hold back their weeping, And a nearby explosion of hand-grenades and fire and signs foretelling the storm! Will you bury us now? For we shall rise, and we will emerge again as before, and be resurrected. We shall stagger awesome and great rushing to help, Because everything inside us is still alive and streaming in the veins and burning hot. We did not betray. Look, our rifle is beside us and empty of ammunition, our quiver is empty. It remembers our words to the end. Its barrels are still hot And our blood is sprayed on the paths step by step. We did all we could, until the last one fell and did not rise. Will we be accused for remaining dead by evening And our lips upon the hard rocky earth? Look, what a great and vast night. Look, the blossom of stars in the dark. The scent of the pine trees. Bury us now, and the clots of earth on our faces. Here the barbed wire is bristling, trenches, here all of us together.

10_Warfare&Poetry_Ch10_241-256.indd 242

27/06/2013 12:12



‘I am a civil war’: The Poetry of Haim Gouri 243 A new day, do not forget! Do not forget! For we carried your name, until death closed our eyes. Here our bodies lie, a long row, and we are not breathing. But the wind is strong in the mountain and breathing. And the morning is born, and the dew sparkles anew. We will come back, we will meet, will return as red flowers. You will recognize us instantly, this is the mute ‘mountain unit’. Then we shall bloom. When in the mountains the final cry of the shotgun will fall silent.3

The poem was reprinted in Gouri’s first collection Flowers of Fire, published in 1949, and reprinted, anthologised, recited and sung4 countless times since. Gouri himself has often said that the poem was ‘no longer his own’ as it has its own life and biography, reappearing as it does in different anthologies, and recited in public and private ceremonies and occasions.5 From its first appearance, the poem has become a symbol of the Jewish struggle for national independence and the bloody price the Zionist community in Palestine has paid for the establishment of the State of Israel. The poem has received little critical attention, as it became, almost overnight, a monument, a secular liturgy to the national ritual of memory and sanctifying of the fallen soldiers. ‘The mountain unit’ or the convoy of 35, headed by Danny Mass, was a unit of the Haganah that set out on foot to resupply and reinforce four blockaded Jewish kibbutzim in the Etzion Bloc. They never arrived at their destination. Just after dawn, on 16 January, they were spotted by a local Arab, near the village of Tzurif, and were soon attacked by a strong force of hundreds of militants. The fighting lasted all day and, according to some reports, the Jewish fighters continued to fight until they ran out of ammunition and all found their death in battle. The fact that the entire platoon was killed and that many of the victims were students at the Hebrew University and the rumours surrounding their fate,6 all added to the shock and heightened the emotional response to this single episode in what was to be a long and bitter war.7 A contemporary of Gouri, a young American Jewish woman who arrived in Palestine as an exchange student at the Hebrew University and then decided to stay and join the Palmach, writes to her parents on 19 January 1948: Jerusalem’s face was sad today. It isn’t easy to accept the fact of death, and even harder when you know personally many of those who died. But thirty-five boys is heartbreaking, all young wonderful people. […] Oded [Ben

10_Warfare&Poetry_Ch10_241-256.indd 243

27/06/2013 12:12

244

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East Yamin] was also among the dead. You remember I mentioned him in earlier letters. He was one of the first sabras [native Palestinian Jews] to befriend me. In fact, when I first arrived he took me on an excursion to that very area and hiked me over those hills to visit the kibbutzim in Gush Etzion [the Etzion Bloc] so I would learn to love the land as he did. Just before he left for this assignment he came to say ‘hello’ and we talked at length as always arguing in earnest about… Oh hell, what’s the difference now?8

This letter remained, until recently, the property of one Jewish family, whereas Gouri’s poem, dedicated to the memory of Danny Mass, the commander of the group and an acquaintance of Haim Gouri, and that of his men, became almost a national hymn. ‘Here are bodies lie’ and other Gouri’s wartime poems have become national memorials, sanctifying and promoting a national myth.9 Anita Shapira, in an illuminating article in Haaretz daily newspaper, argues that the tragedy of the Convoy of the 35 had all the elements needed to turn into a national myth, and yet it is Gouri’s poem that immortalised it and made it into one of the most famous and formative narratives of the young nation’s struggle for independence.10 The poem uses the first person plural, giving voice to the dead who speak from beyond life, after the battle, addressing a first-person singular addressee. The voice is of the collective, of the entire group of friends – as they are called in the poem’s dedication – and the fact that there are so many of them who share this fate is stressed in the repetition in the first line, ‘a long long row’. The first stanza insists on their complete annihilation, on the finality of death, and on the young lives that have been so violently and completely cut short. The only thing that remains of these young men, who were full of life and potential, of love, perception and music, is now their dead corpses, laying on the familiar landscape of the Judean hills. In the second stanza a link is made between the dead and those still living, the mothers and the friends mourning their dear ones. Yet still, the voice is of the collective, as is too the experience of mourning. The question ‘[w]ill you bury us now’ (line 9) is addressed to the second-person plural, whose joined reaction to this tragedy and attempt to bring it to closure is bound to fail. As the poet suggests, that despite the certainty of death on which he insisted in the first stanza, the dead ‘shall rise… emerge again as before…’ (line 10), to continue to fight for the cause. Since these soldiers died on the way to give aid and support to the Jewish settlements and in the battle for the establishment of a Jewish state, they are highly

10_Warfare&Poetry_Ch10_241-256.indd 244

27/06/2013 12:12



‘I am a civil war’: The Poetry of Haim Gouri 245

motivated and their cause is still valid, and as long as the war rages on, in them too ‘everything […] is still alive and streaming in the veins and burning hot’ (line 12). In the third stanza, Gouri adopts an apologetic tone and defends the victims from possible criticism. Perhaps informed by the rumours and myths already surrounding this episode, the poet again assumes the voice of the dead to insist on their courage and dedication to the cause. ‘We did not betray […] [w]e did all we could’ (lines 12, 15) claim the fighters who have lost the battle so magnificently. Gouri may have heard accounts of the battle as described by British forces who arrived at the scene towards the end of the day, and stories told among the Palmach fighters on how the very last remaining living soldier threw stones at his attackers once he ran out of ammunition.11 And again, this stanza concludes with the physical lifelessness of the dead bodies closely linked to the land, ‘the hard, rocky earth’ (line 18). The return to the corporal physical condition of the dead at the end of the third stanza, allows them now to accept the burial, the complete immersion of the bodies with the landscape, a landscape that is natural and attractive and at the same time still carries the marks of the battlefield. The ‘trenches’ (line 22) are those used for fighting as well as the last resting place of the fallen who have kissed the earth and now feel it on their faces (line 21).12 The imperative, which the poet uses in the beginning of the first and the second stanza ‘look’ (lines 1, 4, 7), is repeated in the first two lines of the fourth stanza, shifting the reader’s gaze from the dead to their surrounding, the vast night that engulfs them. Once buried, a new day will begin (line 23) and with it a new imperative call to the reader – ‘do not forget! Do not forget!’ – a demand that the poet puts in the mouths of the dead and by doing so already fulfils it. The concluding stanza returns to the opening of the poem, but the passage of time is marked. The long row now is of the graves, now that the dead have been buried and a new day begins. But even in this scene there is no conclusion and death is not finite, for the landscape is alive and the dead ‘will return as red flowers’ (line 28).13 They will not return, as before, to continue the battle, but to mark the end of hostilities, a time when their death could be viewed as an achievement, as the necessary price paid for peace and independence.14 On 9 December 1947, Natan Alterman, the leading Hebrew poet in the yishuv, a poet admired by and the source of inspiration for the young Haim Gouri, published in his weekly column in the daily newspaper Davar a poem describing the price that the Jewish nation would have to pay in the

10_Warfare&Poetry_Ch10_241-256.indd 245

27/06/2013 12:12

246

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

lives of young men and women on the road to independence. In the poem, two anonymous young fighters represent the casualties of war: […] Dressed in battle gear and heavy boots They will quietly ascend the path They did not change their garb, nor wash off The signs of hardship and the night spent in battle. Endlessly tired, devoid of rest, And sweating of dew of Hebrew youth Silently the two will approach and stand still Not giving a sign whether they are alive or already dead.

Unlike the very real and named dead of Gouri’s poem, these remain vague, yet in both poems the fallen soldiers stand for an entire generation, that of Gouri himself. And Alterman, too, gives them a voice as they address the readers/the nation: Then the nation will ask, with tears and with awe, And will say: ‘who are you’, and the two with respond Calmly: ‘we are the silver platter On which the Jewish state was given to you’.15

Gouri, well aware of Alterman’s poem, and writing in its shadow, moves away from the symbolic and meta-historic tone of ‘The Silver Platter’, describing the flesh and blood of the fallen soldiers, and speaking in a more direct and emotive fashion. Both poems have become immediately, and have remained ever since, the pillars of poetic commemoration in the pantheon of Hebrew national consciousness. The readers of both Alterman and Gouri, in 1947–1948, felt that these poems spoke about them and on their behalf, and assisted them in coping with the continuing loss of young lives. For the generation of the fighters, Gouri gave voice to their experiences whereas the generation of the parents, the early Zionist pioneers, could find expression in these poems of their feeling of pride as well as guilt towards their sons. Either way, no one could ignore these poems.16 The poem ‘Here our bodies lie’ expresses Gouri’s instinctive identification with the tragic death of his peers, as well as with those who remain.

10_Warfare&Poetry_Ch10_241-256.indd 246

27/06/2013 12:12



‘I am a civil war’: The Poetry of Haim Gouri 247

And yet the poem’s powerful and emotive language and its success with the Israeli reading public is also a result of a wider context. Gouri, who after the UN resolution on the partition of the land on 29 November 1947, had requested from his superiors to return to Palestine and partake in the fighting, feels at once very close to yet very distant from the everyday events back in Palestine. Among the 35 victims of the ‘mountain unit’ were fighters he had trained and others he had fought alongside. He could speak on their behalf, as he was one of them, a sabra, a native born Jew, whose biography followed the same paths and who shared the same culture and ideology.17 Typical of the literature of this generation is the use of the firstperson plural, on which Gouri himself often commented, apologetically,18 and the shared, familiar landscape and language.19 But what is hidden in Gouri’s imperative to ‘look’ and see the bodies of the 35 dead Palmach soldiers is the fact that he cannot see them, that he is far away, and that he cannot, for the first time in his life, understand his connection to the place he calls home as well as to a Jewish nation that is bigger and different from the Zionist yishuv in whose fold he was born and educated. One of his first impressions of Europe is found in his poem ‘Geneva 1947’, which also appeared in Flowers of Fire (1947), where Gouri expresses the foreignness of this city to his sabra Palestinian identity, but also in relation to recent Jewish history in Europe. This place remains untouched and unrelated to either: A quiet and thoughtful foreign land. A great silence of twilight. Parks, and ancient, ancient time. From afar, the Mont Blanc. On Lac Leman The boats float gently. A calm day passes slowly. Flowers, music band, café, And a great silence passes by. A gendarme in uniform Smiles pleasantly, ‘merci monsieur’. A woman with a flower on her head. Here my blood was never spilled, And the Rhone did not carry corpses. Here the troops did not beat My babies on the cobblestones.

10_Warfare&Poetry_Ch10_241-256.indd 247

27/06/2013 12:12

248

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East Here the blinded houses of the city Did not collapse as hit by thunder, Nor a stormy wind shake Tattered flags in cheer.20

And it is against this idyllic landscape that Gouri sees the image of the destruction of European Jewry, itself a ‘foreign’ event, but which instantly becomes ‘his own’. The cycle of European poems in this collection (entitled ‘A Migrating Bird’) deals mostly with the poet’s sense of alienation, the impossibility of reconciling the familiar Israeli landscape with this foreign land, and the ominous and terrible recent history that this European landscape has witnessed. This section, about a third of the book, is framed with poems that touch directly on the Israeli-Arab conflict, describing Gouri’s own experience while fighting in the Negev desert in 1948, and including the celebrated poem ‘Here our bodies lie’. But these two very different locations – Europe and the land of Israel – and the two traumatic events in Jewish history – the Holocaust and the 1948 war – resurface in Gouri’s later poetry and prose. The encounter with the survivors of the Holocaust and with Jewish life in the Diaspora re-emerges in Gouri during the Eichmann trial in Jerusalem in 1961–1962. Gouri collected his impressions of the trial in his book Facing the Glass Booth: the Jerusalem trial of Adolf Eichmann, first published in Hebrew in 1962, and in his fictional novel The Chocolate Deal from 1965. But already in 1960, Gouri gives voice to the personal accounts of Holocaust survivors he met in Hungary in 1947 in poems in his volume Compass Rose. One such poem is ‘Little Koti’, which opens with the lines: ‘One day, in the lamplight/little Koti told me details about the strange deaths.’21 The poem deals directly with the Holocaust and its effect on the survivors, but the horrors are only hinted at, suggestively, to an audience that would easily decipher the hints. Gouri asks, ‘[h]ow many beautiful women like little Koti are resting now/beneath the snow?’ (lines 8–9), aware of the presence of death, and nightmarish memories in the life of Koti and others, a world he can only begin to understand and only describe through facts, as in his poem from the same collection, ‘Chapter headings for a diary’: One night of the nights of 1947. One night in January. Snow on the city that was. Snow on the city that is no longer.

10_Warfare&Poetry_Ch10_241-256.indd 248

27/06/2013 12:12



‘I am a civil war’: The Poetry of Haim Gouri 249 […] Lorries of the JOINT, as ambulances, arrive at ‘Rothschild-Spital’ Bringing with them the Jewish people who is fatally wounded. Who exchanges, with little hope, a Leica camera in the black market. […] One night of the nights of 1947 A night of medication Injected into the body of a plagued city. […] (lines 1–4, 13–15, 20–23)

Gouri cannot write about the horrors of the Holocaust, nor of the nightmares that haunt the survivors, but only of the knowledge and memory of it as experienced from a distance, both temporal and geographical.22 But the same distance, in time and place, does not prevent him from complete identification with the Jewish soldiers fighting for the establishment of the State of Israel, a fate he shares and experiences as part of a national collective. And it is this sense of shared fate that is expressed in his poetic retelling of the Biblical story of the binding of Isaac23 in the poem ‘Inheritance’:24 […] Isaac, so it is told, was not sacrificed. He lived for many days, Saw good, until the light of his eyes grew dim. But he bequeathed that hour to his offspring. They are born And a knife in their heart.

(lines 11–16)

Here, again, Gouri speaks on behalf of his generation, of those who gave their lives in 1948, and on the generation of the parents who saw their children killed fighting for the land that they promised them.25 Gouri’s strong identification with the fallen soldiers of 1948, and his personal formative experience as a fighter and a commander in battle,26 colours his poetic vision, his language and worldview. An ardent Zionist, who believes that the fighting and the victory in 1948 were inevitable, Gouri still expresses in his poetry a strong and genuine wish for peace, as well as a recognition of the humanity of the enemy and the bitter results of warfare on all those involved.

10_Warfare&Poetry_Ch10_241-256.indd 249

27/06/2013 12:12

250

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Another poem in his collection Compass Rose from 1960 looks at a Biblical story in a fresh and contemporary way. In ‘His Mother’, Gouri turns to an account of a military campaign from the Book of Judges, between Sisera, the Canaanite military leader, and Barak. The biblical account is as follows: So Barak went down from mount Tabor, and ten thousand men after him. And the Lord discomfited Sisera, and all his chariots, and all his host, with the edge of the sword before Barak; and Sisera alighted from his chariot, and fled away on his feet. But Barak pursued after the chariots, and after the host, unto Harosheth-goiim; and all the host of Sisera fell by the edge of the sword; there was not a man left. Howbeit Sisera fled away on his feet to the tent of Jael the wife of Heber the Kenite; for there was peace between Jabin the king of Hazor [Sisera’s King] and the house of Heber the Kenite. And Jael went out to meet Sisera, and said unto him: ‘Turn in, my lord, turn in to me; fear not.’ And he turned in unto her into the tent, and she covered him with a rug. And he said unto her: ‘Give me, I pray thee a little water to drink; for I am thirsty.’ And she opened a bottle of milk, and gave him drink and covered him. And he said unto her: ‘Stand in the door of the tent, and it shall be, when any man doth come and inquire of thee, and say: is there any man here? That thou shalt say: No.’ And Jael, Heber’s wife, took a tent-pin, and took a hammer in her hand, and went softly unto him, and smote the pin into his temples, and it pierced through into the ground; for he was in a deep sleep; so he swooned and died. And, behold, as Barak pursued Sisera, Jael came out to meet him, and said unto him: ‘Come, and I will show thee the man whom thou seekest,’ and he came unto her; and, behold, Sisera lay dead, and the tent-pin was in his temples. (Judges 4.13–22)

What follows in the Biblical text is a celebratory poem by the prophetess Deborah, exalting Barak and the victory of the people of Israel. In her song she mentions Jael’s courageous act of murder and then adds further details that were not recounted in the previous, ‘historical’ account: Through the window she looked forth, and peered, the mother of Sisera, though the lattice: ‘Why is his chariot so long in coming? Why tarry the wheels of his chariots? The wisest of her princesses answer her, yea, she returned answer to herself: ‘Are they not finding, are they not dividing the spoil? A damsel, two damsels to every man; to Sisera a spoil of dyed garments, a spoil of dyed garments of embroidery, two dyed garments of broidery for the neck of every spoiler?’ […] And the land had rest forty years. (Judges 5.28–31)27

10_Warfare&Poetry_Ch10_241-256.indd 250

27/06/2013 12:12



‘I am a civil war’: The Poetry of Haim Gouri 251

For Gouri, Deborah’s mocking portrait of Sisera’s mother is offensive, and he takes the opportunity to express the pain of the mourners in the enemy camp and to reconsider the price paid for peace. And he writes: ‘His Mother’ Years ago, at the end of Deborah’s song, I heard the silence of Sisera’s chariot which was long in coming, Looking at Sisera’s mother as seen through the window, A woman with a silver streak in her hair. A spoil of dyed garments of embroidery, Dyed garments of broidery for the neck, the princesses saw. That same hour he lay in the tent as in a sleep. His hands very empty. On his chins, remains of milk, butter and blood. The silence did not break unto the horses and the chariots, The girls too fell silent, one by one. My silence touched their silence. After a while the sun set. After a while the twilight darkened. The land had rest for forty years. Forty years. No horses galloped, no dead horsemen stared with glassy eyes. But she died, soon after her son’s death.28

In this poem, the sadness of the bereaved mother, still unaware of her son’s gruesome and violent death, casts a shadow over the victory as well as the unusually long period of peace that resulted from that battle. Gouri, who in his long life has yet to see a decade without hostilities, knows the value of this extended period of peace, and yet it is the death of both mother and son that conclude the poem. Here Gouri manages to look beyond the traditional Jewish reading of this passage, and beyond the enemy line, to express empathy and sympathy for the pain and loss felt among the enemy of Israel.29 In 2004, Haim Gouri published an anthology comprising a selection of his poetry and prose under the title I’m a civil war.30 This beautiful book, with Gouri’s writings from different periods and in different genres rearranged by associative links and themes, alongside reproductions of works by contemporary Israeli artists, offers us a look at Gouri’s literary identity and persona, a book that plays out the tensions between the ‘I’

10_Warfare&Poetry_Ch10_241-256.indd 251

27/06/2013 12:12

252

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

and the ‘we’, between silence and the loud drums of history, between ‘here’ and ‘there’. The collection allows us to witness clearly the encounters that were central to Gouri’s life, his encounter with the poetry of others, and particularly that of Natan Alterman, and his relatively late discovery of the Bible with its poetry, prophecy and national narratives. Here we witness the encounter of the native-born sabra with the ‘unknown brother’, the Holocaust survivor as well as the Arab foe against whom Gouri fought, risking his life and that of his closest friends. Reflecting back on his childhood in Mandatory Palestine and on his active role in the war of 1948, Gouri writes: Hatred is not a constant state. It would attack those pale and shocked, by the open grave of a man whose chest is open, or with a head wound, at moments of terrible choice: them or us. That land of Israel that was destroyed in 1948, was part of our love. […] We did not hate the Arabs. And even when the sword passed judgement between us, eventually the war seemed like a horrific mistake and in our souls a mixture of happiness and tragedy.31

As an individual whose biography reflects that of the collective Israeli experience, Gouri expresses in his poetry the pathos, tragedy and inevitability of war. And the inner conflict of a young Jewish Palestinian boy who was brought up in a Zionist but pacifist home, who volunteered to fight in the Palmach and who carries in him the names of his dead friends as well as the Arab villages destroyed during the war of 1948.32 The personal experience allows Gouri to identify closely with the victims of different wars and of different peoples as well. Thus Gouri’s poetry, so closely linked to Israeli history, wars and national identity, can also be read away from its immediate locality and temporality, and his first person plural becomes the voice of all of humanity, of all of ‘us’.

Notes   1   2

  3

‘A platoon on its way to assist the Etzion Bloc fell in battle’, Davar, 18 January 1948, p.1 (in Hebrew). On Gouri’s account of the composition of ‘Here our bodies lie’ see ‘A biography of a poem’, Molad 22.8 (May–June 1964), reprinted in Haim Gouri, On Poetry and Time: A Literary Autobiography (Jerusalem, 2008), vol. 1, pp.63–69 (in Hebrew). All translations from the Hebrew are my own, unless otherwise stated. Based on the Hebrew text as published in Haim Gouri, Flowers of Fire (Tel Aviv, 1949). The Hebrew text alongside an alternative English translation can be found in

10_Warfare&Poetry_Ch10_241-256.indd 252

27/06/2013 12:12



‘I am a civil war’: The Poetry of Haim Gouri 253

No Rattling of Sabers: An Anthology of Israeli War Poetry, tr Esther Raizen (Austin, 1995), pp.4–7.   4 The poem, with music by Nahum Heiman and performed by Gila Almagor and Danny Golan, is included in the CD ‘Haim Gouri – ha’reut’ from 2009.   5 See, for example, in Gouri’s autobiography, On Poetry and Time, p.67, et passim, and in Z. Zameret, ‘Here are bodies lie: a conversation with Haim Gouri’ in Mordechai Naor (ed), Gush Etzion from its Beginning to 1948 (Jerusalem, 1986), pp.209–212 (in Hebrew).   6 The bodies were mutilated. After the ceasefire agreement in 1948, the bodies were taken for reburial in the military cemetery in Jerusalem. Only 23 of them could be identified. The process of reassigning names to the remains by Rabbi Aryeh Levin is described in Simcha Raz’s book A Holy Man There Was (Jerusalem, 1973) (in Hebrew).   7 Interestingly, in recent accounts of the 1948 war by Israeli historians, this event receives little more than a mention. From a historical point of view, it is a minor episode. See, for example, Yoav Gelber, Palestine 1948: War, Escape and the Emergence of the Palestinian Refugee Problem (Brighton and Portland, 2001), p.26; and Benny Morris, 1948: A History of the First Arab-Israel War (New Haven and London, 2008), p.107.   8 Porath, Zipporah, Letters from Jerusalem 1947–1948 (Jerusalem, 1987), p.83.   9 Shoham, Reuven, Haim Gouri: Poetic, Thematic and Rhetoric Research in his Poetry (Tel Aviv, 2006), p.11 (in Hebrew). On the commemoration of the fallen soldiers in Israel and on the parallels between the image of the war dead of 1948 and those of the European Great War see Yoram Bilu and Eliezer Witztum, ‘War-related loss and suffering in Israeli society: an historical perspective’, Israel Studies 5.2 (2000), pp.1–31. 10 Shapira, Anita, ‘The voice of the “mute mountain unit”’, Haaretz, 10 May 2011 (in Hebrew). Available at http://www.haaretz.co.il/news/education/1.1173528, accessed 11 May 2011. She adds that perhaps because the poem was written before Gouri knew more details of this particular incident, it could be used in relation to other glorious military failures, and was therefore re-read, recited and quoted. 11 See Shapira, ‘The voice’. 12 Reuvan Shoham offers a reading of this poem focusing on this Dionysian reunion of the boys with mother earth, who is also the homeland, which leads to and allows for the sparagmos and anagnorisis of the collective paragon hero. See Shoham, p.68. 13 These red flowers are the flowers of fire, as in the title of Gouri’s first collection of poems (1949), but are also the poppy flowers closely associated with the fallen soldiers of the Great War. Much of the rhetoric and myth relating to Israel’s war of 1948 resulted from a comparison with the European experience in 1914–1918. For example, the belief that in 1948 the Jewish yishuv lost its future elite, stressed often in relation to the convoy of the 35, whose intellectual as well as military potential was often stressed, possibly exaggerated, compares to similar sentiments in Britain regarding the casualties in the First World War. See Emmanuel Sivan, The 1948 Generation: Myth, Profile and Memory (Tel Aviv, 1991), pp.103–104 et passim (in Hebrew). Haim Gouri himself, in his literary autobiography, admits that his first exposure to literature of war was to that of the Great War in Europe, and that he and his generations ‘were witness to the despair, the rage and regret over that continuous slaughter, in which Europe has devoured its best sons’. See On Poetry and Time, vol. I, p.26.

10_Warfare&Poetry_Ch10_241-256.indd 253

27/06/2013 12:12

254

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

14

It is interesting to compare this to another of Gouri’s poems on the casualties of 1948, ‘The forgotten ones’. For a recent study of this poem and its meaning see Rachel S. Harris, ‘Forgetting The Forgotten Ones’, Journal of Modern Jewish Studies 8.2 (2009), pp.199–214. 15 From A. Natan, ‘The Silver Platter’, Davar, Friday 19 December 1947, p.2, lines 12–25. 16 Miron, Dan, Facing the Silent Brother: Readings in the Literature of the War of Independence (Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, 1992), pp.197–234 (in Hebrew). 17 Oz Almog’s study The Sabra: The Creation of the New Jew, translated by Haim Watzman (Berkeley and London, 2000), offers an insight into the culture of the sabra and especially the generation of those who fought in the war of 1948. For his discussion of Gouri’s poem and his use of the collective voice see pp.15, 251, et passim. 18 See, for example, in his autobiography On Poetry and Time, vol. I, p.98, pp.109–133, and elsewhere. And his piece ‘Who the hell am I’ in I’m a civil war (Jerusalem, 2004), pp.35–36. Also, more recently, in a television interview with Rino Tzror, in Hebrew, March 2010, available at http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=puXC4cs5Da0, accessed 26 August 2011. 19 On Gouri’s Israeli Hebrew see Gershon Shaked, Modern Hebrew Fiction, tr Yael Lotan (New Milford and London, 2008), especially p.163. 20 From Gouri, Flowers of Fire (1949). An alternative English translation is found in the anthology Words in my Lovesick Blood: Poems by Haim Gouri, tr from Hebrew and ed Stanley F. Chyet (Detroit, 1996), p.7. 21 Gouri, Haim, ‘Little Koti’, lines 1–2 in Compass Rose (Tel Aviv, 1960). See also Chyet, Words in my Lovesick Blood, pp.29–33. 22 Gouri dedicated much of his literary and personal life to the memory of the Holocaust and the experience of the survivors, especially those who arrived in Israel. He co-directed three documentary films on the topic; the first, The 81st Blow (1974) was nominated for an Academy Award. Its title alludes to the testimony of a Holocaust survivor who claimed he has been whipped 80 times and still survived, but once he arrived in Palestine, the native Jews did not believe his account of Nazi atrocities. On the indifference towards and criticism of European Jews during the Holocaust and the treatment of the survivors by the Jews of Palestine see Tom Segev, The Seventh Million: The Israelis and the Holocaust, tr Haim Watzman (New York, 1994). Gouri’s personal encounter with the survivors, on European soil, marks his reaction and attitude as different to that of the rest of his generation. 23 See Genesis 22. 24 In Gouri, Compass Rose; and Chyet, Words in my Lovesick Blood, p.27. 25 Many critics have written on this poem and its place in the Israeli national narrative. See, for example, Yael S. Feldman, Glory and agony: Isaac’s sacrifice and national narrative (Stanford, 2010); and see pp.248–249 for a discussion of ‘Here our bodies lie’, and Ruth Kartun-Blum, ‘Isaac rebound: the aqedah as a paradigm in modern Israeli poetry’, Israel Affairs 1.3 (1995), pp.185–202. 26 Recounted also in his war diary Till Dawn, published in Hebrew in Tel Aviv in 1950. 27 The English text as found in the translation of Mechon-Mamre, available at www.mechon-mamre.org, accessed 22 December 2011. 28 Gouri, Haim, ‘His Mother’ in Compass Rose and in Chyet, Words in my Lovesick Blood, p.45.

10_Warfare&Poetry_Ch10_241-256.indd 254

27/06/2013 12:12

29

30

31 32

‘I am a civil war’: The Poetry of Haim Gouri 255 For further analysis of this poem see, among others, Dan Pagis’s comments in Stanley Burnshaw et al. (eds), The Modern Hebrew Poem Itself (Michigan, 2003), pp.164–165; and Ted Cohen, Thinking of Others: On the Talent of Metaphor (Princeton, 2008), pp.42–43. Gouri, Haim, I’m a civil war, edited by Danny Horowitz with artwork from the collection of Benno Kalev (Jerusalem, 2004) (in Hebrew). The title derives from one of Gouri’s poems first published in his book of poetry from 1960, Compass Rose. Gouri, Haim, ‘The nights of the dog’ in I’m a Civil War, p.190. See his poem ‘The fair of the east’ in I’m a Civil War, pp.225–237.

Bibliography Primary sources ‘A platoon on its way to assist the Etzion Bloc fell in battle’, Davar, 18 January 1948, p.1 (in Hebrew). A[lterman], Natan, ‘The Silver Platter’, Davar, Friday 19 December 1947, 2 (in Hebrew). Burnshaw, Stanley, et al. (eds), The Modern Hebrew Poem Itself (Michigan, 2003). Gouri, Haim, Flowers of Fire (Tel Aviv, 1949) (in Hebrew). ———, Till Dawn (Tel Aviv, 1950) (in Hebrew). ———, Compass Rose (Tel Aviv, 1960) (in Hebrew). ———, ‘A biography of a poem’, Molad 22.8 (May–June 1964) (in Hebrew). ———,Words in my Lovesick Blood: Poems by Haim Gouri, tr and ed Stanley F. Chyet (Detroit, 1996). ———, I’m a civil war (Jerusalem, 2004) (in Hebrew). ———, On Poetry and Time: A Literary Biography (Jerusalem, 2008), 2 vols (in Hebrew). ———, in conversation with Rino Tzror on Israeli television programme ‘Cross Israel’, available at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=puXC4cs5Da0, accessed 26 August 2011 (in Hebrew). Porat, Zipporah, Letters from Jerusalem 1947–1948 (Jerusalem, 1987). Raizen, Esther (ed and tr), No Rattling of Sabers: An Anthology of Israeli War Poetry (Austin, 1995).

Secondary sources Almog, Oz, The Sabra: The Creation of the New Jew, tr Haim Watzman (Berkeley and London, 2000). Bilu, Yoram and Eliezer Witztum, ‘War-related loss and suffering in Israeli society: an historical perspective’, Israel Studies 5.2 (2000), pp.1–31. Cohen, Ted, Thinking of Others: On the Talent of Metaphor (Princeton, 2008). Feldman, Yael S., Glory and Agony: Isaac’s Sacrifice and National Narrative (Standford, 2010). Gelber, Yoav, Palestine 1948: War, Escape and the Emergence of the Palestinian Refugee Problem (Brighton and Portland, 2001).

10_Warfare&Poetry_Ch10_241-256.indd 255

27/06/2013 12:12

256

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Harris, Rachel S., ‘Forgetting The Forgotten Ones’, Journal of Modern Jewish Studies 8.2 (2009), pp.199–214. Kartun-Blum, Ruth, ‘Isaac rebound: the aqedah as a paradigm in modern Israeli poetry’, Israeli Affairs 1.3 (1995), pp.185–202. Miron, Dan, Facing the Silent Brother: Readings in the Literature of the War of Independence (Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, 1992) (in Hebrew). Morris, Benny, 1948: A History of the First Arab-Israel War (New Haven and London, 2008). Raz, Simcha, A Holy Man There Was (Jerusalem, 1973) (in Hebrew). Segev, Tom, The Seventh Million: The Israelis and the Holocaust, tr Haim Watzman (New York, 1994). Shaked, Gershon, Modern Hebrew Fiction, tr Yael Lotan (New Milford and London, 2008). Shapira, Anita, ‘The voice of the “mute mountain unit”’, Haaretz, 10 May 2011. Available at http://www.haaretz.co.il/news/education/1.1173528, accessed 11 May 2011 (in Hebrew). Shoham, Reuven, Haim Gouri: Poetics, Thematic and Rhetoric Research in his Poetry (Tel Aviv, 2006) (in Hebrew). Sivan, Emmanuel, The 1948 Generation: Myth, Profile and Memory (Tel Aviv, 1991) (in Hebrew). Zameret, Z., ‘Here are bodies lie: a conversation with Haim Gouri’ in Mordechai Naor (ed), Gush Etzion from its Beginning to 1948 (Jerusalem, 1986), pp.209–212 (in Hebrew).

10_Warfare&Poetry_Ch10_241-256.indd 256

27/06/2013 12:12

Chapter 11

Humanism, Nationalism and Violence in Mahmoud Darwish’s Poetry Atef Alshaer1 ‘If you want a red rose’, said the tree, ‘you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart’s-blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine.’ Oscar Wilde, ‘The Nightingale and the Rose’2

This chapter aims to present a theoretical and empirical reading of the great Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish’s (1941–2008) poetry as pertains to the themes of humanism, nationalism and violence within the context of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. In particular, it reads his poetry and prose in conjunction with the views of the German Jewish thinker Sigmund Freud (1856–1939) and the Martinique psychiatrist Frantz Fanon (1925–1961). These three figurehead thinkers have enhanced our understanding of the human condition within conflict-ridden contexts. Freud engaged critically with Jewish nationalism in its formative years in the 1920s and 1930s, whereas Fanon was directly involved with the Algerian struggle against French colonialism in the 1950s. Darwish was a poetic chronicler of the Palestinian question in all its dimensions, particularly after the 1960s.3 All of them articulated aspirations for universal justice and freedom while taking part in their peoples’ struggles and dilemmas. As will be argued, by emphasising the complementary roles of all members of society in the

11_Warfare&Poetry_Ch11_257-282.indd 257

27/06/2013 12:13

258

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

struggle against the colonisers in his portrayal of the Palestinian struggle, Darwish appears closer to Fanon’s anti-colonial nationalism. Nevertheless, while emphasising the historical conditions that gave rise to Palestinian nationalism, Darwish grew to be critical of it in a tone that is reminiscent of Freud’s criticism of nationalism and of collective identities in general. This chapter will examine Darwish’s poetry in relation to the relevance of Freud’s and Fanon’s philosophy.

Palestine and Darwish Darwish was born on 13 March 1941. Especially until the age of 30, Darwish was a victim of constant political ruptures to his life. His predicament, represented in displacement from his home, imprisonment, exile and war, was in many ways emblematic of the overall Palestinian predicament, especially that of his generation. The Palestinian people found themselves suddenly uprooted from a territory which once housed a stable childhood, grounded in nature and historical continuity to which political concerns were relatively secondary. Darwish evoked this background of sudden displacement vividly in his first interview with an Israeli newspaper which belongs to the communist party in which Darwish was a member, namely Zo haderech, conducted by the Israeli Jewish journalist Joseph Algazy, in 1969. For the political and psychological richness it affords, it is worthwhile quoting at some length: I remember myself when my age was six years old. I used to live in a beautiful and calm village, which is the village of Birweh. It is located on a green hill, fronted by the valley of Acre. I was son to a family of modest means, which lived on agriculture. When I was seven years old, the games of childhood stopped…and I remember how this happened...I remember this exactly: In one night of the summer in which the villagers used to sleep on the roofs of houses, my mother woke me up from my sleep suddenly. I found myself with hundreds of the inhabitants of the village, running in the forest. Bullets were flying above our heads, and I did not understand what was happening. After a night of desolation and escape, I arrived with one of my relatives, who were scattered in all directions, in a strange village where there were other children. I asked naively, where am I? And I heard, for the first time, the word ‘Lebanon’… It seems to me that that night rudely put an end to my childhood, for a childhood devoid of hardships had come to end. And I suddenly felt that I belonged to the world of the grownups. Since these days when I lived in Lebanon, I have not forgotten, and I will never ever forget, my recognition of

11_Warfare&Poetry_Ch11_257-282.indd 258

27/06/2013 12:13



Humanism, Nationalism and Violence in Darwish’s Poetry259 the word ‘homeland’. For the first time, and without a priori preparation, I found myself standing in a long queue to obtain the food that UNRWA was distributing to the refugees. The first meal consisted of yellow cheese. And here, I heard, for the first time, new words, which opened in front of me a window onto a new world: ‘homeland’, ‘war’, ‘news’, ‘refugees’, ‘army’, ‘borders’, and through these words, I began to study, understand and recognise a new world with a new situation…it deprived me of my childhood.4

This account is commensurate with many other Palestinian stories of displacement and personal and collective struggle.5 The final declarative statement, ‘it deprives me of my childhood’, stands to condemn Zionism as a colonial movement that thrashed away everything on its way to fulfil its ambition of founding the state of Israel in 1948 at the expense and to the detriment of ‘the other’, the Palestinians. This trauma was doubled when Israel occupied the rest of Palestine and other Arab territory in 1967. Darwish expressed satisfaction, felt ‘psychologically comfortable’ – in the words of the Egyptian critic RajÆ≥ al-NaqqÆsh – that he was in an Israeli prison soon after the defeat or Naksa.6 Thus, he did not see it from the outside, but from the dungeon of an Israeli cell, from an abyss, which could not go any further; hence his relative transcendence of the shattering event of 1967, which perplexed many Arabs and frustrated their poets’ hearts and intellectuals’ minds.7 The violence inherent in these experiences of occupation and displacement makes Darwish’s poetry vividly insightful in so far as Darwish’s reflection and treatment of it and its victims. Since the beginning of the Palestinian struggle in the 1960s, Darwish was an early chronicler, registering the pain and the aspirations of the Palestinians to return to their land. Darwish’s experience of the Palestinian predicament is immediate, as he was imprisoned several times by Israel, the last of which was in 1969, when he was incarcerated for 20 days. But he was also exposed to a variety of Israeli Jewish characters, some of whom he admired and respected, highlighting their good influence on him, such as his teacher of literature, Shoshana. In his words: Shoshana taught me to understand revolution as a literary work; and she taught me the study of Bialik (a well-known Jewish poet), focusing on the poetic energy, rather than his passionate political enthusiasm. She did not try to fill us with the poison of the official school curriculum which encourages the denial of our heritage. Shoshana saved me from the hatred with which the military ruler filled me. She breaks down divisions that the military ruler created.8

11_Warfare&Poetry_Ch11_257-282.indd 259

27/06/2013 12:13

260

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

With this background, in which humanism and nationalism are inextricably bound, it is instructive to turn to relevant theoretical views to give more perspective on Darwish.

Violence’s challenge to humanism One particularly overlooked view of nationalism is that of Sigmund Freud. He viewed nationalism, which is often treated as a natural outgrowth of the nation-state system, underpinned by symbolism and discourse,9 with suspicion and dread. He rejected it in favour of universalism and individual freedom that could transcend national boundaries, and he appreciated reason as a harbinger of truth and collective sanity. Equally, Freud was against the interference of external political pressures on internal desires and considered it a hindrance to freedom and creativity. His rejection of resistance was categorical; in the words of Jacqueline Rose he saw it as a ‘psychic reality that blocked the passage of the psyche into freedom’.10 Freud grounded his reasoning in an archetypal dislike of nationalism, religion and any other collectivised identity rooted in ritualistic and exclusive bonding, rather than civilisational, societal and legal premises that are open to the world, embracing of its diversity and empowered with rational basis of preservation, protection and prosperity. He extended his rejection of nationalism to Jewish nationalism, viewing it as misguided. Thus, in a letter Freud wrote in 1930 to the leader of the Jewish Agency, Dr Chaim Koffler, who sought his help to criticise the British policy of limiting Jewish immigration to Palestine then, Freud made his view of Jewish nationalism clear: I concede with sorrow that the baseless fanaticism of our people is in part to be blamed for the awakening of Arab distrust. I can raise no sympathy at all for the misdirected piety which transforms a piece of an Herodian wall into a national relic, thus offending the feelings of the natives. Now judge for yourself whether I, with such a critical point of view, am the right person to come forward as the solace of a people deluded by an unjustified hope.11

In effect, Freud saw absolute freedom in pure states of existence and creativity which are unencumbered by nationalist or primordial commitments. Such idealistic inclinations towards humanity in general did not understandably block his psyche from identifying with his people, the Jews, in contexts of anti-Semitism. As he writes: ‘since you have abandoned all

11_Warfare&Poetry_Ch11_257-282.indd 260

27/06/2013 12:13



Humanism, Nationalism and Violence in Darwish’s Poetry261

these common characteristics of your countrymen, what is there left to you that is Jewish?… a great deal and probably its very essence’.12 Freud tucks his pacifist attitudes within complex contradictions that seem irreconcilable. As a champion of humanism, he is interesting and relevant to the case of Darwish and his poetry. For like Freud, Darwish is steeped in humanist understanding and ideals that were to be tested considering the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. There are many passionate pleas and cries in Darwish that bemoan the stupidity of violence and its potentially endless traps, as will be explained later. However, unlike Freud, Darwish embraced resistance in general and the popularised term, ‘the poetry of resistance’, though he gradually explicated its meaning and broadened it. The dialectical dilemma in Darwish’s case is one of acute nature when one considers his individual persona and experience versus his collective context and sense of attachment and responsibility that accompanied him to the end of his life. Frantz Fanon is another illuminating figure in the context of nationalism, violence and identity. He is particularly relevant for the contrarian view to that of Freud in considering the context and entrenching his analysis in material realities that underpin individual formation. Freud focused on the inner world of the individual in relation to the external environment, exhorting disassociation between both. He writes in Civilization and its Discontents: ‘ultimately, all suffering is merely feeling; it exists only in so far as we feel it, and we feel it only because our constitution is regulated in certain ways’.13 Fanon, like Freud, as will be explained, is not short on human and worldly ideals, but his analysis penetrates realities rather than speaking above them, necessary as that might be for civilisational health to which Freud admirably aspired. Fanon’s observation, being an intellectual activist and psychiatrist during the Algerian revolution against French colonialism, is that ‘terror, counter terror, violence and counter violence: that is what observers bitterly record when they describe the circle of hate, which is so tenacious and so evident in Algeria’.14 Fanon is no cheerleader for violence, but he sees no alternative to engaging with its materiality once it is manifested in situations of extreme colonial injustice. He writes of the human condition of black people in Black Skin, White Mask: I do not carry innocence to the point of believing that appeals to reason or to respect for human dignity can alter reality. For the Negro who works on a sugar plantation in Le Robert, there is only one solution: to fight.15

In this sense, Darwish’s poetry as far as it takes its subject from the Palestinian experience, and when seen from the parallel prism of those

11_Warfare&Poetry_Ch11_257-282.indd 261

27/06/2013 12:13

262

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

great thinkers, is grounded in humanist aspirations and nationalist principles that are in constant dialogue and interaction with each other. Fanon warns of blind nationalism in stark terms: ‘but if nationalism is not made explicit, if it is not enriched and deepened by a very rapid transformation into a consciousness of social and political needs, in other words into humanism, it leads up a blind alley’.16 Humanism and poetry are not necessarily bedfellows, as Darwish, who had allied himself with the tradition of humanism, while at the same time belonging to the secular tradition of Palestinian nationalism, discovered. Indeed, since the beginning of his poetic career, and despite the intensity and passionate outpouring of emotions towards his colonised homeland, Darwish often related his poetry to a wider human and universal experience of which paradoxically the nationalist subject of his poetry, Palestine, was precluded. Therefore, his poetry can be seen as an attempt to compensate for a homeland that he knew to be his, yet so beyond his normative reach, considering its occupied status. However, before expanding on this and how it bears on the theme of violence and humanism in his poetry, it is worthwhile to bring Edward Said into the discussion. Edward Said (1935–2003), the Palestinian-American intellectual, does a revealing synthesis of Freud and Fanon in his book Freud and the Non-European along the lines mentioned above. Said’s view of these thinkers’ divergent approach to culture can be summed up in his words: however much or little one agrees with Fanon…there is no doubt that the whole idea of cultural difference itself – especially today – is far from the inert thing taken for granted by Freud. The notion that there were other cultures besides that of Europe about which one needed to think is really not the animating principle for his work that it was in Fanon’s….17

In art, the question of culture is complex, given its tendency to be transcendental. In this spirit, Said also wrote about Darwish’s poetry to which he devoted an article in 1994: poetry for Darwish provides not simply an access of unusual insight or a distant realm of fashioned order, but a harassing amalgam of poetry and collective memory, each pressing on the other. And the paradox deepens almost unbearably as the privacy of a dream is encroached on and even reproduced by a sinister, threatening reality…this strained and deliberately unresolved quality in Darwish’s poetry makes it an instance of what Adorno called late style, in which the conventional and ethereal, the historical and the

11_Warfare&Poetry_Ch11_257-282.indd 262

27/06/2013 12:13



Humanism, Nationalism and Violence in Darwish’s Poetry263 transcendently aesthetic combine to provide an astonishingly concrete sense of going beyond what anyone has ever lived through in reality.18

Said’s view of culture and the location of the individual within it is grounded in conditions which even poetry, that ‘distant realm of fashioned order’, cannot entirely escape. Nevertheless, as a universal and national poet devoted to a cause which has seen much violence, Darwish demonstrated proportionality and introduced twists into his poetry. As such, his poetry embodies Fanon’s vision of nationalism as well as Freudian universalism which transcends the physical borders of the nation-state and all forms of uncritical mass identification, as will be further argued in this chapter.

Darwish: Raw beginnings and subtle ends At the end of his famous poem, Sajjil anÆ ≤Arab∞, which was first published in 1964 and is widely recited in the Arab world until this day, Darwish issues a threat, veiled within a reasoned argument: I do not hate people Nor do I intrude But if I become hungry I eat my usurper’s flesh Beware.. Beware.. Of my hunger And my anger!19

There is nothing to be said about a human being who wants to eat the flesh of his enemy, except that all other possibilities have been exhausted. The beginnings of Darwish abound with base images of nature attempting to reverse the state of injustice which has been inflicted on the Palestinians. Fanon insightfully illuminates this image of violence in cases of anticolonial struggles: ‘For the native, life can only spring up again out of the rotting corpse of the settler.’20 Nonetheless, it is worthwhile bearing in mind the humanist touch of Darwish when creating images of violence within his nationalist involvement. ‘I do not hate people’, is a declarative line which summarises a sentiment that also runs through Darwish’s early poetry. ‘People’ here is an inclusive word that suggests peace with

11_Warfare&Poetry_Ch11_257-282.indd 263

27/06/2013 12:13

264

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

humanity at large at its most basic and primordial level. The image is raw and it takes one back to primitive states of nature, essentially to endemic anger fuelling violence, the inevitability of which Fanon documented and reflected on in his writing about the Algerians and their resistance to the French colonisers of their country. It is clear that Fanon’s theoretical and empirical understanding of nationalism in contexts of colonialism fits Darwish’s early poetry in particular. There is a sense of inevitability to Darwish’s engagement in the Palestinian revolution, an inevitability which evokes natural images in their base form. In one stanza of another poem, entitled ‘Diaries of a Palestinian wound’, which Darwish dedicated to the most important Palestinian poet Fadwa Tuqan (1917–2003), he writes:21 This earth which absorbs the flesh of the martyrs Promises the summer grains and the planets So worship it! We are salt and water in its heart And in its lap…a wound that fights!

Martyrs are valorised, given promise by the earth within the fold of which they reside. There is inbuilt violence, hope and promise in this short stanza. Martyrs are valued for their fighting, which is rooted in their love (worship) of the earth, which absorbs their blood and produces grains and planets out of it. Here, violence at the individual level is, as Fanon describes it, ‘a cleansing force. It frees the native of his inferiority complex and from his despair and inaction.’22 The idea that nature, which somehow encompasses intimate secrets beyond the colonisers’ grasp,23 revolts against the oppressor is prevalent in Darwish’s poetry, but it does so with the aid of human agency, fighters and martyrs. Another approach that Darwish adopts is the evocation of religious-mythic figures, Jesus and Job, inviting or paralleling their suffering, prophesies and symbols to record the Palestinian experience:24 For I am burning on the Cross of my worship So I will become a saint… With the uniform of a fighter25

Or Today, Job screamed to the expanse of the sky Do not make from my case a lesson twice26

11_Warfare&Poetry_Ch11_257-282.indd 264

27/06/2013 12:13



Humanism, Nationalism and Violence in Darwish’s Poetry265

The fighter is redeemed, gains sainthood by his fighting; he does not shy away from the cross, but worships it until he is even past the burning stage. At the heart of this image is resurrection that follows an ultimate sacrifice. The fighter embodies Darwish’s Jesus here, the Jesus who redeems humanity through his crucifixion, as accounted in the Christian tradition. In the second lines, the Biblical figure of Job, who endures relentless suffering as God tests his loyalty to him and resolve and patience in the face of adversity, cries out to humanity not to take a lesson from his experience, not to repeat it again, for it is too severe and painful beyond words. Thus, in his beginnings, Darwish resorts to deep levels of expression and emotional intensity to chronicle the Palestinian experience of dispossession, exile and the inherent violence in all these experiences. But alongside this, Darwish registers humanist sentiments, unconstrained and unqualified, as he for example seals the aforementioned poem JawÆz safar, ‘Passport’, with a slogan-like declarative statement: ‘all the hearts of people are my nationality’.27 The seeds of humanism in Darwish appear early on, in 1968, in his poem, ‘A soldier dreams of white tulips’. Here, in a dialogue between him and an Israeli soldier, the latter reveals to him his thoughts and emotions which are recorded with what amounts to resigned neutrality and sympathy: Do you feel sad? I asked. Cutting me off, he said, Mahmoud, my friend, Sadness is a white bird that does not come near a battlefield. Soldiers commit a sin when they feel sad. I was there like a machine spitting hellfire and death, Turning space into a black bird. He told me about his first love, and later, about distant streets…28

The poet delves into describing quotidian dreams, thoughts and practices that are part of a soldier’s life. The evocation and elevation of quotidian experiences later became a hallmark of Darwish’s poetry. The choice of the title, ‘A soldier dreams of white tulips’, suggests ordinariness and beauty amidst undesired chaos of violence and war. The poem in its totality hints at the porous nature of national boundaries, and perhaps the inherent shackling inadequacy of nationalism, a Freudian theme which will hopefully become clearer with further analysis. Hence, when it was published this poem irked many nationalists, who accused Darwish of taπb∞≤, normalisation with and accommodation of the occupation,29 rather than continuing the trend of resistance for which Darwish was depicted

11_Warfare&Poetry_Ch11_257-282.indd 265

27/06/2013 12:13

266

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

as championing by the Palestinian writer Ghassan Kanafani (1936–1973). In this sense, Fanon’s words resonate with Darwish’s predicament at this stage, the 1960s, early 1970s and indeed later: Illuminated by violence, the consciousness of the people rebels against any pacification…The action which has thrown them into a hand-to-hand struggle confers upon the masses a voracious taste for the concrete. The attempt at mystification becomes, in the long run, practically impossible.30

This is an appropriate point to turn to Darwish’s poetry in the 1970s and 1980s, for these are epic decades for what they entailed of Palestinian struggle and dilemma, Israeli violence and destruction. Here, Darwish reaches peaks of expressive emotionality, intellectuality and portrayal that deepen and nuance his poetry, but perhaps most importantly preserve a vivid record of the ultimate abyss to which the Palestinian fighters and people have been driven in Lebanon.

Another bloody turn, loss bemoaned Darwish went to Lebanon in 1972. Conscious of his presence and creativity, the Palestine Liberation Organisation (PLO), recently forced out of Jordan by King Hussein in what is known as Black September of 1970, clamoured to incorporate Darwish within its intellectual circles. Once entrenched in exile, Darwish met living martyrs, people who were soon to be assassinated or fall in the battles and fierce confrontations which characterised this era of civil war in Lebanon; two massive Israeli incursions, the second of which in 1982 led by the Israeli defence Minister Ariel Sharon, was mercilessly aimed at driving or wiping out the PLO from Lebanon. In this context, Darwish called upon the martyr, who embodies the earth, to intercede and facilitate their return home. The Biblical tradition is very much present here, but inversed and subtly parodied. He establishes an organic hierarchy at the top of which stand the martyrs who mediate between the land, followed by the refugees and other strata of the Palestinian community. Thus, he writes in the poem dedicated to the assassinated Palestinian leader Ab∑ Al∞ IyÆd (1931–1971), tellingly entitled, ‘Returning to Jaffa’: Do not say, our Father in heaven Say, our brother who carried the land for us And returned…31

11_Warfare&Poetry_Ch11_257-282.indd 266

27/06/2013 12:13



Humanism, Nationalism and Violence in Darwish’s Poetry267

Darwish still imbues the martyrs with supernatural powers, made possible by nationalist sentiment. He deposits in them divine attributes. If nationalism as a discourse/prose is steeped in exaggerated heroism and mythical elevation, nationalism as poetry turns the dead in their graves into Gods. By valorising victims, nationalism, as known from existing literature, endows them with traits that render their death a triumph.32 Freud would effectively say that it animates their existence with delusions – delusion being a byword for immaturity and infantilism in Freud’s view.33 However, Fanon is aware of the depth of longing for freedom and rectification of injustices, which underpin violence and unceasing struggle: ‘the native’s violence unifies the people’.34 Apparent in these few lines is the plight of the Palestinian refugees, their unaccommodated existence in many parts of the Arab world, being exposed to hardships and obstacles that engender such emotions of longing for return to their homeland. Darwish makes possible this return by the proxy of a martyr, who carries the longing of the refugees with him as he returns to the land that he has embodied for so long. We have seen at the outset of this chapter how Darwish’s childhood was ruptured, and how he was forced into a state of exile from an early stage in his life. His unceasing return to the past, to this state of deprivation, echoes significant Freudian themes. Darwish highlights with particular poignancy that ‘no individual can be satisfied with his own personal answer to a question that was collective from the beginning, since the tragedy of the big displacement’.35 Darwish deploys notable (Freudian) psychological terms to describe the conditions in which he was involved. Freud originally conceived of displacement as standing for the mobility of mental life,36 but in Darwish’s sense, displacement comes across as the shattering of a core that should be reclaimed, even if metaphorically. In this view, the mind is rooted in primary habits, experiences and scenes, and yet rootless in its capacity for adaptation and fluid imagination as befits its context, as the case at hand testifies. In Lebanon, Darwish experiences and confronts unqualified violence. It is beyond this paper to delve into the Lebanese civil war (1975–1990) that was exacerbated by the violence and destructiveness of Israeli incursions. As the veteran Middle Eastern Correspondent Robert Fisk describes in his book, Pity the Nation: Lebanon at War, the fierce struggle for and over power in Lebanon, entailing a wide range of local, regional and international players, within the confines of such a limited space, resulted in images of a gruesome nature that left all involved tainted. Darwish resorted to the epic and ethereal to document this experience, and bring about its emotional and psychological undercurrents. In particular, two books

11_Warfare&Poetry_Ch11_257-282.indd 267

27/06/2013 12:13

268

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

register this stage, namely In Praise of the High Shadows and Memory for Forgetfulness. Here, instead of the martyrs being saints or residing in another world of happiness, their body parts become weapons to be used in the battle for beingness in Lebanon. There are strong echoes of what Fanon describes as ‘absolute violence’ here:37 You have no brothers my brother, you have no friends, O my friend, no fortresses You have neither water nor medicine, or the sky or blood or a boat You have neither the frontline or the backline. Besiege your siege…for there is no choice Your shoulder has fallen, pick it up And hit your enemy…there is no choice And I have fallen next to you, pick me up And throw me at your enemy…for you are now free and free and free Your fallen or wounded victims are a magazine inside you Throw it…hit your enemy…there is no choice… Our body parts are our names Besiege your siege with madness And with madness And with madness Your loved ones have gone. Gone. You either have to be Or you will not be…38

An absolute sense of language is made to account for an absolute violence, engulfing all and evoking madness as an antidote to madness. Darwish makes an issue of madness through his repetition of the word ‘madness’, reinforcing its material reality which needs to be confronted. Linguistic repetition and parallelism of the type exhibited here is integral to poetic composition, according to Roman Jacobson.39 But it is also part and parcel of anti-colonial struggles, the colonial versus native confrontation, as Fanon put it: ‘this, then is the correspondence, term by term, between the two trains of reasoning’.40 Darwish describes the state of the Palestinians amidst the 1982 Israeli incursion, calling on them to rise, to fight, ‘for there is no choice’. He then concludes with the Shakespearean adage and its timeless value. The wounded or the martyrs, who in earlier poems rest after they had scarified themselves for the homeland, are used as fuel for what have been left of the Palestinian revolution in Lebanon. Their body parts become active, activated weapons by other fighters who

11_Warfare&Poetry_Ch11_257-282.indd 268

27/06/2013 12:13



Humanism, Nationalism and Violence in Darwish’s Poetry269

resist in the face of what amounts to a purposeful war of annihilation by Israel. This is nationalism and violence at their zenith, which John-Paul Sartre in his introduction to Fanon’s landmark book, The Wretched of the Earth, highlights with bitterness to his fellow French nationals – the French aristocracy, in particular – who cannot see the violent seeds they had implanted with their colonialism in Algeria: ‘for violence, like Achilles’ lance, can heal the wounds that it has inflicted. Today we are bound hand and foot, humiliated and sick with fear; we cannot fall lower.’41 If a French philosopher could describe the state of his people in such terms considering their immoral colonialism and its effects on the psychological health of the colonised nation, what could be expected of the colonised to say, given the devastating violence inflicted on them? Darwish seems to take the last aforementioned statement of Sartre, ‘we cannot fall lower’, to its overripe conclusion, resorting to madness42 as the last frontier for the colonised in the face of the coloniser who had sunk so low in his repression and oppression of the colonised. Fanon recognised this organic chain of violence, depicted vividly in Darwish’s lines above. It is worthwhile to quote a lengthy paragraph from Fanon that illustrates this: But it so happens that for the colonised people this violence, because it constitutes their only work, invests their characters with positive and creative qualities. The practice of violence binds them together as a whole, since each individual forms a violent link in the great chain, a part of the great organism of violence which has surged upwards in reaction to the settler’s violence in the beginning. The groups recognise each other and the future nation is already indivisible. The armed struggle mobilizes the people, that is to say, it throws them in one way and in one direction.43

But Darwish does not stop with this violence and the panorama of devastation it creates in his poem. He hints at the Freudian idea of delusion that inheres in any nationalism. Thus, Darwish seals his great poem by pointing out the lack of symmetry between the nationalist’s ultimate goal and what is lost along the way to its realisation: How grand the idea How small the state!44

With a thoughtful paradox, Darwish registers here a broader idea that transcends the actual size of the nation-state to the expansive, homeless idea of humanness, which is palpably denied to the Palestinians, given the state of injustice in which they are mired. The idea that consumes the

11_Warfare&Poetry_Ch11_257-282.indd 269

27/06/2013 12:13

270

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

human is larger than the cause, the nation-state, he is fighting to obtain. Here Darwish is at home with both Freud and Fanon, the former as an adversary of nationalism and the latter its surgical analyst and champion in the context of anti-colonial struggles. This is so even if at the literal level, Freud’s discount of nationalism and nation-state ideology seems to win the day. However, what Darwish does here as an intellectual, increasingly poetphilosopher,45 is to dispel the myth of the nation-state. Exhibiting a lexical euphoria, he shatters its origins and stable meanings, in order to bring the Palestinian struggle, anguish and longing for the homeland, to the fore. As Freud seems to shatter the origins of the Jewish faith by suggesting that Moses was an Egyptian before being claimed by the Jewish people, Darwish introduces tremors in the Palestinian pursuit of nation-state. Darwish has no Moses to play with his origins and expand his so far ‘fixed identity’, but there is a dogged Palestinian pursuit of a nation-state (another modern Moses), which he suddenly parodies. Such humanism which is concerned with the spiritual well-being of the human being recognises no holy idols; it knocks them down; lest they forget higher ideals amidst an all-out violence that no state or collectivised identity could secure. Freud does not mean to deny a collective identity to the Jewish people as much as to link it with wider worlds and wrestle Jewish nationalism away from being trenchantly linked to a territory, putting the idea of justice and truthful humanity before any other nationalist considerations. Rose explicates this with characteristic eloquence: Freud therefore turns Moses into an Egyptian, lets the stranger into the tribe. He castigates the ruthlessness of monotheism, breaks apart the unity both of the people and their faith. He places murders at the origins of the group. But this is, finally, no simple iconoclasm. The integrity, the narcissistic unity and at-oneness of the group, returns…But he has done so at a time and in the framework of an analysis which suggests that identity, while it may indeed be necessary for the survival of subjects and peoples, is no less a danger to both.46

Increasingly, Darwish dissolves the ‘I’ and invites the ‘other’, looking at the future from its brightest spot rather than the darkness of the present or the past for that matter: ‘I or he’ That’s how war starts. But It ends with an embarrassing meeting: ‘I and he’47

11_Warfare&Poetry_Ch11_257-282.indd 270

27/06/2013 12:13



Humanism, Nationalism and Violence in Darwish’s Poetry271

A journey to the heights Darwish has always been a champion of the Palestinian struggle for collective freedom and political sovereignty within a recognised and inclusive nation-state. Considering the historical premises of the Palestinian cause, he endows and expands on the humane attributes inherent to the conditions that gave rise to the aspirations of the Palestinians’ national movement. He continues to concretise as well as humanise the Palestinian struggle with more inclusive awareness of profound psychological configurations. But Darwish suggests that nationalism should not be an end in itself. As in Freud, the dialectic between local identity and the human universal acquires acuteness in the poetry and philosophy of Darwish. In his mourning of the Palestinian leader, Yasser Arafat (1928–2004), he writes: ‘and we will not be what we want to be unless if we have known how to halt the process of exodus from our history and the human history, and how to return to both of them, with all that we have of energies, experiences and talents’.48 What Darwish never denies is the essential beingness and humanity of the ‘other’, as fervent nationalist discourses often do: ‘an identity does not negate an identity. What perplexes the identity and agitates it is when it is conditioned by the negation of the identity of the other.’49 Darwish directs his statements here at the Israelis. In this sense, Darwish echoes what Freud called for many decades ago: This is a plea for a model for nationhood that would not just accept the other in its midst, nor just see itself as other, but that grants to that selfsame other, against which national and political identities define themselves, a founding, generic status at the origins of the group. Freud knows that this is a form of sacrilege as well as a huge risk, and not just to himself…50

At the heart of the Palestinian situation is the double Israeli denial of the other, the Palestinians, in both their political and their human rights. Hence, independence and liberation are key words in Darwish’s diction. Here Darwish captures Fanon’s idea regarding the contingency of humanism for nationalism: He said to me on the way to his jail: When I am freed, I know, That the praise of the homeland Is like its disparagement A profession like all professions51

11_Warfare&Poetry_Ch11_257-282.indd 271

27/06/2013 12:13

272

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Thus, nationalism should not be an end in itself. By 2002 and 2003, years which witnessed another escalation in violence and destruction by Israel against the Palestinians, as well as reactive Palestinian violence, characteristically Darwish’s voice takes on the sharpness the situation in question compels. This sharpness includes revisionism. For unlike early writings, when martyrs are redeemers and intercessors for the living, martyrs become victims and initiators of their actions. The literary critic Angelica Neuwirth suggests that Darwish in his new collection, √Ælat ≈i∆Ær, deconstructs the image of the martyr; thus ‘martyrdom is no longer a social rite with redemptive power, but an exclusively individual act motivated by personal pride and defiance of despair’.52 Sound as this suggestion is, it is possible to add that Darwish revises his earlier poetry, hence he engages in revisionism rather than deconstruction in its limited attempt at reordering what has been constructed. For on the one hand, martyrs die for the homeland and people celebrate their lives; and on the other hand, they are universal victims of place and time with whose pathologies they could not but resist and interact. Darwish laments martyrs as well as sheds light on the broader existential and power parameters within which their demise occurs: Our losses: from two to eight martyrs Every day, And ten wounded And ten houses demolished And fifty olive trees uprooted In addition to the structural damage which will be inflicted on The poem, the play and the unfinished painting.

Life in its widest sense constitutes the material ingredients of art. Once the organic unity of life is disturbed by violent conflicts, art shares in the loss incurred by other elements, even though in its abstractness or projection through other lenses art seems to, indeed, transcend timed reality. Everything seems reversed when there is violence; it is hard to extract normality from what is totally and inherently abnormal, hence: The martyr warns me: Don’t believe their ululations Believe my father when he looks at my photograph weeping How did you reverse our roles, my son, and walked ahead of me? I should have been the first, I should have been the first!53

The actual object of hailing, the martyr, acquires a mature humane voice that chimes with universal chords. Ultimately, martyrdom is a premature

11_Warfare&Poetry_Ch11_257-282.indd 272

27/06/2013 12:13



Humanism, Nationalism and Violence in Darwish’s Poetry273

death that naturally induces its due lamentations and sorrows. What then of nationalism and the liberationist role it has in the context at hand? Nationalism and nationhood, which shrouds all forms of sacrifice within cloaks of heroism, reach their limits when they fragment; become objects of their own destruction. For the Palestinians, it was the task of the intellectuals, as Fanon would have liked it, to guide, to imbue nationalism with humanist inflections, so that it does not become an object in and of itself, always to look at another horizon, parallel or beyond the nation-state, so that the humanity of the struggle is not superseded or made secondary. As Fanon puts it: The living expression of the nation is the moving consciousness of the whole of the people; it is the coherent, enlightened action of men and women. The collective building up of a destiny is the assumption of responsibility on the historical scale. Otherwise there is anarchy, repression and the resurgence of tribal parties and federalism.54

Fraternal frictions In the first decade of the twenty-first century, the Palestinians entered another stage in their struggle for freedom from the Israeli occupation and their struggle for power among themselves. In January 2006, Hamas, the Islamist Palestinian faction which was founded in 1987, triumphed in the parliamentary elections over the longstanding Palestinian nationalist faction, Fatah. Gaza was crippled with an Israeli siege; and Hamas was hindered from gaining the full reins of power from the Palestinian Authority and Fatah, its dominant faction. The struggle for power between the Palestinian Authority and Hamas marked a new chapter in the history of the Palestinian national movement. Until that point, and despite all the splits and infighting between the different Palestinian factions, Fatah had succeeded in monopolising and centralising the use of violence, a condition which the German sociologist, Max Weber, considers essential in the creation, viability and continuity of a nation-state.55 But in keeping with Fanon’s insight cited above, increasingly Palestinian politics has become infected ‘with the resurgence of tribal parties’, a condition which led to a civil war between Fatah and Hamas in the Gaza Strip, and ended in the latter controlling Gaza and the former the West Bank. Darwish has been a tireless chronicler of the Palestinian struggle. With the Palestinian infighting in the picture, his position at this stage takes

11_Warfare&Poetry_Ch11_257-282.indd 273

27/06/2013 12:13

274

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

another turn, which cannot be said to cancel what he stood for before, but it engages in further revisionism and become more Freudian in its universality and appeal. The split between the Palestinian territories, of course imposed by the Israeli occupation, has been reinforced by Palestinian infighting and animosity. Two different ideologies, with different power agendas, violently clashed, each accusing the other of being less nationalistic and less trustworthy in the national cause of the Palestinian than the other. Thus, the poem which Darwish published after the 2007 Hamas-Fatah power struggle, demonstrated a deeper criticism of the self-idealisation and violence often indulged in by unbridled nationalism. Freud’s insights, as explained by Rose, are of notable relevance here: Nationhood is, or can be, a religious passion. Freud may have wanted to believe that religious beliefs would go away; but instead he seems to be issuing a rather different warning – against the power of national identities, as everything in more recent times confirms, to endow themselves with the aura of the sacred.56

Probing a similar point in his poem, Darwish writes ‘From now on, you are another!’: ‘Was it necessary for us to fall from a very high height, and see our blood on our hands…to realise that we are not angels…as we thought?’

Later he declares: What is our need for Narcissus so long as we are Palestinians?

And he ends the poem with: I do not feel ashamed of my identity, for it is still under construction. But I feel ashamed of some of what has appeared at the beginning of Ibn Khald∑n’s prolegomena.57

In another poetic-prose text, produced in the same year (2007), entitled ‘From now on, you are you!’, he writes: Al-Karmalu salÆm, wa-l-bunduqiyyatu nashÆz. Al-Karmel is peace, and the rifle is an abnormality.58

11_Warfare&Poetry_Ch11_257-282.indd 274

27/06/2013 12:13



Humanism, Nationalism and Violence in Darwish’s Poetry275

Palestinian nationalism has been made exceptional, legitimate, by the conditions that gave rise to it, but Darwish does not let this uncomfortable reality go by without serious questioning. Palestinian blood has been for so long described as a ‘red line’, khaππun a≈mar, among the Palestinians themselves, but now it has been spilt with such intensity and hatred by themselves. ‘We are not angels…as we thought?’ Darwish writes. If we are not careful with our nationalism, it will consume us, indeed, it has done so. He echoes Freud who linked nationalism with narcissism, as we saw earlier. Darwish uses the same expression, Narcissus, the one whose very image fascinated, saturated him/he/it (nation-state) that it ceases to see beyond him/itself, hence ‘as we thought’. Darwish also evokes the thoughts of the great 14th Arab philosopher Ibn Khald∑n, who in his prolegomena diagnosed how al-≤a∆abiyya, strong bonds of belonging-solidarity, create and also destroy tribes, nations and groups. The ≤a∆abiyya of Ibn Khald∑n, as the Moroccan philosopher Mohammad Abid al-Jabry explains, is ‘a knot that is social, psychological, conscious and unconscious as well; it binds the individuals of the group; it is based on kinship; it binds them continuously, increasing and it tightens when there is an external danger that threatens these individuals, as individuals and as a group’.59 The definition and description befits the Palestinian case, but it is the breach of solidarity among the Palestinians of which Darwish is ashamed. Al-≤a∆abiyya, which in the first Khald∑nian sense means solidarity on the basis of which groups, tribes and nations are constructed, turns into extremism, when infighting becomes the order of the day, a mirror for the Palestinian condition par excellence. In the second poem, Darwish expands his revisionism: the ‘rifle’, once a powerful symbol of the Palestinian revolution, becomes an exception, something unlikeable, an abnormality, nashÆz. Peace in its most idyllic sense exists in nature, al-Karmal, to which he had bidden farewell decades ago when he left Palestine in 1970. Now in one of his last poems, aptly entitled lÆ ur∞du li-hÆdh∞ l-qa∆∞da an tantah∞ ‘I do not want this poem to end’, Darwish collapses all boundaries of nationalism and nation-state, and endows poetry with the unqualified freedom that the Palestinians, whose aspirations he aired for four decades, are yet to be attained: I don’t want this poem to ever end I don’t want a clear target for it I don’t want it to be the map of an exile or a country I don’t want this poem to end with a happy ending, or with death I want it to be as it desires to be:

11_Warfare&Poetry_Ch11_257-282.indd 275

27/06/2013 12:13

276

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East Someone else’s poem, my opponent’s poem, my equal’s poem... I want it to be the prayer of my brother and my enemy. As if the one addressed in it is me the absent speaker. As if the echo is my body, as if I am You, or others, as if I am my other.60

This is an outcry and affirmation of freedom in its most idyllic state. There is not a hint of negativity or exclusivity in this poem towards any constructed human reality. Negativity is inherent to any liberationist nationalism, and any individual commitment to it, as Edward Said wrote of the Palestinian conditions: The situation for us [Palestinians], since 1948, has been heavily political, in the sense that our self-expression as a people has been blocked. So since every poet in a way answers to the political and historical needs of the time in some way […] there is an implicit relationship to the political…even in the most non-political of all forms, a relation of negativity.61

Having collapsed all boundaries and exhibited such a generosity of spirit, Darwish embraces his own death, sensing in death in general a hint of return, freedom from history and all its derivatives, an idea which analysts of Freud’s work considered the most radical of his ideas: ‘the aim of all life is death’, wrote Freud. ‘The wish to minimize tension’, wrote Cohen about Freud’s idea, derives from a wish to extinguish it, to return to the stasis of inorganic matter from whence we came and to which we’ll return: ‘all organic drives are conservative, are acquired historically and tend towards the restoration of an earlier state of things’.62

Although the congruency with Freud becomes manifest later, Darwish had played with the idea of freedom in death in his 1982 diwÆn. There, he evokes the Palestinian condition in Lebanon, highlighting how the Lebanese Poet Khalil Hawi (1919–1982) had chosen his freedom by creating his own death in the face of the Israeli invasion, to which he reacted with suicide: And Khalil Hawi does not want death despite himself, He listens on his own wavelength

11_Warfare&Poetry_Ch11_257-282.indd 276

27/06/2013 12:13



Humanism, Nationalism and Violence in Darwish’s Poetry277 Death and freedom He does not want death despite himself, So let him open his poem and go… 63

It is hoped that the few lines of poetry from Darwish’s long poem, √Ælat ≈∞∆Ær, at the end of this chapter will further show the Freudian-Darwishian harmony, in the first’s prose and philosophy, and in the second’s poetry and sense.

Conclusion It is reasonable to start this conclusion with the thought that no theory should overwhelm the very materials it serves to illustrate. Freud, Fanon and Darwish wrote and theorised within not entirely similar historical periods, and with, to some extent, different peoples and contexts in mind. However, the idea that human conditions afford striking similarities as well as differences, as Ibn Khald∑n recognised centuries ago,64 can be taken as a guiding thought as to how the thoughts of Freud on belonging, nationalism and nation-state, and Fanon on anti-colonial struggles, liberation and nation-state building, and Darwish on longing, resistance and human conditions in general, overlapped a great deal. At the beginning of the Palestinian national movement, Darwish is in step with Fanon’s ideas about nationalism and is engaged in all its aspects. The cardinal thought of Fanon that a struggle for liberation requires cohesion and unity that touches all the strata of the colonised society finds reflection in Darwish’s poetry at many levels. This includes mourning the martyrs, hailing the heroes and their leaders, in effect making the land, and nature in general, a grand backdrop for the celebration and the exhibition of the deeds of the nationalist. Fanon warns poets and intellectuals who betray the calling of their people. Similarly, Darwish evokes the complementary roles played by the fighter, the martyr, the poet, the mother and nature. But nationalism, whichever garb it wears, proves insufficient to the imagination of a free poet, who is committed to universal solidarity and what basic psychological human dispositions and aspirations teach. Freud becomes aptly relevant in the late period of Darwish’s poetry for his insights on nationalism and the nation-state. The image of Narcissus, the dangerous sacredness that nationalism assumes, the break-up of solidarity for personal and partisan interests, the extremism that taints the nationalist, loom large in Darwish’s poetry, opening nationalism to further

11_Warfare&Poetry_Ch11_257-282.indd 277

27/06/2013 12:13

278

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

questioning. Yet, though worldly poetry is presumed to be free of ideological and causal shackles, it also cannot exceed its historical conditions. As Darwish writes: The poet cannot be freed of his historical condition. But poetry provides us with a margin of freedom and a metaphorical compensation for our inability to change reality. And it takes us to a higher language from the conditions that keep us from being in harmony with our human existence. And it can help us to understand the self by liberating it of what could hinder its flight in a limitless space.65

In the end, it is possible to read another nod in Darwish’s lines below to Freud in his radical suggestion that death (not the process or the method of it though) is a secret wish that all organic objects aim to fulfil. Total liberation in life is not exactly within the realm of the absolute possibility that Freud recognises, for one is born of father and mother, the seminal figures of attachment to whom one returns. The poet, like any other thinker, is encased in his time and place. It is only in eternal rest that true freedom is realised: He says, on the verge of death, I have no more earth to lose Free am I, close to my ultimate freedom, I hold my tomorrow in my own hands In a few moments, I will enter my life born free of father and mother I will choose letters of lapis lazuli for my name66

Notes  1 All the translations in this chapter are by Atef Alshaer unless otherwise noted.   2 Wilde, Oscar, The Complete Short Stories of Oscar Wilde (New York, 2006), p.11.  3 See Jayyusi, Salma, Khadra, ‘Mahmoud Darwish’s Mission and Place in Arab Literary History’ in H. Nassar and N. Rahman (eds), Mahmoud Darwish: Exile’s Poet (Northampton, Mass., 2008), pp.iv–1.   4 The interview was originally published in Hebrew in Zo Haderech newspaper, and Darwish then translated it into Arabic for al-Jad∞d newspaper; cited in NaqqÆsh, RajÆ≥, Ma≈m∑d Darw∞sh: shÆ≤ir al-ar∂ al-mu≈talla [Mahmoud Darwish: The poet of the Occupied Territories] (Beirut, 1972), p.100.

11_Warfare&Poetry_Ch11_257-282.indd 278

27/06/2013 12:13



Humanism, Nationalism and Violence in Darwish’s Poetry279

  5

Matar, Dina, What It Means to be Palestinian: Stories of Palestinian Peoplehood (London, 2011).  6 NaqqÆsh, Ma≈m∑d Darw∞sh, p.113.  7 See Frangieh, Bassam K., ‘Modern Arabic Poetry: Vision and Reality’ in H. Nassar and N. Rahman (eds), Mahmoud Darwish: Exile’s Poet (Northampton, Mass., 2008) pp.11–40.  8 NaqqÆsh, Ma≈m∑d Darw∞sh, p.107.   9 See Freud, Sigmund, Civilisation and its Discontents (London: Penguin Books, 2004 [1930]). 10 Rose, Jacqueline, The Last Resistance (London, 2007), p.6. 11 Rose, The Last Resistance, p.48. 12 Rose, The Last Resistance, p.85. 13 Freud, Civilization and its Discontents, p.18. 14 Fanon, Frantz, The Wretched of the Earth (London, 1963), p.70. 15 Fanon, Frantz, Black Skin, White Mask (New York, 1952), p.224. 16 Fanon, Black Skin, White Mask, p.156. 17 Said, Edward, Freud and the Non-European (London, 2003), p.25. 18 Said, Edward, ‘On Mahmoud Darwish’, Grand Street 12.4 (1994), p.113. 19 Darwish, Mahmoud, DiwÆn Ma≈m∑d Darw∞sh (Beirut, 1964), p.135. 20 Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, p.73. 21 Darwish,YawmiyyÆt jur≈ falasπ∞n∞ [Diaries of a Palestinian Wound] (Beirut, 1964), pp.383–397. 22 Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, p.74. 23 Perhaps Darwish’s most notable poem that dramatises this theme of nature and its ultimate knowledge by those who live for and amongst it is ‘The Speech of the Red Indian’, where he gives voice to the native Americans against the white settlers (Darwish, Eleven Planets, 1992), pp.35–51. 24 See Angelika Neuwirth on Darwish’s incorporation of historic and mythic figures and themes in his poetry, ‘Hebrew Bible and Arabic Poetry: Mahmoud Darwish’s Palestine – From Paradise Lost to a Homeland Made of Words’ in H. K. Nassar and N. Rahman (eds), Mahmoud Darwish, Exile’s Poet (Northampton, Mass., 2008), pp.167–190. 25 Darwish, radd al-fi≤l, A reaction, p.112. 26 Darwish, JawÆz safar [Passport], p.40. 27 Darwish, JawÆz safar, p.41. 28 Darwish, Unfortunately, It Was Paradise, tr Munir Akash and Carolyn Forché (London, 2003), pp.165–168. 29 NaqqÆsh, Ma≈m∑d Darw∞sh, p.233. 30 Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, p.74. 31 Darwish, 1972, p.68; for the entire poem see pp.63–69. 32 Khalili, Laleh, Heroes and Martyrs of Palestine: the Politics of National Commemoration (Cambridge, 2007). 33 See Rose, The Last Resistance, pp.62–92, for a discussion of Freud’s view of nationalism, resistance, individual and social identities. See also Atef Alshaer’s review and critique of the book in Studies in Ethnicity and Nationalism 8.2 (London, 2008), pp.376–378. 34 Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, p.74. 35 Darwish, al-Bayt wa-l-πar∞q (The House and the Road) in √ayrat al-≤Æ≥id [The Perplexity of the Returnee, selected articles] (Beirut, 2007) pp.32–33. 36 Rose, The Last Resistance, p.42.

11_Warfare&Poetry_Ch11_257-282.indd 279

27/06/2013 12:13

280

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

37 Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, p.29. 38 Darwish, Mad∞≈ al-æill al-≤Æl∞ [In Praise of the High Shadow] (Beirut, 1984), pp.35–37. 39 Jakobson, Roman, Selected Writings: Poetry of Grammar and Grammar of Poetry, edited with a preface by Stephan Rudy (New York/London, 1981), pp.86–97. 40 Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, p.73. 41 Sartre, John-Paul, Preface to Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth (London, 1961), p.25. 42 See Wen-chin Ouyang’s chapter in her book, Politics of Nostalgia in the Arabic Novel: Nation-state, Modernity and Tradition (Edinburgh, 2012), for an interesting discussion on the theme of madness in the work of Darwish and other Arab authors, namely ‘Madness: In the Ruins of Dream and Memory’, pp.39–49. 43 Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, p.73. 44 Darwish, mad∞≈ al-æill al-≤Æl∞, p.124. 45 See Patrick Sylvain’s article where he attributes to Darwish the appellation philosopher-poet or poet-philosopher. He also engages theoretically with his poetic creations, identifying several stages to Darwish and his poetry, namely the formative, the sublime, the global (Sylvain, ‘Darwish’s Essentialist Poetics in a State of Siege’, Human Architecture: Journal of the Sociology of Self-Knowledge, VII, Special Issue, 2009, pp.137–150). 46 See Rose, The Last Resistance, p.89. 47 Darwish, √Ælat ≈∞sÆr (Beirut, 2002), p.64. 48 Darwish, ‘Ta≥akhkhara ≈uzni ≤alayhi’ [My sadness over him has been delayed] in √ayrat al-≤Æ≥id, p.92. 49 Darwish, al-Bahth ≤an al-πab∞≤∞ f∞ l-lÆπab∞≤i [The search for the natural in the unnatural], √ayrat al-≤Æ≥id, p.22. 50 Rose, The Last Resistance, p.80. 51 Darwish, √Ælat ≈i∆Ær, p.50. 52 Neuwirth, ‘Hebrew Bible and Arabic Poetry’, p.189. 53 Darwish, √Ælat ≈i∆Ær, p.79. 54 Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, p.165. 55 Weber, Max, Politics as A Vocation (Muenchen, 1921), pp.396–450. 56 Rose, The Last Resistance, p.76. 57 Darwish, July 2007 available at: http://www.bintjbeil.com/A/literature/darwish_ gaza.html, accessed 25 July 2012. 58 Darwish, 2008, available at http://www.darwish.ps/dpoem-127.htmll, accessed 25 July 2012. 59 Abed al-Jabry, Mohammad, Fikr Ibn Khald∑n: al-≤a∆abiyya wa-l-dawla (Beirut, 1992), p.168. 60 Darwish, ‘LÆ ur∞du li-hÆdh∞ l-qa∆∞da an tantah∞’, pp.74–75. 61 Said, Edward, Culture and Resistance, Conversations with Edward Said. Interviews by David Barsmain (Cambridge, Mass., 2003), pp.163–164. 62 Cohen, Josh, How to Read Freud (London, 2005), pp.104–105. 63 Darwish, Mad∞≈ al-æill al-≤Æl∞, p.79. 64 In Hussein, Taha, √ad∞th al-arbi≤Æ≥ (Cairo, 1935), p.69. 65 Darwish, √ayrat al-≤Æ≥id, p.149. 66 Darwish, √Ælat ≈i∆Ær, p.14.

11_Warfare&Poetry_Ch11_257-282.indd 280

27/06/2013 12:13



Humanism, Nationalism and Violence in Darwish’s Poetry281

Bibliography Abed al-Jabry, Mohammad, Fikr Ibn Khald∑n: al-≤a∆abiyya wa-l-dawla (Beirut, 1992). Alshaer, Atef, ‘Review of Jacqueline Rose, The Last Resistance’, Studies in Ethnicity and Nationalism 8.2 (London, 2008), pp.376–378. Cohen, Josh How to Read Freud (London, 2005). Darwish, Mahmoud, D∞wÆn Ma≈m∑d Darw∞sh (Beirut, 1964). ———, YawmiyyÆt jur≈ falasπ∞n∞ [Diaries of a Palestinian Wound] (Beirut, 1964). ———, Mad∞≈ al-æill al-≤Æl∞ [In Praise of the High Shadow] (Beirut, 1984). ———, Eleven Planets (Beirut, 1992). ———, √alat ≈∞∆Ær [A State of Seige] (Beirut, 2002). ———, Unfortunately, It Was Paradise, tr Munir Akash and Carolyn Forché (London, 2003). ———, Al-Bayt wa-l-πar∞q [The House and the Road], √ayrat al-≤Æ≥id [The Perplexity of the Returnee, selected articles] (Beirut, 2007). ———, July 2007, available at http://www.bintjbeil.com/A/literature/darwish_gaza. html, accessed 10 December 2011. ———, 2008, available at http://www.darwish.ps/dpoem-127.html, accessed 10 December 2011. ———, LÆ ur∞du li-hÆdh∞ l-qa∆∞da an tantah∞ (Beirut, 2009). Fanon, Frantz, The Wretched of the Earth (London, 1963). ———, Black Skin, White Mask (New York, 1952). Fisk, Robert, Pity the Nation: Lebanon at War (Oxford, 1992). Frangieh, Bassam K., ‘Modern Arabic Poetry: Vision and Reality’ in H. Nassar and N. Rahman (eds), Mahmoud Darwish: Exile’s Poet (Northampton, Mass., 2008), pp.11–40. Freud, Sigmund, Civilisation and its Discontents (London, 2004 [1930]). Hussein, Taha, √ad∞th al-arbi≤Æ≥ [The Conversation of Wednesday] (Cairo, 1935). Jakobson, Roman, Selected Writings: Poetry of Grammar and Grammar of Poetry, edited with a preface by Stephan Rudy (New York, 1981), pp.86–97. Jayyusi, Salma Khadra, ‘Mahmoud Darwish’s Mission and Place in Arab Literary History’ in H. Nassar and N. Rahman (eds), Mahmoud Darwish: Exile’s Poet (Northampton, Mass., 2008), pp.iv–1. Khalili, Laleh, Heroes and Martyrs of Palestine: the Politics of National Commemoration (Cambridge, 2007). Matar, Dina, What It Means to be Palestinian: Stories of Palestinian Peoplehood (London, 2011). NaqqÆsh, RajÆ≥, Ma≈m∑d Darw∞sh: shÆ≤ir al-ar∂ al-mu≈talla [Mahmoud Darwish: the poet of the Occupied Territories] (Beirut, 1972). Neuwirth, Angelika, ‘Hebrew Bible and Arabic Poetry: Mahmoud Darwish’s Palestine – From Paradise Lost to a Homeland Made of Words’ in H. K. Nassar and N. Rahman (eds), Mahmoud Darwish, Exile’s Poet (Northampton, Mass., 2008), pp.167–190. Ouyang, Wen-chin, Politics of Nostalgia in the Arabic Novel: Nation-state, Modernity and Tradition (Edinburgh, 2012). Rose, Jacqueline, The Last Resistance (London, 2007). Said, Edward, ‘On Mahmoud Darwish’, Grand Street 12.4 (1994), p.113. ———, Freud and the Non-European (London, 2003). ———, Culture and Resistance, Conversations with Edward Said. Interviews by David Barsmain (Cambridge, Mass., 2003).

11_Warfare&Poetry_Ch11_257-282.indd 281

27/06/2013 12:13

282

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Sartre, John-Paul, Preface to Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth (London, 1961). Sylvain, P., ‘Darwish’s Essentialist Poetics in a State of Siege’ in Human Architecture: Journal of the Sociology of Self-Knowledge, VII, Special Issue, 2009, pp.137–150. Weber, Max, Politics as a Vocation (Muenchen, 1921), pp.396–450. Wilde, Oscar, The Complete Short Stories of Oscar Wilde (New York, 2006).

11_Warfare&Poetry_Ch11_257-282.indd 282

27/06/2013 12:13

Index

≤Abbasid Caliphate, 2, 121, 184 ≤Abd al-Malik, Umayyad caliph, 173, 175, 176 Ibn ≤Abd Rabbihi, 119 ≤Abd al-Ra≈mÆn III, caliph of Cordova, 9 ≤Abd al-WahhÆb al-BayÆt∞, 167–70, 188 ≤Abla, ≤Antar’s beloved, 201, 202, 203, 206, 210 Ab∞kÆr∞y∑s, Iskandar, 219, 220, 221 ≤Abs, ban∑, 195, 207, 208, 210 Akkadian, 40–3, 44, 73, 74, 77, 83–5 Aleppo, 86, 88, 168, 169 Alexander the Great, 103 ≤Al∞ b. Ab∞ ∏Ælib, 120, 125–40 ≤Al∞ b. Mu≈ammad, leader of the Zanj, 2 Ab∑ ≤Al∞ IyÆd, 266 Allani, Queen of the Underworld, 77 Alterman, Nathan, 245, 246, 252 Amarna tablets, 73 Amenhotep I, pharaoh, 110 Amenhotep II, pharaoh, 108, 110 Amenhotep III, pharaoh, 110 al-Am∞n, ≤Abbasid caliph, 149, 154, 159–61 ≤Amr b. ≤Abd al-Malik al-≤Itr∞≤ al-WarrÆq, 153–7 ≤Amr b. al-≤≠s, 127–41 ≤Amr b. Kulth∑m, 209 ≤Amr b. Sharya, 132 Amun-Re, 105, 108, 110, 114 Anatolia, 73–4, 76, 80 ≤Antar, 193–211 Anubis, 102

12_Warfare&Poetry_Index_283-286.indd 283

Arabian Nights, 178–9, 194 Arafat, Yasser, 271 Ab∑’l-AshbÆl, 201, 202, 210 AsmahÆn, singer, 219 Assur, Assyrian god, 41, 42 Assyrian, 41, 42 Ibn A≤tham, 125 Ibn al-Ath∞r, 119 Babylon, city, 54, 55, 60, 74 Babylonia, 41, 55, 62 Babylonian, 40, 42, 44, 46, 47, 61, 76 Baghdad, 149–64 Barak, son of Abinoam, 250 BarrÆq b. Raw≈Æn, 215–34 Ba∆ra, 1, 4, 12–17, 151, 153, 154 Byzantines, 168–89, 195 Cambyses, 103 Cappadocia, 74 Chaldaea, 42 Cheikho, Louis, 220–1, 221 Cilicia, 75 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 61 Constantinople, 169, 170, 180 Coptic, 99 Crete, 107, 108 Cyprus, 107, 108 Darwish, Mahmoud, 31, 257–78 Daylamites, 184 Deborah, prophetess, 250–1 Di≤bil al-KhuzÆ≤∞, 126 Duino Elegies, 2, 31–2

27/06/2013 12:15

284

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

Ebla, 77, 78, 79 Elam, 6, 41, 42 Elamites, 1, 27, 57 Enannatum, ruler of Lagash, 39 Enkidu, 44–5 Enlil, Sumerian god, 5–7, 54 Enmetena, ruler of Lagash, 39, 40 Erra, Babylonian god, 39, 47–65 Euphrates, river, 106, 108 al-Fa∂l b. Sahl, Dh∑’l-RiyÆsatayn, 160, 163, 164 al-Fa∂l b. Ya≈yÆ the Barmakid, 149 Fanon, Frantz, 257–69, 271, 276, 277 Ab∑’l-Faraj al-I∆fahÆn∞, 232 al-Farazdaq, 197 Ab∑ FirÆs al-√amdÆn∞, 168–89 Freud, Sigmund, 257–69, 271, 276, 277 Gaza, 273 GhÆlib, ≤Antar’s opponent, 197–200 Gilgamesh, 44, 45, 47, 48, 75, 76 Goethe, 209 Gouri, Haim, 241–52 Haganah, 241, 243 Halule, Battle of, 41–2 Hamas, 273, 274 Hamdanids, 168–89 Hammuda, Ibrahim, 219 Harran, 168 Harthama b. A≤yan, 150, 151, 160, 162 HÆr∑n al-Rash∞d, ≤Abbasid caliph, 149, 154, 161, 182 √Ætim al-∏Æ’i, 138 Hatshepsut, queen, 105 Hattusa, 73–6, 80 Hattusili I, Hittite king, 83, 86, 88 Hattusili III, Hittite king, Hawi, Khalil, 276 Hebrew University, 243 Heidegger, Martin, 3, 4, 25–6 Heliopolis, 100, 102 Herat, 160 Herodotus, 40, 103, 11 Ibn HishÆm, 123, 132 Hittites, 73–9, 113 Hölderlin, 3, 4, 26 Holocaust, 29, 248, 249, 252 Homer, 80, 113, 115

12_Warfare&Poetry_Index_283-286.indd 284

Humbaba, monster, 44–5 Humban-undaša, Elamite general, 42 Hurrian language, 75, 77–80, 89 al-√usayn b. al-Da≈≈Æk al-Khal∞≤, 154, 159–60 Hussein, King, 266 Hyksos, 105 Ikhshidids, 184, 185 Iliad, 47, 119, 126 ≤Imru al-Qays, 209 Inanna, Sumerian goddess, 45 Ibn Is≈Æq, 123 Ishtar, Babylonian goddess, 46 Ishum, Babylonian god, 47–65 Israel, 113, 259, 269 al-JÆ≈iæ, 131, 141 Jar∞r, poet, 197 Jerusalem, 4, 11, 13, 19, 21–2, 29, 31, 32, 241, 243 Jesus, 264–5 Job, Book of, 99, 265 Judges, Book of, 250 Jundaba, 200 Kabti-ilÆni-Marduk, 61, 65 Kadesh, Battle of, 113 Ibn al-Kalb∞, 219–20 Kanafani, Ghassan, 266 Kaneš, city, 89 Kaneš, Queen of, 83 Karkamish, 74 Karnak, 105, 108, 110, 113 Kashtiliash, king of Babylonia, 46 Ibn KhÆlawyh∞, 170 Ibn Khald∑n, 119, 274–5 KhÆlid b. Mu≤ammir, 140 al-KhansÆ’, poetess, 230 Khurasan, 149, 150 al-Khuraym∞, Is≈Æq b. √assÆn, 154, 160–4 Kizzuwatna (Cilicia), 75 Kufa, 136, 151 Kurds, 185 Kush, 11 Lab∞d, poet, 209 Lagash, city, 39–40 Lakhmids, 124

05/07/2013 11:10



Index285

Lamentations, book of, 1, 7–11, 16–19, 29 LaylÆ bt. Lukayz, 215–34 Libya, 107, 108, 110, 112, 114, 115, 234 Lugalzaggesi, King of Umma, 40 Luwian, language, 74, 75 Ab∑’l-Ma≤Æl∞, Hamdanid, 169 al-Mahd∞, ≤Abbasid caliph, 151 Majnun Layla, 217, 232 Malatya, 74 al-Ma’m∑n, ≤Abbasid caliph, 149–64 Manbij, 168, 169 al-Man∆∑r, ≤Abbasid caliph, 151 Marduk, Babylonian god, 47, 54, 55, 63 Maslama b. ≤Abd al-Malik, 173–4, 181, 182 al-Mas≤∑d∞, 119, 153, 154 Mass, Danny, 244 Mecca, 207, 208, 210 Merenptah, pharaoh, 111–13 Merv, 150, 160 Mittani, 75, 108 Mosul, 168 Mu≤allaqÆt, 194, 208–11 Mu≤Æwiya b. Ab∞ SufyÆn, Umayyad caliph, 120, 127–41 al-Mufa∂∂al al-∫abb∞, 122 Mu≈ammad the Prophet, 15, 16, 123, 131, 135 Mursili I, Hittite king, 74 Mursili II, Hittite king, 82 al-Mu≤ta∂id, ≤Abbasid caliph, 119 al-Mutanabb∞, poet, 171, 185 Ibn al-Mu≤tazz, 119, 173 Ibn al-Nad∞m, 122, 136 Nanna, Sumerian god, 5–7, 9, 21, 23–4, 32 Na∆r ibn MuzÆ≈im, 120, 124–42 Nineveh, 47 Ningal, Sumerian goddess, 5–7, 9, 21, 23–4, 32 Ninurta, Babylonian god, 43 Nippur, 54 Numayr, ban∑, 185 Ab∑ NuwÆs, 153, 154, 182 Osiris, 101 Owen, Wilfred, 57

12_Warfare&Poetry_Index_283-286.indd 285

Palestine, 28–9, 106, 109, 113, 115, 241, 243, 247, 252, 257–76 Palmach, 241, 243, 245, 252 Proverbs, book of, 99 Pyramid texts, 100 QabÆth b. Raz∞n al-Lakhm∞, 176–8, 180, 182, 184 Qarghawayhi, 169, 170 al-Qa∆abj∞, Mu≈ammad, 219, 228 QattÆla, 200, 211 Qur≥Æn, 10, 32, 131 Qu∆∆Æ∆, 131–3 Ibn Qutayba, 122, 124, 136 al-RÆ∂∞, ≤Abbasid caliph, 168 Ibn RÆ≥iq, 184 Ramses II, pharaoh, 74 Ramses III, pharaoh, 100, 111, 113, 114, 115 Rayy, 150 Reza Shah, Muhammad, 216–17, 218 Rilke, Rainer Maria, 2, 31 Ibn al-R∑m∞, 1, 2–18 Saddam Hussein, 40 Said, Edward, 262 Ibn SallÆm al-Juma≈∞, 132 Saqqara, 100, 103 Sargon (Sharru-ken II), Assyrian king, 41 Sargon of Akkade, 46 Sayf al-Dawla, Hamdanid ruler, 168–88 Sennacherib (Sin-ahhe-er∞ba), Assyrian king, 41, 42, 43, 56 Seth, Egyptian god, 101 Sharshar, Mount, 57–8 al-ShaybÆn∞, ≤Abd AllÆh b. Mu≈ammad b. WarqÆ, 184 Sherman, General, 46, 64 Shlonsky, Avraham, 242 Siffin, Battle of, 119–42 Sindbad the Sailor, 178 Soldiers’ oath, 81, 85, 90 Sosostris I, pharaoh, 111, 110 Sosostris III, pharaoh, 103, 104, 105 Steinbeck, John, 64 Sumerian, 1, 4, 117–18, 39, 41, 43, 45, 47, 74 Suppiluliuma I, Hittite king, 74

27/06/2013 12:15

286

Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East

al-∏abar∞, 119, 120, 124–41, 152–3, 154 ∏Æhir b. al-√usayn, 150–4, 159, 162 Ab∑ TammÆm, 122, 140, 171 al-Tan∑kh∞, 172–3, 175, 181, 184, 188 Taurus Mountains, 74, 86, 88 Telipinu, Hittite god, 76 Teššub, Hurrian God, 77, 79 al-Tha≤Ælib∞, 172–3 Thebes (Egypt), 105, 110 Thoth, Egyptian god, 102 Tigris river, 40 Tolstoy, Leo, 65 Tudhaliya I, Hittite king, 74, 75 Tukulti-Ninurta II, Assyrian king, 46 Turks, 126, 184 Tus, 150 Tuthmosis III, pharaoh, 105, 108, 110 Tuthmosis IV, pharaoh, 110 ≤Umar b. Ab∞ Rab∞≤a ≤Umar b. al-Shabba, 222 Umma, city, 39–40 Umman-menanu, king of Elam, 42

12_Warfare&Poetry_Index_283-286.indd 286

Unas, pharaoh, 100 Ur, 1, 4–7, 8, 11, 13, 14, 16–19, 21–9 Ur-Lumma, ruler of Umma, 39–40 Uršu, siege of, 83, 86, 90 Volpi, Mario, 216 Wahb ibn Munabbih, 132 Wardan, 128 al-Ya≤q∑b∞, 123 Yemen, 124 Zababa, Babylonian god, 85, 89, 90 Zab∞ba, ≤Antar’s mother, 197–8, 201, 204, 205 Zagros Mountains, 41 Zalpa, Hittite town, 83, 86, 89 al-Zamakhshar∞, 230 Zanj, 1 ZaydÆn, Jurj∞, 222 Zuhayr b. Musayyab al-∫abb∞, 151, 152, 155, 160, 162

27/06/2013 12:15