Fortresses of the Intellect: Ismaili and Other Islamic Studies in Honour of Farhad Daftary 9780755611249, 9781848856264

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The Institute of Ismaili Studies

The Institute of Ismaili Studies was established in 1977 with the object of promoting scholarship and learning on Islam, in the historical as well as contemporary contexts, and a better understanding of its relationship with other societies and faiths. The Institute’s programmes encourage a perspective which is not confined to the theological and religious heritage of Islam, but seeks to explore the relationship of religious ideas to broader dimensions of society and culture. The programmes thus encourage an interdisciplinary approach to the materials of Islamic history and thought. Particular attention is also given to issues of modernity that arise as Muslims seek to relate their heritage to the contemporary situation. Within the Islamic tradition, the Institute’s programmes seek to promote research on those areas which have, to date, received relatively little attention from scholars. These include the intellectual and literary expressions of Shiʽism in general, and Ismailism in particular. In the context of Islamic societies, the Institute’s programmes are informed by the full range and diversity of cultures in which Islam is practised today, from the Middle East, South and Central Asia, and Africa to the industrialized societies of the West, thus taking into consideration the variety of contexts which shape the ideals, beliefs and practices of the faith. These objectives are realized through concrete programmes and activities organized and implemented by various departments of the Institute. The Institute also collaborates ­periodically, on a programme-specific basis, with other institutions of learning in the United Kingdom and abroad. v

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The Institute’s academic publications fall into several distinct and interrelated categories: 1. Occasional papers or essays addressing broad themes of the relationship between religion and society in the historical as well as modern contexts, with special reference to Islam. 2. Monographs exploring specific aspects of Islamic faith and culture, or the contributions of individual Muslim figures or writers. 3. Editions or translations of significant primary or secondary texts. 4. Translations of poetic or literary texts which illustrate the rich heritage of spiritual, devotional and symbolic expressions in Muslim history. 5. Works on Ismaili history and thought, and the relationship of the Ismailis to other traditions, communities and schools of thought in Islam. 6. Proceedings of conferences and seminars sponsored by the Institute. 7. Bibliographical works and catalogues which document manuscripts, printed texts and other source materials. This book falls into category five listed above. In facilitating these and other publications, the Institute’s sole aim is to encourage original research and analysis of relevant issues. While every effort is made to ensure that the publications are of a high academic standard, there is naturally bound to be a diversity of views, ideas and interpretations. As such, the opinions expressed in these publications must be understood as belonging to their authors alone.

Foreword Azim Nanji

Farhad Daftary, in reflecting upon his initial engagement with Ismaili studies, often recounts a story associated with the late Wladimir Ivanow, the Russian scholar, who, in many ways, was one of the early pioneers of the field. Ivanow, while doing research in Iran, before the days of the 1917 Russian Revolution, on behalf of the Asiatic Museum of St Petersburg, chanced upon an Iranian community in Khurāsān. He was intrigued by the literature they had preserved and on learning from them that they were Ismailis, he expressed astonishment at the fact that some had survived the seventh/thirteenth-century Mongol onslaught, which was generally believed to have eradicated the Ismaili presence in Iran and almost banished them from the pages of history. We have come a long way since then and the contributions in this volume, which recognise and honour Farhad Daftary’s contribution to Ismaili studies, also illustrate the growth and maturity of scholarship on the Ismailis and Ismailism which has now emerged from a curricular black hole, and is establishing itself as a flourishing field within the larger context of Shi‘i and Islamic studies. For the last twenty-two years or so of his academic career, Farhad Daftary has been associated with The Institute of Ismaili Studies and led a remarkable renaissance of research and scholarship at this academic institution which was founded in 1977 with the object of promoting scholarship on Islam, in the historical as well as contemporary contexts, and a better understanding of its relationship with other societies and faiths. The re-examination of Ismaili history and doctrines based on solid documentary evidence, and their place in the larger context of Muslim history and thought, has enabled Farhad Daftary and others to put to rest the many xi

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misrepresentations, conspiracy theories and falsehoods that nurtured the fantastical imaginings of a great variety of writers and scholars, ranging from Ibn Rizām to Marco Polo in the past to some today. In contrast, the value of contextualising Ismaili studies within a cosmopolitan frame of scholarship and geography, is to make it part of a broader history, that is neither parochial nor detached from the history of those amongst whom Ismailis lived and continue to live, across the world. One of the most significant developments during this time has been the collection and preservation at the Institute of widely scattered and hitherto unavailable Ismaili manuscripts. This growing collection of Arabic, Persian and Khojki texts as well as an archive of oral materials in various dialects, now constitutes one of the largest and most diverse resources in the field. The textual and oral material are complemented by coins, artefacts and objects from the earliest to the contemporary period of Ismaili history and offer scholars an opportunity to access the entire spectrum of scholarly resources in the field. In the revised edition of his masterly account of the Ismailis and their history, The Ismāʿīlīs: Their History and Doctrines (Cambridge, 2007), Farhad Daftary employs many of these new materials to amplify, refine and deepen many of his previous insights, particularly regarding lesser known Ismaili communities and periods of history. His Ismaili Literature: A Bibliography of Sources and Studies (London, 2004) is the culmination of more than three decades of research and together with Ismail K. Poonawala’s Biobibliography of Ismāʿīlī Literature, reflects the significant progress and the comprehensive scope of modern Ismaili studies and its sources. An enduring contribution of Farhad Daftary during his tenure at the Institute is the forging of collaborative relationships with scholars in Egypt, Syria, Iran, Central Asia and elsewhere, to promote and advance scholarly work, particularly in Arabic and Persian and to bring attention to the important work going on in the Muslim world. The fact that his A Short History of the Ismailis (Edinburgh, 1998) has already been translated into twelve languages and most of the Institute’s publications are available in Arabic, Persian and Urdu translations, is an indication of the importance of the work and the international contacts he has been able to foster and the cosmopolitan community of scholars that has grown at the Institute and across the world. Thus by bringing together scholarship from different societies and scholarly perspectives, the Institute has enabled a great deal of unknown scholarship to become more widely available and also increased recognition of the fact that good scholarship must have an international dimension if it is to address the wider need of creating an

Foreword

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informed, global citizenship. Ultimately, his contribution will be remembered because it has rehabilitated the value of historical knowledge and the discipline of history itself within the field of Ismaili studies. We remember our past because we wish to know how it relates to our present, if not our future. In that sense, we owe a debt to history. Farhad Daftary has shown us how we may begin to repay that debt.

List of Illustrations

Photograph of Farhad Daftary (Sadruddin Verjee/IIS).

frontispiece

Map: Centres of learning in the Islamic World and other places mentioned in this volume (Oxford Designers and Illustrators).

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Fig. 1: A mounted Turkish warrior, galloping at speed into battle, carrying a tugh, from the Jāmiʿ al-tawārīkh of Rashīd al-Dīn Ṭabīb, Edinburgh University Library MS. Arab 20 (dated 714/1314), fol. 109r.

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Fig. 2: Ottoman tughs captured at the Battle of Vienna, 1683, offering of King John Sobieski to the Church of St Ann, Cracow. By permission of the Church of St Ann, Cracow, Poland (photograph courtesy of New York University Press).

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List of Contributors

Iraj Afshar*

University of Tehran (emeritus) and Centre for the Great Islamic Encyclopaedia, Tehran

Hamid Algar

University of California, Berkeley

Omar Alí-de-Unzaga

The Institute of Ismaili Studies, London

M. A. Amir-Moezzi

Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes – Section de sciences religieuses (Sorbonne), Paris and The Institute of Ismaili Studies, London

S. Jalal Badakhchani

The Institute of Ismaili Studies, London

Carmela Baffioni

Universitá degli Studi di Napoli ‘L’Orientale’ and Universitá ‘La Sapienza’ di Roma

C. Edmund Bosworth

University of Manchester (emeritus)

Delia Cortese

Middlesex University

Patricia Crone

Institute for Advanced Study, Princeton

Daniel De Smet

Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique (CNRS), Paris

Robert Gleave

University of Exeter

Hamid Haji

The Institute of Ismaili Studies, London

István Hajnal

Eötvös Loránd University, Budapest

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Abbas H. Hamdani

University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee (emeritus)

Carole Hillenbrand

University of Edinburgh (emerita)

Alice C. Hunsberger

Hunter College, City University of New York

Hermann Landolt

McGill University, Montreal (emeritus) and The Institute of Ismaili Studies, London

Leonard Lewisohn

University of Exeter

Wilferd Madelung

University of Oxford (emeritus) and The Institute of Ismaili Studies, London

Azim Nanji

Stanford University

Andrew J. Newman

University of Edinburgh

Ismail K. Poonawala

University of California, Los Angeles

Paul E. Walker

University of Chicago

* Professor Iraj Afshar sadly passed away on 9 March 2011.

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Centres of learning in the Islamic World and other places mentioned in this volume

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Introduction: A Biographical Sketch1 Omar Alí-de-Unzaga

Farhad Daftary is the world’s foremost authority in Ismaili studies. With an impressive record of publications, his scholarship has become the main reference for those conducting research into the historical trajectory of the Ismailis and their imams, as well as into the religious doctrines and philosophical traditions developed in the Ismaili Shiʿi interpretation of Islam. Farhad Daftary’s singular contribution to scholarship is to have organised the history of a whole community, its leaders and its doctrines, from materials which were previously scattered and confused, often marred with prejudice and surrounded by legends, into a coherent narrative. He has done this by building a comprehensive historical framework in which Ismaili history and thought not only can be situated in their entirety, but also expressed in a sophisticated yet unpretentious style that unravels complex religious ideas in a clear, fluid and coherent narrative and with an objectivity that is based on the most precise historiographical approaches. Not an Ismaili himself, he has nevertheless had the opportunity to study, observe and engage with both the complexities of documenting the Ismaili past as well as the communities of the present day. A large portion of Farhad Daftary’s scholarship consists of disentangling history from myth, of discerning the facts when working with conflicting sources (often only polemical), and above all of setting the record straight on the history of the Ismailis. He lives in London with his wife Fereshteh (not to be confused with his sister Dr Fereshteh Daftari, an art curator and author based in New York), with whom he has been happily married for more than thirty years.

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Omar Alí-de-Unzaga Family background

A truly cosmopolitan figure, Farhad Daftary was born in Belgium, brought up in Iran and later studied in Italy, England and the United States. A word on his family background is in order. He hails from a very old, aristocratic family in Iran, who have held public office since the eighteenth century. On his paternal side, his ancestry can be traced seven generations back, when his ancestors were mostly in charge of the public finances of the country, under the title (laqab) of Mustawfī al-Mamālik,2 conferred by the Qājār monarchs on individual members of the family. The name of the family, however, originates in the calling of Mīrzā Hidāyat Allāh Vazīr Daftar (d. 1892) and his son Mīrzā Muḥammad Ḥusayn Vazīr Daftar (d. 1912), Farhad’s great-great-grandfather and great-grandfather respectively, both of whom served successively as what today would be called Ministers of Finance with the title Vazīr Daftar in the second half of the nineteenth century and the early years of the twentieth. Subsequently, in the early Pahlavī era, this title developed into the family name Daftari (also Daftary) when family names were adopted for the first time in Iran. The first member of the family to have used the surname as we know it was Farhad’s grandfather, Maḥmūd Khān Daftarī (d. 1939), who earlier had been given the title ʿAyn al-Mamālik by Muẓaffar al-Dīn Shāh Qājār (r. 1896–1907). He acted as his father’s deputy in the Ministry of Finance before holding high ranks in Iran’s reformed judiciary system in the time of Riḍā Shāh Pahlavī (r. 1925–1941). Farhad’s father, Mohammad Daftary (1904–1983), was educated in France, graduating from the famous military academy of Saint Cyr in 1928, and then pursued a military-diplomatic career. It was during one of his postings that Farhad was born, in Brussels on Friday 23 December 1938. Amongst the various distinctions bestowed on Mohammad Daftary, he was notably made a Commander of the Légion d’Honneur by the President of the French Republic in 1950. In the Qājār and Pahlavī eras, the family produced several prime ministers under a variety of names derived from other individual titles. To give but one example, Muḥammad Ḥusayn Vazīr Daftar’s younger brother Muḥammad Khān Muṣaddiq al-Salṭana (1882–1967), the future Dr Mohammad Mosaddeq, became Iran’s prime minister during 1951–1953 and nationalised the country’s oil industry. Farhad’s mother, Farideh née Agha Khani (1914–2010), hailed from another prominent family that can be traced to mediaeval times. She was the great-granddaughter of Sardār Abu’l-Ḥasan Khān (d. 1880), son of Shāh Khalīl Allāh (d. 1817) and the younger brother of Ḥasan ʿAlī Shāh (d.

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1881), the spiritual leader of the Nizārī Shiʿi Muslims who was given the title Āghā Khān (Aga Khan) by Fatḥ ʿAlī Shāh Qājār (r. 1797–1834). Sardār Abu’l-Ḥasan Khān had helped his brother when the latter was engaged in military conflicts with the Qājār establishment which eventually resulted in his permanent settlement in India. Sardār himself led military expeditions in the early 1840s and seized parts of Balūchistān before being finally defeated in 1846 by a Qājār army and taken to Tehran. There he remained under house arrest until he was pardoned by Nāṣir al-Dīn Shāh Qājār (r. 1848–1896) and married Mihr-i Jahān Khānum, a Qājār princess. Sardār Abu’l-Ḥasan Khān’s son, Mīrzā Ismāʿīl Khān (1854–1928), titled Iʿtibār al-Salṭana, who was Farhad’s maternal great-grandfather, spent a large part of his early life in the entourage of Aga Khan I in Bombay, where he was known as the Ḥājji Ṣāḥib, for having made the pilgrimage to Mecca. Then in the 1870s, he returned to Iran, received his title and subsequently (after the Constitutional Revolution, 1905–1911) became a member of the Majlis (Parliament), elected from the province of Kirmān, where the family had deep roots. Daftary’s maternal grandfather was Iʿtibār al-Salṭana’s son Nāṣir Qulī Khān (1873–1941), with the title Mukhbir al-Sulṭān bestowed upon him in 1899 by Muẓaffar al-Dīn Shāh. Mukhbir al-Sulṭān’s mother was the daughter of ʿAlī Qulī Khān Mukhbir al-Dawla (d. 1897) of the eminent Hidāyat family, who were traditionally in charge of the country’s Ministry of Post and Telegraph and produced several noted historians and literary figures. Starting with the historian and poet Riḍā Qulī Khān Hidāyat (d. 1871), this family was also closely affiliated to the Dār al-Funūn, an academy of learning founded in Tehran in 1851, marking the beginning of modern education in Iran. Mukhbir al-Sulṭān himself was a graduate of this academy. Farhad Daftary’s own earliest memories go back to his grandfather Mukhbir al-Sulṭān, whom he can remember meeting when he was three years old. Mukhbir al-Sulṭān had also inherited a part of this family’s collection of manuscripts, documents and photographs, which eventually became incorporated into Farhad’s library. Early life and education As mentioned above, Farhad Daftary was born in Europe. Following the outbreak of the Second World War, when he was about two years old, however, his family moved back to Tehran. He attended the Qāʾimmaqām Madrasa for his primary education (1945–1950) and then the Dabīristān-i Alborz (Alborz Secondary School). Founded as the American College by Presbyterian missionaries in 1873 on the outskirts of Tehran,

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it changed its name to Alborz College in the early 1930s in deference to the Persianisation of foreign names. The American College had been for several decades (until 1940) under the direction of the eminent educator Dr Samuel L. Jordan (d. 1952). By the time Farhad was a pupil at the college, it had become incorporated into the network of schools overseen by Iran’s Ministry of Education and was under the direction of the famous Iranian educator Dr Mohammad-Ali Mojtahedi (d. 1997).3 There Farhad completed the first cycle of his secondary education (1951–1953). In 1954, Farhad moved with his family to Rome, not to return to Iran for nearly twenty years. He spent two years (1954–1955) finishing his secondary studies at the Overseas School of Rome (which was also known as the American School) in Via Cassia. During his adolescent years, he also devoted a great deal of time to studying the piano, at which he excelled. While in Rome, he studied with a teacher from the Santa Cecilia Academy of Music as well as with the Austrian-born Italian Conte Antonio di Monteforte, whose own teacher had been a student of the renowned Hungarian composer and pianist Franz Liszt. The Count had connections with Iran through his father who, at the invitation of Nāṣir al-Dīn Shāh Qājār, had organised a modern police force in Tehran. In 1956, at the age of 17, Farhad was sent to England where he stayed for two years at Concord College in Tunbridge Wells, Kent, and then at a private tutorial establishment (Eaton and Wallis) in London studying for his General Certificate of Education (GCE). Meanwhile, he had continued to take piano lessons with Ippolit Motchaloff at the Wigmore Hall Studios in London. However, his life was to take another course. Pursuing his family’s traditional involvement in state financial administration, and perhaps as a natural progression of his education in American schools, in 1958, at the age of nineteen, Farhad Daftary moved to the United States where he pursued his higher education in the field of economics for some thirteen years until 1971. He first enrolled at the American University in Washington DC, where he took a BA degree (1958–1962) and then stayed for a fifth year, receiving his MA in 1963. Deciding to continue his postgraduate studies, in 1964 he enrolled at the University of California at Berkeley, where he initially obtained a second Master's degree. The choice of Berkeley was in line with Daftary’s academic record. He had excelled in his studies, always obtaining straight A-grades in all the courses he took. Berkeley’s prestige in the mid-1960s, with its economics department ranking first amongst all American universities, was partly due to the fact that it had a high concentration of Nobel Prize

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winners on its academic faculty. Farhad Daftary was on various occasions ranked among the top ten Iranian students in the US (out of the several thousand of his compatriots then studying there). He was even awarded a ‘Special Citation’ by Iran’s Ministry of Education. As a result, the University of California granted him fellowships and graduate scholarships for several years to pursue his doctoral studies, which he started in 1964 and completed seven years later in 1971, somewhat prolonged due to his evolving interest in Ismaili studies. When the time came to choose a specialisation, Farhad opted for economic development. At UC Berkeley he had the privilege to be taught by a number of distinguished professors, among whom was the young (and future Nobel laureate) Amartya Sen, who taught economic development as a visiting professor. Amongst his other famous teachers, mention may be made of Tibor Scitovsky and Abba Lerner, whilst two more of his younger teachers, Daniel McFadden and Peter A. Diamond, would also become Nobel laureates. It was also at Berkeley that he made the acquaintance of Hamid Algar, who had then just joined the Near Eastern Studies Department after completing his doctoral studies at Cambridge University. Daftary’s Ph.D. dissertation was entitled ‘Economic Development and Planning in Iran’, with a detailed analysis of the country’s modern economic history. Ismaili studies as a hobby: a largely unexplored field It was during his years at Berkeley that Farhad developed a deep interest in Ismaili studies. Through the maternal line of his family he had always seen photographs and documents related to the Aga Khans, but it was at Berkeley that for the first time, he had access to modern studies on Islam and the Ismailis. It was Daftary’s interest in economic history, as well as the history of Iran and Shiʿi Islam, that led to his new interest in the history of the Ismailis residing in the Middle East and elsewhere. It was in this way that Farhad the economist would be transformed into an authority on Ismaili studies. From the mid-1960s, Daftary developed and systematically pursued his intense curiosity about the history of the small and often misunderstood community of the Ismailis. He set himself the goal of acquiring copies of any available material on them. Access to old and new publications on the subject was crucial. Berkeley proved an excellent location to be based at, because it had a world-class library with a vast Islamic collection. He embarked on an ambitious project to photocopy all the classical articles in European languages related to Ismailism that he could

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get his hands on in an extremely methodical way. When he had finished collecting everything he needed, he had all the articles bound, and ended up with more than thirty volumes of Ismaili-related articles. After that, he systematically collected all the articles of a few more recent authors in the field. He talks with delight about how he did all this before the idea of publishing the collected articles of an author, or a variorum series, had entered Islamic studies. Thus, Farhad had collected his own copies of the articles of Paul Kraus (1904–1944), Ḥusayn Hamdānī (1901–1962), Wladimir Ivanow, Marius Canard (1888–1982), Asaf A. A. Fyzee (1899– 1981), Samuel M. Stern (1920–1969), and all of the Ismaili articles of the prolific Henry Corbin (1903–1978), as well as the entire vast corpus of the Cambridge Iranologist Edward G. Browne (1862–1926), who made seminal contributions to the literary history of Persia and the various Shiʿi communities which had flourished there. The field of modern Ismaili studies was then still new and emerging, but it already included the oeuvre of a towering figure, Wladimir Alekseevich Ivanow (1886–1970), who had made significant contributions to it. Ivanow had devoted a major part of his life to the recovery, editing and translation of Ismaili texts, especially those produced by the Nizārī branch. It must be said that this was a crucial time in generational terms: On the one hand, Ivanow was approaching his eightieth year and was at the end of his pioneering career. On the other hand, there were younger scholars, such as Marshal G. S. Hodgson, at Chicago, and Samuel Miklos Stern, at Oxford, still very active and in the prime of their academic careers. Both represented a new generation of scholars and were (and are still considered today) two of the leading authorities in modern Islamic studies in the West. Both also had a special interest in the intellectual history of the Ismailis on which they published extensively. Tragically, both died prematurely: Hodgson in 1968, at forty-six, and Stern the following year, in 1969, at forty-eight. These losses presented a turning point in the field and Farhad now became keenly aware that the historical momentum should not be lost and that, although a good start had been made, Ismaili studies still remained a largely unexplored field. W. Ivanow as a role model During his doctoral studies Farhad Daftary had the opportunity to correspond with and meet Ivanow in Tehran (where the latter had been living since 1959) in the course of a summer vacation not long before Ivanow’s death. Farhad’s communications with Ivanow on the state of Ismaili stud-

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ies spurred on his interest in the subject. He remembers that he always had more questions than the old master could answer. Of all the modern pioneers of Ismaili studies, Ivanow was to have by far the greatest influence on Farhad Daftary. He was curious to know what had made a Russian orientalist and a cataloguer of Islamic manuscripts at the Asiatic Museum in St Petersburg before the Russian Revolution become interested in the history and intellectual heritage of this scattered Shiʿi community. He discovered that it had been Ivanow’s love of manuscripts that had led him to the Ismaili texts, opening up a new chapter in his life. It had also introduced him to Sir Sultan Muhammad Shah, Aga Khan III (1877–1957), the 48th Ismaili Imam, who had facilitated Ivanow’s intellectual journey. He settled in Bombay where he acquired many Ismaili friends from amongst both Khoja (Nizārī) and Bohra (Ṭayyibī) branches of the community. Farhad Daftary takes pleasure in recounting Ivanow’s achievements. He had made available much unknown material, of which his editions of Persian Nizārī texts are the most enduring element. Other scholars were working on the Arabic sources, but Ivanow devoted himself to the Nizārī texts which were almost exclusively, except for some texts of Syrian provenance, in Persian and which had been used as the religious language of the community from the time of Ḥasan-i Ṣabbāḥ (d. 1124). Thus he made the bulk of the extant Nizārī literature available to the wider academic world, which represented a major advance in the field in contrast to the hitherto almost total lack of availability of such textual resources. When asked to summarise his own contribution, Daftary always refers back to Ivanow, acknowledging his intellectual debt to this pioneer. In fact, he has not missed any opportunity to recognise Ivanow as ‘the leading pioneer’ of modern Ismaili studies.4 Farhad Daftary’s tribute to Ivanow has taken various forms: he wrote Ivanow’s obituary (see Bibliography, nos. 16 and 24) and survey articles on his publications (Bibliography, nos. 15 and 22); published a collective volume by way of the Festschrift that Ivanow had never received (Bibliography, no. 9; see below); and has also contributed encyclopaedia articles on Ivanow (Bibliography, nos. 96 and 129); he is also editing Ivanow’s memoirs and is currently collaborating through The Institute of Ismaili Studies with the Institute of Oriental Manuscripts of the Russian Academy of Sciences on the organisation of a conference to be held in 2011 in St Petersburg to commemorate Ivanow. Back at Berkeley, and when not engaged on his doctoral work, Farhad’s main occupation was the study of the Ismailis, including the compilation of an Ismaili bibliography that served as the basis of his Ismaili Literature

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(Bibliography, no. 4) published more than four decades later. He also embarked on an extensive programme of collecting books, articles and other documents, which was complemented by correspondence with many of the leading authorities in Ismaili studies at the time. One of these authorities was Abbas Hamdani, who had then just started his career at the University of Wisconsin in Milwaukee. Professor Hamdani belonged to a distinguished family of Dāʾūdī Ṭayyibī Ismaili scholars from Yemen and India, who possessed a significant collection of Ismaili manuscripts. This collection, readily accessible to scholars, was to be eventually donated to The Institute of Ismaili Studies Library in London. He also established correspondence with the late Sherali Alidina and other leaders at the then Ismailia Association in Karachi, Pakistan. Bibliophilia: the making of a private library Farhad Daftary’s interest in Ismaili studies was slowly turning from a hobby into an all-absorbing activity and a highly structured project of collecting the sources and studying them. Not without some nostalgia, Farhad Daftary describes one of his main activities at Berkeley for several years as a continuous toing and froing between the Central Library there and the photocopy shop on the campus. In this way he came to possess copies of all the existing articles on the Ismailis, including those of the nineteenth-century orientalists, E. M. Quatremère (1782–1857), A. I. Silvestre de Sacy (1758–1838), C. F. Defrémery (1822–1883) and J. M. de Goeje (1836–1909), as well as the modern scholars noted above. It was thus, with these self-made variorum volumes, that he started his own library collection. He had now also begun acquiring all the books in Arabic and in European languages on Ismaili subjects then available, in addition to searching for out-of-print and rare works through a number of antiquarian book dealers, such as E. J. Brill in Leiden and Ad Orientem in England, etc., and for decades he regularly corresponded with them. Similarly, he familiarised himself with the Ismaili publications of the Islamic Research Association, established in 1933 in Bombay, which was later effectively transformed in 1946 into the Ismaili Society.5 They had published five editions and translations of Nizārī texts by Ivanow, and Daftary purchased all of them from Bombay. He recounts how during the years of his doctoral studies, one of the most exciting moments virtually every day was when he heard the postman knocking at the door, delivering the books he had ordered. When he had started corresponding with Ivanow in Tehran, the

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Russian scholar was residing temporarily at the house of his friend, M. H. Asadi, who owned a bookshop in Bahārsitān Square and distributed the publications of the Ismaili Society throughout the Middle East. There, Daftary found many of Ivanow’s books which now are no longer available (and even then were very difficult to obtain), and so he did not hesitate to buy them. As a devoted bibliophile, he has continued, throughout his career, to acquire rare volumes. He talks proudly about his library. Amongst the manuscripts in his collection, mention may be made of the copies of the Qurʾan commissioned or personally copied in the nineteenth century by his maternal forebear, Sardār Abu’l-Ḥasan Khān, and a beautifully illuminated copy of the complete Dīwān of Ḥāfiẓ, the famous Persian poet of the fourteenth century, commissioned by Sayyid Abu’l-Ḥasan ʿAlī (d. 1792), Shāh Khalīl Allāh’s father and the 44th Nizārī Ismaili Imam who was the governor of Kirmān during the era of the Zand dynasty.6 Apart from extensive collections on Ismaili and Persian history, his library also includes rare travelogues on Iran (Persia), like G. Barbaro and A. Contarini, Viaggi in Persia (1545), accounts composed by two Venetian ambassadors to Persia in the late fifteenth century; Sir Thomas Herbert, A Description of the Persian Monarchy (1634), the first English account of Persia; John Fryer, A New Account of East India and Persia (1698); Jean Chardin, Voyages en Perse, in various editions including its 1811 critical edition by L. Langlès in ten volumes plus an atlas; and Sir John Malcolm’s History of Persia (1815), which he acquired in the 1960s for $300 (less than a tenth of its current market value!). He also acquired rare lithographed editions of Persian texts and histories, such as the Tārīkh-i Firishta (1822) and mediaeval accounts of the Crusades, such as J. Bongers (ed.), Gesta Dei per Francos (1611), with references to the contemporary Nizārī Ismailis. His library is all the more impressive given the fact that for years he had his books leather-bound in Tehran by a specialist binder, Friedrich Lankamerer (1922–2002), the son of a German engineer posted to Iran in the early twentieth century. By the time Farhad completed his Ph.D. and was ready to return to Iran, he had amassed an extensive library of Ismaili sources and studies, perhaps the largest private collection of its kind. In fact, as he himself declares, he had for many years initially conducted most of his research on the basis of materials from his own collection.

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Omar Alí-de-Unzaga Return to Iran: from promising career to a life-long passion

Back in Iran, in 1972, after spending almost two decades abroad, Farhad Daftary embarked on what at the time looked like a promising professional career in line with his family tradition and expectations. He became an Advisor to the Plan and Budget Organisation, the government body that prepared Iran’s five-year economic development plans and annual budgets. Then a year later, in 1973, he was appointed Director of the Economic Research Department at the Central Bank of Iran, which had only been established the previous decade, and where he remained for several years. At this juncture, Farhad had the opportunity to pursue a successful career in the government’s financial and economic administrations but he decided to take a different route: in 1974 he left the public sector. He became the co-founder and Director of Yekom Economic Consultants, the first (as its Persian name, Yekom, indicates) firm of consultants specialising in economics and management in Iran, with a separate section for water resources projects. Following his bibliophilic character, Daftary made a point of establishing a library at the company, which soon became the best private library of its kind in Tehran, with a major share of his own economics books incorporated into it. During the years 1973–1977, Farhad Daftary also taught post-graduate courses on economic history and development at the Faculty of Economics of both the National University and Tehran University. During those years Farhad published a number of economic articles, and prepared several consultancy reports for the Iranian government and various international agencies such as the International Labour Office in Geneva.7 Events in the late 1970s, after the Iranian Revolution, accelerated Daftary’s shift to a new discipline altogether. At the end of 1978 with the overthrow of the Shah there was general euphoria in Iran for a brief period of time. But almost immediately, the Iran–Iraq war broke out in 1980 and there was no possibility to travel outside the country for several years. His next visit abroad did not, in fact, take place until 1985. It was under such circumstances that with the encouragement of his wife, Fereshteh, he finally decided the time had come to write a book on the Ismailis. The story of a history Farhad Daftary took up the challenge and embarked on a new and fascinating enterprise: writing a comprehensive history of the Ismailis. Throughout the decades in California and Tehran, he had continued to

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pursue his personal interest in collecting and studying materials produced by scholars in the field of Ismaili studies while Ivanow had continued to be a role model for him in several respects. Firstly, Ivanow was also someone who had moved from his original discipline of Iranian languages and dialects to the field of Ismaili studies. Just as the time spent in Bombay, making Ismaili acquaintances there and being introduced to Aga Khan III, had opened up a new chapter in Ivanow’s life, so Daftary was about to embark on a similar journey. This personal interest had become a passion and an intellectual challenge and now Daftary had the chance to devote his full attention to it. As a pioneer, Ivanow had had to lay the foundation for studying Ismaili history and doctrines. When Ivanow started his Ismaili studies in the 1930s and earlier, there was next to nothing published of the Nizārī Ismaili texts, and for more than three decades he set himself the task of identifying the gaps in the field and filling them with his contributions. That was exactly the model adopted by Daftary from the time of his graduate studies at Berkeley and it remained the model that he was to follow during his unfolding career in Ismaili studies: he made it his ­ongoing concern to take stock of what had been done before him, what was the current state of Ismaili studies, and then to identify the gaps in the field pointing to new directions for research. The notorious lack of methodological underpinnings in Islamic studies in general was perhaps to some extent compensated for in Ismaili studies by Farhad Daftary’s training. Economics was, in his own words, ‘the most precise and quantifiable of the social sciences’. This training, he says, had provided him with a good intellectual discipline, a sound methodology and a facility for clear thinking and well-organised analysis, argumentation and writing. When presented with the inevitable question of how he managed to succeed in a new field of research, on the margin of his other activities, Daftary has one constant answer, demonstrating his belief in ‘steady’ scholarship: there are no short cuts or fast tracks to scholarship. Rather than intensive and exclusive research carried out in a concentrated span of time on a specific subject, one might say that he has pursued extensive scholarship regularly, on a daily and progressive basis, even if only for a few hours each morning or evening. This method has yielded very fruitful results, as can been seen in the bibliography of his works of some 240 titles (with many more in the pipeline). A rigorous editor himself, Daftary has also had inputs of various kinds into all the publications produced by The Institute of Ismaili Studies since the mid1990s (and currently exceeding 80 monographs and texts). His earlier training helped: according to Daftary, in order to write on

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history, one must be very organised and systematic, be familiar with the historiography of the subject and then bring together a full range of the sources. Next one must be able to assess these sources, then analyse and interpret them, producing a sequential history. In his view a historian must have a logical mind (he benefited from studying both logics and mathematics), and also be able to substantiate (as in proving a hypothesis) and assign relative importance to events (this is where his background in quantitative methods in economics has come in very handy). One must also avoid unnecessarily complicating the issues by writing in an indeterminate and obscure style. He has set it upon himself to explain the misunderstood history of a misrepresented community. The readership he had originally in mind was principally the scholarly community, but he also took into account the educated non-specialist reader. He wanted to explain Ismaili history in an accessible and clear manner. In his view, ‘the beauty of scholarship is to have the ability to express difficult concepts and ideas in simple terms and language’. He gives as an example the time when he was asked what, exactly, was meant by ‘esoteric literature’. He thought for a minute and said: ‘It is based on the distinction between a literal and a hidden meaning, between what is perceived and what really exists; it also implies the need for a guide to help others proceed in this spiritual journey in search of certain ultimate truths.’ Indeed, anyone who has dealt with Farhad Daftary quickly realises his ability to present complex ideas in concise and clear terms with no verbiage or frills. Having read the bulk of the existing literature on the Ismailis, in a variety of languages, the main question in Farhad Daftary’s mind was: Why do we not possess a book that deals with all the periods and phases of Ismaili history? It had become clear to him that the first and indispensable task to be accomplished in this regard was a comprehensive history of the Ismailis, something which did not yet exist. He set this as his overriding objective: a history as comprehensive as possible, covering all Ismaili communities and groupings, tracing and documenting their doctrines and intellectual elaborations, stretching from the formative period of Shiʿi Islam to the present time, using all available materials, published and unpublished, remaining always aware of the nature and biases (often hostile) of the mediaeval sources. It was difficult to decide on a methodology for this task. The most appropriate model for Daftary was Marshall Hodgson’s The Order of Assassins (unfortunately mistitled as later admitted by the author himself),8 a book on the Alamūt phase of Nizārī Ismaili history (1090–1256), with an approach and structure that could serve as a model for Ismaili history in its entirety with all its phases as first identified by Ivanow.

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Meanwhile, he had started studying Arabic systematically, with the eminent Professor Ādhartāsh Ādharnūsh (also a regular contributor on Arabic literature to the Great Islamic Encyclopaedia) and made good use of the libraries at the University of Tehran, especially the one at its Faculty of Literature. He also began to visit Ismaili heritage sites in Iran, including several of the major fortresses and the mediaeval sites in Anjudān, Kahak and Kirmān which had been visited by Ivanow in the 1930s; indeed, in the 1970s he was the first scholar to visit them since Ivanow and he found that further deterioration had taken place at some sites.9 In Kirmān he found that some of the eighteenth-century structures and monuments described by Ivanow were actually no longer in situ. Then he went to Maḥallāt (where there was still in existence part of a wall of the residential compound of Aga Khan I as well as the Ḥusayniyya founded by him in the 1830s). Subsequently, he organised an expedition with some friends to Alamūt. After a difficult journey with two Range Rovers, which inolved crossing a river in Rūdbār, they erected tents and spent the night at the foot of the rock of Alamūt. The locality was breathtaking. It was also very emotional for him – in fact, he can only describe the experience as resembling a ‘pilgrimage’, something he had aspired to do for a very long time: he could finally stand on the spot where almost 900 years earlier Ḥasan-i Ṣabbāḥ, founder of the Ismaili state in Persia, had stood. The visit was giving tangible substance to his research. The historian ʿAṭā Malik Juwaynī (d. 1283), who visited Alamūt just before its destruction by the Mongols in 1256, had described the fortress as majestic and now Farhad could see for himself that even its ruins remained so. Another trip was made later to the fortress of Lamasar, stopping at the ruins of the castle of Shamīrān, the seat of the Musāfirid dynasty of northern Persia (and visited in 1047 by the Persian poet and Ismaili dāʿī Nāṣir-i Khusraw on his way to Fatimid Cairo). He also went to the castle of Girdkūh, which had been besieged by the Mongols for seventeen years until 1270, and where the stones of the mangonels used by the Mongols against the local Nizārī garrison are still scattered on the ground. In 1985, he visited the Ismailis of Khurāsān (where the bulk of their community in Iran resides). There in the village of Dīzbād, in the mountains between Mashhad and Nīshāpūr, he attended the ceremonies of Naw Ḥiṣār which take place annually on the last Friday of August, an occasion when the Ismailis of Iran gather and take part in elaborate rituals which include the recitation of the mystical poetry of Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī (d. 1273) and other great Persian poets. This was Daftary’s first encounter with the contemporary Ismailis of Iran who are very much attached to their traditions. He was shown rare manu-

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scripts, and given photocopies of some of them; he met the elders of the community who showed him manuscripts of collected poems of Ismaili poets such as Khākī Khurāsānī (d. after 1646), and his descendant Fidāʾī Khurāsānī (d. 1923), whose dīwān of poetry remains unpublished. The Ismāʿīlīs: Their History and Doctrines Farhad Daftary’s research for this book had effectively begun in the mid1960s and lasted over twenty years. But he actually started to write the book in 1978 and it took him a further eight years to complete its first draft. His initial plan laid out the work in seven chapters: five main chapters on the Ismailis (covering the four phases devised by Ivanow, early, Fatimid, Alamūt and Post-Alamūt, and including also a chapter on the Mustaʿlian Ismailis) with two initial chapters on the early Shi‘a, and on the progress in Ismaili studies. And this was indeed the way the book was structured and finally published in 1990 under the title The Ismāʿīlīs: Their History and Doctrines.10 He allowed himself roughly one year for each chapter, with the object of covering all the key events, personalities and doctrinal developments in each period. Each chapter naturally underwent numerous drafts and was expanded and revised many times. Nowadays, even with all the technological advances that scholarship can make use of, this may seem daunting, but not excessively so. However, in the early 1980s his chapters were typed by his wife Fereshteh on an electric IBM typewriter. The need to make revisions to the typescript raised continuous difficulties that had to be resolved with ingenious solutions. On many occasions, he had to count the words and letters of a revised passage to ensure that the new text could be accommodated without any change in the page layout! From very early on Daftary was aware that this mammoth task could not be accomplished in isolation and that he would need to be in touch with some established scholars in the field of Ismaili studies. For this purpose, he started corresponding with Professor Wilferd Madelung, then the Laudian Professor of Arabic at Oxford University and a leading contributor to modern Ismaili studies, and informed him that he was working on this project, a history of the Ismailis. He asked Madelung if he would agree to read through the chapters, which he did. In 1985, Farhad Daftary finally had the chance to travel outside Iran. He visited Paris, London and Oxford, where he conducted further research in various libraries and met a number of scholars. By then, he had written three chapters (‘Progress in Ismāʿīlī Studies’, ‘Origins and Early Development of Shīʿism’ and ‘Early

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Ismāʿīlism’). At Oxford, he showed them to Madelung at the Oriental Institute and subsequently received positive comments from this foremost authority, which encouraged him to continue along the lines he had set himself, especially after Madelung’s approval of the third chapter, which was one of his own main fields of expertise. Madelung’s reviews of the chapters continued and their relationship has been maintained to this day (indeed, Daftary was closely involved in the Festschrift for Madelung and his affiliation to The Institute of Ismaili Studies as Senior Research Fellow).11 Farhad Daftary’s focus was obviously on history. He was especially interested in investigating how the different Muslim communities had arisen, especially within Shiʿi Islam. He was attracted towards investigating the disputes arising over the succession to the Prophet. Was there a theological component to it? Yet again, though the Fatimid period of Ismaili history was relatively well known when Daftary started writing his book, there was next to nothing in modern scholarship on much of the seven centuries after the Alamūt phase in Nizārī history. Daftary’s book filled this gap in a structured manner, particularly through the original research he carried out using a large number of Persian regional histories, especially those on Ṭabaristān (Māzandarān) and other Caspian provinces. For this long period he essentially followed again the categorisation introduced by Ivanow: the early period of this phase (that is to say the first two centuries after the Mongol destruction of the Nizārī state, centred at Alamūt, in 1256), the Anjudān period (beginning in the fifteenth century, when the imams of the Qāsim-Shāhī Nizārī line had settled in the village of Anjudān near Maḥallāt in central Iran), and the modern period (from the 1840s onwards). As Madelung says in the Foreword to The Ismāʿīlīs, in some areas the book covers ‘entirely new ground’; the second feature of the book praised by Madelung is that it ‘offers a first comprehensive and detailed synthesis of the complex history of Ismāʿīlism’, reflecting ‘the progress of recent research’ and integrating an ‘evenly readable account’. Although Daftary’s main concern was the chronological history of the Ismailis he also sought to cover the main intellectual and theological developments in a systematic fashion. If the history of the Ismailis had still to be unravelled, it was clear to him that, at that time, the doctrines of the various Ismaili groups were even more difficult to understand clearly. At the time, scholars had just begun to understand, for example, who the Qarmaṭīs were. Until then, after the earlier studies of de Goeje, Ivanow had the most realistic understanding of them, but his information, too, was still sketchy and confused, as he had only managed to scratch the surface

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of the subject. By the early 1960s, new hypotheses had been proposed in three articles by Stern (in 1955, 1960 and 1961)12 and by Madelung in another three articles (in 1959 written in German, which Daftary later had translated into English, in a slightly revised version, and published as part of an edited volume on the Ismailis in 1996; and in 1961 again in German; and in his article on the Qarmaṭīs for EI2).13 He was similarly interested in clarifying the controversial issues surrounding the opening phase of Ismailism, but the few early sources only provided conflicting information. Basically subscribing to the Stern-Madelung position he spent some time trying to resolve the alleged identification of the early Ismailis with the Khaṭṭābīs, followers of Abu’l-Khaṭṭāb (d. 755), a contemporary of Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq (d. 765). This identification was first propounded in the works of the early Imāmī Shiʿi heresiographers, such as al-Nawbakhtī (d. ca. 912) and al-Qummī (d. 913),14 as a part of their polemical treatment of the early Ismailis, and also reasserted in the early studies of Bernard Lewis and Henry Corbin; he arrived at the conclusion that this identification was groundless and that it had to be rejected, in line with Madelung’s view.15 This conclusion was strongly substantiated by the fact that later mediaeval Ismaili authorities, like al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān (d. 974), the foremost jurist of the Fatimid period, condemned the Khaṭṭābiyya as ‘heretics’ for having propagated the divinity of the imams, something that went against the doctrine of the Fatimids.16 This also explains why Ḥamīd al-Dīn al-Kirmānī (d. ca. 1021), the most learned contemporary Ismaili theologian, was called to Cairo by the Fatimid Imam-Caliph al-Ḥākim bi-Amr Allāh (r. 996–1021) to refute the emerging doctrines of the founders of the Druze religion, who were beginning to preach the divinity of al-Ḥākim. Subsequently, Daftary refined his own ideas on the early Ismailis and published several studies on the subject.17 The move to London and affiliation with The Institute of Ismaili Studies In 1985, on his travels to Europe, he visited The Institute of Ismaili Studies in London for the first time. The Institute had been founded by His Highness Prince Karim Aga Khan only eight years earlier in 1977 and was then located in one of its early temporary premises on Great James Street in London. Incidentally, this year was crucial for the Ismailis in the UK, since a major institution, the Ismaili Centre in South Kensington, London, was inaugurated in April, giving the Ismailis the greatest degree of visibility and exposure they had ever experienced in a Western environment.

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In the library of the Institute, Farhad Daftary found many manuscripts and also new publications in Arabic that contributed towards his research. Also, for the first time, he met Mr Shams Vellani, then the Institute’s Executive Officer, who showed great interest in Daftary’s project. On his return to Iran, he resumed his work and completed the final draft of his book in 1987. On Farhad Daftary’s next visit to London in 1987, he gave Mr Vellani a draft of the work, and the latter subsequently suggested that he join the Institute to prepare the work for publication. Daftary accepted, but it took another year to return to Tehran and wrap up all his affairs and commitments there. In 1988 he settled in London with his wife, just before turning fifty. He officially joined the Institute in September 1988. By then, the Institute had developed a teaching programme under its Department of Education and had also produced its first publications: English translations of two sets of collected articles by Henry Corbin, undertaken by the Paris branch of the Institute then still operative and directed by the Iranian philosopher Daryush Shayegan, an old friend of Daftary’s, and a two-volume catalogue of the Arabic manuscripts in its library. A small number of scholars were also working there on different texts, including J. Badakhchani and H. Haji (both contributors to this volume). Farhad Daftary’s immediate task now was to get his book published. Two further years were needed to fine-tune the work with additional annotations, based on the resources at the library of the Institute and elsewhere. Wilferd Madelung read through the remainder of the typescript providing his customary meticulous comments. Daftary sent copies of the typescript to the University Presses of Cambridge and Oxford; both had this work evaluated by scholars and eventually both accepted it for publication. In the end Daftary decided on Cambridge University Press as his publisher and the book finally appeared in 1990. A historian of historians The Institute had started its publications with Corbin’s highly intricate phenomenological essays, reconstructing Ismaili doctrines within a metahistorical frame. However, Daftary attached greater weight to historiography and textual analysis in many of the Institute’s subsequent publications. Asked about this matter, he says that in a historical investigation of events, a chronological framework is of the highest importance since ideas do not develop in a vacuum, but out of previous ideas; and events, often, are responses to previous events. And textual materials, conveying

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the literary and intellectual heritage of a community, are indispensable for studying and understanding that heritage. One of Farhad Daftary’s constant interests has been the figure of the modern historian and his role in shaping history-writing. During his doctoral studies, he had carried out research on the lives and times of many economists. Once his attention shifted to Ismaili studies, he adopted a similar methodology for contextualising the contributions of the key figures in the field. Several of his early publications were devoted to scholars’ lives and achievements. In the majority of his books, too, he has always tried to begin by explaining the state of the field of research and the individuals who have shaped the study of Ismaili history.18 Asked about his great interest in modern historians, he responds by saying that studying a person’s life reveals much about his context, his interests, his thought. We are, as he says, the products of our own histories and intellectual environments. He believes in the theory of ‘challenges and responses’ in history-writing: when historians write, they are often responding to something, even though it is frequently the case that a hundred years later people may not know what it was that they had been responding to. Unfortunately, he adds, it may also happen that the historians themselves may have fabricated or misinterpreted the required evidence, producing polemical material that will be used as a reliable source by later historians. And if a ‘fiction’ is repeated often enough it may eventually be taken as representing a ‘fact’. Looking into the lives of scholars and the contexts in which they worked has enabled him to have some understanding of what it was that they responded to, or, in his words, ‘why was a certain author writing what he was writing?’ This kind of two-fold historiography has added an extra dimension to his work, making him keenly aware of the necessity of evaluating one’s sources and distinguishing fact from fiction. Stories versus history: insiders and observers In 1992, two years after Farhad Daftary produced his magnum opus, there was an organisational restructuring at the Institute. Now, under the deanship of Dr Aziz Esmail, a new Department of Academic Research and Publications was created. Daftary was appointed as the first head of that department, a post he has retained to this day despite the demands of his other responsibilities. Next, he devoted his attention to one of the most contentious and least understood issues in the entire history of the Ismailis: the ‘black legend’

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that had developed about them and had spread in the middle ages in both the Islamic world and in Europe. His book on this subject, The Assassin Legends: Myths of the Ismaʿilis, was published in 1994. This was a research issue of immense interest and complexity due its popular appeal and intricacies. Daftary was initially interested in understanding the etymology of the word ‘assassin’ and its connection with the Ismailis: why were they referred to by their neighbours in Syria and in the Caspian region of northern Persia as ḥashīshīs or ḥashīshīn; and, following them, in the European sources as ‘assassins’? Why were there so many fanciful tales around this? Not much progress in research on this topic had taken place since the pioneering study of Silvestre de Sacy (d. 1838), the doyen of the nineteenth-century orientalists, who had solved the etymological puzzle of the word ‘assassin’. Showing that it derived from the Arabic word ḥashīsh, de Sacy himself nevertheless subscribed at least partially to the legends, as recounted by Marco Polo and other mediaeval Europeans, as being accurate accounts of the secret practices of the Ismailis. Ḥashīshī was a term of abuse in Arabic, which was then used in reference to the Nizārī Ismailis in some polemical Sunni and Zaydī sources. The derogatory term itself then gave rise to the tales circulating in the mediaeval Crusader circles, connecting the Ismailis with the consumption of hashish (a product of hemp) and appearing variously in European sources. These so-called ‘Assassin legends’ have no counterparts in Arabic or Persian sources of the same period, despite their authors’ hostile stances. Farhad Daftary’s conclusion was that the tales were fabricated by the Crusader circles and their occidental observers themselves to justify what they perceived as ‘irrational’ behaviour (martyrdom) that had to be given a rational explanation (as behaviour motivated under the influence of intoxicating drugs such as hashish). If the first edition of The Ismāʿīlīs had had a significant impact in the field (with numerous reprints, reviews and regular citations in academic literature), The Assassin Legends was no less interesting to scholars: it attracted thirty reviews in the lustre following its publication. Nevertheless, was it possible that Farhad Daftary’s formal affiliation with an institution connected to the community on whose past he was writing could somehow tarnish his academic rigour and objectivity? While the vast majority of the reviewers welcomed the book and its role in deconstructing the centuries-old myths, there were also one or two who questioned the project as they thought he was an Ismaili, an ‘insider’ of a religious community, taking an apologetic stance.19 When suggestions of apologetic intentions were made by one such reviewer, Daftary was quick

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to publish a rebuttal in the same journal declaring: ‘I would like to state that I am not an Ismaili, and that my academic affiliation to The Institute of Ismaili Studies, London, has in no way affected my academic objectivity […] My main aim in writing The Assassin Legends was to trace the roots of some of the major legends surrounding the Nizari Ismailis of the mediaeval times […] and it has never been my intention to be apologetic.’ 20 However, a more important phenomenon was now taking place. Although the academic credibility of institutions linked formally or informally with a Christian faith community, like the various schools of divinity, theology faculties and even entire universities, had been accepted without question on both sides of the Atlantic for hundreds of years, Western academics were now witnessing the fact that an academic institute connected to a Muslim community and based in central London could produce research of the highest calibre, deeply committed to the standards of critical scholarship and yet empathetic to the historical and intellectual preoccupations of Muslims, and more particularly in this case, the Ismailis. Farhad Daftary had achieved this difficult balance, as he defines himself neither as an ‘insider’ nor an ‘outsider’ but as a close and empathetic ‘observer’. In the context of the ‘Assassin legends’, too, he maintains that much in the same way that ‘fiction’ through repetition over time becomes accepted as ‘fact’, then facts also need to be repeated frequently and widely enough to replace fictions. Promoting scholarship Farhad Daftary has contributed significantly to The Institute of Ismaili Studies, establishing it as a recognised academic centre for Ismaili studies. One of the aims of the Institute has been to promote scholarship on Islam, and he made this his own objective. He himself had originally published outside the Institute because there was no publishing programme as such. Now, he established the Institute’s first publication series: the Ismaili Heritage Series, which was initiated in 1996 under his own general editorship. This was designed to be a series of monographs with the objective of exploring the intellectual and religious heritage of the Ismailis, a heritage which still resonates in the contemporary world since the community is very much in existence. He signed contracts with several of the leading authorities who had already contributed to a collective volume he had just edited, Mediaeval Ismaʿili History and Thought. Four years later, in 2000, he established a second series, the Ismaili Texts and Translations Series, again under his general editorship and with an editorial board of eminent schol-

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ars of Ismaili studies. This new series was devoted to critical editions and annotated translations of authentic texts in Arabic and Persian produced by the Ismailis themselves, or about them, clarifying the actual teachings of the community. The series had a two-fold objective: to produce materials for further progress in the field and to address the misrepresentations of Ismaili doctrines and practices. The primary selection criteria for the series were major texts that remained unpublished as well as texts that had been published in defective editions. He invited Professor Madelung, who had already taught at the Institute, to be a consulting editor for the series. Daftary’s general support of sound academic projects is well known and he has generously supported or sponsored a number of publications, conferences and other academic initiatives both inside and outside the Institute. He has also promoted the publications of various types of anthologies of Ismaili literature and other Islamic texts, especially those related to the contributions of Shiʿi Muslim scholars who have been hitherto marginalised in Islamic studies in the West. Meanwhile, Farhad Daftary had also started developing the academic faculty of his Department of Academic Research and Publications. Wilferd Madelung became a Senior Research Fellow, a position which through Daftary’s initiative was later offered to Professors Hermann Landolt (in 2002) and M. A. Amir-Moezzi (in 2007) as well. He contributed to developing and running the Institute’s Graduate Programme in Islamic Studies and Humanities (GPISH), in which two years were spent on an innovative course at the Institute and a third year studying for a Master’s degree at a British university. While the intellectual design of this innovative academic programme was the brainchild of Aziz Esmail and Mohammed Arkoun (1928–2010), who had been another Senior Research Fellow and one of the governors of the Institute, Daftary was responsible for finding and engaging most of the lecturers for this programme. Thus, he contributed to the students’ exposure to some of the best minds in the field of Islamic studies in the UK, as he successfully invited eminent scholars from Cambridge (Patricia Crone, Charles Melville and John Cooper), Oxford (Julie Scott Meisami), or Edinburgh (Carole Hillenbrand and Robert Hillenbrand), and Manchester (C. Edmund Bosworth), some of them contributors to this volume, to teach in this programme. This approach not only brought the Institute’s graduate students into contact with these scholars, but it also facilitated the admission of the students to the best UK-based universities in their third year. Daftary himself has been regularly teaching a survey course on Ismaili history in this programme since its inception in 1994.

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Mediaeval Ismaʿili History and Thought Daftary kept his own publication activities alive despite intensive administrative duties. His next publication, this time an edited volume, Mediaeval Ismaʿili History and Thought (1996; see Daftary Bibliography, no. 9), was designed to cover selected areas in Ismaili studies that needed further attention. This was to be a turning point in its own right since he had now started to galvanise other scholars in the field of Ismaili studies. For the volume, he assembled some of the most renowned scholars in the field, such as Ali Asani, Heinz Halm, Abbas Hamdani, Wilferd Madelung, Azim Nanji, Ismail K. Poonawala and Paul E. Walker, again, some of them contributors to this volume, and also several others, like C. Edmund Bosworth, Carole Hillenbrand and Charles Melville who were then also teaching at the Institute. This process widened his circle of academic friends and colleagues. He now had the opportunity to meet some of these scholars for the first time in London. With others, such as Abbas Hamdani, he had already established working relationships through correspondence. He dedicated this collective volume to Ivanow, who had never had a Festschrift and, beyond a few circles, had never received sufficient recognition for his pioneering accomplishments in modern Ismaili studies. In this volume Farhad Daftary also demonstrated his ability to make materials available in English as the primary language of scholarship in the West. The first two chapters of this edited volume were, in fact, translations from the German: Madelung’s 1959 groundbreaking article on the Qarmaṭīs and the Fatimids, and a summary in English of Halm’s seminal habilitation work on the pre-Fatimid Ismaili cosmology.21 Equally, in his Assassin Legends he had inserted an annotated English translation of de Sacy’s classical study in French on the Nizārīs, Mémoire sur la dynastie des Assassins (pp. 129–188). All these translations were meticulously produced by Azizeh Azodi (1922–2008), an Iranian polyglot then living in Paris. Later, she translated into English Halm’s book for the Ismaili Heritage Series, under the title The Fatimids and their Traditions of Learning (1997). Daftary’s work began to have some impact also in the Middle East. By 1997, The Ismāʿīlīs and The Assassin Legends had been translated into Arabic and Persian. The Persian translation of The Ismāʿīlīs received the ‘Best Book of the Year Award’ in Iran (see Daftary Bibliography, no. 1(b)); and then subsequently when a group of religious scholars from the main seminary in Qumm compiled a collection of studies on the Ismailis, they had their work evaluated by Daftary who was also invited to contribute

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an extensive introduction to the volume (Daftary Bibliography, no. 47). Subsequently, Daftary himself became active in commissioning translations of the Institute’s publications into Arabic, Persian and Urdu as well as some European languages. He also responded to translation requests from various publishers in a wide range of countries. At the time of writing this introduction, Daftary’s own works have been variously translated into fourteen languages, including Arabic and Persian, as well as French, German, Gujarati, Italian, Indonesian (Bahasa), Polish, Portuguese, Russian, Tajik (in Cyrillic alphabet), Turkish and Urdu. Some of his books have been translated also into Hungarian through the initiatives of István Hajnal (a contributor to this volume) who is single-handedly promoting Ismaili and Qarmaṭī studies in Budapest. Further, Daftary has ensured that most of the major publications of the Institute (other than the Arabic and Persian texts published in the Ismaili Texts and Translations Series) are translated into Arabic and Persian as well as other languages such as Gujarati, Portuguese, Russian, Tajik (Cyrillic) and Urdu, languages used by the Ismailis of different countries. Aiming to make his own major publication more broadly accessible, given that the eight-hundred page volume of The Ismāʿīlīs was essentially a highly specialised academic work, he decided to devote his next two years to working on A Short History of the Ismailis (1998; see Daftary Bibliography, no. 3), published in the Islamic Surveys series under the general editorship of Carole Hillenbrand. It is important to note that this book is not a summary or a condensed version of his magnum opus. For a start, it is organised thematically within a chronological frame. He also added much new material, incorporating more recent progress in the field since the time of writing The Ismāʿīlīs more than a decade earlier. This also attested to the accelerated speed of progress in Ismaili studies. There followed an interlude whilst he edited two more multi-authored volumes: Intellectual Traditions in Islam (2000; see Daftary Bibliography, no. 10), based on the proceedings of a conference organised by the Institute in 1994 at Churchill College, Cambridge, covering an overview of intellectual life in Islam as expressed through different traditions, and a Festschrift in honour of Wilferd Madelung, Culture and Memory in Mediaeval Islam (2003, see Daftary Bibliography, no. 11), which Daftary co-edited with Joseph W. Meri, a former student of Madelung’s who was at the time a research associate at the Institute. Subsequently, Daftary was instrumental in launching the Institute’s Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ (‘Epistles of the Brethren of Purity’) series, which will result in the critical edition of the Arabic text and annotated English translation of this work in seventeen

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volumes by more than twenty scholars. Daftary serves on the Advisory Board of this series of publications, with Nader El-Bizri as its general editor. In terms of promoting scholarship in Ismaili studies, quite aside from organising an extensive programme of publications for the Institute and inviting various scholars to participate in these efforts,22 Daftary also arranged for subventions to publishers which made other Ismaili publications possible. In this category, two cases merit particular attention here: the second volume of H. Halm’s trilogy of books on Fatimid history,23 and the Ismaili section of the Jāmiʿ al-tawārīkh of Rashīd al-Dīn Faḍl Allāh (d. 1318),24 a chief primary source on the Nizārī Ismaili state of Persia in mediaeval times. The latter book was dedicated to Farhad Daftary. Bibliographies For Madelung’s Festschrift, Farhad Daftary had invested much effort in compiling a bibliography of the works published by this polymath and highly prolific German scholar, which he arranged chronologically. Indeed it had been through bibliographical studies that Daftary had entered the field of Ismaili studies, by using an index card system in Berkeley. For more than four decades, he had been collecting bibliographical information. This passion for bibliographies finally culminated in his publication of Ismaili Literature (2004; see Daftary Bibliography, no. 4), which has the subtitle ‘A bibliography of sources and studies’. Previously, there had been two important bibliographical works in Ismaili studies.25 Whereas those works had been devoted exclusively to manuscript sources, Daftary was now presenting a bibliography of all the published works, primary sources as well as secondary studies, on Ismaili-related subjects, an area which had not been covered by the other two bibliographies. Given the rapid progress in the field, Daftary is currently compiling notes for a second edition of his Ismaili Literature. Daftary had been equally active in publishing journal articles and contributing chapters to collected volumes. In 2005, he selected ten of the most significant articles he had published by that time, and collected them in a volume entitled Ismailis in Medieval Muslim Societies, in which some of the studies appeared in expanded forms with additional notes while others were slightly abridged.

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Works of reference Farhad Daftary was aware that the bulk of the academic publications on Ismaili studies might be read only by specialists, and that most scholars in the wider field of Islamic studies, as well as researchers and students in general, remained largely unaware of the complexities of Ismaili history and thought. Consequently, he decided to embark on a project of writing both English and Persian entries for encyclopaedias and other reference works, and these currently number more than 130 (See Daftary Bibliography, nos. 76–211). He started with the Encyclopaedia Iranica (EIr), the then major new work of reference in Islamic and Iranian studies. In the early 1990s, after the publication of The Ismāʿīlīs, he was invited to be the consulting editor for that encyclopaedia’s Ismaili articles, identifying the entries and their prospective authors. In that role, he himself has contributed many articles to EIr. His major contributions to the EIr are ‘Carmatians’, a ten-page article published in 1990, and the seventeen-page entry on ‘Ismaʿilism: iii. Ismaʿili History’, published in 2007. Meanwhile, Professor Bosworth, then one of the main editors of the second edition of The Encyclopaedia of Islam (EI2), which was in its final volumes, got him involved in writing many of their remaining Ismaili articles, starting with ‘Nūr al-Dīn Muḥammad’, published in 1993. Several of his later articles appeared in the Supplement to EI2. By the early 1990s, vast Islamic encyclopaedias had started to be produced also in Persian in Iran. Thus, we now have the Dāʾirat al-Maʿārif-i Buzurg-i Islāmī (the ‘Great Islamic Encyclopaedia’ or GIE) and the Dānishnāma-yi Jahān-i Islām (‘Encyclopaedia of the World of Islam’ or EWI). The entries in the latter were initially translations of those published in EI2 or other works of reference. Daftary became an academic consultant for the Dānishnāma, contributing many of their new Ismaili entries, and has worked closely also with the GIE. He has written the detailed twenty-two-page article ‘Ismāʿīliyya’ for the GIE, published in 1998. He and Madelung are also the Editors-in-Chief of the Encyclopaedia Islamica, an abridged English version of the ongoing GIE. This translation project had been initiated by John Cooper (1947–1998) in the early 1990s with his translations of some forty articles. Years later, Daftary was contacted by Kazem M. Bojnurdi, Director of the Centre for the Great Islamic Encyclopaedia, in order to involve the Institute in this project: they had a meeting in Tehran and agreed to collaborate, calling the prospective publication Encyclopaedia Islamica at Daftary’s suggestion. What made

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this vast work of reference appealing was the fact that, in addition to covering Islam in all regions, it concentrated on two categories of entries not found widely anywhere else: on Shiʿi personalities, ideas and concepts, and on the history and culture of the greater Persianate world. Since this fell within the Institute’s mandate, the project was thereafter taken on board and the translated volumes are being published in association with E. J. Brill of Leiden. Daftary himself edits all the Ismaili-related articles and monitors the work of the team of editors and translators involved in this project with Reza Shah-Kazemi acting as its managing editor. Over the years, Daftary has also been closely involved in the work of the Institute’s library. For example, he played a key role in facilitating the library’s acquisition of the Zāhid ʿAlī Collection of some 221 Arabic Ismaili manuscripts in 1997, also arranging for Delia Cortese (another contributor to this volume) to compile a descriptive catalogue of that collection.26 Zāhid ʿAlī (1888–1958), one of the pioneers in modern Ismaili studies, belonged to another learned family of Dāʾūdī Ṭayyibī Ismailis with an important collection of manuscripts. Directorship Professor Azim Nanji (now at Stanford University and the author of the Foreword to this volume) was the Director of The Institute of Ismaili Studies for a decade (1998–2008). In the last two years of that period (2007–2008), Daftary served as Associate Director of the Institute. After Nanji’s departure he served a stint as Acting Director, before being appointed in September 2009 as the Institute’s Co-Director, together with Professor Karim H. Karim. At the same time, he has continued to head the Department of Academic Research and Publications. Asked about his association with the Institute, Daftary repeatedly asserts that he has learnt a great deal through his experience of working there for more than two decades. The Institute has in many ways shaped his intellectual experience and sharpened his scholarship. For example, while originally he would use the term ‘sect’ to refer to the Ismailis and other Shiʿis, in the second edition of The Ismāʿīlīs he uses ‘community’ and ‘communities of interpretation’ (in the plural), since he is now reluctant to use the former term to refer to a community that still exists on the contemporary scene (as opposed to those short-lived sects of mediaeval times). In 2008, on the occasion of the Golden Jubilee of His Highness Prince Karim al-Husayni, Aga Khan IV, celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of his accession to the imamate of the Nizārī Ismailis, Farhad Daftary’s

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Department of Academic Research published, among other works, five books to specifically commemorate the event.27 One of these was a book he himself co-authored with Zulfikar Hirji, The Ismailis: An Illustrated History (Daftary Bibliography, no. 7), a work, the first of its kind, addressed to a general audience, containing hundreds of images (several of them from Daftary’s private collection) documenting the eventful history of the Ismailis in a lucid and accessible manner. More recently, Daftary has edited A Modern History of the Ismailis, a publication designed to fill, at least partially, the gap in our knowledge of the recent history of the Ismaili communities, including the Ṭayyibīs, in different geographical locations (Syria, India and Pakistan, East Africa, Tajikistan and the rest of Central Asia, with the least explored region of all, China). Farhad Daftary’s work is still ongoing. He belongs to a generation of prolific scholars, well reflected in his recent contributions to the festschriften of many of his friends and colleagues, including C. Edmund Bosworth, Hermann Landolt, Urbain Vermeulen, Biancamaria Scarcia Amoretti, Etan Kohlberg, Carole Hillenbrand, Paul E. Walker, Heinz Halm and Charles Melville (the last two forthcoming). As the recent author of the long chapter on ‘Varieties of Islam’ in The New Cambridge History of Islam (Daftary Bibliography, no. 74), covering mainly the various Shiʿi communities, he is now working on an expanded version of that study. This will be published in monographic form as A Short History of Shi‘i Islam. Daftary’s broader interests in Shiʿi studies is aligned with the Institute’s expansion of its remit into covering all communities and schools of thought within Shi‘i Islam. Daftary’s current work includes three other research projects, to which he has regularly devoted his attention for years: a Historical Dictionary of the Ismailis; a book on Ḥasan-i Ṣabbāḥ and his Times; and, as mentioned earlier, an edition of W. Ivanow’s memoirs (Fifty Years in the East: An Autobiographical Sketch). Daftary has been a member of various academic and professional associations and societies, including The British Institute of Persian Studies, on whose Governing Council he served for two terms (2002–2007). New horizons in Ismaili studies Over the past forty years, Farhad Daftary’s impressive publication record has contributed to our knowledge of the events related to Ismaili history and the intricacies of the intellectual traditions elaborated by the Ismaili Shiʿis. His greatest contribution is to have produced a straightforward narrative account of them in a framework constructed in accordance with

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the view of Ismaili history outlined earlier. As we have seen, Daftary’s work continues as strong as ever. Yet, it may be in order here to identify what areas in Ismaili studies are still unexplored. The following observations are not intended as a critique of Farhad Daftary’s approach to Ismaili history, but rather to present some possible avenues of research that future generations of scholars may wish to consider when embarking on this field. i. Contextual, comparative and thematic approaches The religious significance of Ismaili thought within Islam can be assessed in the context of the history of religions. A comparative approach with other groups in Islam (other Shiʿi groups, Sufis, theological and philosophical schools) seems imperative if we are to understand the significance of Ismaili ideas. Similarly, those ideas can be studied in the light of similar literature produced in other religious traditions, especially those groups that propounded an esoteric understanding of scriptures and that formed around a charismatic authority. Similarly, the enterprise pursued by the various Ismaili authors can be studied in close connection with their contemporary intellectual history. Thus, one might analyse, for example, al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān’s (d. 363/974) role in the history of Ismaili Shiʿism vis-à-vis the contributions of other similar figures such as al-Kulaynī (d. 329/941) for Ithnāʿasharī Shiʿism and al-Ṭabarī (d. 310/923) for Sunni Islam; or Fatimid-sponsored theories of the imāma vis-à-vis contemporaneous imāma theories sponsored by the Umayyads of al-Andalus and the ʿAbbasids of Baghdad; or the gināns in the wider context of Indo-Muslim literature; or the doctrine of taʿlīm in the light of similar Sufi theories of knowledge and leadership; or the theory and practice of Ismaili taʾwīl together with the taʾwīl practised by the Muʿtazilīs, the Sufis and others; or the provocative question, ‘What has Alamūt got to do with Cairo?’ (the question is reminiscent of the statement by Tertullian about Athens and Jerusalem). These are just some examples of the research possibilities at our disposal. In contrast with a view of history as a concatenation of events, rulers, imams and authors, another fruitful approach might be the thematic approach. Possible themes to be explored can then encapsulate research questions such as, ‘Is there such a thing as an Ismaili approach to the Qurʾan?’; ‘Do Ismaili and Ithnāʿasharī forms of Shiʿism differ in essence?’; ‘Is it right to assume (as Marshall Hodgson did)28 that Ismailism is to Shiʿism what Sufism is to Sunnism?’

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ii. Problematising methods and theories It is vital to build on Farhad Daftary’s historiographical achievements, but it is equally important for future scholars to put them to the test. New methodological tools developed in the fields of historiography, anthropology, religious studies and discourse analysis can be used to deconstruct the ways in which the Ismailis have constructed their own history, literature, self-image and religious identity. Similarly, while the emphasis on history, and the history of the Ismaili imams in particular, is undoubtedly indispensable, more attention might be given to the communities – their diverse customs and practices, both historically and in the present times. It is possible that questions such as these will be followed by other, perhaps contrasting, views or even re-readings of Ismaili (and wider Islamic) history. iii. New technologies Finally, mention must be made of the chances that new technologies offer for the history of ideas. In the first place, texts could be made available through electronic media to researchers in every country to facilitate the exchange of scholarship. Manuscripts can be digitalised and texts can be made available so that they can be explored by key-words (and Arabic roots) through search engines. What only three decades ago was almost unthinkable is now possible: glossaries and lexicons of technical terms in Ismaili works might be created so that they are better studied together with other texts from other, better known, traditions. An online database of Qurʾanic citations in Ismaili sources is a necessary step towards an in-depth research into their exegesis and hermeneutical approach. The contributors would like to join the editor of this volume in offering their collective work to Dr Farhad Daftary with esteem and affection.29

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Omar Alí-de-Unzaga Notes

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12.

13.

14. 15.

16.

Much of the information contained in this introduction is based on a series of interviews I conducted with Farhad Daftary during the course of 2010. On this and other Persian titles see Ahmad Ashraf and Ali Banuazizi, ‘Class System: v. Classes in the Qajar Period’, EIr, vol. 5, pp. 667–677. See Y. Armagani, ‘Alborz College’, EIr, vol. 1, pp. 821–823. See Daftary, ‘Ivanow, Vladimir Alekseevich’, EIr, vol. 14, pp. 293–300. See Daftary, ‘Anjoman-e Esmāʿīlī’, EIr, vol. 2, p. 84. See Daftary Bibliography, no. 7, pp. 40–41, 172–173. See Daftary Bibliography, nos. 17–21, 78. Marshall G. S. Hodgson, ‘The Ismāʽīlī State’, in The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 5, ed. J. A. Boyle (Cambridge, 1968), p. 424, n.1. See W. Ivanow, ‘Tombs of Some Persian Ismaili Imams,’ Journal of the Bombay Branch of the Royal Asiatic Society, NS, 14 (1938), pp. 49–62, also his Alamut and Lamasar (Tehran, 1960). See Daftary Bibliography, no. 1. See Daftary Bibliography, no. 11. These three articles of S. M. Stern are respectively: ‘Heterodox Ismāʿīlism at the Time of al-Muʿizz’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, 17 (1955), pp. 10–33; ‘The Early Ismāʿīlī Missionaries in North-West Persia and in Khurāsān and Transoxania’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, 23 (1960), pp. 56–90, and ‘Ismāʿīlīs and Qarmaṭians’, in L’Élaboration de l’Islam (Paris, 1961), pp. 99–108; all three repr. in his Studies in Early Ismāʿīlism (Leiden, 1983), pp. 257–288, 189–233 and 289–298, respectively. W. Madelung’s two original German articles were based on his doctoral thesis written in 1957 at the University of Hamburg. See respectively, his ‘Fatimiden und Baḥrainqarmaṭen’, Der Islam, 34 (1959), pp. 34–88; revised tr. as ‘The Fatimids and the Qarmaṭīs of Baḥrayn’, in Daftary, ed., Mediaeval Ismaʿili History and Thought (See Daftary Bibliography no. 9), pp. 21–73; and his ‘Das Imamat in der frühen ismalitischen Lehre’, Der Islam, 37 (1961), pp. 43–135; and ‘Ḳarmaṭī’, EI2, vol. 4, pp. 660–665. Ḥasan b. Mūsā al-Nawbakhtī, Firaq al-Shīʿa, ed. H. Ritter (Istanbul, 1931), pp. 58–59; Saʿd b. ʿAbd Allāh al-Ashʿarī al-Qummī, Kitāb al-maqālāt wa’lfiraq, ed. M. J. Mashkūr (Tehran, 1963), p. 81. B. Lewis, The Origins of Ismāʿīlism: A Study of the Historical Background of the Fāṭimid Caliphate (Cambridge, 1940), pp. 33–35; H. Corbin, Étude préliminaire pour le ‘Livre réunissant les deux sagesses’ de Nasir-e Khosraw (Tehran and Paris, 1953), pp. 14–19; W. Madelung, ‘Khaṭṭābiyya’, EI2, vol. 4, pp. 1132–1133. Al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān b. Muḥammad, Daʿāʾim al-Islām, ed. Asaf A. A. Fyzee (Cairo, 1951–1961), vol. 1, pp. 49–50; English trans. by A. A. A. Fyzee, completely revised by I. K. Poonawala, as The Pillars of Islam (New Delhi, 2002–2004), vol. 1, pp. 65–66.

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17. See Daftary Bibliography, in addition to chapter 3 in nos. 1 and 6, in nos. 23, 29–31, 33. 18. See, for example, Daftary Bibliography, no. 1, pp. 1–31, no. 3, pp. 1–20, no. 4, pp. 84–103, no. 5, pp. 27–41, no. 6, pp. 1–33, as well as nos. 23, 44 and 57. 19. See the review of Daftary’s The Assassin Legends by Patrick Franke in Die Welt des Islams, 35 (1995), pp. 134–136. 20. See Daftary’s response to Franke’s review, ‘An den Herausgeber/To the Editor’, Die Welt des Islams, 36 (1996), p. 144. 21. H. Halm, Kosmologie und Heilslehre der frühen Ismāʿīlīya: Eine Studie zur islamishcen Gnosis (Wiesbaden, 1978); idem, ‘The Cosmology of the Pre-Fatimid Ismāʿīliyya’, in Daftary, Mediaeval Ismaʿili History and Thought (Daftary Bibliography, no. 9, pp. 75–83). 22. See The Institute of Ismaili Studies, Department of Academic Research and Publications, Catalogue of Publications 2010 (London, 2010). 23. H. Halm, Die Kalifen von Kairo. Die Fatimiden in Ägypten 973–1074 (Munich, 2003). 24. Rashīd al-Dīn Faḍl Allāh, Jāmiʿ al-tawārīkh: tārīkh-i Ismāʿīliyān, ed. Muḥammad Rawshan (Tehran, 1387 Sh./2008). 25. W. Ivanow, Ismaili Literature: A Bibliographical Survey (Tehran, 1963); I. K. Poonawala, Biobibliography of Ismāʿīlī Literature (Malibu, CA, 1977). 26. See D. Cortese, Arabic Ismaili Manuscripts: The Zāhid ʿAlī Collection in the Library of The Institute of Ismaili Studies (London, 2003). 27. Apart from The Ismailis: An Illustrated History, these were: An Anthology of Ismaili Literature; Master of the Age: An Islamic Treatise on the Necessity of the Imamate; Arts of the City Victorious: Islamic Art and Architecture in Fatimid North Africa and Egypt; and Word of God, Art of Man: The Qur’an and its Creative Expressions. 28. Marshall G. S. Hodgson, The Venture of Islam (Chicago, 1974), vol. 1, p. 393: ‘In some ways, but not all, the Ṣūfīs represented in a Jamā‘ī-Sunnī milieu what Bāṭinī piety represented in a Shī‘ī milieu.’ 29. I would like to thank a number of individuals who have made this volume possible and helped me at different stages: Marjan Afsharian, Fayaz Alibhai, Alessandro Cancian, Rahim Gholami, Bilal Gökkir, Asma Hilali, Nadia Holmes, Hafiz Karmali, Kutub Kassam, Shahram Khodaverdian, Julia Kolb, Hena Miah, Isabel Miller, Lisa Morgan, Patricia Salazar and Fiona Ward.

2

Bibliography of the Works of Farhad Daftary

I. Books (nos. 1–8) II. Edited books (nos. 9–14) III. Articles, book chapters and miscellanea (nos. 15–75) IV. Encyclopaedia articles and contributions to other reference works (nos. 76–211) V. Book reviews (nos. 212–245) I. Books 1.

The Ismāʿīlīs: Their History and Doctrines, with a Foreword by Wilferd Madelung (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1990). pp. xviii + 804 + 20 plates + 1 map; repr. 1992, 1994, 1995, 1999, 2004. Also published in India (New Delhi: Munshiram Monoharlal Publishers, 1990); for the second ed. see no. 6. Reviewed by: Ī. Afshār, Ayandeh, 18 (1992–1993), p. 554; A. Amanat, review article in Iran Nameh, 10 (1992), pp. 324–342; English summary, p. 15; M. A. Amir-Moezzi, Studia Islamica, 81 (1995), pp. 207–208; ʿA. ʿAṭāʾī, Āyana-yi Pazhūhish, 7 (1375 Sh./1996), pp. 49–50; M. Boivin, Bulletin Critique des Annales Islamologiques, 9 (1992), pp. 67–69; Book Review Digest (1992), p. 453; P. Bruckmayr, DAVO [Deutsche Arbeitsgemeinschaft Vorderer Orient] Nachrichten, 27 (2008), pp. 86–87; J. Danecki, 33

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Fortresses of the Intellect Die Welt des Orients, 25 (1994), pp. 189–190; K. Emami, Kelk, 7 (October, 1990), pp. 186–188; H. Halm, Der Islam, 71 (1994), pp. 176–177; G. Hoffmann, Bibliotheca Orientalis, 49 (May– July, 1992), 551–554; M. Iftikhārī, Persian tr. of excerpts from reviews by P. E. Walker, D. O. Morgan and J. A. Williams, in Kelk, 49–50 (1994), pp. 215–217; R. Irwin, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, 3rd series, 2 (1992), pp. 265–266; C. Jambet, Abstracta Iranica, 14 (1991), p. 217; J. E. Lindsay, Journal of Near Eastern Studies, 56 (1997), pp. 220–221; Ḥ. Maʿṣūmī Hamadānī, Nashr-i Dānish, 11 (June–July, 1991), pp. 63–65; idem, Spektrum Iran: Zeitschrift für islamisch-iranische Kultur, 4 (1991), pp. 91–95; D. O. Morgan, History, 78 (1993), pp. 266–267; I. R. Netton, The Times Literary Supplement (16 August, 1991), p. 8; I. K. Poonawala, Iranian Studies, 25 (1992), pp. 99–101; idem, Muslim World, 83 (1993), pp. 351–352; S. von Sicard, Islam and Christian–Muslim Relations, 3 (1992), pp. 141–142; M. Swartz, Choice, 28 (February, 1991), pp. 950–951; P. E. Walker, Journal of the American Oriental Society, 112 (1992), pp. 138–139; J. A. Williams, Middle East Journal, 45 (1991), pp. 702–703. Translations: 1(a) Arabic: Sayf al-Dīn al-Qaṣīr, tr., al-Ismāʿīliyyūn: taʾrīkhuhum wa ʿaqāʾiduhum (Damascus: Dār al-Yanābīʿ li’l-Nashr wa’l-Tawzīʿ, 1994–95). 3 vols.; repr. in one vol. (Salamiyya, Syria: Dār al-Ghadīr, 1997). 1(b) Persian: Farīdūn Badraʾī, tr., with a new introduction and additional references by the author, Tārīkh va ʿaqāʾid-i Ismāʿīliyya (Tehran: Farzān, 1375 Sh./1996). pp. xxii + 949; repr. 1376/1998, 1383/2004, 1385/2006. Winner of the 1376 Sh./1997–98 ‘Best Book of the Year Award’ in Iran. 1(c) Tajik (Cyrillic transcription): Abdusalom Makhmadnazar, tr., Ismoiliyon: tarikh va aqoid (Moscow: Ladomir, 1999). p. 816. 1(d) Turkish: Ercüment Özkaya, tr., Muhalif İslamın 1400 Yılı: İsmaililer, Tarih ve Kuram (Ankara: Rastlanti Yayınları, 2001). pp. 571. 1(e) Turkish: Erdal Toprak, tr., İsmaililer: tarih ve öğretileri (Ankara: Doruk Yayımcılık, 2005). pp. 726. 1(f) Urdu: ʿAzīz Allāh Najīb, tr., supervised by Shaykh

Bibliography of the Works of Farhad Daftary

35

Muḥammad Iqbāl, Ismāʿīlī tārīkh wa ʿaqāʾid (Karachi: Iqbal Brothers, 1997). pp. xiv + 991. 2.

The Assassin Legends: Myths of the Isma‘ilis (London and New York: I.B.Tauris, 1994). pp. ix + 213. Includes A. I. Silvestre de Sacy’s Mémoire sur la dynastie des Assassins, tr. Azizeh Azodi as Memoir on the Dynasty of the Assassins, ed. and introduced by F. Daftary, pp. 129–188; repr. 1994, 1995, 2001. Runner-up winner of the International Society for Iranian Studies’ first ‘Saidi-Sirjani Memorial Book Award’ for 1994. Excerpt in M. Jay, ed., Artificial Paradises (London: Penguin Books, 1999), pp. 358–362. Reviewed by: M. A. Amir-Moezzi, Studia Islamica, 81 (1995), pp. 207–208; M. Boivin, Bulletin Critique des Annales Islamologiques, 12 (1996), pp. 81–82; C. E. Bosworth, Graeco-Arabica, 6 (1995), pp. 367–369; P. Cecil, The Frequency of Truth (June, 1994); H. Dabashi, Iran Nameh, 13 (1995), pp. 557–565; idem, Kelk, 68–70 (January, 1996), pp. 287–294; J. Danecki, Der Islam, 76 (1999), pp. 174–176; K. Emami, Kelk, 54 (September, 1994), pp. 111–112; J. van Ess, Die Welt des Orients, 26 (1995), pp. 223–224; M. al-Faruque, The Muslim Book Review, 17 (1997), pp. 39–41; P. Franke, Die Welt des Islams, 35 (1995), pp. 134–136 [response by F. Daftary: ‘An den Herausgeber/To the Editor’, Die Welt des Islams, 36 (1996), p. 144]; D. Giovacchini, MELA Notes, Journal of Middle Eastern Librarianship, 64 (1997), pp. 51–52; J. P. Guillaume and A. Chraïbi, Arabica, 43 (1996), pp. 369–375; A. Hamdani, Journal of Semitic Studies, 45 (2000), p. 396; B. Hamilton, Intelligence and National Security, 13 (Summer, 1998), pp. 215–216; A. Hibbard, DOMES: Digest of Middle East Studies, 4 (1995), pp. 72–78; R. Irwin, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, 3rd series, 6 (1996), pp. 107–108; Islam and Christian–Muslim Relations, 7 (1996), pp. 120–121; C. Jambet, Abstracta Iranica, 17–19 (1994–96), pp. 186–187; J. E. Lindsay, Middle East Studies Association Bulletin, 29 (1995), pp. 83–84; A. Mashāyikh Farīdanī, Nashr-i Dānish, 14 (August–September, 1995), pp. 50–52; idem, Spektrum Iran, 8 (1995), p. 86–89; J. Matini, Iranshinasi, 10 (1998), pp. 447–448; M. Momen, Iranian Studies, 32 (1999), pp. 427–429; D. O. Morgan, The Times Literary Supplement (3 February, 1995), p.

36

Fortresses of the Intellect 6; B. Nahid, Comitatus, 26 (1995), pp. 125–132; A. Nanji, Journal of Islamic Studies, 7 (1997), pp. 95–98; A. Rathmell, Terrorism and Political Violence, 7 (1995), pp. 187–191; W. F. Tucker, The Historian, 59 (1997), pp. 411–412; P. E. Walker, International Journal of Islamic and Arabic Studies, 11 (1994), pp. 121–123; also online at www.ib.umich.edu/libhome/area.programs/ Near.East/MELANotesIntro.html. Translations: 2(a) Arabic: Sayf al-Dīn al-Qaṣīr, tr., Khurāfāt al-ḥashāshīn wa asāṭīr al-Ismāʿīliyyīn (Damascus and Beirut: Dār al-Madā, 1996). pp. 302. 2(b) French: Zarien Rajan-Badouraly, tr., with a Foreword by Christian Jambet and a new Preface by the author, Légendes des Assassins. Mythes sur les Ismaéliens. Études musulmanes, XL (Paris: Librairie Philosophique J. Vrin, 2007). pp. 207. 2(c) Gujarati: Ibrahim A. Rahman Sheikh and Abdul Ali Dhanani, tr., Assassin dantkathao: ismailio visheni kalpnik manyatao (Mumbai: N. M. Thakkar, 2010). pp. x + 245. 2(d) Hungarian: István Hajnal, tr., with a new Preface by the author and additional textual materials, Aszaszin legendák: Az iszmáʿiliták mítoszai (Budapest: Osiris Kiadó, 2000). pp. 195 + 8 plates + 2 maps; 2nd ed., Budapest: L’Harmattan, 2009. pp. 238. 2(e) Persian: Farīdūn Badraʾī, tr., Afsānahā-yi ḥashāshīn, yā usṭūrihā-yi fidāʾīyān-i Ismāʿīlī (Tehran: Farzān, 1376 Sh./1997). pp. xvii + 361; repr. 1385/2006, 1388/2009. 2(f) Portuguese: Faranaz Keshavjee, tr., As Lendas dos Assassinos: Mitos sobre os Ismailis (Lisbon: Fenda Edições, 2005). pp. 256. 2(g) Russian: Leila R. Dodykhudoeva, tr., ed. Oleg F. Akimushkin, Legendy ob Assasinakh: Mify ob ismailitakh (Moscow: Ladomir, 2009). pp. 210. 2(h) Tajik (Cyrillic transcription): Abdusalom Makhmadnazar, tr., Afsonaha-i Avrupoi dar borai Ismoiliyon (Dushanbe, forthcoming). 2(i) Turkish: Özgür Çelebi, tr., Alamut Efsaneleri. Sır metinler, 7 (Ankara: Yurt Kitab-Yayın, 2008). pp. 296.

Bibliography of the Works of Farhad Daftary 3.

37

A Short History of the Ismailis: Traditions of a Muslim Community. Islamic Surveys Series (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1998). pp. viii + 248; repr., 1999, 2004. Also published in the United States (Princeton: Markus Wiener Publishers, 1998). Abstract in French by Christian Jambet, Abstracta Iranica, 22 (1999), pp. 149–150; in Persian, in Abstracta Iranica/Chakīdahā-yi Īrān-shināsī, 22 (1377–78 Sh./1999), p. 216. Reviewed by: M. M. Bar-Asher, review article in Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam, 24 (2000), pp. 543–550; M. Bovin, Bulletin Critique des Annales Islamologiques, 16 (2000), p. 43; M. Brett, Bulletin of the Royal Institute for Inter-Faith Studies, 3 (2001), pp. 239–244; D. De Smet, Die Welt des Orients, 31 (2000–2001), pp. 263–264; F. Farrokh, Iranshenasi, 15 (2003), pp. 158–163; G. Hoffmann, Bibliotheca Orientalis, 57 (2000), 730–731; O. Khalidi, DOMES: Digest of Middle East Studies, 8 (1999), pp. 87–88; V. Klemm, Der Islam, 78 (2001), pp. 190–192; M. Momen, Islam and Christian–Muslim Relations, 10 (1999), pp. 240–242; A. J. Newman, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, 64 (2001), pp. 404–405; I. K. Poonawala, Iranian Studies, 32 (1999), pp. 578–579; B. Scarcia Amoretti, Rivista degli Studi Orientali, 72 (1998), pp. 330–331; S. Traboulsi, Al-Abhath, 47 (1999), pp. 100–102; The Ismaili, United Kingdom, 37 (1999), p. 10; The New East, 42 (2001), pp. 270–274; P. E. Walker, Journal of Near Eastern Studies, 61 (2002), p. 59; S. Ward, Middle East Studies Association Bulletin, 34 (2000), pp. 245–246. Translations: 3(a) Arabic: Sayf al-Dīn al-Qaṣīr, tr., Mukhtaṣar taʾrīkh al-Ismāʿīliyyīn (Damascus and Beirut: Dār al-Madā, 2001). pp. 392. 3(b) Chinese: Amier Saidula, tr., Yisimayi jiao pai jian shi (Urumchi, China: Xinjiang University Press, 2011). 3(c) French: Zarien Rajan-Badouraly, tr., Les ismaéliens: Histoire et traditions d’une communauté musulmane, with a Foreword by M. A. Amir-Moezzi (Paris: Librairie Arthème Fayard, 2003). pp. 371. 3(d) German: Kurt Maier, tr., Kurze Geschichte der Ismailiten:

Fortresses of the Intellect

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3(e)

3(f)

3(g) 3(h)

3(i) 3(j)

3(k)

3(l)

3(m) 3(n)

Traditionen einer muslimischen Gemeinschaft, with a Foreword by Heinz Halm. Kultur, Recht und Politik in muslimischen Gesellschaften, 4 (Würzburg: Ergon, 2003). pp. viii + 286. Gujarati: Jehangir A. Merchant and Sultanali Muhammad, tr., Ismailiono tunko itihaas: ek muslim sampradayni praṇalikao (Mumbai: N. M. Thakkar, 2007). pp. 242. Hungarian: István Hajnal, tr., Az iszmá‘iliták rövid története: Egy Muszlim közösség hagyományai, with a new Foreword by the author (Budapest: L’Harmattan, 2006). pp. 291 + 5 plates + 3 maps. Italian: Antonella Straface, tr., Gli Ismailiti: Storia di una comunità musulmana, with an Introduction by Carmela Baffioni (Venice: Marsilio Editori, 2011). pp. 310. Persian: Farīdūn Badraʾī, tr., Mukhtaṣarī dar tārīkh-i Ismāʿīliyya: sunnathā-yi yak jamāʿat-i musalmān (Tehran: Farzān, 1378 Sh./1999). pp. 334; repr. 1383/2004, 1388/2009. Polish: Katarzyna Pachniak, tr., Ismailici zarys historii. Seria Dzieje Orientu (Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Akademickie DIALOG, 2008). pp. 258. Portuguese: Paulo Jorge de Sousa Pinto, tr., Breve história dos Ismaelitas: Tradições de uma comunidade Muçulmana. Colecção estudos e documentos, 8 (Lisbon: Centro de Estudos dos Povos e Culturas de Expressão Portuguesa, Universidade Católica Portuguesa, 2003). pp. 258. Russian: Leila R. Dodykhudoeva and Lola N. Dodkhudoeva, tr., Kratkaya istoriya isma‘ilizma: Traditsii musul’manskoi obshchini, with a Foreword by Oleg F. Akimushkin and a new Preface by the author (Moscow: Ladomir, 2003). pp. 274; repr. 2004. Tajik (Cyrillic transcription): Amriyazdon Alimardonov, tr., (from the Persian trans. of Farīdūn Badraʾī), Mukhtasare dar tarikhi Ismoilia: sunnathoi yak jamoati Musulmon (Dushanbe: Nodir, 2003). pp. 368. Uighur: Amier Saidula, tr., Ismayiliya maz’hibining qisqicha tarikhi (Urumchi, China, forthcoming). Urdu: ʿAzīz Allāh Najīb, tr., Ismāʿīlī tārīkh kā yak

Bibliography of the Works of Farhad Daftary

39

mukhtaṣar jāʾiza: yak musalmān jamāʿat kī riwāyāt (Karachi: Liberty, 1425/2004). pp. 515. 4.

Ismaili Literature: A Bibliography of Sources and Studies (London: I.B.Tauris in association with The Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2004). pp. xviii + 469. Abstract in French by Eve Feuillebois-Piérunek, Abstracta Iranica, 28 (2005), p.157. Reviewed by: Th. Bianquis, Bulletin Critique des Annales Islamologiques, 21 (2005), p. 21; J. van Ess, Die Welt des Orients, 37 (2007), p. 183; A. C. Hunsberger, Middle Eastern Literatures, 14 (2011), pp. 100–102; M. Momen, Islam and Christian–Muslim Relations, 16 (2005), pp. 433–434; E. S. Ohlander, MELA Notes, Journal of Middle Eastern Librarianship, 79 (2006), pp. 15–17; I. K. Poonawala, Iranian Studies, 43 (2010), pp. 163–166; M. Rustom, American Journal of Islamic Social Sciences, 22 (2005), pp. 110–112; Jane I. Smith, Muslim World, 98 (2008), pp. 155–156; D. Steigerwald, Studies in Religion/Sciences Religieuses, 34, (2005), pp. 608–609; R. Tottoli, Oriente Moderno, 35 (2006), p. 389.

5.

Ismailis in Medieval Muslim Societies. Ismaili Heritage Series, 12 (London: I.B.Tauris in association with The Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2005). pp. xii + 259. Contains no. 56 (published here for the first time), as well as reprints of nos. 35, 56, 33, 40, 37, 32, 36, 45, 43, 39 and 41. Reviewed by: Ch. Anzalone, The Muslim World Book Review, 27 (2007), pp. 66–68; E. Feuillebois-Piérunek, Abstracta Iranica, 28 (2005), p.157; V. Klemm, Die Welt des Islams, 53 (2010), p. 303; W. Madelung, Journal of Islamic Studies, 18 (2007), pp. 108–109; I. R. Netton, Bibliotheca Orientalis, 66 (2009), 364–366; E. S. Ohlander, MELA Notes, Journal of Middle Eastern Librarianship, 79 (2006), pp. 20–22; S. Rizvi, Muslim World, 99 (2009), pp. 232–235; M. Ḥ. Sākit, Guzārish-i Mīrāth, 13–14 (October– November, 2007), pp. 33–34; R. Tottoli, Oriente Moderno, 35 (2006), p. 389.

40

Fortresses of the Intellect Translations: 5(a) Arabic: Sayf al-Dīn al-Qaṣīr, tr., al-Ismāʿīliyyūn fī mujtamaʿāt al-ʿaṣr al-wasīṭ al-Islāmiyya (London and Beirut: Dār al-Sāqī in association with The Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2008). pp. 294. Contains nos. 35, 56, 33, 40, 37, 32, 36, 45, 43, 39 and 41. 5(b) French: Zarien Rajan-Badouraly, tr., Les ismaéliens dans les sociétés musulmanes médiévales, Études musulmanes, XLIV (Paris: Librairie Philosophique J. Vrin, 2011). pp. 183. Contains nos. 35, 56, 33, 40, 37, 32, 36, 45, 43, 39 and 41. 5(c) Persian: Farīdūn Badraʾī, tr., Ismāʿīliyya va Īrān: majmūʽa-yi maqālāt (Tehran: Farzān, 1389 Sh./2010). pp. 302. Contains nos. 35, 56, 33, 40, 37, 32, 36, 45, 43, 39 and 41. 5(d) Russian: Zulaykho Ojieva, tr., ed. Leila R. Dodykhudoeva, Traditsii ismailizma v srednie veka: Sbornik statey [Traditions of Ismailism in Medieval Times: Collected Essays] (Moscow: Ladomir, 2006). pp. 319. Includes a Foreword by F. Daftary, pp. 1–19, and a ‘Bibliography of Publications of F. Daftary’, pp. 270–279. Contains nos. 35, 31, 33, 40, 32, 36, 42, 45, 43, 39, 41.

6.

The Ismāʿīlīs: Their History and Doctrines (2nd ed., Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007). pp. xxii+772+25 plates+2 maps; repr. with corrections, 2011. Translations: 6(a) Arabic: Sayf al-Dīn al-Qaṣīr, tr., al-Ismāʿīliyyūn (London and Beirut: Dār al-Sāqī, 2011). 6(b) Persian: Farīdūn Badraʾī, tr., Tārīkh va ʿaqāʾid-i Ismāʿīliyya (Tehran: Farzān, forthcoming). 6(c) Russian: Leila R. Dodykhudoeva, tr., Ismaility: Ikh istoriya i doktriny (Moscow: Natalis, 2011). 6(d) Tajik (Cyrillic transcription): Abdusalom Makhmadnazar, tr., Tarikhi Ismoiliyan (Dushanbe, forthcoming).

7.

Co-author (with Zulfikar Hirji), The Ismailis: An Illustrated History (London: Azimuth Editions in association with The Institute of Ismaili Studies, distributed by Thames and Hudson,

Bibliography of the Works of Farhad Daftary

8.

41

2008). pp. 262 + 360 illustrations + 17 maps. A publication to commemorate the Golden Jubilee of His Highness the Aga Khan. Historical Dictionary of the Ismailis. Historical Dictionaries of Religions, Philosophies and Movements (Lanham, Toronto and Oxford: Scarecrow Press, 2011). II. Edited books

9.

Mediaeval Ismaʿili History and Thought (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1996). pp. xviii + 331; repr. with corrections, 1996, 2001. Reviewed by: S. Bashir, Speculum, 76 (2001), pp. 424–426; M. Boivin, Bulletin Critique des Annales Islamologiques, 14 (1998), pp. 59–61; Y. M. Choueiri, History, 88 (2003), pp. 482–483; H. Daiber, Orientalistische Literaturzeitung, 93 (1998), 55–57; D. De Smet, Bibliotheca Orientalis, 59 (2002), 422–426; P. Franke, Die Welt des Islams, 38 (1998), pp. 265–267; S. Hamdani, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 31 (1999), pp. 117–120; G. Hoffmann, Bibliotheca Orientalis, 54 (1997), 505–507; P. Jackson, Journal of Semitic Studies, 42 (1997), pp. 434–436; V. Klemm, Der Islam, 78 (2001), pp. 192–193; E. Kohlberg, Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam, 20 (1996), pp. 279–281; G. Lane, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, 65 (2002), pp. 380–382; O. Leaman, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies, 23 (1996), pp. 206–207; L. Lewisohn, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, 3rd series, 8 (1998), pp. 86–88; P. Lory, Studia Islamica, 85 (1997), pp. 191–192; J. Scott Meisami, Journal of the American Oriental Society, 118 (1998), pp. 112–114; M. Momen, Iranian Studies, 31 (1998), pp. 118–119; J. P. Monferrer Sala, Miscelánea de estudios árabes y hebraicos: Sección árabeislam, 47 (1998), pp. 433–435; M. Morony, Iran Nameh, 18 (2000), pp. 167–169; K. Öhrnberg, Studia Orientalia, 82 (1997), pp. 255–256; K. J. Perkins, The Historian (Allentown), 60 (1998), pp. 841–842; M. Swartz, Choice, 34 (1997), p. 812. Translations: 9(a) Arabic: Sayf al-Dīn al-Qaṣīr, tr., al-Ismāʿīliyyūn fi’l-

42

Fortresses of the Intellect ʿaṣr al-wasīṭ: taʾrīkhuhum wa fikruhum (Damascus and Beirut: Dār al-Madā, 1999). pp. 328. 9(b) Persian: Farīdūn Badraʾī, tr., Tārīkh va andīshahā-yi Ismāʿīlī dar sadahā-yi miyāna (Tehran: Farzān, 1382 Sh./2003). pp. 403.

10.

Intellectual Traditions in Islam (London: I.B.Tauris in association with The Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2000). pp. xvii + 252; repr. 2001. Abstract in French by M. A. Amir-Moezzi, Abstracta Iranica, 23 (2000), pp. 99–100. Reviewed by: M. A. Amir-Moezzi, Studia Islamica, 92 (2001), p. 210; Th. Bianquis, Bulletin Critique des Annales Islamologiques, 21 (2005), p. 20; O. Carré, Arabica, 48 (2001), pp. 413–416; Y. Choueiri, History, 87 (2002), pp. 82–83; R. Elger, Journal of Semitic Studies, 47 (2002), pp. 170–172; Encounters: Journal of Inter-Cultural Perspectives, 6 (2000), pp. 246–248; J. van Ess, Die Welt des Orients, 32 (2002), pp. 226–229; F. Griffel, Die Welt des Islams, 43 (2003), pp. 398–400; M. S. Ḥanāʾī Kāshānī, Nashr-i Dānish, 17 (Spring, 2000), pp. 85–86; G. Hoffmann, Bibliotheca Orientalis, 58 (2001), 261–262; I. Kalin, The Muslim World Book Review, 24 (Winter, 2004), pp. 17–21; N. Lakhani, Journal of the Henry Martyn Institute, 21 (2002), pp. 102–113; Y. Lev, Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam, 27 (2002), p. 586; J. Scott Meisami, Journal of Islamic Studies, 14 (2003), pp. 212–216; A. J. Newman, Iranian Studies, 35 (2002), pp. 210–212; I. Ozdemir, Muslim World, 93 (2003), pp. 345–347; L. Ridgeon, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies, 32 (2005), pp. 131–132; H. Touati, Bulletin Critique des Annales Islamologiques, 19 (2003), p. 30; D. Waines, Islam and Christian–Muslim Relations, 12 (2001), pp. 383–384; N. Yavari, Middle East Studies Association Bulletin, 35 (2001), pp. 63–64. Translations: 10(a) Arabic: Nāṣiḥ A. Mīrzā, tr., al-Manāhij wa’l-aʿrāf al-ʿaqlāniyya fi’l-Islām (Beirut and London: Dār al-Sāqī in association with The Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2004). pp. 359. 10(b) French: Zarien Rajan-Badouraly, tr., Traditions intellec-

Bibliography of the Works of Farhad Daftary

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tuelles en Islam (Paris: Librairie d’Amérique et d’Orient, J. Maisonneuve, 2009). pp. 206. 10(c) Indonesian (Bahasa): Fuad Jabali and Udjang Tholib, tr., Tradisi-Tradisi Intelektual Islam (Jakarta: Penerbit Erlangga, 2006). pp. xvi + 352. 10(d) Persian: Farīdūn Badraʾī, tr., Sunnathā-yi ʿaqlānī dar Islām (Tehran: Farzān, 1380 Sh./2001). pp. 274. 10(e) Portuguese: Faranaz Keshavjee, tr., Tradições intelectuais no Islão (Lisbon, forthcoming). 10(f) Tajik (Cyrillic transcription): Muso Dinorshoev, tr., Sunnatkhoi akloni dar Islom (Dushanbe: Nodir, 2002). pp. 327. 10(g) Turkish: Muhammet Şeviker, tr., İslâm’da entelektüel gelenekler. Alternatif düşünce dizisi, 58 (Istanbul: Insan Yayınları, 2005). pp. 272. 11.

Co-editor (with Josef W. Meri), Culture and Memory in Medieval Islam: Essays in Honour of Wilferd Madelung (London: I.B.Tauris in association with The Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2003). pp. xvi + 464. Reviewed by: M. Abdul Jabbar Beg, The Muslim Book Review, 25 (2005), pp. 32–34; M. Brett, Bulletin of the Royal Institute for Inter-Faith Studies, 7 (2005), pp. 175–179; M. Gillet, Abstracta Iranica, 26 (2003), pp. 3–4; N. Green, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, 3rd series, 16 (2006), pp. 93–95; P. Heine, Orientalistische Literaturzeitung, 100, iv–v (2005), 532–538; R. Kruk, Bibliotheca Orientalis, 63 (2006), 419–421; E. S. Ohlander, MELA Notes, Journal of Middle Eastern Librarianship, 79 (2006), pp. 17–20; A. Sadeghi, Theory, Culture and Society, 25 (2008), pp. 153–154; J. I. Smith, Muslim World, 98 (2008), p. 157; D. Steigerwald, Studies in Religion/ Sciences Religieuses, 33 (2004), pp. 504–505; D. Thomas, Islam and Christian–Muslim Relations, 18 (2007), pp. 129–130.

12.

Co-Editor-in-chief (with Wilferd Madelung), Encyclopaedia Islamica (Leiden: E. J. Brill in association with The Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2008–).

44

13.

14.

Fortresses of the Intellect Joint-editor (with Elizabeth Fernea and Azim Nanji), Living in Historic Cairo: Past and Present in an Islamic City (London: Azimuth Editions in association with The Institute of Ismaili Studies, distributed by Washington University Press, 2010), pp. 300+DVD. A Modern History of the Ismailis: Continuity and Change in a Muslim Community. Ismaili Heritage Series, 13 (London: I.B.Tauris in association with The Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2011), pp. xxi+400. III. Articles, book chapters and miscellanea

15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21.

22. 23.

24.

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of Modern Asia. Volume 3: Laido to Malay – Indonesian Language, ed. David Levinson and Karen Christensen (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons-Thomson, 2002), pp. 185–187. 163. ‘Hamid al-Din Kirmani (d. 1020)’, in The Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy, ed. James Fieser. Online at http://www.iep.utm. edu/kirmani.html. 164–167. ‘Alamut’, ‘Ismailis’, ‘Sijistani, Abu Yaʿqub Ishaq ibn Ahmad al-’, ‘Sinan, Rashid al-Din’, in The Oxford Dictionary of Islam, ed. John L. Esposito (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003). 168–169. ‘Assassins’, ‘Shiʿa: Ismaʿili’, in Encylopedia of Islam and the Muslim World, ed. Richard C. Martin (New York: Macmillan Reference USA, 2004), vol. 1, pp. 85–86, vol. 2, pp. 628–629. 170–171. ‘Ala al-Din Muhammad b. Hasan’, ‘Jalal al-Din Hasan III’, in Holy People of the World: A Cross-Cultural Encyclopedia, ed. Phyllis G. Jestice (Santa Barbara, CA: ABC-Clio, 2004), vol. 2, pp. 349, 420–421. 172. ‘Fatimid Empire 909–1171’, in Malise Ruthven with A. Nanji, Historical Atlas of Islam (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004), pp. 50–51. 173–174. ‘Aga Khan (Ismaili)’, ‘Ismailis’, in Encyclopedia of the World’s Minorities, ed. Carl Skutsch (New York and London: Routledge, 2005), vol. 1, pp. 54–56, vol. 2, pp. 648–651. 175. ‘Egypt: Fatimids, Later: 1073–1171’, in Encyclopedia of African History, ed. Kevin Shillington (New York: Fitzroy Dearborn, 2005), vol. 1, pp. 433–435. 176. ‘Ismāʿīliyya’, in Dānishnāma-yi Zabān-u Adab-i Fārsī (Encyclopaedia of Persian Language and Literature), ed. Ismāʿīl Saʿādat (Tehran: Iranian Academy of Persian Language and Literature, 1384 Sh./2005), vol. 1, pp. 417–423. 177–180. ‘Assassins: Ismaili’, ‘Fatimids’, ‘Hasan-i Sabbah’, ‘Ismailis’, in Medieval Islamic Civilization: An Encyclopedia, ed. Josef W. Meri (New York: Routledge, 2006). 181–186. ‘Badakhshani, Sayyid Suhrab’, ‘Husayni, Shah Tahir b. Radi al-Din’, ‘Idris ʿImad al-Din, Sayyid’, ‘al-Nuʿman, al-Qadi’, ‘Quhistani, Abu Ishaq’, ‘Sabbah, Hasan’, in The Biographical Encyclopaedia of Islamic Philosophy, ed. Oliver Leaman (London and New York: Theommes Continuum, 2006). 187. ‘Ismaility’ (with Leila R. Dodykhudoeva and M. Iu. Roshchin), in Bol’shaia Rossiĭskaia Entsiklopediia, ed. S. L. Kravets (Moscow: Izdatel’stvo Bol’shaia Rossiĭskaia Entsiklopediia, 2008), vol. 12,

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pp. 24–25. 188–190. ‘Assassins’, ‘Fāṭimid Dynasty’ (with Donald S. Richards), ‘Khaṭṭābīyah’, in The Oxford Encyclopedia of the Islamic World, ed. John L. Esposito (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009). 191. ‘Ismailis’, in Encyclopedia of the Peoples of Africa and the Middle East, ed. Jamie Stokes (New York: Facts on File, 2009), vol. 1, pp. 324–325. 192. ‘Aga Khan’, in Encyclopedia of Muslim-American History, ed. Edward C. Curtis IV (New York: Facts on File, 2010), vol. 1, pp. 25–26. 193. ‘Assassins’, in The Oxford Encyclopedia of Medieval Warfare and Military Technology, ed. Clifford J. Rogers (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2010), vol. 1, pp. 90–91. 194–195. ‘Ismailis’, ‘Qarmatians’, in Conflict and Conquest in the Islamic World: Historical Encyclopedia, ed. Alexander Mikaberidze (Santa Barbara, CA: ABC-Clio/Greenwood, 2011). 196–199. ‘Aga Khan’, ‘Fatimid Dynasty (909–1171)’, ‘Nizaris’, ‘Qarmatians’, in Encyclopedia of Islamic Political Thought, ed. Gerhard Bowering, Patricia Crone et al. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2011). 200–211. ‘Abū ʿAbd Allāh al-Shīʿī’, ‘Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī’, ‘Abū Yaʿqūb al-Sijistānī’, ‘al-Ḥākim bi-Amr Allāh’, ‘Ḥamdān Qarmaṭ’, ‘Ḥamīd al-Dīn al-Kirmānī’, ‘Ḥasan-i Ṣabbāḥ’, ‘Ismāʿīl b. Jaʿfar’, ‘Muḥammad b. Ismāʿīl’, ‘Nāṣir-i Khusraw’, ‘al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān’, ‘Rāshid al-Dīn Sinān’, in Biographical Dictionary of Islamic Civilization, ed. Mustafa Shah (London: I.B.Tauris, forthcoming). V. Book reviews 212. 213. 214.

Nasr, S. Hossein, ed., Ismāʿīlī Contributions to Islamic Culture, Tehran, 1977 (Iranian Studies, 12, 1979, pp. 314–320). Corbin, Henry, Cyclical Time and Ismaili Gnosis, tr. Ralph Manheim and James W. Morris, London, 1983 (Nashr-i Dānish, 3, October–November 1983, pp. 63–65). Fidāʾī Khurāsānī, Muḥammad b. Zayn al-ʿĀbidīn, Kitāb-i tārīkh-i Ismāʿīliyya, yā Hidāyat al-muʾminīn al-ṭālibīn [History of the Ismailis], ed. Aleksandr A. Semenov, Tehran, 1362 Sh./1983 (Nashr-i Dānish, 4, June–July 1984, pp. 32–37).

Bibliography of the Works of Farhad Daftary 215. 216.

217. 218.

219. 220.

221. 222. 223. 224. 225. 226.

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Sutūda, Manūchihr, Qilāʿ-i Ismāʿīliyya [Ismaili Fortresses], Tehran, 1362 Sh./1983 (Nashr-i Dānish, 4, February–March 1984, pp. 41–44). Yaʿqūb Āzhand, tr., Ismāʿīliyān dar tārīkh [Ismailis in History, being a Persian tr. of Bernard Lewis, The Origins of Ismāʿīlism: A Study of the Historical Background to the Fāṭimid Caliphate (Cambridge: W. Heffer and Sons, 1940), and Louis Massignon, ‘Ḳarmaṭians’, EI, vol. 2, pp. 767–772, among others], Tehran, 1363 Sh./1984 (Nashr-i Dānish, 5, August–September 1985, pp. 10–15). Stern, Samuel M., Studies in Early Ismāʿīlism, The Max Schloessinger Memorial Series, 1, Jerusalem and Leiden, 1983 (Nashr-i Dānish, 5, February–March 1985, pp. 50–54). Ḥāfiẓ-i Abrū, ʿAbd Allāh b. Luṭf Allāh al-Bihdādīnī, Majmaʿ al-tawārīkh: qismat-i khulafā-i ʿAlawiyya-i Maghrib va Miṣr va Nizāriyān va rafīqān [Collection of Histories: The Section on the ʿAlid Caliphs of the Maghrib and Egypt and the Nizārīs], ed. Muḥammad Mudarrisī Zanjānī, Tehran, 1364 Sh./1985 (Nashr-i Dānish, 6, June–July 1986, pp. 34–37). Tajdin, Nagib, A Bibliography of Ismailism, Delmar, NY, 1985 (Middle East Studies Association Bulletin, 20, 1986, pp. 272–273). Kāshānī, Abu’l-Qāsim ʿAbd Allāh b. ʿAlī, Zubdat al-tawārīkh: bakhsh-i Fāṭimiyān va Nizāriyān [Choice Histories: The Section on the Fatimids and the Nizārīs], ed. Muḥammad Taqī Dānishpazhūh, 2nd ed., Tehran, 1366 Sh./1987 (Nashr-i Dānish, 8, February–March 1988, pp. 28–30). Crone, Patricia and Martin Hinds, God’s Caliph: Religious Authority in the First Centuries of Islam, Cambridge, 1986 (Taḥqīqāt-i Islāmī, 3, 1988–89, pp. 197–198). Halm, Heinz, Die Schia, Darmstadt, 1988 (Taḥqīqāt-i Islāmī, 3, 1988–89, pp. 198–199). Lapidus, Ira M., A History of Islamic Societies, Cambridge, 1988 (Taḥqīqāt-i Islāmī, 4, 1989–90, pp. 148–150). Madelung, Wilferd, Religious Trends in Early Islamic Iran, Albany, NY, 1988 (Iran Nameh, 8, 1990, pp. 312–321). Yarshater, Ehsan, ed., Encyclopaedia Iranica: Volume III (ĀtašBayhaqī), London and New York, 1989 (Journal of the American Oriental Society, 111, 1991, pp. 152–153). Jambet, Christian, La grande résurrection d’Alamût. Les formes de la liberté dans le shî‘isme ismaélien, Lagrasse, 1990 (Journal

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227. 228.

229. 230.

231.

232. 233.

234.

235.

236. 237.

Fortresses of the Intellect of the American Oriental Society, 112, 1992, pp. 308–310). Shir Zamān Firūz, Falsafa-yi akhlāqī-yi Nāṣir-i Khusraw va rishahā-yi ān [Nāṣir-i Khusraw’s Ethical Philosophy and its Roots], Islamabad, 1992 (Taḥqīqāt-i Islāmī, 9, 1994, pp. 181–188). Walker, Paul E., Early Philosophical Shiism: The Ismaili Neoplatonism of Abū Ya‘qūb al-Sijistānī, Cambridge Studies in Islamic Civilization, Cambridge, 1993 (Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, 3rd series, 4, 1994, pp. 408–410). Edwards, Anne, Throne of Gold: The Lives of the Aga Khans, London, 1995 (Journal of the American Oriental Society, 116, 1996, pp. 787–788). Walker, Paul E., The Wellsprings of Wisdom: A Study of Abū Yaʿqūb al-Sijistānī’s Kitāb al-Yanābīʿ, including a complete English translation, Salt Lake City, 1994 (International Journal of Middle East Studies, 28, 1996, pp. 256–258). Walker, Paul E., Abu Ya‘qub al-Sijistani: Intellectual Missionary, Ismaili Heritage Series, 1, London, 1996 (The Ismaili, United Kingdom, 24 March, 1996, pp. 7–8; repr. in The Ismaili, United States of America, 1997, pp. 49–50). Yarshater, Ehsan, ed., Encyclopaedia Iranica: Volume VI (Coffeehouse-Dārā), Costa Mesa, CA, 1993 (Journal of the American Oriental Society, 116, 1996, pp. 162–163). De Smet, Daniel, La Quiétude de l’intellect: Néoplatonisme et gnose ismaélienne dans l’oeuvre de Ḥamīd ad-Dīn al-Kirmānī, Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta, 67, Leuven, 1995 (Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, 3rd series, 7, 1997, pp. 119–121). Amir-Moezzi, Mohammad Ali, The Divine Guide in Early Shiʿism: The Sources of Esotericism in Islam, tr. David Streight, Albany, NY, 1994 (Journal of Islamic Studies, 9, 1998, pp. 309–311). Halm, Heinz, The Empire of the Mahdi: The Rise of the Fatimids, tr. Michael Bonner, Handbuch der Orientalistik, Abt I, Band 26, Leiden, 1996 (Journal of the American Oriental Society, 118, 1998, pp. 298–300). Mirza, Nasseh A., Syrian Ismailism: The Ever Living Line of the Imamate, AD 1100–1260, Richmond, Surrey, 1997 (Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, 3rd series, 8, 1998, pp. 265–267). Branca, Paolo, Un ‘catechismo’ druso della Biblioteca Reale di Torino, Milan, 1996 (Journal of Semitic Studies, 45, 2000, pp. 219–221).

Bibliography of the Works of Farhad Daftary 238.

239.

240. 241.

242. 243. 244.

245.

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Brett, Michael, The Rise of the Fatimids: The World of the Mediterranean and the Middle East in the Fourth Century of the Hijra, Tenth Century CE, The Medieval Mediterranean, 30, Leiden, 2001 (Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, 65, 2002, pp. 152–153). Cortese, Delia, Ismaili and Other Arabic Manuscripts: A Descriptive Catalogue of Manuscripts in the Library of The Institute of Ismaili Studies, London, 2000 (Journal of Semitic Studies, 47, 2002, pp. 164–166). García-Arenal, Mercedes, ed., Mahdisme et millénarisme en Islam, Aix-en-Provence, 2000 (Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, 3rd series, 12, 2002, pp. 196–198). al-Shahrastānī, Muḥammad b. ʿAbd al-Karīm, Majlis: Discours sur l’ordre et la création, ed. and tr. Diane Steigerwald, SaintNicolas, Québec, 1998 (Journal of the American Oriental Society, 122, 2002, pp. 643–644). Wasserman, James, The Templars and the Assassins: The Militia of Heaven, Rochester, VT., 2001 (Journal of the American Oriental Society, 122, 2002, pp. 644–646). Cole, Juan, Sacred Space and Holy War: The Politics, Culture and History of Shi‘ite Islam, London 2002 (The Middle Eastern Journal, 57, 2003, pp. 521–522). Jamal, Nadia Eboo, Surviving the Mongols: Nizārī Quhistānī and the Continuity of Ismaili Tradition in Persia, Ismaili Heritage Series, 8, London, 2002 (Journal of Islamic Studies, 15, 2004, pp. 229–232). Walker, Paul E., Fatimid History and Ismaili Doctrine, Variorum Collected Studies Series, Aldershot, 2008 (Journal of Near Eastern Studies, forthcoming).

3

Persian, the Other Sacred Language of Islam: Some Brief Notes Mohammad Ali Amir-Moezzi

Some years ago, Father Serge de Beaurecueil (1917–2005), a specialist on the great mystical thinker Khwāja ʿAbd Allāh Anṣārī (d. 481/1089), confided to me during a private conversation that, thanks to his protracted dealings with the writings of the Master of Herat, as Anṣārī is known, and particularly the latter’s famous Munājāt-Nāma, he started to consider Persian as more suitable than Arabic for expressing those subtleties and depths of feeling and experiences that are purely religious. Here, I am not able to develop the beautiful ideas that he set down in writing on the mode of expression, the thought and the literary images of that great Iranian mystic in his introduction to the munājāt, or ‘confidential prayers’.1 In order to pay tribute to the scholar who is the recipient of this volume, my friend and colleague Farhad Daftary, and his mother tongue, it seemed to me useful to reflect on what the French Islamicist thought about ʿAbd Allāh Anṣārī’s language, in particular the language of these unique prayers, within the context of the larger question of the relation between the Persian language and Islamic spirituality and the progressive sacralisation of the Persian language during the first centuries of the Hijra. Ferdinand de Saussure said that the first institution is language. This means, among other things, that behind language is to be found the political aspect, in its historical and collective dimension, as well as in its individual, subjective and spiritual dimension. The competition for the status of the sacral between Arabic and Persian, the two major languages in Islam, is, above all, political and is very old. It originates from the wideranging Muslim conquests and from the ethno-centric and racial (not to say ‘racist’) Arabian policies of the first Umayyads, who came to dominate the conquered peoples roughly between the first half of the first/seventh 59

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century and the first half of the second/eighth century. It is true that, by and large, the anthropology of the Qurʾan is non-egalitarian, since it highlights the superiority of men over women, of free men over slaves, of Muslims over non-Muslims.2 However, the Qurʾan insists on equality among Muslims, without distinction of race or language – piety being the sole criterion for prevalence: ‘O mankind, we have created you male and female, and appointed you races and tribes, that you may know one another. Surely the noblest among you in the sight of God is the most godfearing of you’ 3 (Q. 49:13). Yet, the vast and dazzling conquests, and the mentality of the first Umayyad caliphs, still imbued with preIslamic tribal culture, changed all that. Men in power, and the scholars that supported their policies, attributed the victory of God’s religion to the superiority of the Arabs over the conquered peoples and of the Arabic language over others by referring to it as the language of the most perfect of divine revelations. The Qurʾan’s neutral statements on the fact that the language of the revelation ‘sent down’ on Prophet Muḥammad is Arabic (Q. 12:2; Q. 13:37; Q. 16:103; Q. 20:113; Q. 26:195; Q. 39:28; Q. 41:3, and so on) quickly became the basis for ideological and apologetic arguments in a number of theologico-political trends, which presented Arabness as a sign of divine election and the Arabic language as a divine language. This tendency was entertained in the midst of powerful traditionalist Sunni movements under the ʿAbbasid caliphate. At the turn of the second/eighth and third/ninth centuries, despite the evidence adduced by other scholars, the philologist Abū ʿUbayda (d. 208/823–824) considered the claim that the Qurʾan could contain words other than Arabic as an offence against God; before him, Abū ʿAmr b. al-ʿAlā (d. 154/770) had stated that knowledge of the Arabic language was the essence of religion. A tradition had Caliph ʿUmar b. al-Khaṭṭāb, the author of the first conquests, say that knowing Arabic augmented intelligence (ʿaql) and manliness (murūʾa).4 The position of the proponents of Arabness as a sign of divine election is illustrated by a report attributed to Ibn ʿAbbās (d. ca. 68/687–688), the famous cousin of the Prophet, which states that God had never revealed anything that was not in Arabic. In the case of religions other than Islam, it had been the angel Gabriel who had translated the original Arabic revelations into the tongues of the prophets and of their recipient peoples.5 In other words, Arabic is the very language of God. It is true that, later, this kind of doctrine would be the background to the theoretical discussions among intellectuals on the form and the content of the Qurʾan, but originally the central issue of the controver-

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sies around this kind of assertion seems to have been the resistance of the Iranians to Arabisation, and their defence of Persian-ness through the protection and promotion of Persian. In fact, as is known, among the regions that had had an ancient civilisation and which were conquered and Islamicised, such as Syria, ʿIraq and Egypt, it was only Iran that managed to maintain its language in its different dialectal components. The struggle of traditionalist Arab scholars against this resistance is illustrated by the hostility of the Ḥanbalis towards Persian, or even the prohibition to speak Persian in mosques, issued in the third/ninth century by the ‘People of the ḥadīth’.6 As an echo of the previously mentioned tradition by ʿUmar, Jalāl al-Dīn al-Suyūṭī (d. 911/1505) reports a ḥadīth which indicates that speaking Persian diminishes manliness.7 We shall come back to the reactions against Persian as a religious language. In contrast to this religious offensive that often maintained and justified violence, repression and humiliation in the political and social spheres, other traditions, that took pride in the virtues of the Iranians, started to circulate. By way of the commentary of Q. 5:54, ‘God will assuredly bring a people He loves, and who love Him’, some great Iranian scholars, such as Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī, Abū Nuʿaym al-Iṣfahānī, and ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī, report traditions attributed to the Prophet where he declares that this verse was revealed in reference to his Companion Salmān the Persian and to his people. The account closes with these words: ‘Even if religion was hanging down from the Pleiades, some Persians would reach it.’ 8 Another tradition on the admirable qualities of the Iranians has Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq say, ‘If the Qurʾan had been revealed to the Persians, the Arabs would not have been able to benefit from it; but the Qurʾan was revealed in Arabic and the Persians have benefited fully from it.’ 9 Just to complement the traditions above, others often go back to Muḥammad himself or to other saintly personalities of Islam, highlighting the celestial nature of Persian, thus laying the foundation for the process of its sacralisation: ‘The language of those who surround the divine throne is Persian. If God wants to reveal anything gentle, He does in Persian, and if He wants to reveal anything violent, He does in Arabic.’ 10 Ṣafī al-Dīn al-Balkhī, the author of the famous work entitled Virtues of [the city of] Balkh (Faḍāʾil Balkh), which only survives in the Persian translation by Muḥammad Ḥusaynī Balkhī (seventh/thirteenth century), reports a tradition which holds that the Persian language is that of the inhabitants of Paradise.11 These texts were authoritative for undoubtedly a sizeable audience of Persian-speaking Iranian converts. They supported a long tradition

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of defence of the Persian language and culture as the foundation of a ‘national’ identity. We now know that this adjective is not anachronistic. Indeed, after the work by Bertold Spuler, which became a classic, the conclusive studies by Gilbert Lazard, Muḥammad Muḥammadī Malāyirī, Shaul Shaked, Ehsan Yarshater and Mohsen Zakeri, among many others, have shown in a convincing way the tireless efforts deployed by numerous learned Iranians to safeguard their culture during the first centuries of the invasion of Iran by the Muslim armies. It suffices to remember here the central role of translators (of Pahlavi works into Arabic), such as Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ, numerous members of the Nawbakhtī family, many generations of secretaries (kātib, pl. kuttāb) of Iranian origin in the caliphal administration, who were at the head of the Shuʿūbiyya movement, or even scholars (like Zādūya the son of Shāhūya of Iṣfahān, ʿUmar the son of Farrukhān, and so on), and of Muslim intellectuals who, by updating it, kept their ancestral culture alive (such as Masʿūdī, Thaʿālibī, Firdawsī, Miskawayh, ʿAbd Allāh Anṣārī, Suhrawardī ‘Shaykh al-Ishrāq’, and so on). Once Persian had established itself as a language of the empire, during the four Sasanian centuries, it was necessary to face the arrival of the new religion and its language by attempting to protect the cultural, scientific and sapiential patrimony. This was accomplished, on the one hand, by translating the Pahlavi literary traditions into Arabic and, on the other hand, by continuing to produce new works, in Arabic as well as Persian, rooted in the country’s past, but adapted to the new conditions.12 The coming to power of the main Iranian dynasties, which were virtually independent of the central caliphate – the Tahirids, the Saffarids and, above all, the Samanids in the third/ninth and in the fourth/tenth centuries – and at their instigation, the writing of Persian using the Arabic alphabet were determining factors in the process.13 Thus, when Firdawsī (d. 410/1019) explains the aim of his Book of Kings thus: basī ranj burdam dar īn sāl sī ʿajam zindah kardam bidīn pārsī I suffered so much in these thirty years to bring Iranians to life in Persian

to speak of a definite national sentiment crystallised around the language would indeed not be anachronistic at all.14 This sentiment would resist the passing of time remarkably, running like a thread through different periods and layers of Persian culture and continuing on today.15 That is why it was necessary, first of all, to demonstrate that the Persian language had the capacity to accommodate Islam and its fundamental components. The famous Abū Ḥanīfa (d. 150/767), the eponym of

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the Sunni Ḥanafī school of law, allowed the profession of faith (shahāda) and the ādhān, the call to the canonical prayer (ṣalāt), to be translated into Persian, as well as certain formulas of the prayer itself.16 Relying on the authority of his imam, the Ḥanafī jurist Muḥammad b. al-Ḥasan al-Shaybānī (d. 189/805) entertained, with just some minor differences, the same opinion.17 Later on, another important figure of Ḥanafī law in Central Asia, Muḥammad b. Aḥmad al-Sarakhsī (d. 483/1090 or 1091), while maintaining the universal character of the Qurʾan, declared that the miraculous character of the Revelation resides in its contents and not in its language; hence the permissibility to recite the Qurʾan in any language, and in Persian in particular. Similarly, since the ultimate aim of the canonical prayer was the remembrance (dhikr) of God, it can be performed in languages other than Arabic.18 Thus in the Central Asian regions of Iranian culture and Ḥanafī rite, the daily prayer was recited in a mixture of Arabic and Persian for many centuries.19 This is confirmed by the author of the History of Bukhara, according to whom the daily canonical prayer was conducted at least partly in Persian in many villages of Transoxiana during the first centuries of the Hijra.20 Contrary to Jāḥiẓ, who considered the Persian translation of religious texts and formulas as being highly damaging to the faith, another illustrious Muʿtazilī, Abū ʿAbd Allāh al-Baṣrī (d. 369/979–980), composed a juridical treatise entitled Legality of the Canonical Prayer in Persian (Jawāz al-ṣalāt bi’lfārisiyya).21 From the third/ninth century onwards, among the Twelver Shiʿis, contrary to the defenders of Arabness such as the influential family of Yemeni origin of the Ashʿarīs of Qumm, other scholars defended Persian and the permissibility of its use in supererogatory prayers (duʿāʾ) as well as during the ṣalāt. As a case in point for this confrontation, we can mention Saʿd b. ʿAbd Allāh al-Ashʿarī, the author of a work on the superiority of Arabic and the Arabs, and other members of his family who deemed the use of Persian during the canonical prayer a sign of extremism (ghuluww).22 Contrary to them, al-Ṣaffār al-Qummī, author of the Kitāb Baṣāʾir al-darajāt, and later the famous Ibn Bābawayh, ‘al-Shaykh al-Ṣadūq’, defended the use of Persian for supererogatory prayers, during the ṣalāt, and on any other occasion, basing their opinion on the ḥadīths of the Shiʿi imams and on juridical common sense, which advised that everything that has not been forbidden is licit if it is not contradicted by reason.23 Moreover, al-Ṣaffār is one of the very first authors to maintain that the wife of Ḥusayn, and ‘mother’ of the whole line of Husaynid imams, was an Iranian princess, daughter of the last Sasanid emperor. It is noticeable that in the traditions he reports on this subject, ʿAlī speaks in Persian

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with the princess, his would-be daughter-in-law.24 In this discussion, Abū Jaʿfar al-Ṭūsī in the fifth/eleventh century held an ambiguous position: he professed the permissibility of Persian in supererogatory prayers in his Tahdhīb al-aḥkām and in his Nihāya, but he forbids it in other works like al-Mabsūṭ and al-Khilāf fi’l-aḥkām.25 These contradictions seem to reflect the harshness of the opposition between the two parties and the hesitations of a number of scholars. Indeed, the same ambiguity is found in the works of other renowned Ithnāʿasharī scholars of later centuries, such as al-ʿAllāma al-Ḥillī (d. 726/1325) or Muḥammad Ibn Makkī, known as al-Shahīd al-Awwal (‘the First Martyr’) (d. 786/1384), until Majlisī (d. 1110/1699) clearly opted for the permissibility of the use of Persian.26 The reaction of the partisans of Arab-ness, including Iranian scholars, did not wait long. I have already mentioned Jāḥiẓ’s opinion against the use of Persian in religious matters. Another Muʿtazilī, the celebrated Iranian Maḥmūd b. ʿUmar al-Zamakhsharī (d. 538/1144), was also against the use of Persian during the canonical prayer.27 Representatives of other juridical schools, apart from the Ḥanafīs, seem to have been equally reticent concerning the use of languages other than Arabic in religious practice on the occasion of the canonical prayer. The Ḥanbalī Ibn Qudāma (d. 260/873), the Ashʿarī Mālikī Abū Bakr al-Bāqillānī (d. 403/1013) or even the Ẓāhirī Ibn Ḥazm (d. 456/1064) assert that every Muslim must learn sufficient Arabic to be able to perform the prayer in that language.28 As for the Shāfiʿis, generally speaking, they tended to follow the directives of their school’s eminent eponym, Muḥammad b. Idrīs al-Shāfiʿī, according to whom the canonical prayer, just like the Qurʾan, can only be recited in Arabic.29 As we shall see, notable exceptions defending the permissibility of Persian for ritual purposes did made themselves remarked among Iranian scholars belonging to those schools. Indeed, the partisans of Persian-ness and the Persian language became active very early on. As early as the second/eighth century, according to the testimony of Jāḥiẓ, scholars such as Mūsā b. Sayyār al-Aswārī (d. 155/771–772) excelled in Persian as well as Arabic. During his teaching sessions in Baṣra, Aswārī translated and commented on the Qurʾan in Persian for his Iranian students.30 According to a report transmitted by Dhahabī, Aswārī is said to have asserted that the first Arab Muslims were ignorant and rude, and that the depths of the Prophet’s religion were only revealed by the Persians.31 Undoubtedly, the most decisive turning point, with particularly profound historical and cultural implications, was the number of Persian commentaries and translations of the Qurʾan. According to certain reports

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(quite probably false ones, but very significant for our purposes), Salmān the Persian had already received from the Prophet permission to translate certain parts of the Qurʾan into Persian, particularly the Fātiḥa.32 Among the earliest and most prominent of these translations of the Qurʾan we can cite the following: i. The translation of the Qurʾan, now apparently lost, by the Muʿtazilī Abū ʿAlī al-Jubbāʾī (d. 303/915), written in a Persian dialect of Khūzistān.33 ii. The translation written in Persian rhyming prose, of two sections (sing. juzʾ) of the Qurʾan (from Q. 10:62 to Q. 14:26), dating from the end of the third/ninth and the beginning of the fourth/tenth century. This translation was discovered in 1972, during the restoration of ʿAlī al-Riḍa’s mausoleum in Mashhad.34 iii. The translation, undoubtedly the most important one, written on the basis of the monumental Qurʾanic commentary by Abū Jaʿfar Muḥammad b. Jarīr al-Ṭabarī (d. 310/923), Jāmiʿ al-bayān ʿan taʾwīl āy al-Qurʾān, undertaken anonymously during the reign of the Samanid amir Manṣūr b. Nūḥ (r. 350–366/961–976) and under the supervision of an assembly of Transoxianan scholars.35 The Samanid claim to be descended from the Sasanid sovereign Bahrām Chūbīn probably played a decisive role in this all-important enterprise, as did their affinity to the Ḥanafī juridical school.36 It is noteworthy that the Persian translation of Ṭabarī’s work includes typically Iranian additions with regard to the original, namely the histories of the mythical kings of ancient Iran, or data related to ancient Iranian astronomy.37 iv. The so-called Āstān-i Quds Qurʾan (the name being that of the institution that manages the mausoleum of ʿAlī al-Riḍa), roughly contemporary to no. iii, or perhaps slightly later, and written in a dialect of the Sīstān region.38 v. The stylistically beautiful anonymous Persian translation called the Rayy Qurʾan, dating from 556/1161.39 vi. One of the most important Qurʾanic commentaries in Persian, being naturally accompanied by ample translations of the Qurʾanic text, appeared as early as the second half of the fifth/eleventh century, namely the Tāj al-tarājim by the Ashʿarī Shāfiʿī scholar Abu’l-Muẓaffar al-Isfarāʾinī (d. 471/1078–1079).40 vii. Exactly in the same period, the great Karrāmī of Nīshāpūr, Abū Bakr al-Sūrābādī (d. 494/1100), composed his vast, famous Qurʾanic commentary-translation in Persian.41

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viii. The Ḥanbalī mystic Rashīd al-Dīn Maybudī composed his Kashf al-asrār from the year 520/1126 onwards. This work, which contains an exoteric as well as an esoteric commentary of the Qurʾan, also includes in its first section (nawbat al-awwal) a Persian translation of the Qurʾan.42 ix. As for Ithnāʿasharī Shiʿism, the great scholar Abu’l-Futūḥ al-Rāẓī (d. ca. 525/1131) composed, starting in the second half of the fifth/ eleventh century, his large Persian Qurʾanic commentary, naturally accompanied by a translation, the Rawḍ al-jinān.43 x. Finally, mention should be made of the translation accompanying the commentary written in Persian rhymed prose, resembling the Arabic sajʿ, by the famous Māturidī Ḥanafī scholar from Samarqand, Najm al-Dīn al-Nasafī (d. 537/1142).44 Since then, a rich, powerful tradition of Qurʾanic commentaries in Persian that endures even today was established.45 As has been seen in the case of the use of Persian during the canonical prayer, those opposed to translating the Qurʾan into any language, more particularly into Persian, were numerous even among Iranians themselves. The fear (mainly, but not only, held by the pro-ʿAbbasid theologians) of the increasing political influence of the Iranian Shuʿūbiyya was not unconnected to these reactions. Indeed, among the first major denouncers of the translation of the Qurʾan into Persian we find illustrious anti-Shuʿūbīs like Jāḥiẓ, mentioned above, and the Iranian Ibn Qutayba.46 Later, the Iranian Ashʿārī Shāfiʿīs Abū Isḥāq al-Fīrūzābādī (d. 476/1083) and, above all, the famous Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī (d. 505/1111) defended a certain elitist and aristocratic standing for religious disciplines, holding that the true comprehension of the Qurʾan, as well as of the subtleties of theology, can only be attained through the Arabic language and that those who do not know it must have recourse to the teachings of the scholars; hence their refusal to accept the permissibility of translating the Qurʾan. Certainly, all these scholars based their arguments above all on the miraculous character and the inimitability of the Qurʾan (iʿ jāz), both in its original Arabic form and in its content, which can only be rendered in Arabic.47 In contrast to this ‘aristocratic’ conception, in the same period, the Karrāmīs of Khurāsān vindicated the religious education of the popular masses, which absolutely justified, in their view, translating the Qurʾan into the language of the faithful who need it. The Tafsīr/translation into Persian by Sūrābādī, as we have noted, was composed with this aim in mind.48 Despite this resistance on the part of renowned and influential schol-

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ars, the intense activity of translating and interpreting the Qurʾan into Persian, as we have seen, took effect and Persian, as a language of the Qurʾan and the first language into which it was translated, seems to have secured its sacralisation alongside Arabic since the third–fourth/ninth– tenth centuries.49 From then onwards, the extraordinary flourishing of Persian literature started, in prose as well as in poetry, and in all fields of knowledge, in parallel with the Qurʾanic disciplines, in the intellectual and spiritual domains of philosophy, mysticism and theology. Prose authors like Ibn Sīnā, Mustamlī Bukhārī, Hujwīrī, Anṣārī/Maybudī, the two Ghazālī brothers – Aḥmad and Muḥammad – and philosopherpoets like Abū Saʿīd Abu’l-Khayr, Rūdakī, Firdawsī or ʿUmar Khayyām, just to mention a few from a multitude of authors of all sorts, presented a scathing denial of the great Abū Rayḥān Bīrūnī, who, at the beginning of the fifth/eleventh century, still obstinately held that Persian was only suitable for the heroic deeds of kings or bedtime stories.50 By the sixth/ twelfth century, a prose writer like al-Muʾammil b. Masrūr (d. 517/1123) could depict Persian as the language of knowledge51 and a poet like Sanāʿī (d. 536/1141) could proudly declare the equal sacredness of the Arabic and Persian languages. According to the great poet, faith concerns the inner life and this life can be expressed in Arabic as well as in Persian.52 Ismaili thinkers, from the earlier Nāṣir-i Khusraw (d. ca. 470/1077) to later authors such as Suhrāb Walī Badakhshānī (d. after 856/1452), Abū Isḥāq Quhistānī (d. second half of the ninth/fifteenth century) and Khayr Khāh Harātī (d. after 961/1553), contributed significantly to consolidating the religious and sapiential sacredness of the Persian language.53 Since the fifth/eleventh century, authors such as the Ḥanbalī ʿAbd Allāh Anṣārī in his Munājāt (his ‘confidential whisperings’ in prayer form) and the Shāfiʿī Aḥmad Ghazālī in his Sawāniḥ (the first, sublime, monograph in Persian on mystical love) were able to monumentally exemplify the depth in which spiritual life could be expressed through the Persian tongue.54 Unrivalled masterpieces of Persian prose, these works brilliantly illustrate the effort of numerous Iranian intellectuals, who, after the necessary time of maturation, saw themselves as being fully vested, in as much as being inheritors of an ancient wisdom, in the formation of the culture of Islam and the deployment of its civilisation. Their method seems to have been the following: appropriate the new religion, sometimes including its most traditional elements, in order to have the legitimacy required to effect its evolution from the inside. 55

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1.

2.

3. 4. 5. 6.

7.

8.

9.

Khwāja ʿAbd Allāh b. Muḥammad Anṣārī al-Harawī, Munājāt, ed. as Munājāt wa naṣāʾiḥ (Berlin, 1924), and other editions; French tr. based on the earliest manuscripts by Serge de Laugier de Beaurecueil, tr., Cris du cœur (Paris, 1988). English translations of the Munājāt are based on later manuscripts: see Arthur J. Arberry, ‘Anṣārī’s Prayers and Counsels. Translated from the original Persian’, Islamic Culture, 10 (1936), pp. 369–389; Wheeler M. Thackston, tr., in Victor Danner and Wheeler M. Thackston, Ibn ‘Ata’ Illah: the Book of Wisdom/Khwaja Abdullah Ansari: Intimate Conversations (London, 1979). Jacques Jomier, Dieu et l’homme dans le Coran. L’aspect religieux de la nature humaine joint à l’obéissance au Prophète de l’islam (Paris, 1996); Guy Monnot, ‘L’islam et l’humanité’, in Marie Thérèse Urvoy, ed., En hommage au père Jacques Jomier, o.p. (Paris, 2002), pp. 143–159; Claude Addas, ‘Homme’, in Mohammad Ali Amir-Moezzi, ed., Dictionnaire du Coran (Paris, 2007), pp. 395–400. English citations of the Qurʾan in this chapter are taken from Arthur J. Arberry, tr., The Koran Interpreted (London, 1955). Yāqūt b. ʿAbd Allāh al-Ḥamawī, Muʿ jam al-udabāʾ [Irshād al-ʿarīb ilā maʿrifat al-adīb] (Beirut, 1400/1980), vol. 1, pp. 53–54 and 77. Mohammad Ali Amir-Moezzi, ‘Vocabulaire étranger et mots énigmatiques’, in M. A. Amir-Moezzi, ed., Dictionnaire du Coran, pp. 921–924, esp. pp. 921–922.  Ignaz Goldziher, ‘Die Shuʿūbijja’, in Ignaz Goldziher, Muhammedanische Studien (Halle an der Saale, 1889–1890), vol. 1, pp. 147–176; English version: ‘Shuʿūbiyya’, in his Muslim Studies, tr. C. M. Barber and Samuel M. Stern, ed. Samuel M. Stern (London, 1967–1971), vol. 1, pp. 157–165. Jalāl al-Dīn al-Suyūṭī, al-Laʿālī al-maṣnūʿa fi’l-aḥādīth al-mawḍūʿa (Cairo, n.d.), vol. 2 , pp. 281–282; see also Muḥammad b. Aḥmad al-Dhahabī, Mīzān al-iʿtidāl fī naqd al-rijāl, ed. ʿAlī Muḥammad Muʿawwaḍ et al. (Beirut, 1415/1995), vol. 3, p. 124. (…) law kāna’l-dīn muʿallaqan bi’l-thurayyā la-tanāwalahu rijālun min abnāʾ al-furs (…); other versions of this tradition contain slight variants, such as al-ʿilm (knowledge) or al-islām, instead of dīn; Fakhr al-Dīn Muḥammad b. ʿUmar al-Rāzī, Mafātīḥ al-ghayb aw al-tafsīr al-kabīr (Tehran, n.d.), sub Q. 5:54; Abū Nuʿaym al-Iṣfahānī, Kitāb Dhikr akhbār Iṣbahān, ed. Sven Dedering as Geschichte Iṣbahāns (Leiden, 1931–1934), vol. 1, pp. 1–14 (this tradition and many others on the virtues of the Iranians); Shihāb al-Dīn ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī, Rashf al-naṣāʾiḥ al-īmāniyya wa kashf al-faḍāʾiḥ al-yūnāniyya, extant only in the Persian translation by Muʿallim Yazdī (ninth/fifteenth century), ed. Najīb Māyil Harawī (Tehran, 1365 Sh./1986), pp. 362–363. Law nazala’l-Qurʾān ʿalā’l-ʿajam mā aminat bihi’l-ʿarab wa qad nazala

Persian, the Other Sacred Language of Islam

10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

69

ʿalā’l-ʿarab fa-aminat bihi’l-ʿajam, a tradition cited by al-Nūrī al-Ṭabrisī, Nafas al-raḥmān fī faḍāʾil Salmān (lithographed ed., Tehran, 1285/1868– 1869), p. 10 of the text. Inna kalāma’lladhīna ḥawla’l-ʿarsh bi’l-fārisiyya wa inna’llāha idhā awḥā amran fīhi līn awḥāhu bi’l-fārisiyya wa idhā awḥā amran fīhi shidda awḥāhu bi’l-ʿarabiyya. See Abu’l-Faraj ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. ʿAlī Ibn al-Jawzī, Kitāb al-Mawḍūʿāt, ed. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān Muḥammad ʿUthmān (Medina, 1386–1388/1966–1968), vol. 2, p. 48; Abu’l-Ḥasan ʿAlī b. Muḥammad Ibn ʿArrāq al-Kinānī, Tanzīh al-sharīʿa (Cairo, 1387/1967), vol. 1, p. 136. Ṣafī al-Dīn al-Balkhī, Faḍāʾil Balkh, only extant in the Persian translation by Muḥammad Ḥusaynī Balkhī (seventh/thirteenth century), ed. ʿAbd al-Ḥayy Ḥabībī (Tehran, 1350 Sh./1971), pp. 17 and 29 (according to a variant version, ‘the language of the people of Paradise is first Arabic and then Persian’). It is interesting to note that the scholars of other cultures and other languages from the regions conquered by Muslims equally attempted to promote the sacred character of their language, but they were obviously less successful that the Iranians; for an example of Syriac as the language of the inhabitants of Paradise or as an angelic language see for instance Franz Rosenthal, Die aramaistische Forschung seit Theodor Nöldekes Veröffentlichungen (Leiden, 1964), see especially the Introduction; see also Bernd Radtke, ‘Syrisch: Die Sprache der Engel, der Geister und der Erleuchteten. Einige Stücke aus dem Ibrīz des Aḥmad b. al-Mubārak al-Lamaṭī’, Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam, 32 (2006), pp. 472–502, passim. Bertold Spuler, Iran in frühislamischer Zeit (Wiesbaden, 1952); Gilbert Lazard, Les premiers poètes persans (IXe–Xe siècles): fragments rassemblés, édités et traduits (Tehran and Paris, 1964); idem, La formation de la langue persane (Louvain and Paris, 1995); Muḥammad Muḥammadī Malāyirī, Farhang-i Īrānī-yi pīsh az Islām wa āthār-i ān dar tamaddun-i Islāmī wa adabiyyāt-i ʿArabī (Tehran, 1354 Sh./1976); idem, Tārīkh wa farhangi Īrān dar dawrān-i intiqāl az ʿaṣr-i Sāsānī bih ʿaṣr-i Islāmī (Tehran, 1372 Sh./1993); Shaul Shaked, From Zoroastrian Iran to Islam (Aldershot, 1995); Ehsan Yarshater, The Persian Presence in the Islamic World, ed. Richard G. Hovannisian and Georges Sabagh (Cambridge, 1998); Mohsen Zakeri, Persian Wisdom in Arabic Garb: ʿAlī b. ʿUbayda al-Rayḥānī’s Jawāhir al-kilam wa farāʾid al-ḥikam (Leiden, 2006). ‘Abd al-Ḥusayn Zarrīnkūb, Tārīkh-i mardum-i Īrān az Sāsāniyān tā pāyān-i āl-i Būyah (Tehran, 1367 Sh./1988); Muḥammad Muḥammadī Malāyirī, al-Tarjama wa’l-naql ʿani’l-Fārisiyya fi’l-qurūn al-Islāmiyya al-ūlā (Beirut, 1964); idem, ‘Chigūnigī-yi intiqāl-i zabān-i Fārsī az ʿaṣr-i Sāsānī bih dawrān-i baʿd az Islām’, Hastī (Winter 1371 Sh./1992), pp. 12–32. See the fine reflections by Gherardo Gnoli, The Idea of Iran (Rome, 1989), passim; Jalāl Matīnī, ‘Īrān dar dawrān-i Islāmī’, Īrān Shināsī, 4, 2 (1371 Sh./1993), pp. 236–243 and pp. 255–265; 4 (1371 Sh./1993), pp. 692–706, and 5, 2 (1372 Sh./1994), pp. 307–327; Jalāl Khāliqī Muṭlaq, ‘Īrān dar guza-

70

15.

16.

17. 18. 19.

20.

21.

22. 23.

Mohammad Ali Amir-Moezzi sht-i rūzigārān’, Īrān Shināsī, 4, 2 (1371 Sh./1993), pp. 199–215, and 4, pp. 655–671. See Theodor Nöldeke, Das iranische Nationalepos (2nd ed., Berlin and Leipzig, 1920), esp. the Introduction; Alessandro Bausani, Persia religiosa: da Zaratustra a Bahâ’ullâh (Milan, 1959); Ehsan Yarshater, ‘Iranian National History’, in idem, ed., The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 3(i) (Cambridge, 1983), pp. 359–477; idem, The Persian Presence in the Islamic World; Guy Monnot, ‘L’écho musulman aux religions d’Iran’, Islamochristiana, 3 (1977), pp. 85–98; repr. in his Islam et religions (Paris, 1986), ch. 3; ʿAlīnaqī Munzawī, ‘Īrān dūstī dar sada-yi siwwum wa chahārum-i hijrī’, in Yaḥyā Mahdawī and Īraj Afshār, ed., Haftād maqāla. Yād nāma-yi duktur Ghulām Ḥusayn Yūsufī (Tehran, 1371 Sh./1992), vol. 2, pp. 727–760; Muḥammad Karīmī Zanjānī Aṣl, ‘Falsafa-yi sīnawī wa farhang-i Īrān dar qarn-i Ismāʿīlī’, in Muḥammad Karīmī Zanjānī Aṣl, ed., Ibn Sīnā wa junbish-hā-yi bāṭinī (Tehran, 1383 Sh./2004), pp. 19–48. Al-Nuʿmān b. Thābit Abū Ḥanīfa, al-Fiqh al-akbar (2nd ed., Hyderabad, 1399/1978), p. 7; Muḥammad b. al-Ḥasan al-Shaybānī, Kitāb al-Aṣl, ed. Abu’l-Wafāʾ Afghānī (Hyderabad, 1966), vol. 1, p. 15; Muḥammad b. Aḥmad al-Sarakhsī, Kitāb al-Mabsūṭ, ed. Ismāʿīl al-Shāfiʿī (Beirut, 1422/2001), vol. 1, pp. 137ff. Shaybānī, al-Aṣl, vol. 1, p. 15; idem, al-Jāmiʿ al-ṣaghīr (Karachi, 1987), pp. 82ff. Sarakhsī, al-Mabṣūt, vol. 1, p. 137. See Muḥammad Taqī Bahār (known as ‘Malik al-Shuʿarāʾ’), Sabk shināsī, yā tārīkh-i taṭawwur-i nathr-i Fārsī (Tehran, 1321 Sh./1942), vol. 1, p. 229; Ādhartāsh Ādharnūsh, Tārīkh-i tarjuma az ʿArabī bih Fārsī. Vol. 1 : Tarjumahā-yi Qurʾānī (Tehran, 1375 Sh./1996), p. 21. Abū Bakr Muḥammad b. Jaʿfar Narshakhī (or Barsakhī), Tārīkh-i Bukhārā, extant only in the Persian translation by Abū Naṣr Aḥmad b. Muḥammad al-Qubāwī (d. 522/1128), ed. Muḥammad Taqī Mudarris Raḍawī (Tehran, 1363 Sh./1984), pp. 67ff. On Abū ʿUthmān ʿAmr b. Baḥr al-Jāḥiẓ’s position, see his Kitāb al-Ḥayawān, ed. ʿAbd al-Salām Muḥammad Hārūn (Beirut, n.d.), vol. 4, pp. 75ff.; idem, Kitāb al-Bayān wa’l-tabyīn, ed. ʿAbd al-Salām Muḥammad Hārūn (Cairo, 2nd ed., 1380/1961), vol. 1, pp. 384–385; on the work (apparently lost) by al-Ḥasan al-Baṣrī, see Muḥammad b. Isḥāq Ibn al-Nadīm, al-Fihrist, ed. Riḍā Tajaddud (Tehran, 1350 Sh./1971), p. 261. Aḥmad b. ʿAlī al-Najāshī, Kitāb al-Rijāl (Qumm, n.d.), p. 134; ʿInāyat Allāh b. ʿAlī al-Quhpāʾī, Majmaʿ al-rijāl, ed. Ḍiyāʾ al-Dīn al-Iṣfahānī (Iṣfahān, 1384–1387/1964–1968), vol. 4, pp. 119 and 125. On Ṣaffār and his work see M. A. Amir-Moezzi, ‘Al-Ṣaffār al-Qummī (m. 290/902–903) et son Kitāb baṣāʾir al-darajāt’, Journal Asiatique, 280, iii– iv (1992), pp. 221–250, and Andrew J. Newman, The Formative Period of Twelver Shīʿism (Richmond, 2000), chs 3 and 5; on his position, as well as

Persian, the Other Sacred Language of Islam

24.

25.

26.

27. 28.

29. 30. 31. 32.

71

that of Ibn Bābawayh, regarding the use of Persian in prayer see Muḥammad b. ʿAlī al-Qummī Ibn Bābawayh (‘al-Shaykh al-Ṣadūq’), Kitāb Man lā yaḥḍuruhu’l-faqīh, ed. Mūsawī Kharsān (Tehran, 1390/1970), vol. 1, p. 208, traditions no. 935–937 and p. 312, tradition no. 1419. Abū Jaʿfar Muḥammad b. Ḥasan al-Ṣaffār al-Qummī, Baṣāʾir al-darajāt, ed. Mīrzā Muḥsin Kūchebāghī (2nd ed., Tabriz, ca. 1960), ch. 7, section 11, no. 8, p. 335. On the tradition about the Persian princess in Baṣāʾir see M. A. Amir-Moezzi, ‘Shahrbānū, Dame du pays d’Iran et Mère des imams: entre l’Iran préislamique et le shi‘isme imamite’, Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam (Studies in Honour of Shaul Shaked), 27 (2002), pp. 500–502; repr. in his La religion discrète. Croyances et pratiques spirituelles dans l’islam shi‘ite (Paris, 2006), ch. 2, pp. 52–54, English trans. as The Spirituality of Shiʿi Islam, Beliefs and Practices (London, 2010), pp. 49–52. See, respectively, Abū Jaʿfar Muḥammad b. al-Ḥasan al-Ṭūsī, Tahdhīb al-aḥkām, ed. Mūsawī Kharsān (Najaf, 1379/1959), vol. 2, p. 315, tradition no. 1281, p. 325, no. 1330, and p. 326, no. 1337; idem, al-Nihāya fī mujarrad al-fiqh wa’l-fatāwā (mediaeval Persian translation), ed. Muḥammad Taqī Dānishpazhūh (Tehran, 1342 Sh./1963), vol. 1, p. 86; idem, al-Mabsūṭ fī fiqh al-imāmiyya, ed. Muḥammad Taqī Kashfī (Tehran, 1387/1967–1968), vol. 1, p. 109; idem, al-Khilāf fi’l-aḥkām (Qumm, 1376/1956), vol. 1, p. 108, question no. 94. See al-ʿAllāma al-Ḥasan b. al-Muṭahhar al-Ḥillī, Muntahā’l-maṭlab (Mashhad, 1412/1991), vol. 5, p. 63ff.; idem, Tadhkirat al-fuqahāʾ (Qumm, 1414/1994), vol. 3, pp. 135–140. Muḥammad Ibn Makkī (‘al-Shahīd al-Awwal’), Dhikrā’l-Shīʿa fī aḥkām al-sharīʿa (Qumm, 1419/1998–1999), vol. 3, pp. 303f.; Muḥammad Bāqir al-Majlisī, Biḥār al-anwār (Tehran and Qumm, 1376–1392 Sh./1956–1972), vol. 85, pp. 64f. (this edition is based on the one by Muḥammad Ḥusayn al-Gharawī al-Iṣfahānī, known as Kumpānī). Jār Allāh Maḥmūd b. ʿUmar al-Zamakhsharī, al-Kashshāf an ḥaqāʾiq al-tanzīl (Beirut, 1367/1947), vol. 2, pp. 347f., 538f. and vol. 3, p. 335. Muwaffaq al-Dīn Abū Muḥammad ʿAbd Allāh b. Aḥmad Ibn Qudāma al-Maqdisī, al-Mughnī, ed. Muḥammad Rashīd Riḍā (Cairo, 1367/1947), vol. 1, pp. 486ff.; Abū  Bakr Muḥammad b. al-Ṭayyib al-Bāqillānī, Intiṣār li’l-Qurʾān, ed. ʿUmar Ḥasan al-Qayyām (Beirut, 1425/2004), p. 20; ʿAlī b. Aḥmad Ibn Ḥazm, Kitāb al-Muḥallā bi’l-āthār, ed. Aḥmad Muḥammad Shākir (Beirut, 1389/1969), vol. 3, pp. 254f. Muḥammad b. Idrīs al-Shāfiʿī, Kitāb al-Umm, ed. Muḥammad Zahrī al-Najjār (Cairo, 1381/1960–1961), vol. 1, pp. 102f. Al-Jāḥiẓ, Kitāb al-Bayān wa’l-tabyīn, vol. 1, p. 368. Dhahabī, Mīzān al-iʿtidāl, vol. 6, pp. 544 and 569. Abu’l-Muẓaffar Shāhfūr b. Ṭāhir al-Isfarāʾinī, Tāj al-tarājim fī tafsīr al-Qurʾān li’l-aʿājim, ed. Najīb Māyil Harawī and ʿAlī Akbar Ilāhī Khurāsānī (Tehran, 1375 Sh./1995–1996), vol. 1, p. 8; Muḥyī al-Dīn al-Nawawī, al-Majmūʿ: sharḥ

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33. 34.

35.

36.

37. 38.

39. 40.

Mohammad Ali Amir-Moezzi al-Muhadhdhab, ed. Muḥammad Maṭrajī (Beirut, 1996), vol. 3, pp. 330–331. According to the Ḥanafī scholars, the fact that the Prophet had allowed Salmān to translate the Fātiḥa authorised the recitation of the canonical prayer in Persian; see Sarakhsī, al-Mabsūṭ, vol. 1, p. 138. See Carl Brockelmann, Geschichte der arabischen Litteratur. Supplement 1 (Leiden, 1937), p. 342. See Aḥmad ʿAlī Rajāʾī, Pulī miyān-i shiʿr-i hijāʾī wa ʿarūḍ-i Fārsī dar qurūn-i awwal-i hijrī: tarjuma-yi āhangīn az du juzʾ-i Qurʾān-i majīd (Tehran, 1353 Sh./1974). See also Ā. Ādharnūsh, Tārīkh-i tarjuma az ʿArabī bih Fārsī, vol. 1, pp. 83–88. Tarjuma-yi Tafsīr-i Ṭabarī, ed. Ḥabīb Yaghmāʾī (Tehran, 2536 Persian Imperial year/1356 Sh./1977). On this translation, of critical importance, of Ṭabarī’s work, see also Charles A. Storey, Persian Literature: A Bio-bibliographical Survey. Vol. 1i: Quranic Literature (London, 1927) pp. 1ff.; Arthur J. Arberry, Classical Persian Literature (London, 1958), pp. 40ff.; Gilbert Lazard, La langue des plus anciens monuments de la prose persane (Paris, 1963), pp. 41ff.; Ā. Ādharnūsh, Tārīkh-i tarjuma az ʿArabī bih Fārsī, vol. 1, pp. 49ff. On the Sasanian ancestry of the Samanids, see for instance Abu’l-Qāsim Muḥammad b. ʿAlī Ibn Ḥawqal, Kitāb Ṣūrat al-arḍ, ed. Michael J. de Goeje (Leiden, 1873), p. 388; Narshakhī, Tārīkh-i Bukhārā, p. 70. On their Hanafism, see Shams al-Dīn Abū ʿAbd Allāh Muḥammad b. Aḥmad al-Muqaddasī, Aḥsan al-taqāsīm fī maʿrifat al-aqālīm, ed. Michael J. de Goeje (Leiden, 1877), pp. 323ff. and 339. It was also at this time, around 370/980, that the Kitāb al-Sawād al-aʿẓam fi’l-kalām by Qāḍī al-Ḥakīm Abu’l-Qāsim Isḥāq b. Muḥammad al-Samarqandī, a major Ḥanafī work, was translated into Persian at the command of Amir Nūḥ Sāmānī (r. 366–387/976–997): see Tarjuma-yi al-Sawād al-aʿẓam, ed. ʿAbd al-Ḥayy Ḥabībī (Tehran, 1348 Sh./1969); the Arabic text was first published in Būlāq (1253/1837). See, for instance, Tarjuma-yi Tafsīr-i Ṭabarī, vol. 2, pp. 402ff.; vol. 4, pp. 1151ff.; vol. 6, pp. 1509ff. On the Āstān-i Quds Qurʾan, see ʿAlī Rawāqī, Qurʾān-i mutarjam-i quds: kuhantarīn bargardān-i Qurʾān bih Fārsī (Tehran, 1362 Sh./1984); Gilbert Lazard, ‘Lumières nouvelles sur la formation de la langue persane: une traduction du Coran en persan dialectal et ses affinités avec le judéo-persan’, in idem, La formation de la langue persane, pp. 107–121 (Lazard does not agree, and rightly so in my view, with Rawāqī on the dating of this Qurʾan and deems it slightly later that the Persian version of Ṭabarī’s Commentary). Anonymous, Tarjuma-yi Qurʾān: nuskha-yi muʾarrakh-i 556 hijrī, ed. Muḥammad Jaʿfar Yāḥaqqī (Mashhad, 1364 Sh./1985). Al-Isfarāʾinī, Tāj al-tarājim fī tafsīr al-Qurʾān li’l-aʿājim. The title can hardly be more revealing: ‘The Best (literally, “The Crown”) of Translations on the Commentary of the Qurʾan for Persians’. According to this al-Isfarāʾinī, Tāj al-tarājim, vol. 1, pp. 7–8, the translation of the Qurʾan into the language of

Persian, the Other Sacred Language of Islam

41.

42.

43. 44. 45.

46.

47.

48.

49.

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those who do not understand Arabic, in this case the Persians, is a canonical obligation (farīḍa). Abū Bakr ʿAtīq b. Muḥammad al-Sūrābādī, Tafsīr al-tafāsīr, ed. Saʿīdī Sīrjānī (Tehran, repr. 1381 Sh./2002). The author’s nisba can also be read as Sūrābānī (ibid., vol. 1, p. 3) or Sūrāyānī (ibid., vol. 4, p. 2529). On this work, see Yaḥyā Mahdawī, ‘Tafsīr-i maʿrūf bih Sūrābādī’, Majalla-yi Dānishkada-yi adabiyyāt, 12, 52 (1345 Sh./1967), pp. 112–122; Joseph van Ess, Ungenützte texte zur Karrāmiyya (Heidelberg, 1980), pp. 73–74. Abu’l-Faḍl Rashīd al-Dīn Maybudī, Kashf al-asrār wa ʿuddat al-abrār, ed. ʿAli Aṣghar Ḥekmat et al. (Tehran, 1331–1339 Sh./1952–1960); see also Annabel Keeler, Sufi Hermeneutics: The Qurʾan Commentary of Rashīd al-Dīn Maybudī (Oxford, 2006). Abu’l-Futūḥ Ḥusayn b. ʿAlī al-Rāzī, Rawḍ al-jinān wa rūḥ al-janān fī tafsīr al-Qurʾān, ed. Abu’l-Ḥasan Shaʿrānī (Tehran, 1382/1962). Najm al-Dīn ʿUmar b. Muḥammad al-Nasafī, Tafsīr al-Nasafī, ed. ʿAzīz Allāh Juwaynī (Tehran, 1353 Sh./1974). On the literary genre of Qurʾanic commentary in Persian, see e.g. Ḥasan Sādāt Nāṣiri and Manūchihr Dānishpazhūh, Hizār sāl tafsīr-i Fārsī (Tehran, 1369 Sh./1990); Ā. Ādharnūsh, Tārīkh-i tarjuma, vol. 1, passim; Franklin Lewis, ‘Persian Literature and the Qurʾān’, in Jane D. McAuliffe, ed., EQ, vol. 4, pp. 55–66. Al-Jāḥiẓ, Kitāb al-Bayān wa’l-tabyīn, vol. 1, pp. 384ff.; idem, Kitāb al-Akhbār wa kayfa taṣiḥḥ, ed. Charles Pellat in ‘al-Ǧāḥiẓ: les nations civilisées et les croyances religieuses’, Journal Asiatique, 255 (1967), p. 62 (Arabic text), p. 81 (French translation); ʿAbd Allāh b. Muslim Ibn Qutayba, Taʾwīl mushkil al-Qurʾān, ed. Ibrāhīm Shams al-Dīn (Beirut, n.d.), p. 23. It is worth noting that Zamakhsharī, who was opposed to the use of Persian during the ṣalāt, seemed to tolerate the translation of the Qurʾan into other languages (see his Kashshāf, vol. 2, p. 538). Abū Isḥāq Ibrāhīm b. ʿAlī al-Fīrūzābādī, al-Muhadhdhab fī fiqh al-imām al-Shāfiʿī, ed. Zakarīyā ʿUmayrāt (Beirut, 1415/1995), vol. 1, pp. 136f and 140f.; Abū Ḥāmid Muḥammad al-Ghazālī, Iljām al-ʿawāmm ʿan ʿilm al-kalām, ed. Muḥammad al-Muʿtaṣim bi’llāh al-Baghdādī (Beirut, repr. 1405/1985), pp. 51–56. On these questions, a useful source is Abdul Latif Tibawi, ‘Is the Qurʾan translatable? Early Muslim Opinion’, Muslim World, 52 (1962), pp. 4–16. It is noteworthy that Tibawi knew little about the Iranian works, although it is true that most of them were published after his study. Later, the Qurʾan was translated into other languages used by Muslims (like Berber, Turkish, etc.) or by non-Muslims (like Latin); on this subject see above all İsmet Binkar and Halit Eren, World Bibliography of Translations of the Meanings of the Holy Qurʾan: Printed Translations 1515–1980, ed. Ekmeleddin İhsanoǧlu (Istanbul, 1986); see also Muhammad Jafar Yahaghi [Yāḥaqqī], ‘An Introduction to Early Persian Qurʾānic Translations’, Journal

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of Qurʾānic Studies, 6 (2002), pp. 105–109; François Déroche, ‘Traductions’, in M. A. Amir-Moezzi, ed., Dictionnaire du Coran, pp. 874–876; see also Hartmut Bobzin, ‘Translation of the Qurʾān’, in EQ, vol. 5, pp. 340–358. 50. Abū Rayḥān Muḥammad b. Aḥmad al-Bīrūnī, Kitāb al-Ṣaydana fi’l-ṭibb, ed. ʿAbbās Zaryāb Khuʾī (Tehran, 1370 Sh./1991), p. 14; cited also by Nasrollah Pourjavady, ‘Ḥikmat-i dīnī wa taqaddus-i zabān-i Fārsī’, in idem, Būy-i jān. Maqālahāʾī dar bāra-yi shiʿr-i ʿirfānī-yi Fārsī (Tehran, 1372 Sh./1993), article no. 1, pp. 13–14. 51. Abu’l-Rajāʾ al-Muʾammil b. Masrūr al-Shāshī, Rawḍat al-farīqayn, ed. ʿAbd al-Ḥayy Ḥabībī (Tehran, 1359 Sh./1980), p. 29. 52. Abu’l-Majd Majdūd b. Ādam Sanāʾī, Ḥadīqat al-ḥaqīqa, ed. M. T. Mudarris Raḍawī (Tehran, 1359 Sh./1980), pp. 403–404:

tāzī ar sharʿ-rā panāhastī Bū Lahab az zamīn-i Yathrib būd būd Salmān khud az diyār-i ʿajam rūḥ bā ʿaql u ʿilm dānad zīst

Bū Lahab āftāb u māhastī līk qad qāmati’l-ṣalā nashinūd bar dar-i dīn hamī fishurd qadam rūḥ-rā pārsī u tāzī chīst

If Arabic is a protection for religion then Abū Lahab [opponent of the Prophet] shines like the sun and the moon Abū Lahab was from Yathrib [Medina] and yet he did not answer the qad qāmati’l-ṣalā [call to prayer] While Salmān came from the country of Iranians and was firmly established in the faith It is with intelligence and knowledge that the soul knows how to live what are Persian or Arabic for the soul? 53. See, for instance, Henry Corbin, ‘L’ismaélisme iranien de langue persane’, in his ‘Étude préliminaire’ to Nāṣir-i Khusraw, Kitāb Jāmiʿ al-ḥikmatayn, ed. Henry Corbin and Muḥammad Muʿīn as Le livre réunissant les deux sagesses ou harmonie de la philosophie grecque et de la théosophie ismaélienne (Tehran and Paris, 1332 Sh./1953), pp. 4ff. of the French introduction. 54. On the peculiarities of Anṣārī’s language see the works of Father de Beaurecueil, whose complete bibliography is found in the obituary written by Jacques Jomier and Régis Morelon, ‘In memoriam Serge de Laugier de Beaurecueil, O.P. (1917–2005)’, Mélanges de l’Institut Dominicain d’Etudes Orientales, 27 (2008), pp. 7–14; see further Wladimir Ivanow, ‘Ṭabaqāt of Anṣārī in the Old Language of Herat’, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society (1923), pp. 1–34 and pp. 337–382. On the work of Aḥmad Ghazālī and his language, see the Introduction by Nasrollah Pourjavady to his edition of Aḥmad Ghazālī’s Sawāniḥ (Tehran, 1359 Sh./1980); for the English translation of this work see Nasrollah Pourjavady, Sawānīḥ: Inspirations from the World of Pure Spirits (London, 1986).

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55. For details on this method see for instance Konstantin A. Inostrancev, Iranian Influence on Moslem Literature, with Supplementary Appendices from Arabic Sources (tr. Gushtaspshah K. Nariman, Bombay, 1918); Clifford Edmund Bosworth, ‘The Persian Impact on Arabic Literature’, in Alfred F. L. Beeston et al., ed., Cambridge History of Arabic Literature. Vol. 1: Arabic Literature to the End of the Umayyad Period (Cambridge, 1983), pp. 483–496; M. A. Amir-Moezzi, ‘Shahrbānū’, pp. 532ff. (translation, pp. 83ff.); idem, ‘Note bibliographique sur le Kitāb Sulaym b. Qays, le plus ancien ouvrage shi‘ite existant’, in Mohammad Ali Amir-Moezzi, Meir Bar Asher and Simon Hopkins, ed., Le Shīʿisme imāmite quarante ans après: hommage à Etan Kohlberg (Turnhout, 2009), p. 37.

4

Sunni Claims to Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq Hamid Algar

I That Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq (d. 148/765) played a central role in the consolidation of Imāmī Shiʿism and provided the basic elements needed for the crystallisation of its Ithnāʿasharī form requires little proof or elucidation. With his insistence on the concept of prudential dissimulation (taqiyya) and its political corollary, quietism, in the face of caliphal tyranny, he set a pattern that remained in force for the Twelver community until the onset of the occultation, and even beyond. The great majority of ḥadīths contained in the Shiʿi books of tradition are either narrated by him on the authority of his forebears or represent his own authoritative pronouncements. To him is justly ascribed the formation of the distinct school of jurisprudence that bears his name, including both its principles (uṣūl) and its specific rulings (furūʿ). Building on the precedent established by his father, Muḥammad al-Bāqir (d. 117/735), he elaborated the concept of the witnessed designation of a successor (naṣṣ) as the criterion for succession to the Imamate. Notwithstanding the historic bifurcation after Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq’s demise into Ismaili and what six generations later became Ithnāʿasharī Shiʿism, as well as other, evanescent disputes over succession, the principle of naṣṣ helped secure the survival and transmission of the Imamate under circumstances of extreme difficulty.1 There are, however, other claims to the legacy of Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq; it has been observed, indeed, that ‘nearly all the early intellectual factions of Islam (with the exception perhaps of the Khārijīs) wished to incorporate Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq into their history in order to bolster their schools’ positions’.2 This is hardly surprising, for he enjoyed widespread prestige and 77

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respect in an age when neither Sunni nor Shiʿi Islam had fully crystallised, and he had significant dealings with many beyond the circle of followers for whom he was imam in the distinctively Shiʿi sense of the term. Sunni and Shiʿi sources concur that both Abū Ḥanīfa (d. 150/767) and Mālik b. Anas (d. 179/795), eponyms of the Ḥanafī and Mālikī madhhabs respectively, associated with Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq in either Medina or Baghdad. Details are particularly copious concerning Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq’s encounters with Abū Ḥanīfa, whom he is held to have vanquished in debates on several of the principles of jurisprudence. In addition, he transmitted ḥadīths from Sunni sources, thus earning the classification of ‘trustworthy’ (thiqa) in the works of later Sunni traditionists.3 Finally, he is reported to have bestowed pious counsel on proto-Sufis such as Sufyān al-Thawrī (d. 161/776) and Dāʾūd al-Ṭāʾī (d. 160/775), a circumstance which foreshadowed his fully fledged incorporation into the lore of Sufism.4 According to the generational scheme characteristic of Sunni historiography, Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq thus counts legitimately as a Follower (tābiʿī), one who associated with one or more of the Companions of the Prophet and drew benefit from them. Among the Companions with whom he is so linked are Anas b. Mālik (d. 93/711) and Sahl b. Saʿd. The historian and traditionist Shams al-Dīn Muḥammad al-Dhahabī (d. 748/1347) grants him pride of place in the fifth group of the Followers, describing him as ‘one of the greatest scholars of Medina’, but although he prefaces his name with ‘imam’, this seems to have no particular significance; the primary honorific al-Dhahabī awards him is rather ‘Shaykh of the Banī Hāshim’.5 Together with his standing as a tābiʿī, Sunni sources also emphasise the indubitable fact that on his mother’s side he was descended from Abū Bakr, in twofold fashion as follows: his mother, Umm Farwa, was the daughter of Qāsim b. Muḥammad b. Abī Bakr and Asmāʾ bt. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Abī Bakr. In acknowledgement thereof, Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq is said to have observed, ‘Abū Bakr begat me twice’.6 His maternal grandfather, Qāsim b. Muḥammad b. Abī Bakr, counts as one of the ‘seven jurists’ (al-fuqahāʾ al-sabʿa) of Medina, and there is no reason to doubt that Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq both studied with him and transmitted ḥadīths from him. More complex, interesting and questionable are a series of statements attributed to Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq in a variety of Sunni sources that seem to validate essential doctrines of the Sunnism that was crystallising in his lifetime and, by the same token, to forswear central themes of Shiʿism. He is held, with particular frequency, to have affirmed his respect or even veneration for Abū Bakr and ʿUmar, who, jointly designated as al-shaykhayn, were being elevated at the time to a position of supreme excellence

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among the Companions of the Prophet.7 Once, asked for his view of them, Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq is said to have responded, ‘Are you asking concerning two men who have already eaten from the fruits of Paradise?’ 8 The very posing of the question implies, of course, a suspicion that Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq held a low view of al-shaykhayn; hence the exasperated and emphatic tone of the answer. The response he gave on another occasion was at first met with scepticism, for when he disowned (tabarraʾa min) ‘whosoever disowns those two’, the questioner countered that perhaps he was saying this by way of taqiyya. He therefore found it necessary to affirm, ‘were this to be the case, I would be disavowing Islam itself and placing myself beyond the intercession of Muḥammad.’ 9 On another occasion while lying on his sickbed, he was heard by a visitor to proclaim: ‘O God, I truly love Abū Bakr and ʿUmar. If there is other than this in my soul [i.e. if I am practising taqiyya], let me have no share in the intercession of Muḥammad.’ 10 On yet another occasion, Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq attributed to God Himself the disowning of whosoever disowns Abū Bakr and ʿUmar.11 Most noteworthy of all, perhaps, is a statement in which the disowning of disowning is joined to a repudiation of the very notion of an inerrant leader of the community. Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq is reported to have told a group of travellers leaving Medina to return home, presumably to Kūfa or some other centre of Shiʿism in ʿIraq: ‘Tell the people of your city that whoever claims I am an inerrant Imam (imām maʿṣūm) to whom obedience is due, I disown him; and whoever claims that I disown Abū Bakr and ʿUmar, him too I disown.’ 12 One questioner of the merits of al-shaykhayn is said to have been not one of their partisans but a Shiʿi, Sālim b. Abī Ḥafṣa. When he asked Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq together with his father, Muḥammad al-Bāqir, for their opinion of Abū Bakr and ʿUmar, they answered in unison, presumably to his surprise: ‘O Sālim, take them as your protectors and disown their enemies, for they are both imams of guidance (imāmā hudan).’ 13 This epithet is part of the Shiʿi vocabulary and its occurrence here suggests a transfer of the quality it conveys from the imams of the ahl al-bayt to the shaykhayn, or at least that all the individuals concerned share in it jointly. A particularly significant set of utterances attributed to Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq refers to both of his distinguished ancestors together, Abū Bakr and Imam ʿAlī. Some proclaim a belief that both were equally valid as intercessors for him. Thus, ‘I do not seek intercession of ʿAlī unless I seek the same of Abū Bakr.’ Or again, ‘I do not know from which of my ancestors to seek intercession – Abū Bakr or ʿAlī.’ 14 Here an equivalence between the two is expressed, which is at variance with the Sunni notion

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that the Rightly Guided Caliphs (al-khulafāʾ al-rāshidūn) were meritorious in chronologically descending order. In yet other statements, however, Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq is portrayed as expressing an intense, if not primary, attachment to Abū Bakr. He thus affirms that ‘whoever does not refer to him [Abū Bakr] as “the veracious one” (al-ṣiddīq), God will place no veracity (ṣidq) in his speech’.15 Any suspicion that Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq might have vilified Abū Bakr filled him with indignation: ‘Would a man vilify his ancestor?’ 16 Especially remarkable is another proclamation Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq made from his sickbed, perhaps as he lay dying, although this is not made explicit: ‘I hope that God may grant me benefit through my descent from Abū Bakr. I have now fallen sick and I appoint as my legatee (waṣī) my maternal uncle, ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Qāsim.’ 17 Here no mention is made of Imam ʿAlī and the benefit descent from him might bring in the Hereafter, and it is a descendant of Abū Bakr, not of Imam ʿAlī, whom Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq nominates as his legatee. What is suggested here is made explicit in another utterance: ‘The family of Abū Bakr was known in the time of the Messenger as the Family of the Messenger of God (āl rasūl Allāh).’ 18 The sense is unmistakable: the true family of the Prophet is not the ahl al-bayt, descended from Imam ʿAlī, but the progeny of Abū Bakr, and it is as one of their number that Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq claims spiritual descent from the Messenger. The Bakrī lineage thus vanquishes its ʿAlawī rival, implicitly downgraded as a post-Prophetic innovation. Virtually all these purported utterances of Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq have in common the use of Shiʿi terminology to subvert Shiʿi doctrines while promoting their Sunni counterparts. Tawallā (the affirmation of loyalty) and its negative counterpart tabarrā (dissociation, disowning) are invoked in respect not of the imams of the ahl al-bayt and their enemies but Abū Bakr and ʿUmar and their adversaries. Intercession in the Hereafter, commonly ascribed to the imams of the ahl al-bayt, is presented as a prerogative of the shaykhayn, who are in addition ‘imams of true guidance’. From his sickbed, Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq exercises his function of naṣṣ, but the legatee (waṣī) he names is a Bakrī descendant, his maternal uncle ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Qāsim, not a scion of the ʿAlawī line. The inerrancy (ʿiṣma) of the ahl al-bayt is negated in tandem with an affirmation of veneration for Abū Bakr and ʿUmar. All this suggests a deliberate manipulation, at a time and by hands unknown, of Shiʿi concepts and beliefs with the aim of presenting a central figure in the evolution of Shiʿism as fundamentally opposed to its main tendencies. Decisive, surely, is the fact that Imam Muḥammad al-Bāqir had already rejected the entreaties of Zayd b. ʿAlī to accept the legitimacy of Abū Bakr and ʿUmar, and together with the

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permissibility or impermissibility of rebellion this remained a major point of difference between the Zaydī and Imāmī wings of the Shiʿi movement that continued in the time of Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq and beyond.19 It remains hypothetically possible that the utterances attributed to Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq were in fact uttered by him, but by way of taqiyya. The evaluation of narrations emanating from Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq is admittedly rendered difficult by his observance of taqiyya, as Shiʿi traditionists acknowledge.20 But it is precisely the mention of taqiyya in two of the utterances – explicit in one, ‘were this to be the case …’, implicit in the other, ‘if there is other than this in my soul’ – that logically nullifies this possibility. For if the questioner suspected that Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq was engaged in the practice when giving his answer, he would have had no reason to believe his assurance to the contrary; after all, taqiyya mandates its own concealment, so that denial of taqiyya can be a form of taqiyya. There is, in addition, no evidence that Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq’s embracing of taqiyya was known to his non-Shiʿi contemporaries; and if it was, they would surely have regarded sceptically not simply the two traditions in question, but all the others relating to the shaykhayn, and much else besides. Furthermore, it cannot reasonably be doubted that tabarrā (or barāʾa) as the necessary complement to tawallā was indeed espoused by Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq.21 On the other hand, the reviling (sabb) of Abū Bakr and ʿUmar, as the audible and public expression of tabarrā, might indeed have been shunned or denounced as a violation of taqiyya, so its repudiation did not necessarily count as an endorsement of the two personalities being execrated.22 In any event, the traditions under discussion are more concerned with tabarrā than with sabb. All the traditions cited so far relate only to the first two caliphs. By contrast, a token of Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq’s alleged conformity to the definingly Sunni concept of four Rightly Guided Caliphs is to be found in Ḥaqāʾiq al-tafsīr, a partial commentary on the Qurʾan assembled by Abū ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Sulamī (d. 412/1021) and questionably attributed by him and others to Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq. One of the fragments of exegesis that make up this work relates to the ‘Light Verse’ (Q. 24:35): Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq interprets it as a reference to four terrestrial lights (Abū Bakr, ʿUmar, ʿUthmān and ʿAlī) rising up to merge with their celestial counterparts, the archangels Jibrīl, Mīkāʾīl, Isrāfīl and ʿAzrāʾīl.23 A comparable pronouncement is to be found in Hizār hikāyat-i Ṣūfiyān, an anonymous compilation of Sufi dicta and stories dating apparently from the ninth/ fifteenth century. There Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq is said to have proclaimed that on

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the leaves of each of the four trees of Paradise – the Lote Tree of the Limit (sidrat al-muntahā), Ṭubā, the Eternal Abode (al-maʾwā), and the Tree of Immortality (shajarat al-khuld) – is written the name of one of the four, complete with a laudatory invocation.24 In both instances – the tafsīr and the Hizār ḥikāyat-i Ṣūfiyān – the uniquely lofty status of the Rightly Guided Caliphs is transported to the Hereafter; the two works may therefore be said to echo each other. This does not amount, however, to a proof of authenticity, if for no other reason than that the concept of the Rightly Guided Caliphs, as a harmonious and normative quartet, in chronologically descending order of merit, had not fully crystallised even among Sunnis in the time of Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq. For it took Aḥmad b. Ḥanbal (d. 241/855) a while to concede that Imam ʿAlī might legitimately be included in the group, even in last place.25 II The lengthiest and most detailed set of utterances attributed to Imam Jaʿfar al Ṣādiq in refutation of the essential beliefs and attitudes of Shiʿism consists of an altercation he allegedly had with an unnamed ‘Rāfiḍī’ at a time and place unmentioned. The text of this exchange is set down in two manuscripts, one preserved in Istanbul (Şehid Ali Paşa 2764, ff. 152–157) and the other in Damascus (al-Ẓāhiriyya, 3847, ff. 227–235). The former is dated 669/1270 and the latter is undated, although the name of its copyist, a certain ʿAlī b. Masʿūd al-Mawṣilī, is known, and annotations at the end of the text, the earliest being dated 588/1192, point to it being more ancient than the Istanbul manuscript. The edition of this exchange published by ʿAlī b. ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz al-ʿAlī in Riyadh in 1417/1996 is critical in the technical sense that it is based on a collation of the two manuscripts, but uncritical in its endorsement of the text as the authentic record of an actual exchange; the prefatory material is also poorly arranged.26 It is to be noted that the foil for Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq’s supposed repudiation of Shiʿism is identified simply as a Rāfiḍī, a term that does not occur in the discrete utterances examined above. This must indicate that the text originated at a time when the word had become a simple pejorative designation for all types of Shiʿi, although the primary sense of ‘rejectors’ – notably of the first two caliphs – remained no doubt uppermost in the minds of those who used it.27 After greeting Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq respectfully, the Rāfiḍī goes straight to the heart of the matter by asking him who was the best of all men after the Prophet. Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq replies, ‘Abū Bakr’, citing the allusion made

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to him in Q. 9:40 (the second of two when they were in the cave).28 The Rāfiḍī responds that on the same occasion, that of the Hijra, ʿAlī b. Abī Ṭālib slept in the bed of the Prophet in order to delude the Meccans, ‘without fear or anxiety’, to which Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq retorts that the same fearlessness characterised Abū Bakr.29 The Rāfiḍī questions this, pointing to the part of the verse in which the Prophet is described as exhorting ‘his companion’ not to be sad. Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq points out, however, that fear is one thing and sadness another, apart from which it was the possibility of the Prophet being killed that induced sadness in Abū Bakr, not concern for his own welfare.30 The Rāfiḍī turned next to Q. 5:55, with its mention of those who give charity while bowing in prayer, explained by the Prophet as a laudatory reference to ʿAlī b. Abī Ṭālib. Without disputing this interpretation, Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq responds that the preceding verse, Q. 5:54 (O you who believe, if any among you turn back from his religion, certainly God will bring forth a people whom He loves and who love Him), implies a still higher and more virtuous rank for Abū Bakr, for it was he who triumphantly warred against the apostates (ahl al-ridda) who refused to accept the payment of zakāt after the death of the Prophet. Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq then gives a summary account of the wars in question, one significantly marred by the assertion that the apostates gathered at Nihavand to confront the forces mustered by Abū Bakr.31 The struggle against the ahl al-ridda was waged, of course, in Arabia, primarily in the region of Ḥāʾil, while the historic battle that took place at Nihavand, in western Iran, was the decisive rout of the Sasanid armies, known as the supreme victory (fatḥ al-futūḥ), that laid the Iranian plateau open to the Muslims in 21/642, that is to say, during ʿUmar’s caliphate. It is inconceivable that Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq should have confused the two events.32 Still intent on proving the superiority of ʿAlī b. Abī Ṭālib to Abū Bakr, the Rāfiḍī next cites Q. 2:274 (those who spend of their goods by night and by day, in secret and in public), claiming that it refers specifically to his well-known munificence, for he would regularly spend one dinar at night and another during the day, one dinar in secret and one openly. Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq counters that Q. 92:5–7 (he who fears God and testifies to the best, for him We will make smooth the path to bliss), as well as verses Q. 92:17–21, which similarly promise supreme reward to those who combine generosity, piety and devotion to God, all refer specifically to Abū Bakr, who divested himself of all of his wealth for the sake of Islam.33 The next verse to be invoked by the Rāfiḍī in support of ʿAlī’s supremacy was Q. 9:19 (do you make the giving of water to drink to the pilgrims and the maintenance of the Sacred Mosque equal to [the deeds of] those

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who believe in God and the Last Day and struggle in the path of God? They are not equal in the sight of God). At least the equal of this, counters Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq, is Q. 57:10, a verse in which the superior merit of those who spent of their wealth and fought for Islam before the conquest of Mecca is proclaimed. This description, Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq asserts in some detail, applies pre-eminently to Abū Bakr: he was the first of all the Companions to spend of his wealth as well as the first to enter into battle.34 To the Rāfiḍī’s next claim, that ʿAlī was never guilty of shirk, for even the blink of an eye, Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq responds that God praised Abū Bakr to a higher degree, indeed beyond all measure, in Q. 39:33 as the one who testifies to the truth, the verse from which can be inferred his attribute of ṣiddīq. For when all others doubted or disputed the first reports of the Miʿrāj, Abū Bakr immediately affirmed their veracity.35 As for the love of his progeny that the Prophet is instructed to seek from the believers as his sole reward (Q. 42:23), the next argument advanced by the Rāfiḍī, this is trumped, according to Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq, by Q. 59:10, in which the believers are enjoined to seek God’s forgiveness for their brethren who have preceded them in belief and to refrain from all manner of grievance against them. From this Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq concludes that seeking forgiveness for him is obligatory, loving him a duty, and hating him tantamount to unbelief (kufr).36 Still not deterred by Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq’s effortless refutation of all his arguments, the Rāfiḍī cites a ḥadīth wherein the Prophet proclaims his grandchildren, Ḥasan and Ḥusayn, to be the masters of the youth of Paradise, and their father, ʿAlī, to be better than both of them. Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq responds with another ḥadīth, supposedly transmitted to him by his paternal line of descent. According to that ḥadīth ʿAlī was once alone with the Prophet when he caught sight of Abū Bakr and ʿUmar. ‘O ʿAlī,’ proclaimed the Prophet, ‘these two are the masters both of the old men of Paradise and of its youth, both those of all ages gone by and of those yet to come, exception being made only of the prophets and messengers. Do not inform them of this, O ʿAlī, as long as they are alive.’ 37 This ḥadīth seems to have been modelled structurally on the far better-known tradition cited by the Rāfiḍī, with the mention of two other names, Ḥasan and Ḥusayn; hence the need to include ʿUmar in tandem with Abū Bakr.38 Be that as it may, the citation of this ḥadīth at this point serves to introduce the theme of al-shaykhayn into the discussion. The altercation then moves to the relative virtues of Fāṭima and ʿĀʾisha as the female representatives of the two lineages at issue, the Rāfiḍī obviously favouring the former. After reciting the opening verses of Sūrat Yā-Sīn (Q. 36) and Sūrat Ḥā-Mīm (Q. 41), perhaps to indicate the equal

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worth of these two Suras, each beginning with a compound of two letters, as a parallel to the allegedly equal status of the two women, Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq refuses to answer the question, for, he says, anyone who criticises the wife of the Prophet is accursed of God and anyone who insults his daughter is reviled by Him. The Rāfiḍī responds with the incontestable fact that ʿĀʾisha fought against ʿAlī, to which Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq can reply only with Q. 33:53 (It is not right for you that you should annoy the Messenger of God), implying that criticism of ʿĀʾisha is tantamount to causing distress to the Prophet.39 Until this point, the argument has centred on the relative merits of Abū Bakr and ʿAlī alone, with the exception of the pairing of ʿUmar with Abū Bakr as masters of young and old alike in Paradise. Now, all four of the Rightly Guided Caliphs come under discussion as the Rāfiḍī asks whether they are mentioned at all in the Qurʾan. To this Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq responds with perhaps the most ingenious assertion in the whole discussion: that mention of them is found not only there, but also in the Torah and the Gospel. The Qurʾanic verses alluding to them are those in which the words khalāʾif, khulafāʾ and yastakhlifannakum occur (Q. 6:165; Q. 27:62; and Q. 24:55, respectively). As for their mention in the Torah and the Gospel, this too derives from the Qurʾan, that is, from Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq’s particular reading of Q. 48:29: Muhammad is the Messenger of God and those who are with him [=Abū Bakr] are strong against the unbelievers [=ʿUmar], compassionate amongst each other [=ʿUthmān]; you will see them bowing and prostrating themselves seeking the favour and pleasure of God [=ʿAlī]. On their faces are their marks, the traces of prostration; this is their similitude in the Torah and their similitude in the Gospel. Now exasperated beyond measure by the obduracy of the Rāfiḍī, Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq struck him in the chest before continuing with his special exegesis of this lengthy verse: ‘Like a seed which sends forth its blade then makes it strong [=Abū Bakr], it then becomes tough [=ʿUmar] and it stands on its own stem [=ʿUthmān], filling the sowers with delight and thereby enraging the unbelievers [=ʿAlī]. God has promised those among them who believe and do righteous deeds forgiveness and a great reward [=the general body of the Companions].’ 40 He then concludes his exposé of the virtues of the four caliphs with a ḥadīth, transmitted to him from ʿAlī by means of the intervening generations of the ahl al-bayt. The Prophet is reported to have said that once he, before all the rest of mankind, has been resurrected, God will invite him to summon his successors (khulafāʾ). Each of the four khulafāʾ al-rāshidūn will then be resurrected in the order corresponding to their exercise of the

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caliphate, called gently to account for their deeds in this world (ḥisāban yasīran), wrapped in two green cloaks and made to stand before the divine throne. The Rāfiḍī asks whether this tradition finds confirmation in the Qurʾan, to which Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq replies by citing Q. 39:69: the prophets and the witnesses (shuhadāʾ) shall be brought forward; a just decision will be pronounced between them, and they shall not be wronged, and interpreting the second category referred to, that is, the witnesses, as Abū Bakr, ʿUmar, ʿUthmān and ʿAlī.41 The alleged conformity to the Qurʾan of this ḥadīth finally suffices to convince the Rāfiḍī of his error, and he asks Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq whether his repentance for setting ʿAlī apart (tafrīq) from his three predecessors can be accepted. He assures him that it can, solemnly affirming that if he had maintained his opposition to the three until death, he would have died outside the pale of Islam and all his good deeds would have been as ‘scattered dust’ (habāʾan manthūran, Q. 25:23), just like those of the unbelievers.42 The authenticity of this text, in whole or in part, is extremely dubious. It is marred not only by the glaringly erroneous relocation of the wars of apostasy to Nihavand, but also by omissions in the line of imams (as cited by Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq as authority for certain of his statements) on more than one occasion; it is still less conceivable that he should have been subject to confusion in this matter.43 Granted, the Istanbul manuscript bears the notation that it was transmitted, in 669/1269–1270, by a certain Shaykh Abu’l-Qāsim ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Muḥammad al-Anṣārī al-Bukhārī, who received it in Mecca from Shaykh Majd al-Dīn Abu’l-Fatḥ b. al-Ḥusayn b. Sahl b. ʿAlī b. Bindār al-Yazdī, by way of qirāʾa,44 who had it from Shaykh Abu’l-Naṣr ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. al-Qāsim b. Abi’l-Faḍl, who had it from Abu’l-Ḥasan Saʿd b. ʿAlī b. Bindār. Little is known of any of these persons except Majd al-Dīn al-Yazdī, who at a certain point in his life – presumably after his sojourn in Mecca – migrated to Mosul and died there in 571/1175–1176.45 Mosul also appears in the earliest annotation to the Damascus manuscript: in 588/1192 a certain ʿAlī b. Masʿūd al-Mawṣilī gave an ijāza for the transmission of the text to some eight persons including his three wives.46 This may indicate that the text and its transmission represented something of a Mosul tradition. The Damascus manuscript also has in common with its Istanbul counterpart a chain (sanad) beginning with Shaykh Abu’l-Qāsim al-Anṣārī al-Bukhārī and continuing with Abu’l-Ḥasan Saʿd b. ʿAlī b. Bindār; the name next mentioned is, however, that of Abu’l-Naṣr b. ʿUbayd Allāh b. ʿAlī al-Faḍl b. al-Ḥusayn al-Yazdī who passed the tradition on to Abū Yaʿqūb Yūsuf b. Hibat Allāh b. Maḥmūd al-Dimashqī in 546/1151, two years before both men died. In

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addition to all this, the Istanbul manuscript takes the chain of transmission back from the same Shaykh Abu’l-Qāsim al-Anṣārī al-Bukhārī to – in turn – Abū Muḥammad ʿAbd Allāh b. Musāfir; Abū Bakr b. Khalaf al-Hamadhānī; Abu’l-Ḥasan Aḥmad b. Muḥammad b. Azma; Abu’lḤusayn b. ʿAlī al-Ṭanāfasī; Khalaf b. Muḥammad al-Qaṭwānī; and finally ʿAlī b. Ṣāliḥ.47 The last-named is cited neither as having received the tradition from anyone, nor as having heard it from Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq himself. There is, moreover, the general consideration that the exchange is too schematic and artificial to represent even the approximate transcript of a debate. Given the inability of the Rāfiḍī to refute any of the answers Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq provides to his questions, his persistence rings untrue and serves only the dialectic purpose of permitting the imam to consolidate his triumph. There is no obvious reason why the Rāfiḍī penitently confesses his error at the point that he does rather than earlier in the exchange; his change of heart comes entirely unannounced. It seems reasonable to conclude that the Munāẓara is a maladroit and relatively late polemical confection that sought to assemble in a single text themes earlier adumbrated in isolated utterances and to expand on them in the form of a sustained argument. The existence of only two known manuscripts suggests, moreover, that the text enjoyed only limited circulation and did not serve as a weapon of choice for anti-Shiʿi polemicists. III A number of the Sufi orders, Sunni in sectarian affiliation, that were active in the Iranian world during the Mongol and Timurid periods are noteworthy for the enhanced devotional attention they paid to the twelve imams as a privileged line of spiritual transmission from the Prophet. This phenomenon, felicitously described as ‘Twelver Sunnism’,48 has often been cited as evidence for a supposed shift in the direction of Shiʿism that reached its natural if violent conclusion under the auspices of the Safavids, with their coercive propagation of Shiʿism. These ‘Twelver Sunnis’ were not, however, proto-Shiʿis; their goal, at least in several noteworthy cases, was to detach the imams from Shiʿism entirely and claim them instead for the Sunni tradition. In this context, Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq was viewed as a particularly suitable candidate for appropriation, partly because of his inclusion in the initiatic chains of the orders in question. Thus the Kubravī shaykh Nūr al-Dīn Isfarāʾinī (d. 717/1317) wrote that Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq certainly enjoys a rank of particular distinction in view of his dual descent (both spiritual and physical) from the Prophet, but that this recognition in

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no way involves an embrace of Shiʿism. On the contrary, Isfarāʾinī says, ‘Imam Jaʿfar is disgusted with them [the Shiʿis] … what is the proof that their madhhab is the madhhab of Imam Jaʿfar?’ 49 It was, however, the stringently Sunni Naqshbandīs who deployed the greatest energy in claiming Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq for their own tradition. Uniquely among the major Sufi orders, they traced their initiatic line of descent from the Prophet primarily through Abū Bakr; from him it proceeds first to Salmān Fārisī, next to Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq’s maternal uncle, Qāsim b. Muḥammad b. Abī Bakr, and then to Jaʿfar himself. The notion of an esoteric link between Salmān Fārisī and Abū Bakr deserves note in passing for its improbability, but more significant for the orientation of the Naqshbandiyya is the recasting of Qāsim b. Muḥammad b. Abī Bakr’s relationship with Jaʿfar as one of spiritual as well as scholarly transmission. This resulted in a different type of dual descent for Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq than the one envisaged by Isfarāʾinī, for it specifically included Abū Bakr as a spiritual ancestor. The Bakrī lineage thus became at least the equal of Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq’s descent from ʿAlī b. Abī Ṭālib, and he acquired special significance as the confluence of two streams deriving from the Prophetic source – Bakrī and ʿAlawī. The point was made with characteristic vigour and insistence by Shaykh Aḥmad Sirhindī (d. 1034/1624), known as Imām-i Rabbānī or, with respect to his millennial claims, as Ḥaḍrat-i mujaddid-i alf-i thānī, d. 1624), eponym of the Mujaddidī branch of the Naqshbandī order. He hypothesised: It may be said that most of the Sufi paths go back to Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq who is spiritually affiliated (mansūb) to Haḍrat-i Ṣiddīq [Abū Bakr]; why then do the other chains (salāsil) not go back to him [but to Imam ʿAlī instead]? My answer is that the Imam [Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq] is connected both to Haḍrat-i Ṣiddīq and to Haḍrat-i Amīr [Imam ʿAlī], may God be pleased with them both. Although both these exalted lineages (nisbat-i ʿaliyya) are combined in his [Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq’s] person, the perfections of each remain separate and distinct from each other. One group [of Sufis] has derived from him a Ṣiddīqī [i.e. Bakrī] affiliation because of his Ṣiddīqī lineage, while another group has derived from him an Amīrī [i.e. ʿAlawī] affiliation because of his Amīrī lineage and is connected to the Amir. This lowly one once had occasion to travel to the pergana of Benares, to the place where the waters of the Ganges and the Jumna join together. Despite that junction, it was entirely apparent that the waters of the Ganges and the waters of the Jumna remain distinct from each other, as if separated by a barrier so as not to intermingle. Those living at the point of junction on the banks of the Ganges draw their water from that river, and those living

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on the banks of the Jumna draw their water from that river.50

None of this should be taken to imply an equality between the two streams, for Sirhindī immediately reminds the reader that, according to Khwāja Muḥammad Pārsā (d. 822/1418), a prominent Naqshbandī of the first generation, ʿAlī b. Abī Ṭālib received spiritual training not only from the Prophet, but also from Abū Bakr, not to mention ʿUmar and ʿUthmān; Abū Bakr was not conversely indebted to ʿAlī.51 This privileging of Abū Bakr over ʿAlī corresponds fully to the tafḍīl of the former over the latter that is attributed to Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq in the utterances examined above; it is perhaps not coincidental that here, too, it occurs in a context where Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq is under consideration. In any event, it is presumably because of the unique position of Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq in the imagined prehistory of the Naqshbandī order as the confluence of two streams that genealogical as well as spiritual descent from him came to be attributed to its eponym, Bahāʾ al-Dīn Naqshband (d. 791/1389).52 The hostility of the early Naqshbandīs to Shiʿism is apparent also from Pārsā’s Faṣl al-khiṭāb, a bulky assemblage of various doctrinal themes. The chapter on punishments (ʿuqūbāt) opens with a subsection devoted to miraculous chastisements suffered by certain Rāfiḍīs. Thus a man in the Yemen who had cursed Abū Bakr and ʿUmar had the misfortune gradually to be transformed into a monkey, the simian features working their way upwards from feet to pate, with the result that he was adopted by a troop of monkeys who took pity on him. Another reviler was slowly converted into a pig, and yet another into a dog.53 Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq is not cited here for the insistence attributed to him elsewhere that respect be shown to the shaykhayn, but later in the work Pārsā does link him to Abū Bakr by suggesting that the similarity of their cognomina – ṣiddīq and ṣādiq both deriving from the root ṣ-d-q – points to a descent that is spiritual as well as genealogical.54 While not explicitly claiming Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq for Sunni tradition, Pārsā insists that he be viewed primarily as a gnostic (ʿārif): ‘he never sought the Imamate nor contested the Caliphate with anyone, for one who is drowned in the ocean of gnosis (maʿrifa)will not aspire to a mere rivulet.’ 55 Such, indeed, was the case of all the ahl al-bayt down to his time, for ‘the knowledge of the Sufis is a knowledge reserved for the ahl al-bayt, in the first, second and third generations, down to Jaʿfar b. Muḥammad al-Ṣādiq’. Moreover, Pārsā presents him as a terminal figure in the line of the ahl al-bayt: ‘after him, whoever keeps the company of the Sufis (al-fuqarāʾ), he and all his peers count as belonging to the people of his [Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq’s] household (ahli baytihi).’ 56 The implication is clear: the Naqshbandīs, as initiatic heirs to Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq, count as his ahl

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al-bayt, and thus have a privileged if not exclusive relationship with him. At the same time, Pārsā is of course aware that the line of imams of the Prophet’s ahl al-bayt continued after Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq and he accordingly takes issue with the various groups from among the Shiʿa who have laid claim to him. Pārsā’s use of the terms ‘Rawāfiḍ’, ‘Shiʿa’ and ‘Imāmiyya’ is inconsistent and suggests that for him they were more or less interchangeable, but he seems to have viewed ‘Shiʿa’ as a generic term embracing all the sects and subsects. In any event, the distinctions that may exist among them are ultimately of little importance, for all of them are, in Pārsā’s words, ‘deluded and cut off from the truth’ (ḥayārā munqaṭiʿūn).57 This being the case, Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq is declared innocent of any and all connection to the totality of the Shiʿa, not only the ghulāt who were intent on deifying him: He is free of blame for the peculiarities and stupidities of the various schools of the Rāfiḍīs. The Shiʿa divided into sects and each of them formed a school (intaḥala kullun minhum madhhaban) and in their desire to propagate it they attributed and connected it to him. But he has no connection whatsoever to rafḍ, iʿtizāl, or any other capricious doctrines (sāʾir al-ahwāʾ).58

According to Pārsā, both Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq and his father, Muḥammad al-Bāqir, had explicitly distanced themselves (tabarraʾa) from the foolish teachings of the Rāfiḍīs, but when the Shiʿa split into different groups, each wishing to propagate its own views, they sought to attribute them to one or other of the imams of the ahl al-bayt. The claims (maqālāt) of the Shiʿa are such that any reasonable person will regard it as impermissible to listen to them, let alone believe in them.59

A similar attempt to detach the twelve imams in general and Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq in particular from Shiʿism was undertaken by the celebrated poet and scholar, ʿAbd al-Raḥmān Jāmī (d. 898/1492). An enthusiastic devotee of the Naqshbandiyya, he nourished a deep hatred for Shiʿism throughout his life, condemning it as a subversively false doctrine. Jāmī is reported once to have declared: We are firmly convinced that the People of the Messenger’s House, consisting of the twelve imams – may peace and blessings be upon him and upon them – never held this impure belief. By God Exalted and Almighty, if I were convinced that this was the creed and belief of the immaculate progeny of the Prophet, I would be the first to accept it. [What happened was

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rather that] a handful of ignorant Jews, wishing to cast doubt on the very bases of religion, concocted some nonsense and slanderously attributed it to those pure and immaculate ones, although they were never aware of any part of it.60

Jāmī similarly explained on another occasion that although the Rāfiḍīs of his time, who had ‘transgressed all bounds of decency’, attributed their doctrine, ‘a fistful of lies’, to Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq, his actual school (madhhab) was ‘none other than the straight path of [the people of] the sunna and the Community (jādda-yi sunnat va jamāʿat)’.61 In keeping with the general Naqshbandī tendency to emphasise Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq’s Bakrī genealogy, he significantly opens his notice on Jaʿfar in Shawāhid al-Nubuwwa with the imam’s oft-cited reference thereto, ‘Abū Bakr begat me twice’.62 Most remarkable, perhaps, is that Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq himself is claimed to have endorsed in person this Naqshbandī enterprise of rescuing him from the clutches of the Shiʿis. Sayyid Muḥammad Bādāmyārī, a Naqshbandī shaykh obliged by Safavid persecution to seek refuge in Urūmiya, a Kurdish and therefore predominantly Sunni city at the time, once found himself debating with a group of Shiʿis. They declared in the course of the argument that the mujtahid (that is, the founding figure) of their madhhab was Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq. But once they had left, Bādāmyārī told his followers that while the Shiʿis had been speaking, the imam himself had appeared (mutamaththil gasht) to him and declared, ‘I know nothing of what they say; they are slandering me.’ 63 One wonders why, for the sake of maximum effect, Bādāmyārī did not disclose this miraculous intervention as soon as it occurred. A considerably later Naqshbandī, Shāh ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz Dihlawī (d. 1239/1824), took a somewhat different tack in trying to disengage Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq from the madhhab for which he generally counts as eponym. Alarmed by the rising influence of Shiʿism in northern India and intent on discrediting the claims to authority of Shiʿi ʿulamāʾ, past and present, Shāh ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz compiled a lengthy polemic against Twelver Shiʿism that he sarcastically entitled Tuḥfa-yi Ithnāʿashariyya (‘A Gift to the Twelvers’).64 Towards the end of the work, he points out that according to various sources both Abū Ḥanīfa and Mālik b. Anas studied with Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq, and that, in turn, al-Shāfiʿī was a student of Mālik and Aḥmad b. Ḥanbal, a student of al-Shāfiʿī. A line of Jaʿfarī affiliation is thereby established for the founders of all four schools of Sunni jurisprudence, making them the true heirs of the imam. Particularly important for Shāh ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz is that while Abū Ḥanīfa was certified as capable

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of ijtihād by Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq, contemporary Shiʿi scholars cannot in the very nature of things be so authorised by the Twelfth Imam in whose name they claim to act, given his occulted state: ‘How can the madhhab of one who has acquired the qualifications for ijtihād in the presence of an imam and received from him permission to engage therein and to issue fatwās not then be regarded as more worthy of adherence?’ 65 The Ḥanafī madhhab – the school followed by the quasi-totality of Naqshbandīs at the time, whether in India or elsewhere – thus emerges as the preferred claimant to the juristic (fiqhī) legacy of Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq.66 Another anti-Shiʿi polemicist, Ibn Taymiyya (d. 728/1328), approached the matter quite differently from Shāh ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz. He dismissed any claim that Abū Ḥanīfa studied with Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq as ‘a lie, apparent to anyone with the slightest degree of knowledge’.67 According to Ibn Taymiyya, the two were ‘contemporaries and equals’ (aqrān), Abū Ḥanīfa was already engaged in delivering fatwās during the lifetime of Muḥammad al-Bāqir, and he did not derive a single ruling (masʾala) from either Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq or Muḥammad al-Bāqir. IV In 1945 a group of Sunni and Shiʿi scholars established in Cairo the Dār al-Taqrīb bayn al-Madhāhib al-Islāmiyya, an organisation dedicated to rapprochement and unity among the various schools of Islamic jurisprudence – not only the four of the Sunni tradition but also the two Shiʿi schools of jurisprudence (Jaʿfarī, Zaydī) and the Ibāḍī school. As the most substantial and widespread of the non-Sunni schools, it was, of course, primarily Jaʿfarī fiqh that was at issue. The new and positive approach this initiative heralded, especially in Egypt, culminated in the fatwā issued by Shaykh al-Azhar Maḥmūd Shaltūt (d. 1963) declaring the Jaʿfarī madhhab to be a valid school of Islamic jurisprudence.68 The aim was not merely to establish unity of sympathy and action among all Muslims in the face of Western imperialism, but also to draw on all schools of jurisprudence, without discrimination, in order to solve various contemporary problems. Among the contributors to Risālat al-Islām, the journal published by the Dār al-Taqrīb at irregular intervals from 1949 to 1972, were prominent Shiʿi scholars such as Muḥammad Taqī al-Qummī, Muḥammad Jawād al-Maghniya, Muḥammad Ṣādiq al-Ṣadr and Abu’l-Qāsim al-Khūʾī. Muḥammad Abū Zahra (d. 1974), a professor of Shariʿa at the Faculty of Law at Cairo University, renowned for independence and originality of thought, was fully in accord with the aims of the Dār al-Taqrīb, as he made

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plain in a series of articles on the need for Islamic unity published in its organ.69 More than any other Sunni member of the group, he concerned himself in a detailed and scholarly fashion with the Jaʿfarī madhhab and its eponym. His goal was to view the Shiʿa – as well as other non-Sunni groups – not as a ‘sect’ (firqa) but as a ‘school’ (madhhab), this mode of approach being more conducive to unity.70 It was against this background of concern, both ecumenical and practical, that he examined Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq and the school of jurisprudence bearing his name, referring to its adherents with consistent respect as ‘our Shiʿi brethren’. He published an outline sketch of Shiʿi law concerning inheritances, together with a brief account of Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq’s life,71 and followed it with a detailed study of the imam’s life and times, together with his theological doctrines and legal methodology.72 At about the same time, he also published a twovolume history of legal and theological schools in Islam, devoting the last forty pages of the second volume to Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq and his teachings.73 Abū Zahra differs from other Sunni authors reviewed above in that he recognises Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq as having been the leader of a distinct religio-political current, not a simple contributor to the Sunni consensus that was in the process of gestation. He nonetheless contests the attribution to him of virtually all the historical judgements and distinctive teachings of Shiʿism, relying on many of the same sources as his predecessors, although not naming them. Thus he reports Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq to have declared that ‘whoever is unaware of the excellence of Abū Bakr and ʿUmar is ignorant of the sunna’. Similarly, Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq is said to have addressed Jābir al-Juʿfī as follows: O Jābir, it has reached me that some people in ʿIraq claim to love us, but they vilify Abū Bakr and ʿUmar, may God be pleased with them both. They claim that I have commanded them to do so. Tell them that I disown them before God. By Him Who holds in His hand the soul of Muḥammad, had I the power to do so, I would seek to draw nigh to Him by shedding their blood. May I not benefit from the intercession of Muḥammad if I fail to seek forgiveness and mercy for those two. Certainly the enemies of God know nothing concerning them.74

Supposedly, Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq condemned mutʿa (term marriage) as a species of fornication; did not assert the inerrancy (ʿiṣma) of the imams of the ahl al-bayt; did not benefit from divinely inspired (ilhāmī) knowledge; did not affirm the doctrine of bidāʾ (the appearance of change in the divine will); and did not teach the belief in rujʿa (the provisional return

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to this world of certain sacred personages in advance of the general resurrection).75 Although no doubt sincerely intended, this distancing of Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq from doctrinal features of Shiʿism seems to have been motivated by the wish to present him as primarily the founder of a school of jurisprudence, in accordance with the stated aim of viewing Twelver Shiʿism as a madhhab rather than a firqa. As for the traditions narrated from Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq in the Shiʿi sources, Abū Zahra divides them into four categories determined by content alone, not by their chains of transmission. First come those that are in full accord with the authoritative Sunni books and the acceptance of which is therefore not problematic. By contrast, those that stand in clear opposition to the Qurʾan and Sunni ḥadīths of manifest authenticity (mutawātir) must be rejected. Ḥadīths in the Shiʿi books that contradict each other must be evaluated with respect to the prevalent opinion of the learned (al-jumhūr); those at variance with it are to be rejected. Finally, Shiʿi ḥadīths that are fully in accord with each other and do not contradict those found in the Sunni books are not necessarily to be accepted or rejected.76 Conformity to Sunni criteria applies also to the individual provisions of the Jaʿfarī madhhab: if found to be in accord with the Qurʾan and the sunna as understood and recorded by Sunnis, they can be accepted.77 The scope available for permissible borrowing from Shiʿi fiqh or reliance on its bases in narrations from Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq and the other imams thus proves in the end to be quite narrow. It is not therefore surprising that a number of Shiʿi authors have charged Abū Zahra with betraying his proclaimed goal of reconciling the Sunni and Shiʿi traditions.78 The Islamic Revolution in Iran was considered by many of those who, whether Shiʿi or Sunni, participated in it directly or felt affinity with it, as an event of crucial relevance to the entire Islamic world, including its vast Sunni majority. Attempts were accordingly made in Iran to resume the project of rapprochement between the Sunni and Shiʿi traditions. In 1991, at the initiative of Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, an institution called al-Majmaʿ al-ʿIlmī li’l-Taqrīb bayn al-Madhāhib al-Islāmiyya (The Academic Assembly for Rapprochement between the Islamic Schools of Thought) was established in Tehran, explicitly to serve as a successor organisation to the Dār al-Taqrīb, and it began publishing a journal, Risālat al-Taqrīb, that took Risālat al-Islām as its model.79 A complete run of the earlier journal and other publications of the Dār al-Taqrīb were republished in Mashhad for broad distribution, and annual unity conferences began to be held in Tehran to coincide with the birthday of the Prophet. It was, however, in Beirut that, in December 1996, the cultural affairs counsellor of the

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Iranian embassy organised a conference on the theme of Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq and the various schools of Islamic jurisprudence; the proceedings were published the following year.80 As often happens on such occasions, most participants failed to address themselves with any degree of precision to the topic announced. One exception was Shaykh Ḥasan Ḥamāda, a Lebanese Shiʿi scholar. After tracing the history of the Imamate from the time of Imam ʿAlī, Ḥamāda asserts that many of the ḥadīths found in the Sunni books can be traced back to either Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq or his father, Muḥammad al-Bāqir; it was they and their predecessors who were foremost in the preservation of the sunna. True, this fact is not reflected in the chains of transmission that are commonly cited in the Sunni books, but only because the Sunni scholars of the age feared the persecution to which all devotees of the ahl al-bayt were subject; those scholars were effectively engaged in the practice of taqiyya, much like the imams themselves.81 In similar fashion, Ḥamāda presents Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq as the progenitor or ancestor of all four Sunni madhhabs, especially the Ḥanafī. At the end of the two years he spent studying with Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq in Medina, Abū Ḥanīfa remarked, according to Ḥamāda, ‘Were it not for the two years, al-Nuʿmān (Abū Ḥanīfa) would certainly have been ruined.’ 82 Mālik b. Anas spent even longer with Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq as his pupil, and in turn al-Shāfiʿi studied both with Mālik and with other students of the imam such as Sufyān b. ʿUyayna and Ibrāhīm b. Saʿd al-Anṣārī. Finally, Ibn Ḥanbal kept the company of al-Shāfiʿī during his sojourn in Baghdad.83 This process of fiqhī transmission from Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq to the eponyms of the four Sunni madhhabs is essentially the same as that traced out by Shāh ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz Dihlawī.84 Dihlawī‘s purpose had been to present the Sunni schools as the true heirs of Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq and thereby to deny legitimacy to Shiʿism; that of Ḥamāda is to establish Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq as the point of departure for all the schools, Sunni and Shiʿi alike. For Ḥamāda immediately goes on to complain, with some justice as this article has demonstrated, that many Sunni writers who express deep respect for Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq mercilessly attack the Shiʿis as if they had no connection to him nor he to them.85 V The purpose here has been not to explore, in any detail, the complex role played by Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq in the intellectual and religious developments of his age, but, more modestly, to review a polemical tradition

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that sought to detach him from Shiʿism and either align him with Sunni Islam or straightforwardly appropriate him for it. The attempt was clearly misguided, but the simple fact that Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq was viewed as a suitable recruit for the campaign is significant. Obvious reasons for his selection include his Bakrī descent and his denunciation of ghulāt elements in the Shiʿi movement such as the Khaṭṭābiyya; it may have seemed to some a logical next step to extend his condemnation to the Imāmīs. Central, however, is the fact that he interacted with a wide range of personalities, in both Medina and Baghdad, at a time when neither Sunni nor Shiʿi Islam had assumed definitive shape. A detailed and dispassionate study of the various aspects of his life and thought would surely help to clarify this formative period in Islamic history; it might also aid in reconciling all who, with varying degrees of justification, continue to invoke the name of Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq. Notes 1. 2. 3.

4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13.

On Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq’s place in the general evolution of Shiʿism, see S. H. M. Jafri, The Origins and Early Development of Shīʿa Islam (London, 1981), pp. 259–312. Robert Gleave, ‘Jaʿfar al-Ṣādeq: ii, Teachings’, EIr, vol. 14, p. 351. ʿAlāʾ al-Dīn Mughalṭāy b. Qilīj al-Bakcharī, Ikmāl tahdhīb al-kamāl fī asmāʾ al-rijāl, ed. ʿĀdil b. Muḥammad and Usāma b. Ibrāhīm (Cairo, 2001), vol. 3, p. 227. This author clarifies, however, that traditions transmitted from him only by his progeny have no evidentiary value. See Hamid Algar, ‘Jaʿfar al-Ṣādeq: iii, and Sufism’, EIr, vol. 14, pp. 356–362. Shams al-Dīn Muḥammad al-Dhahabī, Siyar aʿlām al-nubalāʾ, ed. Shuʿayb Arnāʾūt and Ḥusayn al-Asad (Beirut, 1401/1981), vol. 6, p. 255. Dhahabī, Siyar, vol. 6, p. 255; Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī, al-Ṣawāʿiq al-Muḥriqa (Cairo, n.d.), p. 53. Muhammad Qasim Zaman, Religion and Politics under the Early ʿAbbasids: The Emergence of the Proto-Sunni Elite (Leiden, 1997), pp. 50–51. Muḥibb al-Dīn Aḥmad b. ʿAbd Allāh al-Ṭabarī, al-Riyāḍ al-naḍira fī manāqib al-ʿashara, ed. ʿĪsā b. ʿAbd Allāh b. Māniʿ al-Ḥimyarī (Beirut, 1996), vol. 1, p. 386; Dhahabī, Siyar, vol. 6, p. 259. Ṭabarī, al-Riyāḍ al-nāḍira, vol. 1, p. 385. Ibid., vol. 1, p. 386. The version of this tradition reported by Ibn Haytamī includes the wording ‘and I swear loyalty to them (atawallāhumā)’; al-Ṣawāʿiq al-muḥriqa, p. 53. Ṭabarī, al-Riyāḍ al-nāḍira, vol. 1, p. 386. Dhahabī, Siyar, vol. 6, p. 259. Ibid., vol. 6, pp. 258–259. The modern editors of this text seek to extend

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14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20.

21. 22.

23. 24. 25. 26. 27.

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the sense of the reply given by the imams Muḥammad al-Bāqir and Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq to cover all four of the Rightly Guided Caliphs: ‘This tradition clarifies the position of the immaculate ahl al-bayt with respect to the Rightly Guided Caliphs. Anything contrary to it that is attributed to them is pure calumny against them’ (vol. 6, p. 259, n.1). The same tradition is cited by Haytamī (al-Ṣawāʿiq al-muḥriqa, p. 53), who confirms that the narrator was Shiʿi and finds it necessary to add immediately ‘but he was trustworthy (thiqa)’. Ṭabarī, al-Riyāḍ al-nāḍira, vol. 1, p. 386; Haytamī, al-Ṣawāʿiq al-muḥriqa, p. 53. Ṭabarī, al-Riyāḍ al-nāḍira, vol. 1, p. 386. A similar statement is attributed to Imam Muḥammad Bāqir; see Haytamī, al-Ṣawāʿiq al-muḥriqa, p. 53. Dhahabī, Siyar aʿlām al-nubalāʾ, vol. 1, pp. 258–259; Haytamī, al-Ṣawāʿiq al-muḥriqa, p. 53. Ṭabarī, al-Riyāḍ al-nāḍira, vol. 1, p. 386. Dhahabī, Siyar, vol. 1, p. 258. Zaman, Religion and Politics under the Early ʿAbbasids, p. 43. See Majīd Maʿārif, Pazhūhishī dar tārīkh-i ḥadīth-i Shīʿa (Tehran, 1374 Sh./1995), pp. 276–289. Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq both embraces and enjoins taqiyya in this well-known tradition: ‘Taqiyya is of my religion and of the religion of my father, and one who does not observe taqiyya has no religion’ (Muḥammad b. Yaʿqūb al-Kulaynī, al-Ūṣūl min al-Kāfī [Tehran, 1375–1377/1955–1957], vol. 2, p. 48). See Kulaynī, al-Ūṣūl min al-Kāfī, vol. 2, pp. 22–23. Some ḥadīths from Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq on the subject are summarised in ʿAlī Rafīʿī, ‘Tawallā wa Tabarrā’, Dāʾirat al-maʿārif-i tashayyuʿ, ed. Aḥmad Ṣadr Ḥāj-Sayyid-Jawādī et al. (Tehran, 1375 Sh.–/1996–), vol. 5, pp. 157–158. See also Etan Kohlberg, ‘Barāʾa’, EIr, vol. 3, pp. 738–739; idem, ‘Barāʾa in Shīʿī Doctrine’, Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam, 7 (1986), pp. 139–175; and Jean Calmard, ‘Les rituels shiites et le pouvoir. L’imposition du shiisme safavide: eulogies et malédictions canoniques’, in Jean Calmard, ed., Études Safavides (Paris and Tehran, 1993), pp. 109–150. See ʿAlī Zayʿūr, ed., Kāmil al-tafsīr al-ṣūfī al-ʿirfānī li’l-Qurʾān bi-ḥasb Ḥaqāʾiq al-tafsīr wa Ziyādāt Ḥaqāʾiq al-tafsīr li’l-Sulamī (Paris, 2002), p. 126. Anonymous, Hizār ḥikāyat-i Ṣūfiyān, ed. Īraj Afshār and Maḥmūd Umīdsālār (Tehran, 1382 Sh./1993), fols 76a–b. See Zaman, Religion and Politics under the Early ʿAbbāsids, pp. 51, 169–171. Al-Munāẓara li’l-imām al-ḥujja Jaʿ far b. Muḥammad al-Ṣādiq raḍiya’llāhu ʿanhumā, ed. ʿAlī b. ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz al-ʿAlī (Riyadh, 1417/1996). Occasionally, however, the term is used by Shiʿi authorities, possibly including Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq himself, as a positive self-designation, intending thereby a generic rejection of evil and misguidance. See Etan Kohlberg, ‘The Term “Rāfiḍa” in Imāmī Shīʿī Usage’, Journal of the American Oriental

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Society, 99 (1979), pp. 677–679. 28. Al-Munāẓara, p. 95. 29. While Sunnis cite al-Tawba, 40, as proof of Abū Bakr’s valour and excellence, Shiʿis have seen in al-Baqara, 207 (‘there is one among men who is prepared to sell his life in order to earn the pleasure of God’) an allusion to ʿAlī b. Abī Ṭālib’s willingness to risk death by substituting for the Prophet in his bed, an incident known as ‘spending the night’ (al-mabīt). Competitively measuring the degrees of courage thus manifested by the two during the Hijra remained for many centuries a frequent theme of Sunni-Shiʿi polemics; see Asma Asfaruddin, ‘Sunnī-Shīʿī Dialectics and the Qurʾan’, in Khaleel Mohammed and Andrew Rippin, ed., Coming to Terms with the Qurʾān (North Haledon, NJ, 2008), pp. 107–123. 30. Al-Munāẓara, pp. 99–102. 31. Ibid., pp. 105–106. 32. The Saudi editor concedes that this relocation to Nihavand of the wars against the apostates – found in both manuscripts – is ‘strange’ (gharīb; p. 105, n.2); he does not, however, entertain the possibility that the error may cast doubt on the authenticity of the whole text. 33. Al-Munāẓara, pp. 107–113. 34. Ibid., pp. 114–117. 35. Ibid., pp. 118–121. 36. Ibid., pp. 123–124. 37. Ibid., pp. 125–126. 38. This ḥadīth is cited, however, in a number of Sunni books; see al-Munāẓara, p. 126, n.2. 39. Al-Munāẓara, pp. 127–129. 40. Ibid., pp. 130–133. 41. Ibid., pp. 133–135. 42. Ibid., pp. 135–136. 43. Ibid., p. 125. 44. Qirāʾa denotes a mode of transmission whereby a tradition is read aloud in the presence of a scholar of ḥadīth and certified by him; see Ṣubḥi al-Ṣāliḥ, ʿUlūm al-ḥadīth wa muṣṭalaḥuhu (Damascus, 1378/1959), pp. 93–95. The reading may take place either from memory or from a written text; the latter appears more probable in the present case, given the length of the alleged tradition. 45. Al-Munāẓara, pp. 89–90, p. 89, fn.1. 46. Ibid., p. 63. 47. Ibid., pp. 93–94. 48. The expression ‘Twelver Sunnis’ is used by Muḥammad Jaʿfar Maḥjūb in his ‘Az faḍāʾil wa manāqib-khwāni tā rawḍa-khwānī’, Iran Nameh, 2, iii (1984), p. 414. 49. Nūr al-Dīn Isfarāʾinī, Kāshif al-asrār, ed. Hermann Landolt (Tehran, 1980); cited on p. 58 of Landolt’s introduction.

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50. Shaykh Aḥmad Sirhindī, Maktūbāt-i imām-i rabbānī (Istanbul, 1977), vol. 1, p. 667. In point of fact, the Jumna merges with the Ganges not at Benares, but some distance upriver, at Allahabad. 51. Khwāja Muḥammad Pārsā, Qudsiyya, ed. Aḥmad Ṭāhirī ʿIrāqī (Tehran, 1354 Sh./ 1975), p. 13. 52. This attribution appears to be a relatively late phenomenon. The earliest occurrence of it known to the present writer is to be found in Ghulām Sarwar Lāhūrī’s hagiographical compendium, Khazīnat al-aṣfiyā (Lucknow, 1290/1873), vol. 1, p. 539, where the genealogy, reported on the authority of a certain Shaykh Sharaf al-Dīn Muḥammad Naqshbandī, runs as follows: Sayyid Jalāl al-Dīn, the father of Bahāʾ al-Dīn; Sayyid Burhān al-Dīn; Sayyid ʿAbd Allāh; Sayyid Zayn al-ʿĀbidīn; Sayyid Qāsim; Sayyid Shaʿbān; Sayyid Burhān al-Dīn; Sayyid Maḥmūd; Sayyid Bilāq (sic; perhaps Bilāl is intended); Sayyid Taqī; Ṣūfī Khalwatī; Sayyid Fakhr al-Dīn; Sayyid ʿAlī Akbar; Imam Ḥasan al-ʿAskarī; and then the imams preceding him, concluding with Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq. The ancestral line given in another source is slightly different: Sayyid Muḥammad Jalāl al-Dīn Bukhārī; Sayyid Burhān al-Dīn ‘Khāldār’; Sayyid ʿAbd Allāh; Sayyid Zayn al-ʿĀbidīn; Sayyid Shaʿbān; Sayyid Burhān; Sayyid Isḥāq, ‘known as Īlāq’; Sayyid Taqī; Sayyid Khalwatī; Sayyid Fakhr al-Dīn; Sayyid Maḥmūd Jāmiʿ; Sayyid ʿAlī Akbar; Imam ʿAlī Taqī; and then the imams preceding him, concluding with Jaʿfar; see Nūr al-Dīn Tūra Bukhārī, Tuḥfat al-zāʾirīn (Bukhārā, 1327/1909), p. 54. Although this genealogy is difficult to evaluate, its absence from the earliest Naqshbandī sources – what might be called the classics of the order – casts considerable doubt on its authenticity. Particularly noteworthy is that in the Tuḥfat al-zāʾirīn, maternal descent from Abū Bakr is also attributed to Bahāʾ al-Dīn, without any further elaboration; the overall purpose is plainly to have him resemble Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq as a possessor of both ʿAlawī and Bakrī lineages. A new and handsomely calligraphed headstone for the tomb of Bahāʾ al-Dīn Naqshband at Qaṣr-i ʿĀrifān, a suburb of Bukhārā, awaiting installation when I visited the site in October 2007, repeats the same attribution of Jaʿfarī descent, minus the complete genealogy. 53. Khwāja Muḥammad Pārsā, Faṣl al-khiṭāb, ed. Jalīl Misgarnizhād (Tehran, 1381 Sh./2002), pp. 395–398. 54. Pārsā, Faṣl al-khiṭāb, p. 568. 55. Ibid., p. 572. 56. Ibid., pp. 534, 571. 57. Ibid., pp. 618–619. 58. Ibid., p. 573. The passing reference to iʿtizāl, i.e. the Muʿtazilī school of theology, is due no doubt to the perception that Shiʿi kalām was formatively infuenced by its Muʿtazilī counterpart; see Martin J. McDermott, The Theology of al-Shaikh al-Mufīd (Beirut, 1978), passim. 59. Pārsā, Faṣl al-khiṭāb, p. 619. 60. ʿAbd al-Wāsiʿ Bākharzī, Maqāmāt-i Jāmī, ed. Najīb Māyil Haravī (Tehran,

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61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66.

67. 68.

69.

70.

71. 72.

Hamid Algar 1371 Sh./1992), p. 157. The mention of ‘ignorant Jews’ is presumably an allusion to the fictitious figure of ʿAbd Allāh b. Sabaʾ, a Yemeni Jew who is said to have made an insincere conversion to Islam during the caliphate of ʿUthmān in order to disseminate the false teachings that subsequently became the foundation of Shiʿism; see Murtaḍā al-ʿAskarī, Usṭūrat ʿAbd Allāh b. Sabaʾ (Beirut, n.d.). Bākharzī, Maqāmāt-i Jāmī, pp. 155–156. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān Jāmī, Shawāhid al-nubuwwa li-taqwiyyat yaqīn ahl al-futuwwa (Istanbul, 1995), p. 245. Muḥammad b. Ḥusayn Qazwīnī, Silsila-nāma-yi khwājagān-i Naqshband, MS 1418, Supplément persan, Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris, fol. 19b. For a detailed précis of its contents, see Saiyid Athar Abbas Rizvi, Shāh ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz: Puritanism, Sectarian Politics and Jihād (Canberra, 1982), pp. 245–355. Shāh ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz Dihlawī, Tuḥfa-yi Ithnāʿashariyya (Istanbul, 1990), p. 768. It may be remarked that whether deliberately or not Shāh ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz is implicitly conflating two types of ijtihād: absolute (‘muṭlaq’), that practised by the founders of the Sunni madhhabs, who formulated a series of legal principles (uṣūl); and limited (‘muqayyadʾ’), that practised within the parameters of an existing madhhab, as by the Shiʿi scholars against whom he railed. See Ibn Taymiyya, Minhāj al-sunna al-nabawiyya (Beirut, n.d.), vol. 4, p. 143. The fatwā was issued in the year of his death. It was published a year later in English translation as ‘The Official Text of the Counsel Issued by His Eminence the Great Master Shaykh Mahmoud Shaltut, Rector of al-Azhar, on the Validity of Worship according to the Imamite Shi‘a Doctrine’, in Risālat al-Islām, 55–56 (1384/1964), pp. 14–16 of the English section. Muḥammad Abū Zahra, ‘al-Waḥdat al-Islāmiyya’, in Risālat al-Islām, 10, i (Rajab, 1377/January, 1958), pp. 28–35; idem, 10, ii (Shawwāl, 1377/April, 1958), pp. 138–145; idem, 10, iii (Muḥarram, 1378/July, 1958), pp. 242–250; idem, 10, iv (Rabīʿ I, 1378/October, 1958), pp. 352–361. On the life and work of Abū Zahra, see Kate Zebiri, Maḥmūd Shaltūt and Islamic Modernism (Oxford, New York, 1993) and Saffet Köse, ‘Muhammed Ebû Zehre’, Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı Islam Ansiklopedisi, vol. 30, pp. 519–522. Muḥammad Abū Zahra, al-Imām al-Ṣādiq: ḥayātuhu wa ʿaṣruhu, ārāʾuhu wa fiqhuhu (Cairo, n.d.), p. 12. The same language is used in Shaltūt’s fatwā, for precisely the same reason as footnote no. 1 to the English translation makes clear. Muḥammad Abū Zahra, al-Mīrāth inda’l-Jaʿ fariyya (Cairo, 1955). Abū Zahra, al-Imām al-Ṣādiq. The copy of this work held by the library of the University of California, Berkeley, was acquired in 1963, so presumably it was published either that year or somewhat earlier, perhaps in order to

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coincide with the issuance of Shaltūt’s fatwā. 73. Abū Zahra, Taʾrīkh al-madhāhib al-Islāmiyya, al-juzʾ al-thānī: fī taʾrīkh al-madhāhib al-fiqhiyya (Cairo, n.d.), pp. 525–563. 74. Abū Zahra, al-Imām al-Ṣādiq, p. 24. The occurrence of the oath ‘By Him Who holds in His hand the soul of Muḥammad’ in this tradition is curious, since it was used frequently by the Prophet himself; it might be expected that Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq would more appropriately have mentioned his own soul. 75. Abū Zahra, al-Imām al-Ṣādiq, pp. 13, 69, 71–74, 236, 239. 76. Ibid., pp. 13–14. 77. Ibid., p. 16. 78. See, for example, al-Sayyid Ḥusayn Yūsuf Makkī al-ʿĀmilī, ʿAqīdat al-Shīʿa fi’l-imām al-Ṣādiq wa sāʾir al-aʾimma (Beirut, 1382/1963; repr. 1407/1987), pp. 10–12. For other Shiʿi reactions to Abū Zahra’s evaluation of Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq, see Rainer Brunner, Islamic Ecumenism in the 20th Century: The Azhar and Shiism between Rapprochement and Restraint, translated from the German by Joseph Greenman (Leiden and Boston, 2004), pp. 171–173; orig. pub. Annäherung und Distanz: Schia, Azhar und die islamische Ökumene im 20. Jahrhundert (Berlin, 1996). 79. See Muḥammad Muḥammad al-Madanī, ‘Ḥawl Ahdāf al-Majalla’, Risālat al-Taqrīb, 1, i (Ramaḍān 1413/February-March 1993), p. 7. 80. Muʾtamar al-imām Jaʿ far al-Ṣādiq wa’l-madhāhib al-islāmiyya (Beirut, 1417/1997). 81. Muʾtamar, pp. 446–447. 82. Ibid., p. 448. This internally rhyming sentence (sanatān, al-Nuʿmān) bears a suspicious resemblance to the confession of ʿUmar that only the insight and wise counsel of Imam ʿAlī had prevented him from committing some serious errors in his exercise of caliphal power: ‘Were it not for ʿAlī, ʿUmar would certainly have been ruined.’ 83. Muʾtamar, p. 448. 84. See above, pp. 91–92. 85. Muʾtamar, p. 449.

5

The Kitāb al-Rusūm wa’l-izdiwāj wa’l-tartīb Attributed to ʿAbdān (d. 286/899): Edition of the Arabic Text and Translation Wilferd Madelung and Paul E. Walker

ʿAbdān is the name under which the earliest author of the pre-Fatimid Ismaili daʿwa is known to us. In the accounts of the origins of the Ismaili missionary activity, he appears associated with Ḥamdān Qarmaṭ, the founder of the daʿwa in the Sawād, the countryside around Kūfa, soon after the beginning of Qarmaṭ’s activity between the years 261 and 264/874– 877. He became Qarmaṭ’s brother-in-law and was in charge of teaching and training the dāʿīs to be sent to local districts in the Sawād, as well as to remote regions such as Baḥrayn and Yemen. He was murdered when the early daʿwa split over the claim of the Fatimid ʿAbd Allāh al-Mahdī to the imamate in 286/899.1 According to Ibn al-Nadīm, writing a century later, ʿAbdān was the most prolific author of the daʿwa, though most of his books were merely ascribed to him, as everyone composing books in the daʿwa used his name. This practice evidently was continued after his death by the dāʿīs active in ʿIraq still during the early decades of the fourth/tenth century. In particular a nephew of ʿAbdān, Abu’l-Qāsim ʿĪsā b. Mūsā, is mentioned by the anti-Ismaili polemicist Akhū Muḥsin as having compiled numerous books and attributed them to ʿAbdān in order to create the impression that ʿAbdān was an erudite scholar in all branches of philosophy and science. ʿĪsā b. Mūsā was captured by the ʿAbbasid army in 316/928, but escaped and remained in Baghdad where he continued to spread the teaching of his uncle.2 Ibn al-Nadīm gives the titles of a few of ʿAbdān’s books that were generally available in his time and which he had seen. None of these works seems to be extant now. He also mentions a catalogue (fihrist) of all of ʿAbdān’s books, but does not indicate whether it goes back to ʿAbdān himself and whether it contained only the titles of books 103

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composed during his lifetime.3 The book titles contained in ʿAbdān’s Fihrist are quoted by Naṣīr al-Dīn al-Ṭūsī (d. 672/1274), spread out over many pages in his Safīnat al-aḥkām, an astrological compilation written presumably during his stay in Alamūt at the court of the Nizārī Ismaili imam.4 Several of the titles mentioned by Ibn al-Nadīm, though not all, appear in Ṭūsī’s listing.5 Collectively the book titles give the impression that the treatises were meant to provide a kind of encyclopaedia of contemporary sciences, both religious and natural. This seems to confirm the description of Akhū Muḥsin and may indicate that the Fihrist was compiled by ʿĪsā b. Mūsā rather than his uncle ʿAbdān. Most of ʿAbdān’s books are lost now, and references to them in later Ismaili works are rare. Ṭayyibī Ismaili libraries, according to Ismail Poonawala’s Biobibliography of Ismaili Literature, have preserved two texts ascribed to him: a Risālat al-Shamʿa al-musammāt bi-Mafātīḥ al-niʿma and a Kitāb al-Rusūm wa’l-izdiwāj wa’l-tartīb.6 The former title is not quoted by Ṭūsī and its text was not available to us. Judgement as to whether it may belong to the corpus of ʿAbdān’s writings thus must be suspended at present.7 The second extant text, the Kitāb al-Rusūm wa’l-izdiwāj wa’l-tartīb, probably belongs to the corpus of ʿAbdān’s books.8 On the title page of the manuscript the author is named as Abū Muḥammad ʿAbdān, and in ʿAbdān’s Fihrist, as quoted by Ṭūsī, it appears as Kitāb al-Izdiwāj. The latter title, without the name of an author, is also mentioned as being among the books of the Ismailis by the sixth/twelfth century Yemenite heresiographer Abū Muḥammad.9 In the author’s account of the cyclical hiero-history of seven Speaker-Prophets (nuṭaqāʾ), the sixth one, Muḥammad, was followed by his Legatee (waṣī) or Foundation (asās), ʿAlī, and six concealed imams. The seventh imam and Speaker-Prophet, who can safely be identified as Muḥammad b. Ismāʿīl b. Jaʿfar, will be the qāʾim, whose advent is expected. There is no room for the historical Fatimid imam-caliphs. The primary thesis of the author of the text is the pairedness (izdiwāj) and duality of all created beings, basically evident in the pairedness of everything with its attribute. Things are distinct from their attributes, yet they are inevitably paired with them and cannot subsist without them. God alone is one and unique (fard). His names and attributes are separate from Him. While they can be known, God alone is beyond recognition. This theology, which places God categorically beyond recognition and being, has, as is well known, always remained fundamental in Ismaili

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religious thought and must be considered as an essential constituent of the original teaching of the daʿwa. The text, on the other hand, does not show any trace of the Neoplatonic cosmology that became characteristic of early Persian Ismailism and was widely adopted in Fatimid Ismaili works. Of the ranks of the higher, spiritual world, the author names only the Preceder (Sābiq) and the Follower (Tālī), but does not identify them as the First Intellect and Soul as was commonly done in later texts. This is consistent with the assumption first expressed by Samuel M. Stern that Neoplatonic philosophical thought was introduced in Ismaili doctrine by the early Transoxianan dāʿī Muḥammad b. Aḥmad al-Nasafī (d. 332/943). The absolute impossibility of recognising and knowing God necessarily implies rejection of any rational proof for the existence of God. ʿAbdān thus argues in the text that acknowledgement of the Creator on the basis of His creation is of no avail for salvation, since mere affirmation of Him is innate and natural, and mankind is endowed (fuṭirat) with it. Salvatory knowledge (maʿrifa) is rather attained through inspired instruction (taʿlīm) by the Prophets, their Legatees and the imams, and by reasoning (iktisāb) from it. This instruction was not concerned with proofs for the existence of God and with the exoteric (ẓāhir), openly available aspect of the Scripture and religious law, but with their concealed inner meaning (bāṭin). The adversaries, who believed that they could reach knowledge of God by reason and that the exoteric sense of revelation alone constituted true faith without the need for an imam, were the rationalist kalām theologians as much as the anti-rationalist traditionalists. When Ḥasan-i Ṣabbāḥ (d. 518/1124) over two centuries later founded his ‘new daʿwa’, he must have found in the books of ʿAbdān ideas that attracted him and that he sought to reinvigorate. Ḥasan-i Ṣabbāḥ’s daʿwa centred on the doctrine of the need for inspired instruction, which he reformulated in his famous Four Chapters, and his Nizārī Ismaili followers became known as the Taʿlīmīs.10 The theological atmosphere, however, had changed since the age of ʿAbdān. The most serious rationalist challenge to Ismaili Shiʿi thought came no longer from kalām theologians, but rather from the tradition of the Aristotelian philosophical school as reformulated by Ibn Sīnā (d. 428/1037), whose theological thought was rapidly spreading among Muslim religious scholars. Ibn Sīnā’s family, it is known, had been Ismaili Shiʿi, but he turned away from his father’s faith11 to take up the mantle of al-Fārābī (d. 339/950) as the chief of the Peripatetic philosophers in Islam. God for him was not the unique One beyond being and recognition, but rather the Necessary Being (wājib al-wujūd) that is the cause of all contingent being and also an intelligible Intellect that

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e­ ternally emanated the supreme Intellect of the Universe. His elegant proof for the existence of the Necessary Being impressed many Muslim theologians even though it entailed the eternity of the world. And while for Ibn Sīnā the exoteric aspect of prophetic revelation also concealed its true meaning, this meaning was accessible to the elite of philosophers through direct contact with the Active Intellect which was equally the source of prophetic revelation. There was no need for inspired instruction by an imam. Ḥasan-i Ṣabbāḥ’s elder contemporary Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī (d. 505/1111) in his youth wrote a rebuttal of Ibn Sīnā’s philosophical theology on the basis of Ashʿarī kalām. Later in his life, however, he adopted Ibn Sīnā’s views even on points on which he had at first accused him of unbelief, although he now intimated that his own views were informed by Sufi insight rather than Greek philosophy. Altogether, Ghazālī’s highly influential teaching did more to promote Ibn Sīnā’s Aristotelian thought in Islam than to counter its tide. At the same time Ghazālī maintained his polemical opposition to Shiʿi Ismaili thought. Still in his late work Faysal al-tafriqa bayn al-islām wa’l-zandaqa he classified the Ismaili thesis that God is beyond being and non-being as sheer unbelief. Yet Ḥasan-i Ṣabbāḥ’s defence of Ismaili thought in his renewal of the daʿwa did not remain without echo in the wider Muslim community beyond his immediate Nizārī constituency. A decade after his death, Tāj al-Dīn al-Shahrastānī, originally an Ashʿarī theologian like Ghazālī, took up the cause of Ismaili theology in the Kitāb al-Muṣāraʿa, his Wrestling Match with Ibn Sīnā.12 There he affirmed that God was above existence and non-existence, the existentiator (mūjid) of existence and the giver of both. God was above all opposites, and their sovereign judge (ḥākim). Attributes such as knowledge, power and unity could be predicated of Him only equivocally, as their meaning was entirely unrelated to their ordinary or analogical meaning in the world. He is no intellect, as Ibn Sīnā asserted, and the mode of divine omniscience is beyond the comprehension of the human mind. The reality of God, he asserted much like ʿAbdān, was too well known for His existence to be proved by anything; it was indeed innate in the human conscience (fiṭra). The mission of Prophets was needed not to establish the reality of God, but to reveal His uniqueness that is beyond rational recognition. And why, he questioned, should the Active Intellect that leads human minds from potentiality to actuality be identified with the intellect of the lunar sphere as Ibn Sīnā claimed? Could it not rather be a human mind that has reached perfection and is supported by divine inspiration? Here Shahrastānī clearly envis-

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aged the inspired instruction of the prophets and imams. Shahrastānī’s philosophical defence of Ismaili theology a century later impressed the young Naṣīr al-Dīn al-Ṭūsī, a Twelver Shiʿi with a solid grounding in the philosophical sciences, and encouraged him to visit the centres of the Nizārī daʿwa first in Quhistān and then in Alamūt. For nearly three decades he stayed with his Ismaili hosts and produced some writings supporting their views. The inclusion of ʿAbdān’s Fihrist in one of his books reflects his involvement with the concerns of the daʿwa. He also continued, however, to write books expounding Ibn Sīnā’s thought as well as ones on logic and astronomy. He seems to have been somewhat torn between two philosophies. After the fall of Alamūt to the Mongol conquerors in 654/1256 and his break with the Ismailis, he wrote an angry refutation of Shahrastānī’s work which he called The Downfalls of the Wrestler.13 Denouncing him as a mere populist preacher incompetent in logic and philosophy, he dismissed Shahrastānī’s arguments point by point and upheld Ibn Sīnā’s positions comprehensively. Yet at the beginning and end of his treatise he insisted that it was not his aim to advocate Ibn Sīnā’s views. In two passages of his refutation Ṭūsī chides Shahrastānī for his apparent failure to comprehend the teaching of his (Ismaili) masters, whom he describes as followers of Pythagoras in philosophical terms. Concerning the origins of multiplicity in the world, Pythagoras had affirmed that ‘when a one is established, an opposite not-one is necessarily entailed and duality ensues’. The origin of the world thus was duality and contrariety (taḍādd). God, having no contrary, must evidently then be absolutely transcendent without any relation to the world. Among the founders of religion, Ṭūsī continues, Zoroaster described the origins of multiplicity similarly. When an angel, named Yazdān by Zoroaster, issued from the One, a satan arose from his shadow, whom Zoroaster named Ahriman. Their teachers ascribed to Pythagoras the principle of contrariety, which, according to him, preceded sequential gradation (tarattub) in the universe. They reproached Aristotle for deviating from his position and asserting that gradation was the origin of multiplicity in the world, a single one issuing from the One, with contrariety arising only after gradation.14 This evidently was consistent with Ibn Sīnā’s concept of God as the Necessary Being and intelligible Intellect from which necessarily emanated a single contingent Intellect capable of cognising its Origin. Ṭūsī here calls the doctrine ascribed to Pythagoras a profound secret of creation and seems inclined to his position. It was no doubt the concept of an absolutely transcendent God that had initially attracted him to the

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Ismailis. It had raised for him the problem of how a God beyond being could produce the world since it could not simply emanate from Him by necessity as Ibn Sīnā held. Why should there be a world at all? Ṭūsī, it is known, meditated long about the need for a divine Command (amr) or Word (kalima) which Ismaili teaching posited as an intermediary between the transcendent God and the first being, the Prime Intellect and ʿAbdān’s ‘Preceder’.15 In ʿAbdān’s Kitāb al-Izdiwāj there is no trace of the concept of the divine Command or Word, and it is not known if it was mentioned in any of his other works. It was commonly discussed, however, in early Persian Ismaili texts.16 Ṭūsī’s description of Shahrastānī’s Ismaili teachers as Pythagoreans raises questions. He obviously found the name a convenient means for classing them as representatives of a philosophical school distinct from the Aristotelian Neoplatonic tradition of Fārābī and Ibn Sīnā. Ṭūsī states explicitly, however, that they themselves claimed to be followers of Pythagoras and that they ascribed to him the statement that the positing of a one necessarily entailed a not-one opposite to it. This saying does not seem to be attested of Pythagoras elsewhere, although it is generally in concord with other views tradition attributed to him. Ṭūsī accuses Shahrastānī of having apparently forgotten what he had learned from his teachers about the doctrine of Pythagoras. Yet Shahrastānī nowhere described the Ismailis expressly as followers of Pythagoras. In his doxographical Kitāb al-Milal wa’l-niḥal he mentioned summarily that Ḥasan-i Ṣabbāḥ recommended that the principles of contrariety and gradation be applied as a measurement in all disputation, but did not associate Pythagoras with these principles.17 In the Kitāb al-Muṣāraʿa he cites a doctrine about animal and human recognition of God which is ascribed in the Kitāb al-Milal to Pythagoras, but identifies it here as the statement of ‘the sages who are the pillars of wisdom’.18 Ṭūsī furthermore criticises Shahrastānī for referring to a view according to which there are three principles corresponding to three aspects of the Prime Intellect: another intellect, a soul and prime matter (hayūlā). Ṭūsī objects to this, saying that the followers of Pythagoras to whom the (Ismaili) fellows of Shahrastānī belonged rather speak of the three principles as an intellect, a soul and a nature (ṭabīʿa). In the Kitāb al-Milal Shahrastānī quoted this latter view as a doctrine of Pythagoras. In the Kitāb al-Muṣāraʿa, however, he speaks of differing views in this regard without mentioning Pythagoras.19 Shahrastānī thus probably was unaware of any Ismaili claims to be followers of Pythagoras; nor is it likely that Ḥasan-i Ṣabbāḥ ever put forward such a claim. In earlier Ismaili

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works Pythagoras, if mentioned at all, was not treated more favourably than other Greek philosophers. Was Ṭūsī’s account of Ismaili claims to be followers of Pythagoras then simply made up by him? In view of his evident fascination by the doctrine ascribed to Pythagoras this seems unlikely. The claim must have been intimated to him by some high authority in the daʿwa, perhaps even the imam. As an analytical description of Ismaili theological thought from its origins the claim was revealing; as an explanation of its historical filiation it lacks credibility. Notes On ʿAbdān see in general Wilferd Madelung, in EI3, vol. 1, pp. 23–24. Wilferd Madelung, ‘The Fatimids and the Qarmaṭīs of Bahrayn’, in Farhad Daftary, ed., Mediaeval Ismaʿili History and Thought (Cambridge, 1996), p. 55, n.27. 3. Ibn al-Nadīm, Kitāb al-Fihrist, ed. Gustav Flügel (Leipzig, 1871), pp. 279–282; tr. Bayard Dodge as The Fihrist of al-Nadīm: A Tenth-century Survey of Muslim Culture (New York and London, 1970). MS 1174 ArI ZA. 4. Naṣīr al-Dīn al-Ṭūsī, Safinat al-aḥkām, MS 3640, Chester Beatty Collection, Dublin. 5. Only the following titles listed by Ibn al-Nadīm are quoted by al-Ṭūsī: Kitāb al-Raḥā wa’l-dūlāb, Kitāb al-Mīzān, Kitāb al-Nīrān, Kitāb al-Malāḥim. 6. Ismail K. Poonawala, Biobibliography of Ismāʿīlī Literature (Malibu, CA, 1977), p. 33. 7. There is another text with the title Risālat Mafātīḥ al-niʿma that is commonly ascribed to al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān; see Poonawala, Biobibliography, pp. 66–67; Ismāʿīl b. ʿAbd al-Rasūl al-Majdūʿ, Fahrasat al-kutub wa’l-rasāʾil [Fihrist al-Majdūʿ], ed. ʿAlīnaqī Munzawī (Tehran, 1966), p. 187. This is an admonishing letter addressed to a neophyte about the obligatory payment of religious dues. It is unlikely it was written by al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān, who is named only in an appendix to the letter. Although the text is distinctly early, there is no indication that it might belong to the corpus of ʿAbdān’s works. 8. The manuscript available to us has been MS 1174 ArI ZA of the Zāhid ʿAlī collection, now in the possession of The Institute of Ismaili Studies, London. It is described by Delia Cortese in Arabic Ismaili Manuscripts: The Zāhid ʿAlī Collection in the Library of the Institute of Ismaili Studies (London, 2003), pp. 81–82. 9. See Abū Muḥammad al-Yamanī’s ʿAqāʾid al-thalāth wa’l-sabʿīn firqa, ed. Muḥammad Zarbān al-Ghāmidī (Medina, 1993), p. 513. 10. Ḥasan-i Ṣabbāḥ, Chahār Faṣl (=Fuṣūl-i arbaʿa), see Shahrastānī, Kitāb al-Milal wa’l-niḥal (ed. Cureton), pp. 150–152; French tr. Gimaret and 1. 2.

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11.

12. 13. 14. 15.

16. 17. 18. 19.

Wilferd Madelung and Paul E. Walker Monnot, Livre des religions et des sects, vol. 1, pp. 560–565; English tr. Kazi and Flynn as Muslims Sects and Divisions, pp. 168–170. See Ibn Sīnā’s autobiography as preserved in Ibn al-Qifti, Taʾrīkh al-Ḥukamāʾ, ed. Julius Lippert (Baghdad and Leipzig, 1903), pp. 413–417 and Ibn Abi Uṣaybiʾa, ʿUyūn al-anbāʾ fī ṭabaqāt al-aṭibbāʾ, ed. Nizār Riḍā (Beirut, 1965), pp. 437–445. Shahrastānī, Kitāb al-Muṣāraʿa, ed. and tr. Wilferd Madelung and Toby Mayer as Struggling with the Philosopher: A Refutation of Avicenna’s Metaphysics (London, 2001). Naṣīr al-Dīn al-Ṭūsī, Maṣāriʿ al-muṣāriʿ, ed. Wilferd Madelung (Tehran, 2004). Ibid., pp. 105–106. See especially Hermann Landolt, ‘Khwāja Naṣīr al-Dīn Ṭūsī (597/1201– 672/1274), Ismāʿīlism and Ishrāqī Philosophy’, in Nasrollah Pourjavady and Živa Vesel, ed., Naṣīr al-Dīn Ṭūsī: Philosophe et savant du XIIIe siècle (Tehran, 2000), pp. 19–21; and idem, ‘Introduction’, in Naṣīr al-Dīn al-Ṭūsī, Rawḍa-yi taslīm, ed. and tr., S. Jalal Badakhchani, Paradise of Submission: A Medieval Treatise on Ismaili Thought (London, 2005). See, for instance, Heinz Halm, Kosmologie und Heilslehre der frühen Ismāʿīlīya: Eine Studie zur islamischen Gnosis (Wiesbaden, 1978), see index s.v. amr and kalima. Shahrastānī, Milal, pp. 151–152. Shahrastānī, Struggling with the Philosopher, Arabic text p. 89; tr. p. 72; al-Milal, pp. 265–256. Ibid., p. 268; Ṭūsī, Maṣāriʿ al-muṣāriʿ, p. 121.

The Book of Norms, Pairedness and Ranking

By Abū Muḥammad ʿAbdān, may God have mercy on him In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate, in whom we have recourse in all matters. Praise be to God who appointed for each period people of knowledge who persist in bringing the people out of the darkness and into guidance, patiently endure injury from them, who continue to restore life to the lifeless through the Book of God and who, by the light of God, give sight to those who are blind. How many of those fallen to Iblīs have they revived and how many of those gone astray and become lost have they guided! How good are their effects on the people and how evil the effects of the people on them! They banish from the Book of God the distortion of the exaggerators, the arrogation of the falsifiers and the interpretations of the renegades who hoist the banners of innovation, who plant their feet on the path to perdition and swerve from the roads of right guidance and who hasten in ignorance to the furthest limit. Sacred preserves are by them violated; forbidden things are by their interpretation (taʾwīl) permitted. They deviate from the straight path and tell lies against God concerning His Book without any knowledge of it. They depart from what is proper to Him. We seek refuge in God from the seduction of those who lead astray and from the caprice of the deviators, the fanaticism of the ignorant and those who lie against God and are insolent to His Friends. Praise be to God, the Lord of the worlds, who is unique in singleness and single in uniqueness, who is the first from eternity and the last who will not cease, the one who innovates creation and annihilates it, who brings it back and who starts it, who refuses description, who cannot be characterised in His essence nor encompassed by the senses. Thoughts cannot reach Him and sights do not perceive Him. Yet He perceives sights; He is subtle and knowing (Q. 6:103). God bless the one chosen and approved among His Prophets, the one chosen of His Messengers, sent to jinn and men as herald of good tidings and as warner in order to bring religion to perfection and complete the path of the messengers by conveying its proof and illuminating the way to it. A complete, pure and growing prayer be upon him in the morning and evening; and on the good among his family, the righteous in his community and the God-fearing among their followers, keep them in peace. Understand – may God inspire you with guidance and lead you to what is right – that the first thing that is required of all novices is to acknowledge 164 111

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God, hallowed is His mention and then to acknowledge His Messengers. Next comes recognition of those appointed to command and rendering them obedience. God, the exalted and glorious, said, O you who believe, obey God and obey the messenger and obey those in command among you (Q. 4:59). Understand – may God teach you the good – that the actions of the servants are all related to God, the glorious and the great, and that they are closely tied to what connects them to the reality of the confession of His uniqueness. Thus someone who acknowledges God with the acknowledgement truly due Him and declares Him truly one has rendered his actions righteous and his efforts good. Someone who is ignorant of that forfeits his effort and renders his actions base. His reward from God is as God said: We will come to whatever actions they have done and make them as if scattered dust (Q. 25:23). The Commander of the Believers ʿAlī, the blessings of God be upon him, said in one of his sermons: ‘Truly the first matter of religion is to acknowledge God and the perfect acknowledgement of Him is to confess His uniqueness. The proper form in which to acknowledge His oneness is to deny of Him attributes through the testimony of the intellects that every attribute and that to which it is attributed are both created; and by the testimony of that which is other than the attribute, and the testimony of both together, that they are a duality, each one being unable to subsist without the other; and the testimony of duality in itself to having come into existence, which precludes being eternal.’ These words contain the meanings of recognising [God’s] uniqueness for the person who acknowledges it, who recognises its true reality, and understands what its definition entails. Understand – may God adapt you to righteousness – that the true acknowledgment of God is to attribute to Him uniqueness and to recognise Him as absolutely single, and that He is the single creator who has no opposite, no equal, no partner, no mate; that He cannot be apprehended in any way, or by any means, and, even though His names are perceptible, His names and His attributes are other than He. Every thing other than He is created, paired, joined together, mutually alike, subject to description, apprehensible, possible, identifiable, formed and demonstrable. Everything created, even if its name is but a single name, has aspects in pairs such that one of them exists in its likeness and mate. An example is the human, who has two aspects: the spirit and the body, such that the spirit exists with the body and the body with the spirit, and neither can subsist without its companion. Moreover, the body in itself is a compound of two natures, which are coolness and dryness. Similarly, the spirit is a compound of two natures, which are heat and moistness. The indica-

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tion for that is that you observe a human as hot and dry, the heat and dryness being of the substance of the spirit. When the spirit departs from the body, the body reverts to its own substance. Similarly, everything in the world has necessarily two substances in it, either hot and moist or hot and dry or cool and moist or cool and dry, because God, the almighty and the sublime, innovated this world out of these four natures. There is thus nothing that does not combine in itself two substances compounded in such a manner that one of them subsists with its companion. All things seen and unseen have of necessity two aspects: coarse and 163 fine; and every thing coarse and fine is of necessity of two kinds: alive and inanimate, one of which is the contrary of the other and its partner and mate. All things exist in their paired relationship, joined to the other, mutually contrary, one in need of the other. One is an indication of the other, so that from the mate its mate can be deduced, and by the contrary its contrary, and by the like its like. Each partner is unrecognisable except through its partner; one of them is not understood without the other, like the sky and the earth, the east and the west, night and day, light and dark, black and white, land and sea, the plain and the mountain, the near and far, the long and short, the wide and deep, the high and the low, the handsome and the ugly, pleasant and rotten, sweet and bitter, fresh and salty, soft and rough, moist and dry, light and heavy. These things are alike in being contraries in implied pairings that indicate one of them by reference to the one it resembles and is contrary to it, is paired with it and is its partner. These characteristics, which adhere to the two, indicate the uniqueness of their Creator and His singularity and that He is different from them in all aspects. He cannot be perceived by an effort of the heart, nor comprehended by thought; one cannot say that He is He by way of demonstration nor of imagination, in order that there be a distinction between Creator and creation, between Lord and subject, between Maker and what He made. Since it is proven that the Creator is different in all respects, His thingness (shayʾiyya) is different from that of all created beings, because a created being must either be physical, and thus apprehended by the external senses, or be spiritual, and thus apprehended by the internal senses. Since it is proven that a created being, whatever it is, is apprehended either by the external senses or by the internal senses, it is also proven that the Creator cannot be apprehended through anything from those He created, under any circumstance or by any means, nor does some phrase stand for Him or an allusion or imagination point to Him. No likeness can be coined for Him; nothing low or high encompasses Him. Things ­apprehended by

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these senses we have mentioned you apprehend solely through their association and you distinguish them by their being paired. They are, in their essence, joined together and not singular, given that no sense apprehends 162 something that is perceived without a partner that is paired with it. If the sense is isolated from its mate, it becomes inoperative and ceases to function. The five physical senses are the ear, the eye, the nose, the mouth and the hand. The partner of the ear is hearing, the partner of the eye is sight, the partner of the nose is smell, the partner of the mouth is taste, the partner of the hand is touch. These are to them in the position of spirits to bodies. Each sense that loses its partner has fallen dead. Have you not noticed that the deaf man, once he lacks hearing, cannot use his ears for anything? Similarly the blind man, once his sight is gone, cannot use his eyes for anything. The mouth, once blocked for some reason, finds no way to taste things as they really are and it then finds the sweet bitter and the fresh salty. In the same way someone with a sense of smell, once having lost the ability to smell, cannot use his nose for anything. Also the hemiplegiac, having lost his sense of touch, has no use for his hand. Thus these senses come in known pairs that only apprehend things by their association. The Creator, however, has no partner that He might be known through, nor an equal to be compared with. The five senses do not reach Him. Indeed, nothing is like Him; He is all-hearing and all-seeing (Q. 42:11); He has power over every thing (Q. 5:120 and others). Things do not apprehend the One who made them things but He comprehends them. For that reason God said, Sight does not apprehend Him but He comprehends sight; He is fine and knowing (Q. 6:103). The common people claim that sight is the sight of the eyes and that He cannot be perceived by the eyes. It is not as they suppose, rather He means – glorious is His name – the sight of the five senses which function separately to attain cognition of all things and that all things necessarily have five aspects, which are sound, colour, taste, body and spirit. The Creator, however, is not a sound, nor a colour, nor a fragrance, nor a taste, nor a body, but rather He is the Creator of these things and is divorced from their attributes. If someone were to say: The heart is a sixth sense and the Creator is attained by the heart, we would say to him: The heart is the manager of the senses and the ruler over them, and the senses are in the position of the elements, which are the mothers. Whatever the senses apprehend, the heart manages and gauges it by its partner and seeks evidence for it through what is like it. The heart does not perceive anything but what the five senses indicate and does not cognise anything but what they witness.

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It is not alone by itself but is, rather, a partner that is connected to what is subtler than it and which it is in need of, namely, the intellect. The intellect in relation to the heart is in the position of the spirit with respect to the body, and the heart is to the intellect in the position of the body to the spirit. Every heart that has no intellect has fallen into an inanimate state like the hearts of the beasts. God created things only in pairs, conjoined and doubled because, if He had created anything as unique, it would be His equal, or as single other than Him, that single one would be associated with Him in His singularity, and would be His partner in His uniqueness 161 and there would be neither Creator nor created thing. God said: If there were in them1 gods other than God, they would go to ruin; hallowed be God, the Lord of the throne, above what they describe (Q. 21:22). But He is isolated in uniqueness from having partners; He created all creatures in need of each other as an indication that He is single in oneness; blessed be God, the best of creators (Q. 23:14). Thus all we observe in the lower world exists doubled and in pairedness. It is likewise true for matters that are absent from us about which information comes from the Prophets, peace be upon them, when they speak about, for example, Paradise and Hellfire, Reward and Punishment, the Tablet and the Pen, the Throne and Footstool, Jibraʾīl and Mīkāʾīl, the place of the Last Judgement (mawqif) and the Bridge (ṣirāṭ), the Reckoning and the Balance. About that God, hallowed is He, spoke in His Book, when He said: Of everything We created two of a kind, perhaps you will take note (Q. 51:49); and He said: and We created you in pairs (Q. 78:7). He also said: Hallowed be He who created all things in pairs, those that the earth produces, those that are from themselves, and those about which they know not (Q. 36:36); and He said: He created for you among yourselves mates, and among the cattle also pairs, through them to multiple you; nothing is like Him, He is all-hearing and all-seeing (Q. 42:11); and He said: By the even and the odd (Q. 89:3). This is proof for the negation of similitude for God. Thereupon God established His religion on the likeness of His creation so that, from His creation, evidence could be obtained about His religion and, from His religion, about His singularity. For that reason He said: Say, observe what is in the heavens and the earth, but signs and warnings will not be enough for those who do not believe (Q. 10:101); and He said: And how many signs in the heavens and the earth do they pass by, turning away from them (Q. 12:105). He said also: And in your own selves, will you not see (Q. 51:21). And there is more like this in the Book of God. Next God selected from His creatures the most choice of them and He called them by two names: Prophets and Messengers. He described

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them with two attributes: heralds of good tidings and warners. He chose from them [a man named] Muḥammad and Aḥmad, and He sent him to the jinn and the humans, to the Arabs and non-Arabs. He made for him two residences: Mecca and Medina. He divided his companions into two parties: the Emigrants (muhājirūn) and the Supporters (anṣār). He arranged ties of brotherhood between each pair of them, even to a tie of brotherhood between himself and ʿAlī b. Abī Ṭālib, peace be upon him. He established the rules of religion on two foundations: obligatory duties and normative practice. He left at his death among us the two loads: the Book of God and his family. Some say: the Book of God and his norma160 tive practice, but both expressions indicate one meaning. The Book is in itself of two types: revelation and interpretation, interior and exterior, of fixed meaning and ambiguous, Meccan and Medinan, abrogating and abrogated, licit and illicit, commanded and forbidden, promise and threat, prior and subsequent. In it there are reports of what is and what will be, and he [i.e. Muḥammad], peace be upon him, summoned to the religion of Islam and to faith, a pairing in the position of spirit and body: one cannot stand without the other. In some reports from the Prophet, he is reported to have said: ‘Islam is built on five things.’ He was asked, ‘What are they, O Messenger of God?’ He replied: ‘On the testimony of faith (shahāda), performance of prayer, giving of alms, fasting in the month of Ramaḍān and the pilgrimage to the House for all those who have a way to do it.’ Each one of these basic principles is linked with another. The testimony that there is no god but God is paired with the testimony that Muḥammad is the Messenger of God; one has no standing without the other. Prayer is linked to ablutions; alms with charity; fasting with the night vigil (qiyām), the pilgrimage with the visitation (ʿumra). The followers of the Prophets fall into two types: those who are obedient and those who are coerced, and that is as He said: Those in the heavens and the earth submitted to Him either obediently or resentfully (Q. 3:83). Among them there are those who know and those who are ignorant; as to that He said: Are they equal, those who know and those who do not know (Q. 39:9). There are those who obey and those to be obeyed, in accord with His statement: Obey God and obey the Messenger (Q. 4:59). There are those with command and those under command, as in His statement: Let those who oppose his commands be warned that some trial is about to befall them (Q. 24:63). There are the elite and the common people, as in His words: God guides whomever He wants to a straight path, for those who do good there is good and more (Q. 10:25–26). There are the more excellent and the less excellent, as in His statement: God grants, as a favour to those who fight over those who sit

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at home, a greater reward (Q. 4:95). And there are many examples such as these in the Book of God; if we were to mention them, the illustration would have run on at length. Here we say that the simplest method of all for perfecting the confession of uniqueness is to deny of the Creator, who created the spirit and body, all that is found in the spirit or the body in the way of substance, genera, attributes and acts, because the spirit occupies the body and the body occupies its space. Similarly, all other accidents occupy bodies and bodies occupy the earth. Their Creator is different from them and cannot be described as in need of space, nor does He move or cease, since He is prior to all that. Nor is He borne, or mixed, or located in an abode, nor does He inhere in anything. All found in creation is excluded from God; all that is possible in them, is impossible in Him. His names in the Revelation and His attributes apply to their meanings, which are spiritual 159 and bodily beings. His names are, as one says: O Most Merciful, O Most Compassionate One, and His attributes are likewise: O Most Mighty, O Most Noble, O All-Knowing. His names are related to the first of His names. When you understand these names and attributes, the limits and rules are set, the lighthouse of Islam is lit, and the veracity of Muḥammad is apparent. Thus this is a part of perfecting the confession of uniqueness and of the duality of created things, their being paired, mutually alike and contrary to each other, in order that it serve as an indication and aid for the novice. We say – and it is God of whom we seek assistance – that the affirmation by creatures of the Creator – sublime is His name – on the basis of His product is of no avail and does not deliver, because the affirmation of Him is innate and natural, and they are endowed with it. The knowledge that saves comes through instruction (taʿlīm) and acquisition and by it [people] are tested. By acquisition, the innate and natural states are cognised, and by instruction the soundness of a report and the knowledge of the informant is realised. If the knowledge of God necessarily saved them in the same way that the knowledge of the proof and affirmation of Him are necessary, then the inspiration, the Books, the Prophets and Messengers would be vain, and to recognise God there would be no need for a proof beyond the existence of His creation, because, in regard to saying ‘God’, there is no need for a proof beyond His being and His evidence. Since it is correct that the proof for one who cannot be witnessed is by way of his product, it is proven that cognition of Him is through instruction and by way of the Prophets and Messengers. And likewise is the affirmation of the Messengers and what they convey. God said: If you ask them who created

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the heavens and the earth, they would surely say God; say Praise be to God, but most of them do not know (Q. 31:25); and He said: Most of them do not believe in God except in so far as they are idolaters (Q. 12:106). He also said: But most of the people do not know; they know the externals of worldly life but are heedless of the life to come (Q. 30:6–7); and He said: Is then someone who knows that what was revealed to you from your Lord is the truth like one who is blind? It is those with understanding that take notice (Q. 13:19). He said also: The blind and those who see are not alike (Q. 35:19); and He said: Are those who know and those who do not know equal? (Q. 39:9); and He said: They do not know the Book except as desires (Q. 2:78). By desires He means ‘perusal’ (dirāsa) and that they are not cognisant of its meanings. He said: Those to whom they appeal other than Him possess no power of intercession other than he who bears witness to the truth and they know (Q. 43:86); and He said: Supposition is of no use with the truth (Q. 10:36). 158 Then He extolled others saying: Only those who know understand them (Q. 29:43); and He said: None know its interpretation except God and those firmly grounded in knowledge, they say, we believe in it, all is from our Lord (Q. 3:7). He also said: God will raise in degrees those of you who believe and have been given knowledge (Q. 58:11); and He said: Those who truly fear God among His servants are the men of knowledge (Q. 35:28). Thus he informs us that He is not feared but by those with knowledge of Him and of His religion, and that the affirmation of God and acting in accord with the exterior of the law and abiding by it without recognising its true realities is reprehensible and not praiseworthy. Rather it is unbelief, as He has said: Is it then that you believe in part of the Book and reject the rest? (Q. 2:85) because they believe in the exterior of the law and reject its inner significance. For the external aspect is not the religion in reality, but rather a way to religion and a right that is not established except by its true reality, since God said: God makes the truth true by His words (Q. 10:82); and He said: That God makes the truth true and the false false even though the idolaters hate that (Q. 8:8). Thus the exterior is true and those who uphold it are truthful; those who act on it are right, if only they understand the true reality of their statements and work because God has said: That He may question those who are truthful about their truth (Q. 33:8). Accordingly, they may be questioned about the true reality of their statements and work, if they are to succeed. Otherwise they are, like the rest of the adherents of religious laws, transgressors of it, because of His having said: Those who believe and those who are Jewish and the Christians and the Sabians, those who believe in God, the Last Day and do righteous deeds, for them is their reward with their Lord, no fear for them nor will they grieve

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(Q. 2:62). Do you not notice that He has combined them in addressing them and decided clearly in this verse that they do not believe in God or in the Last Day, and they are only called believers because of their faith in the word and the act in the absence of the knowledge that is the true reality of their words and deeds? And that is in His statement: O you who believe, believe in God and His messenger and the light that We have sent down (Q. 64:8); and His statement: Truly I am the one who forgives those who repent and believe and do righteous deeds, and then find guidance (Q. 20:82). He indicates by these words that repentance is the beginning of faith, and that deeds are the path to guidance, which is the second step in faith. He said: O you who believe, shall I indicate to you a transaction that will save you from a painful penalty so that you believe in God (Q. 61:10–11) and the Last Day? Thus He reports that the transaction, which brings salvation from the painful penalty, is the second step in faith. There is much like this in the Book of God. Thus He says, acting in accord with the externals of 157 the law is a means to faith and a pathway to it. God said: If they had done what they were admonished to do, it would have been good for them and a strengthening confirmation; and then We would have granted from Us a great reward and guided them on the straight path (Q. 4:66–67). Affirmation consists in the two testimonies of faith and performing the rest of the obligatory duties. These are the externals of the law, which the people are compelled and forced by the sword to enter into and say and do, because of His statement: And fight them until there is no more temptation and the religion is all God’s (Q. 8:39). Since they accepted it obediently but under duress, he set up among them penalties in all matters as he was ordered to do. Whoever apostatised from Islam after having entered it was killed and whoever did something that required the imposition of a penalty was flogged. Thus, by their having accepted the exterior of Islam, which is the outward aspect of the law, and their having entered into it, He made them in this life gain security from the shedding of blood, protection of property, immunity from having to submit and pay tribute and the captivity of offspring. By recognition of its true reality, He awarded them a reward in the Afterlife, as God’s Messenger said: ‘I was commanded to wage war on the people until they say there is no god but God. When they say it, by that they render immune from us their blood and property except for a right cause; their reckoning is up to God.’ The externals of the law to which the people are compelled are beneficial to life in the here and now, but they are not religion in itself, which is beneficial for life in the Afterlife. The words of God confirm that statement: There is no compulsion in religion (Q. 2:256); and also His statement: Would you then coerce

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the people to become believers? (Q. 10:99). Next He urged them to seek knowledge and the meaning of the parables God mentioned in His Book, such as His statement: O you who believe, a parable has been coined, listen to it; those who call upon someone other than God can never create so much as a fly even if they worked together (Q. 22:73); and His statement: If We had sent down this Qurʾan on a mountain, you would have seen it become humble and split asunder out of fear of God, and these examples We coin them for the people that they might reflect (Q. 59:21). He also said: We have coined for you parables (Q. 14:45); and His statement: These parables We have set forth for the people (Q. 29:43); and His words: For each We issued parables (Q. 25:39); and His words: Truly We have coined for the people in this Qurʾan every sort of parable, yet most of the people refuse to accept except with ingratitude (Q. 17:89); and His words: Truly God is not ashamed to coin as a parable even a gnat or what is just above it (Q. 2:26). There is much like this in the Book of God. For that reason He said: A Book We have sent down to you, a blessing that the men of understanding may ponder its signs and so remember (Q. 38:29); and He 156 said: Do they not ponder the Qurʾan (Q. 4:82); and He said: Now We have brought the word to them so that they might remember (Q. 28:51); and He said: On that day the tidings will blind them and they will not be able to question each other (Q. 28:66). He would not urge them to meditate on the parables put forth in the Book of God and to ponder His signs and not leave them to themselves before having established for them an indication of what they mean. He is Omniscient and Wise. And He said: The most Merciful, ask anyone well informed about Him (Q. 25:59); and He said: None can inform you like the expert (Q. 35:14); and He said: So ask the people of remembrance if you do not know (Q. 16:43 and Q. 21:7); and He said: If they had referred it to the Messenger (plus the rest of this verse, Q. 4:83); and He said: And in whatever you differ about, the judgement belongs to God (Q. 42:10). Do you think He obligated His servants to ask someone who is non-existent? Hallowed be He; He is more just than that, and more compassionate with His servants. It has been related from the Messenger of God that he said: ‘Seek knowledge even in China’ and he said: ‘Seeking knowledge is the obligation of every Muslim.’ Thus, if that which he urged upon them were the exterior without the inner meaning, he would not have made the seeking obligatory, because the externals are present with everyone, and what is present does not need to be sought and does not require instruction. The quest for knowledge to which the Messenger of God urged applies solely to knowledge of the

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inner meaning. Understand the expression to understand the intention of the Messenger of God. Then he indicated to [the people] the source of knowledge and the waymarkers of the religion. He said: ‘I am the city of knowledge and ʿAlī is its gateway; whoever would enter the city, let him come in by the gate.’ For that reason God said: It is not virtuous if you enter houses from the back of them, but it is virtuous if the God-fearing come into houses through their doorways (Q. 2:189). The houses are the Friends of God (awliyāʾ) and their doorways are the Legatees (awṣiyāʾ), on whom be peace. The veracious one,2 on whom be peace, said: ‘By God, you will not reach the city unless you enter it by the doorway.’ This statement by him is an argument against them and is his indication to them that they should follow the evidence of the meanings of God’s knowledge. He said also: ‘The truth is with this one’ and he pointed to ʿAlī; and he said: ‘This is his party (ḥizb), they are those who succeed’; and he said: ‘O God, make the truth turn with ʿAlī wherever he turns.’ Thus whoever comes and takes it from him, will prosper and be saved and whoever turns away from him, will go astray and be misled.’ But the person who would attain the true reality of the religion of God 155 will never reach it in the absence of confirmed commitments and sacred covenants in accord with what God laid down for the Prophets and their righteous followers: The Law of God that was in effect in the past and you will find no change in the Law of God (Q. 48:23). This is His statement: We took from the Prophets their covenant, and from you and from Noah, Abraham, Moses and Jesus the son of Mary, and We took from them a binding covenant (Q. 33:7). Have you not observed that He mentions them by their names, those whose covenant is to transmit the proof in order that they be for the world an example and that none of them should have an excuse in opposing the covenant or cancelling a condition, or offer God an excuse for himself? For these prophets there are imams of inner meaning and the veracious summoners (dāʿīs), who confess to the former and stand firm on the various aspects of their laws. It is evident to everyone who has religion among those of differing opinion that he will never understand the true reality of God’s religion or that he will have any share of certainty in the absence of a covenant that obligates him to keep it and commits him to it. God said: Have you seen the person the one who denies Our signs but says, ‘Surely I will be granted wealth and children; has he looked into the unknown or sworn a covenant with the Most Merciful (Q. 19:77–78); and He said: And fulfil the covenant, the covenant will be a matter subject to questioning (Q. 17:34); and He said: Fulfil My covenant; I will fulfil yours (Q. 2:40); and He said: Fulfil the covenant with God, once you have made

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one, and do not go back on your oaths after having affirmed them; you have then made God your surety (Q. 16:91); and He said: And those who keep their trusts and covenants (Q. 23:8); and He said: And fulfil God’s covenant that He has charged you with (Q. 6:152); and He said: And do not be like the woman who breaks into untwisted strands the yarn she has spun after it has become strong, nor take your oaths in order to practice deception between yourselves (Q. 16:92); then a foot that was firmly planted may slip and you will taste the evil in having blocked the path to God and for you is a great punishment (Q. 16:94). God has stated clearly that those who violate their covenant are those whose feet slip astray on their way and that those who keep their covenant are those who are firm of foot, being guided to a straight path and adhering to the firm bond of God. The Messenger of God took the oath of allegiance even from women because God ordered him to do that in His saying: O Prophet, when believing women come to you to make with you a contract not to associate anything with God, nor to steal, nor to commit adultery, nor to kill their children, to His words: make a contract with them and ask God to forgive them (Q. 60:12); and He said: God was pleased with the faithful when they pledged allegiance 154 to you under the tree (Q. 48:18); and He said: ‘Those who make a contract with you certainly make a contract also with God, the hand of God being above their hands’ to His words: [will have] an immense reward (Q. 48:10). Thus it is established that God took from His Prophets a covenant and the Prophets took it from their followers, just as He commanded them to do, in accordance with the Law of God that was in effect among His servants in the past. Thus whoever violates his covenant is a hypocrite gone astray from his guidance; whoever fulfils it is a believer who has been led to knowledge of the inner meaning and the exterior, the interpretation of the revelation, and the meanings of the parables. He is safe from doubts and suspicions, having moved from dissension to agreement. He upholds faith with Islam, obediently and without compulsion. The path from error to good conduct is clear to him and he grasps the Strong Rope of God and His firm bond. Religion in its true reality includes faith along with Islam and knowledge of the externals with the inner meaning, the interpretation with the Revelation. Islam is truth and faith is the reality of the truth. There is no attaining the recognition of the truth but by recognising the reality, as the Messenger of God said: ‘For every truth, there is a true reality, on all that is right a light.’ The truth is what the Prophets appealed for in public with the sword that is the exterior of the law, and the true reality is the interpretation of the Revelation. Whoever stays with the exterior of Islam

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without acknowledging its inner meaning renders unlawful his property, his blood, and is safe from humiliation and tribute in this world, but, if he upholds Islam and faith, the faith is a security and sanctuary in his afterlife. His spirit, which sustains his body and is the combiner of its parts, is safe from the punishment of hellfire. For that reason the Messenger of God declared inviolable for himself two sanctuaries so that this would be an indication and example that religion is based on two foundations, one of which is the sanctuary of the body and the other the sanctuary of the spirit. Just as the body is alive and is sustained by the spirit, likewise Islam is sustained by faith. Likewise knowledge is spirit and work is body. The learned is a parent and the pupil is a child. The exterior of the law is a body and the interior is its spirit, As we explained at the beginning of this book of ours, all things exist in pairs, in religion and in the world. Thus the adherents of the exterior are dead in their ignorance of the interior. If they respond to the interior, they live and walk with the people in the light of knowledge. They go out from the darkness of factions that dissent from and contradict each other into harmony and mercy. Have you not observed His statement: O you who believe, respond to God and the Messenger when he summons you to what gives you life (Q. 8:24); and He said: Can thus he who was lifeless and We revived him and gave him a light with which to walk among people be as someone like him in the darkness from which he does not exit (Q. 6:122). If they were those responding to God in reality, He would not have said: ‘O you who believe, answer God and the Messenger when he summons you to what gives you life’ (Q. 8:24). He only called them believers because 153 they believe in the exterior of the law. These believers affirm a truth and are united on it, but differ over it, curse and revile each other, being ignorant of its true reality. They affirm what they do not understand and accept what they do not know. They are as the dead without life and do not know when they will be raised (Q. 16:21). Do you not see that He denounces those like them? He said: Do you then believe in part of the book and deny part (Q. 2:85); and He said: What is with you that you do not believe in God and the Messenger who summons you to believe in your Lord and has taken your covenant if you are believers (Q. 57:8); and He said: That they may be increased in belief with their belief (Q. 48:4). Therefore the believers in the true reality are those who affirm the exterior, which is the truth, and also recognise the interior, which is the reality of the truth. God gives them life by the light of knowledge as He said: ‘Or can he who was lifeless and We revived him and gave him a light with which to walk among people be as someone like him in the darkness from which he does not exit’ (Q. 6:122).

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The Messenger of God set up the obligatory duties of religion such that some of them are connected to others. Thus he connected the duties with legal practices and He made known that the duties are from God and the legal practices are from His Prophets. By the duties and the practices He indicated the persons in charge of them. Thus the duties indicate the ranks of the Speaking-Prophets and the practices indicate the Legatees because God appointed the Speaker-Prophets without the intermediary of humans, and the practices after the duties [indicate the Legatees] because God made obedience to them a duty that follows after obedience to Him and obedience to His Prophets. He said: O you who believe, obey God and obey the Messenger and those with command among you (Q. 4:59). The duty and the practice include acknowledging the Imam and the Ḥujja in each age and period. The duty is the Speaker-Prophet and the practice is his Gate (bāb), there is no difference between them. Thus the Messenger of God said: ‘Whoever abandons my practice is accursed.’ He meant by ‘practice’ his Gate, who is his Executor and his Ḥujja whom he chose for the interpretation of his Law. God said in confirming the truth of that: He does not speak capriciously; it is rather a revelation revealed (Q. 53:3– 4); and He said: Say, I ask no reward of you (Q. 6:90); and He said: Had he attributed any words falsely to Us, We would have seized him by the right hand and then cut his aorta (Q. 69:43–46). Then He urged obedi152 ence to him. He said: Accept what the Messenger brings you and abstain from what he forbids you (Q. 59:7); and He said: Let those who contravene his command beware lest trouble befall them and a painful punishment overtake them (Q. 24:63); and He said: If you obey him, you will be rightly guided (Q. 24:54); and He said: No believing man or woman has a choice in a matter once it has been decided by God and His Messenger; whoever disobeys God and His Messenger has gone astray and into an obvious error (Q. 33:36). The Speaker-Prophet and the Foundation (asās) in reality are in the position of father and mother, and the believers are in the position of children. God said: The Prophet is closer to the believers than they are to themselves and his wives are their mothers (Q. 33:6), and he is their father. Likewise the Messenger of God said to the Commander of the Believers ʿAlī: ‘I and you are the parents of this community.’ The veracious (al-Ṣādiq) said: ‘The believer is the brother of the believer in regard to his father and his mother; their father is light and their mother is mercy.’ The drop of sperm that will become the human being goes out from the loins of the father into the womb of the mother. It is hidden there and grows strong until the appointed time, such that they become the reason for its nobil-

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ity. If he leaves the loins of the father, [who is the Prophet], he then enters the womb of the Ḥujja, who occupies the position of the mother. There he comes to understand the confession of the uniqueness of God and he comes to perfect His religion. The knowledge and the work are in the position of two sperm drops from the two parents who are the cause that brings into existence the human being. Whoever stops at the exterior of the law and remains ignorant of the interior, his religion is vain. His position is that of a drop of sperm that leaves the loins of the father but does not reach the womb of the mother. In that there are signs for those who reflect (Q. 13:3 and others). It is thus proven from the evidence we have taken from the Book, the verses and the traditions that the Messenger of God was father to the community and his wives were their mothers because of his having said about the wives, in terms of inner meaning, that the wives are the Gates. If the matter were as the community would have it and that his wives were his wives, he would not have forbidden the community to look at his harem, for when has looking at the mothers become forbidden? But he only meant by his wives his Ḥujjas and he made them Gates to himself. They were likenesses of him in his religion and his companions in his affairs. He did not mean by that his wives. God said: Gather together those who were unjust to themselves and their wives (Q. 37:22). He means by that those who are like them and their companions in their religion. It is possible, however, that a woman be an unbeliever and her husband a believer and for a woman who is a believer that her husband be an unbeliever, as was the case with Noah and his wife and Pharaoh and his wife and Lot and his wife. The spouse is a likeness and mate. God said: And another of the same kind in pairs (Q. 38:58). The Messenger of God wed in the exterior sense twelve women in order that it be an indication 151 that he appointed twelve Gates in the inner sense who would summon to the perfection of the confession of the uniqueness of God and to the interpretation of the revelation. They are to the believers in the position of mothers and the Prophet is their father. Muḥammad displayed love to women and wives, giving the impression that he did that out of a desire on his part for women and his appetite for intercourse. The masses were ignorant of the meaning of his actions and attributed to him the desire for women because he said: ‘Dear to me of your worldly things are three: sweet scent, women and my delight is prayer.’ He meant by sweet scent knowledge, by women the Gates, and by prayer his Legatee, who takes over his command. He is the commanding and prohibiting prayer. This prayer indeed is an action, as God said: Prayer prohibits you from abomination and what is reprehensible (Q. 29:45). Thus

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prayer is the Friends of God who command the good and prohibit the reprehensible. Another indication is that he made twelve doorways for his mosque. He said: ‘Block all the doorways except the door of ʿAlī,’ alluding thereby to his being the one in charge after himself and that he is the Ḥujja obedience to whom is imposed on them all. Then he ordered them not to enter the mosque other than by his door. In that way he indicated to them that no one would attain an understanding of the confession of the uniqueness of the Creator and the meaning of His law, nor hear a single letter of explanation of what Muḥammad had brought, other than through ʿAlī. This was out of the high esteem for him and the honour God conferred on him, the position God had given him and the imamate God placed in his offspring. The common people of the Shiʿa have narrated that the Messenger of God turned over to the Commander of the Believers the divorcing of his wives. This is a parable, however, whose meaning they ignored. He only wanted to delegate authority over his Ḥujjas to him, so that he might promote of them whomever he wished and demote whomever he wished. Similarly, he chose in the exterior meaning twelve men from the Anṣār to be guardians over their people, like the guardianship of the apostles on behalf of Jesus son of Mary. He meant by that to have the community understand that, in the inner meaning, he chose twelve of his companions to support him in setting up the daʿwa in his name. They are the Leaders (nuqabā) and supporters (anṣār) in reality, not the common Anṣār who do not know the statutes of God’s revelation. The Prophet said: ‘The Anṣār are my companions and my confidants and the repositories of my secret. If the people were to follow a mountainous path, I would follow the path of the Anṣār and, if it were not for the hijra, I would be a man from the 150 Anṣār. O God, grant power to the Anṣār and to the sons of the Anṣār and to the sons of the sons of the Anṣār and the clients of the Anṣār.’ Do you think that every one of the Anṣār and their sons and their clients with whatever sins and grave offences each has committed merited this prayer while there were among them those who opposed, dissembled, resisted, went astray and perished? Rather this prayer was for his Ḥujjas, the twelve who supported him in reality to affirm the confession of the uniqueness of God and reject all doubts about God. They are his companions about whom he said: ‘My companions are like the stars; if you are guided by any one of them, you will be led rightly.’ And he said: ‘Do not curse my companions.’ He did not mean by his companions the Emigrants and Anṣār of the opponents whom God cursed. How could the cursed person be a model to be followed?

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The Anṣār then are the Leaders and their sons are the dāʿīs and the sons of their sons are the licentiates (maʾdhūns) and their clients the believers to whom he gave guardianship. They were called Leaders only because they extract the interior meaning from the exterior and explore (naqabū) the meanings that are truly real but obscure, of which the adherents of the exterior are ignorant. The naqīb in the speech of the Arabs is he who extracts meanings and discerns them, exploring the speech and revealing what is hidden. God mentioned them in His Book. He said: We took a covenant from the Israelites and We raised from among them twelve Leaders (Q. 5:12); and He said: We divided them into twelve tribes (Q. 7:160). Among what He said in the story of Moses is: We said, strike the rock with your rod, then there gushed from it twelve wellsprings, each group of the people then knew their place for drinking (Q. 2:60). By wellsprings he means the twelve Ḥujjas, who were wellsprings of knowledge and the place for the believers to drink. The Messiah had twelve disciples. He said in the Gospels: ‘I answer you with parables; yet none accept from me but these twelve disciples.’ Some of the common people say that the Apostles of the Messiah were fullers; others said they were dyers; and yet others that they were fishermen. All were correct in speech but wrong in meaning. The meaning of those who said they were fullers is that they bleached the people with knowledge and thereby cleansed them of impurities. They clarified for them what was ambiguous to them of their scriptures and 149 their laws with lucid proofs and concise words. The meaning of their being dyers is that they used to dye the people with knowledge of the interior sense after the exterior. The exterior has one colour and the interior many colours. For that reason John the son of Zachariah was called a dyer, because he used to dye the people in the exterior meaning of it with the water that is called baptismal and which was, in the interior sense, knowledge. This dyeing was a religious practice among the people of Israel as an indication that the dye in the interior sense was knowledge. God said: dye-colour of God, and whose dye-colour is better than God’s? and we are His worshippers (Q. 2:138): He means the religion of God. He said: The tree that sprouts from Mount Sinai produces oil and relish (ṣibgh) for those who eat (Q. 23:20), i.e. knowledge for the learners. The meaning of their being fishermen is that, on the basis of the exterior, they summoned the people from the exterior to the recognition of the inner sense. It is written in the Gospels that the Messiah once passed by the bank of the river Jordan and noticed a group catching fish. He said to them: ‘Leave aside catching fish and follow me; I will make you fishers of men.’ The parables here are many and the indications clear and enlightening.

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Among them is His statement: Truly the number of the months with God is twelve in the Book of God, the day He created the heavens and the earth, four of them are sacred, that is the upright religion (Q. 9:36 and others). Is it then allowed for them to consider these months religion to the exclusion of other duties and practices? and how can these duties and practices not be made religion and yet the months be made religion? This is something not permitted in the exterior of the law but is confirmed in its interior. By the twelve are meant those who summon to the Imam of the time and to the perfection of the confession of uniqueness by avoiding both ascription of similarity and denial of attributes. Thus he who acknowledges them and accepts from them, his religion stands upright in accordance with His word about the months: that is the upright religion (Q. 9:36). Of that which requires consideration and thought is that God sent a hundred thousand Prophets and of those six are the chosen: Adam, Noah, Abraham, Moses, Jesus and Muḥammad. That is in His statement: God selected Adam and Noah and the family of Abraham and the family of ʿImrān in preference to the worlds, descendants of one another (Q. 3:33–34). These are the elect of God from amongst His creation and the choicest of His servants. They are the Masters of the Scriptures and the Laws, commandment and prohibition, none but them has a Law. Instead the Prophets and Messengers 148 upheld the Laws of these six, and all books other than these consist of parables, sermons, prayers and glorification in which there is neither command nor prohibition. God only created the seven days to indicate thereby the seven SpeakerProphets. Then God created, after that, the heavens and the earth and what is between them in six days, excluding the seventh day, so that the six days would be an indication for the Speaker-Prophets, the Masters of the Laws. He whose name is glorious would have been able to create the heavens and the earth and what they contain in the blink of an eye, because He said – and His word is true: Our command is but once like the blink of an eye (Q. 54:50); and He said: We have only to say if We want something, We say to it, be and it is (Q. 16:40). Then He made five of these SpeakerProphets the ones with resolution (ūlī’l-ʿazm). They are Noah, Abraham, Moses, Jesus and Muḥammad, may God bless them all. Adam was not one of those with resolution. In the speech of the Arabs resolution consists of imposition [of a new law] and rupturing [with the past]. These five but not Adam are called those with resolution because he was the very first to establish religion and begin the Law. Then those Prophets and Friends and adherents of religion who came after him maintained his law until the coming of Noah with a new law. He

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abrogated the law of Adam and determined for the people the acceptance of what he brought. He forbade them from some of what they previously had upheld of the first dispensation. Thereafter whoever had faith in him and believed him and acted in accordance with his law was a believer. He who opposed him and maintained solely the first dispensation was an unbeliever. Then those Prophets and Friends and adherents of religion who came after him upheld his law until Abraham arrived. He brought a new law and abrogated the law of Noah, determining that the people accept what he brought and abandon some of what was in their hands. Whoever obeyed him was a believer and whoever disobeyed him and remained on the earlier dispensation was an unbeliever. Then after him, the Prophets, Friends and adherents of religion upheld his law until the coming of Moses. He brought a new law and abrogated the law of Abraham. He insisted that the people adopt what he had brought and abandon what they had previously. Whoever obeyed him was a believer and whoever disobeyed him and remained under the earlier dispensation was an unbeliever. Those Prophets, Friends and adherents of religion who came afterwards upheld his law until Jesus came. He brought a new law and abrogated the law of Moses. He determined that the people accept what he had come with and abandon what was in their hands. Whoever obeyed him was a believer and whoever disobeyed him and remained under the earlier dispensation was an unbeliever. Thereafter, those Prophets, Friends and adherents of reli- 147 gion who came after him upheld his law until the coming of Muḥammad. He brought a new law and abrogated the law of Jesus. He determined that the people would adopt what he brought and abandon what was in their hands. Whoever obeyed him was a believer and whoever disobeyed him was an unbeliever. The law of Muḥammad thus abrogated all previous laws, and his law will not be abrogated nor changed or replaced until the day of resurrection. The licit is what he allowed and the illicit is what he forbade. He therefore has no equal among the Masters of the Laws. Each one of them in his own time appointed for himself a Foundation who is his Legatee. He assigned him twelve Adjutants (lāḥiq, pl. lawāḥiq), who are the Gates, with the command that runs through them for a single daʿwa that was divided among those whom he dispersed in the provinces (jazāʾir), in order that they propagate the interpretation of the revelation and the law, each of them in one province, in the manner the Foundation set it up. They are those whom God mentioned in his Book when He said: We divided them into twelve tribes (Q. 8:160); and He said: We raised among them twelve as Leaders (naqīban) (Q. 5:12). Each one of them would set up Wings (ajniḥa, sing. janāḥ) in his territory in every division. They are the

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dāʿīs. All this is so that the master of the place (buqʿa) would convey the explanation of what Muḥammad brought in that place, as the Adjutant conveys it to those below him. This was the practice of Muḥammad in his time and the practice of the Speaker-Prophets before him. When Muḥammad and his Foundation passed away, he appointed an Imam in the place of the Speaker-Prophet and set up for him twelve Adjutants. He made him the keeper of the trust so that there would be neither increase nor decrease in anything the Speaker-Prophet and the Foundation had established. He is the keeper of the trust in which the Speaker-Prophet deposited the acts of the spiritual kingdom he had brought, in order that the latter convey them after him to the Adjutants, just as it was done as long as he remained alive. When he departed from this world, he would put in his place someone like himself to do as he had done. Nothing needed by the worshippers would escape him, until their number reached seven Imams, the seventh of them becoming a SpeakerProphet. For each of them, there would be twelve Adjutants conveying the knowledge bequeathed to them by the two Foundations concerning the two paths (najdayn)3 with the spiritual support (taʾyīd) of the two bases (aṣlayn)4. Thus he becomes the intermediary between these two and the 146 Adjutants, the Wings and the believers who are lower than him, and the spiritual support would never be far from the Adjutants until the seventh era reaches its conclusion. These are the seven Imams whom He mentions in His Book. He said: We created above you seven pathways; We were not neglectful of creation (Q. 23:17). He explained that the masters of the eras are six in number and they are the masters of the laws. Therefore the lower world rests on the six eras of the Speaker-Prophets. What confirms our statement is His words: Your Lord is God who created the heavens and the earth in six days – He means by that the six Speaker-Prophets – then He sat on the throne (Q. 10:3 and Q. 7:54), meaning that the matter of the Speaker-Prophets attains straightness with the seventh, the Qāʾim. The first of the eras was that of Adam and his Foundation was from him; the Imams were seven, six of whom were hidden in separate periods of time and different ages, Imam after Imam, successor after predecessor. Each Imam among them had a Ḥujja for the people of his time. They upheld the law of Adam and taught the people what they needed to know about the matter of his religion, until the era of Noah arrived and he commenced a new law. Then his Foundation Shem rose up after him and the Imams were seven, six of whom were concealed, upholding the law as defined by Noah, permitting what he allowed and prohibiting what he forbade, until the arrival of Abraham, who was the

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seventh of them. He put a seal on the law of Noah. Abraham began a new law and he appointed afterwards his Foundation, who was Ismāʿīl and the Imams were seven, six of whom were concealed, upholding the law as laid down by Abraham. They allowed what he permitted and forbade what he prohibited until the arrival of Moses, who was the seventh of them. He put the seal on the law of Abraham and began a new law. Then after him arose his Foundation, who was Yūshaʿ (Joshua) b. Nūn, following the death of Aaron. The Imams were seven, six of whom were concealed, upholding the law as laid down by Moses, permitting what he permitted and forbidding what he forbade, until the arrival of Jesus, who was the seventh of them. He put the seal on the law of Moses and began a new law. Then he appointed afterward his founder who was Shimʿūn (Simon) b. Tūmā al-Iṣṭafī. The Imams were seven, six of whom were concealed, upholding the law as laid down by Jesus, permitting what he permitted and forbidding what he forbade, until the arrival of Muḥammad, who was the seventh of them. He abrogated what existed of the laws previous to him and began a new law. Then after him his Foundation arose, who was 145 ʿAlī, and the seven Imams following him from his offspring, six of whom were concealed, upholding the law as laid down by Muḥammad, permitting what he permitted and forbidding what he forbade. They called attention to the appearance of the one rising (qāʾim) with the truth, the avenger of injustice, slayer of the accursed Iblīs. God has made clear the signs of His Friends and their evidence in the structure of the world and in the Laws of the Messengers, such that no one can deny them, except out of unbelief, insolence and arrogance and so that, in all respects, God’s argument is binding for His servants. Among the evidence for the hidden Imams is that Moses ordered his community to work six days and cease working on the seventh day, which is Saturday, and to make it a feast day for them, as an indication of the six who were hidden, that they would maintain his law and that the seventh would abrogate it and bring forth a new commandment, which would be for the believers in the position of a feast that he obligated them to observe communally. Likewise Jesus ordered that his community labour six days and adopt the seventh day as a feast, which is Sunday. Similarly the Messenger of God allowed prayer in tribal mosques and in living quarters during six days and required them to gather together communally on the seventh day, which is Friday. God revealed on that matter a recitation; He said: O you who believe, when the call for prayer is given on the day for congregation, listen then to the remembrance of God (Q. 62:9). He commanded us to lower our voices in recitation during the six days, in

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the prayer of the afternoon, and in other prayers during the day which are performed for seven hours of the day, and then to recite out loud on the seventh day, which is the day for congregation [Friday]. That is because the executors of the Law are six concealed Imams, and the seventh will reveal himself, announce his daʿwa and will be for the believers in the position of the feast day on which they are required to assemble communally, and that the six Speaker-Prophets were summoners for the seventh Speaker, because they summoned to faith in God and the last day, which is the seventh Speaker. God said: That is a day in which the people will be gathered together, that is a day witnessed, and We will not delay it except for a fixed term (Q. 11:103–104) to His words: except with his permission (Q. 11:105). He did not say: with my permission. When He created the heavens and the earth and what they contain in six days, He created the heavens and the earths seven by seven. The spheres are seven, the stars are seven, the seas are seven, the climes are 144 seven, the days are seven, the gateways to hell are seven, the length of a man in spans is seven and the openings in the face are seven – two ears, two eyes, two nostrils and a mouth – and the body of a man is composed of seven parts – brain, bones, nerves, blood vessels, flesh, blood and skin. Then He commenced him from seven other things that God mentioned in His book. He said: ‘We created man from an extract of clay; then We made him a drop of sperm in a secure place; then We created of the drop of sperm a clot; We created out of the clot tissue; We created out of the tissue bones; then We clothed the bones with flesh; thus did We form him into another creature; hallowed be God, the best of creators’ to His words: We were not neglectful of creation (Q. 23:12–14). The pathways are the Friends of God; the seven are pathways to God. That is since the newborn, if born at seven months, it lives, and if born at eight, it dies, despite the implication of the greater number, namely eight being greater than seven. However, God placed life in the seven, such that the people look for a blessing in it, even though they are not aware of the reason for it. If a child is born, they set for him a week, and the custom in regard to his circumcision is the seventh day. He devotes himself to the worship of God at seven years and he learns prayer at seven years. If someone takes sick, relief for him is expected on the seventh day. If he dies, he is embalmed on the seven members of the body that touch the ground during prostration5 and seven leaves of the lotus tree are gathered for him6 and he is enshrouded in seven pieces of cloth. Moreover, God fashioned the Qurʾan seven sevenths. It is related that the Messenger said: ‘The Qurʾan was revealed in seven letters, each letter

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of it clear and appropriate.’ The Opening Sura of the Book, without which no prayer is permissible, is seven verses. Likewise He, the hallowed and exalted, said: We have given you seven of the oft repeated and the mighty Qurʾan (Q. 15:87) which is the praise. It is related of Jaʿfar b. Muḥammad [al-Ṣādiq] that he said: ‘We are [the Sura of] Praise (al-ḥamd) and the Praise is ours.’ He meant by this phrase that no one’s work is accepted without his having acknowledged the seven Imams and acting towards them obediently. Also the long suras are seven and the ḥawāmīm7 are seven. The watchword of the Commander of the Believers (ʿAlī) in war was al-Raḥmān al-Raḥīm, as an indication by him for the seven Imams among his progeny.8 Ablutions are seven; they are: cleansing after excretion, rinsing the mouth, drawing water through the nostrils, two washings, and they are of the hands and face, and two wipings, and they are of the head and the feet. The prime obligations in prayer are seven, and they are: facing the direction of the qibla, the first takbīr, the recitation, the inclinations (rakaʿ), the two prostrations, and the sitting. The circling of the sacred house of God consists of seven obligations; the running between al-Ṣafā and Marwa is seven courses; and the throwing of the stones is seven by seven. Truly in that there are signs for the people who reflect (Q. 13:3 and others). God never creates anything vainly, but rather He created all things as 143 indications for His religion. For that reason He said: We will show them Our signs in the horizons and in their souls so that it will become clear to them that it is the truth (Q. 41:53) and He did not say ‘that I am the truth’. If someone were to ask: What indication from the horizons and the souls supports what you claim about the extent of the number of the Imams in each law being seven? What indication is there that for each Imam and Speaker-Prophet there are twelve Gates? What indicates that for each Speaker there is a Foundation and seven Imams and twelve Adjutants? We reply – and to God is our recourse – that the first item of evidence from the world, the horizons and the souls that we would present as to what He mentioned is the body of the human being. That is because there is in it the chest, two temples, two haunches and two buttocks; these are seven. Then there is what is inside his interior, which is the throat, oesophagus, stomach, lungs, heart, two kidneys, liver, spleen, gall bladder, two exits, one of which is for excrement and the other for urine. Thus that makes twelve. They are all combined by the back and the belly. Its likeness in the sky is the seven spheres and the twelve signs of the zodiac, which are combined by the sphere of the zodiac and the rectilinear sphere, as an indication of Adam and his Legatee and the seven Imams and the twelve Ḥujjas.

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The four fingers in one hand of a human have twelve pieces and joints. The thumb and palm are seven separate pieces. These seven and twelve are combined by the forearm and upper arm, and its likeness in the world is the seven seas and twelve islands, which are combined by Mount Qāf and the encompassing sea. That is an indication for Noah and his Foundation and the seven Imams and twelve Ḥujjas. It is like that with the other hand. Its likeness in the world is the overlap of the night in the day and the overlap of the day in the night and the four central points between them. This amounts to seven days and twelve hours, combined by the night and the day as an indication of Abraham and his Foundation and the seven Imams and twelve Ḥujjas. A foot is also like that. Its likeness in the world is seven days and twelve months, which are combined by the seasons and the year. This indicates Moses and his Foundation and the seven Imams 142 and twelve Ḥujjas. Similarly the other foot: its likeness in the world is the four mother elements, which are earth, water, air and fire, and the three realms of nature, which are animal, vegetable and mineral. That is seven, and the six kinds of animals which are humans, cattle, beasts of prey, …, 9 and the four kinds of plants which are fruit-bearing trees, non-fruit-bearing trees, cereal plants, …,10 and the two kinds of minerals which are melting bodies and stones. These seven and twelve are combined by motion and location. That is an indication for Jesus and his Foundation and the seven Imams and twelve Ḥujjas. Then there is the head, which has seven apertures in it: two eyes, two ears, two nostrils and the mouth. These seven adjoin twelve, and they are: in the two eyes, the white and the black, and the pupil in one eye and its like in the other, and the two ears with the two holes in the ears, the two nostrils with the nose, and the mouth with the tongue and the two lips. That is twelve,11 which are combined by the head and the face. Its likeness in the world at large is the seven governing planets and the twelve winds, which are combined by time and place. This is an indication for Muḥammad and his Foundation and the seven Imams and twelve Ḥujjas. Next the human being is composed of seven members: the head, the trunk, two hands and two legs, the seventh is the spirit, which is what combines them. Likewise the world was established in seven cycles, the seventh of which is that of the Qāʾim around whom the cycles revolve and with whom the matter that runs through the six Speaker-Prophets reaches completion and with whom is its appearance. Confirmation of that is what He said in the account of the perfection of the body: We have created man from an extract of clay, meaning Adam, then We made him a drop of sperm in a secure place meaning by that the h of Noah, We created

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out of the drop a clot, meaning by that the ‘m’ [of Abraham]12, We created out of the clot tissue, meaning by that ‘s’ [of Moses], We created out of the 141 tissue bones, meaning by that ‘m’ [of Masīḥ = Jesus], We clothed the bones in flesh, meaning by that ‘d’ [of Muḥammad], thus did We form him into another creature, hallowed is God, the best of creators (Q. 23:12), meaning by that the formation of the other creation, which is the appearance of the Qāʾim. Among the indications for the grades of the hierarchy that summons to God, confirming what we have said that the eras are six and that the master of each cycle, its Speaker-Prophet, has a Foundation and seven Imams, is the calculation (ḥisāb) upon the cycles of the grades of the hierarchy, which consists of the two Foundations and the seven Imams. The first starting-point of the calculation that uses the hands goes from one to nine and its positions cover three fingers.13 When it reaches nine, it brings it back to ten and the units. When it reaches nine tens, it consolidates it into hundreds and it runs through them on fingers other than those which accommodated the tens and now accommodate the hundreds. When it reaches nine hundred, it consolidates them into thousands and turns to the other fingers. It accommodates ten thousand reaching up to ninety thousand. The calculation turns from those to other fingers which accommodate a hundred thousand reaching up to a thousand thousands (i.e. one million). At that the reckoning that can be done on the hands comes to an end. That indicates the beginning of creation. Likewise the world is established in seven cycles, the seventh of which is that of the Qāʾim. The beginning of creation is Adam, and the seven Imams; the period of Adam and the seven Imams and their cycle lasted until the appearance of Noah. He attained a multiple of the power that had been Adam’s; it is the multiple of the tens over the ones. He and his Foundation lasted until the appearance of Abraham. His power and the power of his Foundation and the seven Imams was a multiple of the power of Noah as in the multiple of hundreds over tens. Similarly Muḥammad. His power and the power of his Foundation and the seven Imams was a multiple of what came before him of the Speaker-Prophets as in the multiplying of thousands and hundreds and tens and ones reaching up to a million. This is the limit of numbers accommodated on the hands because, above a million, it cannot be counted on the hands. That is an indication of the Qāʾim, who is the Speaker and who is the summation of the Speakers who 140 came before, because his rank is higher than the realm of works (ʿamal). Works are of no avail with him. Calculation [over one million] is no longer carried out with the hands, but rather is preserved in the heart

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or established by writing. This is an indication that, when matters reach the Qāʾim, there will be no additional work, but records of the works will be present, on the basis of which the believer will be rewarded and the unbeliever punished. Thereupon the spiritual forms will appear. Just as calculation thus leaves the body for the spirit and the reunion of the nine aforementioned ranks is three: the Speaker-Prophet, the Foundation and the Imam, and the six after them are as one Imam revolving through the seven Imams insofar as each Imam is called Imam. Similarly, the office of Messenger and prophecy by the three ranks combines the nine. These are the scales of God by which wisdom is weighed out for the servants. The three scales make a combination of nine scales by which gems and other weighed objects are weighed. That is an indication of the scales of wisdom. There are three scales, the first of which is the scale, the second the beam and the third the balance. Each one of the three is in itself three: large, medium and small. Each one of them combines in its circumstances twelve, seven and two. That is because, for each scale, there are two pans and six strings fastened to the pans and the heads of the strings have two rings fastened by two strings. That is twelve attached to a pole. In the pole is the tongue and there is attached to a portion of it two seals. Above it is its register decreasing by degrees and it is the loop in which is the ring. That is seven. Next the ring and the strand that is in the grasp of the weigher by which the weight is steadied. These are a likeness for the Speaker-Prophet, the Foundation, and the seven and the twelve who are contained in the seventy are a likeness for the seven Imams and twelve Adjutants. Furthermore, Islam is founded on seven components. They are: the testimony of faith, performance of prayer, giving of alms, fasting in the month of Ramaḍān, pilgrimage to the House by whomever has the means to do it, the endeavour, and obedience to the Imam of each age and time.14 These seven have parts and in them are twelve. That is because the testi139 mony of the faith combines recognition and sincerity, prayer necessitates ablution and requires washing, alms tax is obligatory on four things, from gold, silver, grain and livestock, fasting is abstaining from the cup, pilgrimage has with it the visitation by the one who performs the lesser pilgrimage, the endeavour requires resolution, obedience to the Imam requires dissociation. These are twelve, which are combined by the Law. Prayer, which is the mainstay of religion, consists of seven obligatory duties: facing the direction of the qibla, the first takbīr, standing, the inclinations, the two prostrations and sitting. Its parts are twelve and they are the takbīr of the inclination and its tasbīḥ, straightening up from it, saying ‘God hears those who praise Him’, four takbīrs, prostration and straight-

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ening up from it, saying the greetings to God and taslīm. These are twelve, which are combined by intention and knowledge. We have adduced here just testimony and clear demonstrations and lucid proofs that do not depart from reason and the Scriptures or the explanation of Law and nature in this world. It should therefore be a guide for each seeker and for those whose heart God has opened for the faith. All that by the aid of God and His power and His grace and His Friends! The Book of Norms and Pairing is finished with the aid of God the Giver, and the aid of His friend and His dāʿī, the master of servants, the annihilator of the enemies of God and the parties (al-aḥzāb), the dāʿī of the time and age, our lord Shaykh Ibrāhīm15 Bhāi, son of the Ḥāfiẓ who held the rank of maʾdhūn, the Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qādir b. Mullākhān,16 may God the merciful and compassionate keep him. The year is 1157 [1744]. Copied by Miyān Ḥasan Shaykh, may God, the exalted, steady him. Notes 1. 2. 3. 4.

Viz. in heaven and earth. al-Ṣādiq, the veracious one, is here the Prophet. al-najdayn (Q. 90:10), the two paths, one to good and the other to evil. al-aṣlān, the two bases, are the first and second ranks of the spiritual hierarchy. 5. A balm (ḥanūt) is put on the masājid, the places of the prostration, i.e. the seven members of the body that touch the ground, namely the two feet, two knees, two hands and forehead. See al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān, Daʿāʾim al-Islām fī dhikr al-ḥalāl wa’l-ḥarām wa’l-qaḍāyā wa’l-aḥkām, ed. Asaf A. A. Fyzee, vol. 1 (Cairo, 1951), p. 230; tr. Asaf A. A. Fyzee as The Pillars of Islam, completely revised and annotated by Ismail K. Poonawala; vol. 1: ‘Ibadat: Acts of Devotion and Religious Observances (New Delhi, 2002), p. 286. 6. The leaves of the lotus-tree are mixed with the water used for the first of the three ritual washings of the deceased. See the Daʿāʾim al-Islām, vol. 1, p. 230; tr. p. 285. 7. The ḥawāmīm are suras of the Qurʾan that begin with the letters ḥāʾ and mīm as a verse by itself. They are numbers 40 to 46. 8. The symbol here is that the phrase al-Raḥmān al-Raḥīm contains seven letters : a-l-r-ḥ-m-n-ī (or perhaps r-ḥ-m-n-r-ḥ-m). 9. The names of the remaining three kinds are missing in the manuscript. 10. A term for the fourth kind of plant is missing in the manuscript. 11. Counting here two whites of the eye, two blacks and two pupils, plus two ear-holes, the nose, tongue and two lips. 12. This name and those that follow of the Prophets are mentioned on the

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margin of the manuscript. 13. On the hisāb bi’l-yad, see in general Charles Pellat, ‘Ḥisāb al-ʿaḳd’, EI2, vol. 3, p. 466. It is, however, not clear that the method described here is the same. 14. The same list of ‘pillars’ appears in al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān, Daʿāʾim al-Islām, vol. 1, p. 2, tr. Fyzee, rev. and ed. Poonawala, The Pillars of Islam, vol. 1, pp. 2–3. 15. This is Ibrāhīm Wajīh al-Dīn, the 39th Dāʾūdī dāʿī (1150–1168/1737–1754). 16. This maʾdhūn ʿAbd al-Qādir b. Mullākhān, who was the father of the dāʿī Ibrāhīm, died in 1142/1730, according to Poonawala, Biobibliography, p. 198.

‫ﻛﺘﺎب اﻟﺮﺳﻮم واﻻزدواج ‪٢٧‬‬

‫���ـ�ل‪ ،‬وا�ـ��ـ�ة ـ��ـ� �ـ� أر ـ��ـ� �ـ�‬ ‫وا��ٕ �ـ��ص‪ ،‬وا ـ��ـ��ة �ـ��ـ� ا�ـ��ـ�ء و�ـ��ـ� ا�� ــ‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫ا�ـ��ـ� وا ـ ـ‬ ‫�����ـ� ‪،‬‬ ‫���ـ�ة ا ـ ـ ــ‬ ‫���ـ� وا ـ���ــ�ب وا ـ��ـ�ا�ـ�‪ ،‬وا ـ��ـ�م �ـ�ك ا ـ��ـ�م ‪ ،‬وا ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫���ـ�ت‪ ،‬و�ـ��ـ� ا��ٕ �ـ�م �ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ�اءة‪ ،‬ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�د �ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫وا ـ ـ‬ ‫�����ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫����ـ� وا ــ�����ـــ�ة‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ،‬ا��ــ��ـ� إ�ـ� ا ـ ــ‬ ‫��ـ� ــ‬ ‫ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬وا ـ��ـ��ة ا��ــ� �ـ� �ـ�ام ا�ـ��ـ�‪� ،‬ـ�و ـ‬ ‫‪٦‬‬ ‫‪٥‬‬ ‫���ـ��ـ�ن وا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�م وا�ـ��ـ�ع وا ـ ـ‬ ‫ا��ٔو�ـ� وا ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�ة‬ ‫���ـ�س‪ ،‬وأ�ـ�اؤ�ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� و�ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫ا�ـ��ـ�ع و ـ ـــ‬ ‫���ـ�د‬ ‫��ـ�ه وأر�ـ� ـ����ـــ�ات‪ ،‬ا ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� ا��ــ� ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫�����ـ� وا����ــ�اء ��ــ� و�ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫‪٨‬‬ ‫‪٧‬‬ ‫�����ـ� ا���ـــ� وا ـ���ــ�‪ .‬ـ��ـ�‬ ‫وا����ــ�اء ��ــ� و�ـ��ـ� ا ــ����ــ�ت ��ــ� وا ــ�����ـــ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ�ه ا��ــ� ـ��ـ� ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ل‬ ‫��ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ�ر�ـ� �ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� و ـ‬ ‫����ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�ا�ـ� �ـ�د�ـ� و�ـ�ا ـ��ـ� وا ـ‬ ‫ا ــ ـ‬ ‫‪٩‬‬ ‫وا ـ���ــ� وا�����‬ ‫ـــــ� ـ��ـ� �ـ� �ـ��ـ�د �ـ� �ـ�ا ا ـ��ـ��ـ� �ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ� أو ـــ‬ ‫����ـ� ــ���ـ�ن ذ�ـ� د��ــ�� ً‬ ‫‪١٠‬‬ ‫���ـ�‬ ‫ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ� ٍد و ـ��ـ� �ـ�ح ا ـ��ـ� �ـ�ره �ـ��ٕ ـ��ـ�ن ‪ ،‬و�ـ� ذ�ـ� ـ��ـ�ن ا ـ��ـ� و�ـ��ـ� و�ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫وأو����� ����� ا����م‪.‬‬ ‫���ـ� ا�ـ��ـ�ب‪ ،‬و�ـ�ن و ـ��ـ� ودا ـ��ـ�‬ ‫��ـ�ب‪ ١١‬ا�ـ��ـ�م وا��زدواج ـ��ـ�ن ا ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫�ـ��ـ� ا�ـ��ـ�ب و���ـــ� أ�ـ�اء ا ـ��ـ� وا�� ٔ�ـ�اب‪ ،‬دا�ـ� ا�ـ��ـ� وا�ـ��ـ�ن ��ــ��ـ� ��ــ� إ�ـ�ا��ــ�‬ ‫���ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ا�ـ���ــ�‬ ‫ـ��ـ�ئ �ـ� �ـ��ـ� ر��ــ� �ـ���ــ� ا ـ��ـ�ٔذون ��ــ� ��ــ� ا ـ��ـ�در �ـ� �ـ���ـ�ن‪ ،‬ـ ـ‬ ‫ا�����‪��� ��� ،١١٥٧ ��� ،‬ن ��� ���‪ ���� ،‬ا��� �����‪.‬‬

‫‪١‬‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫‪٥‬‬ ‫‪٦‬‬ ‫‪٧‬‬ ‫‪٨‬‬ ‫‪٩‬‬ ‫‪١٠‬‬ ‫‪١١‬‬

‫ا���م‪ :‬ا���م‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا������‪ :‬ا����‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا���‪ :‬ا���‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫وا����ة‪ :‬و�� ا����ة‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫وأ��اؤ��‪ :‬أ��ا��‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا���‪ :‬ا���‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا���‪ :‬ا���‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫������‪ ،����� :‬ص‬ ‫ا������ ��� �� ����د‪ :‬ا������ ��� �� �� ��ق‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫���ٕ ���ن‪��� ٕ��� :‬م ���ٕ ���ن‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫���ب‪ :‬ا����ب‪ ،‬ص‬

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‫ﻛﺘﺎب اﻟﺮﺳﻮم واﻻزدواج ‪٢٦‬‬

‫���ـ�‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ،‬و�� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ��ـ�ه ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� �� ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�ء ��ٔن �ـ�ه �ـ�� �ـ� دار ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫ــ‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� ـ���ــ� أو ���ـــ� �ـ� ـ���ــ��ـ�‪ ،‬د��ــ� ��ــ� أن ا�� ٔ�ـ� إذا ��ــ�‬ ‫���ـ�ب[ �ـ���ــ��ـ�‪� ،‬ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫]ا ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� ـ��ـ�ب ا ـ��ـ��ـ�‬ ‫إ�ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� �� ـ��ـ�ن ـ��ـ�‪� ،‬ـ� ـ��ـ�ن ـ��ـ�ش ا�� ٔ ـ��ـ�ل �ـ��ـ�ة ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ب‪ ٣‬زال �ـ�‬ ‫و ـ��ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬و ـ��ـ�ن ��ــ�‪ ٢‬ذ�ـ� ـ��ـ�ر ا ـ��ـ�ر ا�ـ�و�ـ���ــ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ� أن ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ا ـ��ـ�ود ا ـ��ـ��ـ�رة ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� إ�ـ� ا�ـ�وح وأن ـ ـ‬ ‫اـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�‪ ٤‬ـ��ـ� �ـ���ـ� و�ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ�‬ ‫‪٥‬‬ ‫���ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� أ ـ��ـ� ــ���ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫وا�� ٔ�ـ�س وا��ٕ �ـ�م وأن ا ـ���ــ� �ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� �ـ ٕ��ـ�م وا�ـ� �ـ�ور �ـ� ــ‬ ‫ا��ٕ �ـ�م إ�ـ��ـ�ً‪ ،‬و�ـ��ـ� ا�ـ��ـ��ـ� وا���ـــ�ة �ـ� ـ��ـ�ا�ـ� ا��ــ��ث ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�‪ ،٧‬و�ـ� �ـ�از�ـ�‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ٦‬ا ــ ـ‬ ‫‪٩‬‬ ‫����ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� ا ــ ـ‬ ‫����ــ� ا ـ��ـ�از�ـ� ا��ــ���ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� ��ــ� ا ـ���ــ�د‪ ،‬ـ ـ‬ ‫ا��ــ� ا�ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�‪ ٨‬وز�ـ� ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�‪،‬‬ ‫�ـ�از�ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ�زن ا ـ��ـ�ا�ـ� و�ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ�زو�ـ�ت‪ ،‬و�ـ� د ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ�از�ـ� ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�س‪� ،‬ـ� وا�ـ� �ـ�‬ ‫�ـ� ـ��ـ�از�ـ� ا��ــ���ـ� أ�ـ��ـ� ا ـ���ــ�ان وا��ــ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ���ــ�‪ ١٠‬وا��ــ��ـ� ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� �� ٔ�ـ�ال‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ــ�‪ ،‬و�ـ� وا�ـ� ــ‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ���ـ�‪��� ،‬ـــ� وو�ـ� و ـ‬ ‫ا��ــ���ـ� ـ��ـ�ن �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫‪١١‬‬ ‫ا��ــ� ـ��ـ� و ــ‬ ‫�����ـــ�‬ ‫���ـ� وا���ـــ� ‪ ،‬وذ�ـ� أن ـ��ـ� ��ــ�ان ـ���ــ�ن و��ــ� أ��ــ�ط ـ��ـ�ودة �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�د‪ ،‬و�ـ�‬ ‫����ـ�ً ـ ـ‬ ‫�����ـ�‪� ،‬ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫�����ـ� ـ��ـ�ودة ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ط �ـ� ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫ورؤس ا ـ ـ‬ ‫‪١٢‬‬ ‫���ـ�د ـ��ـ�ن و�ـ� ـ���ــ� ـ ـ‬ ‫اـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� و�ـ� ا ـ��ـ�وة ا��ــ�‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ�ن‪ ،‬وأ�ـ��ه ز�ـ��ـ� ا ـ ــ‬ ‫���ـ�‪� ،‬ـ� ا ـ ــ‬ ‫����ـ�‪��� ،‬ـــ� ــ‬ ‫ــ���ـ� ا ـ ــ‬ ‫�����ــ�‬ ‫����ـ� وا�ـ�ؤا�ـ� ا��ــ� ـ��ـ�ن �ـ� ــ���ـ� ا�ـ�زان ـ��ـ� ـ ــ‬ ‫�����ــ�‬ ‫����ـ� وا����ــ� ـ��ـ� ا��ــ� ـ��ـ�ن �ـ� ا ـ ــ‬ ‫ا�ـ�زن‪ ،‬و ـ��ـ� ��ــ� ��ــ� ا��ــ��ـ� وا�� ٔ�ـ�س‪ ،‬وا ـ ــ‬ ‫��� ��� ]ا��ٔ��� ا����� و[ ا���ا�� ا����� ���‪.‬‬ ‫���ـ�دة وإ�ـ�م ا ـ��ـ��ة وإ��ــ�ء ا�ـ��ـ�ة و�ـ�م‬ ‫���ـ� أ ـ��ـ�م‪ ،‬و�ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ� ا��ٕ �ـ��م ���ـــ� ��ــ� ــ‬ ‫���ـ�د و�ـ��ـ� ا��ٕ �ـ�م �ـ� �ـ�‬ ‫���ـ��ً‪ ،‬وا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ع إ ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� ر ـ��ـ�ن و�ـ� ا ـ ـ���ـ�‪� ،‬ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫ـ‬ ‫‪١٣‬‬ ‫ـ��ـ� وز�ـ�ن‪ ،‬ـ��ـ�ه ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ��ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�دة ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� أ�ـ�اء‪ ،‬و ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ� أن ا ـ ـ‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫‪٥‬‬ ‫‪٦‬‬ ‫‪٧‬‬ ‫‪٨‬‬ ‫‪٩‬‬ ‫‪١٠‬‬ ‫‪١١‬‬ ‫‪١٢‬‬ ‫‪١٣‬‬

‫���ه‪ ،��� :‬ص‬ ‫���‪�� :‬د‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا����ب‪��� :‬ت‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا�����‪ :‬ا�����‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫����‪ ،���� :‬ص‬ ‫����‪ ،���� :‬ص‬ ‫ا�����‪ :‬ا�����‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا���� ���‪ :‬ا������‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا�����‪ :‬ا�����‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا������‪ :‬ا�������‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫و���� وا����‪ :‬وا����� وا������‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ز����‪ :‬و����‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫و���‪ :‬و���‪ ،‬ص‬

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‫ﻛﺘﺎب اﻟﺮﺳﻮم واﻻزدواج ‪٢٥‬‬

‫‪١‬‬ ‫��ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ َ� ِ�ـ َ�ـ��ـ�ً﴾‪ ،‬أراد �ـ� م‪�َ ﴿ ،٢‬ـ َ�ـ َ�ـ ْ��ـَ� ا ـ ِ��ـ َ�ـ� َم �َـ ْ�ـ�ـ�ً﴾‪ ،‬أراد �ـ� د ‪،‬‬ ‫س ‪�َ ﴿ ،‬ـ َ�ـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� ا ـ ُ‬ ‫��ـ��ِـ ِ�ـ�ـ َ�﴾ ]‪ [١٤-١٢ :٢٣‬أراد �ـ� إ ـ��ـ�ء‬ ‫﴿�ُـ �� أ�ْـ َ�ـ�ٔ�ـَ� ُه َ�ـ ْ�ـ�ـ�ً آ َ�ـ َ� َ�ـ َ�ـ َ�ـ� َر َك ا ـ��ـ ُ� أ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ُ� ا ـ َ‬ ‫ا���� ا��ٓ�� و�� ���ر ا�����‪.‬‬ ‫���ـ� أن ا��ٔدوار‬ ‫]و[ ـ��ـ� �ـ�ل ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ�ود ا�ـ�ا ـ��ـ� إ�ـ� ا ـ��ـ� �ـ� و�ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ�اً ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫���ـ� أ ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬ا ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�‪� ،‬ـ��ـ� �ـ� دور �ـ��ـ� �ـ� أ�ـ�س و ـ ـ‬ ‫ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ب ـ��ـ� أدوار ا ـ��ـ�ود‪،‬‬ ‫و�ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ��ـ�ن وا�� ٔ ـ��ـ� ا ـ ــ‬ ‫��ـ� �ـ�‬ ‫���ـ�ب ا�ـ�ي �ـ��ـ� �ـ��� ٔ�ـ�ي ـ‬ ‫����ـ�‪� ،‬ـ�ٔول ���ـــ�أ ا ـ ـ‬ ‫ا�ـ�ا�ـ� إ�ـ� ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ��ـ�ز�ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ���ـ� أ�ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�‪ ٥‬و ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�‪ ٦‬أداره إ�ـ�‬ ‫����ـ� إ�ـ� ا ـ��ـ���ــ�‪ ،‬وأدار�ـ� ��ــ� ��ــ� ا�� ٔ�ـ��ـ�‬ ‫���ـ�ة ا�� ٔ�ـ�د‪ ،‬ــ���ـ� ��ــ� ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�ات أ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫اـ ـ‬ ‫‪٧‬‬ ‫����ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫ا��ــ� أ�ـ� ـــ‬ ‫����ـ� ��ــ� ا�� ٔ�ـ�‬ ‫�����ـ��ـ� أ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ات وأ�ـ� ا ـ��ـ���ــ� ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬ــ���ـ� ��ــ� ا ــ ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� أ ـ��ـ�ً‪،‬‬ ‫����ـ� إ�ـ� أن ـ��ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫و�ـ� ـ��ـ� إ�ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ��ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ�ى‪� ،‬ـ�ٔ�ـ� ـ��ـ�ة أ�ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� إ�ـ� أ�ـ��ـ� أ�ـ�ى وأ�ـ� ـــ‬ ‫���ـ�ب ــ‬ ‫����ـ� ��ــ� �ـ��ـ� أ�ـ�ف‪ ،‬وأدار ا ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ�ٔ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫‪٨‬‬ ‫���ـ�ب �ـ� �ـ�ٔ�ـ�ه ا�� ٔ�ـ�ي‪� ،‬ـ�ل ذ�ـ� ��ــ� �ـ�ئ‬ ‫]أ�ـ�[ إ�ـ� أن ��ــ� أ�ـ� أ�ـ�‪�� ،‬ــ ّ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ا ـ��ـ��م‪� ،‬ـ�ؤ‬ ‫���ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� أدوار‪� ،‬ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ��ـ�‪� .‬ـ��ـ� ا�ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ ـ���ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫اـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ا ـ��ـ��م وا�� ٔ ـ��ـ�‬ ‫����ـ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ�ن �ـ�ة آدم ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ا ـ��ـ��م وا�� ٔ ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� و�ـ� آدم ـ ـ‬ ‫اـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�ف �ـ�ى �ـ� �ـ�ن ���ـــ� آدم‪،‬‬ ‫����ـ� ودور�ـ� إ�ـ� أن ـ��ـ� �ـ�ح ���ـــ� ا ـ��ـ��م‪ ،‬ـ��ـ�م �ـ�ٔ ـ‬ ‫ا ـ ــ‬ ‫‪٩‬‬ ‫���ـ�ات ـ��ـ� ا�� ٓ�ـ�د و�ـ�ن �ـ� وأ�ـ��ـ� إ�ـ� أن ـ��ـ� إ�ـ�ا ـ��ـ� و�ـ��ـ�‬ ‫����ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫و�ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ات‪،‬‬ ‫�����ــ� ا ـ��ـ���ــ� ��ــ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�ف �ـ�ى �ـ�ح ــ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� أ ـ‬ ‫�ـ��ـ� و�ـ�ة أ�ـ��ـ� وا�� ٔ ـ��ـ� ا ـ ــ‬ ‫��ـ�ف �ـ� �ـ�ن‬ ‫����ـ� أ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ���ــ� ا ـ��ـ��م و�ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ� و�ـ�ة أ�ـ��ـ� وا�� ٔ ـ��ـ� ا ـ ــ‬ ‫�ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ات وا�� ٓ�ـ�د إ�ـ� أن ��ــ� إ�ـ� أ�ـ�‬ ‫�����ــ� ا�� ٔ�ـ�ف وا ـ��ـ���ــ� وا ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�ء ــ ـ‬ ‫�ـ� ���ـــ� �ـ� ا ــ ـ‬ ‫‪١٠‬‬ ‫أ�ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ� �ـ�ـ��ـ� �ـ� �ـ��ـ� �ـ� ا�ـ�ـ�د �ـ��� ٔ�ـ�ي ��ٔن �ـ�ق ا�� ٔ�ـ� أ�ـ� �� �ـ��ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� �ـ�ن‬ ‫�ـ��� ٔ�ـ�ي‪ ،‬و�ـ� د��ــ� ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� ـ���ــ� ا ـ��ـ��م ا�ـ�ي �ـ� ا��ــ��ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ� ـ ـ‬

‫‪١‬‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫‪٥‬‬ ‫‪٦‬‬ ‫‪٧‬‬ ‫‪٨‬‬ ‫‪٩‬‬ ‫‪١٠‬‬

‫س‪���� (�����) + :‬‬ ‫م‪���� (�����) + :‬‬ ‫د‪���� (�����) + :‬‬ ‫أدوار‪ :‬ذ��ر‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا�����‪ :‬ا�����‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا�����‪ :‬ا�����‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا����ات‪���� :‬ات‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫��ئ‪�� :‬ؤ‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫��� ا�� ٓ��د‪ :‬وا�� ٓ��د‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫����‪ ،���� :‬ص‬

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‫ﻛﺘﺎب اﻟﺮﺳﻮم واﻻزدواج ‪٢٤‬‬

‫ـ���ــ�ه �ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� ا�� ٔ ـ��ـ�ت ا��ٔر�ـ� و�ـ� ا��ٔرض وا ـ��ـ�ء وا ـ��ـ�اء وا��ــ�ر‪ ،‬و�ـ��ث �ـ�ا��ــ�ات‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ،‬و��ــ�‪ ٢‬أ��ــ�س ا ـ���ــ�ان ]و�ـ�[ ا��ٕ �ـ�‬ ‫���ـ�دن‪ ،‬ــ���ـ� ــ‬ ‫و�ـ� ا ـ���ــ�ان وا���ـــ�ت وا ـ ـ‬ ‫‪٥‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫����ـ�ة‬ ‫����ـ�ة و��ــ� ا ـ ــ‬ ‫��ـ�ر[ ا ـ ــ‬ ‫وا ــ���ـ��ـ� وا ـ���ــ�ع ‪] ٣...‬وأر ـ��ـ� أ��ــ�س ا���ـــ�ت و�ـ� ا�� ٔ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�ر‪� ،‬ـ��ـ�‬ ‫��ـ�د ا ـ��ـ�ا�ـ� وا�� ٔ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�دن و�ـ� ا�� ٔ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ن �ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫وا���ـــ�ت ا ـ���ــ���ــ�‪ ٧... ٦‬و ــ‬ ‫���ـ� ا ـ��ـ��م وأ�ـ��ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫�����ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� وا ـ��ـ�ن‪ ،‬د ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� وا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫ــ‬ ‫وا��ٔ��� ا����� وا���� ا����� ���‪.‬‬ ‫�ـ� ا�ـ�أس و�ـ� أن ��ــ� ــ‬ ‫���ـ�‬ ‫���ـ��ـ� و ـ��ـ�ً‪� ،٩‬ـ��ـ� ــ‬ ‫ــــ� وأذ��ــ� و ــ‬ ‫���ـ�‪� ٨‬ـ�وق‪���� ،‬‬ ‫ـ ــ‬ ‫ــــ� ا���ـــ�ض وا ـ��ـ�اد وا��ــ��ـ� �ـ� ��ــ� وا�ـ�ة و�ـ�‬ ‫����ـ� ا��ــ�‪ ١٠‬ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬وذ�ـ� أن �ـ� ا ـ�����‬ ‫‪١١‬‬ ‫����ـ�ن‪،‬‬ ‫���ـ�ن وا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�ان وا�� ٔ�ـ� وا ـ��ـ� وا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ��ـ�ن وا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ،‬وا��ٔذ�ـ�ن وا ـ ـ‬ ‫ا�� ٔ�ـ�ى ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ�ات‬ ‫�����ـ� ا�ـ�أس ]و[ا�ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬و ـ���ــ�ه �ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� ا ــ���ـ�م ا ـ ــ‬ ‫���ـــ� ا��ــ� ـ��ـ� ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ���ـــ� ا ـ��ـ��م وأ�ـ��ـ�‬ ‫���ـ�ن‪ ،‬د��ــ� ��ــ� ـ ـ‬ ‫�����ـ� ا�ـ��ـ�ن وا ـ ـ‬ ‫وا�ـ��ـ�ح ا����ــ�‪ ١٢‬ـ��ـ� ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫وا��ٔ��� ا����� وا���� ا����� ���‪.‬‬ ‫���ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� أ ـ��ـ�ء‪ ،‬ا�ـ�أس وا ـ��ـ�ن وا ـ��ـ�ان وا�ـ��ـ��ن �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ� إن ا��ٕ ـ��ـ�ن ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� أدوار‪� ،‬ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫ا�ـ�وح‪ ،‬و�ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�‪� ،‬ـ��ـ� ا�ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ ـ���ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫‪١٣‬‬ ‫����ـ�ء ا ـ���ــ� و��ــ� ـ��ـ�ن‬ ‫ا ـ��ـ��م ا�ـ�ي �ـ�ور ـ���ــ� ا��ٔدوار و�ـ� �ـ ّ� ا ـ��ـ�دة ا ـ��ـ�ر�ـ� �ـ� ا ــ ـ‬ ‫﴿و�َـ َ�ـ ْ� َ�ـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� ا��ٕ �ْـ َ�ـ� َن‬ ‫ـ��ـ�ر�ـ�‪� ،‬ـ��ـ� ذ�ـ� �ـ� �ـ�ل �ـ� و�ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ� ا ــ���ـ�ء ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�‪َ :‬‬ ‫‪١٥‬‬ ‫ِ�ـ� ُ�ـ�� َ�ـ ٍ� ِ�ـ� ِ�ـ�ـ�ٍ ﴾‪ ،‬أراد آدم‪ُ�﴿ ،١٤‬ـ �� َ�ـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� ُه �ُـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ً� ِ�ـ� َ�ـ َ�ا ٍر َ�ـ ِ�ـ�ـ�ٍ ﴾‪ ،‬أراد �ـ� ح �ـ�ح‬ ‫���ـــ� ا ـ��ـ��م‪�َ ﴿ ،‬ـ َ�ـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� ا ُ��ــ ْ�ـ َ�ـ َ� َ�ـ َ�ـ َ�ـ ً�﴾‪ ،‬أراد �ـ� ��ــ�‪�َ ﴿ ،١٦‬ـ َ�ـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� ا ـ َ��ـ َ�ـ َ�ـ َ� ُ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ً�﴾‪ ،‬أراد �ـ�‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫‪٥‬‬ ‫‪٦‬‬ ‫‪٧‬‬ ‫‪٨‬‬ ‫‪٩‬‬ ‫‪١٠‬‬ ‫‪١١‬‬ ‫‪١٢‬‬ ‫‪١٣‬‬ ‫‪١٤‬‬ ‫‪١٥‬‬ ‫‪١٦‬‬

‫��ا���ات‪�� :‬ا��ات‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫و���‪ :‬و���‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫���� أ���ء ����� �� أ���س ا����ان �� ا���‪.‬‬ ‫ا�����ة‪ :‬ا����ة‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا�����ة‪ :‬ا����ة‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا�������‪ :‬ا����ا���‪ .‬ص‬ ‫��� ا�� را�� أ���س ا����ت �� ا���‪.‬‬ ‫����‪ ،��� :‬ص‬ ‫و���ً‪ :‬و��‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا���‪ :‬ا���‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫وا��ٔذ��ن وا������ن وا�����ان‪ :‬وا��ٔذ��� وا������� وا�������‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا�����‪ :‬ا�����‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫��‪ ،��� :‬ص‬ ‫آدم‪ :‬إ��م ‪ (�����) +‬آدم‬ ‫ح‪�� (�����) + :‬ح‬ ‫���‪ (�����) + :‬إ��ا���‬

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‫ﻛﺘﺎب اﻟﺮﺳﻮم واﻻزدواج ‪٢٣‬‬

‫���ـ� د���ـ ً� ��ــ� د��ــ�‪�� ،‬ــ��ـ�‬ ‫�ـ���ــ� �ـ� و�ـ� �ـ� ـ���ــ� ���ـــ�ً ���ـــ�ً‪� ،‬ـ� ��ــ� ا�� ٔ��ــ�ء ــ‬ ‫�ـ�ل‪�َ ﴿ :‬ـ ُ�ـ ِ� ـ ِ��ـ� آ َ�ـ��ِـ َ�ـ� ِ�ـ� ا�� ٓ َ�ـ ِ‬ ‫��ـ ��﴾ ]‪،[٥٣ :٤١‬‬ ‫�ق َو ِ�ـ� أ�ْـ ُ�ـ ِ�ـ ِ�ـ� َ�ـ ��ـ� َ�ـ َ�ـ َ�ـ ��ـ َ� �َـ ُ�ـ� أ��ـ ُ� ا ـ َ‬ ‫و�ـ� ـ��ـ�‪ :١‬أ�ـ� ا ـ��ـ�‪� .‬ـ�ٕن �ـ�ل �ـ��ـ�‪� :‬ـ� ا�ـ���ــ� �ـ� ا�� ٓ�ـ�ق وا�� ٔ ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ� أن‬ ‫���ـــ� �ـ�د ا�� ٔ ـ��ـ� �ـ� �ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ� ــ‬ ‫���ـ�؟ و�ـ� ا�ـ���ــ� ��ــ� أن ـ��ـ� إ�ـ�م و�ـ��ـ�‪ ٢‬ا��ــ� ـ��ـ�‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫��ـ�ً؟ ــ���ـ�ل وا��ــ�‬ ‫���ـ� أ ـ��ـ� وا��ــ� ـ��ـ� �� ـ‬ ‫�ـ��ـ�ً؟ و�ـ� ا�ـ���ــ� ��ــ� أن ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ� أ�ـ��ـ�ً و ــ‬ ‫�����ـ�ن‪ :‬إن أول �ـ� �ـ�رده �ـ� ا ـ��ـ�ا�ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ� ذ�ـ�ه �ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� وا�� ٓ�ـ�ق وا�� ٔ ـ��ـ�‬ ‫اـ ـ ــ‬ ‫���ـ�‪� ،‬ـ� ا�ـ�ي‬ ‫ــــ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ�ه ــ‬ ‫ـــــ� وا�ـ�ر��ــ� وا�� ٔ����‬ ‫�ـ�ن ا��ٕ ـ��ـ�ن‪ ،‬و�ـ� أن ��ــ� ا ـ��ـ�ر وا ـ������‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫����ـ�م وا ـ��ـ�يء وا ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ� �ـ��ـ� و�ـ� ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ل‬ ‫�����ـــ�ن وا ـ���ــ� وا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� وا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ة وا�ـ��ـ� وا ـ ـ‬ ‫وا ـ��ـ�ارة وا ـ ــ‬ ‫���ـ�‬ ‫�����ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�ان‪ ٥‬أ�ـ� ـ��ـ� ــ���ـ��ـ� وا�� ٓ�ـ� ���ـــ�ل‪� ،‬ـ��ـ� ا��ــ� ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫‪٧‬‬ ‫�����ـ� ��ــ� ا��ــ�وج‬ ‫����ـ� وا��ــ�وج ا����ــ� ـ��ـ� ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫وا ــ���ـ�‪ ،٦‬و ـ���ــ�ه �ـ� ا ـ���ــ� ا�� ٔ�ـ��ك ا ـ ــ‬ ‫وا���� ا������� د��� ��� آدم وو��� وا��ٔ��� ا����� وا���� ا����� ���‪.‬‬ ‫���ـ� ا��ٔر ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ا�ـ�ا�ـ�ة �ـ� ا��ٕ ـ��ـ�ن أ�ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ��ً‪� ،‬ـ�‬ ‫���ـ�ً و ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ا ـ��ـ�‪ ٨‬ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�‪،‬‬ ‫�����ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� وا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� وا��ــ� ـ��ـ� ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ��ت‪��� ،‬ـــ� ــ‬ ‫ا��ٕ ـ��ـ�م وا ـ��ـ� ��ــ� ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫‪٩‬‬ ‫و ـ���ــ�ه �ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� ا ـ ــ‬ ‫����ــ�‪،‬‬ ‫�����ـ� ��ــ� �ـ�ف وا ــ���ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� ا�� ٔ ـ��ـ� وا��ــ� ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ�ة ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫د ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ�ح وأ�ـ��ـ� وا�� ٔ ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ا�� ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�ة‪� ،‬ـ� �ـ��ـ� �ـ� ا ـ��ـ�‬ ‫����ـ� وا ـ ـ‬ ‫ا�� ٔ�ـ�ى‪ ،‬و ـ���ــ�ه �ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� إ�ـ��ج ا���ـــ� �ـ� ا ــ���ـ�ر وإ�ـ��ج ا ــ���ـ�ر �ـ� ا���ـــ� وأر ـ��ـ� �ـ�ا�ـ�‬ ‫�����ـ� ا ـ���ــ� وا ــ���ـ�ر‪ ،‬د��ــ� ـ��ـ� إ�ـ�ا��ــ�‬ ‫���ـ� أ�ـ�م وا��ــ�‪ ١٠‬ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ� ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�‪� ،‬ـ��ـ� ــ‬ ‫ـــ‬ ‫���ـ� ا����ــ� ـ��ـ�‪� ،‬ـ��ـ� �ـ� ا�ـ��ـ� ا�ـ�ا�ـ�ة‪،‬‬ ‫����ـ� وا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـــ� ا ـ��ـ��م وأ�ـ��ـ� وا�� ٔ ـ��ـ� ا ـ ــ‬ ‫‪١١‬‬ ‫و ـ���ــ�ه �ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� ــ‬ ‫���ـ�ل وا ـ���ــ�‪ ،‬د��ــ� ـ��ـ�‬ ‫�����ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�اً ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� أ�ـ�م وا��ــ� ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ا�� ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ��ـ� �ـ� ا�ـ��ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ�ى‪،‬‬ ‫����ـ� وا ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ��ـ� وأ�ـ��ـ� وا�� ٔ ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫‪٥‬‬ ‫‪٦‬‬ ‫‪٧‬‬ ‫‪٨‬‬ ‫‪٩‬‬ ‫‪١٠‬‬ ‫‪١١‬‬

‫���‪ ،���� :‬ص‬ ‫و����‪ ،������ + :‬ص‬ ‫أ����ً‪ :‬أ����ن‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا����‪ :‬ا���ّ�‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫وا�����ان‪ :‬وا�������ن‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫������ ا���� وا����‪ ����� :‬ذ�� ا���� و�����‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا�����‪ :‬ا�����‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا���‪ :‬ا���‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا���‪ :‬ا���‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا���‪ :‬ا���‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا���‪ :‬ا���‪ ،‬ص‬

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‫ﻛﺘﺎب اﻟﺮﺳﻮم واﻻزدواج ‪٢٢‬‬

‫���ـ�ً‪ ،‬أذ�ـ�ن و���ـــ�ن‬ ‫���ـ�ً وا ـ��ـ�وق �ـ� ا�ـ��ـ� ــ‬ ‫���ـ�ً و�ـ�ل ا��ٕ ـ��ـ�ن ـ���ــ�ه ــ‬ ‫���ــ� ــ‬ ‫وأ�ـ�اب ـ‬ ‫��ـ� ا��ٕ ـ��ـ�ن �ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� ��ــ�‪� ،‬ـ� و ـ��ـ� و ـ��ـ� و�ـ�وق و ـ��ـ�‬ ‫���ـ�ان و�ـ�‪ ،‬و ـ‬ ‫و ــ‬ ‫��ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�ل‪:‬‬ ‫���ـ� أ�ـ�ى ا ـ��ـ� ذ�ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� �ـ� و�ـ� �ـ� ـ‬ ‫��ـ�‪� .‬ـ� ا ـ��ـ�أه �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫ودم و ـ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ٍ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫﴿ َ�ـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� ا��ٕ �ْـ َ�ـ� َن �ـ� ُ�ـ�� َ�َـ� �ـ� �ـ�ـ�ٍ �ُـ �� َ�ـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� ُه �ُـ�ـ َ�ـ ً� �ـ� َ�ـ َ�ا ٍر َ�ـ�ـ�ـ�ٍ �ُـ �� َ�ـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� ا ُ��ــ�ـ َ�ـ َ�‬ ‫َ�ـ َ�ـ َ�ـ ً� َ�ـ َ�ـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� ا ـ َ��ـ َ�ـ َ�ـ َ� ُ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ً� َ�ـ َ�ـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� ا ـ ُ��ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ َ� ِ�ـ َ�ـ��ـ�ً َ�ـ َ�ـ َ�ـ ْ��ـَ� ا ـ ِ��ـ َ�ـ� َم �َـ ْ�ـ�ـ�ً ُ�ـ �� أ�ْـ َ�ـ�ٔ�ـَ� ُه َ�ـ ْ�ـ�ـ�ً‬ ‫��ـ ْ�ـ�ِ َ�ـ� ِ�ـ ِ�ـ�ـ َ�﴾ ]‪:٢٣‬‬ ‫﴿و َ�ـ� �ُـ ��ـ� َ�ـ� ا ـ َ‬ ‫آ َ�ـ َ� َ�ـ َ�ـ َ�ـ� َر َك ا ـ��ـ ُ� أ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ُ� ا ـ َ‬ ‫��ـ��ِـ ِ�ـ�ـ َ�﴾ إ�ـ� �ـ��ـ� َ‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫����ـ� �ـ�ق إ�ـ� ا��ــ� �ـ� �ـ���ـ�‪ ،‬وذ�ـ� أن ا ـ��ـ��ـ�د‬ ‫‪ .[١٧-١٢‬وا ـ��ـ�ا�ـ� �ـ� ا��ٔو��ــ�ء‪ ،‬ا ـ ــ‬ ‫����ــ� �ـ� ا�� ٔ��ــ� �ـ� ــ���ـ���ــ� أ��ــ�‬ ‫����ـ� �ـ�ش وإن و�ـ� ــ���ـ���ــ� �ـ�ت‪� ،‬ـ�ٕن ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫إن و�ـ� ـ ــ‬ ‫ــــ��ـ�ن ـ��ـ�‬ ‫����ـ� ��ــ� أن ا��ــ�س ����‬ ‫��ـ� ا ـ���ــ�ة �ـ� ا ـ ــ‬ ‫����ـ�‪ ،‬إ�� أن ا��ــ� �ـ� و�ـ� ـ‬ ‫�ـ� ا ـ ــ‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫��ـ�ـ� �ـ� ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ا �ـ� أ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�‪� ،‬ـ�ٕن ُو�ـ� و�ـ ٌ� أ ـ ـ‬ ‫و�� �ـ�رون �ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ��ـ� �ـ� ا ـ��ـ�م‬ ‫��ـ��ـ�ً‪ ،‬وا ـ ُ‬ ‫ا ـ��ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬و ــ����ــ�‪� ٣‬ـ� ��ــ� ���ـــ�‪ ،‬و��ــ� ا ـ��ـ��ة �ـ� ��ــ� ���ـــ�‪ ،‬وإن �ـ�ض �ـ��ـ� �ـ ٕ� ـ��ـ�‬ ‫��ـ�‬ ‫��ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� وأ�ـ� �ـ� ـ‬ ‫����ـ� �ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ� ا ـ��ـ�م ا ـ��ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬وإن �ـ�ت ُ�ـ�ّـ� ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫ـــ‬ ‫ور��ت �� ا���ر و��� �� ���� أ��اب‪.‬‬ ‫��ـ� ا ـ��ـ�آن ــ‬ ‫�ـ� ـ‬ ‫���ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� أ��ــ�ع‪ ،‬وروي أن ا�ـ��ـ�ل �ـ�ل‪» :‬إن ا ـ��ـ�آن �ـ�ل ـ��ـ� ــ‬ ‫ٍ‬ ‫ٍ‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ�ف �ـ�ف«‪ ،‬و�ـ� ـ��ـ� ا ـ���ــ�ب ا��ــ� �� ـ��ـ�ز ا ـ��ـ��ة إ�� ـ��ـ�‬ ‫أ�ـ�ف �ـ� �ـ�ف ــ‬ ‫��ـ�ـَ��ِـ� َوا ـ ُ��ـ ْ�آ َن‬ ‫ـ‬ ‫��ـ� أ�ـ�ت‪ ،‬و�ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�رك و ـ��ـ��ـ�‪َ :‬‬ ‫﴿و�َـ َ�ـ ْ� آ َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� َك َ�ـ ْ�ـ�ـ�ً ِ�ـ َ� ا ـ َ‬ ‫���ـ� ���ـــ� ا ـ��ـ��م أ�ـ� �ـ�ل‪:‬‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�‪ .‬وروي ]�ـ�[ ـ ـ‬ ‫ا ـ َ��ـ ِ�ـ�ـ َ�﴾ ]‪� [٨٧ :١٥‬ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� �� ُ�ـ��ــ� ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ� إ��‬ ‫���ـ� ��ــ�«‪ ،‬أراد ـ��ـ�ا ا ـ��ـ�ل أن ا�� ٔ ـ��ـ� ا ـ ــ‬ ‫���ـ� وا ـ ـ‬ ‫» ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ��ـ� ــ‬ ‫���ـ� ــ���ـ� وا ـ ـ‬ ‫ــ‬ ‫��ـ�ر أ��ــ�‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ�ن ـ‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ،‬وا ـ��ـ�ا��ــ� ــ‬ ‫���ـ�‪ .‬وا ـ��ـ�ر ا ـ��ـ�ال ــ‬ ‫����ـ� �ـ� و�ـ�ه‪ ،‬وا�ـ��ـ�ء‬ ‫��ـ� ا�ـ���ــ�‪ ،‬إ�ـ�رة ��ــ� إ�ـ� ا�� ٔ ـ��ـ� ا ـ ــ‬ ‫ا ـ��ـ����ـــ� �ـ� ا ـ��ـ�ب ا�ـ� ـ‬ ‫����ـ�ق و ـ��ـ��ن‪ ،‬و ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ�ان وا�ـ��ـ�‪،‬‬ ‫�����ـ� وا�� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�ء وا ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� و�ـ� ا�� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫ــ‬ ‫����ـ�‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� إ�ـ� ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ن‪ ،‬و ـ��ـ� ا�ـ�أس وا�ـ��ـ��ن‪ ،‬و�ـ�ض ا ـ��ـ��ة ـ ـ‬ ‫وـ ـ‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫وا ــ�����ـــ�ة ا��ٔو�ـ� وا ـ��ـ�اءة وا�ـ��ـ�ع وا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ��ـ�ن وا ـ���ــ�س‪� ،‬ـ� ا ـ��ـ�اف ���ـــ� ا��ــ� ا ـ��ـ�ام‬ ‫���ـ� ��ــ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ،‬وا ـ ـ‬ ‫ــ‬ ‫���ـ�‪﴿ ،‬إ �ن ِ�ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� ــ‬ ‫���ـ�ر ــ‬ ‫���ـ� أ�ـ�اط‪ ،‬ور�ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� وا ـ��ـ�وة‪ ٥‬ــ‬ ‫َذ�ِ�َ َ�� ٓ َ� ٍ‬ ‫�ت �ِ�َ� ٍم َ� َ� َ��ّ ُ�ونَ﴾ ]‪ ٣ :١٣‬و�����[‪.‬‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫‪٥‬‬

‫أن ا�����د‪ :‬ا�����دات ‪ (�����) +‬ظ وذ�� أن ا�����د‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫�����‪��� :‬ا��‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫و�����‪ :‬و���‪،‬ص‬ ‫����‪ ،��� :‬ص‬ ‫وا���وة‪ :‬وا�����‪ ،‬ص‬

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‫ﻛﺘﺎب اﻟﺮﺳﻮم واﻻزدواج ‪٢١‬‬

‫���ـ��ـ�ن‬ ‫���ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ�ه �ـ� و�ـ�ه‪ ،‬ـ‬ ‫���ـ� وا�� ٔ ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�ات ا ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫����ـ�ن �ـ���ـ� و ـ��ـ��ـ�ن �ـ�ا�ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� ا ـ��ـ��م‪ ،‬ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ج ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�ن ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫ـ ــ‬ ‫و����ون ����ر ا����� �����‪ ،‬ا������ �� ا����‪ ،‬ذا�� إ���� ا�����‪.‬‬ ‫��ـ� آ�ـ�ر أو��ــ��ـ� و�ـ�ا�ـ��ـ� �ـ� �ـ���ــ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� و�ـ�ا�ـ� ا�ـ��ـ� ��ٔن‬ ‫و�ـ� ��ــ� ا��ــ� �ـ� ا ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ��ــ� �ـ� و�ـ� ��ز�ـ� ��ــ�ده �ـ�‬ ‫����ــ�راً و ــ���ـ�ن ا ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�اً و��ــ�اً وا ــ‬ ‫�� ــ���ـ� أ�ـ� إ�� ـ‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫���ـ�ت‪ .‬و�ـ� ا ـ��ـ�ا�ـ� ��ــ� ا�� ٔ ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ــ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫ـ‬ ‫����ــ���ــ� أن �ـ��ـ� ���ـــ� ا ـ��ـ��م أ�ـ� أ��ــ�‬ ‫����ــ�ه ��ــ�اً ـ��ـ�‪،‬‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� ا��ــ�م ا ـ��ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ� ا ـ���ــ�‪ ،‬و ـ ـ‬ ‫����ــ�ا ��ــ� أ�ـ�م و ــ����ــ�ا ا ـ ـ‬ ‫أن ـ ـ‬ ‫�����ـ� و�ـ�ٔ�ـ� �ـ�ٔ�ـ�‬ ‫����ـ�ن �ـ� ـ���ــ� وأن ا ـ��ـ��ـ� ــ ـ ـ‬ ‫����ــ����ـــ� أ ـ��ـ� ـ ــ‬ ‫د���ـ� ��ــ� ��ــ� ا ـ���ــ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ع ��ــ�‪ ،‬و�ـ��ـ� أ�ـ�‬ ‫����ـ� ا�� ــ‬ ‫�ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�ن ـ ـ���ـ����ـــ� ـ���ــ��ـ� ا ـ���ــ� ا�ـ�ي أو�ـ� ـ ــ‬ ‫���ـ� أ ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ا ـ��ـ��م أن ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫ــ‬ ‫��ـ� أ�ـ�م و ـ ـ���ـ� ا ـ��ـ�م ا ـ��ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�اً‪ ،‬و�ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ�‪،‬‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫���ـ� ّل‬ ‫و�ـ��ـ� أ��ــ� ر�ـ�ل ا��ــ� ��ــ� ا��ــ� ���ـــ� و��ــ� ا ـ��ـ��ة �ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� ا ـ���ــ��ـ� وا ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�‪ ،‬وأ�ـ�ل ا��ــ� �ـ�‬ ‫���ـ�ع �ـ� ا��ــ�م ا ـ��ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ� �ـ�م ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� ا�� ــ‬ ‫��ــ� أ�ـ�م وأو�ـ� ـــ‬ ‫��ـ ُ�ـ َ�ـ ِ� َ�ـ� ْ�ـ َ�ـ�ا إ َ�ـ�‬ ‫ذ�ـ� �ـ�آ�ـ�ً ـ��ـ�ل‪�َ ﴿ :‬ـ� أ ��ـ َ�ـ� ا�ـ ِ��ـ َ� آ َ�ـ ُ�ـ�ا إ َذا �ـُ� ِد َي �ِـ ـ َ‬ ‫��ـ�� َ ِة ِ�ـ� َ�ـ� ِم ا ـ ُ‬ ‫���ـ� و��ــ�ه‬ ‫ِذ ْ�ـ ِ� ا��ــ ِ�﴾ ]‪� ،[٩ :٦٢‬ـ�ٔ�ـ��ـ� أن ــ���ـ��ـ� �ـ� ا ـ��ـ�اءة �ـ� ا ـ���ــ� أ�ـ�م ـ��ـ��ة ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ�اءة �ـ�‬ ‫��ـ� �ـ��ـ�ت �ـ� ا ـ ـ���ـ�ر‪ ،‬وأن ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫�ـ� �ـ��ة ا ـ ـ���ـ�ر‪ ،‬و�ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫‪٥‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫����ـ�‪ .‬وذ�ـ� أن ] ـ ــ‬ ‫ا��ــ�م ا ـ��ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ� �ـ�م ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�[ ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� ��ــ� أ ـ��ـ� ـ���ــ��ـ�ن وأن‬ ‫‪٦‬‬ ‫���ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫ا ـ��ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� و ـ���ــ� د�ـ��ـ� و ـ��ـ�ن ــ���ـ����ـــ� ـ���ــ��ـ� ا ـ���ــ� ا�ـ�ي ـ��ـ� ـــ‬ ‫����ـ�ء ا ـ���ــ� �ـ��ـ�ا د�ـ�ة إ�ـ� ا��ــ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� �� ٔ ـ��ـ� د�ـ�ا إ�ـ� ا��ٕ ـ��ـ�ن‬ ‫���ـ�ع إ��ــ� وأن ا ــ ـ‬ ‫ا�� ــ‬ ‫�ـ� ـ��ـ� وا ـ��ـ�م ا�� ٓ�ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ�‪� ،‬ـ�ل ا ـ��ـ� �ـ� و�ـ�‪َ ﴿ :‬ذ�ِـ�َ َ�ـ� ٌم َ�ـ ْ�ـ ُ�ـ� ٌع َ�ـ ُ�‬ ‫�س َو ِذ�َـ� َ�ـ� ٌم َ�ـ ْ�ـ ُ�ـ� ٌد َو َ�ـ� �ُـ َ� ��ـ ُ� ُه إ�� ّ �ِ� ٔ َ�ـ�ٍ َ�ـ ْ�ـ�ُو ٍد﴾ ]‪ [١٠٤-١٠٣ :١١‬إ�ـ� �ـ��ـ�‪:‬‬ ‫ا َ��ــ ُ‬ ‫‪٧‬‬ ‫﴿إ�� ّ �ِ ٕ� ْذ�ِ ِ�﴾ ]‪ [ ١٠٥ :١١‬و�� ��� ��ٕذ��‪.‬‬ ‫���ـ�ات وا��ٔر��ــ�‬ ‫�����ـ� �ـ� ��ــ� أ�ـ�م ��ــ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ات وا��ٔرض و�ـ� ـــ ـ‬ ‫�ـ� ـ��ـ� ��ــ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ً‬ ‫ــ‬ ‫���ـ�ً وا�� ٔ�ـ�م ــ‬ ‫���ـ�ً وا�� ٔ�ـ���ــ� ــ‬ ‫���ـ�ً وا ــ���ـ�ر ــ‬ ‫���ـ�ً وا ــ���ـ�م ــ‬ ‫���ـ�ً وا�� ٔ�ـ��ك ــ‬ ‫���ـ�ً ‪ ٨‬ــ‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫‪٥‬‬ ‫‪٦‬‬ ‫‪٧‬‬ ‫‪٨‬‬

‫������ن‪ ،������� :‬ص‬ ‫أن‪ٔ�� :‬ن‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫�����‪ ،���� :‬ص‬ ‫ا������‪ ،����� :‬ص‬ ‫������ن‪ ،������� :‬ص‬ ‫و����‪ :‬و����‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫﴿��م ��ٔت �� ���� ��� ا�� ��ذ��‪﴾...‬‬ ‫����ً‪ ،ً����� :‬ص‬

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‫ﻛﺘﺎب اﻟﺮﺳﻮم واﻻزدواج ‪٢٠‬‬

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‫ﻛﺘﺎب اﻟﺮﺳﻮم واﻻزدواج ‪١٩‬‬

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‫ﻛﺘﺎب اﻟﺮﺳﻮم واﻻزدواج ‪١٨‬‬

‫�ـ���ء ا ـ���ــ� و�ـ� ��ــ�ب �ـ�ى ��ــ� �ـ���ء ـ��ـ� أ��ــ�ل و�ـ�ا�ـ� ود�ـ�ء و ـ����ـــ� ��ــ�‬ ‫���� أ�� و�� ���‪.‬‬ ‫��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�‬ ‫����ـ�‪� ،‬ـ� ـ‬ ‫����ـ�ء ا ـ ــ‬ ‫����ـ� ــ����ــ�ل ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� ا ــ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ�م ا ـ ــ‬ ‫وإ ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫�����ـ� �ـ� ��ــ� أ�ـ�م دون ا��ــ�م ا ـ��ـ��ـ� ــ���ـ�ن ا�� ٔ�ـ�م ا ـ���ــ�‬ ‫���ـ�ات وا��ٔرض و�ـ� ـــ ـ‬ ‫ذ�ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ات‬ ‫���ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� �ـ�دراً أن ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�ب ا ـ��ـ�ا�ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ� �ـ�ن �ـ� ا ـ‬ ‫����ـ�ء أ ـ‬ ‫د ــ���ـ� ـ��ـ� ا ــ ـ‬ ‫�����ـ� �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫وا��ٔرض و�ـ� ـــ ـ‬ ‫﴿و َ�ـ� أ ْ�ـ ُ��ـَ� إ�� ّ َوا ِ�ـ َ� ٌة َ�ـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ ِ�‬ ‫���ـ� ا ــ���ـ� �� ٔ�ـ� �ـ�ل و�ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ�‪َ :‬‬ ‫�ِـ� ـ َ��ـ َ�ـ�ِ﴾ ]‪ [٥٠ :٥٤‬و�ـ�ل‪﴿ :‬إ��ـ َ�ـ� َ�ـ ْ��ُـ َ�ـ� �ِـ َ�ـ� ٍء‪ ٢‬إ َذا أ َر ْد�ـَ� ُه‪ ٣‬أ ْن �َـ ُ�ـ� َل �َـ ُ� �ـ ُْ� َ�ـ َ�ـ ُ�ـ�نُ﴾‬ ‫���ـ� أو�ـ� ا ـ��ـ�م‪ ،‬و�ـ� �ـ�ح وإ�ـ�ا ـ��ـ�‬ ‫����ـ�ء ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� ]�ـ�[ �ـ���ء ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫]‪� .[٤٠ :١٦‬ـ� ـ‬ ‫����ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ� ـ��ـ� آدم �ـ� أو�ـ� ا ـ��ـ�م‪،‬‬ ‫����ـ� أ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ‬ ‫���ـ� و ـ ـ‬ ‫و�ـ��ـ� و ـ ـ‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ،‬وإ ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫وا ـ��ـ�م �ـ� �ـ��م ا ـ��ـ�ب ا ـ���ــ� وا ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� أو�ـ� ا ـ��ـ�م دون‬ ‫��ـ� �ـ���ء ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫آدم ��ٔ�� أول �� أ�� ا���� وا���أ ا������‪.‬‬ ‫�ـ� �ـ�م ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� �ـ�ء �ـ�ح‬ ‫���ـ�ء وا��ٔو ـ��ـ�ء وأ�ـ� ا�ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� �ـ�ن ـ��ـ�ه �ـ� ا�� ٔ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ا ـ��ـ��م و�ـ�م ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ�س �ـ��� ٔ�ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ�ء �ـ�‬ ‫ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ�ة‪ ،‬ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ� آدم ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ� �ـ�ن �ـ� أ�ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ� ا��ٔول‪ ،‬ـ��ـ� آ�ـ� �ـ� و�ـ��ـ� و ـ��ـ�‬ ‫و�ـ�م ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ� ا��ٔول �ـ�ن �ـ��ـ�اً‪� .‬ـ� �ـ�م‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ�ن �ـ� ـ��ـ�ً و�ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ�ٔ�ـ�م ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� �ـ�ء إ�ـ�ا ـ��ـ�‪� ،‬ـ�ٔ�ـ�‬ ‫���ـ�ء وا��ٔو ـ��ـ�ء وأ�ـ� ا�ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� �ـ�ن ـ��ـ�ه �ـ� ا�� ٔ ـ ـ‬ ‫ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ�ة و ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ�ح و�ـ�م ��ــ� ا��ــ�س �ـ��� ٔ�ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ�ء �ـ� و�ـ�ك ـ��ـ� �ـ�‬ ‫���ــ� ا�� ٔ�ـ� ا��ٔول �ـ�ن‬ ‫�ـ�ن �ـ� أ�ـ� ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ� أ�ـ��ـ� �ـ�ن �ـ���ــ�ً و�ـ� ـ��ـ�ه وأ�ـ�م ��ــ� ـ‬ ‫���ـ�‬ ‫��ـ� �ـ�ء �ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ء وا��ٔو ـ��ـ�ء وأ�ـ� ا�ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ��ـ�ه ا�� ٔ ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ��ـ�اً‪� .‬ـ� �ـ�م ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫ا ـ��ـ��م‪� ،‬ـ�ٔ�ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ�ة و ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ� إ�ـ�ا��ــ� و�ـ�م ��ــ� ا��ــ�س �ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ�ء‬ ‫�ـ� و�ـ�ك �ـ� �ـ� أ�ـ� ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ� أ�ـ��ـ� �ـ�ن �ـ���ــ�ً و�ـ� ـ��ـ�ه وأ�ـ�م ��ــ� ا�� ٔ�ـ� ا��ٔول �ـ�ن‬ ‫��ـ� �ـ�ء‬ ‫���ـ�ء وا��ٔو ـ��ـ�ء وأ�ـ� ا�ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� �ـ�ن ـ��ـ�ه �ـ� ا�� ٔ ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ��ـ�اً‪� .٥‬ـ� �ـ�م ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ���ـــ� ا ـ��ـ��م‪� ،‬ـ�ٔ�ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ�ة و ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ� و�ـ�م ��ــ� ا��ــ�س �ـ�‬ ‫] ــ‬ ‫ا�� ٔ�ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ�ء �ـ� و�ـ�ك �ـ� �ـ�ن �ـ� أ�ـ� ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ� أ�ـ��ـ� �ـ�ن �ـ���ــ�ً و�ـ� ـ��ـ�ه وأ�ـ�م‬ ‫�ـ�ـ� �ـ�ـ�ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ� ا��ٔول �ـ�ن �ـ��ـ�اً‪� .‬ـ� �ـ�م �ـ�ـ��ـ�ـ�ـ� �ـ� �ـ�ن �ـ�ـ�ه �ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ�ـ�ـ�ء‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫‪٥‬‬

‫ا����م‪ :‬ا��م‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫����� ���ء‪ :‬ا����‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ارد��ه‪ :‬اراد��ه‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫���‪��� :‬ا‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫وأ��م ��� ا��ٔ�� ا��ٔول ��ن ����اً‪�� :‬ن ����اً وأ��م ��� ا��ٔ�� ا��ٔول‪ ،‬ص‬

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‫��ـ� وا�� ٔ ـ��ـ�ظ ا ـ��ـ��ـ�ة‪ ،‬و ـ���ــ�‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ���ــ�ا��ــ� ا�ـ�ا ـ‬ ‫����ـ� و�ـ�ا ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� �ـ� ـــ‬ ‫�ـ� ا���ـــ� ـ ــ‬ ‫����ـ��ـ� �ـ�ن‬ ‫����ـ�ن ا��ــ�س ـ���ــ� ا��ــ��ـ� ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬ـــ‬ ‫أ ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ�ا ��ــ���ــ� �ـ ٕ� ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ�ا ـ ــ‬ ‫���ـ� ا ـ��ـ�س �ـ�‬ ‫���ـ�غ �� ٔ�ـ� �ـ�ن ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� ز�ـ��ـ�ء ا ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ��ـ� أ�ـ�ان‪ ،‬و�ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫وــ‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫���ـ� ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫ا ـ��ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ�ء ا�ـ�ي ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� ��ــ�‬ ‫����ـ�د�ـ� ‪ ،‬و�ـ� ا��ــ��ـ� �ـ� ـ���ــ�‪ ،‬و�ـ��ـ� �ـ�ه ا ـ ــ‬ ‫�ـ� ��ــ� إ�ـ�ا��ــ� د ــ���ـ� ��ــ� ا ـ ــ‬ ‫���ـ��ـ�‪�ِ ﴿ :‬ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ َ� ا ـ��ـ ِ�‬ ‫���ـ�‪� ،‬ـ�ل ا ـ��ـ� ــ‬ ‫����ـ� �ـ� ا��ــ��ـ� �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫َو َ�ـ ْ� أ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ُ� ِ�ـ َ� ا�ـ�ـ ِ� ِ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ً� َو�َـ ْ�ـ ُ� �َـ ُ� َ�ـ��ِـ�ُونَ﴾ ]‪ [١٣٨ :٢‬أراد د�ـ� ا�ـ�ـ� و�ـ�ل‪:‬‬ ‫﴿و َ�ـ َ�ـ َ� ًة َ�ـ ْ�ـ ُ� ُج ِ�ـ� ُ�ـ� ِر َ�ـ ـ َ��ـ َ�ء َ�ـ ْ�ـ ُ�ـ ُ� �ِـ��ـ ُ� ْ�ـ�ِ َو ِ�ـ ْ�ـ ٍ� �ِـ�� ٓ ِ�ـ ِ�ـ�ـ َ�﴾ ]‪ ،[٢٠ :٢٣‬ـ��ـ�‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ـ ـ ــ ـ ـ‬ ‫��������ــ�‪ ،٢‬و ـ���ــ� �ـ��ـ�ا ��ــ�د�ـ�‪�� ،‬ــ� �ـ� أ ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ�ا �ـ��ـ�ن ا��ــ�س �ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� إ�ـ�‬ ‫ـ��ـ��ـ� ا��ــ��ـ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ���ــ�ب �ـ� ا��ٕ ـ���ــ� أن ا ـ ـ‬ ‫����ــ� �ـ ّ� ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ�ء ـ��ـ� ا��ٔردن‬ ‫����ـ�‬ ‫���ـ��ـ� أ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� وا ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ��ـ�ل ـ��ـ�‪» :‬د�ـ�ا ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ون ا ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ�أى �ـ��ـ�ً ـ ـ‬ ‫����ون ا���س«‪.‬‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫��ـ ُ�ـ� ِر‬ ‫�ـ��� ٔ��ــ�ل ���ـــ�ة وا�ـ����ـ� وا ـ‬ ‫��ـ� ���ـــ�ة‪ ،‬و�ـ� ذ�ـ� �ـ��ـ� �ـ� و�ـ�‪﴿ :‬إ �ن �ـ �� َة ا ـ ُ‬ ‫��ـ َ�ـ َ� ِ‬ ‫ِ�ـ ْ�ـ َ� ا ـ��ـ ِ� ا ْ�ـ َ�ـ�‪�َ ٣‬ـ َ�ـ َ� َ�ـ ْ�ـ�اً ِ�ـ� ِ�ـ َ�ـ ِ‬ ‫ض ِ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� أ ْر َ�ـ َ�ـ ٌ� ُ�ـ ُ� ٌم‬ ‫�ب ا ـ��ـ ِ� َ�ـ� َم َ�ـ َ�ـ َ� ا ـ َ‬ ‫ات َوا�� ٔ ْر َ‬ ‫���ـ�ر د��ــ�ً دون �ـ��ـ�‬ ‫����ــ�ا �ـ�ه ا ـ ـ‬ ‫َذ�ِـ�َ ا�ـ ���ـ ُ� ا ـ َ��ـ ��ـ ُ�﴾ ]‪ ،[٣٦ :٩‬ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�ز ـ��ـ� أن ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ر د��ــ�ً؟‬ ‫��ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫�����ـ� د��ــ�ً و ـ‬ ‫ا ـ��ـ�ا�ـ� وا ـ���ــ�‪ ،‬و�ـ� �ـ�ل �ـ�ه ا ـ��ـ�ا�ـ� وا ـ���ــ� �ـ� ـ ـ ــ‬ ‫���ـ�‪� ،‬ـ� ـ��ـ�اد �ـ�����ــ� ـ��ـ� ا�ـ��ـ�‬ ‫و�ـ�ا �ـ� �� ـ��ـ�ز �ـ� �ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬وإ ـ��ـ� ���ـــ� �ـ� �ـ� ــ‬ ‫����ــ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ� وأ�ـ�‬ ‫د�ـ�ا إ�ـ� إ�ـ�م ا�ـ��ـ�ن وإ�ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� ا��ــ���ــ� �ـ�� ـ����ـــ� و�� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ر‪َ ﴿ :‬ذ�ِـ�َ ا�ـ ���ـ ُ� ا ـ َ��ـ ��ـ ُ�﴾ ]‪ ٣٦ :٩‬و ـ��ـ��ـ�[‪ ،‬و ـ��ـ�‬ ‫���ـ�م د��ــ� ـ��ـ��ـ� �ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫ــ‬ ‫‪٥‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫�ـ��ـ� ا�����ـــ�ر وا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ��ــ�‬ ‫�����ـ�ن ــ‬ ‫���ـ� ��ــ� أن ا��ــ� ـ��ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ� أ�ـ� ��ــ�‪ ،‬وا ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ،‬ذ�ـ� �ـ��ـ�‪﴿ :‬إ �ن‬ ‫���ـ� و ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ��م ا��ــ� ��ــ� ذ�ـ��ـ�‪ :‬آدم و�ـ�ح وإ�ـ�ا��ــ� و�ـ��ـ� و ــ‬ ‫ا��ــ َ� ا ْ�ـ َ�ـ�ـَ� آ َد َم َو�ـُ��ـ�ً َوآ َل إ ْ�ـ َ�ا ِ�ـ�ـ َ� َوآ َل ِ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ا َن َ�ـ َ�ـ� ا ـ َ��ـ��َـ ِ�ـ�ـ َ� ُذ �ر ��ـ َ� َ�ـ ْ�ـ ُ�ـ َ�ـ� ِ�ـ� َ�ـ ْ�ـ�ٍ﴾‬ ‫��ـ�ب‬ ‫��ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ�ده‪ ،‬و�ـ� أ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ٦‬و ـ‬ ‫��ـ�ة ا ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫]‪ ،[٣٤-٣٣ :٣‬ـ��ـ���ء ـ‬ ‫‪٧‬‬ ‫ا ـ���ــ� وا ـ��ـ�ا�ـ� وا�� ٔ�ـ� وا ــ���ـ� ��ــ� ـ���ــ��ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ�‪� ،‬ـ� ا�� ٔ���ـــ�ء وا�ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ�ا ـ��ـ�ا�ـ�‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫‪٥‬‬ ‫‪٦‬‬ ‫‪٧‬‬

‫ا�����د��‪ :‬ا����د��‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫���������‪ :‬ا��������‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا���‪ :‬ا���‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫وا������ن‪ :‬وا�������‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫���‪ ،���� :‬ص‬ ‫����‪ ،����� :‬ص‬ ‫������‪ ،������ :‬ص‬

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‫ﻛﺘﺎب اﻟﺮﺳﻮم واﻻزدواج ‪١٦‬‬

‫ا�� ٔ�ـ�ـ�ر وأ�ـ�ـ�ء أ�ـ�ـ�ء ا�� ٔ�ـ�ـ�ر و�ـ�ا�ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ�ـ�ر«‪ .‬أ�ـ�ـ�ى �ـ ّ�� ً �ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ�ـ�ر وأ�ـ�ـ��ـ�ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ�‬ ‫���ـ��ـ�‪� ٢‬ـ�ا ا�ـ��ـ�ء و�ـ� �ـ�ن ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫و�ـ�ا ـ ـ���ـ� �ـ� �ـ� �ـ�‪� ١‬ـ� ا�ـ��ـ�ب وا ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� ا�� ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� ا�ـ��ـ�‬ ‫�ـ��ـ� و�ـ��ـ� و�ـ��ـ� و�ـ� و ـ��ـ�؟ �ـ� �ـ�ن �ـ�ا ا�ـ��ـ�ء ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ��ـ�‬ ‫����ـ� �ـ� ا ـ��ـ� �ـ� و�ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ� أ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� و ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫�����ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫ـ��ـ�وه �ـ� ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫���ـ�‪» :‬أ ـ‬ ‫ا�ـ��ـ� �ـ�ل ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ا‬ ‫��ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ ـ���ـ�م �ـ�ٔ ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�« ‪ ،‬و�ـ�ل‪ ��» :‬ـ ـ ّ‬ ‫‪٥‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫أ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� ا��ــ� �ـ�‬ ‫���ـ��ـ��ـ� وا�� ٔ ـ��ـ�ر �ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ�اد ا�ـ��ـ� ـ ــ‬ ‫��ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ��ـ�«‪ ،‬و�ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ�ٔ ـ‬ ‫���� أ����� ���� ا����م‪ ،‬و��� ���ن ا�����ن ��وة ����ى ��؟‬ ‫�ـ��� ٔ ـ��ـ�ر ا ــ����ــ�ء وأ��ــ�ؤ�ـ� ا�ـ��ـ�ة وأ��ــ�ء أ��ــ� ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ�ٔذو�ـ�ن‪ ٦‬و�ـ�ا ــ���ـ� ا ـ��ـ���ــ�ن ا�ـ��ـ�‬ ‫‪٧‬‬ ‫���ـ��ـ�‬ ‫���ـ��ـ�ا ا��ــ��ـ� �ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� و ـ���ــ�ا ا ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�ا ـ���ــ�ء �� ٔ ـ��ـ� ا ــ‬ ‫أ�ـ�م ـ��ـ� ا�ـ����ـ�‪ ،‬وإ ـ��ـ� ـ ّ‬ ‫������ــ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� ا��ــ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫اـ ـ ــ‬ ‫�����ـ�ج‬ ‫����ـ�‪ ٨‬أ�ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ�‪ .‬وا ــ����ــ� �ـ� �ـ��م ا ـ��ـ�ب ا ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫����ــ�ن‪ ،‬و�ـ� ذ�ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� �ـ� ��ــ��ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ��ـ� ا�ـ�ي ــ���ـ� ا ـ��ـ��م و ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫ــ ـ‬ ‫‪٩‬‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫﴿و�َـ َ�ـ� أ َ�ـ��ـَ� �ـ ـ��ـَ�قَ َ�ـ�ـ� إ ْ�ـ َ�ا�ـ�ـ َ� َو َ�ـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� �ـ ـ ُ��ـ ُ� ا ْ�ـ َ�ـ� َ�ـ َ�ـ َ� �َـ�ـ ـ��ـ�ً﴾ ]‪،[١٢ :٥‬‬ ‫ـ��ـ�ل‪َ :‬‬ ‫‪١٠‬‬ ‫﴿و َ�ـ�ّـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� ُ�ـ ُ� ا ْ�ـ َ�ـ َ�ـ� َ�ـ َ�ـ َ�ة أ ْ�ـ َ�ـ��ـ�ً﴾ ]‪ ،[١٦٠ :٧‬و ـ��ـ� �ـ�ل �ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ�‪:‬‬ ‫و�ـ�ل‪َ :‬‬ ‫‪١١‬‬ ‫س‬ ‫��ـ َ�ـ َ� َ�ـ��ْـ َ�ـ َ�ـ َ� ْت ِ�ـ�ـ ُ� ا ْ�ـ َ�ـ َ�ـ� َ�ـ َ�ـ َ� َة َ�ـ ـ��ـ�ً َ�ـ ْ� َ�ـ ِ�ـ َ� ُ�ـ �� أ�ـَ� ٍ‬ ‫﴿�ُـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� ا ْ�ـ� ِْب �ِـ َ�ـ َ�ـ� َك ا ـ َ‬ ‫����ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� ا�� ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� ا�ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ�ا ـ��ـ��ـ�ً ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ن ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ� َ�ـ ُ�ـ�﴾ ]‪ ،[٦٠ :٢‬ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�‬ ‫���ـ�‪» :‬أ�ـ� أ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�اً‪ ،‬و�ـ�ل �ـ� ا��ٕ ـ ـ‬ ‫�����ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�‪ .‬و�ـ�ن ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫و ـ��ـ��ـ�ً ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫‪١٢‬‬ ‫�ـ��� ٔ ـ��ـ�ل و�� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ��ـ� إ�� �ـ���ء ا ـ��ـ�� ـ��ـ� ا�� ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�«‪ ،‬و�ـ�ل �ـ�م �ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� أن‬ ‫��ــ���ــ�‪ ،‬و�ـ�ل آ�ـ�ون‪� :‬ـ��ـ�ا‬ ‫�ـ�ار�ّـ�‪ ١٣‬ا ـ ـ‬ ‫����ــ� �ـ��ـ�ا ـ ّ‬ ‫��ـ�ر�ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ�ل آ�ـ�ون‪� :‬ـ��ـ�ا ّ‬ ‫��ـ�ٔ �ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫��ــ�د�ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ� �ـ� أ�ـ�ب �ـ� ا ـ��ـ�ل وأ ـ‬ ‫����ــ� �ـ� �ـ�ل أ ـ��ـ� ]�ـ��ـ�ا[‬ ‫����ــ�‪ ،‬ـ ـ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫��ـ�ن ـ��ـ�‬ ‫���ـ�و ـ��ـ� �ـ� �ـ� ا ــ���ـ� و�ـ� ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ون ا��ــ�س �ـ� ـ���ــ� و ـ ـ‬ ‫ـّ‬ ‫��ـ�ر�ـ� �ـ ٕ� ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ�ا ـ ـ ُ‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫‪٥‬‬ ‫‪٦‬‬ ‫‪٧‬‬ ‫‪٨‬‬ ‫‪٩‬‬ ‫‪١٠‬‬ ‫‪١١‬‬ ‫‪١٢‬‬ ‫‪١٣‬‬

‫� ّ�� ً �� ا��ٔ���ر وأ������ و��ا���� �� �� ��‪ �� :‬أ���ر وأ���ؤ�� و������ �� ��‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫������‪ ،������� �� :‬ص‬ ‫��رن د���� ا�����م‪٨٧-٨٦ :١ ،‬‬ ‫���‪ ،���� :‬ص‬ ‫��ٔ�����‪ ،���ٔ�� +:‬ص‬ ‫ا���ٔذو��ن‪ :‬ا���ٔذون‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫أ��م‪ :‬أ����ا‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫�����‪ ،���� :‬ص‬ ‫و���‪ :‬وإذ‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا���� ���ة‪ :‬ا��� ���‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا����‪ :‬ا����‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا�����‪ :‬ا�����‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫��ار�ّ�‪�� :‬اري‪ ،‬ص‬

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‫ﻛﺘﺎب اﻟﺮﺳﻮم واﻻزدواج ‪١٥‬‬

‫إ�ـ��ـ� ا��ــ� ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ�ً �ـ� �ـ� ا��ــ��ـ� �ـ��ـ�ن ا��ــ�س إ�ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� ا��ــ���ــ� و�ـ�ٔو�ـ� ا���ـــ��ـ�‪،‬‬ ‫و�� �������� ������ ا��ٔ���ت وا���� ������ ا��ٔب ���‪.‬‬ ‫و�ـ� �ـ�ن ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ���ـــ� ا ـ��ـ��م أ�ـ�‪ ١‬ـ��ـ�ء وأزوا�ـ�ً ] ـ��ـ� أو�ـ�[ أن ـ��ـ�ن ـ��ـ� ذ�ـ�‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫��ـ�ة ��ــ� ـــ‬ ‫ر��ــ� ��ــ� �ـ� ا ــ���ـ�ء أو ـ‬ ‫����ــ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� ـ���ــ� ـ���ــ� ــ�����ـــ� إ�ـ� ا�ـ���ــ�‬ ‫����ـ�ح ‪ ،‬ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ� ا ــ���ـ�ء ـ��ـ��ـ�‪��» :‬ــ� إ�ـ� �ـ� د��ــ��ـ� �ـ��ث ا ـ���ــ� وا ــ���ـ�ء و�ـ�ة ���ـــ� �ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ة«‬ ‫�ـ�ٔراد �ـ� ـ���ــ� ا ـ���ــ� و�ـ� ــ���ـ�ء‪ ٣‬ا�� ٔ�ـ�اب و�ـ� ـ��ـ��ة‪ ٤‬و��ــ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� �ـ�ٔ�ـ�ه‪ ،‬و�ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ة ا�� ٓ�ـ�ة‬ ‫‪٥‬‬ ‫��ـ�� َ َة َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� َ�ـ�ِ ا ـ َ��ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ َ�ء‬ ‫ا��ــ���ــ�‪ ،‬و�ـ�ه ا ـ��ـ��ة ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ�ل ا ـ��ـ� �ـ� و�ـ�‪﴿ :‬إ �ن ا ـ َ‬ ‫َوا� ُ� ْ� َ��ِ﴾ ]‪������ ،[٤٥ :٢٩‬ة أو���ء ا��� ا��ٓ��ون ������وف وا�����ن �� ا�����‪.‬‬ ‫����ـ�ه ا��ــ� ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ�ً‪� .‬ـ�ل ـ���ــ� ا ـ��ـ��م‪�» :‬ـ�ّوا ا�� ٔ�ـ�اب‬ ‫��ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫ود��ــ� آ�ـ� أ�ـ� ـ‬ ‫����ـ�‬ ‫����ــ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� ـ ــ‬ ‫���ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� إ�� �ـ�ب ـ��ـ�«‪ ،‬إ�ـ�رة إ��ــ� أ�ـ� ا ـ���ــ��ـ� ـ��ـ�ه وا ـ ـ‬ ‫ــ‬ ‫����ــ�‪� ،‬ـ� أ�ـ��ـ� أ�� �ـ���ــ�ا ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫أ ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� إ�� �ـ� �ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬د ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ� أ�ـ� �� ـ��ـ� أ�ـ� إ�ـ�‬ ‫‪٦‬‬ ‫ـ��ـ��ـ� �ـ���ــ� ا��ــ�رئ و ـ��ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ���ــ� و�� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ���ـــ�‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ��ـ�ً �ـ� ���ـــ�ن �ـ� �ـ�ء �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� ��ــ� إ�ـ���� ً �ـ� و�ـ�ا�ـ� أ�ـ��ـ� ا��ــ� ـ��ـ� و��ــ��ـ� أ ـ��ـ�ه ا��ــ�‬ ‫و��ــ� آ�ـ� ا ـ��ـ��م إ�� �ـ� ـ‬ ‫����ـ� أن ر�ـ�ل ا��ــ� ��ــ� ا��ــ� ���ـــ�‬ ‫����ـ� ا��ــ� �ـ� ـ���ــ�‪ .‬ـ��ـ� روت �ـ�امّ ا ـ ــ‬ ‫إ�ـ��ـ� وإ�ـ��ـ� ـ ــ‬ ‫���ــ�ا ـ���ــ�ه‪ ،‬وإ ـ��ـ� أراد �ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ�‬ ‫��ـ� �ـ��ق ـ��ـ��ـ� إ�ـ� أ��ــ� ا ـ��ـ����ـــ�‪ ،‬و�ـ�ا ��ــ� ـ‬ ‫ـ‬ ‫���� إ��� ����م ���� �� ��ء و���� ���� �� ��ء‪.‬‬ ‫و�ـ��ـ� ا ـ‬ ‫��ـ�ر �ـ� �ـ��ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ� ا ـ��ـ�‪ ٧‬ـ��ـ� ر�ـ�� ً �ـ� ا�� ٔ ـ��ـ�ر ـ ـ���ـ��ـ�ا ـ��ـ��ء ـ��ـ�‬ ‫����ـ� ا�ـ� �ـ��ـ� ـ���ــ� ا ـ��ـ��م‪ ،‬أراد �ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ� أ�ـ�‬ ‫���ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ�ار��ــ� ـ ــ‬ ‫�ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫‪٨‬‬ ‫ا ـ‬ ‫����ـ�ء‬ ‫����ـ�وه �ـ ٕ��ـ��ـ� ا�ـ��ـ�ة إ ـ��ـ� �ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ� ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ��ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�ر ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ� أ ـ‬ ‫‪٩‬‬ ‫����ـ�ا �ـ�ود �ـ� أ�ـ�ل ا ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ� �ـ�ل‬ ‫�����ـ�‪� �� ،‬ـ��ـ� ا�� ٔ ـ��ـ�ر ا�ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫وا�� ٔ ـ��ـ�ر �ـ� ـ ـ ــ‬ ‫ـ���ــ� ا ـ��ـ��م‪» :‬ا�� ٔ ـ��ـ�ر َ�ـ ِ��ـ� و����‬ ‫����ـ ُ�‬ ‫��ـ� ا��ــ�س ِ�ـ ْ�ـ�ـ�ً ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫ــــ� و ـ��ـ�ن �ـ ّ�ي و�ـ� ـ‬ ‫���ـ� أ�ـ ّ� ا�� ٔ ـ��ـ�ر وأ ـ��ـ�ء‬ ‫���ـ� ر�ـ�� ً �ـ� ا�� ٔ ـ��ـ�ر‪ ،‬ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ة ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� ا�� ٔ ـ��ـ�ر و�ـ��� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫ـ‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫‪٥‬‬ ‫‪٦‬‬ ‫‪٧‬‬ ‫‪٨‬‬ ‫‪٩‬‬

‫أ��‪ :‬أ��� ‪ (�����) +‬ظ أ��‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫�����ح‪���� :‬ح‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫و������ء‪ :‬وا����ء‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫و������ة‪ :‬وا����ة‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫���‪ ،��� :‬ص‬ ‫��‪ ،��� :‬ص‬ ‫ا���‪ :‬ا���‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا���‪ :‬ا���‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا����‪ :‬ا��ي‪ ،‬ص‬

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‫ﻛﺘﺎب اﻟﺮﺳﻮم واﻻزدواج ‪١٤‬‬

‫�َـ َ�ـ��ـُ� َ�ـ ْ�ـ ُ� َ�ـ��ْـ َ�ـ ُ�ـ�ا﴾ ]‪ [٧ :٥٩‬و�ـ�ل‪�َ ﴿ :‬ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ� ِر ا�ـ ِ��ـ َ� ُ�ـ َ�ـ��ِـ ُ�ـ� َن َ�ـ� أ ْ�ـ ِ� ِه أ ْن �ُـ ِ�ـ َ��ــ ُ�ـ�‬ ‫﴿وإ ْن �ُـ ِ�ـ ـ ُ��ـ� ُه َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ�ُوا﴾ ]‪[٥٤ :٢٤‬‬ ‫اب أ�ِـ�ـ ٌ�﴾ ]‪ [٦٣ :٢٤‬و�ـ�ل‪َ :‬‬ ‫ِ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ٌ� أ ْو ُ�ـ ِ�ـ ـ ُ��ـ ُ�ـ� َ�ـ َ� ٌ‬ ‫﴿و َ�ـ� �ـَ� َن �ِـ ُ�ـ ْ� ِ�ـ�ٍ َو َ�� ُ�ـ ْ� ِ�ـ َ�ـ ٍ� إ َذا َ�ـ َ�ـ� ا��ــ ُ� َو َر ُ�ـ��ُـ ُ� أ ْ�ـ�اً أ ْن َ�ـ ُ�ـ� ُن �َـ ُ�ـ ُ� ا ـ ِ‬ ‫��ـ َ�ـ َ� ُة ِ�ـ�‬ ‫و�ـ�ل‪َ :‬‬ ‫� ا�� َ� َو َر ُ���َ ُ� َ��َ� َ� �� َ���َ�� ً ُ� ِ����ً﴾ ]‪.[٣٦ :٣٣‬‬ ‫أ ْ� ِ� ِ�� َو َ�� َ� ْ� ِ‬ ‫�����ـ� وا ـ��ـ���ــ�ن ـ���ــ��ـ� ا��ٔو��د‪� ،‬ـ�ل‬ ‫�ـ���ــ��ـ� وا�� ٔ�ـ�س ـ���ــ��ـ� ا��ٔب وا��ٔم‪� ١‬ـ� ا ـ ـ ــ‬ ‫ا��ــ� ــ‬ ‫���ـ��ـ�‪﴿ :‬ا َ��ــ ِ�ـ �� أ ْو�َـ� �ِـ� ـ ُ��ـ ْ� ِ�ـ ِ�ـ�ـ َ� ِ�ـ� أ�ْـ ُ�ـ ِ�ـ ِ�ـ� َوأ ْز َوا ُ�ـ ُ�‪ ٢‬أ ��ـ َ�ـ��ُـ ُ�ـ�﴾ ]‪ ،[٦ :٣٣‬و�ـ�‬ ‫أب ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ�ا �ـ�ل ر�ـ�ل ا��ــ� ��ــ� ا��ــ� ���ـــ� و��ــ� �� ٔ��ــ� ا ـ��ـ����ـــ� ��ــ� ���ـــ� ا ـ��ـ��م‪:‬‬ ‫»أ�ـ� وأ�ـ� أ�ـ�ا �ـ�ه ا�� ٔ�ـ�«‪ ،‬و�ـ�ل ا ـ��ـ�دق‪» :‬ا ـ��ـ��ـ� أ�ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� �� ٔ��ــ� وأ�ـ�‪ ،‬أ�ـ� ـ��ـ�‬ ‫��ـ�«‪� ،‬ـ� ــ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ا�ـ� ـ‬ ‫ا��ــ�ر وأ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ا��ٕ ـ��ـ�ن ـ��ـ�ج �ـ� ـ��ـ� ا��ٔب‪ ،‬ــ����ــ�‬ ‫����ـ� ا��ــ� ـ��ـ�ن ــ‬ ‫����ـ�م ��ــ� ]�ـ��ـ�[ ��ــ� �ـ� ـ��ـ�‪،‬‬ ‫����ـ� ��ــ�ك و ـ��ـ�ى إ�ـ� ا�ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫إ�ـ� ـ��ـ� ا��ٔم‪ ،‬ــ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ا�ـ�ي �ـ�‬ ‫وإن �ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ� ا��ٔب ]ا�ـ�ي �ـ� ا ـ ـ���ـ�[ �ـ� �ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ��ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�‪� ،‬ـ ٕ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� وا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� د ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬وا ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� و ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ك ـ��ـ�ف �ـ� ـ‬ ‫���ـ��ـ� ا��ٔم ـ ـ‬ ‫ــ‬ ‫������ـــ� �ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ��ـ� ا��ــ��ـ� �ـ��ـ� ��ــ� ـ��ـ��ـ� ا��ٕ ـ��ـ�ن‪ .‬ـ��ـ� و�ـ� ��ــ� �ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�‬ ‫ا ــ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� �ـ� ــ‬ ‫و ـ‬ ‫����ـ� ا��ــ� �ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ� ا��ٔب و�ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� ـ��ـ� د��ــ� و�ـ�ن ��ــ���ــ� ��ــ��ـ� ا ــ ـ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ـ��ـ� إ�ـ� ـ��ـ� ا��ٔم‪﴿ :‬إ �ن �ـ� َذ�ـ�َ َ�� ٓ َ�ـ ٍ‬ ‫�ت �ـ َ�ـ� ٍم َ�ـ َ�ـ َ�ـ�ّـ ُ�ونَ﴾ ]‪ ٣ :١٣‬و ـ��ـ��ـ�[‪ ،‬ـ��ـ�‬ ‫��ـ�‬ ‫��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ���ــ� و ـ‬ ‫����ـ��ـ� �ـ� ا ـ���ــ�ب وا�� ٓ�ـ�ت وا�� ٓ�ـ�ر أن ر�ـ�ل ا ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫��ــ� ـ��ـ� ا ــ ـ‬ ‫�ـ�� ٔ�ـ� أب وأزوا�ـ� أ ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� �ـ� ا��ٔزواج �ـ� ا��ــ��ـ� أن ا��ٔزواج �ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ�اب‪ .‬و�ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� إ�ـ�‬ ‫��ـ� ذ�ـ� إ ـ��ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ� وأن أزوا�ـ� ـ��ـ�ؤه ـ��ـ� �ـ�م ـ��ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ�ن ا�� ٔ�ـ� ـ‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫����ـ� أ�ـ�ا�ـ�ً‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ،‬ـ ــ‬ ‫�ـ��ـ�‪�� ،‬ــ� �ـ�ن ا ــ���ـ� إ�ـ� ا�� ٔ ـ��ـ�ت �ـ�ا�ـ�ً ؟ وإ ـ��ـ� ��ــ� �ـ�ٔزوا�ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ��� ً �ـ� د��ــ� و�ـ�ا ـ���ــ�‪� ٤‬ـ� �ـ� أ�ـ�ه‪ ،‬و�ـ� �ـ�د �ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�ءه‪� ،‬ـ�ل‬ ‫����ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ��ـ�ا �ـ� أ ـ‬ ‫ــ ـ‬ ‫‪٥‬‬ ‫ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ�‪﴿ :‬أ ْ�ـ ُ�ـ ُ�وا ا�ـ ِ��ـ َ� َ�ـ َ�ـ ُ�ـ�ا أ�ْـ�ُـ َ�ـ ُ�ـ� َوأ ْز َوا َ�ـ ُ�ـ�﴾ ]‪ [٢٢ :٣٧‬ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ�‬ ‫��ـ� �ـ��ـ�‬ ‫���ـ�‪ .‬و�ـ� ـ��ـ�ز أن ـ��ـ�ن ا���ـ�أة �ـ��ـ�ة وزو ـ‬ ‫����ـ� �ـ� د ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� ـ��ـ� و�ـ�ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫أ ـ‬ ‫و ـ��ـ�ن ا ـ��ـ�أة �ـ���ــ� وزو ـ‬ ‫��ـ� �ـ��ـ� ��ــ�ح وا�ـ�أ�ـ� و�ـ��ـ�ن وا�ـ�أ�ـ� و�ـ�ط وا�ـ�أ�ـ�‪� ،‬ـ��ـ�وج‬ ‫اج﴾ ]‪ ،[٥٨ :٣٨‬وإ ـ��ـ�‬ ‫�ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫﴿وآ َ�ـ ُ� ِ�ـ� َ�ـ ْ�ـ ِ�ـ ِ� أ ْز َو ٌ‬ ‫���ـ� وا ـ��ـ��ـ�‪� ،‬ـ�ل ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ�‪َ :‬‬ ‫��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ���ــ� �ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� �ـ���ــ� ـ��ـ� �ـ�أة ــ���ـ�ن ذ�ـ� د��ــ�� ً ـ��ـ�‬ ‫�ـ�وج ر�ـ�ل ا ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫‪٥‬‬

‫ا��ٔب وا��ٔم‪ :‬ا��ٔم وا��ٔب‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ازوا��‪ :‬ازوا���‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫��ا��ً‪�� :‬ام‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫��ا����‪�� :‬ا���ن‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا�����‪ ،- :‬ا���آن‬

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‫ﻛﺘﺎب اﻟﺮﺳﻮم واﻻزدواج ‪١٣‬‬

‫ُ�ـ ْ�ـ ِ�ـ ـ ُ‬ ‫��ـ��ـ� �ـ����ـــ� �� ٔ ـ��ـ� آ��ــ�ا ـ��ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ���ء ا ـ��ـ���ــ�ن ��ــ�‬ ‫��ـ� �ِـ ِ�﴾ وإ ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫���ـ��ّـ�ن ��ــ����ــ�ن �ـ���ــ�ن ـ ـ ــ‬ ‫���ـ��ـ�ن ���ـــ� ــ‬ ‫�����ـ�ن ���ـــ�‪ ،‬ــ‬ ‫�ـ� ـ��ـ ّ�ون �ـ� ـ ــ ـ‬ ‫������ــ� ‪،‬‬ ‫ات َ�ـ ْ�ـ ُ� أ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� ٍء َو َ�ـ� َ�ـ ْ�ـ ُ�ـ ُ�و َن أ ��ـ� َن‬ ‫�ـ� أ�ـ�وا ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ�ا و ــ���ـ�ا �ـ� �ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�ا‪ ،‬ـ��ـ� ﴿أ ْ�ـ َ� ٌ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫� ا ـ��ـ َ�ـ ِ‬ ‫�ب‬ ‫ُ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ�ـُ�نَ﴾ ]‪ .[٢١ :١٦‬أ�ـ� �ـ�ى أ�ـ� �ـ�ب أ ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�ل‪﴿ :‬أ َ�ـ ُ�ـ ْ��ـ ُ�ـ� َن �ِـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ ِ‬ ‫﴿و َ�ـ� �َـ ُ�ـ� َ�� ُ�ـ ْ� ِ�ـ ُ�ـ� َن �ِـ� ـ��ـ ِ� َوا�ـ َ� ُ�ـ� ُل َ�ـ ْ� ُ�ـ��ـُ�‬ ‫َو َ�ـ ْ�ـ ُ�ـ ُ�و َن �ِـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ�ٍ﴾ ]‪ ،[٨٥ :٢‬و�ـ�ل‪َ :‬‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫�ِـ ُ�ـ ْ� ِ�ـ ُ�ـ�ا �ِـ َ� ��ـ ُ�ـ� َو َ�ـ� أ َ�ـ َ� ِ�ـ��ــَ� َ�ـ ُ�ـ� إ ْن �ُـ ْ�ـ ُ�ـ� ُ�ـ ْ� ِ�ـ ِ�ـ�ـ َ�﴾ ]‪ ،[٨ :٥٧‬و�ـ�ل ‪ِ�﴿ :‬ـ َ�ـ ْ� َدا ُدوا إ ـ َ��ـ��ـ�ً‬ ‫�����ـ� ـ��ـ�ون �ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� ا�ـ�ي �ـ� ا ـ��ـ�‪� ،‬ـ�ر�ـ�ن‬ ‫َ�ـ َ� إ ـ َ��ـ��ِـ ِ�ـ�﴾ ]‪� ،[٤ :٤٨‬ـ� ـ��ـ����ـــ� �ـ� ـ ـ ــ‬ ‫����ـ� ا ـ��ـ�‪� ،‬ـ� أ��ــ��ـ� ا��ــ� ��ــ�ر ا ـ���ــ� ـ��ـ� �ـ�ل‪﴿ :‬أ َو َ�ـ ْ� �ـَ� َن َ�ـ ْ�ـ�ـ�ً‬ ‫�ـ���ــ��ـ� ا�ـ�ي �ـ� ـ ــ‬ ‫��ـ�ُـ َ�ـ ِ‬ ‫س َ�ـ َ�ـ� َ�ـ َ�ـ�ُـ ُ� ِ�ـ� ا ـ ُ‬ ‫� �ِـ َ�ـ�ر ٍِج ِ�ـ ـ َ��ـ�﴾‬ ‫َ�ـ�ٔ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� ُه َو َ�ـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� �َـ ُ� �ـُ�راً َ�ـ ْ�ـ ِ�ـ� �ِـ ِ� ِ�ـ� ا َ��ــ� ِ‬ ‫�ت �َـ ْ�ـ َ‬ ‫]‪.[١٢٢ :٦‬‬ ‫����ـ� ــ���ـ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ�ن‬ ‫��ـ� أ�ـ�م �ـ�ا�ـ� ا�ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�و�ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ���ــ� و ـ‬ ‫�ـ��ـ�ل ا ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫����ـ� ا ـ��ـ��م‪،‬‬ ‫�ـ� ـ��ـ�ا�ـ� ا ـ���ــ� وأ��ــ� أن ا ـ��ـ�ا�ـ� �ـ� ا��ــ� �ـ� و�ـ� وا ـ���ــ� �ـ� أ���ـــ��ـ� ـــ‬ ‫������ــ� ــ���ـ�‪� ،‬ـ� ـ��ـ�ا�ـ� �ـ�ل ��ــ� �ـ�ا�ـ� ا ــ ـ‬ ‫�ـ�ل �ـ� ـ��ـ�ا�ـ� وا ـ���ــ� ��ــ� ا ـ ـ ــ‬ ‫����ـ�‬ ‫����ـ�ء ـــ‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ�ل ـ��ـ� ا��ٔو ـ‬ ‫ا ـ��ـ��م‪ ،‬وا ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� �ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� وا ـ‬ ‫����ـ�ء ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�ء‪ٔ�� ،‬ن ا ـ��ـ� �ـ ّ��ـ� إ�ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ���ــ�‬ ‫ا ــ���ـ�‪ ،‬وا ـ���ــ� ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ�ا�ـ� ]�ـ�ل ��ــ� ا��ٔو��ــ�ء[ ��ٔن ا��ــ� �ـ�ض �ـ� ــ‬ ‫���ـ�ا ا�ـ��ـ�ل‬ ‫���ـ�ا ا ـ��ـ� وأ ــ‬ ‫����ـ� ا ـ��ـ��م‪ ،‬ـ��ـ�ل‪�﴿ :‬ـ� أ ـ��ـ� ا�ـ��ـ� آ��ــ�ا أ ــ‬ ‫و�ـ��ـ� أ���ـــ��ـ� ـ ــ‬ ‫‪٥‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫وأو�ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ� ــ‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� �ـ�‬ ‫���ـ�﴾ ]‪� [٥٩ :٤‬ـ�ٕن ا ـ��ـ�ض وا ـ���ــ� �ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� ا��ٕ �ـ�م وا ـ ـ‬ ‫ـ��ـ� وز�ـ�ن‪� ،‬ـ� ـ��ـ�ض �ـ� ا��ــ��ـ� وا ـ���ــ� �ـ��ـ� ـ ــ‬ ‫�����ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ��ـ�‬ ‫����ـ� ا ـ��ـ��م �� �ـ�ق ـــ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ن«‪ ،‬أراد �ـ� ـ���ــ� �ـ��ـ� ا�ـ�ي �ـ�‬ ‫�ـ�ل ر�ـ�ل ا��ــ� ��ــ� ا��ــ� ���ـــ� و��ــ�‪�» :‬ـ�رك ���ـــ� ــ‬ ‫﴿و َ�ـ� َ�ـ ْ�ـ ِ�ـ ُ�‬ ‫���ــ� ا�ـ�ي ا ـ ـ‬ ‫و��ــ� و ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ه ��ــ�ٔو�ـ� �ـ� ـ���ــ�‪� .‬ـ�ل ا��ــ� ـ��ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�ً �ـ��ـ�‪َ :‬‬ ‫‪٦‬‬ ‫َ�ـ� ا ـ َ��ـ َ�ى إ ْن ُ�ـ َ� إ�� ّ َو ْ�ـ ٌ� ُ�ـ� َ�ـ�﴾ ]‪ [٤-٣ :٥٣‬و�ـ�ل‪ُ�﴿ :‬ـ� َ�ـ� أ ْ�ـ�ٔ�ُـ ُ�ـ� َ�ـ َ�ـ�ـ ِ� أ ْ�ـ�اً﴾‬ ‫‪٧‬‬ ‫� ا�� ٔ َ�ـ� ِو�ـ ِ� َ�� ٔ َ�ـ ْ��ـَ� ِ�ـ ْ�ـ ُ� �ِـ� َ��ــ ِ�ـ�ـ�ِ �ُـ �� �َـ َ�ـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� ِ�ـ ْ�ـ ُ�‬ ‫]‪ [ ٩٠ :٦‬و�ـ�ل‪َ :‬‬ ‫﴿و�َـ� َ�ـ َ�ـ � ّ� َل َ�ـ َ�ـ َ��ــ� َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ‬ ‫﴿و َ�ـ� آ�ـَ��ُـ ُ� ا�ـ َ� ُ�ـ� ُل َ�ـ ُ�ـ ُ�و ُه َو َ�ـ�‬ ‫ا�ـ َ��ِـ�ـ َ�﴾ ]‪� ،[٤٦-٤٣ :٦٩‬ـ� �ـ� ��ــ� �ـ���ــ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ�ل‪َ :‬‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫‪٥‬‬ ‫‪٦‬‬ ‫‪٧‬‬

‫�������‪ ،������ :‬ص‬ ‫و��ل‪ :‬و����ا‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫����‪ :‬ا���� ����‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫��ٕن‪ :‬وان‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫وا����‪ :‬وا����‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫��‪ ،�� :‬ا���آن‬ ‫وأ���ً ‪٢٣ :٤٢‬‬

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‫ا�ـ ِ��ـ َ� ُ�ـ َ�ـ��ِـ ُ�ـ��ـَ�َ إ��ـ َ�ـ� ُ�ـ َ�ـ��ِـ ُ�ـ� َن ا��ــ َ� َ�ـ ُ� ا��ــ ِ� َ�ـ�قَ أ ْ�ـ ِ� ـ ِ��ـ�﴾ إ�ـ� �ـ��ـ� ﴿أ ْ�ـ�اً َ�ـ ِ�ـ ـ��ـ�ً﴾ ]‪:٤٨‬‬ ‫‪ .[١٠‬ـ��ـ� ��ــ� أن ا ـ��ـ� أ�ـ� ـ��ـ� أ���ـــ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ�ا��ــ� وأ�ـ�ت ا�� ٔ���ـــ�ء ـ��ـ� أ��ــ� ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�‬ ‫أ���� �� و��‪ ��� ،‬ا��� ا��� �� ��� �� ���ده‪.‬‬ ‫ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�ه �ـ�ن ��ــ� ـ��ـ�ً �ـ��� ً �ـ� ر�ـ�ه‪ ،‬و�ـ� و�ـ� �ـ� �ـ�ن �ـ���ــ�ً �ـ� �ـ�ي‬ ‫����ـ�ت‬ ‫���ـ�ك وا ـ ــ‬ ‫إ�ـ� ��ــ� ا��ــ��ـ� وا ـ��ـ��ـ� و�ـ�ٔو�ـ� ا���ـــ��ـ� و ـ��ـ��ـ� ا�� ٔ��ــ�ل‪ ،‬و��ــ� �ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ��ف إ�ـ� ا�� ـ��ـ��ف‪ ،‬وأ�ـ�م ا��ٕ ـ��ـ�ن �ـ� ا��ٕ �ـ��م �ـ� ـ��ـ�ً ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�ه‪ ،‬و�ـ�ن �ـ�‬ ‫و�ـ� ا�� ـ‬ ‫�����ـ� �ـ�‬ ‫����ـ� ـ���ــ� ا ـ��ـ� ا ـ����ـــ� و�ـ�و�ـ� ا�ـ� ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬وا�ـ��ـ ُ� �ـ� ـ ـ ــ‬ ‫ا�ـ��ـ� �ـ� ا ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬وا ــ ـ‬ ‫���ـ��ـ�‪،‬‬ ‫ا�ـ��ـ�ل �ـ� ا��ٕ ـ��ـ�ن �ـ� ا��ٕ �ـ��م و ـ��ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� �ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� وا ـ��ـ�ٔو�ـ� �ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫�����ـ�‬ ‫���ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ ــ‬ ‫����ـ� ا ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬و�� و�ـ�ل إ�ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� إ�� ـ ـ‬ ‫وا��ٕ �ـ��م �ـ� وا��ٕ ـ��ـ�ن ـ ــ‬ ‫����ـ� و ـ��ـ� �ـ� �ـ�اب �ـ�ر«‪،‬‬ ‫��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ���ــ�‪» :‬إن ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ ــ‬ ‫ـ��ـ� �ـ�ل ر�ـ�ل ا ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫�����ـ� �ـ�[ �ـ�ٔو�ـ�‬ ‫��ـ�اً �ـ� ـ���ــ� و�ـ� �ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬و]ا ـ ـ ــ‬ ‫ــــ�ن ـ‬ ‫�ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ� د�ـ� إ��ــ� ا����‬ ‫ا���ـــ��ـ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ� أ�ـ�م ��ــ� �ـ��ـ� ا��ٕ �ـ��م دون ـ��ـ��ـ� �ـ���ــ� �ـ�م �ـ��ـ� ود�ـ� وأ�ـ� �ـ� ا�ـ��ـ�‬ ‫وا ـ��ـ��ـ� �ـ� ا�ـ� ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬وإن أ�ـ�م ا��ٕ �ـ��م وا��ٕ ـ��ـ�ن �ـ�ن ا��ٕ ـ��ـ�ن أ ـ��ـ�ً و�ـ��ـ�ً �ـ� ـ��ـ�ده‪،‬‬ ‫��ـ�ه وا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� �� ٔ�ـ�ا�ـ� �ـ� �ـ�اب ا��ــ�ر‪ ،‬ـ��ـ��ـ� �ـ�م‬ ‫���ـ� رو�ـ� ا��ــ� �ـ� �ـ�ام ـ‬ ‫و ــ‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫��ـ� ــ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ���ــ� و ـ‬ ‫ر�ـ�ل ا ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫����ـ� �ـ���ــ� ــ���ـ�ن د��ــ�� ً و��ــ�� ً ] ـ��ـ�[ أن ا�ـ��ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� ��ــ��ـ� و��ــ��ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� وا�� ٓ�ـ� �ـ�م ا�ـ�وح‪ ،‬ـ��ـ� أن ا ـ ـ‬ ‫��ــ� أ���ـــ�‪ ،‬أ�ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ�م ا ـ ـ‬ ‫����وح ���� ا��ٕ ���م ��ا�� ا��ٕ ���ن‪.‬‬ ‫�����ـ� و�ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�‬ ‫��ـ�‪ ،‬وا ـ��ـ��ـ� وا�ـ� وا ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ‬ ‫���ـ� روح وا ـ ـ‬ ‫و�ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� د��ــ�ً‬ ‫��ـ� وا��ــ��ـ� رو�ـ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ� �ـ���ــ� �ـ� �ـ�ر ��ــ���ــ� �ـ�ا أن ا�� ٔ��ــ�ء �ـ�دو�ـ�ت ــ‬ ‫ـ‬ ‫���ـ��ـ�ا ���ـــ��ـ� ��ــ�ا و ـ��ـ�ا �ـ� ا��ــ�س‬ ‫�����ـ� ���ـــ��ـ�‪� ،‬ـ�ٕذا ا ــ‬ ‫ود��ــ�‪� ،‬ـ�ٔ�ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ� ـ ـ ــ‬ ‫���ـ�ت ا ـ ِ��ـ�ق ا ـ ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ��ـ�ا �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫ـ��ـ�ر ا ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� ـ��ـ�ت إ�ـ� ا�� ـ��ـ��ف‬ ‫������ـ�ت ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�‪ ،‬أ�� �ـ�ى إ�ـ� �ـ��ـ�‪�َ ﴿ :‬ـ� أ ��ـ َ�ـ� ا�ـ ِ��ـ َ� آ َ�ـ ُ�ـ�ا ا ْ�ـ َ�ـ ِ�ـ ُ��ــ�ا �ِـ َ�ـ ِ� َو�ِـ�ـ َ� ُ�ـ ِ‬ ‫�ل إ َذا َد َ�ـ��ـُ� ِ�َـ�ـ�‬ ‫وا�ـ� ـ‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ُ�ـ ْ�ـ ِ�ـ ـ ُ‬ ‫��ـ�﴾ ]‪ [٢٤ :٨‬و�ـ�ل‪﴿ :‬أ َو َ�ـ ْ� �ـَ� َن َ�ـ ْ�ـ�ـ�ً َ�ـ�ٔ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� ُه َو َ�ـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� َ�ـ ُ� �ـُ�راً َ�ـ ْ�ـ�ـ� �ِـ� �ـ�‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫��ـ�ُـ َ�ـ ِ‬ ‫س َ�ـ َ�ـ� َ�ـ َ�ـ�ُـ ُ� ِ�ـ� ا ـ ُ‬ ‫ــــ�‬ ‫�������‬ ‫� �ِـ َ�ـ�ر ٍِج ِ�ـ ـ َ��ـ�﴾ ]‪ ،[١٢٢ :٦‬و�ـ� �ـ��ـ�ا ـ ــ‬ ‫ا َ��ــ� ِ‬ ‫�ت �َـ ْ�ـ َ‬ ‫ِ ‪٤‬‬ ‫�����ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ�‪�َ ﴿ :‬ـ� أ ��ـ َ�ـ� ا�ـ ِ��ـ َ� آ َ�ـ ُ�ـ�ا ا ْ�ـ َ�ـ ِ�ـ ُ��ــ�ا �ِـ َ�ـ ِ� َو�ِـ�ـ َ� ُ�ـ ِ‬ ‫��ــ� ��ــ� ا ـ ـ ــ‬ ‫�ل إ َذا َد َ�ـ��ـُ� �ـ َ�ـ�‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬

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‫ﻛﺘﺎب اﻟﺮﺳﻮم واﻻزدواج ‪٩‬‬

‫﴿و�َـ� أ��ـ ُ�ـ� َ�ـ َ�ـ�ُـ�ا َ�ـ� ُ�ـ� َ�ـ ُ�ـ� َن �ِـ ِ� �َـ َ�ـ� َن َ�ـ ْ�ـ�اً �َـ ُ�ـ�‬ ‫��ــ� إ�ـ� ا�ـ��ـ� و�ـ��ـ� إ��ــ�‪ ،‬و�ـ�ل ا��ــ�‪َ :‬‬ ‫َوأ َ�ـ �� َ�ـ ْ�ـ ِ�ـ��ــ�ً‪َ ،‬وإذاً َ�� ٓ َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� ُ�ـ� ِ�ـ� �َـ ُ��ـ�� أ ْ�ـ�اً َ�ـ ِ�ـ ـ��ـ�ً‪َ ،‬و�َـ َ�ـ َ� َ��ــ� ُ�ـ� ِ�ـ َ�ا�ـ�ً ُ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ِ�ـ ـ��ـ�ً﴾ ]‪:٤‬‬ ‫‪.[٦٧-٦٦‬‬ ‫���ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ�ا�ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ� �ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� ا��ــ� أ�ـ�ه ا��ــ�س‬ ‫���ـ�د��ــ� وا ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ���ٕ �ـ�ار �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� و ـ��ـ�وا �ـ� ـ���ــ� ��ــ� ا�ـ��ـ�ل ــ���ـ� وا ـ��ـ�ل وا ـ ـ‬ ‫ـــ‬ ‫﴿و َ�ـ��ِـ�ُـ� ُ�ـ� َ�ـ ��ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ��ـ�‪َ :‬‬ ‫���ـ� ���ـــ�ا ��ــ� �ـ� ـ���ــ� ـ��ـ���ــ� أ�ـ�م‬ ‫َ�� َ�ـ ُ�ـ� َن ِ�ـ�ّـ َ�ـ ٌ� َو َ�ـ ُ�ـ� َن ا�ـ ِ��ـ ُ� �ُـ��ـ ُ� �ِـ َ�ـ ِ�﴾ ]‪ .[٣٩ :٨‬ــ‬ ‫��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ���ــ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ� ار�ـ ّ� �ـ� ا��ٕ �ـ��م ـ��ـ� ا�ـ��ـ�ل ��ــ�‬ ‫���ـ� ـ��ـ� أ�ـ� ـ‬ ‫ــ���ـ� ا ـ��ـ�ود ـ ـ‬ ‫��ــ� و�ـ� أ�ـ� �ـ� و�ـ� ���ـــ� �ـ� ُ�ـ�ـ�‪ ،‬ــ����ــ� ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ� ا��ٕ �ـ��م ا�ـ�ي �ـ� �ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�‬ ‫����ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ�ال وأ ـ��ـ�ً �ـ� ا�ـ�ل‬ ‫��ـ� ا�ـ��ـ�ء و ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� ـ‬ ‫����ـ� �ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫ود�ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� أ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�د ـ��ـ�ل ر�ـ�ل ا��ــ�‬ ‫������ـ� �ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ�ا�ـ�ً �ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ��ـ� ـ ــ ــ‬ ‫وا ـ��ـ��ـ� و��ــ� ا�ـ�ر�ـ�‪ .‬و ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�‪» :‬أ�ـ�ت أن أ�ـ��ـ� ا��ــ�س ��ــ� ـ��ـ��ـ�ا �� إ�ـ� إ�� ا ـ��ـ�‪� ،‬ـ�ٕذا �ـ��ـ��ـ�‬ ‫��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ���ــ� و ـ‬ ‫ـ‬ ‫��ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ�«‪ .‬ـ��ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�‬ ‫����ـ�‪ ،‬و ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ا ـ��ـ� ��ّــ� د�ـ�ء�ـ� وأ�ـ�ا ـ��ـ� إ�� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ا�ـ�ي‬ ‫�����ـ� �ـ� ا ـ��ـ���ــ�‪ ،‬و��ــ� �ـ� ا�ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� �ـ� �ـ��ح ا ـ ـ ــ‬ ‫ا�ـ�ي أ�ـ�ه ا��ــ�س ـــ‬ ‫�ـ� �ـ��ح ا ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫�����ـ� �ـ� ا�� ٓ�ـ�ة‪ ،‬و�ـ��ـ� �ـ�ا ا ـ��ـ�ل �ـ�ل ا ـ��ـ�‪ ��َ ﴿ :‬إ�ْـ َ�ا َه ِ�ـ� ا�ـ ِ��ـ�ِ ﴾‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫��﴾ ]‪.[٩٩ :١٠‬‬ ‫�س َ� ��� َ� ُ���ُ�ا ُ��ْ�� َ‬ ‫]‪ [٢٥٦ :٢‬و����‪﴿ :‬أ َ��ٔ� َْ� �ُ ْ� ِ� ُه ا� َ� َ‬ ‫���ـ� ��ــ� ��ــ� ا ـ���ــ� و ـ��ـ��ـ� ا�� ٔ��ــ�ل ا��ــ� ذ�ـ��ـ� ا��ــ� �ـ� ��ــ��ـ� ��ــ� �ـ��ـ�‪�َ ﴿ :‬ـ�‬ ‫�ـ� ــ‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫أ ��ـ َ�ـ� ا�ـ ِ��ـ َ� آ َ�ـ ُ�ـ�ا ُ�ـ� َِب َ�ـ َ�ـ ٌ� َ�ـ� ْ�ـ َ�ـ ِ�ـ ُ�ـ�ا �َـ ُ� إ �ن ا�ـ ِ��ـ َ� َ�ـ ْ� ُ�ـ� َن ِ�ـ� ُدو َن ا ـ��ـ ِ� �َـ� َ�ـ ْ�ـ�ُـ ُ�ـ�ا‬ ‫ُذ َ�ـ��ـ�ً َو َ�ـ� ا ْ�ـ َ�ـ َ�ـ ُ�ـ�ا َ�ـ ُ�﴾ ]‪ [٧٣ :٢٢‬و�ـ��ـ�‪�﴿ :‬ـ َ� أ�ْـ َ��ْـ َ�ـ� َ�ـ َ�ا ا ـ ُ��ـ ْ�آ َن َ�ـ َ�ـ� َ�ـ َ�ـ�ٍ �َـ َ�أ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ُ� َ�ـ� ِ�ـ�ـ�ً‬ ‫س �َـ َ�ـ�ّـ ُ�ـ� َ�ـ َ�ـ َ�ـ ّ�ـ ُ�ونَ﴾ ]‪[٢١ :٥٩‬‬ ‫ُ�ـ َ�ـ َ�ـ ���ـ�ً ِ�ـ ْ� َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ِ� ا ـ��ـ ِ� َو�ِـ ْ�ـ�َ ا�� ٔ ْ�ـ�ـَ� ُل َ�ـ ْ�ـ ِ� ُ�ـ َ�ـ� �ِـ َ��ــ� ِ‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫﴿و�ِـ ْ�ـ�َ ا�� ٔ ْ�ـ�ـَ� ُل �َـ ْ�ـ ِ� ُ�ـ َ�ـ� �ِـ َ��ــ�سِ﴾‬ ‫و�ـ��ـ�‪َ :‬‬ ‫﴿و َ�ـ َ� ْ�ـ َ�ـ� �َـ ُ�ـ� ا�� ٔ ْ�ـ�ـَ� َل﴾ ]‪ [٤٥ :١٤‬و�ـ��ـ�‪َ :‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫س‬ ‫﴿و�َـ َ�ـ ْ� َ�ـ َ� ْ�ـ َ�ـ� �ِـ َ��ــ� ِ‬ ‫﴿و�ـُ�� ً َ�ـ َ� ْ�ـ َ�ـ� َ�ـ ُ� ا�� ٔ ْ�ـ�ـَ� َل﴾ ]‪ [٣٩ :٢٥‬و�ـ��ـ�‪َ :‬‬ ‫]‪ [٤٣ :٢٩‬و�ـ��ـ�‪َ :‬‬ ‫س إ�ّ� �ُـ�ـُ�راً﴾ ]‪ [٨٩ :١٧‬و�ـ��ـ�‪﴿ :‬إ �ن ا ـ��ـ َ�‬ ‫ِ�ـ� َ�ـ َ�ا ا ـ ُ��ـ ْ�ا ِٓن ِ�ـ� �ُـ �� َ�ـ�ـَ�ٍ َ�ـ�ٔ َ�ـ� أ ْ�ـ�ـ َُ� ا َ��ــ� ِ‬ ‫َ�� َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ ِ�ـ� أ ْن َ�ـ ْ�ـ� َِب َ�ـ�ـَ�� ً َ�ـ� َ�ـ ُ�ـ� َ�ـ ً� َ�ـ َ�ـ� َ�ـ� َ�ـ َ�ـ�﴾ ]‪ .[٢٦ :٢‬و��ــ� �ـ�ا �ـ� ��ــ�ب‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ،‬ـ ـ‬ ‫ا ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫�ب أ�ْـ َ��ْـ َ�ـ� ُه إ�َـ�ـ�َ ] ُ�ـ َ�ـ� َر ٌك[ �ِـ َ�ـ �� ��ـ ُ�وا آ َ�ـ��ِـ ِ� َو�ِـ َ�ـ َ�ـ َ��ـ َ��‪ ٥‬أو�ُـ�‬ ‫���ـ�ا �ـ�ل‪�ِ ﴿ :‬ـ َ�ـ ٌ‬ ‫ا�� ٔ�ْـ َ�ـ ِ‬ ‫﴿و�َـ َ�ـ� َو ��ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ�‬ ‫�ب﴾ ]‪ [٢٩ :٣٨‬و�ـ�ل‪﴿ :‬أ َ�ـ�� َ َ�ـ َ�ـ َ� ��ـ ُ�و َن ا ـ ُ��ـ ْ�آنَ﴾ ]‪ [٨٢ :٤‬و�ـ�ل‪َ :‬‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫‪٥‬‬

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‫ﻛﺘﺎب اﻟﺮﺳﻮم واﻻزدواج ‪٨‬‬

‫]‪.[١٣٦ :١٠‬‬ ‫�ل‪﴿:‬و َ�ـ� َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ُ�‬ ‫﴿و َ�ـ� َ�ـ ْ�ـ ِ�ـ�ُـ َ�ـ� إ�� � ا ـ َ��ـ��ِـ ُ�ـ�نَ﴾ ]‪ [٤٣ :٢٩‬و�ـ َ‬ ‫�ـ� �ـ�ح آ�ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�ل‪َ :‬‬ ‫َ�ـ�ٔ ِو ـ َ��ـ ُ� إ�� � ا ـ��ـ ُ� َوا�ـ َ�ا ِ�ـ ُ�ـ� َن ِ�ـ� ا ـ ِ��ـ ْ�ـ ِ� َ�ـ�ـُ��ُـ� َن آ َ�ـ ��ـ� �ِـ ِ� �ُـ �� ِ�ـ� ِ�ـ ْ�ـ ِ� َر ��ـ َ�ـ�﴾ ]‪ [٧ :٣‬و�ـ�ل‪:‬‬ ‫��ـ� َوا�ـ ِ��ـ َ� أو�ـُ�ا ا ـ ِ��ـ ْ�ـ َ� َد َر َ�ـ ٍ‬ ‫﴿ َ�ـ ْ� َ�ـ ِ� ا ـ��ـ ُ� ا�ـ ِ��ـ َ� آ َ�ـ ُ�ـ�ا ِ�ـ ـ ُ‬ ‫�ت﴾ ]‪ [١١ :٥٨‬و�ـ�ل‪﴿ :٢‬إ��ـ َ�ـ�‬ ‫����ـ�ء �ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� إ�� ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ��ـ� أ�ـ� �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� ا ـ��ـ َ� ِ�ـ� ِ�ـ َ�ـ� ِد ِه ا ـ ُ��ـ َ�ـ َ�ـ ُ�ء﴾ ]‪� .[٢٨ :٣٥‬ـ�ٔ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ��ـ�م‬ ‫��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� دون ـ��ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫���ـ�م ـــ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� وا ـ ـ‬ ‫و�ـ���ــ�‪ ،‬وا��ٕ �ـ�ا ُر �ـ���ــ� وا ـ ـ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫� ا ـ��ـ َ�ـ ِ‬ ‫�ب َو َ�ـ ْ�ـ ُ�ـ ُ�و َن �ِـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ�ٍ﴾ ]‪:٢‬‬ ‫ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�د‪� ،‬ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ�‪﴿ :‬أ َ�ـ ُ�ـ ْ��ـ ُ�ـ� َن �ِـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ ِ‬ ‫�����ـ�‪،‬‬ ‫���ـ� و��ٔن ا ـ��ـ��ـ� ��ــ� �ـ� ا�ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ ـ ــ‬ ‫‪ ٔ �� ،[٨٥‬ـ��ـ� آ��ــ�ا ـ��ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� و ـ��ـ�وا ��ــ� ــ‬ ‫��ـ ��‬ ‫�ـ� �ـ� �ـ��ـ� إ�ـ� ا�ـ��ـ� و�ـ� �� ���ـــ� إ�� ـ ـ ــ‬ ‫﴿و ُ�ـ ِ�ـ �� ا��ــ ُ� ا ـ َ‬ ‫������ــ�‪ٔ�� ،‬ن ا��ــ� ـ��ـ�ل‪َ :‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫��ـ �� َو ُ�ـ ْ�ـ ِ�ـ َ� ا َ��ــ� ِ�ـ َ� َو�َـ ْ� َ�ـ ِ� َه ا ـ ُ��ـ ْ�ـ ِ��ـُ� َن ﴾‬ ‫�ِـ َ�ـ ِ�ـ َ�ـ��ِـ ِ�﴾ ]‪ [٨٢ :١٠‬و�ـ�ل‪ِ�﴿ :‬ـ ُ�ـ ِ�ـ �� ا��ــ� ا ـ َ‬ ‫����ـ� �ـ��ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� إن �ـ�ف ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫]‪� ،[٨ :٨‬ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� �ـ� وا ـ��ـ��ـ� �ـ� �ـ�دق وا ـ��ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫��ـ� ِد ِ�ـ�ـ َ� َ�ـ� ِ�ـ ْ��ـ ِ�ـ�﴾ ]‪ ،[٨ :٣٣‬و�ـ� أن‬ ‫و ـ���ــ� ��ٔن ا��ــ� �ـ� و�ـ� ـ��ـ�ل‪ِ�﴿ :‬ـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ�ٔ َل ا ـ َ‬ ‫��ـ��ـ� أ�ـ� ا ـ��ـ�ا�ـ�‬ ‫���ـ�ا‪ ،‬وإ�� ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫����ـ�‪� ،‬ـ�ٕن أ ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ� و ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫ُ�ـ�ـ�ٔ�ـ�ا �ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫اـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ��ِـ ِ�ـ�ـ َ� َ�ـ ْ� آ َ�ـ َ� �ِـ� ـ��ـ ِ�‬ ‫���ـ� ـ���ــ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ��ـ�‪﴿ :‬إ �ن ا�ـ ِ��ـ َ� آ َ�ـ ُ�ـ�ا َوا�ـ ِ��ـ َ� َ�ـ� ُدوا َوا َ��ــ َ�ـ� َرى َوا ـ َ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ف َ�ـ َ�ـ ـ ِ��ـ� َو َ�� ُ�ـ� َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ��ـُ�نَ﴾‬ ‫َوا َ��ــ ْ� ِم ا�� ٓ�ـ ِ� َو َ�ـ ِ�ـ َ� َ�ـ��ـ�ـ�ً َ�ـ َ�ـ ُ�ـ� أ ْ�ـ ُ� ُ�ـ� �ـ ْ�ـ َ� َر ��ـ ِ�ـ� َو�� َ َ�ـ ْ� ٌ‬ ‫���ـ���ــ� وأو�ـ� ـ��ـ�ه ا�� ٓ�ـ� أ ـ��ـ� �ـ� �ـ���ــ�ا‬ ‫����ـ� �ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫]‪ .[٦٢ :٢‬أ�� �ـ�ى أ�ـ� �ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� دون ا ـ���ــ� ا�ـ�ي �ـ�‬ ‫��ـ�ا �ـ����ـــ� ��ٕ ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ�ل وا ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ���ــ� و�� �ـ���ــ�م ا�� ٓ�ـ�‪ ،‬وإ ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫‪٦‬‬ ‫‪٥‬‬ ‫����ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ� و ـ ــ‬ ‫ـ ــ‬ ‫����ـ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ��ـ�‪�َ ﴿ :‬ـ� أ ��ـ َ�ـ� ا�ـ ِ��ـ َ� آ َ�ـ ُ�ـ�ا﴾ ﴿آ ِ�ـ ُ�ـ�ا �ِـ���ــ ِ� َو َر ُ�ـ��ِـ ِ� َوا ُ��ــ� ِر ا�ـ ِ�ي‬ ‫َ�ب َوآ َ�ـ َ� َو َ�ـ ِ�ـ َ� َ�ـ��ِـ�ـ�ً �ُـ �� ا ْ�ـ َ�ـ�َى﴾‬ ‫أْ�َـ َ��ْـ َ�ـ�﴾ ]‪ [٨ :٦٤‬و�ـ��ـ�‪َ :‬‬ ‫﴿وإ�ـ�� �َـ�َـ ��ـ� ٌر �ِـ َ�ـ ْ� �ـ َ‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ��ـ� إ�ـ� ا ـ��ـ�ا�ـ� و�ـ�‬ ‫]‪� [٨٢ :٢٠‬ـ�ل ـ��ـ�ا ا ـ��ـ�ل أن ا��ــ��ـ� ا��ٕ ـ��ـ�ن ا��ٔول‪ ،‬وا ـ ـ‬ ‫ا��ٕ ـ��ـ�ن ا��ــ��ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ�ل ﴿ َ�ـ� أ ��ـ َ�ـ� ا�ـ ِ��ـ َ� آ َ�ـ ُ�ـ�ا َ�ـ ْ� أ ُد��ـ ُ�ـ� َ�ـ َ�ـ� �ِـ َ�ـ� َر ٍة ُ�ـ ْ�ـ ِ�ـ ـ ُ‬ ‫��ـ� ِ�ـ ْ� ِ�ـ َ� ٍ‬ ‫اب‬ ‫��ـ� �ـ�‬ ‫���ـ�رة ا ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫��ـ� أن ا ـ ـ‬ ‫أ�ِـ�ـ ٍ� ُ�ـ ْ� ِ�ـ ُ�ـ� َن �ِـ� ـ��ـ ِ�﴾ ]‪ [١١-١٠ :٦١‬وا ـ��ـ�م ا�� ٓ�ـ�‪� ،٧‬ـ�ٔ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�‬ ‫ا ـ��ـ�اب ا��ٕ ـ��ـ�ن ا��ــ��ـ�‪ .‬و��ــ� �ـ�ا �ـ� ��ــ�ب ا ـ��ـ� ���ـــ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ�ل ا ـ ـ‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫‪٥‬‬ ‫‪٦‬‬ ‫‪٧‬‬

‫وأ���ً ‪٢٨ :٥٣‬‬ ‫و��ل‪ :‬و��‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا���‪ ،- :‬ا���آن‬ ‫ا������ن‪ :‬ا������ن‪ ،‬ا���آن‬ ‫آ���ا‪���ٓ�� :‬ا‪ ،‬ا���آن‬ ‫ا���آن ‪ ��﴿ :١٣٦ :٤‬ا��� ا���� آ���ا آ���ا ����� ور���� وا����ب ا��ي‪﴾....‬‬ ‫ا���آن ‪����� :١١ :٦١‬ن ����� ور����‬

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‫ﻛﺘﺎب اﻟﺮﺳﻮم واﻻزدواج ‪٧‬‬

‫��ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ�‪� :‬ـ�‬ ‫��ـ� �ـ� ر��ــ�‪ ،‬و ـ‬ ‫��ـ�ؤه �ـ� و�ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ�‪� :‬ـ� ر ـ‬ ‫���ـ���ــ�‪� ،‬ـ�ٔ ـ‬ ‫رو�ـ���ــ� و ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ��ـ�‪� .‬ـ�ٕذا �ـ��ـ�‬ ‫��ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� إ�ـ� أول ا�ـ� �ـ� أ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�ؤه و ـ‬ ‫ـ���ــ� �ـ� �ـ��ـ� �ـ� ���ـــ�‪ ،‬وأ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�م‪ ،‬وا���ـــ�ر ��ــ�ر ا��ٕ �ـ��م‪ ،‬و ـ��ـ� �ـ�ق‬ ‫���ـ�ت �ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ�ود وا�� ٔ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�ء وا ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ�ه ا�� ٔ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ��ـ�ت‬ ‫����ـ� ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� و ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ا ـ��ـ��م‪ ،‬ـ��ـ�ن‪� ٢‬ـ�ا ـ��ـ�� ً ‪� ٣‬ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫وازدوا��� و������� و���د�� ����ن ذ�� د���� ً و����ً ������د��‪.‬‬ ‫�����ـ�ن‪ :‬إن إ�ـ�ار ا ـ ـ‬ ‫و ـ��ـ�ل وا��ــ� ا ـ ـ ــ‬ ‫���ـ� ��ــ�‬ ‫��ـ� �ـ� �ـ��ـ� ــ‬ ‫����ــ���ــ� �ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� �ـ� ا ـ‬ ‫���ـ��ـ� ا��ــ���ــ�‬ ‫����ـ� و ـ���ــ� ـ��ـ�وا‪ ،‬وا ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ��ـ� و�� ��ــ ٍ�‪ٔ�� ٤‬ن ا��ٕ �ـ�ار �ـ� �ـ� و�ـ� �ـ��ـ�ي و ـــ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ��ـ�‪،‬‬ ‫���ـ�ب ـ��ـ�ف ا�� ٔ�ـ�ال ا ـ��ـ��ـ��ـ� وا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�وا‪ ،‬ـ��ـ��� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ب و ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� وا ـ ـ‬ ‫ـ ــ‬ ‫����ــ�‬ ‫���ـ��ـ� �ـ���ــ� �ـ� ذ�ـ�ه ــ‬ ‫����ــ�‪ .‬و�ـ� �ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� ا ـ���ــ� و ـ��ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫و�ـ� ــ�����ـــ� ـ��ـ�ف ـ‬ ‫��ـ�ار ـ��ـ��ـ� ا��ٕ ��ــ�ت وا��ٕ �ـ�ار �ـ� �ـ� و�ـ� إذاً ــ���ـ� ا�ـ��ـ� وا ـ���ــ�‬ ‫��ـ�اراً �ـ� ـ‬ ‫ـ��ـ� ا ـ‬ ‫����ــ�‪ٔ�� ،‬ن‬ ‫وا�� ٔ���ـــ�ء وا�ـ��ـ� و�ـ� ـ��ـ� ُ�ـ��ــ�ج �ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� ا��ــ� إ�ـ� د��ــ� أ��ــ� �ـ� و�ـ�د ــ‬ ‫�ـ�ل ا ـ��ـ� �� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� أن إ ـ��ـ�ت َ�ـ� ��‬ ‫���ـ�ج إ�ـ� د ـ��ـ� أ ـ��ـ� �ـ� و�ـ�ده‪ ٥‬و ـ��ـ�ره‪ ،‬ـ ـ‬ ‫‪٦‬‬ ‫��ـ� ا ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ��ـ� أن ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ‬ ‫ـ��ـ��ـ�ة �ـ� �ـ� �ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ء‬ ‫�����ـ� و�ـ� �ـ��ـ� ا�� ٔ ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� ا ـ��ـ��م‪ ،‬و�ـ��ـ� ا��ٕ �ـ�ار �ـ��ـ��ـ� و�ـ� �ـ�ءت �ـ�‪� ،‬ـ�ل ا ـ��ـ� �ـ� و�ـ�‪:‬‬ ‫وا�ـ��ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫��ـ َ�ـ َ� ِ‬ ‫��ـ ْ�ـ ُ� �ـ َ�ـ ِ� َ�ـ ْ� أ ْ�ـ�ـ َُ� ُ�ـ� َ��‬ ‫ض �َـ َ�ـ ُ�ـ��ُـ �� ا ـ��ـ ُ� ُ�ـ ِ� ا ـ َ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫﴿و�َـ ِ�ـ� َ�ـ�ٔ�ْـ َ�ـ ُ�ـ� َ�ـ� َ�ـ َ�ـ َ� ا ـ َ‬ ‫ات َوا�� ٔ ْر َ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫�‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ٔ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫﴿و َ�ـ� ُ�ـ ْ��ـ ُ� ا�ـ�ـ َُ� ُ�ـ� ]�ـ� ـ��ـ�[ إ�� َو ُ�ـ� ُ�ـ�ـ ِ��ـُ�نَ﴾ ]‪:١٢‬‬ ‫َ�ـ ْ�ـ�ـ ُ�ـ�نَ﴾ ]‪ [٢٥ :٣١‬و�ـ�ل‪َ :‬‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫��ـ َ�ـ�ة ا�ـ ُ��ْـ َ�ـ� َو ُ�ـ� َ�ـ�‬ ‫﴿و�َـ ِ�ـ �� أ ْ�ـ�ـ ََ� ا َ��ــ� ِ‬ ‫س �� َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ُ�ـ�نَ؛ َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ُ�ـ� َن َ�ـ��ـ�اً �ـ َ� ا ـ َ‬ ‫‪ [١٠٦‬و�ـ�ل‪َ :‬‬ ‫‪٧‬‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫ا�� ٓ ِ�ـ َ� ِة ُ�ـ� َ�ـ� ِ�ـ�ُـ�نَ﴾ ]‪ [٧-٦ :٣٠‬و�ـ�ل‪﴿ :‬أ َ�ـ َ�ـ� َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ُ� أ��ـ َ�ـ� أ�َـ ِ� َل إ�َـ�ـ�َ ِ�ـ� َر ��ـ�َ ُ�ـ َ�‬ ‫��ـ �� �َـ َ�ـ� ُ�ـ َ� أ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� إ��ـ َ�ـ� َ�ـ َ�ـ َ��ـ ُ�� أ ْو�ُـ� ا�� ٔ�ْـ َ�ـ ِ‬ ‫﴿و َ�ـ� َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ�ِي‬ ‫اـ َ‬ ‫�ب﴾ ]‪ [١٩ :١٣‬و�ـ�ل‪َ :‬‬ ‫‪٨‬‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ا�� ٔ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� َوا َ��ــ ِ�ـ�ـ ُ�﴾ ]‪ [ ١٩ :٥٣‬و�ـ�ل‪�َ ﴿ :‬ـ� َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ�ِي ا�ـ��ـ َ� َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ُ�ـ� َن َوا�ـ��ـ َ� َ�� َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ُ�ـ�نَ﴾‬ ‫]‪ [٩ :٣٩‬و�ـ�ل‪�َ ��َ ﴿ :‬ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ُ�ـ� َن ا ـ ِ‬ ‫�ب إ ��� أ َ�ـ��ِـ�﴾ ]‪ ،[٧٨ :٢‬أراد �ـ��� ٔ�ـ��ـ� ا�ـ�را�ـ�‬ ‫��ـ َ�ـ َ‬ ‫��ـ�ـَ� َ�ـ َ� إ�� � َ�ـ�‬ ‫وأ ـ��ـ� ��ــ� �ـ�ر��ــ� ـ��ـ���ــ�‪ ،‬و�ـ�ل‪�َ ] ��َ ﴿ :‬ـ ْ�ـ ِ�ـ�ُ ا�ـ ِ��ـ َ�[ َ�ـ ْ� ُ�ـ� َن ِ�ـ� ُدو�ِـ ِ� ا ـ َ‬ ‫��ـ �� َو ُ�ـ� َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ُ�ـ�نَ﴾ ]‪ [٨٦ :٤٣‬و�ـ�ل‪﴿ :‬إ �ن ا ـ َ‬ ‫��ـ �� َ�ـ ـ��ـ�ً﴾‬ ‫��ـ �� َ�� ُ�ـ ْ�ـ ِ�ـ� ِ�ـ َ� ا ـ َ‬ ‫َ�ـ ِ�ـ َ� �ِـ� ـ َ‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫‪٥‬‬ ‫‪٦‬‬ ‫‪٧‬‬ ‫‪٨‬‬

‫و�����‪ :‬و����‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫���ن‪�� :‬ن‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫���� ً‪ ،��� :‬ص‬ ‫���‪ ،���� :‬ص‬ ‫و��ده‪�� :‬ده‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا������‪ :‬ا����‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫��‪ ،- :‬ا���آن‬ ‫وأ���ً ‪٥٨ :٤٠‬‬

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‫ﻛﺘﺎب اﻟﺮﺳﻮم واﻻزدواج ‪٦‬‬

‫���ـ�‬ ‫��ــ� ـ���ــ� وا�ـ�‪ ،‬وا ـ���ــ�ب �ـ� ذا�ـ� ��ــ� �ـ���ــ�‪�� :‬ــ��ـ� و�ـ�ٔو�ـ�‪� ،‬ـ��ـ� و�ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�خ‪ ،‬و�ـ��ل و�ـ�ام‪ ،‬أ�ـ� و ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ� وو ـ��ـ�‪،‬‬ ‫���ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ� و�ـ��ـ�‪� ،‬ـ��ـ� و ـ ـ‬ ‫و ــ‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫ـ��ـ�م و�ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ا ـ��ـ��م إ�ـ� د�ـ� ا��ٕ �ـ��م‬ ‫��ـ� �ـ� �ـ�ن و�ـ� ـ��ـ�ن‪ ،‬ود�ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� �� �ـ�ام �� ٔ�ـ� ـ��ـ� إ�� �ـ��� ٓ�ـ�‪� .‬ـ� ـ��ـ�‬ ‫���ـ��ـ� ا�ـ�وح وا ـ ـ‬ ‫وا��ٕ ـ��ـ�ن‪� ،‬ـ� ـ��ـ�ن ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� أ��ــ�ء‪،‬‬ ‫ا�ـ�وا�ـ�ت �ـ� ا���ـــ� ���ـــ� و��ــ� آ�ـ� ا ـ��ـ��م أ�ـ� �ـ�ل‪» :‬ا��ٕ �ـ��م ُ�ـ�ـ� ��ــ� ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�‬ ‫���ـ�دة وإ�ـ�م ا ـ��ـ��ة وإ��ــ�ء ا�ـ��ـ�ة و�ـ�م ـ‬ ‫��ــ�‪� :‬ـ� �ـ� �ـ� ر�ـ�ل ا ـ��ـ�؟ �ـ�ل‪ :‬ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�� ً«‪ ،‬و�ـ� وا�ـ� �ـ� �ـ�ه ا�� ٔ�ـ�ل ـ��ـ�ون‬ ‫���ـ�ع إ ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫ر ـ��ـ�ن و�ـ� ا ـ ـ���ـ� �ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ�ٓ�ـ�‪� ،‬ـ�ـ�ـ�دة أن �� إ�ـ� إ�� ا�ـ�ـ� �ـ�ـ�ون �ـ�ـ�ـ�دة أن �ـ�ـ�ـ�اً ر�ـ�ل ا�ـ�ـ�‪� �� ،‬ـ�ـ�م‬ ‫���ـ�م‪،‬‬ ‫���ـ�م �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫أ�ـ� ـ��ـ� إ�� �ـ��� ٓ�ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ة �ـ��ـ��ـ�ء‪ ،‬وا�ـ��ـ�ة �ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬وا ـ ـ‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫���ـ�ة‪ ،‬وأ��ــ�ع ا�� ٔ���ـــ�ء ـــ‬ ‫وا ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� ا ـ��ـ��م ��ــ� �ـ���ــ�‪� :‬ـ� ـ���ــ� و ـ��ـ���ــ� ‪ ،‬وذ�ـ�‬ ‫��ـ َ�ـ َ� ِ‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ��ـ�‬ ‫ض َ�ـ ْ��ـ�ً َو َ�ـ ْ��ـ�ً﴾ ]‪ ،[٨٣ :٣‬و ـ ـ‬ ‫ات َوا�� ٔ ْر ِ‬ ‫�ـ��ـ�‪َ :‬‬ ‫﴿و�َـ ُ� أ ْ�ـ َ�ـ َ� َ�ـ� ِ�ـ� ا ـ َ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫و�ـ��ـ� وذ�ـ� �ـ��ـ�‪�َ ﴿ :‬ـ ْ� َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ�ِي ا�ـ��ـ َ� َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ُ�ـ� َن َوا�ـ��ـ َ� �� َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ُ�ـ�نَ﴾ ]‪،[٩ :٣٩‬‬ ‫و ـ���ــ� و ـ��ـ�ع ـ��ـ��ـ�‪﴿ :‬أ ِ�ـ ـ ُ��ـ�ا ا ـ��ـ َ� َوأ ِ�ـ ـ ُ��ـ�ا ا�ـ َ� ُ�ـ� َل﴾ ]‪ ٥٩ :٤‬و��ــ��ـ�[‪ ،‬وآ�ـ� و�ـ�ٔ�ـ�ر‬ ‫ـ��ـ��ـ�‪�َ ﴿ :‬ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ� ِر ا�ـ ِ��ـ َ� ُ�ـ َ�ـ��ِـ�ـُ� َن َ�ـ� أ ْ�ـ ِ� ِه أن �ُـ ِ�ـ َ��ــ ُ�ـ� ِ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ٌ�﴾ ]‪ ،[٦٣ :٢٤‬و�ـ�ص و�ـ�م‬ ‫ـ��ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ�‪�َ ﴿ :٣‬ـ ْ�ـ ِ�ي ا ـ��ـ ُ�‪�َ ٤‬ـ� َ�ـ َ�ـ ُ�ء إ�َـ� ِ�ـ َ� ٍ‬ ‫��ـ ْ�ـ�ـ َ�‬ ‫اط ُ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ِ�ـ�ـ ٍ� �ِـ َ�ـ ِ��ـ َ� أ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ُ�ـ�ا ا ـ ُ‬ ‫��ـ َ�ـ� ِ�ـ ِ��ـ َ� َ�ـ َ�ـ�‬ ‫َو ِز َ�ـ� َدةٌ﴾ ]‪ ،[٢٦-٢٥ :١٠‬و�ـ��ـ� و ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ل ـ��ـ��ـ�‪�َ ﴿ :‬ـ ��ـ َ� ا ـ��ـ ُ� ا ـ ُ‬ ‫ا ـ��ـَ� ِ�ـ ِ��ـ َ� أ ْ�ـ�اً َ�ـ ِ�ـ ـ��ـ�ً﴾ ]‪ ،[٩٥ :٤‬و��ــ� �ـ�ا �ـ� ��ــ�ب ا��ــ� ���ـــ� ـ��ـ� �ـ� ذ�ـ��ـ�ه ـ��ـ�ل‬ ‫�� ا���ح‪.‬‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� ا��ــ���ــ� �ـ� أن ــ���ـ� �ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� ا�ـ�ي‬ ‫�ـ� ـ��ـ�ل‪ :‬إن أ�ـ�ب ا�ـ��ـ�ه ــ‬ ‫���ـ�‬ ‫���ــ َ� �ـ� ـ��ـ�ه �ـ� ا�ـ�وح وا��ــ�ن �ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� وا�� ٔ��ــ�س وا ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� ا�ـ�وح وا��ــ�ن ـ‬ ‫ـ‬ ‫وا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�‬ ‫����ـ�ن‪ ،‬و�ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ�اض ــ‬ ‫���ـ�‪ٔ�� ،‬ن ا�ـ�وح �ـ��ـ� ���ـــ�ن وا��ــ�ن �ـ��ـ� ــ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ��ـ�� ـ��ـ� �� �ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� إ�ـ�‬ ‫��ـ�م �ـ���ــ� �ـ��ٔرض‪ ،‬و�ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�م وا�� ٔ ـ‬ ‫�ـ���ــ� �ـ�� ٔ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ج و��‬ ‫���ـ�ل و�� ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� و�� �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫ـ��ـ�ن و�� ا ـ ـ���ـ�ل و�� زوال‪ ،‬إذ �ـ�ن ـ��ـ� ذ�ـ� أ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� �ـ� ا ـ��ـ� �ـ� و�ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ئ و�� �ـ� ّل �ـ� �ـ�ء‪ .‬ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ�د �ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫ــ‬ ‫‪٥‬‬ ‫��ـ�ؤه �ـ� ا���ـــ��ـ� و ـ‬ ‫�����ـــ� ��ــ�‪ ،‬وأ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ــ���ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫ــ‬ ‫��ـ��ـ� وا ـ��ـ� ��ــ� ـ��ـ� ــ���ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ� أ��ــ�ن‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫‪٥‬‬

‫���‪ ،��� :‬ص‬ ‫و������‪ ،������ :‬ص‬ ‫�����‪�� :‬راً‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫ا���‪ ،- :‬ا���آن‬ ‫وا���‪ :‬وا���‪ ،‬ص‬

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‫ﻛﺘﺎب اﻟﺮﺳﻮم واﻻزدواج ‪٥‬‬

‫���ـ�ق‪� ،‬ـ�ل ا ـ��ـ� �ـ� و�ـ�‪َ�﴿ :‬ـ ْ� �ـَ� َن‬ ‫و�ـ� ـ��ـ�ً �ـ� �ـ� و�ـ�ا���ـــ�‪ ،‬و ـ��ـ� �ـ�ن �ـ��ـ� و�� ـ ـ‬ ‫ش َ�ـ ��ـ� َ�ـ ِ�ـ�ـٌ�نَ﴾ ]‪ ،[٢٢ :٢١‬ـ��ـ�‬ ‫ِ�ـ ـ ِ��ـ َ�ـ� آ�ِـ َ�ـ ٌ� إ ��� ا��ــ ُ� �َـ َ�ـ َ�ـ َ��ـَ� َ�ـ ُ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� َن ا��ــ ِ� َر �ب ا ـ َ��ـ ْ� ِ‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫ا ـ��ـ�د �ـ��ـ��ـ�ا��ــ� �ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ�ان‪ ،‬و��ــ� ا ـ���ــ� ��ــ� ـ���ــ��ـ�ً ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� إ�ـ� ـ��ـ�ٍ‪ ،‬د��ــ�� ً ��ــ�‬ ‫��﴾ ]‪.[١٤ :٢٣‬‬ ‫أن �� ا�����اد ������ة ﴿� ََ�� َر َك ا�� ُ� أ ْ� َ� ُ� ا��َ ��ِ ِ� َ‬ ‫���ـ�ا �ـ� �ـ� �ـ��ـ��ـ�ه �ـ� ا�ـ���ــ� �ـ��ـ� �ـ������‬ ‫ــ‬ ‫ـــــ� وا��زدواج‪ ،‬و�ـ��ـ� �ـ� �ـ�ب ��ــ� �ـ�‬ ‫��ـ� و�ـ�ر‪،‬‬ ‫����ـ� ا ـ��ـ��م ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ�ا‪ :‬ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ء ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�ر �ـ� ا�� ٔ ـ ـ‬ ‫ا�� ٔ�ـ�ر ـ��ـ� �ـ� �ـ�ءت �ـ� ا�� ٔ ـ‬ ‫���ـ���ــ�‪ ،‬وا ـ��ـ��ـ� وا ـ��ـ�اط‪،‬‬ ‫و�ـ�اب و ـ��ـ�ب‪ ،‬و�ـ�ح و��ــ�‪ ،‬و�ـ�ش و�ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬و��ــ���ــ� و ــ‬ ‫﴿و ِ�ـ� �ُـ ��‬ ‫���ـ�ب وا ـ���ــ�ان‪ ،‬و�ـ��ـ� أ��ــ� ا ـ��ـ� ــ‬ ‫وا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ��ـ� �ـ� و�ـ� �ـ� ��ــ��ـ� ـ��ـ�ل‪َ :‬‬ ‫﴿و َ�ـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ��ـُ� أ ْز َوا�ـ�ً﴾ ]‪٧٨‬‬ ‫َ�ـ� ٍء َ�ـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� َز ْو َ�ـ ْ�ـ�ِ �َـ َ�ـ��ـ ُ�ـ� َ�ـ َ��ـ ُ��ونَ﴾ ]‪ ،[٤٩ :٥١‬و�ـ�ل‪َ :‬‬ ‫ض َو ِ�ـ� أ�ْـ ُ�ـ ِ�ـ ِ�ـ� َو ِ�ـ ��ـ�‬ ‫‪ ،[٨:‬و�ـ�ل‪�ُ ﴿ :‬ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� َن ا�ـ ِ�ي َ�ـ َ�ـ َ� ا�� ٔ ْز َو َ‬ ‫اج �ُـ��ـ َ�ـ� ِ�ـ ��ـ� �ُـ ْ�ـ�ِـ ُ� ا�� ٔ ْر ُ‬ ‫�� َ َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ُ�ـ�نَ﴾ ]‪ ،[٣٦ :٣٦‬و�ـ�ل‪�َ ﴿ :‬ـ َ�ـ َ�‪َ� ٢‬ـ ُ�ـ� ِ�ـ� أ�ْـ ُ�ـ ِ�ـ ُ�ـ� أ ْز َوا�ـ�ً َو ِ�ـ� ا�� ٔ�ْـ َ�ـ� ِم أ ْز َوا�ـ�ً‬ ‫��ـ ْ�ـ ِ�‬ ‫﴿وا ـ َ‬ ‫��ـ ِ�ـ�ـ ُ� ا َ��ــ ِ�ـ�ـ ُ�﴾ ]‪ ،[١١ :٤٢‬و�ـ�ل‪َ :‬‬ ‫�ء َو ُ�ـ َ� ا ـ َ‬ ‫� َ�ـ ِ�ـ ْ�ـ�ِ] ِه[ َ�ـ ٌ‬ ‫َ�ـ ْ� َر ُؤ�ـُ� ِ�ـ�ـ ِ� �َـ ْ�ـ َ‬ ‫�����ـ� �ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�رك و ـ��ـ��ـ�‪� ،‬ـ� إن ا ـ��ـ�‬ ‫َوا�ـ َ� ْ�ـ�ِ﴾ ]‪ ،[٣: ٨٩‬ـ��ـ�ا د ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ــ����ــ�ل ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫أ�ـ� د��ــ� ـ��ـ� ��ــ�ل ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� ـ��ـ� د��ــ� و�ـ���ــ� ـ��ـ� �ـ�دا���ـــ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ��ـ�‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫��ـ َ�ـ َ� ِ‬ ‫�ـ�ل‪ُ�﴿ :‬ـ ِ� ا ـ ُ‬ ‫�ت َوا ـ ُ��ـ ُ� ُر َ�ـ� َ�ـ ْ� ٍم َ��‬ ‫ات َوا�� ٔ ْر ِ‬ ‫ض َو َ�ـ� �ُـ�ْـ�ـ� ا�� ٓ َ�ـ ُ‬ ‫��ـ ُ�وا َ�ـ� َذا ِ�ـ� ا ـ َ‬ ‫��ـ َ�ـ َ� ِ‬ ‫ض َ�ـ ُ�ـ ��و َن َ�ـ َ�ـ ـ َ��ـ�‬ ‫ات َوا�� ٔ ْر ِ‬ ‫ُ�ـ ْ� ِ�ـ ُ�ـ�نَ﴾ ]‪ ،[١٠١ :١٠‬و�ـ�ل‪َ :‬‬ ‫﴿و َ�ـ�ٔ ��ـ� ِ�ـ� آ َ�ـ ٍ� ِ�ـ� ا ـ َ‬ ‫﴿و ِ�ـ� أ�ْـ�ُـ ِ�ـ ُ�ـ� أ َ�ـ�َ� �ُـ ْ�ـ ِ�ـ ُ�ونَ﴾ ]‪:٥١‬‬ ‫َو ُ�ـ� َ�ـ ـ َ��ـ� ُ�ـ ْ�ـ ِ� ُ�ـ�نَ﴾ ]‪ ،[١٠٥ :١٢‬و�ـ�ل‪َ :‬‬ ‫‪ ،[٢١‬و��� ��ا �� ���ب ا��� ����‪.‬‬ ‫���ـ�‬ ‫���ــ�‪ ،‬وو ـ ـ‬ ‫ــــ� و�ـ� ـ‬ ‫���ــ�‪���� :‬‬ ‫��ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ‬ ‫��ـ��ـ� و ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ‬ ‫�ـ� إن ا ـ��ـ� ا��ــ�ر �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫��ـ� و ـ���ــ� إ�ـ� ا ــ�����ـــ�‪ :‬ا ـ��ـ�‬ ‫���ـ�اً وأ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ــ‬ ‫���ـ��ـ� و��ــ�ر�ـ�‪ ،‬وا ـ ـ‬ ‫�����ـــ�‪ :‬ــ‬ ‫ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ��ـ� �ـ����ـــ�‪:‬‬ ‫��ـ� �ـ� دار�ـ�‪ :‬ـ��ـ� وا ـ��ـ���ــ�‪ ،‬و�ـ�ق أ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ،‬و ـ‬ ‫وا��ٕ �ـ�‪ ،‬وإ�ـ� ا ـ��ـ�ب وا ـ ـ‬ ‫ـ��ـ��ـ��ـ� وأ ـ��ـ�راً‪ ،٤‬وآ�ـ� ��ــ� �ـ� ا���ـــ� ��ــ� آ�ـ� ���ـــ� و��ــ� ��ــ� ا�ـ� أ�ـ� �ـ��ـ� ���ـــ�‬ ‫��ّـ� ���ـــ� ��ــ� ـ��ـ��ـ�‬ ‫���ــ�‪ :‬ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� وا ـ���ــ�‪ ،‬و ـ‬ ‫��ـ�م ا�ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� أ ـ‬ ‫ا ـ��ـ��م‪ ،‬وأ�ـ�م أ ـ‬ ‫‪٦‬‬ ‫‪٥‬‬ ‫ا ــ�����ـــ�‪�� :‬ــ�ب ا��ــ� و��ــ��ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ�ل ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫������ـــ� �ـ���ن‬ ‫����ـ�‪�� :‬ــ�ب ا��ــ� و���ـــ� ‪ ،‬و���ـــ� ا ــ ـ‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫‪٥‬‬ ‫‪٦‬‬

‫د����‪ :‬د���‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫���‪ ،��� :‬ا���آن‬ ‫����ا‪ ،���� :‬ص‬ ‫وا���را‪ :‬وا���ر‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫و����‪ :‬و���‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫و����‪ :‬و��‪ ،‬ص‬

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‫����ـ�‪ ،‬وا ـ��ـ�اس‬ ‫����ـ� و ـ��ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�‪� ،‬ـ�ٕذا ا ـ��ـ�دت ا ـ��ـ��ـ� �ـ� زو ـ‬ ‫�ـ�دوج ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� و�ـ��ـ�‬ ‫����ـ���ــ� �ـ� ا��ٔذن وا ـ���ــ� وا�� ٔ�ـ� وا ـ��ـ� وا��ــ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ��ـ� ا��ٔذن ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫اـ ـ‬ ‫ا ـ���ــ� ا ــ���ـ� و�ـ��ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ� ا ـ��ـ� و�ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ا�ـ�وق و�ـ��ـ� ا��ــ� ا ــ���ـ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ�ه ـ��ـ� ـ���ــ��ـ�‬ ‫��ـ�د‪ ،‬ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ� إذا ـ��ـ�ت �ـ� ــ���ـ� �ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ� ���ـــ�‪ .‬أ�� �ـ�ى ا�� ٔ�ـ�‬ ‫ا��ٔرواح �ـ�� ٔ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� أذ�ـ� ���ـــ�ً‪ ،‬و�ـ��ـ� ا�� ٔ ـ��ـ� إذا ـ��ـ� ا ــ���ـ� �ـ� ــ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� ــ ـ‬ ‫إذا �ـ�م ا ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� ���ـــ� ���ـــ�ً‪،‬‬ ‫�����ـ�‪� ،‬ـ��ـ� ا ـ���ــ� �ـ�اً وا ـ��ـ�ب �ـ� ـ��ـ�ً‪،‬‬ ‫وا ـ��ـ� إذا �ـ�ر�ـ� ��ــ� �ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� ا�� ٔ��ــ�ء �ـ� ـ ـ ــ‬ ‫و�ـ��ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ� إذا ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� �ـ� ــ ـ‬ ‫����ــ�ج إذا �ـ�م ا ــ���ـ� �ـ�‬ ‫����ـ� أ ـ��ـ� ���ـــ�ً‪ ،١‬و�ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫����� ��ه‪��� ،‬ه ا���اس ا���دو�� ا����و�� إ��� ��رك ا��ٔ���ء �����ا���‪.‬‬ ‫���ـ�‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ،‬و�� ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�س ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ف �ـ�‪ ،‬و�� ـ ـ‬ ‫وا ـ��ـ�رئ �ـ� و�ـ� �� �ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫﴿و ُ�ـ َ�‬ ‫ا ـ��ـ�اس ا ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ ِ�ـ�ـ ُ� ا ـ َ��ـ ِ�ـ�ـ ُ�﴾ ]‪َ [١١ :٤٢‬‬ ‫�ء َو ُ�ـ َ� ا ـ َ‬ ‫� َ�ـ ِ�ـ ْ�ـ ِ�ـ ِ� َ�ـ ٌ‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ،‬وإ�ـ� ﴿�َـ�ـ َ‬ ‫���ـ ـ��ـ� و�ـ� �ـ�ر ـ��ـ�‪،‬‬ ‫َ�ـ َ�ـ� �ُـ �� َ�ـ� ٍء َ�ـ ِ��ـ ٌ�﴾ ]‪ ١٢٠ :٥‬و ـ��ـ��ـ�[‪� .‬ـ��� ٔ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�ء �� �ـ�رك ـ ـ ّ‬ ‫��ـ ِ�ـ�ـ ُ�﴾‬ ‫� اـ َ‬ ‫ـ��ـ��ـ� �ـ�ل �ـ� و�ـ�‪�ُ ��َ ﴿ :‬ـ ْ� ِر ُ�ـ ُ� ا�� ٔ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� ُر َو ُ�ـ َ� ُ�ـ ْ� ِر ُك ا�� ٔ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� َر َو ُ�ـ َ� ا ـ َ��ـ ِ�ـ�ـ ُ‬ ‫]‪� ،[١٠٣ :٦‬ـ���ــ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� إ�ـ� أن ا�� ٔ ـ��ـ�ر �ـ� أ ـ��ـ�ر ا�� ٔ��ــ� وأ�ـ� �� �ـ�رك �ـ��� ٔ��ــ�‪،‬‬ ‫����ـ��ـ� ا�� ٔ ـ��ـ�ل ا��ــ�‬ ‫���ـ� ا ـ ــ‬ ‫��ـ� أ ـ��ـ�ر ا ـ��ـ�اس ا ـ ـ‬ ‫و��ــ� ـ��ـ� ��ــ�ا‪ ،‬وإ ـ��ـ� ��ــ� �ـ� ا ـ‬ ‫ٍ‪٢‬‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� ـ‬ ‫���ـ� �� ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�ء ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� وأن ا�� ٔ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�ء ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ�رك ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� ا�� ٔ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� ـ��ـ�ن و�ـ�‬ ‫��ـ�د وا��ٔرواح‪ ،‬وا ـ��ـ�رئ ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�ت و�� �ـ ٍ‬ ‫�ن و��‬ ‫���ـ�م وا�� ٔ ـ‬ ‫ا�� ٔ�ـ�ات وا�� ٔ�ـ�ان‪ ٣‬وا ـ ـ‬ ‫ر�� و�� ��� و�� ���‪��� ���� �� �� ،‬ه ا��ٔ���ء ���� �� ������‪.‬‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ�‪ :‬إن‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ،‬ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ��ـ� �ـ�د�ـ� وإن ا ـ��ـ�رئ �ـ�رك �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ�ٕن �ـ�ل �ـ��ـ�‪ :‬إن ا ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�ت و�ـ�‬ ‫���ـ��ـ� ا�� ٔ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�‪ ،‬وا ـ��ـ�اس ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� �ـ��ّـ� ا ـ��ـ�اس و�ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫اـ ـ‬ ‫����ــ�‪ .‬وا ـ���ــ�‬ ‫ا�� ٔ ـ��ـ�ت‪ ،‬ـ��ـ� أدر��ــ� ا ـ��ـ�اس د�ـ�ه ا ـ���ــ� و�ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ���ــ� وا��ــ�ل ���ـــ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�د‬ ‫���ـ� و�� ـ��ـ�ف إ�� �ـ� �ـ��ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ� ��ــ� ــ‬ ‫�� �ـ�رك إ�� �ـ� د�ـ� ���ـــ� ا ـ��ـ�اس ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ�‬ ‫���ـ�‪� ،‬ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ�ا�ـ�‪� ،‬ـ� �ـ� زوج ـ��ـ�ون ـ��ـ� �ـ� أ ـ��ـ� ��ــ� و�ـ� ـ���ــ�ج إ��ــ� و�ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ��ـ�وح‪ ،‬و�ـ� ـ��ـ� ��‬ ‫����ـ� ـ���ــ��ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� وا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ���ــ��ـ� ا�ـ�وح �ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫اـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ا�� ٔ��ــ�ء �ـ�دو�ـ� ـ��ـ�و�ـ�‬ ‫ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ� ��ــ� ��ــ� ـ��ـ� ا ــ���ـ��ـ�‪� .‬ـ ٕ� ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫���ـــ�ة �� ٔ�ـ� �ـ� ـ‬ ‫��ـ� وا�ـ�اً ـ��ـ�واه‪ ،‬أو �ـ�داً ��ــ�ه‪ ٤‬ـ��ـ�ن ذ�ـ� ا ـ��ـ�د �ـ���ــ�ً �ـ� �ـ� �ـ�دا���ـــ�‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬

‫����‪��� :‬ء‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫���ن‪ ،����� :‬ص‬ ‫وا����ان‪ :‬وا����ار‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫��داً ���ه‪�� :‬داً أو ���ه‪ ،‬ص‬

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‫ﻛﺘﺎب اﻟﺮﺳﻮم واﻻزدواج ‪٣‬‬

‫ــــ�‪��� ،‬ـــ� و ـ���ــ�‪ ،‬و�ـ� ���ـــ� و ـ���ــ�‬ ‫�ـ� إن �ـ� �ـ��ـ ٍ� و�ـ��ـ� �� ـ���ــ� �ـ� ـ�����‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬ـ‬ ‫�� ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�ان و�ـ��ـ�ن‪ ،١‬أ�ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ� ا�� ٓ�ـ� و�ـ��ـ� �ـ� وزوج �ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ�‬ ‫����ـ�‬ ‫����ـ� إ�ـ� ـ��ـ� ود ــ���ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� وا��ــ�ا ـ��ـ� و ـ��ـ�د�ـ� ـ���ــ��ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫ا�� ٔ��ــ�ء �ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ�زدوا ـ‬ ‫���ــ�‪ ،‬و�ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� ��ــ� ـ‬ ‫��ــ� ـ��ـ� ــ����ــ�ل �ـ��ـ�وج ��ــ� زو�ـ� و�ـ� ـ��ـ� ��ــ� �ـ�ه و�ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ��ـ� �� �ـ�ـ�ف إ�� �ـ�ـ��ـ�ـ� و�� �ـ�ـ�ف أ�ـ��ـ�ـ� إ�� �ـ��� ٓ�ـ�‪� ،‬ـ�ـ� ا�ـ�ـ�ـ�ء وا��ٔرض‪،‬‬ ‫���ـ�ق وا ـ ـ‬ ‫وا ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�‪ ،‬وا ـ��ـ�اد وا���ـــ�ض‪ ،‬وا��ــ� وا ــ���ـ�‪،‬‬ ‫���ـ�ب‪ ،‬وا ـ���ــ� وا ــ���ـ�ر‪ ،‬وا��ــ�ر وا ـ ــ‬ ‫���ـ�‬ ‫����ـ�‪ ،‬وا ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�‪ ،‬وا ـ��ـ��ـ� وا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�‪ ،‬وا ـ��ـ��ـ� وا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ،‬وا ـ��ـ��ـ� وا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� وا ـ ـ‬ ‫وا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� وا ـ����ـــ�‪ ،‬وا ـ���ــ� وا ـ ُ��ـ ْ�ـ ِ�ـ�‪ ،‬وا ـ���ــ� وا ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬وا ـ��ـ�ب وا ـ��ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬وا���ـــ�‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ،‬وا ـ ـ‬ ‫وا ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� ـ��ـ�‬ ‫����ـ�دة ا ـ ــ‬ ‫����ــ� وا ــ����ــ�‪ .‬و�ـ�ه ا�� ٔ��ــ�ء ا ـ ــ‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ،‬وا�ـ��ـ� وا��ــ��ـ�‪ ،‬وا ـ ـ‬ ‫وا ـ ـ‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫���ـ�و�ـ� ا ـ��ـ�دو�ـ� ا�ـ�ا�ـ� ��ــ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫اـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� وا��ــ�ا ـ��ـ�‪،‬‬ ‫����ـ� ــ���ـ� ـ��ـ��ُـ�ُـ�ـ� و ـ��ـ�د�ـ� وازدوا ـ‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫���ـ� و�ـ�دا���ـــ�‪ ،‬و��ــ� أ�ـ� ـ��ـ�� ـ��ـ� �ـ�‬ ‫���ـ�ت ا�ـ��ز�ـ� ـ��ـ� ��ــ� و�ـ�ا��ــ� �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ�ل ـ��ـ�ه ا ـ ـ‬ ‫����ــ�‪ ،‬و�� ـ��ـ�ل �ـ� �ـ� إ�ـ�ر ًة‬ ‫���ــ�‪ ،‬و�� �ـ ٕ��ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ت‪ ،‬وأ�ـ� �� �ـ�رك ـ ـ‬ ‫���ــ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫ـ‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫و�� �ـ��ـ�ـ�ً �ـ�ـ�ـ�ن �ـ��ـ�ً �ـ�ـ� ا�ـ�ـ��ـ� وا�ـ�ـ�ـ�ـ�ق‪ ،‬وا�ـ�ب وا�ـ�ـ��ـ�ب‪ ،‬وا�ـ�ـ��ـ�‬ ‫وا�����ع‪.‬‬ ‫‪٥‬‬ ‫���ـ�ت �ـ��ـ� �����‬ ‫���ــ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫ــ���ـ� ��ــ� أن ا ـ��ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ‬ ‫ـــــ� �ـ� ذ�ـ�ه ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�‬ ‫����ــ�ق �� ـ���ــ� أن ـ��ـ�ن ـ ـ‬ ‫����ــ��ـ�ت‪ ،‬إذ �ـ�ن ا ـ ـ‬ ‫����ــ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫ــ‬ ‫���ـ���ــ�ً ـ��ـ� أدر��ــ� ا ـ��ـ�اس‬ ‫‪٦‬‬ ‫����ـ�ق‪،‬‬ ‫ا ـ��ـ��ـ�ة‪ ،‬أو أن ـ��ـ�ن رو�ـ���ــ�ً ـ��ـ� أدر��ــ� ا ـ��ـ�اس ا��ــ���ــ�‪� ،‬ـ�ٕذا ��ــ� أن ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ���ــ�ً �ـ� �ـ�ن‪� ،‬ـ�رك �ـ� ـ��ـ�اس ا ـ��ـ��ـ�ة أو �ـ� ـ��ـ�اس‪ ٧‬ا��ــ���ــ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ� ��ــ� أن ا ـ��ـ��ـ� ��‬ ‫����ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ�رك ـ��ـ�ء �ـ� ـ���ــ��ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�ل و�� ـ����ـــ�‪ ،‬و�� ــ ـ‬ ‫����ــ�‪ ٨‬و�� ـ��ـ� ���ـــ� إ�ـ�رة و��‬ ‫ٍ‬ ‫��ـ�ء ا ـ��ـ�ر�ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� �ـ��ـ� و�� �ـ�ل‪� ،‬ـ��� ٔ ـ‬ ‫�ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬و�� ُ�ـ�ـ�ب �ـ� ـ��ـ� ا�� ٔ ـ��ـ�ل‪ ،‬و�� ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ� �ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ���ــ�ا ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬و ّ��ــ� ـ��ـ� �ـ�زدوا ـ‬ ‫ـ��ـ�ه ا ـ��ـ�اس ا��ــ� �ـ���ــ� ذ�ـ��ـ� إ ـ��ـ�‪ ٩‬أدر ــ‬ ‫����ـ��ـ�ت إ�� ـ��ـ��ـ�‬ ‫ذا ـ��ـ� ـ���ــ��ـ�ت ��ــ� ـ��ـ�دات‪ ،‬ـ��ـ� �ـ� �ـ��ـ� �ـ�رك ���ـــ�ً �ـ� ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬ ‫‪٥‬‬ ‫‪٦‬‬ ‫‪٧‬‬ ‫‪٨‬‬ ‫‪٩‬‬

‫���ان و����ن‪��� :‬ات و��ات‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫و���د��‪ :‬و���دد��‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫��ل ���ه‪�� :‬ل ��� ��ه‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫�����‪ ،���� :‬ص‬ ‫������‪ ،����� :‬ص‬ ‫أو أن‪ :‬وان‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫أو �����اس‪ :‬و�����اس‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫�����‪ ،����� :‬ص‬ ‫ا���‪ :‬وا���‪ ،‬ص‬

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‫ﻛﺘﺎب اﻟﺮﺳﻮم واﻻزدواج ‪٢‬‬

‫��ـ�‪� ،‬ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� و��ة ا�� ٔ�ـ� وإ�ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ�‬ ‫ا ـ��ـ��ـ�د�ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� �ـ� ذ�ـ�ه‪� ،‬ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� ر ـ‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫ـ��ـ�‪� ،‬ـ�ل ا��ــ� �ـ� و�ـ�‪�َ ﴿ :‬ـ� أ ��ـ َ�ـ� ا�ـ ِ��ـ َ� آ َ�ـ ُ�ـ�ا أ ِ�ـ ـ ُ��ـ�ا ا��ــ َ� َوأ ِ�ـ ـ ُ��ـ�ا ا�ـ َ� ُ�ـ� َل َوأ ْو�ِـ� ا�� ٔ ْ�ـ ِ�‬ ‫ِ�ـ ـ ُ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� إ�ـ� ا��ــ� �ـ�‬ ‫��ـ�﴾ ]‪ .[٥٩ :٤‬وا��ــ� ��ّــ�ـ� ا��ــ� ا ـ���ــ� أن أ ـ��ـ�ل ا ـ���ــ�د ــ‬ ‫و�ـ� و ـ ــ ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� �ـ���ــ�ه‪ ،‬ـ��ـ� �ـ�ف ا ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ���ــ� وو ّ�ـ�ه‬ ‫������ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�‪ ٢‬إ�ـ� ـ ــ‬ ‫���ــ� و��ــ� ـ���ــ�‪ ،‬و�ـ�ن‬ ‫��ـ� ذ�ـ� �ـ� ـ‬ ‫���ــ�‪ ،‬و�ـ� ـ‬ ‫�ـ� �ـ���ــ�ه ز�ـ� ـ���ــ� و�ـ�ب ـ‬ ‫﴿و َ�ـ ِ� ْ�ـ َ�ـ� إ�َـ� َ�ـ� َ�ـ ِ�ـ�ُـ�ا ِ�ـ� َ�ـ َ�ـ�ٍ َ�ـ َ�ـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� ُه َ�ـ َ�ـ ً�ء‬ ‫�ـ�اؤه �ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ�ل ا ـ��ـ� �ـ� و�ـ�‪َ :‬‬ ‫���ــ�‪» :‬إن‬ ‫َ�ـ��ــُ�راً﴾ ]‪ ،[٢٣ :٢٥‬و�ـ�ل أ��ــ� ا ـ��ـ����ـــ� ��ــ� ��ــ�ات ا��ــ� ���ـــ� �ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ت ـ��ـ�‬ ‫��ـ�ه ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�ه‪ ،‬و ـ��ـ�م �ـ� ـ‬ ‫أول ا�ـ��ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬و ـ��ـ�ل ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ‬ ‫���ـ�‬ ‫���ـ�دة ا ـ��ـ��ـ�ف أ�ـ� ��ــ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ��ـ�ن و ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� و�ـ��ـ�ف ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ل أن �ـ� ـ‬ ‫���ـ�دة ا ـ ـ‬ ‫ـ ـ‬ ‫وـ‬ ‫ـــــ�‬ ‫��ـ�دة ا�����‬ ‫�����ـ�‪ �� ،‬ـ��ـ�م أ�ـ� ـ��ـ� إ�� �ـ��� ٓ�ـ�‪ ،‬و ـ‬ ‫ـــــ� ��ــ� أ ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�ً �ـ������‬ ‫���ـ� ـ ــ‬ ‫��ـ�د ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� ��ــ� ـ��ـ��ـ� ا��ــ���ــ�‬ ‫���ـ�ت ـ ــ‬ ‫�����ـــ� �ـ� ا��ٔزل«‪ .‬ـ��ـ�ه ــ‬ ‫����ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ�ث ا ـ ـ‬ ‫��ــ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫��� ����� وأ��� ������� و��� ���ري ��ود��‪.‬‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ��ـ��ـ�ا��ــ�‬ ‫����ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� �ـ� و�ـ� أن ـ ـ‬ ‫وا ـ��ـ� و�ّـ�ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ ـ���ـ� ـ��ـ�ت أن ـ ــ‬ ‫���ـ� و�� �ـ��ـ� و�� زوج‪ ،‬وأ�ـ� ��‬ ‫و ـ��ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ�دا ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬وأ�ـ� �ـ��ـ� وا�ـ� �� �ـ� �ـ� و�� ـ ـ‬ ‫ُ�ـ� َرك �ـ��ـ� �ـ� ا�ـ��ـ�ه و�� �ـ�ـ�ـ� �ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ�ـ�ب‪ ،‬وإ�ـ�ـ� �ـ�رك أ�ـ�ـ�ؤه‪� ،‬ـ�ٔ�ـ�ـ�ؤه‬ ‫���ـ�‬ ‫���ـ�ق �ـ�دوج ـ��ـ�ون ُ�ـ�ـ��ـ� و�ـ��ـ�ف �ـ�رك ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ��ـ� ��ــ�ه‪ ،‬و�ـ� �ـ� �ـ�اه ـ ـ‬ ‫و ـ‬ ‫���ـ ٍ‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ�‬ ‫��ـ� وا�ـ�اً‪ �� ،‬ـ ـ‬ ‫�ق‪ ،‬وإن �ـ�ن ا ـ‬ ‫ُ�ـ��ـ� ] ـ���ــ�[ ـ��ـ�ر ـ��ـ�ر إ��ــ�‪ ،‬و�ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�‪،‬‬ ‫ــــ� روح و ـ‬ ‫������‬ ‫����ـ� وزو�ـ�‪�� ،‬ــ� ا��ٕ ـ��ـ�ن ا�ـ�ي �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫ــــ� ـ��ـ�م أ�ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫ـ�����‬ ‫���ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ��ـ�وح‪ �� ،‬ـ��ـ�م أ�ـ� ـ��ـ� إ�� ـ��ـ���ــ�‪ ،‬وا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ�ام ا ـ ـ‬ ‫ـ��ـ�ام ا�ـ�وح �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫������ـــ�‬ ‫������ـــ� و ـ��ـ� ا��ــ�ودة وا���ـــ��ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ��ـ� ا�ـ�وح �ـ���ــ� �ـ� ـــ‬ ‫�ـ� ذا�ـ� �ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـــ‬ ‫و ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ�ارة وا�ـ��ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬وا�ـ���ــ� ـ��ـ� ذ�ـ� أ�ـ� �ـ�ى ا��ٕ ـ��ـ�ن �ـ�راً ر��ــ�ً وأن ا ـ��ـ�ارة‬ ‫���ـ� إ�ـ� �ـ��ـ�ه‪.‬‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ�ر ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ�ر�ـ� ا�ـ�وح ا ـ ـ‬ ‫وا�ـ��ـ��ـ� �ـ� �ـ��ـ� ا�ـ�وح‪ ،‬ـ ـ‬ ‫و�ـ��ـ� �ـ� �ـ�ء �ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� �� ـ���ــ� �ـ� أن ـ��ـ�ن ��ــ� �ـ��ـ�ان‪ ،‬إ�ـ� �ـ�ر ر�ـ� أو �ـ�ر‬ ‫���ـ��ـ�‬ ‫�ـ��ـ� أو �ـ�رد ر�ـ� أو �ـ�رد �ـ��ـ�‪ٔ�� ،‬ن ا ـ��ـ� �ـ� و�ـ� أ�ـ�ع �ـ�ا ا ـ��ـ��ـ� �ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫ا��ٔر��‪�� �� ��� ،‬ء إ�� و�� ا����‪���� ��� ٤‬ان �����ن ���م أ����� ������‪.‬‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫‪٤‬‬

‫ا���‪ ،��� :‬ص‬ ‫��� ���‪��ٔ�� :‬ل‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫��‪ ،��� :‬ص‬ ‫ا����‪ :‬ا�����‪ ،‬ص‬

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‫���ب ا����م وا��زدواج وا������‬ ‫��ٔ��� أ�� ���� ���ان ر��� ا���‬

‫��� ا��� ا����� ا����� و�� ������ �� ���� ا��ٔ��ر‬ ‫���ـ�‪�ُ ١‬ـ�ـ��ـ�ن ا ـ��ـ�س �ـ�‬ ‫��ـ� �ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ�ة ـ��ـ��ـ� �ـ� ٔا�ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ��ـ� ا�ـ�ي ـ‬ ‫اـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ب ا ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ�‪،‬‬ ‫��ـ�ن ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ��ـ� ا��ٔذى‪�ُ ،‬ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ون ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�ت إ�ـ� ا ـ��ـ�ى‪ ،‬و ـ ـ‬ ‫اـ ــ‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ� �ـ� ���ـــ� ��ٕ ـ���ــ� �ـ� أ��ــ�ه‪ ،‬و�ـ� �ـ� �ـ�ل �ـ��ـ ٍ�‬ ‫���ـ�ون ��ــ�ر ا ـ��ـ� أ�ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫و ــ �‬ ‫����ـ�‪�َ ،‬ـ ـ��ـ�ن �ـ�‬ ‫��ـ� آ�ـ�ر�ـ� ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ�س‪ ،‬و�ـ� أ ـ��ـ� آ�ـ�ر ا ـ��ـ�س ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ� �ـ�وه‪ ،‬ـ��ـ� أ ـ‬ ‫������ـــ�‪ ،‬و�ـ�ٔو�ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ��ـ� ا�ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�وا أ�ـ��ـ�‬ ‫��ــ�ب ا��ــ� ـ��ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ���ــ�‪ ،‬وا ــ���ـ�ل ا ـ ــ‬ ‫����ـ�‪ ،‬و ــ����ــ�ا ]�ـ�[ �ـ�ق ا ـ��ـ�ا�ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ�وا �ـ�‬ ‫�ج ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫ا��ــ��ـ�‪ ،‬و ـ���ــ�ا ا�� ٔ�ـ�ام ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ ّ‬ ‫����ـ�رات‪ ،‬ـ���ّــ�ا‬ ‫ــــ� ��ــ�ٔو ــ���ـ� ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ�ت‪ ،‬وا����‬ ‫���ـ� إ�ـ� أ ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬ا ـ ــ‬ ‫اـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ� �ـ�اء ا ـ����ـــ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ��ـ�ن ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� �ـ� ��ــ��ـ� ـ���ــ� ـ��ـ� �ـ�‪ ،‬و ــ���ـ� ـ��ـ�ن �ـ� ـ��ـ�ر ـ��ـ�‪،‬‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ،‬ا�ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ،‬و ـ ـ‬ ‫�����ـ�‪ ،‬وأ�ـ�اء ا�ـ�ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ا ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ذ �ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫ــ‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫����ـ�د‬ ‫���ـ� ��ــ� رب ا ـ��ـ� ـ���ــ� ا ـ���ــ� ّ�ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ�دا��ــ�‪ ،‬ا ـ ــ‬ ‫ـ���ــ�ون‪ ،‬و��ــ� أو��ــ��ـ� ـ���ــ��ـ�ن ‪ ،‬وا ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ��ـ��ـ�ا��ــ�‪ ،‬ا��ٔول ا�ـ�ي �ـ� �ـ�ل‪ ،‬وا�� ٓ�ـ� ا�ـ�ي �� �ـ�ول‪��� ،‬ـــ�ع ا ـ���ــ� و ـ����ـــ�‪ ،‬و ـ���ــ�ه‬ ‫�����ـــ� �ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫و ُ�ـ�ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬و��‬ ‫���ـ�ت‪ ،‬ا�ـ�ي �� �ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ�ات‪ ،‬و�� ـ��ـ��ـ�‪ ٣‬ا ـ ـ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫��ـ ِ�ـ�ـ ُ�﴾ ]‪٦‬‬ ‫ـــ‬ ‫� اـ َ‬ ‫����ـ� ا ـ��ـ�ا�ـ�‪ ،‬و﴿�� ُ�ـ ْ� ِر�ُـ ُ� ا�� ٔ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� ُر َو ُ�ـ َ� ُ�ـ ْ� ِر ُك ا�� ٔ ْ�ـ َ�ـ� َر َو ُ�ـ َ� ا ـ َ��ـ�ـ�ـ ُ‬ ‫‪.[١٠٣:‬‬ ‫و��ــ� ا��ــ� ��ــ� ا ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�ث‬ ‫�����ـ� �ـ� ر��ــ�‪ ،‬ا ـ ــ‬ ‫�����ـ� وا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ� أ���ـــ��ـ�‪ ،‬ا ـ ـــ‬ ‫���ـ�‪،‬‬ ‫ـــــ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫إ�ـ� ا ـ��ـ� وا��ٕ �ـ� ـ���ــ�اً و�ـ��ـ�اً ��ٕ ـ��ـ�ل ا�ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬وإ ـ��ـ�م ��ــ� ا ـ��ـ����ـــ�‪����� ،‬‬ ‫ــــ� �ـ� ��ــ��ـ�‬ ‫����ـ�‪� ،‬ـ��ة �ـ��ـ� زا��ــ� �ـ���ــ� �ـ�د�ـ� ���ـــ� ورا ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬و��ــ� ا ـ�����‬ ‫وإ ـ��ـ�ء ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫وا������� �� أ��� وا������ �� أ������ و��� ������ً‪.‬‬ ‫وا�ـ�ـ� أ�ـ�ـ�ـ� ا�ـ�ـ� ا�ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬وأر�ـ�ك �ـ�ـ�ـ�اب‪ ،‬أن أول �ـ� �ـ�ـ� �ـ�ـ� �ـ�ـ�ـ�‬ ‫‪١‬‬ ‫‪٢‬‬ ‫‪٣‬‬

‫ا����‪ :‬ا�����‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫������ن‪���� :‬ون‪ ،‬ص‬ ‫�����‪ ،����� :‬ص‬

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6

Abū Tammām on the Mubayyiḍa1 Patricia Crone

In 1998 Wilferd Madelung and Paul Walker published a heresiographical chapter from a work by Abū Tammām, an Ismaili missionary active in the first half of the fourth/tenth century.2 The section on the anthropomorphists in this heresiography includes an important account of the beliefs of the ‘White-clothed ones’ (Mubayyiḍa), identified as the followers of al-Muqannaʿ. In what follows, I examine this account, discussing its provenance, the light it throws on the beliefs of the sectarians in question and its importance for the later heresiographical tradition. Its importance is indicated by the fact that now that we have Abū Tammām’s text, the testimonies of al-Baghdādī (d. 429/1037), al-Isfarāʾinī (d. 471/1027) and al-Shahrastānī (d. 54/1153) can be discarded. Abū Tammām’s account falls into three distinct parts based on different sources. As will be seen, the third part reappears in slightly different forms in al-Badʾ wa’l-taʾrīkh by the Muʿtazilī al-Maqdisī (wr. 355/966), as well as in the additions made to Narshakhī’s Tārīkh-i Bukhārā (compiled in Arabic in 332/943, but now lost) by Qubāwī when he translated it into Persian (in 522/1128), while both the first and the third part seem to have been known to al-Baghdādī (d. 429/1037) and al-Isfarāʾinī (d. 471/1027). All these scholars were non-Ismailis, or even enemies of Ismailism. Are we to envisage them as sharing a source with Abū Tammām or did they draw on Abū Tammām himself? At first sight, the former possibility seems the more likely. Who, in that case, might the shared source have been? An obvious guess would be Abu’l-Qāsim al-Balkhī (d. 319/931), also known as al-Kaʿbī, a Muʿtazilī theologian and heresiographer, whose Maqālāt the editors hold to be the main source behind Abū Tammām’s heresiography as a whole.3 But in fact, al-Balkhī does not seem to be the source for the 167

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Mubayyiḍa. Unfortunately, it is not possible to say for sure, for although two manuscripts of al-Balkhī’s Maqālāt are extant and under preparation for publication in Jordan, they are not publicly accessible. However, Hüseyin Hansu, a specialist in al-Balkhī who has seen these manuscripts, kindly tells me that he does not recall encountering the Mubayyiḍa in them and that there is no entry on them in the table of contents, of which he has a copy. Further, neither al-Ashʿarī nor Nashwān al-Ḥimyarī, who made extensive use of al-Balkhī’s Maqālāt, mentions al-Muqannaʿ or the Mubayyiḍa. Nashwān does quote al-Balkhī as making a passing comment on sectarians of the same type as the Mubayyiḍa, but the comment does not fit Abū Tammām’s account.4 In addition, Abū Tammām’s opening paragraph would seem to rule out the possibility that he was drawing on al-Balkhī (see below, Part I (a)); and finally, the first authors outside Khurāsān to discuss al-Muqannaʿ’s doctrine, as opposed to his revolt, appear to be al-Maqdisī and al-Baghdādī, the very authors who share information with Abū Tammām. Since Abū Tammām was certainly known in ʿIraq, and apparently read there too, if not always with relish,5 the most economical solution is that the non-Ismaili scholars were drawing directly or indirectly on Abū Tammām himself. Part I (a) God and His messengers (Madelung and Walker, 76f = 74–76) Abū Tammām starts by telling us that the Mubayyiḍa are the followers of al-Muqannaʿ (d. probably 163/779), of whom he observes that he claimed to be the Mahdī and that his real name was Hishām (not, as more commonly said, Hāshim) b. Ḥakīm al-Marwazī. This is all he says about al-Muqannaʿ himself. Of the Mubayyiḍa, however, he tells us that in their view, ‘God is a subtle body (jism laṭīf ) with length, breadth and depth’, and ‘all of the prophets are gods whose bodies are the messengers of God and whose spirits are God himself’ (inna’l-rusul kullahum āliha ajsāduhum rusul Allāh wa-arwāḥuhum nafsuhu). ‘Whenever God wants to speak to corporeal creatures, He enters the form (ṣūra) of one of them and makes that person a messenger to them, so that the latter may order them (to do) what He desires and wants, and forbid them (to do) what He does not want and what He is angered by.’ In support of this view, the Mubayyiḍa will adduce Sura 53. Further, they say that God will only incarnate Himself at long intervals. He entered Adam when He created Him, then caused him to die and returned to His throne in the heavens. Later He created Noah and descended into his form, to return to His throne when he died.

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The same happened with Abraham, Moses, Jesus, Muḥammad, Abū Muslim and al-Muqannaʿ. Of each one of them we are told that first God descended into his form (ṣūra), then He caused him to die (qabaḍahu) and returned to His throne. Now the Mubayyiḍa are expecting His (God’s, not al-Muqannaʿ’s) return and incarnation (ḥulūl) in the form that they are waiting for, so that He may make their religion manifest. There are several new points here. That al-Muqannaʿ claimed to be the Mahdī is not mentioned elsewhere, but certainly fits in with what we know about him. One is more surprised to learn that the Mubayyiḍa described God as a subtle, three-dimensional body (jism), if only because it takes us into the technical language of kalām. The Mubayyiḍa normally come across as uneducated villagers. Of course, they could have had mutakallims, but the fact that al-Muqannaʿ’s name is given as Hishām is suspicious: the Shi‘i mutakallim Hishām b. al-Ḥakam (d. ca. 185/800) is well known to have held that God was a three-dimensional body.6 Did the author of this section confuse Hāshim b. al-Ḥakīm with Hishām b. al-Ḥakam? If so, he cannot be al-Balkhī, or for that matter Abū Tammām himself.7 The view that God’s spirit incarnates itself in the human bodies (ajsād) of messengers, identified as bearers of God’s commands, is familiar from other accounts of al-Muqannaʿ, but it is stated here with unexpected precision, and this is the first time we learn that the Mubayyiḍa would invoke the Qur’an in its support.8 Sura 53 famously describes a vision of a divine being, sometimes taken to be an angel and sometimes God, and the Mubayyiḍa took it to describe the very act of incarnation: when the Qur’an says that the one terrible in power and very strong stood poised, then drew near and let himself down, to stand two bows length away, they understood it as saying that the divine being came to be closer to Muḥammad than his own brain and heart; and when the Sura continues that the divine being revealed to him what he revealed, they held it to mean that it inspired (alhama) Muḥammad to the point of entering his form (dakhala fī ṣūratihi). The names of the men in whom God had manifested Himself according to al-Muqannaʿ are also familiar from other sources.9 It is often called a doctrine of tanāsukh,10 but what is being postulated is a doctrine of periodic divine incarnation, not of the migration of souls, or of the spirit of God, from one body to another: God returns to His throne after each incarnation, and the spirit always goes directly from Him to the human being selected. The Mubayyiḍa may well have believed in the transmigration of human souls as well, but on that subject our account is silent.

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The men in whom God incarnates Himself are identified as messengers and implicitly seen as bringing a new revelation. The first six – Adam, Noah, Abraham, Moses, Jesus and Muḥammad – are unproblematic. One expects al-Muqannaʿ to appear as the seventh and last, presiding over the end of times as the Mahdī. Instead, the seventh incarnation is Abū Muslim, with al-Muqannaʿ as the eighth. ʿAlī is not in the sequence, nor would one expect him to be, but one would not expect Abū Muslim to be in it either. Why should al-Muqannaʿ have cast Abū Muslim as a bringer of new revelation, only to abrogate it straightaway as the bringer of a new one himself? The Mubayyiḍa explicitly said that there were long periods in between the divine incarnations. There is, of course, no reason to doubt that Abū Muslim mattered greatly in al-Muqannaʿ’s preaching. An undated coin from eighth-century Transoxiana identifies itself as struck by ‘Hāshim, wly Abā Muslim’, presumably to be read walī Abī Muslim (‘Abū Muslim’s friend/avenger’, as the editor reads it, without discussing the unexpected accusative).11 This Hāshim must be al-Muqannaʿ, who was known in some circles to have preached vengeance for Abū Muslim,12 though Ibn Ḥazm seems to be the only heresiographer to mention it.13 Al-Muqannaʿ undoubtedly regarded Abū Muslim as divine as well. According to al-Thaʿālibī, he held the divine spirit to manifest itself in prophets and kings alike, including Abū Muslim,14 and Abū Muslim was a prophet according to the Rāwandiyya, who deified the ʿAbbasid caliph al-Manṣūr (r. 136–158/754– 775) as the seventh and last imam.15 Not every prophet or king was an inaugurator of a new cycle, however. Abū Muslim appears in all complete versions of al-Muqannaʿ’s sequence of divine messengers, but the chances are that they all go back to a single source. Al-Baghdādī undoubtedly has his version from Abū Tammām, for he too gives al-Muqannaʿ’s name as Hishām.16 Most probably, then, Abū Muslim should be removed from the list. It is of course also possible that it is al-Muqannaʿ himself who should be removed: he could have believed Abū Muslim to be the seventh and the last. This would fit the information in Ibn al-Athīr and Mīrkhwānd (ultimately perhaps from Sallāmī)17 that al-Muqannaʿ regarded Abū Muslim as more meritorious than Muḥammad: the import would be that Abū Muslim had brought the final revelation.18 In this interpretation, al-Muqannaʿ would have been Abū Muslim’s walī and successor, still divine perhaps, but not the bringer of a new revelation, and not the Mahdī either, merely the imam and executor of Abū Muslim’s abrogation of Muḥammad’s revelation. But the information in Ibn al-Athīr and others is plucked from an unknown

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context, and the sources are more likely to have misunderstood the role of Abū Muslim, about whom many widely different claims were made at the time, than that of al-Muqannaʿ himself. That they did in fact misunderstand the role of Abū Muslim in al-Muqannaʿ’s system is suggested by the information given in Abū Tammām’s Part III (b), as will be seen. Abū Tammām’s account of the divine incarnations is unsophisticated: God actually leaves His throne in order to incarnate Himself in a human body. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya was later to say the same in connection with the Christian doctrine of divine incarnation, presumably to highlight the absurdity of the claim.19 Even so, Abū Tammām’s account is interesting, but a full treatment of its implications must await another publication. (b) Laws and customs (Madelung and Walker, 77 = 76) By way of conclusion to the first section Abū Tammām tells us something about the laws of the Mubayyiḍa: they do not believe in exclusive sexual access to women, but hold them to be lawful for all of them (istaḥallū fīmā baynahum al-nisāʾ); and they also deem it lawful to eat carrion, blood, pork and other things,20 claiming that God did not prohibit such things; rather, the words for the things seemingly prohibited are the names of men with whom it was forbidden to have social and political relations (walāya); conversely, the religious obligations (farāʾiḍ) were simply cover names for men with whom it is obligatory to have walāya. The identity of the men in question is not disclosed. Again, however, we are given snippets of their interpretation of the Qur’an. They would adduce Q. 5:93: there is no fault in those who believe and do deeds of righteousness for what they ate, and Q. 7:32: who has forbidden the beautiful things (zīna) of God which He brought forth for His servants and the good things of sustenance (al-ṭayyibāt min al-rizq)? That the Mubayyiḍa rejected the idea of exclusive marital rights over women is what we are commonly told about all the sectarians subsumed under the label of Khurramīs. I shall come back to it below (Part II (a)). As regards their views on food, Abū Tammām’s passage is notable for not mentioning vegetarianism, or more precisely the prohibition of killing living beings, which is attested for Mazdak and the western Khurramīs alike, but it should perhaps be seen as implied by the permission to eat carrion. At all events, the permission was not academic. Al-Masʿūdī had seen ‘a kind of Mazdakī Zoroastrians who have a village outside Rayy inhabited only by them’; when cattle died in Rayy or Qazwīn, one of them would come with his ox, load the dead animal on to it, and take it back

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to their village, where they would eat it; most of their food, and indeed of their cattle, was fresh or dried meat of such animals, and they would use their bones in the construction of buildings.21 They must have been skilled in the art of judging what was and was not fit for consumption, and how to cook it, for this to be possible. That the ‘Mazdakīs’ in the countryside of Rayy would eat carrion is also mentioned in a letter by Maḥmūd of Ghazna (d. 421/1030) to the caliph al-Qādir bi’llāh (r. 381–422/991–1031) in 420/1029.22 The allegorical interpretation of the dietary (and, one assumes, sexual) laws of the Qur’an and the term walāya are interesting for sounding vaguely Shi‘i. The same interpretation is reported for other ghulāt, and all the reports may originate in one and the same source, which was not necessarily concerned with the Mubayyiḍa.23 However this may be, there is no indication in this material that the Mubayyiḍa were Shi‘is in the broad sense of being concerned with ʿAlī and the Prophet’s family. One tends to think of them as such because it was in Shi‘ism that the idea of periodic manifestation of the deity was to surface as a Muslim phenomenon, along with features such as Mahdism, antinomianism (or anomianism), and allegorical interpretation of the scripture. All these features are present here, but it is with reference to Muḥammad and the Qur’an that the Mubayyiḍa are trying to Islamise them, not ʿAlī or the imamate. (c) Overall assessment Leaving aside the apparent confusion with Hishām b. al-Ḥakam and the inclusion of Abū Muslim in the list of divine incarnations, Part I is a well-informed account by an author who may have been a Transoxianan himself. He seems to have taken an interest in sectarian use of the Qur’an, and since Qur’anic interpretations are quoted both at the beginning and the end of the section, he is likely to be responsible for all of it. Unfortunately, he cannot be securely identified. Al-Bīrunī mentions Persian accounts (akhbār) of al-Muqannaʿ which he had translated into Arabic in his lost Akhbār al-Mubayyiḍa wa’l-Qarāmiṭa, but exactly what he translated is hard to tell.24 If we take al-Bīrūnī to be referring to a book called Akhbār al-Muqannaʿ, the work he translated was perhaps the Akhbār al-Muqannaʿ by a certain Ibrāhīm which is cited as a source in the Tārīkh-i Bukhārā.25 This fits the fact that al-Bīrūnī shares a source with the Tārīkh-i Bukhārā in his Āthār.26 The Ibrāhīm in question is probably Ibrāhīm b. Muḥammad, known to Ibn al-Nadīm as an authority on Isḥāq al-Turk. Ibn al-Nadīm says that he was ‘learned about the Muslimiyya’.27 This Ibrāhīm is most

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likely to have written in Arabic, but his work could have been translated into Persian by the time al-Bīrūnī read it and translated it (back?) into Arabic. Unfortunately, however, Ibrāhīm’s book is also lost and he himself is otherwise unknown.28 Ibn al-Nadīm knew of him only because he had read an apparently anonymous history of Transoxiana29 which does not seem to have been widely disseminated.30 But if Ibrāhīm is the source behind both the Tārikh-i Bukhārā and Part I of Abū Tammām, all the extant lists of the divine incarnations in al-Muqannaʿ’s system go back to him.31 Part II (a) First-hand observations (Madelung and Walker, 77f = 76f) Abū Tammām continues with a section written in the first person singular, starting ‘I have seen a great number of them and have disputed with them.’ One assumes this to be Abū Tammām speaking, but it cannot be taken for granted since mediaeval authors would readily copy statements in the first person singular from other sources. Whoever he is, the speaker proceeds to report that, none of them has much understanding of any of the principles of their faith nor are they acquainted with al-Muqannaʿ and his era, except the learned among them. All there is to it is neglect of prayer, fasting and washing for major ritual impurity. They practise dissimulation and do not admit outsiders into their ranks or intermarry with them, though they live interspersed with Muslims.

To some extent, all this is in accordance with expectation: that the Khurramīs and related sectarians ignored the ritual precepts of Islam is widely stated in other sources, and it fits the information on the sexual and dietary habits of the Mubayyiḍa in Part I. That they practised dissimulation is also widely noted, and their refusal to intermarry with outsiders makes sense. But in Part I al-Muqannaʿ figures prominently in their religious system; here, they do not remember him, except for the learned among them. How is this to be explained? If the same author is responsible for Parts I and II, he could simply be describing the views of the learned in Part I and the ignorant laity in Part II; but al-Muqannaʿ can hardly have been crucial to the religious leaders without the laity knowing about him too. More probably, Part I is excerpted from an earlier source, the putative Ibrāhīm, whereas Part II is based on the author’s personal observations. Who was the author?

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If he is al-Balkhī, he would have made his observations in the region of Balkh and added them to an account of al-Muqannaʿ’s followers on the assumption that all sectarians of this type were the same: if so, they would indeed know nothing about al-Muqannaʿ, except insofar as the learned among them had read about him in other people’s works, for the Balkhīs did not participate in his revolt. But it does not seem to be al-Balkhī who is speaking here. Both Nashwān al-Ḥimyarī and Ibn al-Nadīm quote him as calling sectarians of this type Muslimiyya; Ibn al-Nadīm has him add that some people call them Khurramdīniyya, but neither credits him with use of the term Mubayyiḍa. Further, Nashwān quotes him as saying, ‘Here with us in Balkh there is a group of them who permit unlawful things according to what has reached me about them’,32 while Ibn al-Nadīm has him say, ‘It has reached me that here with us in Balkh there is a group of them in the village called Kharsādwīljānī/Khurramābād.’ 33 The information accords with our account, of course, but the wording is not suggestive of Abū Tammām, nor does al-Balkhī sound here like a man who had personally disputed with the people in question. Most probably, it really is Abū Tammām who is speaking here. An Ismaili missionary, he will have toured the countryside disputing with the locals in an effort to win converts, shocked by, and seeking to rectify, their religious ignorance. We know the Ismailis were at work among the same type of Khurramī villagers at a later time in western Iran.34 Abū Tammām came from Nīshāpūr (judging from his nisba) and was patronised partly by Muṭarrif b. Muḥammad, a vizier of Mardāwīj (d. 323/930) in western Iran, and partly by the Saffarid Abū Jaʿfar Ibn Bānū (d. 923/963) in Sīstān;35 whether he was ever in Transoxiana we do not know. If it was in Rayy or Sīstān that he disputed with Khurramīs, it would once again be unsurprising that they knew nothing about al-Muqannaʿ, who had nothing to do with them. The one Ismaili missionary who certainly knew the area which had been involved in al-Muqannaʿ’s revolt is al-Nasafī (d. 331/943 or later), a native of Nasaf who converted the Samanid Naṣr II and his court at Bukhārā to Ismailism.36 He was learned about Iranian religion, too, and Abū Tammām could in principle have extracted Part II, including the first-person formulation, from a work of his. But there is nothing to show that he did,37 so it is simpler to accept that Abū Tammām is giving us his own observations. The report on the dire religious state of the Mubayyiḍa also appears in the Tārīkh-i Bukhārā. Here the Persian translator Qubāwī starts with a comment of his own: ‘Aḥmad b. Muḥammad b. Nasr [Qubāwī] says, “Those people still remain in the districts of Kish and Nakhshab and

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some of the villages of Bukhārā, such as the castle of ʿUmar, the castle of Khākhushtuwan and the village of Zarmān”.’ This probably represents his own observation, since he lived in Bukhārā, gives us the names of villages in the Bukhārā region, and later reports his conversation with the elders of one such village. But he proceeds without any indication of change of source to the statement ‘their religion is that they do not pray, fast, or perform major ritual ablution. But they are trustworthy (bih-amānat bāshand). All this they conceal from the Muslims, claiming to be Muslims.’ One thinks that this is Qubāwī quoting his observations in the villages of Bukhārā, but in fact it is Qubāwī quoting Abū Tammām. The latter has, ‘All there is to it [their religion] is neglect of prayer, fasting and washing for major ritual impurity. They practise dissimulation… ’, later adding, however, that they are trustworthy (lahum maʿa hādhā kullih amāna, see below, (c)).38 Qubāwī could be suspected of deliberately trying to disguise the fact that he is using an Ismaili author. In any case, he is moving Abū Tammām’s observations from Rayy, or wherever they were made, to the Bukhārā region, which had indeed been involved in al-Muqannaʿ’s revolt, but which probably was not where Abū Tammām had been active. Abū Tammām goes on to say that the Mubayyiḍa regard sharing women among themselves as lawful. He has made this point already in Part I, but here it seems to be based on first-hand information, for, he explains, They say that a woman is like a fragrant herb (rayḥāna) that is not diminished by the one who smells it. If one of their men desires to be alone with a woman belonging to another of them, he enters that man’s house and puts a marker (ʿalāma) on the door, showing that he is inside. When her husband comes back and recognises the marker, he does not go in, but leaves until the other has satisfied his desire.

To this he adds a piece of information from ʿAmr b. Muḥammad from a shaykh from Bukhārā: ‘Every group of these Mubayyiḍa have a chief (raʾīs) who is appointed to deflower their women on the night of the marriage procession. That I have not verified myself. Only God knows for sure.’ The author’s careful insistence that he has no first-hand knowledge of this reinforces the impression that the preceding information he had gathered for himself. There is every reason to believe these observations: like other Khurramīs, the Mubayyiḍa did share women in some sense. But Abū Tammām’s claim that a man visiting a woman would leave a mark by the door suggests that what he is talking about is the institution known to

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anthropologists as polyandry, well attested (inter alia) in its fraternal form in Tibet up to modern times: brothers would leave the family property undivided and share a wife, to whose sons the family property would pass undivided in its turn; if there were no sons, the property would pass to the eldest daughter, who could take as many husbands as she liked. In essence it was a system in which it did not matter who sired the future heirs as long as either their mother or their father was a transmitter of the family property. The men could have other wives on the side, but their children would not inherit, unless the men split up and divided the property, which was strongly resisted.39 The system ‘is really a sort of family communism in wives’, as an Indian High Court judge noted in 1954 with reference to that current in his own district; ‘it is a joint family both in property and in wives’.40 Where this system (and/or its non-fraternal counterpart) has been practised, there tend to be stories of hats, spears, shields or other markers being left by the door, though it is not clear what basis this has in reality.41 The existence of such family communism in Iran is attested in Chinese reports, in recently published Bactrian documents,42 and in al-Bīrūnī on the region from northern Afghanistan to Kashmir.43 It is attested well before Mazdak,44 to whose ideas it is undoubtedly relevant. Whether it can account for all the reports of Khurramī views on women is another question which I shall once more have to defer to another publication. The passage on the peculiar marital system of the Mubayyiḍa also appears in the Tārīkh-i Bukhārā, complete with the sweet-smelling flower and the marker by the door, but Qubāwī adds an interesting observation of his own, not about the wife-sharing, but rather about the custom of having a chief deflower the bride on the night before the wedding, which Abū Tammām had quoted on the authority of a Bukhāran. ‘Aḥmad b. Muḥammad b. Naṣr (Qubāwī) says: “I asked the elders of the village what was the sense of allowing such great pleasure to this one man, while the rest were deprived of it.”’ The answer he received was not that a chief claimed droit de seigneur, as one might have expected, but rather that he was collecting payment for services he had rendered to the grooms: ‘Their rule was that every youth who reached maturity should satisfy his need with this person until he should marry a woman. His repayment for that was that the wife should stay with him for the first night.’ Qubāwī adds that when the man became old, another would be appointed in his place and that the local name for such a person was tkāna (or thkhāna). Incongruously, he retains Abū Tammām’s cautionary remark: ‘I do not know whether this is true’, only to repeat, ‘I heard this story from the

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elders of the village, and from the inhabitants who live in these villages.’ 45 What is interesting about this, apart from Qubāwī’s desire to get to the bottom of things, is that the Bukhāran shaykh quoted by Abū Tammām had heard of this institution at least a century and possibly two before Qubāwī went out to ask about it: the village elders nonetheless recognised it and provided a name and a rationale for it. So the institution was both real and long-lived, odd though it sounds. It is a pity that it was only the sensationalist aspects of rural life that could induce the townsmen to do field work of this kind. (b) Later confusion Abū Tammām continues by noting that despite their lack of legal observance, the Mubayyiḍa are trustworthy (lahum maʿa hādhā amāna): they do not cheat or steal or harm people in any way. As we have seen, the Tārīkh-i Bukhārā reduces this to the statement that they are trustworthy (bih amānat bāshand) and inserts it in the account of their antinomianism. Shahrastānī must have read this, for after telling us (on the basis of al-Baghdādī) that al-Muqannaʿ began as an adherent of the Rizāmiyya and that his followers are the Mubayyiḍa of Transoxiana, he adds that they ‘believe in omitting the legal precepts, saying that religion consists in knowledge of the imam alone; some of them say that religion consists of (just) two things: knowledge of the imam and faithfully discharging trusts (adāʾ al-amāna)’.46 The imams have presumably been imported from the Muslimiyya, of whom the Rizāmiyya were supposed to be a subdivision: it was the Muslimiyya who allegedly held knowledge of the imam to be the only obligation, since it would cause all the religious precepts to fall away.47 The rest is a confused version of Qubāwī translated back into Arabic. In the Tabṣirat al-ʿawāmm, compiled by an unknown author of the first half of the seventh/thirteenth century and attributed to Ḥasanī Rāzī, Shahrastānī’s account has turned into a claim that, for al-Muqannaʿ’s followers, ‘religion consists of two things, first knowledge of the imams and secondly, regard for the imamate (imāmat nigahdāshtan)’.48 Part III (a) Mahdism and other beliefs (Madelung and Walker, 78f = 77) Abū Tammām now returns to a written source, which cannot be identical with that in Part I, partly because the information does not accord with it and partly because the author reflected in Part III had a predilection for

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rhetorical repetition which is not found in the first two parts.49 After telling us about the trustworthiness of the Mubayyiḍa, Abū Tammām continues that they will avoid bloodshed when they are at peace, but allow it when they raise the banner of revolt. In every locality (balad) they have a chief whom they call farmānsālār and with whom they meet in secret. They maintain that the Mahdī who will arise at the end of times is al-Mahdī b. Fīrūz b. ʿImrān and that he is a descendant of Fāṭima, the daughter of Abū Muslim. They also have messengers (rusul) and ambassadors (sufarāʾ) who move about among them and whom they call firīshtagān, that is to say malāʾika, angels. ‘They do not rise in the morning except upon the promise of moving this day’, presumably meaning that they expect the appearance of the Mahdī any moment. They also believe in the rajʿa, but we are not told exactly what they mean by it. There is no trace of this section in the Tārīkh-i Bukhārā, but in al-Maqdisī we also read that the Khurramīs will avoid bloodshed except when they tie the banner of revolt, and that they have messengers (rusul) whom they call firīshtagān. Al-Maqdisī does not mention their farmānsālār, merely that they have imams to whom they refer in matters of aḥkām. But he too says that they make much of Abū Muslim and curse al-Manṣūr for having killed him, and he too identifies the Mahdī who will rise at the end of times as al-Mahdī b. Fīrūz, a descendant of Fāṭima, daughter of Abū Muslim. Their belief in the rajʿa is also mentioned, again without specification of what they meant by it. Since Abū Tammām is describing the Mubayyiḍa of Transoxiana, whereas al-Maqdisī knew the Khurramīs from visits to the Jibāl, one initially thinks al-Maqdisī is shifting information from an eastern to a western locale. But as will be seen (below, (b)), it is more likely to be Abū Tammām who was doing so. Al-Maqdisī adds some observations on their attitude to wine and their religion as rooted in light-darkness dualism, whereupon he continues: Those whom we have seen in their homes in Māsābadhān and Mihrijānqadhaq we found to be exceedingly attentive to cleanliness (niẓāfa) and purity (ṭahāra), and very friendly and helpful to people. We found some who believed in holding women in common, with the women’s consent, and in deeming lawful everything which the self delights in and desires by nature, as long as nobody is harmed by it.50

Once again, we find that a scholar has tried to get to the bottom of things by going to hear for himself, in his case in Khurramī villages in the Jibāl. That the Khurramīs do not observe the ritual precepts of Islam seems to be taken for granted: what al-Maqdisī stresses is that they were

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an extremely clean people, perhaps in tacit polemic against a supposition that they must be filthy; and his insistence that they were exceedingly kind people could perhaps be seen as directed against Abū Tammām’s description of them as secretive and inward-turned. He confirms that some of them believed in sharing women, with the women’s consent (which is not suggestive of fraternal polyandry), but here too the nuanced tone in which he reports suggests a desire to correct stereotypes. (b) Imams (Madelung and Walker, 78f = 77) Abū Tammām continues: These people claim that when God returned to His throne after His departure from the body (qālab) of Muḥammad, He sent His spirit to ʿAlī, on whom be peace, and after him to Muḥammad b. al-Ḥanafiyya, and then after him to his son Abū Hāshim, and so on (wāḥidan baʿda wāḥid) until God incarnated Himself in the shape of Abū Muslim. But then He returned to His throne after leaving the shape of Abū Muslim. Next He sent His spirit to Abu’l-Muḍar (sic), who went to Byzantium. Al-Mahdī b. Fīrūz will come forth from Byzantium at the end of time according to their claims.

This is strikingly different from the doctrinal summary given in Part I. Most obviously, the divine incarnations are no longer messengers who appear at long intervals from Adam onwards, bringing new revelations, but rather imams who take over from Muḥammad and follow one another in an uninterrupted sequence down to the Mahdī at the end of times. In line with this, the focus is now on the Prophet’s family, which does not figure in Part I at all: the divine spirit here passes from Muḥammad to ʿAlī, Muḥammad b. al-Ḥanafiyya, Abū Hāshim, and so on down to Abū Muslim, and from there to a certain Abu’l-Muḍar (a mistake for Abū Muḍar or a corruption?). Further, the orientation is western: we move from Abū Muslim to Abu’l-Muḍar, of whom we are told that he went to Byzantium; and it is from Byzantium that the descendant of Abū Muslim will come forth as the Mahdī at the end of times. Finally, al-Muqannaʿ himself has disappeared from the list. The imamic sequence from ʿAlī via Ibn al-Ḥanafiyya to Abū Hāshim is famous due to the claim that Abū Hāshim bequeathed the imamate to the ʿAbbasids. In the sequence described by Abū Tammām, it is not to the ʿAbbasids that the imamate is transferred, but rather to Abū Muslim via an undisclosed sequence of imams in between – wāḥidan baʿda wāḥid, as

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we are told, despite the brief period involved – and from Abū Muslim it continues in the descendants of the latter’s daughter Fāṭima, as a non-Arab counterpart to the imamate in the descendants of Fāṭima, the daughter of Muḥammad. The message is that Abū Muslim is the true heir of the Prophet, not the ʿAbbasids, who had simply usurped a bequest made to Abū Muslim, and not the ʿAlids either, since their rights had passed from Abū Hāshim to Abū Muslim. This elevation of Abū Muslim to the position of true, and indeed divine, imam over and above the entire Hāshimī family undoubtedly represents a response to Abū Muslim’s murder, quite possibly in Khurāsān, among Iranians who would later be known under labels such as Muslimiyya, Khurramiyya and Mubayyiḍa. The question is what, if anything, it has to do with al-Muqannaʿ. In principle, widely spaced bringers of revelation are perfectly compatible with continuous sequences of imams: the two conceptions were brilliantly combined in Ismailism (with both the bringers of revelation and the imams shorn of their divinity). But if Abū Muslim received the imamate from the ʿAlids to start a line of divine Iranian imams, what was al-Muqannaʿ doing as a messenger bringing a new revelation immediately thereafter? Differently put, the idea of Abū Muslim as imam rested on acceptance of the continuing validity of Muḥammad’s revelation: the claim was only that Iranian leaders of a divine nature knew better than anyone else what its real meaning was. By contrast, al-Muqannaʿ was a messenger who abrogated Muḥammad’s revelation, or conceivably he cast Abū Muslim in that role (as discussed above, Part I (a)): either way, the imamic claims transmitted from Muḥammad’s family were irrelevant. There are no imams in eastern sources such as Narshakhī, Abu’l-Maʿālī, Gardīzī, al-Bīrūnī, or Abū Tammām’s Part I because there is no room for them; and when sources displaying familiarity with Abū Tammām’s Part III try to combine the two conceptions, the result is always apparently confusing. There is an example of this in al-Maqdisī, who tells us in his account of al-Muqannaʿ’s revolt that al-Muqannaʿ held the divine spirit to have manifested itself in Adam, Seth, Noah, Abraham, Moses, Jesus, Muḥammad, ʿAlī, Muḥammad b. al-Ḥanafiyya and al-Muqannaʿ himself.51 Here, Seth seems to have been added to make Muḥammad the seventh lawgiver, for what follows is an imamic sequence: the imams are ʿAlī, Muḥammad b. al-Ḥanafiyya and al-Muqannaʿ, who thus takes the place of Abū Hāshim.52 No doubt this is why the list of divine incarnations in Abu’l-Maʿālī culminates in al-Muqannaʿ under the name of Abū Hāshim.53 But if al-Muqannaʿ saw himself as an imam, he must have seen himself as taking over from

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Abū Muslim, and here Abū Muslim has disappeared, both as a messenger and as a recipient of the imamate from Abū Hāshim. In Abū Tammām, Part III, where Abū Muslim takes over the imamate from Abū Hāshim, it is al-Muqannaʿ who has disappeared. The most obvious explanation is that the imamic sequence did not originally have anything to do with al-Muqannaʿ at all, and that al-Maqdisī’s attempt to combine them reflects the problem posed by Abū Tammām’s strangely contradictory material: he reported both, without any attempt to show how they went together. Al-Baghdādī, who reveals his dependence on Abū Tammām’s Part I by giving al-Muqannaʿ’s name as Hishām b. Hakīm, also does his best to reconcile the information: he gives us the standard sequence of messengers from Adam to al-Muqannaʿ, but inserts ʿAlī into it, undoubtedly because he also knew Part III.54 Similarly, al-Isfarāʾinī, whose account shares the name Hishām and other information with Abū Tammām’s, inserts ʿAlī and his descendants into the sequence of divine messengers, yet continues it with Abū Muslim and al-Muqannaʿ.55 We do not know how al-Muqannaʿ envisaged the transmission of religious guidance in between the periodic incarnations of God’s spirit in the lawgiving messengers, and since the only period for which the question was relevant was that of Islam, he may not even have thought of it, for he was the last divine incarnation, the Mahdī. What Abū Tammām’s material does allow us to see is that the inclusion of Abū Muslim in the standard list of messengers is most likely to represent an addition caused by the confusion of al-Muqannaʿ with other Khurāsānīs, who saw him as the heir to Abū Hāshim. To outsiders, all those who talked about both Abū Muslim and manifestations of the divine spirit on earth had to be the same. Where, then, did Abū Tammām find his imamic sequence in Part III? Though it may have originated in Khurāsān, it is in western Iran that we encounter it: by the later third/ninth century, Abū Muslim had come to be identified as the progenitor of Bābak via his daughter Fāṭima and her real or alleged son, Muṭahhar.56 The Khurramīs of the Jibāl were Muslimiyya, Jaʿfar b. Ḥarb tells us,57 and Bābak’s people were Fāṭimiyya Khurramīs, al-Masʿūdī says.58 It is in connection with the Khurramīs of the Jibāl that al-Maqdisī reports the expectation of Mahdī b. Fīrūz, a descendant of Fāṭima, daughter of Abū Muslim.59 It is in connection with the Khurramī revolts in the Jibāl that Niẓām al-Mulk reports the same (though given his view that Khurramīs and all other sects remotely like them were essentially the same, this may be more by accident than design).60 The Ismaili chronicler Dihkhudā reports that the ‘Mazdakīs’ of

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Azarbayjan who accepted Ismailism in the time of Ḥasan-i Ṣabbāḥ, only to repudiate it in 536/1141, believed the imamate to have passed from ʿAlī via Muḥammad b. al-Ḥanafiyya, Abū Hāshim and the ʿAbbasid Ibrāhīm al-Imām to Abū Muslim and his daughter, after which the imam went to Byzantium, from whence he would return.61 Of the Qarāmiṭa, too, we are told that they believed their Mahdī, Muḥammad b. Ismāʿīl, to have gone to Rūm.62 In 218/833, when a major Khurramī revolt in the Jibāl was bloodily suppressed, one of the rebel leaders had escaped to Byzantium with a large number of followers:63 it could be the memory of this man which lies behind the story of the Mahdī who would come from Byzantium. In short, Abū Tammām seems to have incorporated an account of Khurramīs based on information relating to the Jibāl and Azarbayjan (and perhaps Rayy as well) into an account of Transoxianan sectarians of the same type on the common assumption that their beliefs will have been the same. One did not have to share Niẓām al-Mulk’s outlook to think that this was a legitimate procedure. Where Abū Tammām may have found it I do not know. He did make a slight attempt to harmonise it with the information in Part I by using the distinctive phrase ‘when God returned to His throne’ in Part III as well. But he left the word for ‘form’ as qālab instead of changing it to ṣūra, the word consistently used in Part I, and above all he left the two sequences as they were, in all their blatant incompatibility. One is grateful for that. Had he tried to harmonise them, it would probably have been impossible to unravel them. In conclusion, the main findings may be summarised as follows: Abū Tammām’s three parts appear to be based on a book by a certain Ibrāhīm b. Muḥammad (wr. before the mid-fourth/tenth century), his own observations, and an unknown account relating to Khurramīs in western Iran respectively. The Muqannaʿiyya (reflected in Part I) and the Muslimiyya (reflected in Part III) adhered to different doctrines, however closely connected these groups may have been on the ground. The inclusion of Abū Muslim in al-Muqannaʿ’s list of divine incarnations is probably a mistake. And heresiographical accounts of al-Muqannaʿ written after Abū Tammām, notably al-Baghdādī and Shahrastānī, can be regarded as irrelevant to this enquiry. Notes 1. 2.

I should like to thank Michael Cook for his most useful comments on this chapter. Wilferd Madelung and Paul E. Walker, ed. and tr., An Ismaili Heresiography:

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The ‘Bāb al-shayṭān’ from Abū Tammām’s Kitāb al-shajara (Leiden, 1998), 76–79 = 74–77. In what follows, I use their translation, but not always exactly as it stands. Where figures are given in the form 107 = 57, the first figure refers to the text and the second to the translation. 3. Madelung and Walker, Heresiography, pp. 10ff. Van Ess suggests that Abū Tammām’s source might be al-Nāshiʾ al-Aṣghar, though the latter died in 365/975 or 366/976, after Abū Tammām’s presumed floruit (Joseph van Ess, ‘Le Miʿrāğ et la vision de Dieu’, in Mohammad Ali Amir-Moezzi, ed., Le Voyage initiatique en terre d’Islam, Louvain and Paris, 1996, pp. 27–56). 4. Cf. below, notes 32f. 5. Al-Ḥarīrī/Jarīrī mentions him in his famous outburst against attempts to combine sharīʿa and falsafa, characterising him as a Shi‘i and briefly identifying his approach as having been similar to that of his contemporaries, the Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ and Abū Zayd al-Balkhī (d. 322/934); see Abū Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīdī, Kitāb al-Imtāʿ wa’l-muʾānasa, ed. Aḥmad Amīn and Aḥmad Zayn (Beirut, 1939–1944), vol. 2, pp. 15. My thanks to Omar Alí-de-Unzaga for reminding me of this passage. 6. Cf. al-Ashʿarī, Maqālāt al-Islāmiyyīn, ed. Hellmut Ritter (Istanbul, 1929– 1933), pp. 31f; translated with further references in Joseph van Ess, Theologie und Gesellschaft im 2. und 3. jahrhundert hidschra (Berlin and New York, 1991–1997), v, pp. 72f; discussed at i, pp. 358ff. 7. Abū Tammām was well informed about Hishām b. al-Ḥakam, whose position he reports in a long section on the Hishāmiyya (Madelung and Walker, Heresiography, 56 = 59). 8. Later sources, however, know the Mubayyiḍa to have adduced God’s command to the angels to worship Adam as proof of Adam’s divinity; see Ibn Khallikān, Wafāyāt al-aʿyān wa anbāʾ abnāʾ al-zamān, ed. Iḥsān ʿAbbās (Beirut, 1978), vol. 3, p. 263; Mīrkhwānd, Tārīkh-i rawḍat al-ṣafāʾ, ed. Jamshīd Kiyānfar (Tehran, 1380 Sh./2001), vol. 3, p. 2573. 9. The complete list is given in Narshakhī, Tārīkh-i Bukhārā, Persian tr. Abū Naṣr Aḥmad b. Muḥammad Naṣr al-Qubāwī (d. 522/1128), ed. Charles Schefer (Paris, 1892), pp. 64f; ed. Muḥammad Taqī Mudarris Raḍawī (Tehran, 1351 Sh./1972), p. 91; tr. Richard N. Frye, The History of Bukhara (Cambridge, MA, 1954), p. 66; Abu’l-Maʿālī, Bayān al-adyān, ed. Hāshim Riḍā (Tehran, 1342 Sh./1964), p. 58; Gardīzī, Tārīkh-i Gardīzī, ed. ʿAbd al-Ḥayy Ḥabībī (Tehran, 1363 Sh./1984), p. 278, the last with some of the same wording as in Abū Tammām. Many others have the list in an abbreviated form. For divergent versions, see below, Part III (b). 10. For the earliest examples, see al-Jāḥiẓ, Kitāb al-Bayān wa’l-tabyīn, ed. ʿAbd al-Salām Muḥammad Hārūn (2nd ed., Cairo, 1380/1960–1961), vol. 3, pp. 102f; al-Ṭabarī, Taʾrīkh al-rusul wa’l-mulūk, ed. M. J. de Goeje et al. (Leiden, 1879–1901), vol. 3, p. 484; al-Maqdisī, Kitāb al-Badʾ wa’l-taʾrīkh, ed. and French tr. Clément Huart as Le livre de la création et de l’histoire (Paris, 1899–1919), vol. 6, p. 97.

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11. Boris Kochnev, ‘Les monnaies de Muqannaʿ’, Studia Iranica, 30 (2001), pp. 143–150. 12. Ṭabarī, Taʾrīkh, vol. 3, p. 773; Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil fi’l-taʾrīkh, ed. Carl Johan Tornberg (Beirut, 1965–1967), vol. 6, p. 224 (year 193); Muḥammad b. ʿAbdūs al-Jahshiyārī, Kitāb al-Wuzarāʾ wa’l-kuttāb, ed. Muṣṭafā al-Saqqā et al. (Cairo, 1938), p. 277 ult. 13. Ibn Ḥazm, al-Faṣl fi’l-milal wa’l-ahwāʾ wa’l-niḥal (Cairo, 1317–1321/1899– 1903), vol. 4, p. 187. 14. Al-Thaʿālibī, Ādāb al-mulūk, ed. Jalīl al-ʿAṭiyya (Beirut, 1990), p. 37 (drawn to my attention by Hassan Ansari); for further discussion, see Patricia Crone, The Nativist Revolts of Early Islamic Iran and Regional Zoroastrianism, ch. 6 (forthcoming). 15. Al-Nawbakhtī, Kitāb Firaq al-Shīʿa, ed. Helmut Ritter (Istanbul, 1931), p. 47; Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam fī taʾrīkh al-mulūk wa’l-umam, ed. Fritz Krenkow (Hyderabad, 1357–1362/1938–1943); ed. Muḥammad ʿAbd al-Qādir ʿAṭāʾ and Muṣṭafā ʿAbd al-Qādir ʿAṭāʾ (Beirut, 1992), vol. 8, pp. 29f. (year 141). 16. Al-Baghdādī, al-Farq bayn al-firaq, ed. Muḥammad Badr (Cairo, 1328/1910), p. 243 ult. 17. C. Edmund Bosworth, ‘al-Sallāmī’, EI2, vol. 8, p. 996. 18. Ibn al-Athīr, Kāmil, vol. 6, p. 39 (year 159); Mīrkhwānd, Taʾrīkh-i rawḍat al-ṣafāʾ, vol. 3, p. 2573. 19. Hava Lazarus-Yafeh, ‘Some Neglected Aspects of Medieval Muslim Polemics against Christianity’, Harvard Theological Review, 89 (1996), p. 81, with reference to Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya, Hidāyat al-ḥayārā, ed. Sayf al-Din al-Kātīb (Beirut, n.d.), p. 191. 20. Reproduced in al-Isfarāʾinī, al-Tabṣīr fi’l-dīn wa tamyīz al-firqa al-nājiya ʿan al-firaq al-hākilin, ed. Kamāl Yūsuf al-Ḥūt (Beirut, 1983), 132.4 (yastaḥillūna akl al-mayta wa’l-khinzīr). 21. Al-Masʿūdī, Murūj al-dhahab, wa maʿādin al-jawhar, ed. Charles Pellat (Beirut, 1966–1979), vol. 2, §868; ed. and French tr. Charles Barbier de Meynard and Abel Pavet de Courteille as Les pairies d’or (Paris, 1861–1877), vol. 3, p. 27. 22. Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam, Hyderabad ed., vol. 8, pp. 39f (year 420). 23. Ashʿarī, Maqālāt, pp. 6, 10, on the followers of ʿAbd Allāh b. Muʿāwiya and the Manṣūriyya, in similar wording and Q. 5:93 (but without 7:32); al-Nawbakhtī, Firaq al-Shīʿa, pp. 38, 39, on the Khaṭṭābiyya, in different wording and Q. 4:28 (not adduced by the Mubayyiḍa). 24. Al-Bīrūnī, al-Āthār al-bāqiya ʿan al-qurūn al-khāliya, ed. Eduard Sachau (Leipzig, 1878, repr. 1923), p. 211; tr. Eduard Sachau as The Chronology of Ancient Nations (London, 1879). 25. Narshakhī, Tārīkh-i Bukhārā, ed. Schefer, pp. 64, 72; ed. Raḍawī, pp. 90, 101; tr. Frye, pp. 65, 74. This was first suggested by Gholam Hossein Sadighi, Persian tr. as Junbishhā-yi dīnī-yi Īrānī dar qarnhā-yi duwwum wa siwwumi ḥijra (Tehran, 1372/1993), p. 210 (originally published in French as Les

Abū Tammām on the Mubayyiḍa

26.

27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33.

34. 35. 36.

37. 38. 39.

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mouvements religieux iraniens au IIe et IIIe siècle de l’hégire in Paris, 1938); similarly Tūraj Tābān, ‘Qiyām-i Muqannaʿ’, Īrān Shināsī, 1 (1989), p. 533; see also M. Rawshan’s notes to his edition of the Persian translation by Balʿamī of Ṭabarī’s Taʿrīkh, Tārīkh-nāma-yi Ṭabarī, Persian tr. attributed to Abū ʿAlī Muḥammad Balʿamī (d. 363/974), ed. Muḥammad Rawshan (Tehran, 1366 Sh./1987), vol. 3, p. 1593. Both give the duration of al-Muqannaʿ’s revolt as fourteen years, and both have an unusual date for the end of the revolt which is probably one and the same: the year 167ah in the Tārīkh-i Bukhārā, ibid., and 169ah in Bīrūnī’s Āthār, p. 211. Examples of sabʿa being read as tisʿa are legion. Ibn al-Nadīm, Fihrist, p. 408. Al-Ṭabarī, Taʾrīkh, vol. 3, pp. 652, 654, 1809, cites two authorities by the name of Ibrāhīm b. Muḥammad, but they are reporting different kinds of events and unlikely to be relevant. Ibn al-Nadīm, Fihrist, p. 408. He refers to the author as ṣāḥib Kitāb Akhbār Mā Warāʾ al-Nahr min Khurāsān; cf. ḥākī hādha’l-khabar a few lines above. One suspects that the manuscript had lost its frontispiece. Isḥāq al-Turk is known only from Ibn al-Nadīm. Both Abu’l-Maʿālī and Gardīzī (above, note 9) are clearly dependent on Narshakhī. Nashwān b. Saʿīd al-Ḥimyarī, al-Ḥūr al-ʿīn, ed. Kamāl Muṣṭafā (Baghdad and Cairo, 1948), p. 160. Ibn al-Nadīm, Fihrist, p. 408. Khurramābād is the reading of Dodge, The Fihrist of al-Nadīm, p. 824, presumably of what I have rendered as Kharsād (all readings are conjectural). Tajaddud’s edition suggests two names, though the text only speaks of one village. Wilferd Madelung, Religious Trends in Early Islamic Iran (Albany, NY, 1988), pp. 9ff (mid-sixth/twelfth century). Al-Tawḥīdī, Imtāʿ, vol. 2, p. 15; Joel Kraemer, Philosophy in the Renaissance of Islam: Abū Sulaymān al-Sijistānī and His Circle (Leiden, 1986), pp. 17f. For al-Nasafī’s death date, see Patricia Crone and Luke Treadwell, ‘A New Text on Ismailism at the Samanid Court’, in Chase F. Robinson, ed., Texts, Documents and Artefacts: Islamic Studies in Honour of D. S. Richards (Leiden, 2003), p. 47. Cf. Samuel M. Stern, ‘Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī on Persian Religion’, in his Studies in Early Ismāʿīlism (Jerusalem, 1983), ch. 2. Neither al-Muqannaʿ nor the Mubayyiḍa are mentioned here. Narshakhī, Tārīkh-i Bukhārā, ed. Schefer 73.13, ed. Raḍawī, 103.6. Frye translates ‘Still, they remain in safety’, understanding the statement in the light of the new context it has been moved to (The History of Bukhara, p. 75). For a minutely detailed account of all known cases with special reference to field work conducted in Tibet in 1938–1939, 1949 and intermittently between 1950 and 1957, see Prince Peter of Greece and Denmark, A Study of Polyandry (The Hague, 1968).

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40. Quoted in Peter, Polyandry, p. 83. 41. See Peter, Polyandry, p. 60 (Strabo’s Yemen), p. 94 (Nayars), p. 99 (Ceylon), p. 314 (Tibetans who thought that such markers had been used in the past), pp. 314, 375, 451 (Tibetans who found the idea hilarious). 42. Kazuo Enoki, ‘On the Nationality of the Hephtalites’, Memoirs of the Research Department of the Toyo Bunko, 18 (1959), pp. 51ff; Nicholas SimsWilliams, ed., Bactrian Documents from Northern Afghanistan: I, Legal and Economic Documents (Oxford, 2000), documents A, X, Y, which were drawn up in 343, 760 and 782 ad or, ten years earlier, according to François de Blois, ‘Du nouveau sur la chronologie bactrienne post-hellénistique: l’ère de 223–224 ap. J.-C.’, Compte rendus des séances de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres (April–June, 2006), pp. 991–907. My thanks to Kevin van Bladel for putting me on to this material. 43. Al-Bīrūnī, Taḥqīq mā li’l-Hind, ed. Eduard Sachau (London, 1887), p. 52; tr. Eduard Sachau as al-Beruni’s India (2nd ed., London, 1910), vol. 1, pp. 108f. 44. See the document drawn up in 343, above, note 42. 45. Narshakhī, Tārīkh-i Bukhārā, ed. Schefer, pp. 73f; ed. Raḍawī, pp. 103f; tr. Frye, pp. 75f. 46. Al-Shahrastānī, Kitāb al-Milal wa’l-niḥal, ed. William Cureton (London, 1842–1846), p. 115; French tr. Daniel Gimaret and Guy Monnot as Livre des religions et des sectes (Louvain and Paris, 1986), vol. 1, pp. 454f, with welljustified expression of puzzlement in note 121. 47. Cf. al-Nāshiʾ al-Akbar (attrib.), ‘Masāʾil al-imāma’, par. 48, in Joseph van Ess, ed., Frühe muʿtazilitische Häresiographie : zwei Werke des Nāšīʾ al-Akbar (gest. 293H) (Beirut, 1971), p. 32; al-Nawbakhtī, Firaq al-Shīʿa, p. 42. 48. Murtaḍā b. al-Dāʿī Ḥasanī Rāzī (attrib.), Tabṣirat al-ʿawāmm fī maʿrifat maqālāt al-ānām, ed. ʿAbbās Iqbāl (Tehran, 1313 Sh./1934), p. 179. 49. Madelung and Walker, An Ismaili Heresiography, p. 78 = 77: they permit bloodshed ‘only when they tie themselves to the banner of rebellion (rāyat al-khilāf ) and when they agree on going to war to seek revenge (ṭalab al-thaʾr) (III (a)); they have a chief ‘with whom they meet clandestinely (khafiyyan) and with whom they confer in secret (sirran)’; and ‘They do not rise in the morning except upon a promise of moving on this day (tawaʿʿud bi’l-ḥaraka min yawmihim) [and they do not enter the evening] except in anticipation of going out in the morrow (taraqqub li’l-khurūj fī ghaddihim) (III (b)). 50. Maqdisī, Badʾ, vol. 4, p. 31. 51. Maqdisī, Badʾ, vol. 6, p. 97. Note that at 98.1 he uses the word qālab, also used by Abū Tammām in III (b), for the shape in which al-Muqannaʿ will reappear. 52. In his account of the Khurramīs, al-Maqdisī merely says in more abstract terms that the Khurramīs hold all the messengers to come from the same spirit despite the different nature of their laws, clearly with reference to their sequence of widely spaced bringers of revelation, and that in their view reve-

Abū Tammām on the Mubayyiḍa

53.

54. 55. 56.

57.

58. 59. 60. 61.

62. 63.

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lation (al-waḥy) will never be cut off, perhaps meaning that it continues in their imams (Maqdisī, Badʾ, vol. 4, p. 30). Abu’l-Maʿālī, Bayān, p. 58. It looked much more meaningful before the discovery of Abū Tammām, cf. ʿAbbās Zaryāb Khuʾī, ‘Nukātī dar bāra-yi Muqannaʿ’, in Haftād maqāla: armaghān-i farhangī bih duktur Ghulam Ḥusayn Ṣadīqī, ed. Yaḥyā Mahdawī and Īraj Afshār (Tehran, 1369–1371 Sh./1990–1992), pp. 85f (my thanks to Masoud Jafari Jazi for drawing this article to my attention). Baghdādī, Farq, p. 243. Isfarāʾinī, Tabṣīr, p. 131. For the other shared information, see above, note 20. Al-Dīnawarī, al-Akhbār al-ṭiwāl, ed. Vladimir F. Guirgass (Leiden, 1888), p. 397; for this daughter of Abū Muslim’s, see al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, Taʾrīkh Baghdād (Cairo, 1931), vol. 10, p. 207 (where she is said to have died without descendants). Nāshiʾ, ‘Masāʾil al-imāma’, par. 52, in van Ess, Frühe muʿtazilitische Häresiographie, p. 35; cf. W. Madelung, ‘Frühe Muʿtazilitische Häresiographie: das Kitāb al-uṣūl des Ǧaʿfar b. Ḥarb?’, Der Islam, 57 (1980), pp. 220–236; repr. in his Religious Schools and Sects, article VI. Masʿūdī, Murūj, ed. Pellat, vol. 4, §2398; Paris ed., vol. 6, p. 187. Maqdisī, Badʾ, vol. 4, p. 31; cf. also vol. 6, p. 95. Niẓām al-Mulk, Siyar al-mulūk (Siyāsatnāme), ed. Hubert Darke (Tehran, 1364 Sh./1985), p. 320; tr. Hubert Darke (on the basis of his earlier edition), (London, 1960), p. 244 (ch. 47, §14). Dihkhudā in Kāshānī, Zubdat al-tawārīkh, bakhsh-i Fāṭimiyān wa-Nizāriyān, ed. Muḥammad Taqī Dānishpazhūh (2nd ed., Tehran, 1366 Sh./1987), pp. 187, 189; in Rashīd al-Dīn Ṭabīb, Jāmiʿ al-tawārīkh: qismat-i Ismāʿīlīyān wa-Fāṭimīyān wa Nizāriyān wa dāʿīyān wa rafīqān, ed. Muḥammad Taqī Dānishpazhūh and Mudarissī Zanjānī (Tehran, 1338 Sh./1959), pp. 150, 153 (cf. 151, where the Khurramīs are explicitly placed in Azarbayjan); cf. Madelung, Religious Trends, pp. 9f. Al-Nawbakhtī, Firaq al-Shīʿa, p. 62 (drawn to my attention by Michael Cook). See Warren Treadgold, The Byzantine Revival 780–842 (Stanford, CA, 1988), pp. 282f; Mohamed Rekaya, ‘Mise au point sur Théophobe et l’alliance de Bâbek avec Théophile’, Byzantion, 44 (1974), pp. 41–67; John Rosser, ‘Theophilus’ Khurramite Policy and its Finale’, Byzantina (1974), pp. 263–271; Salvatore Cosentino, ‘Iranian Contingents in Byzantine Army’, in La Persia e Bisanzio: convegno internationale (Roma, 14–18 ottobre 2002) (Rome, 2004), pp. 245–261.

7

The Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ: Between al-Kindī and al-Fārābī1 Abbas Hamdani

I The Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ,2 popularly translated as the Epistles of the Brethren of Purity, a celebrated early mediaeval Islamic encyclopaedia, has been the subject of research by modern scholars for the last two centuries, particularly in respect of its madhhab and its time of composition and authorship. Two dominant views among scholars have connected it either to the Muʿtazila or the Shiʿa of various denominations. G. Flügel (1859),3 F. Dieterici (1859 to 1872),4 S. Lane-Poole (1883),5 T. de Boer (1903),6 I. Goldziher (1910),7 A. Zakī (1928)8 and A. Awwa (1948)9 considered the Rasāʾil to be Muʿtazilī and composed by a group of authors contemporary with Abū Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīdī (ca. 320–414/932–1023) and mentioned by him in 373/983.10 The seventeenth-century historian of al-Andalus and North Africa, Shihāb al-Dīn al-Maqqarī, in his voluminous work Nafḥ al-ṭīb, reports that the great Andalusī mathematician, Abu’l-Ḥakam ʿUmar b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Kirmānī (d. 462/1070), visited the Sabian city of Ḥarrān and from there brought back with him copies of the Rasāʾil to Saragossa. Maqqarī’s translator, P. de Gayangos,11 says that it was actually Maslama b. Aḥmad al-Majrīṭī (d. sometime before 398/1008) who introduced the Rasāʾil to al-Andalus, basing himself on Hājjī Khalīfa’s entry for the year 395/1004.12 J. Ṣalība, who edited al-Risāla al-Jāmiʿa, also accepts the attribution of authorship of the Rasāʾil to Majrīṭī.13 Most of the scholars mentioned above have rejected this view. The introduction of the work in al-Andalus either by Majrīṭī or by Kirmānī does not prove authorship. In 1848 A. Sprenger described the Rasāʾil after seeing a manuscript of the work.14 He noted that Shahrazūrī had provided a brief mention15 189

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on the authorship which is a variation of the one given by Ibn al-Qifṭī,16 which in turn is derived from Abū Ḥayyān.17 The first modern author to notice an Ismaili tendency in the Brethren of Purity was S. Guyard (1874).18 P. Casanova confirmed this in 1898 by his discovery of al-Risāla al-Jāmiʿa and in 1915 by establishing the relationship of this Risāla to the main corpus of the Rasāʾil.19 Following the opening up of modern Ismaili studies in the 1930s, H. Hamdani pointed out in 1932 the acceptance of the Rasāʾil in the Fatimid Ṭayyibī daʿwa.20 S. M. Stern, in two articles (1946 and 1964), was in agreement as to the Rasāʾil’s Ismaili character, also accepting at the same time Abū Ḥayyān’s report about their authorship.21 There are other theories advanced by A. L. Tibawi and S. H. Nasr about the Rasāʾil’s Shiʿi Sufi character; by Suzanne Diwald about the work being just Sufi; by Z. Ali and W. Madelung, who consider it to be Qarmaṭī; and by I. R. Netton and L. E. Goodman who consider it just Neoplatonic and produced by an inter-religious brotherhood. A. Bausani and C. Baffioni emphasise the Neoplatonic roots of the Rasāʾil but admit its Ismaili persuasion. They have not addressed themselves to the time of the Rasāʾil’s composition, which by default means that they consider it a late tenth-century work.22 Y. Marquet, who devoted a lifetime to the study of the Rasāʾil, maintained its Fatimid connection, dating its composition over a long period – from about 290/903 to 370/980, considering volume 4 of the work to be pre-Fatimid and the other three volumes to have been written later at different times in the fourth/tenth century.23 In several of my own studies I have regarded the Rasāʾil as a manifesto of a secret society preparing an intellectual movement for the establishment of the Fatimid caliphate in 297/909, all of it written in the late third/ ninth century in the order in which it appears in its four volumes. Thus I have rejected Abū Ḥayyān’s supposed authors and the work’s late tenthcentury composition.24 Two scholars have now come closer to my point of view: Marquet, who in his last work thought that I might be right, but that I need to assemble all my studies in a comprehensive volume,25 and I. Poonawala, who, in a forthcoming article, rejects Abū Ḥayyān’s story and considers the Rasāʾil to be a pre-Fārābī work.26 II Before I make my case for placing the Rasāʾil between the time of the philosophers Abū Yūsuf Yaʿqūb b. Isḥāq al-Kindī (185–252/801–866) and

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Abū Naṣr Muḥammad b. Tarkhān al-Fārābī (Alfarabius or Avennasar, d. 339/950), I must state the methodology that I have adopted – placing the Rasāʾil within a certain time-layer of ideas in all the fields they cover. It is possible that a certain idea that belongs to an earlier period can be reported at a later time. However, if there is evidence that all the ideas in all the fields that the encyclopaedia covers – whether theology, philosophy, music, arithmetic, geometry, political theory and so on – belong to the earlier period of al-Kindī and his disciples and not to a later period of al-Fārābī, then we can conclude that the time-layer of the composition of the Rasāʾil belongs to an earlier and not to a later period. For example, if all the philosophical ideas expressed are of the period of al-Kindī and not of al-Fārābī, or all the theological ideas are of the period of the Muthbita (or ahl al-ithbāt) and not of Abu’l-Ḥasan al-Ashʿarī (d. 324/935–936), or the scientific or musical theories derived from Greek sources such as Pythagoras and Nichomachus are as stated by the translators, commentators and summarisers such as Ḥunayn b. Isḥāq (d. 260/873), Thābit b. Qurra (d. 289/901) or Ibn Khurdādhbih (d. 299/912) and not by the philosophers such as al-Fārābī and Ibn Sīnā (Avicenna, d. 429/1037), or if even the Persian verses27 cited belong to the pre-Firdawsī poets – the earliest ones such as Shahīd al-Balkhī (d. 315/927) and Rūdakī (d. 329/940), then an earlier time period is indicated as there is an earlier time-layer in all fields, i.e. the late third/ninth and not the late fourth/tenth century. In the limited space of this article, it is not possible to demonstrate this in all the fields, so I shall restrict myself here only to a discussion regarding philosophical theology and political theory. There is another consideration: being a secret revolutionary group, the authors of the Rasāʾil cloud their identity by purposely making apparently contradictory statements, although if we examine the totality of their thought, they are not contradictions at all. For example, there is a statement against the theologians (mutakallimūn) and yet they have a kalām of their own. What they are really opposed to is jadal (recriminatory debate).28 Sometimes they extol the number seven and yet they criticise the Seveners. What they mean is that in their concept of numerology there is an important place for the number seven, but they oppose the superstitious use of that number.29 When they criticise the philosophers, they are only referring to the pseudo-philosophers (mutafalsafīn), as they have a philosophy of their own.30 They praise the ahl al-bayt and ʿAlī and speak with emotion about ʿĪd Ghadīr al-Khumm and the ʿĪd al-muṣība (the tragedy of Karbalāʾ), and yet they have good words for al-Ṣiddīq, al-Fārūq and Dhu’l-Nūrayn (the first three caliphs), which is in keeping with their

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religious tolerance.31 A third consideration – that of the eclectic nature of their work – should be mentioned before we proceed with analysing their philosophical theology and political theory in order to place the Ikhwān’s thought in a proper context, and not be carried away by one aspect of their thinking or the other. The Epistles are written with an eclectic sweep of Pythagorean and Nichomachean arithmetic, numerology and music, Hermetic and Indo-Persian magic and astrology, Aristotelian physics and logic, Gnostic esotericism, Neoplatonic cosmology, theory of emanations and metaphysics, Biblical and Qurʾanic prophetology, Platonic concepts of law and leadership, and Buddhist, Zoroastrian and Manichaean wisdom and allegory. This synthesis, and the Ikhwān’s preference for a descendant of ʿAlī as the leader of the community indicate generally a Shiʿi and more particularly an Ismaili or Fatimid affiliation. They not only depend heavily on Qurʾanic verses and the stories of prophets (qiṣaṣ al-anbiyāʾ), but quote also from the Torah, the Psalms of David, from the Old and New Testaments, the Midrash and the Talmud; from Greek, Persian and Indian literature and have a great respect for Zoroaster, the Jewish Prophets and Jesus.32 Although they call themselves rabbāniyyūn, aḥbār and ḥunafāʾ, suggesting Jewish, Christian and Sabian sympathies, they at the same time declare that these are names applied to the Muslims: ‘These are [the names] of the community of our father Abraham and by them we refer to the Muslims from before [Islam]’ (wa hiya millatu abīnā Ibrāhīm wa-bihi sammānā al-muslimīna min qabl).33 III Let us now consider the Ihkwān’s philosophical theology.34 It is not my intention to compare all aspects of the Ihkwān’s theology and philosophy with all aspects of al-Kindī’s and al-Fārābī’s ideas or the ideas of other theologians. That is a task for a large volume. Here I shall restrict myself to such ideas that are relevant to the understanding of the Rasāʾil’s time of composition. The Ikhwān say that God knows things before He brings them from non-existence to existence ‘and this is the opinion of some old and some contemporary theologians’ (wa-hādhā raʾy baʿḍ al-qudamāʾ wa baʿḍ mutakallimī ahl hādhā’l-zamān).35 The reference is probably to a group of early Muʿtazilī scholars such as Abu’l-Hudhayl (d. 226/841). He forcefully asserted that God’s knowledge is identical to his essence.36 So did Abū Isḥāq Ibrāhīm al-Naẓẓām (d. 221/836) hold that ‘the meaning of the

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word “knowledge” is the affirmation of His essence (dhāt) and the denial of His ignorance’.37 According to Ibn Kullāb (d. 240/854), the essential attributes (ṣifāt al-dhāt) as distinguished from the active attributes (ṣifāt al-fiʿl) are not created. His formulation is ‘God is knowing by knowledge, powerful by power and living by life’.38 Probably the Ikhwān were referring to this group of Muʿtazilī thinkers of the mid-ninth century who are described by them as ‘some old and some contemporary theologians’ (baʿḍ al-qudamāʾ wa baʿḍ mutakallimī ahl hādhā’l-zamān). This statement would indicate the time of the Rasāʾil’s composition to be the middle to late ninth century. The Ikhwān reject the idea of the creation of the Qurʾan (khalq al-Qurʾān). They speak of ibdāʿ al-Qurʾān (the origination of the Qurʾan).39 They say that if by khalq al-Qurʾān is meant the recitation of its words and sounds, then the Qurʾan is created (makhlūq), but if these words and sounds are only the tools of expressing what is in ‘the meaning and the thoughts of souls’ (al-maʿānī allātī fī afkār al-nufūs), then the Qurʾan is not makhlūq.40 Compare this with the view of the Shiʿi theologian Hishām b. al-Ḥakam (d. 187/803) who considered the Qurʾan to be an essential attribute of God; hence not makhlūq, resembling the ibdāʿ of the Ihkwān;41 also with the opinion of Ḍirār b. ʿAmr (d. ca. 200/815) that the Qurʾan is a recitation by a person but originated by God.42 The Ihkwān state that because khalq is the creation of a thing from another thing (ījād al-shayʾ min shayʾ ākhir) and ibdāʿ is creation ex nihilo (ījād al-shayʾ min lā shayʾ), the Qurʾan is not makhlūq but mubdaʿ. Thus the Ihkwān imply a position on the Qurʾan’s origination by God unlike the Muʿtazilīs, but not quite in a later Ashʿarī manner. In a section entitled ‘On the question of predetermination’ (Faṣl fī masʾalat al-jabr),43 the Ihkwān define the terms predetermination (jabr) and human free will (qadr) and finally take a stand against both. The Ihkwān have this formulation: ‘The power that is created in the tongue of a speaker for speech is exactly the power with which he can remain silent’ (al-quwwa allatī juʿilat fī lisān al-mutakallim ʿalā’l-kalām fa-huwa bi-tilka’l-quwwa bi-ʿaynihā yaqdiru ʿalā’l-sukūt). Such a bestowal of power (iqdār) cannot be jabr, if with that very power he can do the opposite. This dual approach was typical of the Muthbita44 who served as a bridge that crossed from the complete free will of the Muʿtazilīs to the deterministic theory of acquisition (iktisāb) of Ashʿarī and his followers. This is also reflected in the typical Shiʿi formula ‘lā jabr wa-lā tafwīḍ’.45 The Ihkwān are close on this point to Hishām b. al-Ḥakam, who considered an act as both man’s choice (ikhtiyār) and God’s creation, because of

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the need of an additional efficient cause.46 Consider Ḍirār b. ʿAmr, according to whom there are two active agents to an action: God who creates it and man who acquires it, and that man’s capability (istiṭāʿ) for acting exists before the action and during it.47 It is actually on this question that Ḍirār parted company with the Muʿtazilīs;48 So also do the Ikhwān. Their Rasāʾil do not reflect any truly later theories such as the atomistic view of Nature as in Abu’l-Qāsim al-Balkhī, also known as al-Kaʿbī (d. 319/931), and Ashʿarī. No Ashʿarī ideas of the vision of God and God willing evil are found in the Rasāʾil. As for the Ashʿarī notion of iktisāb, the Ikhwān do not have it for two reasons: Ashʿarī iktisāb is a human will which is itself predestined and in every separate action it represents an act of God, whereas for the Ikhwān human will is initially granted by God, but is free to achieve a purpose opposite to the one for which it was granted. The second reason is that the Ikhwān are unaware of the technical meaning of the term iktisāb as it came to be understood in the Ashʿarī school. To the Ikhwān, iktisāb represents the orders derived from the Namus (Lawgiver), comprised of five categories: (i) science and knowledge, (ii) morals and manners, (iii) ideas and beliefs, (iv) sayings and propositions, and (v) actions and movements.49 Ideologically the Ikhwān cannot be placed after the time of the Ashʿarī school. In a section on the Divine Decree (al-qadāʾ wa’l-qadar) in al-Risāla al-Jāmiʿa, the Ihkwān state that God’s iqdār to man is not the cause of evil, but is the process of emanation (inbiʿāth) from the Creator (Mubdiʿ) to the Intellect (ʿaql) – then from the Intellect to the Soul (nafs), then from the Soul to Nature (ṭabīʿa) – which creates a distance from God that gives rise to evil, and man’s only recourse is to ascend (yaraqqi) towards God in order to remove his evil.50 This progression is typically the Ismaili theme of ‘beginning and return’ (al-mabdaʾ wa’l-maʿād), repeated in early and later Ismaili writings. In a section on philosophical views, the Ihkwān say that these are of two kinds: ‘of an eternal world (dahriyya51 azaliyya), and a created, caused world (muḥdatha muʿallala)’, and add: We say: Know that the other philosophical views and their teachings grew out of these two. Let us begin with the Dahriyya52 by saying: These were the people (aqwām) who had a certain amount of understanding and discrimination. They examined particular existents which are subject to sense perceptions. They contemplated them and considered their condition and found four causes for every created object (masnūʿ) – the material cause (ʿilla hayūlāniyya), the formal cause (ʿilla ṣūriyya), the efficient

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cause (ʿilla fāʿiliyya) and the final cause (ʿilla tamāmiyya). When they pondered the creation of the world, they sought in it these four causes. They investigated them thus: Who made it? From what was it made? How was it made? Why was it made? And also when was it made? This they could not understand. They could not conceive it, as their souls (or minds, nufūs) fell short of understanding the subtlety of its meaning.53

The Ihkwān’s terminology for four causes (material, formal, efficient and final) is taken entirely from the terminology of al-Kindī’s Rasāʾil54 or from a source common to both.55 The Ihkwān also share with al-Kindī the doctrines of the origination and destruction of the world by God, the resurrection and the validity of the Prophetic revelation, all general Islamic doctrines imbedded in their philosophic thinking.56 This is an indication that the composition of the Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ took place near al-Kindī’s time. The following words of de Boer are apt in this connection: ‘Quotations in the Rasāʾil, as far as they have been identified, are mainly taken from the literature of the eighth and ninth centuries ad. The philosophical position is that of the older eclectic translators and collectors of Greek, Persian and Indian wisdom. … It is not impossible, however, that they had literary connections with al-Kindī and his school.’ 57 De Boer also studied this school,58 which included such people as Aḥmad b. Muḥammad al-Ṭayyib al-Sarakhsī (d. 286/899) and Abū Maʿshar Jaʿfar b. Muḥammad al-Balkhī (d. 272/885). Let us now consider these disciples of al-Kindī. A well-known work on logic in mediaeval Europe, Liber Introductorius in artem logicae demonstrationis, collectus a Mahometh discipulo Alquindi philosophi, by an anonymous translator from Arabic into Latin, was edited by Albino Nagy in 1897.59 Nagy interpreted the reference to this Mahometh, ‘the disciple of the philosopher al-Kindī’, in the title of the work as a reference to al-Fārābī, given that his first name was Muḥammad. Nagy based his opinion on Ibn Rushd’s mention of the Book of Demonstration by ‘Abunazar’ (Abu’l-Naṣr, i.e. al-Fārābī).60 However, the Liber Introductorius has in fact been shown to be a verbatim translation of the Ikhwān’s Epistle ‘On the Second Analytic on Logic’ (Fī Anūlūṭīqā al-thāniya fi’l-manṭiq).61 It also contains a brief passage on music (vol. 1, pp. 431.17–23) that is crossreferenced in a chapter ‘On the principles and rules of melodies’ (Fī uṣūl al-alḥān wa qaqanīnihā) in the Epistle ‘On Music’ (vol. 1, pp. 196.ult-197.1– 5).62 This passage was discussed by the famous specialist in Arabian music H. G. Farmer, who gave a new twist to the authorship of the passage of the Rasāʾil.63 According to him, ‘Mahometh, disciple of al-Kindī,’ was not al-Fārābī as claimed by Nagy, but was Abū Sulaymān Muḥammad b.

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Maʿshar al-Bustī al-Maqdisī, a contemporary of Abū Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīdī (d. 414/1023) and allegedly identified by the latter as one of the authors of the Rasāʾil. But the snag in both Nagy’s and Farmer’s theories is the time. There was a period of about eighty years between the time of al-Kindī (d. 252/866) and that of al-Fārābī (d. 339/950) or Maqdisī (even later). Even if we allow a certain overlap, there would still be a whole generation in between them. Neither al-Fārābī nor Maqdisī could have been a disciple of al-Kindī, unless we interpret the matter purely intellectually; but this does not seem to be the case. De Boer, writing as early as 1900, was on the right track when he pointed out that the only actual disciple of al-Kindī who had written about the Second Analytic was al-Sarakhsī (d. 286/899). De Boer, however, adds: ‘But he is called Ahmad b. Muhammad; but it is not impossible that the Latin translator made him into Mahometh.’ 64 If this is the case, then the authors of the Rasāʾil would have been active very close to the time of al-Kindī’s disciples. Let us now turn to the other disciple of al-Kindī, Abū Maʿshar al-Balkhī (d. 272/885).65 The authors of the Rasāʾil only cite the ancient writers or early Arab poets by name. No contemporary individual is named, except that there is a reference to ‘Abū Maʿshar al-Munajjim’. Mentioning him, the Ikhwān say: ‘thumma qad ḥakā Abū Maʿshar Jaʿ far b. Muḥammad al-Munajjim, qāla fī Kitāb Mudhākaratihi li-Shādib b. Baḥr’.66 If we read this sentence as, ‘then Abū Maʿshar Jaʿfar b. Muḥammad, the astronomer, related (ḥakā) [to us] what he said (qāla) in his diary about Shādib b. Baḥr’, it would mean that the Ikhwān were contemporaries of Abū Maʿshar who died in 272/885. Further, there was a Jewish philosopher and medical man living at the time of the disciples of al-Kindī and much influenced by him: Abū Yaʿqūb Isḥāq b. Sulaymān al-Isrāʾīlī (Isaac Israeli), a native of Egypt. He began as an oculist, then emigrated to Qayrawān, where he became a companion of the physician Isḥāq b. ʿImrān (d. 295/908) in the court of the Aghlabid amir Ziyādat Allāh III (r. 290–296/903–909); he later became a physician in the court of the first Fatimid imam-caliph ʿAbd Allāh al-Mahdī (r. 297–322/909–934) and died ca. 343/955 at an extremely advanced age, being over a hundred years old.67 Writing about him, S. M. Stern says: ‘One would like to know the way in which Israeli acquired his knowledge of al-Kindī’s philosophy. Was it through the perusal of al-Kindī’s works, or more likely through personal contact with some of al-Kindī’s disciples, we cannot say.’ 68 The last two chapters of Stern’s work (‘The Role of Philosophy’ and ‘The Role of Prophecy’) are replete with quotations from the Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ, showing the similarity of Isaac Israeli’s

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thought to that of the Ikhwān. Both define philosophy as knowing oneself (man is a microcosm of the Universe, which is the macrocosm). Both use the terms ikhtirāʿ and ibdāʿ as synonyms for ‘origination’; both define corporeal substance (jism muṭlaq) in the same way; both have in common with al-Kindī the three stages of the soul’s ascent (taʾthīr, ināra and ilhām); both have the same concept of the ascent of the soul to higher existence (heaven) or the descent of the soul into base matter (hell); both consider the souls of philosophers similar to the souls of the prophets. Both consider philosophy an ‘assimilation’ to the Creator,69 and so on. Having followed Abū Ḥayyān’s story about the Ikhwān and having considered their Rasāʾil a late tenth-century work, Stern cannot concede the possibility of Isaac Israeli having been influenced by the Ikhwān. So he has to say about the Ikhwān that ‘though later than Israeli, they may be justifiably used for an elucidation of his thought, seeing that they drew on many Neoplatonic texts which were in circulation in his own period. In fact, they are nearest to Israeli as far as their spiritual outlook is concerned.’ 70 In rejecting the Ikhwān as a source for Isaac Israeli, Stern needed to explain where the latter derived his ideas from, so he studied a thirteenthcentury scholar, Abraham Ibn Ḥasday (d. 638/1240), and came up with the theory that the similarity between the thinking of Ibn Ḥasday and Isaac Israeli was due to the fact that they both drew on an unknown early Neoplatonic scholar whom he called ‘Ibn Ḥasday’s Neoplatonist’ (Stern’s construct).71 The book in question is Ibn Ḥasday’s The Prince and the Ascetic, a Hebrew adaptation of the Arabic book Bilawhar wa Budhāsaf, a Buddhist Sanskrit tale that had been translated to Arabic via middlePersian, then translated into Greek and Latin and eventually into other European languages. The lecture given by the ascetic to the prince is based on the Neoplatonic version of the journey of the soul after death, as found in the longer version of the ‘Theology’ of Aristotle. Isaac Israeli’s version, we are told, is similar to Ibn Ḥasday’s and both, we are told, have derived it from an early unknown Neoplatonic writer. The argument becomes further convoluted when we are told that if in one respect Isaac Israeli draws from this Neoplatonist, then in other matters too he must have drawn from him.72 What is implied is that all the similarities in the thinking of Isaac Israeli and the Ikhwān are due to that unknown Neoplatonist. Therefore Isaac Israeli owes nothing directly to the Ikhwān. Incidentally, the Rasāʾil contain two explicit references to Bilawhar and four passages from the story.73 Coming to the later time of Abū Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīdī, we find that in

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his work Kitāb al-Imtāʿ wa’l-muʾānasa, where the alleged authors of the Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ are mentioned, there is also a dialogue between a Zoroastrian and a Jew, reported directly to Abū Ḥayyān by the Qāḍī al-Zanjānī (one of the authors of the Rasāʾil according to Abū Ḥayyān).74 This report is found verbatim in the Rasāʾil.75 Stern’s conclusion76 is that: (a) Abū Ḥayyān was personally acquainted with Zanjānī, and (b) Zanjānī was one of the authors of the Rasāʾil. The first part of his conclusion is possible because there is a direct report of Zanjānī to Abū Ḥayyān (‘he told me’, ḥaddathanī). The second part is not correct. Stern explains that Zanjānī, in his long verbal report, was refreshing his memory from a manuscript copy of his own work, namely the Rasāʾil. To relate word for word a three-page written story is not possible. It only proves that the Rasāʾil already existed; Abū Ḥayyān picked up a story from it and connected it to Zanjānī. Abū Ḥayyān was not above the art of fabrication. We know of his having fabricated the message of Abū Bakr to ʿAlī which was taken from Abū Ḥayyān and copied by Ibn Abi’l-Ḥadīd in his Sharḥ Nahj al-balāgha.77 Ibn Abi’l-Ḥadīd later exposed Abū Ḥayyān’s tendency to fabricate in his Sharh, which, he says, is also evident in Abū Ḥayyān’s Kitāb al-Baṣāʾir.78 Leaving the Ikhwān’s proximity to al-Kindī, I would now like to consider their distance from al-Fārābī (d. 338/950) in respect to two distinct topics, namely the question of the ten Intelligences and the qualifications of the ideal ruler, which are the only two aspects of their general philosophical structure that are relevant to the controversy of the Rasāʾil’s time of composition. 79 A very important contribution of al-Fārābī to Muslim thought is the introduction of the Neoplatonic theory of several intelligences (al-ʿuqūl al-ʿashira) or the secondary existents (al-mawjūdāt al-thawānī) emanating from the One. In his Kitāb al-Siyāsa al-madaniyya, the description of these ʿuqūl is dispersed. 80 In another of his works, Kitāb al-Ḥurūf, al-Fārābī states the interrelationship of the ‘secondary intelligibles’ (al-maʿqūlāt al-thawānī) without enumerating them. 81 But the clearest statement of the ten intelligences is contained in his al-Madīna al-fāḍila.82 Al-Fārābī’s works were written around 330–333/941–944. So far as we know, al-Fārābī was the first Muslim philosopher to use the theory of ten intelligences. In Fatimid literature, it was first adopted by the dāʿī Ḥamīd al-Dīn al-Kirmānī (d. ca. 411/1020) in his Kitāb Rāḥat al-ʿaql,83 of course with variations. After Kirmāni, the theory was continuously used in Fatimid doctrinal and philosophical (ḥaqāʾiq) literature. When a systematisation of the emanations from the Creator different from Kirmānī’s and

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al-Fārābī’s is found in an Ismaili work, that work can safely be dated to the period before these authors, as is the case with the Rasāʾil. The cosmological hierarchy of the Rasāʾil is also totally different.84 The likelihood of the Rasāʾil’s composition being prior to al-Fārābī’s works, therefore, is highly accentuated. The top three levels of the hierarchy as given by the Ikhwān – the Creator, the Intellect and the Soul – are common among the earliest Fatimid authors, such as Muḥammad al-Nasafī and Abū Yaʿqūb al-Sijistānī.85 Coming now to the qualifications of the ‘First’ Ruler or the imam, we find them enumerated in al-Fārābī’s al-Madīna al-fāḍila, thus:86 1. Soundness of body and its limbs, which facilitates work. 2. Soundness of understanding and imagination that can grasp quickly what is said. 3. Good memory, which retains what is heard without forgetting anything. 4. Sharpness of nature and intelligence that grasps the correct meaning of an argument. 5. Good expression and clear utterance. 6. Love of knowledge and its ready acceptance. 7. Avoidance of appetites in food, drink and sex; avoidance of the vices and pleasures attendant on these appetites. 8. Love of truth and the truthful; abhorrence of falsehood and the false. 9. Largeness of heart, love of generosity and disposition towards high aspiration. 10. Absence of craving for money and all that it involves. 11. Natural love of justice and the just; natural repugnance of injustice and oppression and of the unjust and the oppressor. 12. Determination and boldness without fear and faint-heartedness. We find the same list of qualifications in the Rasāʾil.87 Even the number, order and substance of this list are the same in the Rasāʾil and the Madīna. The only difference is the interchange of the seventh and eighth qualifications and a slightly elaborated wording in the Rasāʾil and a pithy expression in the Madīna. This remarkable identity led R. Walzer to speak of al-Fārābī’s ‘impact’ upon the Rasāʾil 88 and has led S. Pines to accuse the Ikhwān of plagiarising al-Fārābī.89 That accusation would hold true only if we were to assume that the Rasāʾil were written after al-Fārābī’s Madīna. Yves Marquet on the other hand thinks that the similarity is caused by a common oral source.90 An oral source, however, would not explain such a

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similarity of presentation. My contention is that the Ikhwān and al-Fārābī must have used a common written source, probably Plato’s Republic91 as commented upon by Ḥunayn b. Isḥāq (d. 260/873). We have evidence for the fact that Ḥunayn did write such a commentary in the Fihrist of Ibn al-Nadīm (d. 380/991).92 It is probable that Ḥunayn’s commentary was based on the commentary composed by Galen.93 It is noteworthy that the Ikhwān make several references to Plato in their Rasāʾil.94 In the absence of Ḥunayn’s complete work, we have, however, collateral evidence in the form of a commentary on Plato’s Republic by the famous philosopher Abu’l-Walīd Muḥammad b. Aḥmad Ibn Rushd (d. 595/1198), known as Averroes, which tends to follow the systematisation of al-Fārābī and the Ikhwān and, in turn, probably of Ḥunayn with slight variations.95 It is worthwhile comparing the qualifications of the Ideal Ruler as given by the Ikhwān, al-Fārābī and Ibn Rushd with the ones in Plato’s original work as follows: The qualifications of the Ideal ruler according to al-Fārābī, the Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ, Ibn Rushd and Plato’s Republic al-Fārābī (variations in the Rasāʾil noted)

Ibn Rushd

no. 1 no. 2 no. 3 no. 4 no. 5 — no. 6 no. 7 (no. 8 in the Rasāʾil) no. 8 (no. 7 in the Rasāʾil) no. 9 no. 10 no. 11 no. 12

no. 11 no. 1 no. 2 no. 10 — no. 12 no. 3 no. 5 no. 4 no. 7 no. 6 no. 9 no. 8

Plato’s Republic (Jowett’s translation; Stephanus’ pagination) — [no. 1] 485 ab [no. 4] 485 cd [no. 9] 487c, 488 — [no. 10] 487 de [no. 2] 485 b [no. 5] 485 d [no. 3] 485 c — [no. 6] 485 e [no. 8] 487 a [no. 7] 486 b

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Al-Fārābī’s and the Ikhwān’s nos 4 and 5 seem to be combined in Ibn Rushd’s no. 10 and are not found in Plato. To offset this combination, Ibn Rushd adds two qualifications which are not in al-Fārābī and the Ikhwān but are present in Plato, namely ‘perfection of philosophy under the philosopher-king’ (487 de) and ‘wisdom’ (487 c, 488). It is interesting to note that while paraphrasing and rearranging Plato’s ten qualifications, all the three Muslim sources come up with a total of twelve qualifications. One can assume the dependence of all these three Muslim sources on a common Arabic paraphrase of the Republic, most probably that of Ḥunayn b. Isḥāq. It must be mentioned here that Ḥunayn was the Ikhwān’s source in other fields, too, such as music.96 In conclusion, I maintain that the Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ, both from the point of view of the time-layer of ideas and from specific internal references, belong to the late third/ninth century, more specifically between 260/873, when the last Twelver Shiʿi imam disappeared creating Messianic expectations, and 297/909, when the Fatimid caliphate was established in fulfilment of those expectations. That was the time of al-Kindī’s school. They do not belong to the post-Fārābī period, as asserted by Abū Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīdī (the only source) by falsely naming the heretics of Baṣra as the authors of the work. What he was trying to do was to malign Zayd b. Rifāʿa, a courtier of Ibn Saʿdān, the vizier of the Buyid amir Ṣamṣam al-Dawla (r. 372–376/983–987), with heresy by associating him with certain known men of Baṣra and proving their heresy by saying that they had composed that heretical work, the Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ, which had already been around for a very long time. What lent credence to Abū Ḥayyān’s story was the fact that the Ikhwān kept their identity secret. I maintain that this secrecy was because they constituted a secret thinktank for propagating the overthrow of the ‘people of evil’ (ahl al-sharr), i.e. the ʿAbbasid caliphate, and bringing in the rule of the ‘people of goodness’ (ahl al-khayr), i.e. the establishment of the Fatimid caliphate.97 There is plenty of internal evidence for this, but this is not the occasion to expound it here in detail. The period of eighty years between the death of al-Kindī in 257/870 and al-Fārābī in 338/950, particularly the earlier part of it, saw intense activity by Ismaili dāʿīs and their fellow travellers, both Shiʿi and tafḍīlī Sunnis (those who accepted the first three caliphs but believed that ʿAlī would have been preferable as a leader), to establish an ʿAlid caliphate, and the Ikhwān were a part of that movement.98

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1.

2.

This is a revised and expanded version of a paper given at the 218th Meeting of the American Oriental Society at Chicago on 15 March 2008. I dedicate it to Yves Marquet (d. 2006), who devoted a lifetime to the study of the Rasāʾil. I am grateful to my friends and colleagues: Paul Walker for having given me several leads in an earlier partial draft of this paper, Charles Butterworth for drawing my attention to Ibn Rushd’s qualifications of the ideal ruler, Carlos Galvao-Sobrinho for translations from Latin and to the editor of this volume, Omar Alí-de-Unzaga, for many additions he made to my notes. The first piece of the Rasāʾil to be printed was the Hebrew translation of the Debate between Man and the Animals by Qalonymos ben Qalonymos (d. after 1328) entitled Igeret Baʿale Ḥayim, first published in Mantua in 1557, and then republished many times and translated into Judeo-German, JudeoSpanish, German and finally English. In the nineteenth century, editorial and translation work of the Rasāʾil began with (a) Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ. Tarjumah tuḥfah-i Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ an Urdu translation of the Epistle ‘On Animals’ by Ikrām ʿAlī (Calcutta, 1810), with a second ed. revised later by Duncan Forbes and Charles Rieu (London, 1861); (b) the same epistle was edited as Tuhfat Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ by Shaykh Aḥmad b. Muḥammad al-Yamanī with an English preface by Thomas Truebody Thomason (Calcutta, 1812); this edition was analysed later by Karl Nauwerk, Notiz über des arabische Buch: Tuḥfat Ikhwân al-Ṣafāʾ, d.h. gabe der aufrichtigen Freunde nebts Proben desselben, arabisch und deutsch (Berlin, 1837), repr. in Fuat Sezgin et al., Rasāʾil Ikhwān aṣ-Ṣafāʾ wa-khullān al-wafāʾ (2nd half 4th/10th cent.): Texts and Studies (Frankfurt am Main, 1999), vol. 1, pp. 35–192; (c) Volume 1 of the Rasāʾil was edited by Shaykh ʿAlī Yūsuf (Cairo, 1306/1888) with an introduction based on Ibn al-Qiftī’s account, which in turn was based on Abū Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīdī, without acknowledgement; (d) the first complete edition was Kitāb Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ wa khullān al-wafāʾ, ed. Nūr al-Dīn Jīwā Khān (Bombay, 1888). The work bears the author’s name as Imam Aḥmad b. ʿAbd Allāh, one of the hidden Ismaili imams of the pre-Fatimid period; (e) Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ, ed. Khayr al-Dīn al-Ziriklī (Cairo, 1928), with two separate introductions by Ṭāhā Ḥusayn and Aḥmad Zakī Bāshā; (f) Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ, ed. Buṭrus al-Bustānī (Beirut, 1957). In this article volume and page numbers are from this edition, referred to as Rasāʾil; (g) Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ, ed. Ārif Tāmir (Beirut, 1995), 5 vols. The fifth volume contains the texts of the separate concluding epistle; (h) al-Risāla al-Jāmiʿa, which had been written alongside the main corpus of the encyclopaedia, but not as a part of it; and (i) a Risālat Jāmiʿat al-Jāmiʿa, a much later summary found in Syrian Nizārī collections; (j) the Jāmiʿat al-Jāmiʿa had been previously edited by Tāmir separately with an introduction (Beirut, 1959); al-Risāla al-Jāmiʿa was also edited by (k) Jamīl Ṣalība, al-Risāla al-Jāmiʿa al-mansūba li’l-ḥakīm al-Majrīṭī, wa hiya tāj Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ wa khullān al-wafāʾ (Damascus, 1949–1951), who considered the attribution of

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this work to al-Majrīṭī valid; and by (l) Muṣṭafā Ghālib as al-Risāla al-Jāmiʿa: Tāj Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ wa khullān al-wafāʾ: taʾlīf al-imām al-mustawdaʿ Aḥmad b. ʿAbd Allāh b. Muḥammad b. Ismāʿīl b. Jaʿ far al-Ṣādiq (Beirut, 1974); (m) an annotated edition in German translation of the third volume of the Rasāʾil was made by Suzanne Diwald, entitled Arabische Philosophie und Wissenschaft in der Enzyklopädie Kitāb Iḫwān aṣ-ṣafāʾ (III): Die Lehre von Seele und Intellekt (Wiesbaden, 1975). There exists only a small concordance of the titles of the 52 Rasāʾil and their page numbers in the Bombay, Cairo and Beirut editions along with an index of poetical references by David R. Blumenthal, ‘A Comparative Table of the Bombay, Cairo and Beirut Editions of the Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ’, Arabica, 21, ii (1974), pp. 186–203. None of the complete editions are fully collated, annotated and translated with proper indexes. A complete Arabic critical edition and English translation in the ‘Epistles of the Brethren of Purity Series’ is being published by The Institute of Ismaili Studies, London, in association with Oxford University Press, with multiple contributions by editors and translators. In future, references to the Rasāʾil would have to be made to this edition. The volumes published so far are: On Music (Epistle 5), ed. and tr. Owen Wright (Oxford, 2010); On Logic (Epistles 10–14), ed. and tr. Carmela Baffioni (Oxford, 2010); and The Case of the Animals versus Man Before the King of the Jinn (Epistle 22), ed. and tr. Lenn E. Goodman and Richard McGregor (Oxford, 2010). 3. Gustav Flügel, ‘Über Inhalt und Verfasser der arabischen Enzyclopädie’, Rasâʾil Ikhwân aṣ-ṣafâʾ’, Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft, 13 (1859), pp. 1–43. 4. Friedrich Dieterici, Die Abhandlungen der Ichwân es-safâ in Auswahl zum ersten mal aus arabischen Handschriften herausgegeben [=Khulāṣat al-wafāʾ bi’khtiṣār Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ] (Leipzig, 1883–1886; repr. Hildesheim, 1969). 5. Stanley Lane-Poole, chapter on ‘The Brotherhood of Purity’ in his Studies in a Mosque (Cairo, 1883; repr. Lahore, 1960). 6. Tjitze J. de Boer, The History of Philosophy in Islam (London, 1903; repr. New York, 1967), pp. 81–96; and his article ‘Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ’, EI. 7. Ignaz Goldziher, ‘Über die Benennung der “Ichwan al-Ṣafāʾ”’, Der Islam, 1 (1910), pp. 22–26; repr. in Sezgin et al., Rasāʾil Ikhwān aṣ-Ṣafāʾ, vol. 2, pp. 122–126. 8. Ahmad Zakī, ‘Faṣl fī Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-ṣafāʾ’, in Aḥmad Zakī, Mawḍūʿāt al-ʿulūm al-ʿArabiyya wa baḥth ʿalā Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-ṣafāʾ (Būlāq, 1889/1308; repr. Cairo, 1983); repr. in Rasāʾil, ed. Ziriklī, vol. 1, pp. 17–44. 9. Adel Awwa, L’esprit critique des “Frêres de la Pureté”: encyclopédistes arabes du IV/X siècles (Beirut, 1948). 10. Abū Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīdī, Kitāb al-Imtāʿ wa’l-muʾānasa, ed. Aḥmad Amīn and Aḥmad Zayn (Beirut, 1939–1944; 2nd ed., Beirut, 1953), 3 vols in one;

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contains at the end two lists of observations and criticisms by Mustafa Jawad and Paul Kraus. The authors mentioned by Abū Ḥayyān are: Abū Sulaymān Muḥammad b. Maʿshar al-Bustī, known as al-Maqdisī Abu’l-Ḥasan ʿAlī b. Hārūn al-Zanjānī Abū Aḥmad al-Nahrajūrī, and al-ʿAwfī (or al-ʿAwqī). These, according to him, are the heretics of Baṣra, and a courtier of the Buyid vizier Abū ʿAbd Allāh Ibn Saʿdān (r. 372–375/983–985), Zayd b. Rifāʿa, was associated with them. For further details on these individuals, see Samuel M. Stern, ‘The Authorship of the Epistles of the Ikhwān aṣ-Ṣafāʾ’, Islamic Culture, 20, iv (1946), pp. 367–372; idem, ‘Additional Notes to the Article: “The authorship of the Epistles of the Ikhwān-aṣ-Ṣafā”’, Islamic Culture, 21, iv (1947), pp. 403–404; and idem, ‘New Information about the Authors of the “Epistles of the Sincere Brethren”’, Islamic Studies, 3, iv (1964), pp. 405–428. In several of my own studies mentioned in note 24, I have not accepted the report of Abū Ḥayyān, which I maintain is tendentious – meant to malign Zayd b. Rifāʿa by stating that he is associated with the known heretics of Baṣra, whose heresy is proved by their authorship of a known heretical work, the Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ. Those modern scholars who accept Abū Ḥayyān’s story, the so-called ‘textual evidence’, have the burden of two centuries of scholarly opinion without investigation, and it is difficult for them to shake off that burden. As will be noted in this article, the authorship was a well-guarded secret and will never be known, but the time of the composition of the Rasāʾil can be deduced from internal evidence to the late ninth century, approximately a century before what Abū Ḥayyān would have us believe. 11. Pascual de Gayangos, tr., The History of the Muhammadan Dynasties in Spain, Extracted from the Nafhu-t-tíb min ghosni-l-andalusi-r-rattíb wa Táríkh Lisánu-d-dín Ibni-l-Khattíb (London, 1840–1843), pp. 427–429. 12. Ḥājjī Khalīfa (Kâtip Çelebi), Kashf al-Ẓunūn ʿan asam al-kutub wa’lfunūn, ed. Muḥammad Sharaf al-Dīn Yaltaqaya and Rifʿat Bilgah al-Kilisī (Istanbul, 1941–1943), vol. 1, pp. 843, 925. 13. Judging by the title: Jamīl Ṣalība, ed., al-Risāla al-Jāmiʿa al-mansūba li’lḥakīm al-Majrīṭī. 14. Aloys Sprenger, ‘Notices of Some Copies of the Arabic Work Entitled Rasáyil Ikhwán al-Çafâʾ’, Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal, 17 (1848), pp. 501–507; (1848), pp. 183–202. 15. Shams al-Dīn Muḥammad b. Maḥmūd al-Shahrazūrī (eighth/fourteenth century), Nuzhat al-arwāḥ wa rawḍat al-afrāḥ fī taʾrīkh al-ḥukamāʾ wa’lfalāsifa [usually known as Taʾrīkh al-Ḥukama], ed. Sayyid Khūrshīd Aḥmad (Hyderabad, Deccan, 1367/1937), vol. 2, p. 20. 16. ʿAlī b. Yūsuf Ibn al-Qiftī (d. 642/1244), Taʾrīkh al-ḥukamāʾ, ed. Julius Lippert (Baghdad and Leipzig, 1903), pp. 82–88.

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17. There are several good studies on the author, the best being by Marc Bergé, Essai sur la personnalité morale et intellectuelle d’Abū Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīdī (Paris, 1974) which is also the most exhaustive. 18. Stanislas Guyard, ed. and tr., ‘Fragments relatifs à la doctrine des Ismaélîs’, Notices et extraits des manuscrits, 22 (Paris, 1874), pp. 177–428; also published separately in Paris, 1874. 19. Paul Casanova, ‘Notice sur un manuscript de la secte des Assassins’, Journal Asiatique, 9th series, 11 (1898), pp. 151, 159 and ‘Une date astronomique dans les Épîtres des Ikhwān as Ṣafa’, Journal Asiatique (1915), pp. 5–17. 20. Husayn F. al-Hamdānī, ‘Rasāʾil Ikhwān aṣ-Ṣafāʾ in the Literature of the Ismāʿīli Ṭayyibī Daʿwat’, Der Islam, 20 (1932), pp. 281–300, revised in his Bahth taʾrīkhī fi Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ wa ʿaqāʾid al-Ismāʿīliyya fīhā (Bombay, 1935); both repr. in Sezgin et al., Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ, vol. 2, pp. 129–148; also repr. Maʿdīkarib al-Hamdānī (Ṣanʿāʾ, n.d.). 21. For Stern’s two articles, see note 10. 22. See Abdul Latif Tibawi, ‘Ikhwān aṣ-Ṣafāʾ and their Rasāʾil: A Critical Review of a Century and a Half of Research’, Islamic Quarterly, 2 (1955), pp. 28–46; Seyyed Hossein Nasr, An Introduction to Islamic Cosmological Doctrines: Conceptions of Nature and Methods used for its Study by the Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ, al-Bīrūnī and Ibn Sīnā (Cambridge, MA, 1964; 2nd revised ed. London, 1978; 3rd revised ed., Albany, NY, 1993); Susanne Diwald, Arabische Philosophie und Wissenschaft in der Enzyklopädie Kitāb Iḫwān as-ṣafaʾ (III): Die Lehre von Seele und Intellekt (Wiesbaden, 1975); Alessandro Bausani, ‘Scientific Elements in Ismāʿīlī Thought: The Epistles of the Brethren of Purity’, in Seyyed Ḥossein Nasr, ed., Ismāʿīlī Contributions to Islamic Culture (Tehran, 1977), pp. 123–140; Carmela Baffioni has innumerable studies on the Rasāʾil, but the two relevant ones for this article are: ‘Al-Madīnah al-Fāḍilah in al-Fārābī and in the Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ: A Comparison’, in Stefan Leder, ed., with Hilary Kilpatrick, Bernadette Martel-Thoumian and Hannelore Schönig. Studies in Arabic and Islam. Proceedings of the 19th Congress, Union européene des arabisants et islamisants, Halle 1998 (Leuven, 2002), pp. 3–12 and ‘Gli Iḫwan al-Ṣafāʾ e la filosofia del kalam’, Annali dell’Istituto Universitario Orientale di Napoli, 54 (1994), pp. 464–478; Zāhid ʿAlī, Taʾrīkh-i-Fāṭimiyyīn-Miṣr (in Urdu) (Hyderabad [Deccan], 1948); Wilferd Madelung, ‘Ḳarmaṭī’, EI2 , vol. 4, pp. 660–665; Ian R. Netton, Muslim Neoplatonists: An Introduction to the Thought of the Brethren of Purity (London, 1982; 2nd. ed. Edinburgh, 1991; repr. London, 2002) and Lenn E. Goodman, The Case of the Animals versus Man before the King of the Jinn: A Tenth-Century Ecological Fable of the Pure Brethren of Basra (Boston, MA, 1978). 23. Yves Marquet, ‘Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ’, EI2, vol. 3, p. 1071; La philosophie des Iḫwān al-Ṣafāʾ (Algiers, 1973; revised ed., Paris and Milan, 1999); ‘Iḫwān al-Ṣafāʾ, Ismaïliens et Qarmaṭes’, Arabica, 24 (1977), pp. 233–257, and ‘910 en Ifrîqiyā: un épître des Iḫwān as-Ṣafāʾ’, Bulletin d’Études Orientales, 30

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(1978), pp. 61–73. See also note 25. 24. Abbas Hamdani, ‘Abu Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīdī and the Brethren of Purity’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 9 (1978), pp. 345–353; ‘An Early Fatimid Source on the Time and Authorship of the Rasāʾil Iḫwān al-Ṣafāʾ’, Arabica, 26, i (1979), pp. 62–75; ‘The Arrangement of the Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ and the Problem of Interpolations’, Journal of Semitic Studies, 29, i (1984), pp. 97–110 (revised repr. in El-Bizri, ed. The Epistles of the Brethren of Purity, pp. 83–100); ‘Time According to the Brethren of Purity’, Alif (Journal of Comparative Politics), 9 (1989), pp. 98–104, and ‘Brethren of Purity, a Secret Society for the Establishment of the Fatimid Caliphate: New Evidence for the Early Dating of their Encyclopaedia’, in Marianne Barrucand, ed., L’Égypte fatimide, son art et son histoire (Paris, 1999), pp. 73–82 – these among several other contributions of mine to the study of the Rasāʾil. I have two further articles which are relevant to the present: ‘Religious Tolerance in the Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ’, in Y. Tzvi Langermann, ed., Adaptations and Innovations: Studies on the Interaction between Jewish and Islamic Thought and Literature from the Early Middle Ages to the Late Twentieth Century, Dedicated to Professor Joel L. Kraemer (Leuven, 2007), pp. 137–142 and ‘The Relation between the Persian Authorship of the Rasāʾil Ikwhān al-Ṣafāʾ and the Time of its Composition’, in A Festschrift Honoring Mohammed Mohammed Aman, ed. Sha‘ban A. Khalifa, Sayeda M. Rabie and Elsayed E. Al-Nashshar (Alexandria, 2009), pp. 69–78; see also note 10. 25. Y. Marquet, Les “Frères de la pureté”, pythagoriciens de l’Islam. La marque du pythagorisme dans la rédaction des Épitres des Iḫwān aṣ-Ṣafaʾ (Paris and Milan, 2006), pp. 370–372. 26. Ismail K. Poonawala, ‘Humanism in Ismaili Thought: The Case of the Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-ṣafaʾ’, paper presented at the 18th Giorgio Levi della Vida Conference held at the University of California, Los Angeles (10–12 May 2007) on the subject of ‘Universality in Islamic Thought’ (forthcoming). 27. I have discussed this in my articles ‘Religious Tolerance in the Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ’ and ‘The Relation between the Persian Authorship of the Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ and the Time of its Composition’ (see note 24). 28. Rasāʾil, vol. 3, pp. 498, 535. 29. Rasāʾil, vol. 1, pp. 58, 217. See also Bernard R. Goldstein, ‘A Treatise on Number Theory from a Tenth Century Arabic Source’, Centaurus, 10 (1964), pp. 129–160; repr. in Seyyed Hoseyn Nasr and Mehdi Aminrazavi, ed., An Anthology of Philosophy in Persia (Oxford, 1999–2001), vol. 2, pp. 225–245. 30. Rasāʾil, vol. 4, pp. 136, 180–181 (criticising the pseudo-philosophers). The Ikhwān’s own philosophy is scattered throughout the four volumes, particularly Part 1, vol. 1, pp. 390–403 (Isagoge), pp. 404–413 (Categories), pp. 414–419 (Peri Hermenias), pp. 420–428 (Prior Analytics), pp. 429–452 (Posterior Analytics); Part 2 on ‘Physics’ has discussion of the categories of Matter, Form, Place, Motion and Time; Being and Nature, evolution of vegetable, animal and human existence; human anatomy, senses, birth and

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32.

33. 34.

35. 36.

37. 38. 39. 40.

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the influence of stars on the newborn. Part 3 on ‘Psychology’ deals with the correspondence between Man, the microcosm and Universe, the macrocosm; the cultivation of souls, the will of man; the mystery of death, the multiplicity of languages; the intelligible things; celestial cycles and ages, love; causes and effects; definitions and formulas. Part 4 on ‘Religion and Politics’ contains a discussion on whether the world is eternal or created, and the general principles of the Ikhwān’s faith. It is in this last Part that the Ismaili character of the Rasāʾil is most visible. Rasāʾil, vol. 1, p. 213; vol. 2, p. 377; vol. 3, p. 211; vol. 4, pp. 269, 315, 408 and 489. Also in al-Risāla al-Jāmiʿa, ed. Ghālib, p. 520; see Abbas Hamdani, ‘Shades of Shīʿīsm in the Tracts of the Brethren of Purity’, in Peter Slater and Donald Wiebe, ed., Traditions in Contact and Change (Waterloo, Ontario, 1983), pp. 447–460 and 726–728, and idem, ‘Religious Tolerance in the Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ (note 24). See Lootfy Levonian, ‘Ikhwân al-Ṣafâʾ and Christ’, Muslim World, 35 (1945), pp. 27–31; repr. in Sezgin et al., Rasāʾil Ikhwān aṣ-Ṣafā, vol. 2, pp. 237–241; Yves Marquet, ‘Les Iḫwān al-Ṣafāʾ et le christianisme’, Islamochristiana, 8 (1982), pp. 129–158; on the uses of literature and Biblical material in general see Netton, Muslim Neoplatonists, pp. 53–94. Rasāʾil, vol. 4, p. 126; vol. 3, p. 454. On this subject, see a detailed statement by Carmela Baffioni in her article ‘Gli Iḫwān al-Ṣafāʾ e la filosofia del kalam’, based on her paper ‘Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ and the Philosophy of the kalam’, presented at the International Medieval Congress at Leeds (4–7 July, 1994). See also the study by Richard Frank, Beings and their Attributes (Albany, NY, 1978). Baffioni has identified more than sixty passages of the Rasāʾil that describe the Ikhwān’s theological ideas, and has compared them with the ideas of many mutakallimun, early and late, with remarkable erudition. Her conclusion is that although the Ikhwān’s thought shows Shiʿi inclination, it does not betray their Ismaili identity. What I discuss here is how the enunciation of their views, by comparison with those of other theologians, indicates the time of the composition of their work. Rasāʾil, vol. 3, pp. 517–518. Abu’l-Hasan ʿAlī b. Ismāʿīl al-Ashʿarī, Maqālat al-Islāmiyyīn, ed. Helmut Ritter (Wiesbaden, 1963), p. 165; see also Richard Frank, ‘The Divine Attributes According to the Teaching of Abū l-Hudhayl al-ʿAllāf’, Museon, 82 (1969), pp. 451–506. Ashʿarī, Maqālāt, p. 486. See W. Montgomery Watt, The Formative Period, pp. 245–246. Ibid., pp. 169–173, 584. After Ibn Kullāb’s time, the Sunni Ashʿarīs identified seven attributes – knowledge, power, will, life, speech, hearing and seeing – as the essential ones. See Watt, The Formative Period, p. 287. Rasāʾil, vol. 3, pp. 517–518. See I. K. Poonawala, ‘The Qurʾân in the Rasâʾil Ikhwân al-Ṣafāʾ’, in Anthony

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41.

42. 43. 44. 45.

46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54.

55.

Abbas Hamdani H. Johns, ed., International Congress for the Study of the Qurʾan, Australian National University, Canberra, 8–13 May, 1980 (Canberra, 1980), pp. 51–67; and Paul E. Walker, The Wellsprings of Wisdom, a Study of Abū Yaʿqūb al-Sijistānī’s Kitāb al-Yanābīʿ including a complete English translation with commentary and notes on the Arabic text (Salt Lake City, UT, 1994), pp. 187–189. Ashʿarī, Maqālāt, p. 582. See also W. Madelung, ‘Hishām b. al-Ḥakam’, EI2, vol. 3, p. 496, and ʿAbd Allāh Niʿma, Hisham b. al-Ḥakam: rāʾid al-ḥaraka al-kalāmiyya fi’l-islām wa ustādh al-qarn al-thānī fi’l-kalām wa’l-munāẓara (Beirut, 1985). Ashʿarī, Maqālāt, p. 594; see also Joseph van Ess, ‘Ḍirār b. ʿAmr und die “Cahmīya”: Biographie einer vergessenen Schule’, Der Islam, 43 (1967), pp. 241–279 and 44 (1968), pp. 1–70. Rasāʾil, vol. 3, pp. 498–500. Ashʿarī, Maqālāt, pp. 487–488, 538, 540–541. J. van Ess, ‘Ḳadariyya’, EI2, vol. 4, p. 368. This has been well explained by W. Madelung, ‘The Shiʿite and the Kharijite Contribution to Pre-Ashʿarī kalam’, in Islamic Philosophical Theology, ed. Parviz Morewedge (Albany, NY, 1979), pp. 120–139, particularly p. 124: ‘The doctrine of the Imāmī mutakallimūn thus indeed offered an intermediate position between the Jahmite thesis of constraint (jabr) and the Muʿtazilī thesis of empowerment (tafwīḍ), as supported by a famous statement of Imam Jaʿfar.’ See note 41. Ashʿarī, Maqālāt, p. 281. See J. van Ess, ‘Ḍirār b. ʿAmr und die “Cahmīya”’, particularly (1967), p. 270 and (1968), p. 170; see also Watt, The Formative Period, p. 193. Watt, The Formative Period, p. 189; see also J. van Ess, ibid. Rasāʾil, vol. 3, p. 161. Al-Risāla al-Jāmiʿa, ed. Ghālib, pp. 45–50. The Beirut edition has the spelling ‘Duhriyya’. See the article in EI, I. Goldziher, ‘Dahriya’, vol. 2, p. 95. Rasāʾil, vol. 3, p. 455. Yaʿqūb b. Isḥāq al-Kindī, Rasāʾil al-Kindī al-falsafiyya, ed. Muḥammad ʿAbd al-Hādī Abū Riḍā (Cairo, 1950), in the epistle of al-Kindī to the caliph al-Muʿtaṣim bi’llāh about the First Philosophy, pp. 97–105. See also Soheil Afnan, A Philosophical Lexicon in Persian and Arabic (Beirut, 1968), pp. 186–187; and my article ‘Time According to the Brethren of Purity’, pp. 98–104, and note 24. The common source could have been one of the several translators of Greek works, given that we know that the discussions in al-Kindī and the Ikhwān on the accidental nature of numbers are derived from a paraphrase made by a pupil of al-Kindī, Abū Sulaymān Rabīʿ b. Yaḥyā, of Nicomachus of Gerasa’s Introduction to Arithmetic; see Alfred L. Ivry’s al-Kindi’s Metaphysics: A Translation of Yaʿqub ibn Isḥāq al-Kindī’s Treatise ‘On First Philosophy’ (Fī

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56. 57. 58. 59.

60. 61. 62.

63. 64. 65.

66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71.

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al-Falsafah al-Ūlā) (Albany, NY, 1974), pp. 20 and 21 with their notes. There is a discussion of this in al-Kindī’s Rasāʾil. See also Gerhard Endress, ‘The Circle of al-Kindī’, in Gerhard Endress and Remke Kruk, ed., The Ancient Tradition in Christian and Islamic Hellenism (Leiden, 1997), pp. 43–76. This article is not about al-Kindī’s disciples or his school but about the translators that he patronised and who worked for him, and about the determination of the Arabic philosophical terminology. Majid Fakhry, A History of Islamic Philosophy (New York, 1983), p. 69. De Boer, ‘Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ’, EI, vol. 2, pp. 459–460. De Boer, ‘Zu Kindi und seiner Schule’, in Archiv für Geschichte Philosophie, 13 (1899), pp. 153–178. Anonymous Latin translation, ‘Liber Introductorius in artem logicae demonstrationis, collectus a Mahometh discipulo Alquindi philosophi’, ed. Albino Nagy in his Die Philosophischen Abhandlungen des Ja‘qūb ben Isḥāq al-Kindī (Münster, 1897), pp. 41–64; tr. John Longeway, ‘Introduction to the Art of Demonstration by al-Kindi’ (typescript in the Department of Philosophy, Oklahoma State University, n.d.); also available online: http:// homepages.uwp.edu/longeway/Al%20Kindi.htm. Nagy, Die Philosophischen Abhandlung, p. xi. ‘Fī Anūlūṭīqā al-thāniya fi’l-manṭiq’, vol. 1, pp. 429–451. See Rasaʾil, vol. 1, p. 431.17–23 and vol. 1, pp. 196.ult.–197.1–5. For a complete English translation with notes and a critical introduction see Amnon Shiloah, The Epistle on Music of the Ikhwân al-Safâ’, Baghdad, 10th Century (Tel Aviv, 1978), repr. as ‘The Epistle on Music of the Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ’, in his The Dimension of Music in Islamic and Jewish Culture (Aldershot, 1993), pp. 3–73. Henry G. Farmer, ‘Who was the Author of Liber Introductorius in Artem Demonstrationis?’, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society (1934), pp. 553–556. See de Boer ‘Zu Kindi und seiner Schule’, p. 177. For al-Sarakhsi’s works, see Franz Rosenthal, Ahmad b. at-Ṭayyib al-Saraḫsī (New Haven, CT, 1943), particularly p. 54. On Abū Maʿshar al-Balkhī, see David E. Pingree, The Thousands of Abu Maʿshar (London, 1968). Abū Maʿshar’s Kitāb al-ūlūf was composed between 226/840 and 246/860. See also A. Hamdani, ‘A Critique of Paul Casanova’s Dating of the Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ’, in Farhad Daftary, ed., Mediaeval Ismaʿili History and Thought (Cambridge, 1996), pp. 142–152. Rasaʾil, vol. 4, pp. 288–289. For a detailed study of his life and work, see Alexander Altmann and Samuel M. Stern, Isaac Israeli: A Neoplatonic Philosopher of the Early Tenth Century (London, 1958). Ibid., p. xxiii. Ibid., pp. 73, 182, 186, 192, 193, 196–217. Ibid., p. 150. S. M. Stern, ‘Ibn Ḥasdāy’s Neoplatonist: A Neoplatonic Treatise and its

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72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79.

80. 81. 82.

83.

84. 85. 86. 87. 88. 89. 90.

Abbas Hamdani Influence on Isaac Israeli and the Longer Version of the Theology of Aristotle’, Oriens, 13 (1960–1961), pp. 58–120. Ibid., p. 60. For a full discussion and references see Netton, Muslim Neoplatonists, pp. 89–92. Al-Tawḥīdī, al-Imtāʿ, vol. 2, pp. 157–160. Rasāʾil, vol. 1, pp. 308–310. Stern, ‘The Authorship of the Epistles of the Ikhwān-al-Ṣafāʾ’, p. 370. ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd b. Hibat Allāh Ibn Abi’l-Ḥadīd, Sharḥ Nahj al-balāgha, ed. Ḥasan Tamīm (Beirut, 1963–1964), vol. 3, pp. 556–566. Ibid., pp. 564–566. Cf. Stern, ‘Abu Hayyān al-Tawḥīdī’, vol. 1, p. 126; Bergé, Essai, vol. 1, p. 21. See G. Widengren, ‘The Pure Brethren and the Philosophical Structure of their System’, in Alfred T. Welch and Pierre Cachia, ed., Islam: Past Influence and Present Challenge. In Honour of William Montgomery Watt (Edinburgh, 1979), pp. 57–69; also Emil L. Fackenheim, ‘The Conception of Substance in the Philosophy of the Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ (Brethren of Purity)’, Medieval Studies, 5 (1943), pp. 115–122. Abū Naṣr Muḥammad al-Fārābī, Kitāb al-Siyāsa al-madaniyya, ed. Fauzi M. Najjar (Beirut, 1964); there is an ongoing description of the intellects throughout the early part of the book. Al-Fārābī, Kitāb al-Ḥurūf, ed. Muhsin Mahdi (Beirut, 1970). Al-Fārābī, Kitāb Āraʾ ahl al-madīna al-fāḍila, ed. Albert N. Nader (2nd ed., Beirut, 1968), pp. 61–62. Cf. Kamāl al-Yāzijī and Anṭūn Ghaṭṭās Karam, Aʿlām al-falsafa al-ʿArabiyya (2nd ed., Beirut, 1964), p. 452, where al-Fārābī’s ten intelligences are explained in a tabular form. Ḥamīd al-Dīn Aḥmad b. ʿAbd Allāh al-Kirmānī, Kitāb Rāḥat al-ʿAql, ed. Muḥammad Kāmil Ḥusayn and Muṣṭafā Ḥilmī (Cairo, 1953), pp. 95–146. See Daniel de Smet, La Quiétude de l’intellect: Néoplatonisme et gnose ismaélienne dans l’oeuvre de Ḥamîd ad-Dîn al-Kirmânî (Xe/XI e s.) (Leuven, 1995), in which several comparisons have been made between the thought of Kirmānī and that of the Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ, which belies the assertion by some authors (such as Ivanow) that the Rasāʾil were not known in the Fatimid daʿwa and were only introduced later by the Nizārī and Ṭayyibī daʿwas. Nasr, An Introduction to Islamic Cosmological Doctrines, pp. 51–74. For the development of early Ismaili thought prior to Kirmānī, see Paul E. Walker, Early Philosophical Shiism: The Ismaili Neoplatonism of Abū Yaʿqūb al-Sijistānī (Cambridge, 1993). al-Fārābī, al-Madīna al-fāḍila, pp. 127–130. Rasāʾil, vol. 4, pp. 129–130. Richard Walzer, ‘al-Fārābī’, EI2, vol. 2, p. 788. Sholomo Pines, ‘Some Problems of Islamic Philosophy’, Islamic Culture, 11, i (1937), p. 71. Y. Marquet, ‘Imamat, résurrection et hiérarchie selon les Ikhwân as-Ṣafâʾ’,

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Revue des études islamiques, 30 (1962), p. 50, n.2. 91. Plato, The Dialogues of Plato, tr. Benjamin Jowett (Oxford, 4th ed., 1953), vol. 2, pp. 1–62 (translator’s introduction), pp. 163–499 (trans. of the Republic). Book VI of the Republic (Stephanus text, 484a to 511d) contains the qualifications of the philosopher-king. 92. Muḥammad b. Isḥāq Ibn al-Nadīm, Kitāb al-Fihrist, tr. Bayard Dodge (New York and London, 1970), vol. 2, p. 592. 93. R. Walzer, ‘Aflāṭūn’, EI2, vol. 1, pp. 232–236, states that Galen’s eight-volume lost Greek original commentary on Plato’s Dialogues was available in a Latin synopsis. A fragment from that or from the Greek original seems to have been translated by Ḥunayn b. Isḥāq as Risāla ilā ʿAlī b. Yaḥyā fī dhikr mā turjima min kutub Jālīnūs bi-ʿilmihi wa-baʿḍ mā lam yutarjam, ed. and tr. Gotthelf Bergsträsser, ‘Über die syrischen und arabischen Galen-Übersetztungen’, Abhandlungen für die Kunde des Morgenlandes, 17, ii (1925) and ‘Neuen Materialien zu Ḥunain b. Isḥāq’s Galen-Bibliographie’, 19, ii (1932). This Risāla contains (i) a summary of the whole of Plato’s Timaeus; (ii) a fragment of his paraphrase of the Republic; (iii) a fragment of his summary of the Laws; and (iv) a reference to his summary of Parmenides. This proves that Ḥunayn b. Isḥāq’s commentary of Plato’s Republic was based on Galen’s paraphrase. Paul Kraus and Richard Walzer, in their edition of Plato Arabus. Vol 1: Galeni Compendium Timaei Platonis aliorumque dialogorum synopsis quae extant fragmenta (London, 1951), pp. 2 and 18 confirmed that Ḥunayn’s commentary of Plato’s Republic must have been based on Galen’s paraphrase or summary. They also say (p. 18) that a disciple of Ḥunayn had noted that Ḥunayn had translated everything from Galen’s compendium. The fragment preserved does not contain Plato’s ten qualifications for the philosopher-king, but that does not matter, as it is only a fragment. The full commentary would have contained it. Fuat Sezgin edited a collection of articles entitled Ḥunain b. Isḥāq (d. 260/873): Texts and Studies (Frankfurt am Main, 1999). The book does not contain Bergstrasser’s work. 94. Rasāʾil, vol. 4, pp. 35, 287, 288, 295 and in al-Risāla al-Jāmiʿa, p. 254. The one in pp. 287–288 seems to be a direct quote; see also Netton, Muslim Neoplatonists, pp. 16–19. 95. The Arabic original of Ibn Rushd’s commentary is lost, but it has survived in a Hebrew translation by Samuel ben Yehuda from which we have two English translations, one by Erwin I. J. Rosenthal (with the Hebrew text), Averroes’ Commentary on Plato’s Republic (Cambridge, 1956; repr. with corrections in 1966 and 1969) and another by Ralph Lerner (without the Hebrew text), Averroes on Plato’s Republic (Ithaca and London, 1974). The second is used here. The qualifications for the Ideal Ruler occur on pp. 73–75. 96. Concerning the aphorisms of the philosophers on music in the last two

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sections of the Ikhwān’s ‘Risala fi usul al-alhan wa qawaniniha’ (vol. 1, pp. 196–202), Shiloah in ‘The Epistle on Music’, p. 10, states ‘As far as our epistle is concerned, it can be assumed that the Ikhwān drew the idea of including this chapter from al-Kindī and Ḥunayn b. Isḥāq and adapted it to their purpose.’ The reference is to al-Kindī’s work Risāla fī ajzāʾ khabariyya fi’l-mūsīqā, in Zakariyyā Yūsuf, ed., Mūsīqā al-Kindī: mulḥaq li-Kitāb Muʾallafāt al-Kindī al-musīqiyya (Baghdad, 1962), and ed. Salīm al-Ḥilw in his Taʾrīkh al-mūsīqā al-sharqiyya (Beirut, 1974), pp. 262–273. Ḥunayn b. Isḥāq’s work referred to is Adab al-falāsifa, which was translated into Hebrew by Judah b. Solomon al-Ḥarīzī (d. 633/1235) under the title Sefer Mūsrē ha-fīlōsōfīm, ed. and tr. Abraham Löwenthal (Frankfurt am Main, 1896). Concerning the topics included in the Ikhwān’s epistle on music, Shiloah ‘The Epistle on Music’, p. 5, thinks that they are based on ʿUbayd Allāh b. ʿAbd Allāh Ibn Khurradādhbih’s (d. 299/912) Kitāb al-Lahw wa’l-malāhī, ed. Ignatius ʿAbduh Khalīfa, Mashriq (1960), pp. 125–155; also published separately as Mukhtār min Kitāb al-Lahw wa’l-malāhī (Beirut, 1961). 97. See e.g. Rasāʾil, vol. 4, p. 187. 98. I have discussed this in many of my studies on the Rasāʾil referred to in note 24.

8

Ibdāʿ, Divine Imperative and Prophecy in the Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ Carmela Baffioni

I This paper examines a difficult and ambiguous passage on Intellect,1 in the Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ (Epistles of the Pure Brethren, henceforth Rasāʾil), taken from Epistle 35, ‘On the Intellect and the Intelligible’: The Intellect (ʿaql) has a sole active cause (īlla wāḥida fāʿila), namely the Creator – be He exalted and glorified –, who emanated (afāḍa) onto it existence (wujūd), perfection (tamām), permanence (baqāʾ) and completeness (kamāl), all at once, outside time (daf ʿatan wāḥidatan bilā zamān). By ‘active cause’ we mean that He originated it (abdaʿahu) with no intermediary. And it is this Intellect that [God] referred to when He said in His Book through the language (ʿalā lisān) of His Prophet Muḥammad – God bless him and give him peace –, Our commandment is but one word, as the twinkling of an eye or nearer [combination of Q. 54:50 and Q. 16:77].2 He hinted at it saying – praise be to Him –, They will question thee concerning the Spirit (al-ruḥ). Say: The Spirit is of the bidding of my Lord (min amri rabbī). You have been given of knowledge nothing except a little [Q. 17:85]; and said, Verily, His are the creation (khalq) and the command (amr). Blessed be God, the Lord of all Being [Q. 7:54]. The ‘creation’ are the corporeal objects (umūr), while the ‘command’ are the spiritual substances.3

In this passage, as is often the case in the Rasāʾil, the Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ say that the Intellect is caused by God, who provided it with existence, perfection, permanence and completeness. In order to clarify the way in which the Intellect was originated by God in the derivative process of hypostases, they use the fourth form of the verb badaʿa (to originate). The term ibdāʿ indicates primordial direct origin from the Creator. The 213

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Ikhwān usually use this term to indicate the created world – that which is produced by God – in order to deny that any existence is independent of Him. To achieve this, they explain the result of creation as ibdāʿ, comparing it with a word, in that it is actually an invention (ikhtirāʿ) from nothing. The word ceases when the speaker is silent, unlike a house that, once built, has an existence separate from that of the builder because it is a composition (tarkīb) and an aggregation (taʾlīf ) of already existing things such as earth, water, stones, bricks, gypsum and wood. In this sense, the house is like writing, which continues to exist even when the scribe stops writing.4 The formation (wujūd) of the world by the Creator is also compared to light,5 which exists as long as the lamp is lit or until the sun sets. As light is an emission from a source, and not a part of it, so the formation of the world by the Creator is not a part of Him but a superabundance of His goodness. It is surprising, however, that the Ikhwān use the metaphor of light: if the ray of light is not endowed with its own substantiality and autonomy, it must depend on the existence of its source, so it is also true that it necessarily emanates from that source.6 To avoid such a paradox, which compromised one of the basic tenets of revelation, the text has to state immediately afterwards that ibdāʿ keeps the qualities of light only in part. The Ikhwān say that one should not believe that the world comes from God ‘by nature’ (ṭabʿan) and without any choice by Him, as is the case of light, the emission of which is part of the nature of its source. Creation is ‘an act He accomplishes whereas previously it was not accomplished, as the speaker displays his speech whereas previously he did not speak’,7 and for this reason the speech is an act of the speaker. The will and choice to accomplish or not to accomplish such an act are at the basis of creation and the effusion of divine goodness, ‘as if it were a work (ṣanʿan)’.8 These comparisons allow the Ikhwān to deny the independent existence of the world with regard to God and at the same time to state its otherness from Him. If this understanding is legitimate, it shows that they consider the world to have been originated by an act of divine Will – the will to speak. Hence the choice of comparison with a ‘word’ puts the Ikhwān in full accord with theological orthodoxy, which places the divine attributes of the Will and the Word at the basis of creation.9 This double comparison is used to reinforce the idea that the entire created world has no separate existence from the Creator since it is an act willed by the originator (it came, the text says, ‘from nothing’ baʿd an lam yakun), hence ibdāʿ coincides with the world. Although it is consistent with Ashʿarī theology, which links the world

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continuously to God, this idea is a direct consequence of Neoplatonic ontology, in which all subsequent hypostases have their foundation in the One. According to the Ikhwān, God is coexistent with His creation, as is clarified in the comparison of God to the number one: if any other number is subtracted, the one remains; but if the one is removed, any other number disappears. In this vision, in that it is the act of God, ibdāʿ has no existence in itself but is contained in the Agent. The ancient Neoplatonic hypostases – Active Intellect, Universal Soul, First Matter and abstract forms – are considered to be the product of emanation (fayḍ) caused by God, and their origin is said to occur instantaneously and from nothing, outside time, space and matter, by divine fiat,10 the divine Command that, according to the Qurʾan, is at the origin of the world. In the passage from Epistle 35 cited above, only the Intellect is regarded as coming into existence instantaneously, outside time and without intermediaries. This presentation of the Intellect, which is different from the usual way in which the Ikhwān elaborated this Neoplatonic concept, is supported by the quotation of certain Qurʾanic verses. Though the verses should be allegorically interpreted by taʾwīl – the science of tracing a word to its origin – these quotations are apparently inconsistent in themselves. The fusion of verses, Q. 54:50 and Q. 16:77, quoted first, should give a better sense of the way in which the Intellect is given existence by God. But the text turns out to be ambiguous, because if we take the words ‘and it is this Intellect that [God] referred to when he said in His Book …’ (fa-hadhā’l-ʿaqlu huwa’l-ladhī ashāra ilayhi bi-qawlihi fī Kitābihi) literally, we must infer that the divine Command (amr), i.e. the creative kun (‘be’), coincides with the Intellect. However, that is surely not the case, since these verses refer to the amr as being ‘like the twinkling of an eye’ (ka-lamḥi’l-baṣar). A more suitable hypothesis might then be that the Ikhwān want to state that the divine Command coincides with the act that creates the Intellect, expressed, as we saw, by the verbal form abdaʿa; that is to say, that it coincides with the ibdāʿ. In this case, however, the immediacy of the origination of the Intellect by God as asserted above would be questioned: the only way to escape such a contradiction is to understand that amr – and hence ibdāʿ, which is considered similar to it – has no hypostatic autonomy, so that God can still be considered as the direct source of the Intellect and, through the Intellect, as the indirect source of other existing beings. This would be also in line with the interpretation that can be inferred from the second quotation, Q. 17:85, where the Intellect is considered

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similar to ‘spirit’. The idea of ‘proceeding’, introduced here solely by the particle min, seems to confirm that God is not the direct source of the Intellect, unless one denies self-subsistence from the divine Command, as noted earlier. It would seem that in the passage from Epistle 35, in contrast to the texts from Epistles 40 and 39 recalled above, the Ikhwān consider the ibdāʿ as something different from creation. If the ibdāʿ no longer coincides with creation, the question of the act of creation – an independent existence or an indissoluble link with God – is left open. To put it another way, we might ask whether the ibdāʿ has in some manner or other an autonomous status for the Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ. The third quotation, Q. 7:54, brings us back to the position of the texts from Epistles 39 and 40. In fact amr no longer seems to indicate the divine Command because it is placed at the same level as khalq (Creation); immediately afterwards, the Ikhwān explain that the khalq consists of physical objects and the amr of spiritual substances. The amr therefore seems to be identified not with the created world in its entirety, but with a multiplicity of entities that we infer come from God. These could be the Neoplatonic hypostases: because they originate instantaneously from Him, they can be said to be His ibdāʿ. But the doubts expressed above still remain; it is not clear of what God is the direct source, nor is it clear whether the ibdāʿ is due to the divine Will. II The combination of the ibdāʿ and divine Command is rare in the Ikhwān. I shall try to show how the apparently paradoxical passage from Epistle 35 can be understood in the light of the contents of Ismaili philosophy. The Ismaili thinkers identified the divine Command (amr) with the ibdāʿ or the ‘primordial origination’ of all existing beings. In Ismaili literature, the ibdāʿ assumes an intermediate function between God – who is a posteriori called ‘the Originator’ (al-mubdiʿ) – and the ‘First originated’ (al-mubdaʿ al-awwal), which is the Intellect of the Neoplatonic hierarchy adopted in most Muslim cosmologies and, as is believed, was first introduced by the Ismaili thinker and dāʿī Muḥammad al-Nasafī (fl. third– fourth/ninth–tenth centuries).11 Though assimilated into the concept of the creative word of God, the status of the ibdāʿ is variously presented by the different Ismaili dāʿīs. For Abū Yaʿqūb al-Sijistānī (d. after 361/971), a contemporary of the Ikhwān, the ibdāʿ might have its own autonomy but, because the Intellect was

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originated first, it is also said to be ‘non-beingness’ (laysīya), not in itself but with regard to what it came from.12 In contrast later, Ḥamīd al-Dīn al-Kirmānī (d. after 411/1020–1021), who worked for the imam-caliph al-Ḥākim bi-Amr Allāh (r. 386–411/996–1021), considered it only an ‘attribute’ of the First Intellect, which contains in itself the whole of reality.13 Ismaili philosophers consider the Intellect to be the first product of the ibdāʿ: it is created first, starting from the Command, and from it comes the world. In this sense, the world is only an indirect product of the ibdāʿ. In fact, the Universal Soul – the successive hypostasis of the Neoplatonic hierarchy – is said to proceed (munbaʿth) from the Universal Intellect; movement and, hence, time depends on the Soul, and we can deduce that the whole sublunar world does so too. For al-Sijistānī, the Intellect is called the ‘One who precedes’ (sābiq) and the Soul the ‘One who follows’ (tālī).14 However, though the Ismailis also borrow the hierarchy of beings from Neoplatonism, unlike the falāsifa (the philosophers inspired by the Greeks) and the Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ, their starting point is not God but, in fact, the ibdāʿ, identified with the divine Command. According to Ismaili philosophy, the natural world was created third, through the Soul’s desire to attain the learning of the Intellect, though it did not achieve its purpose.15 The fact that many living beings possess a soul but not the rational faculty that distinguishes man demonstrates, in turn, that the Soul is preceded by a nobler substance, i.e. the Intellect, which bestows its nobility on the Soul. The Intellect is first derived by divine Command or ibdāʿ, because there is nothing nobler than it. Do the Ikhwān also aim to establish the contingent nature of the ibdāʿ as divine Imperative? Do they mean that the nature of the ibdāʿ as an ‘act’ is distinct from that of the agent and that of the world? And do they mean that as an act, the ibdāʿ becomes the direct cause of the world? For later Ismaili thinkers, the created world – that which results from the ibdāʿ – seems to be endowed with its own autonomy with regard to the Creator,16 but this is not yet clear from the use that the Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ made of the image of ‘writing’. They say that the world will last as long as emanation from God lasts, just as light exists as long as the sun shines.17 For them it would seem that Creation could in no case be conceived as coming from pre-existing elements such as those that constitute a house, because such a final product cannot be reconciled with creatio ex nihilo. Besides, the image of God as a manufacturer (ṣāniʿ) and of the created world as a manufactured thing (maṣnūʿ), quite frequent in Muslim thought, including Ismailism,

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had been introduced for the first time by Abū Bakr al-Rāzī (d. 313/925), who followed Plato’s Timaeus and denied the concept of creatio ex nihilo.18 On the other hand, the divine Word has actually become a Book – something that, according to the comparisons above, exists by itself. Ismaili thinkers as well as the Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ share the view that God wrote two books: the Qurʾan, the book to be listened to, and the world, a book to be contemplated and investigated. According to a well-known idea, the ayāt (verses) of the divine Book correspond to the ‘signs’, also called ayāt, that we see in the universe as God’s work.19 Writing is the visible manifestation of that which is in the spirit of the scribe. If the divine Command at the origin of the world coincides with the kun, a word made of two letters, the primordial being is both the Command and the Word, and kāf and nūn, in that they are the visible manifestation of the divine Word, symbolise for Ismailism the two first hypostases of the Neoplatonic hierarchy.20 To come back to the comparison presented by the Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ, the divine act should be compared to the scribe’s writing, too. III The link between the passage from Epistle 35 and Ismaili ideas is further emphasised by Risāla al-jāmiʿa (‘The Comprehensive Epistle’ = J) and the Risāla jāmiʿat al-jāmiʿa (‘The Supercomprehensive Epistle’ = JJ). In these companions to the encyclopaedia of the Ikhwān there are two passages almost identical to each other and to a passage from Epistle 35.21 All three texts begin by discussing the four (Aristotelian) causes common to all existing beings: the efficient (fāʿila), the formal (muṣawwira), the final (mutammima) and the material (hayūlāniyya). The Ikhwān cite as examples a bed and a knife; J and JJ cite a chair, the efficient cause of which is the carpenter, the formal cause is its squared shape, the final cause is the act of sitting, and the material cause is wood. Later, J says that the Absolute Body (al-jism al-muṭlaq) also has four causes. The First Matter (al-hayūlā al-ūlā) has only three: the efficient, the formal and the final. The Universal Soul (al-nafs) has two: the efficient – God – and the formal – the Active Intellect. The text continues as follows, almost identical to the text in Epistle 35:22 The Intellect has a sole cause, namely the Creator – be He exalted and glorified – who emanated onto it existence, permanence, perfection and completeness all at once, outside time. It is the Intellect that [God] referred to when He said in His book through the language of His Prophet Muḥammad – God bless him and give him peace, saying Our command-

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ment is but one word, as the twinkling of an eye,23 but He is nearer. He hinted at it saying, They will question thee concerning the Spirit. Say: The Spirit is of the bidding of my Lord. You have been given of knowledge nothing except a little, meaning that the Spirit with respect to which all things begin to depart (is that) to which they come back and from which they go away, from which is their beginning and to which is their return (alladhī rāḥat al-ashyāʾ kulluhā ilayhi munṣarifa, fa-ilayhi ruwāḥuhā wa minhu ʿawdatuhā, minhu mabdaʾuhā wa ilayhi maʿāduhā); and He said, Verily, His are the creation and the command’, which are the spiritual substances (al-jawāhir al-rūḥāniyya); all of them belong to God – be He exalted and glorified: by His command (amr) they rose (qāmat) and by His will they existed (kānat).24

After the example of the chair, JJ differs from J in that it says that the Absolute Body has only three causes: the material, the efficient and the formal. The First Matter has also three causes: the efficient, the formal and the final. The Soul is said to have two. From this point the text continues as follows: [One cause is] the Creator – be He exalted and glorified – who emanated generosity (al-jūd),25 permanence, perfection and completeness onto the Intellect all at once, outside time. To the Intellect He had referred saying in His book through the language of His Prophet and Messenger (rasūlihi) Muḥammad, God bless him and his family: Our commandment is but one word, as the twinkling of an eye, but He is nearer.26 He hinted at it saying, They will question thee concerning the Spirit … [till the end of the] verse27). The meaning is that the Spirit from which all things begin to be divided (mansūfa) [is that] to which they come back and from which they go away, from which is their beginning and to which is their return. And He said, Verily, God's are the creation and the command, blessed be God, the Lord of the worlds. The creation is of the corporeal forms (li’lṣuwar al-jismāniyya), while the command [corresponds to] the spiritual substances; all of them belong to God – be He exalted and glorified; by His command they rose and by His will they existed. Many people who did not possess the knowledge of spiritual entities have thought that the existing (beings) belong to God only (laysat illā li’llāh) – be He exalted and glorified – and [so] the body (al-jism) and that whose place is earth; but you know this and be guided.28

There seems to be an omission in this text. It could be read as ‘[One cause is] the Creator … who emanated … all at once, outside time, onto the Intellect, which is its second cause’. The translation given above depends on adding an expression such as ‘and Intellect, which is its second cause’ (wa’l-ʿaql, fa-huwa ʿillatuha al-thāniya) after ‘time’ (zamān). In that case,

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the sense would easily coincide with that of J, even if the fact that the Intellect has only one cause were not stated explicitly. With regard to the similarity which it is asserted exists between the Absolute Body and the First Matter, which is that they both have three causes, the difference with respect to J can be explained recalling further developments of Ismaili philosophy. The statement in JJ presupposes that al-jism al-muṭlaq and al-hayūlā al-ūlā represent the same hypostasis, which means that they make a unity: the material, the efficient and the formal causes are related to the Absolute Body, which constitutes ‘matter’ for the First Matter. The efficient, formal and final causes are related to the First Matter in that it has to give origin to natural bodies. On this point JJ and J agree: both know that the First Matter does not need any material cause, because it is itself matter, in that it becomes identified with the Absolute Body. This coincidence becomes clearer when we recall that, some decades later, al-Kirmānī spoke of a ‘First Matter’ (al-hayūlā al-ūlā), which he also called the ‘Absolute Body’ (al-jism al-muṭlaq), and of a ‘Second Matter’ (al-hayūlā al-thāniya), which corresponds to the ‘First Matter’ of the Ikhwān.29 This interpretation might also be confirmed by the mention in the second part of the passage of ‘the body’, which might indicate the Absolute Body, considered to be at the basis of ‘terrestrial’, in other words material, beings. The second part of the passage from JJ is especially important in that it allows us to read the text in Epistle 35 in the light of Ismaili philosophical ideas. The explanation of the nature of the Intellect both in J and JJ shows that it is regarded as immediately originated by God, and allows us to infer that it coincides with the divine ibdāʿ. From J and JJ we learn that the Intellect also coincides with the divine Spirit, because everything comes from the Intellect, and everything will return to it. Although the terminology is not Qurʾanic, the Intellect is to some extent considered ‘the First and the Last’ since it possesses qualities proper to the Qurʾanic God,30 as later occurred in the writings of al-Kirmānī.31 JJ also speaks of corporeal ‘forms’ rather than of ‘objects’, as if the word meant the forms that are commonly stated to be found in the mind of God. According to JJ, ‘all of them belong to God’; that is, they come from God through His Command and Will. JJ clarifies the shorter corresponding expression in J; from JJ we also realise that this is the ‘exoteric’ truth – that is, the truth understood by those who lack true knowledge of spiritual objects. True, esoteric knowledge would instead make clear that the first of these objects – the Intellect – is the real origin and the real end of everything existing in the physical terrestrial world.

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IV This brings us to the final reference to the ‘Prophet’s language’ in the Ikhwanian passage. The mention of the language (lisān) of the Prophet Muḥammad seldom occurs in the Rasāʾil together with Qurʾanic quotations, but it is found in problematic passages such as the one under discussion. For the Ismaili Neoplatonist thinkers the ‘extremes’ of creation are the Command, which coincides with the ibdāʿ, and mankind. Just as the ibdāʿ is the principle of everything, man ‘completes’ with his perfection the series of created beings in the physical world: man is a rational and speaking soul and a critical intelligence. Because of this, he can give his consent to the divine Word, which is addressed to him. Man has a link with Intellect because the origin of all beings is the ibdāʿ that makes ‘a sole thing’ with the Intellect, and because the Intellect is that which supports the prophets. The Prophet has a personal responsibility of his own in the delivery of the Sacred Book: note that al-Sijistānī, for instance, attributes to him the act of the aggregation (taʾlīf ) of letters that produces the Qurʾan and corresponds to the composition (tarkīb) of elements by Nature that produced the existing beings. Through this comparison, al-Sijistānī is very close to the Ikhwanian passages seen above. These considerations can also help to explain two other controversial passages by the Ikhwān found in Epistle 31, ‘On the Causes of the Diversity of Languages’. Of the Prophet’s miracles (muʿ jizāt) and superiority (faḍl) is that he spoke to people about what they could understand and according to what they could conceive and their intellects could grasp.32 Because of this muʿ jiza, traditions differed, religious schools multiplied and people disagreed about who the Messenger’s successor should be; that was one of the main causes of disagreement in the community ‘until the present time’, the Ikhwān said. According to them, the Prophet used his own idiom (lughatihi) to answer the questions put to him by those of his community, assigned them tasks and spoke to them in his language (bi-lisānihi). To others he spoke in their speech (bi-kalāmihim), because he had been sent (mabʿūth) to them and dwelt with them. He taught and guided them, made expressions easy and created meanings (ḍaraba […] al-maʿānī) for them, and treated them amicably, so that they should understand religion and learn the Qurʾan in a pure language (lisān fasīḥ) in which nobody could be mistaken and which nobody could alter or change provided they had a good memory and perfect direction (talqīn).33 I would not wish to disavow the explanation I have given elsewhere of

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these enigmatic passages,34 but another interpretation might be added here thanks to the text in JJ discussed above. As the relation between God, the ibdāʿ and the Intellect is clarified through an esoteric interpretation of the Qurʾanic verses quoted, the two passages from Epistle 31 might also hint at the ẓāhirī (exoteric) and bāṭinī (esoteric) aspects of prophetic language, since the Prophet has a knowledge of the bāṭin meaning of the Qurʾan, but he only transmits the ẓāhir, because of the abilities of his listeners. Support for this type of explanation may be found in a passage in Nāṣir-i Khusraw’s Jāmiʿ al-ḥikmatayn.35 If the Prophet is he who announces the fact of God to the created world through that which is written in His Book; and if the Messenger is the intermediate between the spiritual and the material worlds, it is not possible to say that the divine Word has a single aspect. Rather, a part of it, the clear one, must necessarily resemble bodies, and the other part, the ambiguous one, must necessarily resemble spirits, so that the obscure (mutashābih) can be demonstrated by that which is clear (muḥkam); the parables (sing. mathal) in the Book are like bodies and the meanings (maʿānī) like spirits. These words echo the ‘clear and obscure verses’ (ayāt muḥkamāt, mutashābihāt) of Q. 3:7, which was the basis for the legitimisation of philosophy in the Faṣl al-maqāl of Averroes, written in the sixth/twelfth century.36 But the Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ had already quoted the same verse, urging the allegorical interpretation of the Book by those who are able to provide this sort of interpretation.37 The last part of the passage from Epistle 35, with the quotation of Q. 7:54, seems also to refer to the physical and the spiritual worlds: they correspond to each other in that the former derives from the divine Command as the word kun and the latter from divine Command as the ibdāʿ – that is from the Intellect. The reference to the Prophet’s language might then show that true knowledge can be attained by man only through the divine Word. In the Qurʾan Sura 2 verse 30 Adam is described as the direct vicegerent of God on His earth which can be read as meaning that above man there is only the Creator. To continue the parallel with al-Sijistānī’s ontology, the Universal Soul needs an individual to be enabled to receive the effusion from the Intellect in its completeness.38 The Intellect being a principle for the Soul would also correspond to the Prophet who is a principle for the Legatee (waṣī).39 In identifying the amr with ‘spiritual substances’, the Ikhwān might have had in mind a kind of embryonic Ismaili hierarchy. The world of the ibdāʿ might even foreshadow al-Kirmānī’s world of religion (ʿālam al-dīn, where dīn indicates the divine hierarchy of propagandists).

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I have already attributed Ismaili or para-Ismaili conceptions to the Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ, especially in politics.40 The similarities remarked on in this article can further contribute to the hypothesis that the Pure Brethren were close to Ismailism, particularly in view of the links established through J and JJ. More precisely, one might say that the Rasāʾil contain in embryo several ideas stated in contemporary Ismailism, for instance by al-Sijistānī, and which were further developed by other Ismaili thinkers only a few decades later. In particular, at the end of the fourth/tenth century Ismailism was debating about the issue of the ibdāʿ without being able to reach a firmer position, such as the one that was arrived at some decades later. Notes 1.

2. 3.

4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9.

That is, the Active Intellect of the well-known Neoplatonic hierarchy, adopted by the Ikhwān. This text does not seem to be considered in Daniel De Smet, La Quiétude de l’intellect. Néoplatonisme et gnose ismaélienne dans l’œuvre de Ḥamîd ad-Dîn al-Kirmânî (Xe/XIe s.) (Leuven, 1995), p. 115, where the relation between the ibdāʿ and the Intellect is dealt with. Translations from the Qurʾan by Arthur J. Arberry, The Koran Interpreted (London, 1955). Epistle 35, ‘On the Intellect and the Intelligible’, Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ wa khullān al-wafāʾ, ed. Buṭrus al-Bustānī (Beirut, 1377/1957), vol. 3, pp. 238.13–21. I indicate the volume, page(s) and line(s) of each quotation or reference. Cf. e.g. Epistle 40, ‘On Causes and Effects’, Rasāʾil, vol. 3, pp. 350.19–351.18 passim, where the final part of Q. 55:29, every day He is upon some labour (shaʾn), is quoted. The choice of this image can then be connected to the cosmological visions that draw their inspiration from the famous ‘verse of Light’ (āyat al-nūr, Q. 24:35); the comparison with ‘word’ appears to be much more suitable. This was the cause of the harsh criticism of emanationism on the part of those orthodox theologians and philosophers who saw in it a denial of the autonomous will of God. Cf. Epistle 39, ‘On the Kinds of Movement’, Rasāʾil, vol. 3, p. 338.2–3. Cf. Epistle 39, Rasāʾil, vol. 3, pp. 337.9–338.13 passim; the final part of Q. 55:29 is also quoted on p. 338.16. In other passages, such as in Epistle 42, ‘On Opinions and Religions’, Rasāʾil, vol. 3, pp. 470.18–471.9, the Ikhwān openly incline towards the philosophical thesis that God created by means of science/learning/knowledge (ʿilm) and that His will is at most a necessary consequence of ʿilm: because God knew He would create the world, not to create would have been contrary to science, and hence God would be ignorant; creation of the world is a

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10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

16. 17. 18.

19.

20.

Carmela Baffioni ­ anifestation of wisdom, which is necessary for the wise, who otherwise m would not be so. Thanks to science the Creator gives figure and form to the body; that this work is based on science is the proof that He is wise (ḥakīm; there are almost one hundred Qurʾanic verses containing this divine attribute, associated with ʿazīz or ʿalīm or, rarely, with khabīr, ḥamīd or ʿalīy). Cf. e.g. Epistle 40, Rasāʾil, vol. 3, p. 352.13–20. Cf. e.g. Paul E. Walker, Abu Ya‘qub al-Sijistani: Intellectual Missionary (London and New York, 1996), p. 18. Cf. Paul E. Walker, Early Philosophical Shiism. The Ismaili Neoplatonism of Abū Yaʿqūb al-Sijistānī (Cambridge, 1993), p. 84. Cf. e.g. De Smet, La Quiétude de l’intellect, pp. 115, 119, 129, 135, 149. According to De Smet, p. 115, it seems that there is no distinction between ibdāʿ and Intellect, even in the Ikhwān. Cf. e.g. Walker, Abu Ya‘qub al-Sijistani: Intellectual Missionary, p. 36. Cf. Walker, Abu Ya‘qub al-Sijistani: Intellectual Missionary, p. 40; for the Ikhwān, see e.g. Epistle 40, Rasāʾil, vol. 3, p. 353.3–16; see also Carmela Baffioni, ‘Antecedenti greci nel concetto di “natura” degli Iḫwān al-Ṣafāʾ’, in Maria Barbanti, Giovanna R. Giardina and Paolo Manganaro, ed., ENOSIS KAI FILIA. Unione e amicizia, Omaggio a Francesco Romano (Catania, 2002), pp. 545–556; eadem, ‘The Concept of Nature in Yaḥyā b. ʿAdī (A Comparison with the Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ)’, in Ebiad Rifaat and Hermann Teule, ed., Studies on the Christian Arabic Heritage, Offered in Honour of Father Samir Khalil Samir S.I., at the Occasion of his 65th Birthday (Leuven, 2004), pp. 199–204. Cf. e.g. Walker, Early Philosophical Shiism, p. 83. Cf. e.g. Epistle 40, Rasāʾil, vol. 3, p. 350.9–18. The Ikhwān have an aporetic vision of God as a craftsman: it is always linked to the negation of the creatio ex nihilo, but on the other hand God is denied any direct responsibility for events in the created world; these are attributed to His intermediaries (cf. Epistle 19, ‘On Minerals’, Rasāʾil, vol. 2, p. 128.15 ff., where Q. 16:40 and Q. 54:50 are quoted). In a larger sense, we thus have a further confirmation of the Ismaili concern with encyclopaedism and an explanation for why Ismaili works are often structured as encyclopaedias, given that they saw the universe as an ensemble of divine ‘signs’, and so considered the encyclopaedic structure as the most suitable for philosophical works in order to explain the nature of the Divine in a comprehensive manner. A similar idea was later expressed by the Ismaili thinker and poet Nāṣir-i Khusraw (ad 1004–1074). Cf. Nāṣir-i Khusraw, Kitāb Jāmiʿ al-ḥikmatayn, ed. Henri Corbin and Muḥammad Muʿīn as Kitab-e Jamiʿ al-Hikmatain. Le livre réunissant les deux sagesses ou Harmonie de la philosophie grecque et de la théosophie ismaélienne (Tehran and Paris, 1953), p. 77.10–11. French tr. Isabelle de Gastines, Le Livre réunissant les deux sagesses (Kitāb-e Jāmiʿ al-ḥikmatayn) (Paris, 1990).

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21. Epistle 35, Rasāʾil, vol. 3, pp. 237.16–238.21. Cf. al-Risāla al-Jāmiʿa, ed. Muṣṭafā Ghālib (2nd ed., Beirut, 1404/1984), pp. 374.4–375.10; Jāmiʿat al-Jāmiʿa: min turāth Ikhwān al-ṣafāʾ, ed. ʿĀrif Tāmir (Beirut, 1390/1970), pp. 202–203. 22. When the Arabic is the same, I have not reported it. 23. The quotation is followed by the words bal huwa aqrab, instead of aw huwa aqrab in Q. 16:77; these words are missing in one of the two MSS on which the edition is based. 24. Al-Risāla al-Jāmiʿa, p. 375.2–10. 25. See note 29. 26. The reading here is aw huwa aqrab; but these words are not indicated by Tāmir as a part of Q. 16:77. 27. This word indicates an incomplete quotation from the Holy Book. 28. Jāmiʿat al-Jāmiʿa, pp. 202.17–203.11. 29. Cf. De Smet, La Quiétude de l’intellect, pp. 315–318. The only corruption in the text might then be the word jūd instead of wujūd, unless we understand jūd as a further quality of Intellect in addition to perfection, permanence and completeness. The occurrence of such terminology should of course be checked in Ismaili texts; the reading jūd instead of wujūd is also found in one of the two MSS of J. 30. Cf. e.g. Q. 57:3 and Q. 10:4. 31. Cf. De Smet, La Quiétude de l’intellect, p. 196. 32. Epistle 31, Rasāʾil, vol. 3, p. 153.5–7. 33. Epistle 31, Rasāʾil, vol. 3, p. 167.2–7. 34. Cf. ‘The “Language of the Prophet” in the Iḫwān al-Ṣafāʾ’, in Daniel De Smet, Godefroid de Callataÿ and Jan M. F. van Reeth, ed., Al-Kitāb. La sacralité du texte dans le monde de l’Islam. Actes du Symposium International tenu à Leuven et Louvain-la-Neuve du 29 mai au 1 juin 2002 (Brussels; Louvain-laNeuve; Leuven, 2004), pp. 357–370. 35. Nāṣir-i Khusraw, Jāmiʿ al-ḥikmatayn, pp. 78.14–79.1. 36. See, e.g. Ibn Rushd, Kitāb Faṣl al-maqāl, ed. Georges F. Hourani (Leiden, 1959), p. 17. 37. Cf. my article ‘Antecedenti “orientali” per la legittimazione del taʾwīl dei filosofi in Averroè?’, in Anna Maria Di Tolla, ed., Studi Berberi e Mediterranei. Miscellanea offerta in onore di Luigi Serra, Studi maghrebini, 4 (85) (2006), pp. 131–139. 38. Cf. Nāṣir-i Khusraw, Kitāb Jāmiʿ al-ḥikmatayn, pp. 121.18–122.1. These ideas recall well-known Sijistanian contexts that are widely echoed in the cosmology of the Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ. 39. Nāṣir-i Khusraw adds also that ‘The Soul, derived with regard to Intellect, is a principle for the imam and the jadd’ (cf. Kitāb Jāmiʿ al-ḥikmatayn, p. 155.5–9). 40. Cf. my articles ‘Al-Madīnah al-Fāḍilah in al-Fārābī and in the Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ: A Comparison’, in Stefan Leder with Hilary Kilpatrick, Bernadette

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Carmela Baffioni Martel-Thoumian and Hannelore Schönig, ed., Studies in Arabic and Islam. Proceedings of the 19th Congress, Union européenne des arabisants et islamisants, Halle 1998 (Leuven, 2002), pp. 3–12; ‘Ideological Debate and Political Encounter in the Iḫwān al-Ṣafāʾ’, in Antonino Pellitteri, ed., Mağāz. Culture e contatti nell’area del Mediterraneo. Il ruolo dell’Islam. Atti del XXI Congresso, Union européenne des arabisants et islamisants, Palermo, 27–30 settembre 2002 (Palermo, 2003), pp. 33–41; ‘Temporal and Religious Connotations of the “Regal Policy” in the Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ’, in Emma Gannagé et al., ed., The Greek Strand in Islamic Political Thought. Proceedings of the Conference held at the Institute for Advanced Study, Princeton, 16–27 June 2003, Mélanges de l’Université Saint-Joseph, 57 (2004), pp. 337–365; ‘The “History of the Prophet” in the Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ’, in Binyamin Abrahamov, ed., Studies in Arabic and Islamic Culture II (RamatGan, 2006), pp. 7–31; ‘History, Language and Ideology in the Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ View of the Imāmate’, in Barbara Michalak-Pikulska and Alexander Pikulski, ed., Authority, Privacy and Public Order in Islam. Proceedings of the 22nd Congress, Union européenne des arabisants et islamisants (Leuven, 2006), pp. 17–27.

9

Some Aspects of the External Relations of the Qarāmiṭa in Baḥrayn1 István Hajnal

I The radical dissidents of the Ismaili movement, the Qarmaṭīs (Qarāmiṭa) of Baḥrayn, acquired a particularly terrifying reputation in both the eastern and the western lands of the ʿAbbasid empire. This was due, first of all, to their military forces, which represented, at that time, the most dreadful and effective army in the whole of the Muslim world, and, secondly, to their constant raids and devastating marauding campaigns against the caravan routes of southern ʿIraq and the urban centres of the region. Their military presence posed a permanent threat to the whole area, and it became one of the principal contributing factors in the disintegration of the caliphate. In 316/928, Baghdad narrowly escaped the Qarmaṭī occupation, unlike Mecca which suffered hugely from their invasion in 319/930. The Qarāmiṭa of Baḥrayn and other dissident eastern Ismailis refused to recognise the Fatimid caliphs as their imams, continuing to adhere to their previous doctrine after the establishment in 297/909 of the Fatimid caliphate, and thus were still awaiting the appearance of their hidden imam, Muḥammad b. Ismāʿīl, as the Mahdī who would initiate the final religious epoch.2 They based their legitimacy and their policies, opposing Sunni Islam and the ʿAbbasid caliphate, on the representation of this theocratic and charismatic leader, the Imam-Mahdī. Well aware of their own military power, and regardless of the fact that it was one of their primary political instruments, they also utilised a wide range of diplomatic means to develop partnerships with other powers, displaying an amazing flexibility not usually associated with sectarian attitudes, as well as political manoeuvring that astonished their 227

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c­ ontemporaries no less than it has modern researchers. The main concern in this study will be to shed light on some of these efforts and the motivations behind them, and military events will be discussed only insofar as they are relevant to a clarification of such motivations. The Ismaili mission (daʿwa) appeared in Baḥrayn, in the coastal region of eastern Arabia, to the south of ʿIraq, in 281/894 or perhaps even earlier in 273/886. In the early Islamic period, the term Baḥrayn applied to the mainland areas of al-Ḥasā province of today’s Saudi Arabia as well as to the island nowadays called Baḥrayn, which was then known as Uwāl. Baḥrayn was near the centre of the ʿAbbasid empire and was situated on the main commercial sea route running from India, China and Africa to ʿIraq. It was therefore the principal channel for commerce in the Persian Gulf. The merchants of Baṣra, Sīrāf, Baḥrayn and ʿUmān used this channel to transport various commodities, such as precious stones, ivory, timber, spices and metals. Baḥrayn’s territory was bounded on three sides by flourishing centres of trade: Baṣra to the north, ʿUmān to the south and Sīrāf, Sīnīz and Jannāba on the coast of Persia. The territory itself was inhabited by a heterogeneous population, with villagers of Nabaṭean origin in the oases and craftsmen and merchants of Persian and/or Jewish origin travelling through the Persian Gulf to ports such as Baṣra and Sīrāf. The towns of Baḥrayn had an interest in increasing their share in the great Indian trade passing through the Persian Gulf. In the countryside and desert areas there were the poor transhumant bedouin tribes who had a low opinion of the rich sedentary population. The governors of this region, appointed by the central authorities in Damascus, and later in Baghdad, never settled in Baḥrayn. The absence of a strong effective authority, as well as the strategic location, made Baḥrayn a suitable breeding ground for rebel groups. Formerly, the province had served as a stronghold for the Khawārij, and again later for the slave revolt of the Zanj. There were Shiʿi communities in its towns and the hostility between the province and wealthy Baṣra was intense.3 II By 286/899 Abū Saʿīd al-Jannābī, one of the founding fathers of the Ismaili mission (daʿwa) in Baḥrayn, had made numerous converts among the nomadic tribes and the townspeople alike, and he married into one of the leading local trading and landowning families, that of the Banū Sanbar. He also looked for allies from the bedouins of the desert and found them

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mainly among the Banū Kilāb and Banū ʿUqayl tribes.4 With the support of the nomadic tribes, Abū Saʿīd conquered a large part of Baḥrayn and also the town of Qaṭīf in the coastal region of eastern Arabia. Within a short while, his troops were in control of the territories around Hajar, the capital of Baḥrayn, and were drawing close to Baṣra.5 The alliance between Abū Saʿīd’s daʿwa, its followers among the settled population and the bedouin was to prove extremely effective, and the developing Qarmaṭī community became a menacing presence for their neighbours. In 287/900 the Qarāmiṭa were in control of the suburbs of Hajar, and after a long siege the seat of the ʿAbbasid governor was taken, and al-ʿAbbās b. ʿAmr al-Ghanawī, who had been appointed by the caliph al-Muʿtaḍid (r. 279–289/892–902), was captured, but later released with a letter for the caliph.6 In his message, declaring his disapproval of the presence of the ʿAbbasid authorities in the area and warning the caliph to leave him in peace and not to intervene in the affairs of Baḥrayn again, the Qarmaṭī leader declared clearly his authority over the region: Why do you [have to] violate your dignity (li-ma takhruqu haybatak) and let your soldiers be killed and give reason to your enemies to hope [for your defeat], sending armies in my pursuit? I am a man dwelling in the desert, where there is neither agriculture nor animal husbandry, and yet I have taken pleasure in this rough life. … Look [and you will see] that I have not, by use of force, deprived you of any land that belonged to you (mā ghaṣabtuk baladan kāna fī yadik), nor have I caused your power to cease in any territory (wa lā azaltu sulṭānak ʿan ʿamal).

Abū Saʿīd al-Jannābī proceeds to observe that even in the case of a possible assault by the ʿAbbasid armies, the attackers would have little or no chance of winning against him, since he was completely at home in those remote desert lands. Apart from his effective military advantage in that sort of natural environment, his confidence was further strengthened by the fact that he was head of a messianic movement in the ascendant and felt no need of any legitimisation through appointment by the caliph, unlike many of the warlords of the period. Shortly afterwards, the Qarāmiṭa decisively defeated an ʿAbbasid army and Baṣra began to feel threatened again, although there would be no second attack on the city. The city was extremely important to the ʿAbbasid government for controlling the trade in goods from India and the Persian Gulf. However, the Qarāmiṭa failed in their attempt to take control of the trade route to Baṣra.7 Then they tried to extend their

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authority to the adjoining regions including Yamāma and in particular to ʿUmān, which occupied a key position in the Persian Gulf as regards maritime commerce with the Far East.8 Eventually Abū Saʿīd established his headquarters near Hajar at al-Aḥsāʾ, which later became the capital of the Qarmaṭī state in Baḥrayn in 314/926. Abū Saʿīd, like other Qarmaṭī missionaries, gave expression to his firm belief in the imminent appearance of the Mahdī on several occasions and claimed to be acting on behalf of the awaited Mahdī who had been expected to appear in 300/912. The unfulfilled expectations of the adherents quite probably caused frustration within the daʿwa, which may have been a factor in the murder of the head of the nascent Qarmaṭī principality, that is to say, Abū Saʿīd al-Jannābī, and other leaders of the movement in 300/913–914.9 III Abū Saʿīd was succeeded by the eldest of his seven sons, Abu’l-Qāsim Saʿīd, who governed with a council of notables (al-ʿiqdāniyya) in the following years.10 During the rule of Abu’l-Qāsim Saʿīd, who was a leader of peaceful character, the Qarāmiṭa refrained from troubling the territories of the caliphate and maintained good relations with the ʿAbbasid government, being in fact engaged in extensive negotiations with the famous ʿAbbasid vizier ʿAlī b. ʿĪsā b. Jarrāḥ (d. 334/946) regarding his peace initiatives. The ʿAbbasid vizier, after assuming office in 301/913 and again in 303/916, dispatched embassies to the Qarāmiṭa. In 301/913 ʿAlī b. ʿĪsā advised the caliph al-Muqtadir (r. 295–317/908–929) to communicate with the Qarmaṭī leader Abū Saʿīd to establish better relations, and he wrote a letter in the caliph’s name admonishing and rebuking the Qarāmiṭa and summoning them to obedience. However, Abū Saʿīd died before the message reached the Qarāmiṭa, and his successors sent a conciliatory reply to the ʿAbbasid court releasing, as a gesture, the captives whose cause the messengers had pleaded. In one of his letters written to the vizier ʿAlī b. ʿĪsā, the Qarmaṭī leader Abu’l-Qāsim Saʿīd says: Regarding what he mentioned about us, namely our secession (infirād) from the community, [I can state that] – may God give you support – we have not seceded from either obeisance or the community, but have been forced to separate from it, leave our homelands, and it has been deemed licit [to spill] our blood. … Originally, we were seen as honourable and we

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busied ourselves with our trade and our livelihood, keeping aloof from all manner of sins, and observing all the religious obligations. However, some impudent and shameless people, not known for their piety, made hateful [rumours] against us, and they kept besmirching our reputation with [claims of] communism (bi’l-sawiyya) [of women] among us, and not observing what is licit and illicit. Therefore we had to flee, and whoever stayed behind was captured with ropes and chains; and thus we had to seek refuge in a [distant] land [lit. ‘island’, jazīra]. Then we sent [envoys] to get back our properties and womenfolk, but they would not let us, deciding to go to war against us instead. So we could not but seek redress in combat [ḥākamnāhum ilā’l-sayf].11

Such statements on the part of the Qarmaṭī leader strongly suggest that it was external pressures and political circumstances that forced the Qarāmiṭa to go into isolation and take up defensive positions. This conclusion is further buttressed by some specimens of their correspondence, in which the Qarāmiṭa declared that they considered themselves to be faithful Muslims, even though their opponents would accuse them of being infidels and brand their beliefs as heretical deviations. All the while, they also asserted that they were opposed to the rule of the ʿAbbasids and their supporters, who led a luxurious life and committed acts prohibited by the sacred law of Islam (sharīʿa).12 Presumably the Qarāmiṭa’s decision to develop Baḥrayn’s commercial relations with the other regions of the Persian Gulf was due to their favourable geographical situation, and they seem to have sought trading opportunities from the ʿAbbasid government. Their approach was accepted by ʿAlī b. ʿĪsā, who was known as the ‘Good Vizier’, in the hope that, by allowing them to develop their trade, he would avert a Qarmaṭī invasion of southern ʿIraq. As long as ʿAlī b. ʿĪsā held power in the ʿAbbasid government, this policy of ‘peace for privileges’ prevailed, and before being dismissed from the vizierate in 303/915–916 he allowed money and weapons to be sent to the Qarāmiṭa of Baḥrayn and granted them prerogatives such as the use of the port of Sīrāf and the right to trade freely in it.13 IV In 311/923–924 or probably even earlier, Abu’l-Qāsim Saʿīd was forced to resign by his younger, much more militant brother Abū Ṭāhir Sulaymān, and in the same year the ʿAbbasid vizier ʿAlī b. ʿĪsā lost power to his main rival, the Shiʿi Ibn al-Furāt (d. 312/924), who was less inclined to take a conciliatory attitude towards the Qarāmiṭa of Baḥrayn. As a result, they

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ended their temporarily peaceful relations with the ʿAbbasid government and took this occasion for reopening hostilities against the caliph’s empire.14 A few days after the change of viziers in the court of the caliph, the Qarāmiṭa of Baḥrayn started a series of raids on the main towns of southern ʿIraq and thenceforth continued pillaging the pilgrim caravans over a period of almost half a century. Shortly after looting Baṣra in 311/923, they attacked a pilgrim caravan returning from Mecca to Habīr, and captured many distinguished pilgrims, among them the Hamdanid amir Abu’l-Hayjāʾ, who in 311/923– 924 had been given the responsibility of ensuring the security of the pilgrimage route by the ʿAbbasid government.15 Abu’l-Hayjāʾ was able to negotiate not only his own release but that of other captives as well. This apparently close relationship with the Qarāmiṭa, who usually put their prisoners to death, was seen by the French historian M. Canard as a sign of sympathy between the Ismaili Qarāmiṭa and the Shiʿi Hamdanids. But according to H. Kennedy, the occasional signs of cordiality between them were probably the result of momentary convergences of political interests rather than of any lasting religious sympathy.16 Later, during the crisis of 315/927–928, Abu’l-Hayjāʾ played a key role in defending ʿIraq when the Qarāmiṭa had reached ʿAyn al-Tamr near Anbār on the Euphrates and presented a serious threat to Baghdad. Abu’lHayjāʾ as well as his three brothers were part of the army sent to keep the Qarāmiṭa in check. Whereas his father, Abū Saʿīd, had been supported at the beginning of his mission mainly by bedouins, Abū Ṭāhir al-Jannābī pursued a broader external policy by which his nomadic military troops acted to promote the interests of the merchants, the most important stratum of the townspeople of Baḥrayn. Their interests were, from then on, a decisive factor in his policy, determining both the internal conditions of the developing Qarmaṭī statehood and its external policy. The successive changes of this policy are clearly indicated by the accounts of the chroniclers. Amid these political changes, an independent Qarmaṭī principality developed out of what had been simply a radical messianic movement, legitimised by the representation of the theocratic leader of the ImamMahdī, and this state effectively enforced the measures of a militant external policy in defence of its local, mainly commercial interests. As mentioned above, the Qarāmiṭa had previously been granted trading rights in Sīrāf by the ʿAbbasid government in 303/915, but they had soon come to realise that due to their regional location it was not suffi-

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cient. Perceptibly, their purpose was to secure a share in the profits of the trade of the Persian Gulf and the Syrian–ʿIraqi and Arabian deserts. Thus they proceeded to occupy the ports of ʿUmān, and so came to dominate the Persian Gulf’s southern Arabian coast. Afterwards, they tried to establish points of control on the Persian side of the gulf. Their attack on Baṣra was enough to frighten trade away from this flourishing port and divert it to their own ports where they imposed and collected their own taxes.17 For the land routes, they first turned to the pilgrim caravans, which were also important trade vehicles. Then they turned to the north–south trade route bordering the Syrian–ʿIraqi desert, and tried to attack and dominate the marketplaces along this route. Later, their intention was to seize what they considered to be taxes and what their opponents preferred to call ‘protection money’ (khifāra).18 When, some time later, Abu’l-Hayjāʾ and other prisoners of the first attack on the pilgrim caravans were released, they arrived in Baghdad as delegates from Abū Ṭāhir, demanding that Ahwāz, Baṣra and even other territories be ceded to the Qarmaṭīs.19 But the demand of the Qarāmiṭa was rejected and in 312/924–925 the pilgrims were attacked again and Kūfa was sacked.20 The pilgrimage (ḥajj) of 313/926 was allowed to proceed in peace only after the payment of a considerable sum.21 It was under such circumstances that the ʿAbbasid caliph al-Muqtadir recalled to ʿIraq the ruler of Azarbayjan and Armenia, the amir Ibn Abi’lSāj, in order to keep the Qarmaṭī threat in check.22 After further plundering of Kūfa by the Qarāmiṭa and when Baghdad itself was threatened, the vizier al-Khaṣībī (r. 313–314/925–927) sent Ibn Abi’l-Sāj additional military forces. The latter had been camping in Wāsiṭ to prepare himself for the forthcoming battle with the Qarāmiṭa. ʿAlī b. ʿĪsā was recalled and appointed as vizier after the dismissal of al-Khaṣībī in 314/926. He carried out an investigation into al-Khaṣībī’s impractical decision to employ Ibn Abi’l-Sāj’s forces that were accustomed to fighting mainly in mountainous terrain. ʿAlī b. ʿĪsā, realising that Ibn Abi’l-Sāj would not be successful, suggested that it would be better to employ the bedouin Banū Asad to guard the pilgrimage and the Banū Shaybān to attack the Qarāmiṭa. His advice was not accepted. At any rate, this idea was put forward too late to be acted on. The caliph’s troops were again defeated and Ibn Abi’l-Sāj himself was captured and later killed in 315/928.23 Thereupon the Qarāmiṭa advanced as far as the banks of the Euphrates, seized Anbār and crossed the river with the intention of entering Baghdad. The capital was alarmed at these developments but their progress was halted, temporarily, by the army of Muʾnis al-Khādim (d. 321/933), the

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ʿAbbasid commander-in-chief, who had earlier defended Egypt against the Fatimid troops.24 Apart from that, the ʿAbbasid government was incapable of handling the situation. The presence of the Qarāmiṭa of Baḥrayn in the region, lasting for almost two years, incited their coreligionists from southern ʿIraq, who were concentrated in the surroundings (sawād) of Kūfa, to rebellion.25 The bedouin tribes roaming the steppe region of Junbulāʾ and Tall Fakhkhār between the Euphrates and Wāsiṭ – the Banū Rifāʿa, Banū Dhuhl and Banū ʿAbs and Banū ʿIjl – among whom the Ismaili mission (daʿwa) had been active for more than fifty years, now became reinvigorated and decided to establish the ‘realm’ (balad) of the Mahdī.26 However, the troops of the Qarāmiṭa withdrew all at once to the western bank of the Euphrates, and returned to Baḥrayn because of the confused state of their internal affairs.27 According to the sources, the intensive military actions of the Qarāmiṭa during this time were accompanied by increased eschatological expectations. Abū Ṭāhir, like other Qarmaṭī missionaries (duʿāt) of the eastern territories, was at that time predicting the imminent arrival of the Mahdī on the basis of astrological calculations following the conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn in the year 316/928. This occurrence, according to Qarmaṭī tenets, was expected to end the era of Islam and initiate the final religious epoch. For the reception of the Mahdī they had completed the construction of a fortified refuge, an ‘abode of migration’ (dār al-hijra) near al-Aḥsāʾ.28 There is a letter attributed to Abū Ṭāhir, originating from around 313/925, which has been preserved by the Yemeni scholar of the fifth/ eleventh century, Muḥammad Ibn Mālik al-Ḥammādī.29 According to François de Blois, the author of the letter, that is Abū Ṭāhir, presents himself in rhyming prose as a defender of the purity of the faith, and the puritanical attitude palpable in the letter’s text is a powerful proof of its authenticity. Abū Ṭāhir redirects all the accusations voiced previously by the caliph back towards the caliph himself. Abū Ṭāhir accuses the caliph of being a morally corrupt person surrounded by an equally corrupt entourage, referring to him by the title ‘prince of the corrupt’ (amīr al-fāsiqīn). His own destructive and deadly rampages he justifies by claiming that he had previously ascertained his victims’ obvious sinful and deplorable conduct (mā faʿaltu dhālik illā baʿd wuḍūḥ al-ḥujja ka-īḍāḥ al-shams … wa-muʿāyanatī minhum akhlāq al-fujjār). All these charges are phrased by Abū Ṭāhir in the rigorous parlance of a radical Shiʿi heir to the most severe Khārijī mentality, who completely rejects any reliance

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on the standard Sunni authorities by referring to the caliph as ‘one who lies about God Almighty and about His Messenger – God bless him and his family – supported by chains of tradition on the authority of sinful shaykhs (bi-asānīd ʿan mashāyikh fajara)’. Abū Ṭāhir’s declarations in the letter are to be understood in the context of the contemporary atmosphere of strong and widespread messianic expectations, reflected in the following phrasing of Abū Ṭāhir ‘… The Expected Imam [i.e. the Mahdī] has risen, like a ferocious lion, all garbed in victory, girded with the sword of wrath, with no need for the support of the bedouin [al-ʿarab]. In his efforts in God’s cause, no blame can be attached to him.’ It is my emphatic opinion that, in contrast to de Blois’s view, Abū Ṭāhir does not claim here to be the expected Mahdī himself, a declaration that would be quite inconsistent with the pseudo-Mahdī intermezzo that took place not much later. I find the suggestion of such a quick turnaround in Abū Ṭāhir’s policy and declarations very improbable, all the more so as the Qarmaṭī plans to attack Mecca must have been already hatched in their circles.30 It was in such circumstances that in the year 317/930 the troops of Abū Ṭāhir made a surprise attack on Mecca during the pilgrimage season, massacred the pilgrims and carried away the Black Stone to demonstrate the end of the era of Islam. Their unprecedented act shocked the Muslim world, and most of our sources relate that, shortly afterwards, the Fatimid caliph ʿAbd Allāh sent a letter to Abū Ṭāhir reproving him and requesting him to return the Black Stone. But his commands, like some similar demands put to him by the ʿAbbasids, were of no concern in Baḥrayn.31 In 318/930, with the conquest of ʿUmān, the Qarāmiṭa of Baḥrayn acquired hegemony over the region and thus became an imminent danger to their neighbours. Now they were finally in a position to reattempt the invasion of southern ʿIraq. In 319/931 they advanced, however, only as far as Kūfa, which they plundered again.32 Their irresistible advance was checked only by internal troubles developing in the Qarmaṭī community in Baḥrayn. During the month of Ramaḍān 319/931, Abū Ṭāhir, who had been expecting the coming of the Mahdī since 316/929, transferred rule to a young Persian prisoner of war from Iṣfahān in whom he recognised the expected Mahdī, and declared the establishment of the final religious era, that of Paradise on Earth. But events took a very different turn from what had commonly been expected by the dissident eastern Qarmaṭīs for the advent of the Mahdī, who would reveal the truths concealed in the scriptures of the Prophets of Judaism, Christianity and Islam, and put an end to the era of Islam. However, in his short reign, the Iṣfahānī declared all previous religions to be invalid, and

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ordered the damnation of all prophets. Then he allowed various extreme forms of behaviour, and even ordered that prominent Qarmaṭī leaders be put to death. Abū Ṭāhir was finally forced to execute him and acknowledge that he had been deceived by a false Mahdī.33 This unfortunate attempt at a theocratic statehood headed by the Mahdī shows that the expectation of the Qarāmiṭa of Baḥrayn for the advent of Mahdī was not related to the physically visible Fatimid imam-caliphs, though the underlying motives of the events are extremely complex. On the other hand, the episode of the pseudo-Mahdī severely demoralised the Qarāmiṭa of Baḥrayn and weakened their influence over other dissident Qarmaṭīs in the east. Many of their adherents, mainly of the Ājamīs of ʿIraq and the tribal Arab chiefs, left Baḥrayn and came to offer their services to the armies of Sunni rulers during the following decades.34 After the rejection of the pseudo-Mahdī, the Qarāmiṭa of Baḥrayn appear to have returned to their former beliefs and claimed to be acting on the orders of the hidden Mahdī. However, in the years following the desecration of the sanctuary in Mecca and the intermezzo of the pseudoMahdī, eschatological expectations perceptibly decreased among them, and commercial interests again became the primary factor influencing Qarmaṭī policy. There was a revival of the ‘peace for privileges’ principle that gave priority to economic interests over ideology, a policy that had already proved successful in the time of the early daʿwa under the leadership of Abu’l-Qāsim Saʿīd, the eldest son of the community’s founder, Abū Saʿīd al-Jannābī. In the spirit of this pursuit, the Qarāmiṭa sought more advantageous destinations for raiding expeditions. They set out from their port of Qaṭīf to cross the Persian Gulf to the opposite region of the Iranian coast. Two coastal towns in Fārs suffered at their hands – Sīnīz in 321/933 and Tawwaj in 322/934.35 Their purpose was clearly to ruin any centres of textile manufacture which could compete with al-Aḥsāʾ. They carried out further raids on southern ʿIraq and the south of Persia, and continued to block the pilgrim caravan routes. From 317/929 to 327/939 no pilgrim caravans left ʿIraq and the eastern provinces for fear of the Qarāmiṭa, except on two occasions when they were given permission by the latter.36 Since the pilgrimage had become impossible for years and the military actions of the Qarāmiṭa were continuing, the chamberlain (ḥājib) of the new ʿAbbasid caliph al-Rāḍī (r. 322–329/934–940), Muḥammad b. Yāqūt, entered into negotiations with Abū Ṭāhir in 322/934 for the recognition of the authority of the caliphate, to put an end to the latter’s interference with pilgrimages, and for the returning of the Black Stone. In exchange, Abū

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Ṭāhir would receive official authorisation for ruling the regions which he de facto possessed or had conquered. The Qarāmiṭa refused again to restore the Black Stone to its original place but agreed to stop obstructing the pilgrimage routes and offered to have Friday prayer (khuṭba) read in the name of the ʿAbbasid caliph if they were allowed to obtain provisions from Baṣra and use its port freely – clearly a vital need for the oasis region of Baḥrayn.37 However, Abū Ṭāhir did not keep his promise to cease obstructing the ḥajj, since the Qarāmiṭa attacked the pilgrim caravans the following year. As a result, most of the pilgrims returned to Baghdad without completing the pilgrimage.38 Despite their rejection of the offer of the caliphal court of Baghdad, the willingness of the Qarāmiṭa of Baḥrayn to agree to a peaceful settlement marked a step towards the renewal of their former policy of ‘peace for privileges’.39 Nevertheless they again attacked the pilgrimage route, defeated the troops of the caliph between Kūfa and Qādisiyya and occupied the town of Kūfa itself for several days before returning to Baḥrayn.40 In 325/937, Abū Ṭāhir again entered Kūfa, and carried on further negotiations with the recently appointed ʿAbbasid ‘overlord’ (amīr al-umarā), Ibn Rāʾiq. In reply to the demand of the Qarāmiṭa, who wanted the caliph to give them 120,000 dinars a year in silver and supplies, Ibn Rāʾiq proposed that Abū Ṭāhir and his troops should consider themselves to be enrolled in the service of the caliph and that this sum be regarded as a form of salary. However, no agreement was achieved.41 Finally, after prolonged negotiations in 327/938–939, the Qarāmiṭa of Baḥrayn made peace with the authorities in Baghdad, and a working agreement was reached between Abū Ṭāhir and the ʿAbbasid government through the efforts of Abū ʿAlī Muḥammad b. Yaḥyā, an ʿAlid from Kūfa and a friend of the Qarmaṭī leader. Under this agreement, the Qarāmiṭa promised to protect the pilgrims in return for an annual tribute of 120,000 dinars from the ʿAbbasid treasury.42 ʿAbd al-Jabbār al-Hamadhānī confirms in his account of the events that in this agreement, it was Abū Ṭāhir who took the initiative. ʿAbd al-Jabbār attributed this to the role of the tribal allies in forcing the Qarmaṭī leader to reach a settlement after the disastrous false Mahdī intermezzo.43 He also relates that Abū Ṭāhir apologised to the caliph al-Rāḍī for the earlier aggressive behaviour of his followers and condemned their tribal allies who lived off his beneficence yet disobeyed him.44 To be sure, the agreement made a significant contribution towards restoring the prestige of the Qarmaṭī leader, which had been undermined by the episode of the pseudo-Mahdī. As regards the pilgrimage caravan, taxes were imposed on each person

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and each load of goods. In return for this protection fee (khifāra), to be paid by the pilgrims from then onwards, the Qarāmiṭa themselves took over the leadership of the caravan, and made sure that it proceeded unmolested. This arrangement held up to 335/947, when the caravan was again unable to proceed in safety, as a result of initial difficulties that the Buyid amir Muʿizz al-Dawla (r. 334–356/945–967) experienced in dealing with the Qarāmiṭa. Safe conduct for the pilgrimage caravan was re-established in 339/951 and this state of affairs continued without interruption until 364/974, when troubles in ʿIraq impeded the merchants of Baghdad from joining the Khurāsānīs, who completed the pilgrimage without any hindrance.45 V After the death of Abū Ṭāhir in 332/944, power came to be held collectively by his brothers, the ‘leading masters’ (al-sāda al-ruʾasāʾ), who continued his recent peaceful policy. Thus the pilgrimage went on undisturbed again, but the Black Stone was still kept in al-Aḥsāʾ. Of Abū Ṭāhir’s brothers, Abu’l-Qāsim Saʿīd (d. 361/972) and Abū Manṣūr Aḥmad (d. 359/970) were the ones who took over leadership in the Qarmaṭī principality; the son of the latter, Abū ʿAlī al-Ḥasan (d. 366/977), also known as al-Aʿṣam, served as the commander of the army. On the other hand, the seven surviving sons of Abū Ṭāhir – the eldest being called Sābūr (d. 358/969) – were definitively put aside. But the greatest influence, according to the report of Ibn Ḥawqal, was wielded by the shaykh of the Banū Sanbar, Abū Muḥammad Sanbar, the individual who in 339/951 returned the Black Stone, which had been stolen from the sanctuary of the Kaʿba by the Qarāmiṭa, to Mecca.46 In the mid-fourth/tenth century, the ʿAbbasid caliphs were in the hands of a series of Turkish or Iranian warlords, who, with the title of amīr al-umarāʾ, had actual control of the state, albeit usually only for a brief period of time each. In the year 334/945, the title was conferred on a member of the Buyid family, and the Shiʿi Buyid amirs took possession of Baghdad and became the real protectors of the ʿAbbasid empire for over a century. As masters of  ʿIraq and all of western Iran, the Buyids also sought to win back control of the Persian Gulf, both coastlines of which had been lost to the ʿAbbasids. Thus they were bound to confront the Qarāmiṭa of Baḥrayn. Dominating the Iranian plateau and expanding into ʿIraq, the Buyids were in a favourable position and could control most of the east–west and north–south trade routes, and control of the southern

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coastline of Persia enabled them to participate in Indian Ocean trade.47 Before the Buyid period, the slow collapse of the military and administrative structure of the caliphate had brought raids by Arab tribes, but these were limited first to those by the Qarāmiṭa in the south, and those by the nomads whom the Hamdanids joined with in the north. However, Muʾnis al-Khādim had been careful to keep the Arabs from supporting Hamdanid ambitions after the threat of the Qarāmiṭa had subsided. But with the office of amīr al-umarāʾ, the Arabs became a source of manpower for the small armies led by any contender for power. The Qarāmiṭa, and the Banū Tamīm, Qushayrī and Numayrī tribes, were all made use of by the various military alliances in ʿIraq.48 To the south, the Qarāmiṭa were given the right to protect the pilgrim caravans throughout the period 324–334/936–945, much to their satisfaction. A tax imposed on the people and goods departing from ʿIraq assured their safe passage to Medina and Mecca. In these circumstances assigning military forces to ensure the safety of the main routes was unnecessary, their function now being carried out partly by the Hamdanids and the Qarāmiṭa.49 The early Buyid amirs in ʿIraq, Muʿizz al-Dawla and Bakhtiyār ʿIzz al-Dawla (r. 356–366 or 367/967–977 or 978), continued to leave the north and the east to the Hamdanids. The Khurāsān route was entrusted to the Kurds in the area of Ḥulwān. The Qarāmiṭa, however, had no place in the arrangements of Muʿizz al-Dawla. They were denied their old privileges which they phrased in terms of ownership of the desert to the west of Baṣra. Their power had waned, and Muʿizz al-Dawla was able to supply sufficient protection for the pilgrimage caravan himself. The situation changed under Bakhtiyār, whether due to a resurgence of Arab power in the south, or to his own negligence, and he felt the need to conciliate the Qarāmiṭa by granting them an iqṭāʿ at Saqy al-Furāt in order to ensure the free passage of pilgrims.50 Soon after occupying Baghdad, the Buyids set out to capture Baṣra, which had been in the hands of the Barīdīs, a very wealthy and influential Shiʿi family of tax farmers, since the last years of effective central government. Abu’l-Qāsim, the last of the Barīdī family, was held in check for two years through the grant of a contract for the farming of tax arrears in Wāsiṭ to the value of 1,600,000 dirhams. But once a settlement with the Hamdanid amir Nāṣir al-Dawla (r. 317–357/929–968) had been secured, Muʿizz al-Dawla turned his attention to Baṣra and in 336/948 completely overcame al-Barīdī. With this the main centres in ʿIraq were under Buyid control and the most important port in the gulf was in their hands. Abu’l-

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Qāsim al-Barīdī was forced to flee to the Qarāmiṭa of Baḥrayn at Hajar.51 For their part the Qarāmiṭa had not undertaken any attack against Baṣra during the period of Barīdī control and this indicates that they had amicable relations with them. This was manifested in the dispatch of valuable presents by Abū ʿAbd Allāh al-Barīdī to Abū Ṭāhir on the occasion of the birth of his son in 331/942. The good relations between the Barīdīs and the Qarāmiṭa of Baḥrayn encouraged trade through Baṣra with the two parties sharing the benefits thereof. Evidently this situation was disadvantageous for the Buyids and the merchants of ʿUmān alike. Nevertheless, having established themselves in Baṣra, the Buyids attempted to come to an understanding with the Qarāmiṭa. Although the Qarāmiṭa seem to have accepted these Buyid initiatives, there were serious differences between them because of attempts by the Qarāmiṭa to establish control over the Persian side of the gulf.52 In order to assert their authority, the Qarāmiṭa sent a letter to Muʿizz al-Dawla declaring they disapproved of his proceeding through the region which they considered to be theirs, without first seeking their consent. The Buyid amir disregarded their message telling the messenger that one of his aims in taking Baṣra was to prevent them gaining any more power.53 The ʿUmānīs, who had made every effort to preserve their interests, aware of the disagreement between the Buyids and the Qarāmiṭa of Baḥrayn, sought the cooperation of the Qarmaṭīs against the Buyid amirs in Baghdad.54 According to Masʿūdī the Qarāmiṭa of Baḥrayn had been interested in ʿUmān and had a military base there which enabled them to have a significant influence over the affairs of the region.55 For the time being the Buyids ignored the role of the Qarāmiṭa and directed their action solely against the ʿUmānīs.56 The final occupation of ʿUmān, that is of the vital strategic coastal areas of the region, by the Buyids whether of Fārs or of ʿIraq, was obviously related to considerations of economic security. However, it should also be said that the Qarāmiṭa were no longer able to assert their influence in the area.57 In order to deflect the imminent threat of the Qarāmiṭa, Muʿizz al-Dawla sought to reach a peaceful agreement with them. Eventually in 336/948 an agreement based on their common interests was reached by the two sides, thus enabling them to live in peace with each other. The Buyids allowed the Qarāmiṭa to have their own customs house for goods taking the overland route from Baṣra and ʿIraq to Baḥrayn alongside theirs by the gates of Baṣra.58 They also had another customs post on the island of Uwāl, which lay on the route taken by merchant ships inward bound for Baṣra and ʿIraq or outward bound for ʿUmān, Sīrāf, India,

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China and Africa. The agreement was supplemented by a specified duty on the important pilgrimage land routes from Baghdad, Kūfa and Baṣra. The Buyids were willing to go to some lengths to win over the Qarāmiṭa, and ready to restrict their trading with the port of Sīrāf and divert all trade to Baṣra, where both parties could share in the benefits.59 Under these conditions of almost cordial relations, the Qarāmiṭa continued to adhere to their peace agreement with the court in Baghdad of their own free will, and finally returned the Black Stone to the Kaʿba in 339/950–951 but not, as some scholars have maintained, in response to the request of the Fatimid caliph al-Manṣūr (r. 334–341/946–953). The al-Jannābī brothers sent a letter to Baghdad, declaring their intention to restore the sacred relic. The most powerful man in Baḥrayn at that time, Abū Muḥammad Sanbar, entered Mecca, accompanied by the governor of the Holy City, bringing with him the Black Stone. He set the Stone in its place with his own hand, and a craftsman fixed it in its rightful position. Ibn Sanbar announced to the governor of Mecca that they had returned it without obligation, and only for the sake of the pilgrims who felt that the pilgrimage was not complete without the Black Stone. On the restoration of the Stone he said: ‘We took it by God’s omnipotence … and we give it back by the will of God’ (akhadhnāhu bi-qudrat Allāh wa radadnāhu bi-mashīʾatihi).60 The death of Abū Ṭāhir in 332/944 and the restoration of the Black Stone to Mecca in 339/951 represent a turning point in the development of the Qarmaṭī state in Baḥrayn: the Qarmaṭī community, which legitimised itself by claiming to represent the Imam-Mahdi, had secured recognition from its neighbours in the course of promoting its economic or, more precisely, its commercial interests, initially by pursuing a militant expansionist external policy and later by concluding agreements with various partners, on the basis of ‘peace for privileges’. Thus the Qarmaṭī community had established its state and finally attained legitimisation by integrating and assimilating into the political order of the day. After returning the Black Stone to Mecca, the Qarāmiṭa stopped their raids into ʿIraq and their attacks on the pilgrim caravans. The chroniclers do not record any military activity on their part for over a decade. On the other hand, they served the pilgrims as an armed escort. What is more, even in Baghdad itself one finds Qarmaṭīs in the entourages of certain amirs.61 The Qarāmiṭa treated Baṣra as part of their zone of influence and therefore they held that all the coastal lands of the Persian Gulf stretching from ʿUmān to the island of Uwāl and to Baṣra were under their control. Their power ranged over all the northern areas of the Arabian peninsula

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up to the frontiers of Palestine and Syria (al-Shām); in this region the Qarāmiṭa, who had been regarded as mere robbers, were now honoured as a respectable force which kept law and order and preserved the peace. When in the year 355/966 the bedouins of the Banū Sulaym pillaged the pilgrim caravan coming from Egypt and Syria, it was the Qarmaṭīs who forced the robbers to return the spoils which belonged to the Egyptians to the Ikhshidid ruler of Egypt, Kāfūr, for the Qarāmiṭa were now the unlikely protectors of the pilgrims and therefore they had to prevent acts of robbery and plunder.62 Later they maintained good relations with the Buyid rulers, who were never able to control them, however. Bakhtiyār ʿIzz al-Dawla was already on good terms with the Qarāmiṭa, having offered aid to al-Ḥasan al-Aʿṣam in 359/970 when he was marching against the Fatimids in Syria.63 Under Bakhtiyār they were given an iqṭāʿ worth 400,000 dirhams. When Bakhtiyār was caught up in the conflict between his Turkish and Daylamī military forces in 363/973–974 in Baghdad, he wrote letters asking for support from the Hamdanids and the Qarāmiṭa of Baḥrayn against his chamberlain, Sabuktigīn (Sebüktegin).64 Later Abū Shujāʿ ʿAḍud al-Dawla (r. 367–372/978–983) brought the Qarāmiṭa over to his side, thus ending their allegiance to Bakhtiyār, his cousin and rival. Thus in 366/977, when the armies of Shīrāz set out to march on ʿIraq, the Qarmaṭī Abū Bakr Muḥammad b. Shāhawayh came to Kūfa and read the Friday prayer in the name of ʿAḍud al-Dawla and the ʿAbbasid caliph al-Ṭāʾiʿ (363–393/974– 1003).65 Ibn Shāhawayh remained at the court of ʿAḍud al-Dawla as the official representative of the Qarāmiṭa and appears to have had a voice both in his council and in that of his successor. In ʿIraq and the north ʿAḍud al-Dawla was concerned with the safety of the commercial routes, as he had been in Fārs and Kirmān, so he continued to use the Qarāmiṭa. And they in fact enjoyed the privilege of having a representative in the capital and an iqṭāʿ, but it seems that they were deprived of the right to exact taxes from the pilgrim caravans.66 The accounts repeatedly refer to their friendly partnership with the Buyids based upon common interests. The Qarāmiṭa actively supported the Buyids in their struggle against the Samanids (204–395/819–1005) over their control of Rayy, and twice made an effort to help their allies.67 Presumably, they were interested in retaining their own access to Rayy, an important place on the east–west trade route through Persia and Central Asia. They had been given iqṭāʿs in the area of Kūfa and Wāsiṭ under Bakhtiyār and ʿAḍud al-Dawla.68 When the Qarmaṭī leader Abū Yaʿqūb Yūsuf died in 367/978, ʿAḍud al-Dawla wrote a letter of condolence and the sūqs in Kūfa were closed for three days.69

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These close contacts between the two sides only deteriorated after ʿAḍud al-Dawla’s death in 382/983, when his son Abū Kālījār Ṣamṣām al-Dawla (r. 372–376/983–987) seized the Qarmaṭī representative in Baghdad, thus provoking a Qarmaṭī attack on Kūfa.70 Later, in 374/985, the Banū Khafāja were given protective rights in the area of Kūfa as a counter to the Qarāmiṭa. Afterwards, in 378/988, al-Aṣfar, the chief of the Banu’lMuntafiq, further reduced the power of the Qarāmiṭa and demanded for himself the rights which they had had over the ḥajj caravans.71 VI The militant attitude of the Qarāmiṭa of Baḥrayn had a remarkable final manifestation in reaction to the Fatimid conquest of Egypt, and above all the Fatimid advance into Syria in 360/971. The Qarāmiṭa had, as has been seen, demonstrated their political interests in this region in previous years by maintaining good relations with the rulers of the Fertile Crescent, the Hamdanids and the Ikhshidids.72 Since the fourth/tenth century, the borderlands between the Islamic lands and the Byzantine empire were under the control of the indigenous Arab nomads of northern Mesopotamia, especially the Banū Taghlib, and their princes, the Hamdanids, who as amirs with their seat first at Mosul, then at Aleppo, ruled in the name of the caliphs of Baghdad. The Ikhshidids (323–358/935–969) succeeded the Tulunids (254– 292/868–905) as rulers of Egypt, southern Syria and the Ḥijāz after a brief interval of direct control from Baghdad. These lands were governed mostly by Turkish officers, who left Baghdad to seek their fortunes elsewhere and were distinguished by recognising ʿAbbasid suzerainty and treaty arrangements with the caliphs. Thus they were legitimised by the ʿAbbasid caliph and accepted by their Buyid overlords in Baghdad. The Ikhshidids, aware of the increasing threat to their rule from the growing power of the Fatimids to the west in North Africa, and in order to avoid the danger of any confrontation with the Byzantines, left the troubled northern lands of Syria to their rivals the Hamdanids to deal with. They also paid the Qarāmiṭa a sum of 300,000 dinars a year, with the aim of securing the safety of the caravans travelling on the land routes from Egypt and Syria to the Ḥijāz.73 For the first time, in 352/963, the Qarāmiṭa of Baḥrayn extended their raids as far as Palestine and pillaged Ṭabariyya. This attack was led by al-Ḥasan al-Aʿṣam, who was promoted from being a member of the collective leadership of the Qarmaṭīs to commander of the Qarmaṭī army and

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on several later occasions also commanded Qarmaṭī expeditions. The attack may have been intended to secure an increase in tribute from the Ikhshidid government, and certainly also to extend their authority over southern Syria and to control the route from there to Mecca.74 It is an indication of their standing that when the Qarāmiṭa asked their allies to send them iron to make weapons in preparation for this attack, the Hamdanid amir of Aleppo, Sayf al-Dawla (r. 333–356/944–967), took down the iron gates of Raqqa and collected the weights used by the merchants of Diyār Muḍar and sent them to Hajar.75 Immediately before the Fatimid conquest of Egypt in 358/969, the Qarāmiṭa of Baḥrayn took advantage of the disorder in Egypt to exert control over Palestine and extend their area of influence as far as the shores of the Mediterranean. Although the Ikhshidids had never been hostile to them, the Qarāmiṭā sent an expedition against Syria which dealt a heavy blow to al-Ḥasan b. ʿUbayd Allāh b. Ṭughj, the Ikhshidid governor of Syria. Then they took Damascus and sacked Ramla. Afterwards they received a considerable amount of tribute from the inhabitants of the town before returning to Baḥrayn.76 In 358/969, three months after the Fatimid army had occupied Egypt, Qarmaṭī troops under the command of al-Aʿṣam’s cousins, Kisrā and Ṣakhr, again attacked and defeated al-Ḥasan b. ʿUbayd Allāh. After this a peace treaty was concluded between the two sides under which the Ikhshidid governor promised to pay the Qarāmiṭa an annual tribute in return for their active support against the Fatimid army which was already in control of Fusṭāṭ and poised to move into Syria.77 The Qarmaṭīs were able to conquer the main town of Palestine, Ramla, and for a short period even appointed a governor, Abu’l-Munajjā, to rule Damascus. However, this campaign was only successful insofar as they had taken booty and captives, since it did not bring them any lasting territorial gains. However, since the Qarāmiṭa had pressed into Syria and had now made the western pilgrimage route unsafe also, pilgrims were staying away from the Ḥijāz. Once the commander-in-chief, Jawhar al-Ṣiqillī, had established Fatimid rule over Egypt, he made great efforts to conquer the rest of Ikhshidid territory. He sent the amir Jaʿfar b. Falāḥ to Syria to defeat the remaining Ikhshidid forces there.78 The main Qarmaṭī forces withdrew to Baḥrayn, leaving only a small contingent in Syria, and it was defeated together with the combined remaining Ikhshidid forces by the Fatimid army in 359/969. The Qarāmiṭa of Baḥrayn could hardly bring themselves to accept Fatimid dominion over Syria, since this endangered the payment of the

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annual protection money of 300,000 dinars due to them in return for guaranteeing the security of the Syrian and Egyptian pilgrimage caravans.79 The authorities in Baghdad were extremely worried about the Fatimid advances in Syria, and it was these circumstances that were instrumental in creating an unlikely alliance between the Buyid amirs in Baghdad, and the Qarāmiṭa. The government in Baghdad promised them 1.4 million silver dirhams, about 100,000 gold dinars, as well as arms for their warriors once they arrived in Kūfa. The Hamdanid ruler of Mosul, Abū Taghlib ʿUddat al-Dawla al-Ghaḍanfar (r. 356–369/967–979), also sent money and troops, these latter consisting mostly of what was left of the Ikhshidid forces.80 In 360/971 al-Ḥasan al-Aʿṣam, who had assumed the leadership over the Qarmaṭī state, left al-Aḥsāʾ with his troops, marching northwards to Kūfa to collect the armaments provided for him by the government in Baghdad. Some 1,000 armoured warriors formed the core of his army, which also included contingents from the bedouin tribes of the Syrian desert, namely the Banū ʿUqayl, and the Banū Kilāb.81 From ʿIraq the Qarmaṭī troops marched to Damascus, carrying the black flags of the ʿAbbasids displaying the name of the caliph al-Muṭīʿ (r. 334–364/946–974) and their slogan, ‘the masters who return to the Truth/God’ (‘al-sāda al-rājiʿūn ilā’l-ḥaqq’) in order to win the support of the local people.82 After acquiring the support of the Buyids and the Hamdanids of Mosul, the Qarāmiṭa also managed to reach an agreement with local leaders such as the Jarrahid family of the Banū Ṭayyiʾ in Palestine as well as in the north Arabian desert.83 With assistance from all sides, the Qarāmiṭa, under the command of al-Ḥasan al-Aʿṣam, were overwhelmingly victorious outside Damascus against the Kutāma Berbers who then made up the army of the Fatimids. The defeated general Jaʿfar b. Falāḥ was killed in the course of the battle. For the moment, the Fatimid invasion of Syria was halted.84 To demonstrate their unambiguous rejection of the Fatimids, the Qarmaṭī leader proclaimed the establishment of ʿAbbasid authority in the areas they captured and cursed the Fatimid caliph al-Muʿizz in the mosques. Al-Ḥasan al-Aʿṣam made sure that the Friday sermon was read in the name of the caliph of Baghdad, al-Muṭīʿ, and coins struck also bore the ʿAbbasid caliph’s name. In the Great Mosque of Damascus, al-Aʿṣam ascended the pulpit himself in order to deny the ʿAlid descent of the Fatimid caliphs.85 The Fatimid advance into Syria changed the pattern of political arrangements in the region from one based on dealings between a number of quarrelling groups to a conflict between two powers and their allies,

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the Fatimids on one side, allied with the Hamdanids of Aleppo and some Arab tribes such as the Banū Fazāra and Banū Murra, and the Qarāmiṭa of Baḥrayn on the other side, allied with the Buyids, the Hamdanids of Mosul and Arab clans such as the ʿUqaylids and the Jarrahids.86 Qarmaṭī attacks on Syria and Egypt continued, and they reoccupied Ramla in 361/972, defeating a strong contingent of Fatimid military. Then they marched towards Egypt and laid siege to the newly founded capital of Cairo. But the defence mounted by the Fatimid general Jawhar and the defection of some of their allies such as the Banū ʿUqayl and Banū Ṭayyiʾ, who were bought off by the Fatimids, forced the Qarāmiṭa to retreat. Furthermore, internal problems in Baḥrayn necessitated their return to al-Aḥsāʾ. Nevertheless, Damascus remained in their hands.87 After the arrival of the Fatimid caliph al-Muʿizz in Cairo in 362/973, an imminent Qarmaṭī invasion was the most alarming and impending danger. Under these circumstances the caliph sent a long threatening letter to the Qarmaṭī leader, al-Ḥasan al-Aʿṣam, which was preserved by Sharīf Akhū Muḥsin, writing shortly after 372/982.88 As W. Madelung has explained, the letter was sent essentially for political purposes. 89 It does not reveal any secrets, but rather the opponent was to be frightened with arguments designed to make the strongest possible impression on him. For his part, H. Halm90 regarded it as an important document since it provides evidence of the Fatimid caliphs’ awareness of themselves and their role, and also of their evaluation of their relationship with the Qarmaṭīs, since both groups had originated in common beliefs. In his letter, a significant proportion of which is given over to an introductory address which sets out the position of the Fatimid imams in the context of Ismaili hierohistorical worldview, al-Muʿizz established himself firmly in the line of the Shiʿi imams: ‘There is no region or clime on the earth save therein are for us ḥujjas and dāʿīs summoning on our behalf and guiding [the people] towards us’ (fa-mā min jazīratin fi’l-arḍ wa-lā iqlīmin illā wa-lanā fīhi ḥujaj wa duʿāt yadʿūna lanā wa yadullūna ʿalaynā). According to the statements of the Fatimid caliph the forebears of al-Aʿṣam, the leaders of the Qarāmiṭa of Baḥrayn, Abū Saʿīd and Abū Ṭāhir al-Jannābī, mentioned by name in the letter, had been faithful followers of the imam. However, the Qarāmiṭa of Baḥrayn had never actually recognised the Fatimid caliphs as their imams. In his letter al-Muʿizz also recalled that the earlier leaders of the Qarāmiṭa were implacable enemies of the ʿAbbasids, while their successor al-Aʿṣam allied himself with these usurpers and enemies of God. The caliph reproached him for having forsaken the Fatimid cause, condemning him as a traitor and a

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deserter (al-ghādir al-khāʾin) from the true religion, as ‘the one who has broken away and separated from the guidance of his fathers and his forefathers, the one who has cast himself off from the religion of his ancestors and his likes, the one who is the kindler for the fire of discord/temptation’ (al-nākith al-bāʾin ʿan hudā ābāʾihi wa ajdādihi, al-munsalikh min dīn aslāfihi wa andādihi, al-muwaqqid li-nār al-fitna). The Qarmaṭīs are thus urged to abandon their rebellion against their rightful masters, to return to supporting the Ismaili daʿwa (which, though successful, must have been seeking to attract an increasing number of supporters) and thus help bring back the halcyon days of the early daʿwa. Al-Muʿizz was expounding on certain eschatological visions when he claimed that it was high time for a return to the past, as the days of the caliphate in Baghdad were in his view numbered.91 The caliph argued that only immediate submission to the true imam could now save the traitor from the wrath of God. This, said the Fatimid caliph, offered three possibilities to the Qarmaṭī leader: he ought either to pay the blood money for every single Fatimid warrior killed in Syria and return all booty that had been taken – or to resuscitate all the dead – or else he should consider fleeing with all his adherents, although in this latter case the caliph threatened him with the most terrible punishment. Al-Ḥasan al-Aʿṣam sent him a short but extremely impertinent reply, which runs as follows: ‘We have received your letter which is full of detail (kathura tafṣīluhu), but empty of sense (wa qalla taḥṣīluhu). We shall follow immediately after it. Peace be with you’, and in 363/974 he proceeded to attack Egypt by land and sea, whilst an ʿAlid ally invaded Upper Egypt.92 The Qarāmiṭa besieged Cairo for the second time but were betrayed by their Jarrahid ally and were eventually defeated by Fatimid forces under the command of the son of al-Muʿizz, the future caliph al-ʿAzīz.93 Some Qarmaṭī contingents who had stayed in Syria joined forces with the Turk Alftakīn (Alptegīn), a Buyid officer who had fallen out of favour with his patrons and fled Baghdad. The inhabitants of Damascus, unhappy at the prospect of Fatimid rule, welcomed him and urged him to save their city from falling into the hands of the ‘Westerners’ (maghāriba). Then he pacified Damascus and cleared the maghāriba from its surroundings. However, a Fatimid army commanded by Jawhar arrived outside Damascus in 365/976. Alftakīn and the inhabitants of the city appealed for help to al-Ḥasan al-Aʿṣam, whose arrival from Baḥrayn obliged the Fatimid troops to retreat. Pursued by the Qarāmiṭa and the Turks, Jawhar abandoned Ramla, then ʿAsqalān. Then al-ʿAzīz, who had been caliph since 365/975, took the field against the enemy himself,

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and inflicted a severe defeat on the Qarāmiṭa, who returned to Ramla. Although the fugitive Alftakīn was soon captured, al-Ḥasan al-Aʿsam reached Lake Tiberias with his troops, and there he received an emissary from the Fatimid caliph. Al-Ḥasan al-Aʿṣam’s demand for the payment of the tribute formerly paid to them by the Ikhshidids was successful.94 As a result, the Qarāmiṭa made peace on the condition that the Fatimid caliph send them an annual tribute of 30,000 dinars, paying it in advance for the current year. Thereupon the Qarmaṭī troops returned to Baḥrayn once and for all. These sums continued to be paid until the death of al-ʿAzīz in 386/996.95 Every year, a Qarmaṭī representative would appear in Cairo to collect the sum; in return, the Qarāmiṭa would not intervene in the affairs of Syria.96 Al-Ḥasan al-Aʿṣam, for his part, died in 366/977 before he could return to al-Aḥsāʾ.97 Apart from a brief occupation of Kūfa later on, these events marked the end of the Qarmaṭī threats to the lands bordering their territories. It should be pointed out that behind the serious state of hostility and the bitter armed conflicts between the Fatimids and the Qarāmiṭa lay political and economic, but not ideological, considerations, and these had not resulted from an internal crisis among the Qarāmiṭa themselves but derived mainly from the role of the Arab tribes. It was clearly the appearance of the Fatimids in southern Syria which resulted in a conflict of interests leading to hostility and war between the two parties. Furthermore there is no accurate information in the sources to support the view that the Qarāmiṭa of Baḥrayn had been in the service of the early Fatimids and then broke off relations with them.98 In their willingness to reach an agreement with the Fatimids they had simply applied, with good results, their long-established ‘peace for privileges’ principle. Having lost the allegiance of their bedouin allies who had supported them, the Qarāmiṭa were reduced to the status of a local power restricted to Baḥrayn. In 378/988 the tribal chief from the Muntafiq branch of the Banū ʿUqayl turned against them and pillaged al-Aḥsāʾ.99 After this, the Qarāmiṭa could no longer levy imposts along the commercial routes of the north Arabian and Syrian desert; and it was the tribal leaders who took over this role. Hugh Kennedy draws attention to the fact that the presence of the Qarāmiṭa had profoundly affected the balance of power among the bedouin tribes in the north Arabian and Syrian deserts in the second half of the fourth/tenth century. 100 In the main, it was tribes which had been involved in the movement which came to dominate the area, not, however, in the name of religious ideals but for their own interests, and they were

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now led not by missionaries from the settled peoples but by their tribal leaders (shuyūkh). VII The later prosperity of the Qarmaṭī state in Baḥrayn – which as existing in 350/960 was described by the famous fourth/tenth-century geographers Muqaddasī (writing about 375/985) and Ibn Ḥawqal (d. 380/990), and was later reported on again, after many changes in its internal affairs, in 444/1052, by the Ismaili dāʿī and traveller Nāṣir-i Khusraw (d. after 462/1070) – was based on their early violent militant policy developed for the protection of their local economic interests. Thus the privileges they had gained from their neighbours laid the basis for their later welfare. Ibn Ḥawqal, who visited Baḥrayn, possibly as a Fatimid dāʿī,101 writes in his report of the 30,000 dinars of revenue received by the masters of Baḥrayn every year; they derived from the yields of the leased domains of the oases, with their date palms, fruit farms and grain fields; the tithes and the customs duties on the caravans between ʿIraq and Mecca, as well as on the ships mooring in the port of Uwāl; the protection fee given by the ḥajj pilgrims, the tribute from ʿUmān, the spoils of war, and other sources.102 Nāṣir-i Khusraw in his eyewitness account relates an interesting detail, with which for the most part Abu’l-ʿAlā al-Maʿarrī (d. 449/1057) agrees, that the Qarāmiṭa of Baḥrayn continued to await the return of the sharīf Abū Saʿīd from the dead, as he himself had promised.103 It appears that in the course of about a century the previous concept of the Mahdī had been transformed into a local myth, and some of the theocratic attributes of the Imam-Mahdī had been transferred to the founder of the Qarmaṭī daʿwa in the region, as occurred in other areas and times in a Shiʿi milieu.104 Notes 1.

2.

A previous version of this paper was published as ‘The Background Motives of the Qarmaṭī Policy in Baḥrayn’, The Arabist: Budapest Studies in Arabic, 8 (1994), pp. 9–31. I would like to thank my colleagues Saber el-Adly and Zoltán Szombathy for reading the earlier draft of this essay and giving their valuable suggestions that have helped me to clarify certain issues. On the early Ismailis, on their doctrine and on the division of the movement see Farhad Daftary, The Ismāʿīlīs: Their History and Doctrines (2nd ed., Cambridge, 2007), pp. 87–116; idem, ‘A Major Schism in the Early Ismāʿīlī Movement’, Studia Islamica, 77 (1993), pp. 123–139. Cf. Wilferd Madelung,

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4.

5. 6.

7.

István Hajnal Religious Trends in Early Islamic Iran (Albany and New York, 1988), pp. 95–98. On the region of Baḥrayn, see George Rentz and William E. Mulligan, ‘al-Baḥrayn’, EI2, vol. 1, p. 941. On its inhabitants and their occupation of the region, see ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Najm, al-Baḥrayn fī ṣadr al-Islām (Baghdad, 1973), pp. 41–78, 81–98, 127–144. See Abū Bakr b. ʿAbd Allāh Ibn al-Dawādārī, Kanz al-durar wa jāmiʿ al-ghurar, ed. Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn al-Munajjid (Cairo, 1961), vol. 6, p. 56; Cf. ʿAlī b. al-Ḥusayn al-Masʿūdī, al-Tanbīh wa’l-ishrāf, ed. Michael J. de Goeje (Beirut 1965), pp. 392–394. Al-Ṭabarī, Taʾrīkh al-rusul wa’l-mulūk, ed. Michael J. de Goeje (Leiden, 1879–1901), series 3, pp. 2188, 2192–2193. The message of the Qarāmiṭa and the caliph’s reaction to it are reported in Ghanawī’s name by al-Muḥassin b. ʿAlī al-Tanūkhī, Nishwār al-muḥāḍara wa akhbār al-mudhākara, ed. ʿAbbūd al-Shālijī (Beirut 1973), vol. 2, pp. 130–132. Another version is given by Ṭabarī, Taʾrīkh, series 3, p. 2197; ʿAlī b. Muḥammad Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, ed. and tr. Henry F. Amedroz and David S. Margoliouth (Oxford, 1921), vol. 5, pp. 13–16; ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. ʿAlī Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam fī taʾrīkh al-mulūk wa’l-umam, ed. Fritz Krenkow (Hyderabad, 1938), vol. 5, pp. 133ff.; [Anonymous] al-ʿUyūn wa’l-ḥadāʾiq fī akhbār al-ḥaqāʾiq, ed. ʿUmar Saʿīdī (Damascus, 1972–73), vol. 1, pp. 94f. A different version is found in Aḥmad b. ʿAlī al-Maqrīzī, Ittiʿāẓ al-ḥunafāʾ bi-akhbār al-aʾimma al-Fāṭimiyyīn al-khulafāʾ, ed. Jamāl al-Dīn al-Shayyāl (Cairo, 1967), vol. 1, pp. 163f. see also Shainool Jiwa tr., Towards a Shiʿi Mediterranean Empire: Fatimid Egypt and the Founding of Cairo, the Reign of the Imam-caliph al-Muʿizz from Taqī al-Dīn Aḥmad b. ʿAlī al-Maqrīzī’s Ittiʿaẓ al-ḥunafāʾ bi-akhbār al-aʾimma al-Fāṭimiyyīn al-khulafāʾ (London, 2009), p. 136. There is considerable disagreement among the sources as to the date of the Qarmaṭī attack on Baṣra in 301/913. See al-Masʿūdī, Murūj al-dhahab wa maʿādin al-jawhar, ed. Barbier de Meynard and Abel Pavet de Courteille (Beirut, 1974), vol. 5, p. 206; ʿAlī b. Muḥammad Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil fi’ltaʾrīkh, ed. C. J. Tornberg (Beirut, 1965–1967), vol. 8, p. 49; Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, vol. 1, pp. 33ff.; ʿArīb b. Saʿd al-Qurṭubī, Ṣilat Taʾrīkh al-Ṭabarī, ed. Michael J. de Goeje (Leiden, 1965), p. 38; Muḥammad b. ʿAbd al-Malik al-Hamadhānī, Takmilat Taʾrīkh al-Ṭabarī, ed. Albert Yūsuf Kanʿān (Beirut, 1961), p. 41. Ibn Khaldūn’s account in his Kitāb al-ʿIbar wa dīwān al-mubtadaʾ wa’l-khabar, ed. Yūsuf Asʿad Dāghir (Beirut, 1956–1961), vol. 4, pp. 181–195 differs from other sources in some important respects, but he does not seem to be reliable on this matter. Cf. Wilferd Madelung’s reassessment of de Goeje’s view on the question, in his ‘Faṭimiden und Baḥrainqarmaṭen’, Der Islam, 34 (1959), pp. 46–50; tr., ‘The Fatimids and the Qarmaṭīs of Baḥrayn’, in Farhad Daftary, ed., Mediaeval Ismaʿili History and Thought (Cambridge, 1996), pp. 36–40.

External Relations of the Qarāmiṭa in Baḥrayn 8. 9.

10.

11.

12.

13. 14.

15.

251

Aḥmad b. ʿAbd al-Wahhāb al-Nuwayrī, Nihāyat al-arab fī funūn al-adab, ed. Muḥammad Jābir ʿAbd al-ʿĀl al-Ḥīnī (Cairo, 1984), vol. 25, p. 238; Maqrīzī, Ittiʿāẓ al-ḥunafāʾ, vol. 1, p. 162; Masʿūdī, al-Tanbīh wa’l-ishrāf, p. 394. On Abū Saʿīd’s predictions regarding the Mahdī see ʿAbd al-Jabbār al-Hamadhānī, Tathbīt dalāʾil al-nubuwwa, ed. ʿAbd al-Karīm ʿUthmān (Beirut, 1966), vol. 2, pp. 379, 381. About the circumstances of his death, see Maqrīzī, Ittiʿāz al-ḥunafāʾ, vol. 1, p. 164; Masʿūdī, al-Tanbīh wa’l-ishrāf, p. 394. Cf. Heinz Halm, Das Reich des Mahdi. Der Aufstieg der Fatimiden 875–973 (Munich, 1991), p. 225; tr. Michael Bonner as The Empire of the Mahdī: The Rise of the Fatimids (Leiden, 1996), p. 250. On the succession of the Qarmaṭī leadership, see Maqrīzī, Ittiʿāẓ al-ḥunafāʾ, vol. 1. p. 165, Jiwa partial tr. as Towards a Shiʿi Mediterranean Empire, pp. 138–139; Thābit b. Sinān al-Ṣābiʾ, Taʾrīkh akhbār al-Qarāmiṭa, ed. Suhayl Zakkār, in al-Jāmīʿ fī akhbār al-Qarāmiṭa (Damascus, 1987), vol. 1, p. 211; Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 7, p. 527; Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, vol. 1, p. 33. Cf. George T. Scanlon, ‘Leadership in the Qarmaṭian Sect’, Bulletin de l’Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale, 59 (1960), pp. 29–48. Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam, vol. 5. p. 122.1–10. Quoted by ʿAlī Nashshār, Nashʾat al-fikr al-falsafī fi’l-Islām (Cairo, 1977), vol. 2, p. 331.1–10. While Ibn al-Jawzī does not mention women in this text, ʿAbd al-Jabbar, Tathbīt, vol. 2. p. 380.12–15, does , viz. ishtaraknā fī azwājinā. ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Tathbīt al-dalāʾil, vol. 2, p. 380.12–15, quotes some details of the letter as follows: ‘The people of Baḥrayn mistreated us, acted treacherously towards us and slandered us, saying that we shared our womenfolk amongst ourselves and regarded all things licit without regard for the sharīʿa (narā’l-ibāḥa wa taʿṭīl al-sharīʿa). However, they have lied [in these claims], for we are a Muslim group and do not absolve those who accuse us of [embracing] anything other than Islam.’ On the exchange of letters, see also Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, vol. 1, p. 34; Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 8, p. 84; Nuwayrī, Nihāyat al-arab, vol. 25, p. 276; Thābit b. Sinān, Taʾrīkh, p. 211; cf. Harold Bowen, The Life and Times of ʿAlī ibn ʿĪsā ‘The Good Vizier’ (Cambridge, 1975), pp. 136–137; Halm, Das Reich des Mahdi, p. 225; English tr., pp. 250–251. See ʿArīb b. Saʿd, Takmila, p. 59; Hilāl b. al-Muḥassin al-Ṣābiʾ, Kitāb al-wuzarāʾ, ed. Henry F. Amedroz (Leiden, 1904), pp. 292–293. ʿAlī b. ʿĪsā, who was known for his anti-ʿAlid attitude, was called a Qarmaṭī by his personal enemies and also an explanation of his policy towards the Qarāmiṭa was demanded of him at the court. As a result, he was forced to leave his office. See ʿArīb b. Saʿd, Ṣila, p. 59; Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, vol. 1, pp. 105–121; Nuwayrī, Nihāyat al-arab, vol. 25, pp. 276–277. Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, vol. 1, pp. 104–105, 120–121; ʿArīb b. Saʿd, Ṣila, 110–111; Thābit b. Sinān, Taʾrīkh, pp. 212 ff; Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 8, p. 155; Ibn Taghrībirdī, al-Nujūm al-ẓāhira fī mulūk Miṣr wa’l-Qāhira, ed. Muḥammad Shaltūt and Muḥammad Aḥmad Khātim (Cairo, 1963–1972),

252

16. 17.

18. 19.

20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25.

26. 27.

28.

István Hajnal vol. 3, p. 211; cf. Aḥmad ʿAdwān, al-Dawla al-ḥamdāniyya (Tripoli, 1981), pp. 122–125. See Marius Canard, Histoire de la dynastie des Hamdanides de Jazira et de Syrie (Paris, 1955), vol. 1, pp. 632ff.; Hugh Kennedy, The Prophet and the Age of the Caliphates (London, 1989), pp. 269–270. The exact date of the conquest of ʿUmān by the Qarāmiṭa is not clear. New ʿUmānī sources support the view that Abū Saʿīd al-Jannābī was increasingly successful in bringing over the frontier nomads of northern ʿUmān, and he received a considerable support from the chief of the Ḥuddānī tribe. See Abu’l-Qāsim b. ʿAlī Ibn Ḥawqal, Kitāb Ṣūrat al-arḍ ed. Johannes Hendrik Kramers (Leiden, 1938); ibid. (Beirut, 1979) p. 33; Masʿūdī, Tanbīh, p. 393; Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, vol. 1, pp. 139, 284. Cf. John Craven Wilkinson, ‘Frontier Relationships between Bahrain and Oman’, in Shaykh ʿAbdallāh ibn Khālid al-Khalīfa and Michael Rice, ed., Bahrain through the Ages: The History (London, 1993), pp. 556–560. See Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, vol. 1, pp. 145–146, 173–182, 201. According to Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 8, pp. 155ff., ‘Abū Ṭāhir set free the captives that were in his hands … and sent [a message] to al-Muqtadir, demanding Baṣra and Ahwāz for himself. However, [the caliph] did not grant him that, so he marched out from Hajar against the pilgrims.’ See also Ibn Miskawayh, Tajārib, vol 1, p. 139; al-ʿUyūn wa’l-ḥadāʾiq, vol. 1, p. 236; Ibn Taghrībirdī, al-Nujūm al-ẓāhira, vol. 3, p. 212. Cf. ʿAdwān, al-Dawla al-ḥamdāniyya, pp. 122–124. See Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, vol. 1, pp. 145–146. See al-ʿUyūn wa’l-ḥadāʾiq, vol. 1, p. 226. ʿArīb b. Saʿd, Ṣila, p. 128; Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, vol. 1, pp. 147–148. Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, vol. 1, pp. 172–177. Neither of these tribes were involved in the Ismaili movement and both could be expected to oppose the Kilābīs and ʿUqaylīs who fought for the Qarāmiṭa. Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, vol. 1, pp. 178–181. It concerns the Baqliyya revolt, and its centre was the village of Ājam in the Sawād. They are called therefore ‘Ājamīs’ in the army of Abū Ṭāhir and later in Baḥrayn. On the revolt itself see ʿArīb b. Saʿd, Ṣila, pp. 132ff., 137, 162; Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 8, pp. 124ff., 132, 136, 200; cf. Halm, Das Reich des Mahdi, p. 228 and n.399, p. 236 and n.419; English tr. pp. 254 and 263. ʿArīb b. Saʿd, Ṣila, p. 137. On the Qarmaṭī raid against Baghdad see Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, vol. 1, pp. 182–187. As regards the motives for their sudden return to Baḥrayn, these are perhaps connected with their increased eschatological expectations which culminated later in the announcement of the advent of the Mahdī. On the prophecies of Abū Ṭāhir, see ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Tathbīt, vol. 2, p. 381; ʿAbd al-Qāhir b. Ṭāhir al-Baghdādī, al-Farq bayn al-firaq, ed. Muḥammad Muḥyī’l-Dīn ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd (Beirut, 1995), p. 287; cf. Michael J. de Goeje,

External Relations of the Qarāmiṭa in Baḥrayn

253

Mémoire sur les Carmathes du Bahraïn et les Fatimides (Leiden, 1886), pp. 112ff. The expectation of the Mahdī is also reflected in a propagandistic poem by Abū Ṭāhir. In it, he designates himself as the one who summons to obey the Mahdī. For some fragments of the poem, see Muḥammad b. Aḥmad al-Bīrūnī, Kitāb al-āthār al-bāqiya ʿan al-qurūn al-khāliya, ed. Eduard Sachau (Leipzig, 1878), p. 214; Baghdādī, al-Farq, p. 287; cf. de Goeje, Mémoire sur les Carmathes, pp. 113–115; Madelung, ‘Baḥrainqarmaṭen’, pp. 79ff.; tr. 48ff.; ʿAlī Nashshār, Nashʾat al-fikr, vol. 2, pp. 341–342; Halm, Das Reich des Mahdi, p. 229; English tr., p. 255. For the reconstruction of Abū Ṭāhir’s poem and its detailed explanation see François de Blois, ‘Abū Ṭāhir’s Epistle to the Caliph al-Muqtadir’, Proceedings of the Seminar for Arabian Studies, 17 (1987), pp. 31–35. 29. For the complete letter, see Muḥammad b. Mālik al-Ḥammādī, Kashf asrār al-bāṭiniyya wa-akhbār al-Qarāmiṭa in Suhayl Zakkār, ed., al-Jāmiʿ fī akhbār al-Qarāmiṭa (Beirut, 1987), vol. 2, pp. 372–374. For the reconstruction of the document and its authenticity and contents, see the commentary by de Blois, ‘Abū Ṭāhir’s Epistle to the Caliph al-Muqtadir’, pp. 23–25, 30. 30. See the letter in the original Arabic in de Blois, ‘Abū Ṭāhir’s Epistle to the Caliph al-Muqtadir’, pp. 26–27, and the English translation ibid., pp. 28–30. I have relied on de Blois’s text in my own translation, but I have introduced some changes to his version. See also Jiwa, Towards a Mediterranean Empire, pp. 167–180. 31. On the events in Mecca, see ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Tathbīt, vol. 2, pp. 384–386; on the different opinions about them: Muhammad Abdulhayy Shaban, Islamic History A.D. 750–1055 (A.H. 132–488); A New Interpretation (Cambridge, 1976), vol. 2, pp. 167ff.; ʿAlī Nashshār, Nashʾat al-fikr vol. 2, pp. 339–340; and Suhayl Zakkār, ‘Madkhal ilā taʾrīkh al-Qarāmiṭa’, in Suhayl Zakkār, ed., al-Jāmiʿ fī akhbār al-Qarāmiṭa (Damascus, 1987), vol. 1, p. 153; See in particular Halm’s careful reconstruction of the events: Das Reich des Mahdi, pp. 229–230, 235–236; English tr., pp. 255–257, 263–264. On the caliph ʿAbd Allāh’s letter to the Qarāmiṭa after removal of the Black Stone see Thābit b. Sinān, Taʾrīkh, p. 224; Maqrīzī, Ittiʿāẓ al-ḥunafāʾ, vol. 1, p. 185; Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 8, p. 208; The most complete variant of the above letter is preserved, however, in an Ismaili source still in MS, in the Fuṣūl wa akhbār, quoted by ʿĀrif Tāmir, Taʾrīkh al-Ismāʿīliyya, al-daʿwa wa’l-ʿaqīda (London, 1991), vol. 1, p. 176, and it runs as follows: ‘To the leader of the Qarāmiṭa, Sulaymān b. al-Ḥasan Abī Ṭāhir al-Jannābī. We have been informed of the aggressive assault of your men against the caravans of the Muslim pilgrims, of their [indiscriminate] killing of women, the elderly and children, and their abominable treatment of the victims’ corpses and their plundering of whatever the victims had on them. We have also been informed of the destructive acts that your men have committed in the holy places, such as their removing the covering of the Kaʿba (kiswa), destroying the well of Zamzam and carrying away the Black Stone to Hajar.

254



32. 33.

34. 35. 36. 37.

István Hajnal You have, by virtue of these shameful acts, left a black mark in history which neither the nights nor the days will ever erase, and you have besmirched our state and mission (dawlatinā wa daʿwatinā) with the name of unbelief, heresy and godlessness (al-kufr wa’l-zandaqa wa’l-ilḥād) by all the iniquitous deeds you committed against all our principles and doctrine. That is why I demand that you … return to the people of Mecca all their belongings, property and jewellery, and to the pilgrims whatever you have stolen from them, and that you return the kiswa to the honourable Kaʿba. Failing that, I will march against you with armies that you have no power [to resist]. We declare we have nothing to do with you (natabarraʾu minka) just as we have nothing to do with the accursed Satan, neither in this world nor in the next, and we seek refuge with God from evil deeds that no one except God’s enemies dare commit. Should you fail to do what I have ordered you to, nothing will remain between us but the sword and utter disavowal in front of witnesses (al-barāʾa minka ʿalā’l-ruʾūs al-ashhād).’ But according to a personal communication from Prof. Madelung the authenticity of this document is uncertain. Furthermore, Madelung, ‘Baḥrainqarmaṭen’, pp. 46f.; tr. pp. 36f., denies that there was any kind of collaboration between the Fatimids and the Qarāmiṭa, and maintains that the above-mentioned letter to Abū Ṭāhir is no proof of an alliance between the two parties. For the Qarmaṭī invasion of South ʿIrāq, see ʿArīb b. Saʿd, Ṣila, pp. 162–163; Ibn Taghrībirdī, al-Nujūm al-ẓāhira, vol. 3, p. 228. On these events see István Hajnal, ‘The Pseudo-Mahdī Intermezzo of the Qarāmiṭa in Baḥrayn’, The Arabist: Budapest Studies in Arabic, 19–20 (1998), pp. 186–201; cf. Madelung, ‘Baḥrainqarmaṭen’, pp. 75–85; tr. pp. 46–51; Madelung, Religious Trends, pp. 96–100; Halm, Das Reich des Mahdi, pp. 225–236; English tr., pp. 250–264; François de Blois, ‘The Abū Saʿīdīs or so-called “Qarmaṭians” of Baḥrain’, Proceedings of the Seminar for Arabian Studies, 16 (1986), pp. 18ff. ʿArīb b. Saʿd, Ṣila, pp. 163, 168; ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Tathbīt, vol. 2, pp. 392–393. On the attempts at conciliation by the Qarmaṭī leadership with the tribal allies, see: ibid., pp. 388–389. On the Ājamīs see note 24. ʿUyūn al-akhbār, vol. 1, p. 228; Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, vol. 2, pp. 284ff.; cf. Heribert Busse, Chalif und Grosskönig: Die Būyiden im ʿIraq, 945–1055 (Beirut, 1969), pp. 337–338. Jalāl al-Dīn ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Abī Bakr al-Suyūṭī, Taʾrīkh al-khulafāʾ, ed. Muḥammad Muḥyīʾl-Dīn ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd (Beirut, 1987), p. 391. With reference to these events Ibn al-Athīr, Kāmil, vol. 8. pp. 294–295, says the following: ‘In this year Muḥammad b. Yāqūt, the caliph’s chamberlain (ḥājib), sent a messenger to Abū Ṭāhir the Qarmaṭī, calling on him to obey the caliph, that [the latter] should accept his dominion over the lands [already] under his control and appoint him over whatever lands he chose [to put under his governorship], and award him, and ask him to leave all the

External Relations of the Qarāmiṭa in Baḥrayn

38. 39. 40. 41.

42.

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pilgrims in peace and return the Black Stone to its proper place in Mecca. Abū Ṭāhir consented not to interfere with the pilgrims or do any harm to them, but he did not accede to returning the Black Stone to Mecca. He asked that provisions from Baṣra be given over to him so that the sermon should be said in the caliph’s name in the districts of Hajar. The pilgrims went to Mecca and returned without the Qarmaṭīs doing anything to them.’ Cf. Daftary, The Ismāʿīlīs, 2nd ed., p. 151. Thābit b. Sinān, Taʾrīkh, pp. 224–225; Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, vol. 1, p. 330; Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 8, p. 311. As an obvious result of the negotiations, the pilgrimage in 322/934 passed untroubled. See Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 8, p. 395. See Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, vol. 1, p. 367; Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam, vol. 6, pp. 208–210; Masʿūdī, al-Tanbīh wa’l-ishrāf, p. 337. The account in the ʿUyūn al-akhbār, vol. 1, p. 299, says: ‘In this year [323/935] Abū Ṭāhir the Qarmaṭī headed for Kūfa [and entered it]; and Ibn Rāʾiq left Baghdad, pitched camp at Yāsiriyya and dispatched a message to the Qarmaṭī. Abū Ṭāhir asked that the caliph should send him goods and foodstuffs to the value of 120,000 dinars so that he stayed in his land, and Ibn Rāʾiq granted him that he would be given whatever he had asked for by way of provisions to his people, and a register [of those grants] would be established in the state bureau, and they would obey [the caliph’s orders] and become his employees. Negotiations took place between the two of them, and [finally] Abū Ṭāhir [went away] to his land with this promise, but no concrete agreement was concluded.’ See furthermore Miskawayh, Tajārib, vol. 1, pp. 367ff.; Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam, vol. 6, pp. 208–210. On the agreement between the two parties, the report of ʿAbd al-Ḥayy b. Aḥmad Ibn al-ʿImād, Shadharāt al-dhahab fī akhbār man dhahab, ed. Muḥammad al-Qudsī (Cairo, 1931), vol. 2, p. 308, runs as follows: ‘So Abū ʿAlī Muḥammad b. Yaḥyā al-ʿAlawī wrote to the Qarāmiṭa, who were fond of him, that they should guarantee [the safety of] the pilgrims so that he could bring them [to Mecca], and he would give them [i.e. the Qarāmiṭa] five dinars for every camel and seven dinars for the ornamented litter [of the leading camel]. So they gave them their guarantee, and the people went on their pilgrimage. This was the first year the pilgrims had to pay a tax [to the Qarāmiṭa].’ See moreover Ibn Taghrībirdī, Nujūm al-ẓāhira, vol. 3, p. 264; Suyūṭī, Taʾrīkh, p. 363; Muḥammad b. Yaḥyā al-Ṣūlī, Akhbār al-Rāḍī wa’lMuttaqī min kitāb al-awrāq, ed. James Heyworth-Dunne (London, 1935), p. 119; Muḥammad b. Aḥmad al-Dhahabī, Taʾrīkh al-Islām, ed. ʿUmar ʿAbd al-Salām al-Tadmūrī (Beirut, 1994), vol. 34. p. 55; another important account concerning these events can be found in the ʿUyūn al-ḥadāʾiq, vol. 2, p. 233: ‘In this year [327/938] al-Ḥusayn b. al-Muʿammar, Jannābī’s companion, took a protection fee from the pilgrims. Staying in Zubāla, he took three dinars for every camel litter, two dinars for a camel, and one dinar for a saddle-horse. And letters were forthcoming from the pilgrims

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[with the information] that the pilgrims were safe and thankful to him.’ 43. ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Tathbīt, pp. 388–389, 393. 44. Ibid., p. 167. 45. Sūlī, Akhbār, p. 205; Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam, vol. 7, pp. 76, 367; otherwise in 361/971 the pilgrims from Baṣra and the Khurāsān had been intercepted by bedouins on their return, ibid., p. 57. 46. Ibn Ḥawqal, Ṣūrat al-arḍ, p. 33 and al-Mamālik wa’l-masālik, ed. Michael J. de Goeje (Leiden, 1873), p. 21. 47. See the details in ʿAbd al-Jabbār Nājī, ‘Trade Relations between Bahrain and Iraq in the Middle Ages’, in al-Khalīfa and Rice, ed., Bahrain through the Ages: The History, pp. 423–443. 48. Sūlī, Akhbār, pp. 148, 253; Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, vol. 1, p. 405; vol. 2, pp. 24, 91; cf. John J. Donohue, The Buwayhid Dynasty in Iraq 334/945– 403/1012 (Leiden, 2003), p. 218. 49. Sūlī, Akhbār, pp. 142, 205, 243, 264, 269; Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, vol. 1, p. 408; Hamadhānī, Takmila, p. 132. 50. Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, vol. 2, pp. 108, 112, 155; Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam, vol. 9, p. 235. Cf. Donohue, The Buwayhid Dynasty in Iraq, p. 219. Saqy al-Furāt is the fertile irrigated area around the Euphrates; see Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam, vol. 7, p. 126, Abū Shujāʿ Muḥammad b. al-Ḥusayn al-Rūdhrāwarī, Dhayl Tajārib al-umam, ed. H. F. Amedroz (Oxford, 1921), vol. 3, p. 109. 51. Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, vol. 2, pp. 88, 112; Hamadhānī, Takmila, p. 160. 52. Cf. Busse, Die Būyiden im Iraq, pp. 37–38; Shaban, Islamic History, vol. 2, p. 162. 53. In 336/947 the Qarāmiṭa complained to Muʿizz al-Dawla that he had entered the desert without their leave, see Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, vol. 2, p. 112; Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 8, p. 469. 54. Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, vol. 2, p. 144; Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 8, p. 496. 55. Masʿūdī, Tanbīh, p. 394. 56. Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, vol. 2, pp. 46, 143–144, 196, 213–218. 57. On the details see Wilkinson, ‘Frontier Relationships between Bahrain and Oman’, pp. 556–560. 58. See ʿArīb b. Saʿd, Ṣila, pp. 132, 137, 163; Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam, vol. 6, p. 208; Shams al-Dīn Muḥammad b. Aḥmad al-Muqaddasī, Aḥsan al-taqāsīm fī maʿrifat al-aqālīm, ed. Michael J. de Goeje (Leiden, 1906), p. 133. 59. See Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, vol. 2, pp. 46, 117, 129, 143–144, 196, 213–218, 300–331; Ibn Ḥawqal, Ṣūrat al-arḍ, p. 54; Muqaddasī, Aḥsan al-taqāsīm, p. 426. 60. See Maqrīzī, Ittiʿāẓ al-ḥunafāʾ, vol. 1, p. 183. The events are described by Ibn al-ʿImād, Shajarāt, vol. 2, p. 348, as follows: ‘In this year [339/951] the Qarāmiṭa returned the Black Stone to its proper place. For returning

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61. 62.

63. 64.

65. 66.

67. 68. 69. 70.

71. 72.

73.

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it, Bajkam had paid them fifty thousand dinars, and yet they would not, saying: “We have taken it under orders; we will only return it if an order is forthcoming.” Then they returned it and said: “We have now returned it under the orders of him who had [previously] ordered us to take it away, so that the rituals of the people [on pilgrimage] should be complete.” ’ This last statement may reflect their religious conviction rather then the orders of one concrete personality. See also Miskawayh, Tajārib, vol. 2, p. 127; Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 8, p. 367; Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam, vol. 6, p. 367; Ibn Taghrībirdī, al-Nujūm al-ẓāhira, vol. 3, p. 101. See ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Tathbīt, vol. 2, pp. 392–393; Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 8, p. 333; ʿArīb b. Saʿd, Ṣila, pp. 163, 168; Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, vol. 1, pp. 365, 405, 408. Ibid., vol. 2, p. 215; Ibn Taghrībirdī, al-Nujūm al-ẓāhira, vol. 4. p. 11; Muḥammad b. Yūsuf al-Kindī, Wulāt Miṣr, ed. Ḥusayn Naṣṣār (Beirut, n.d.), p. 314. Cf. Heinz Halm, Die Kalifen von Kairo. Die Fatimiden in Ägypten 973–1074 (Munich, 2003), pp. 93–95. Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 8, p. 203. The complete letter of Bakhtiyār was preserved by Ibrāhīm b. Hilāl al-Ṣābīʾ, al-Mukhtār min Rasāʾil Abī Isḥāq Ibrāhīm b. Hilāl b. Zahrūn al-Ṣābī, ed. Shakīb Arslān (Beirut, n.d.), pp. 360–363. Cf. Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, vol. 2. pp. 329–332. Hamadhānī, Takmila, p. 233; Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam, vol. 7, p. 83. Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 8, p.203; Hamadhānī, Takmila, p. 233; Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam, vol. 7, pp. 83, 85, 126; Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, vol. 2, p. 407; Abū Shujāʿ Muḥammad b. al-Ḥusayn al-Rūdhrāwarī, Dhayl, vol. 3, pp. 102, 109f. Miskawayh, Tajārib, vol. 2, pp. 117, 129. Abū Shujāʿ Rūdhrāwarī, Dhayl Tajārib al-umam, vol. 3, p.109; Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam, vol. 7, p. 126. Ibid., p. 86. When out of favour in the Buyid court, Ibn Saʿdān, Ṣamṣām al-Dawla’s first vizier, was arrested. Among his associates Ibn Shāhawayh, the Qarmaṭī representative, was also seized. See Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 9, pp. 42. Cf. Busse, Die Būyiden im Iraq, p. 65; Shaban, Islamic History, vol. 2, pp. 165–168. Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 9, p. 42; Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam, vol. 7, p. 170; Maqrīzī, Ittiʿāẓ al-ḥunafāʾ, vol. 1, p. 207. Ibn Ḥawqal, Ṣūrat al-arḍ, p. 35, reports that there was a secret agreement between the Hamdanids and the Qarāmiṭa of Baḥrayn, which was reached through the mediation of al-Qāḍī Ibn ʿArafa. Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 8, p. 600, relates that in the year 358/968 the Hamdanids sent to the Qarāmiṭa in Hajar a gift worth 50,000 dirhams. See Thābit b. Sinān, Taʾrīkh, p. 226; Abū Yaʿlā Hamza Ibn al-Qalānisī, Dhayl taʾrīkh Dimashq, ed. Henry F. Amedroz (Leiden and Beirut, 1908), p. 1; Ibn

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al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 8, pp. 614–615. 74. Maqrīzī, Kitāb al-Mawāʿiẓ wa’l-iʿtibār fī dhikr al-khiṭaṭ wa’l-āthār, ed. Ayman Fuʾād Sayyid (London, 2002), vol. 2, p. 121; Ibn Taghrībirdī, al-Nujūm al-ẓāhira, vol. 3, p. 326. Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, vol. 2. p. 203; Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 8, p. 452; Ibn al-Jawzī, al-Muntaẓam, vol. 7, p. 19; cf. Busse, Die Būyiden im Iraq, p.55; ʿAdwān, al-Dawlat al-ḥamdāniyya, pp. 274–275, 309; Kennedy, The Age of the Caliphates, p. 320. 75. Miskawayh, Tajārib, vol. 2, p. 203; Hamadhānī, Takmila, p. 187; Ibn Taghrībirdī, al-Nujūm al-ẓāhira, vol. 3, p. 336. 76. On the campaign in Syria see Hamadhānī, Takmila, p. 201; Maqrīzī, al-Muqaffā al-kabīr, ed. Muḥammad al-Yaʿlawī (Beirut, 1987), p. 323; Ibn Taghrībīrdī, al-Nujūm al-ẓāhira, vol. 4. p. 23. Cf. Madelung, ‘Baḥrainqarmaṭen’, pp. 55–56; tr. pp. 34–35. In the background of the Qarmaṭī expeditions to Syria, there emerged a disagreement between the descendants of Abū Ṭāhir, involving mainly his son Sābūr and his uncle Abu’l-Manṣūr Aḥmad, and later his cousin, Aḥmad’s son, al-Ḥasan al-Aʿṣam, a conflict that led to a final, if not widely known, split within the Qarmaṭī community in Baḥrayn. On the developments of the conflict, see Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 8, p. 600; Ibn Khaldūn, al-ʿIbar, vol. 4, p. 192; Ibn Taghrībirdī, al-Nujūm al-ẓāhira, vol. 4. pp. 27, 63; Hamadhānī, Takmila, p. 210; Ibn Ḥawqal, Ṣūrat al-arḍ, p. 35. 77. The Qarmaṭī leader even entered with Ibn Ṭughj into a marriage contract upon concluding the peace agreement, see Maqrīzī, Ittiʿāẓ al-ḥunafāʾ, vol. 1, p. 186. Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 8, p. 452; Ibn al-Dawādārī, Kanz al-durar, vol. 6, p. 122. 78. For the Fatimid advance to Syria, see Ibn al-Dawādārī, Kanz al-durar, vol. 6, pp. 126–129. Cf. Halm, Die Kalifen von Kairo, pp. 95–96. 79. Qalānisī, Dhayl taʾrīkh Dimashq, p. 1; Maqrīzī, Ittiʿāẓ al-ḥunafāʾ, vol. 1, p. 187; Ibn al-Dawādārī, Kanz al-durar, vol. 6, p. 132; Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 8, p. 615. Cf. Madelung, ‘Baḥrainqarmaṭen’ pp. 56–57; tr. pp. 35–36. 80. Jamāl al-Dīn ʿAlī Ibn Ẓāfir, Akhbār al-duwal al-munqaṭiʿa, ed. André Ferré (Cairo, 1972), pp. 24–25; Maqrīzī, Ittiʿāẓ al-ḥunafāʾ, vol. 1, pp. 127, 186–187; Ibn Taghrībirdī, al-Nujum al-ẓāhira, vol. 4, pp. 58–59. 81. Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 8, pp. 614–615; Ibn al-Dawādārī, Kanz al-durar, vol. 6, pp. 134–135. 82. Thābit b. Sinān, Taʾrīkh, p. 239; ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Tathbīt, vol. 2, p. 607; Ibn Taghrībirdī, al-Nujūm al-ẓāhira, vol. 4, p. 74. 83. Abu’l-ʿAbbās Aḥmad al-Qalqashandī, Ṣubḥ al-aʿshā fī ṣināʿat al-inshāʾ, ed. Muḥammad ʿAlī Ibrāhīm (Cairo, 1913), vol. 1, p. 320; Aḥmad b. Muḥammad Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih, al-ʿIqd al-farīd, ed. Aḥmad Amīn (Cairo, 1952), vol. 3, p. 399. 84. For the events of the military expedition of al-Ḥasan al-Aʿṣam to Syria the main source is the contemporary Sharīf Akhū Muḥsin who is quoted by Nuwayrī, Nihāyat al-arab, vol. 25, pp. 304ff.; Ibn al-Dawādārī, Kanz

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al-durar, vol. 6, pp. 132ff.; Maqrīzī, Ittiʿāẓ, vol. 1, p. 186–188, and al-Muqaffā, pp. 263–264. Cf. Halm, Die Kalifen von Kairo, pp. 95–96. 85. Thābit b. Sinān, Taʾrīkh, p. 239; ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Tathbīt, p. 189; Maqrīzī, Ittiʿāẓ, vol. 1, p. 189. 86. See Halm, Die Kalifen von Kairo, p. 101. 87. Ibn Qalānisī, Dhayl, p. 2; Ibn al-Dawādārī, Kanz al-durar, vol. 6, 143; Ibn Taghrībirdī, al-Nujum al-ẓāhira, vol. 4, p. 62. 88. The letter of al-Muʿizz survived in Akhū Muḥsin’s lost writing, but its fragments are quoted by Nuwayrī, Nihāyat al-arab, vol. 25, pp. 308–311; Ibn al-Dawādārī, Kanz al-durar, vol. 6, pp. 148–156; and the complete letter is cited by Maqrīzī, Ittiʿāẓ, vol. 1, pp. 189–202. 89. Madelung, ‘Baḥrainqarmaṭen’ pp. 85–88; tr. 51–54. 90. Halm, Die Kalifen von Kairo, pp. 97–98. 91. Some of these phrases are reminiscent of the Qurʾan, e.g. Q. 21:104, Q. 101, and the famous ḥadīth on the Hour being when the sun rises from the West (a reference used by the Fatimids to their having arisen in Ifrīqiya). 92. Ibn al-Dawādārī, Kanz al-durar, vol. 6, pp. 159–161. 93. Ibn al-Qalānisī, Dhayl, pp. 3, 15; Maqrīzī, Ittiʿāẓ, pp. 150, 205; Ibn al-Dawādārī, Kanz al-durar, vol. 6, p. 143; Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 8, pp. 638–640. 94. For the events of the campaign of the caliph al-ʿAzīz in Syria, see Thābit b. Sinān, Taʾrīkh, pp. 241–244; Maqrīzī, Ittiʿāẓ, pp. 238–241; Ibn al-Dawādārī, Kanz al-durar, vol. 6, pp. 144, 175–177; Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 8, pp. 656–661; Hamadhānī, Takmila, pp. 226–227. 95. Ibn Qalānisī, Dhayl, pp. 16–18, 20–21. 96. See Ibn al-Qalānisī, Dhayl, pp. 20, 20–21.2; Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 8, p. 661. 97. Maqrīzī, al-Muqaffā, p. 266; Ibn Taghrībirdī, al-Nujūm al-ẓāhira, vol. 4, p. 128. 98. See Shaban, Islamic History, vol. 2, p. 204; Kennedy, The Age of the Caliphates, pp. 291–292; Daftary, The Ismāʿīlīs, 2nd ed., p. 152, and n.16. 99. Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 9, pp. 58–59; Maqrīzī, Ittiʿāẓ, vol. 1, p. 207. 100. Kennedy, The Age of the Caliphates, pp. 292f. 101. See Halm, Das Reich des Mahdi, p. 208; English tr. p. 231. 102. Muqaddasī, Aḥsan al-taqāsīm, p. 94; Ibn Ḥawqal, Ṣūrat al-arḍ, pp. 33–35; Nāṣir-i Khusraw, Safar-nāma, ed. Charles Schefer (Paris, 1881), pp. 82–85; tr. Wheeler M. Thackston, Jr. as Book of Travels (New York, 1986), pp. 86–90. 103. Nāṣir-i Khusraw, Safar-nāma, ed. Schefer, pp. 82.13–15, 83.16–21; Abu’lʿAlā al-Maʿarrī, Risālat al-Ghufrān, ed. Kāmil Kīlānī (Cairo, 1939), vol. 3, p. 235, reports as follows: ‘It was said to me that the Qarāmiṭa had a house in al-Aḥsāʾ from which their Imam would come out. So they put a horse with saddle and bridle in front of that house. They used to say to the masses: “This horse will be mounted by the Mahdī. He will sit on it when he appears.” ’ 104. In my view this is in the nature of theocratic movements in general; one

260

István Hajnal observes similar developments and claims in, for instance, the episode of Abu’l-Khaṭṭāb, the disciple of Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq (as recounted in al-Nawbakhtī, Firaq al-Shīʿa, ed. Helmut Ritter (Istanbul, 1931), pp. 59–61) – and more generally in the Shiʿi ghulāt circles.

10

A Distinguished Slav Eunuch of the Early Fatimid Period: al-Ustādh Jawdhar Hamid Haji

In the year following the flight of the last Aghlabid amir, Ziyādat Allāh III (r. 290–296/903–909), to the East, the Fatimid imam-caliph al-Mahdī bi’llāh (r. 297–322/909–934) entered Raqqāda, in triumph on 20 Rabīʿ II 297/6 January 910, and settled in his palace in the former Aghlabid capital. The military exploits of his dāʿī, Abū ʿAbd Allāh al-Shīʿī (d. 298/911), had subdued for him vast regions of the Maghrib as well as the former Aghlabid domains in Sicily. He inherited everything that belonged to the Aghlabids, including their slaves. Among them was al-Ustādh Jawdhar, a eunuch of Slavic (ṣaqlabī, pl. ṣaqāliba) origin who subsequently served all four Fatimid imam-caliphs in Ifrīqiya and rose to become the most eminent statesman of the early Fatimid period. Ṣaqāliba eunuchs, who had gained prominence in Ifrīqiya during the Aghlabid period, originated mostly from the Balkans. Being cut off from their land of origin, without any relatives in their new abode, made them very dependent on their patrons and also loyal to them.1 Jawdhar’s life of service to the Fatimids for over sixty years and his exemplary loyalty to his patrons is thoroughly documented in his biography, which was compiled by his private secretary, Abū ʿAlī Manṣūr al-ʿAzīzī al-Jawdharī, who served him diligently from 350/961 until Jawdhar’s death in 362/973.2 His work brings together oral statements and archival material from the reigns of the first four Fatimid imam-caliphs which allow us to follow the stages of Jawdhar’s life, from his entering the service of the Fatimids until the final days of his life under the reign of al-Muʿizz li-Dīn Allāh (r. 341–365/953–975), the last Fatimid imam-caliph to rule in Ifrīqiya, and the first one of the dynasty to rule in Egypt. Jawdhar was still a boy when al-Mahdī entered Raqqāda. He was among 261

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the slaves of the old order who were assembled before al-Mahdī. The new ruler apportioned them to their tasks in his administration. Jawdhar was selected by al-Mahdī to serve his heir apparent al-Qāʾim bi-Amr Allāh (r. 322–334/934–946). He impressed al-Mahdī with his austerity and was favoured, from the very beginning, by al-Mahdī, who predicted that he would be pious and diligent in his service. Jawdhar began his career as the head servant of al-Qāʾim’s palace during al-Mahdī’s reign, and he was left in charge of al-Qāʾim’s palace while the latter was away on a military expedition.3 Upon his return from the expedition, al-Qāʾim praised his services and increased his favours to him. Subsequently Jawdhar also accompanied al-Qāʾim on at least one of his expeditions to the east,4 for the Sīra relates that al-Qāʾim, annoyed at the behaviour of his soldiers who frequently pillaged the belongings of those who had sought protection, instructed Jawdhar to eat only meat that he provided to him from his own kitchen so that it would not contain anything impermissible.5 After al-Mahdī’s death, al-Qāʾim, reigning as the new Fatimid imam-caliph, entrusted the affairs of the Treasury to Jawdhar, as well as the warehouses of textiles and garments. He made him an intermediary between himself and his followers, and all his slaves. The extent to which Jawdhar had won the confidence of his master was such that when al-Qāʾim was about to bury al-Mahdī, he called Jawdhar aside and made him privy to the designation of his son Ismāʿīl, the future imam-caliph al-Manṣūr bi’llāh (r. 334–341/946–953), as his chosen heir apparent. He exacted a promise from Jawdhar to pledge allegiance to the heir apparent and observe complete secrecy about his status until he himself made the appointment public. Accordingly, Jawdhar kept the matter secret for seven years.6 Already during the reign of al-Qāʾim, al-Manṣūr had great sympathy and concern for Jawdhar. He would often stop at Jawdhar’s house to visit him. The Sīra has preserved an interesting letter from al-Manṣūr when he was heir apparent to Jawdhar on the subject of controlling one’s anger, in which he cites Galen’s advice.7 Jawdhar had the authority to punish those under him. It happened one day that he punished and imprisoned some young Slav eunuchs for an offence they had committed and for which they deserved to be disciplined. They implored the heir apparent, al-Manṣūr, and sought his intercession on their behalf. Jawdhar was unaware of this until he received the letter in which al-Manṣūr conveyed to him that he had somewhat exceeded his limit and that he should be compassionate towards those whom he punished.8 Subsequently, after they had been set free, these Slav eunuchs gave outstanding service to the Fatimids under al-Manṣūr and later under

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al-Muʿizz. Among them, however, were Qayṣar and Muẓaffar who were executed in 349/960 in the reign al-Muʿizz because they had become too powerful.9 Muẓaffar’s domains came under Jawdhar’s administration. The money that they raised was allocated to the bureau of al-Manṣūriyya and was separate from revenues derived from properties which Jawdhar managed at al-Mahdiyya and which was used to provide for the maintenance of slaves under his authority. When Jawdhar needed additional funds for the maintenance of slaves, he was allowed by al-Muʿizz to use the revenues from Muẓaffar’s domains.10 During the last two years of al-Qāʾim’s reign and the early part of the reign of al-Manṣūr, the Khārijī rebel Abū Yazīd (d. 336/947)11 acquired a large following among the Ibāḍī Berbers of the Awrās mountain region (now between north-eastern Algeria and western Tunisia) and began his rebellion against the Fatimid state in 332/943. He conquered all of southern Ifrīqiya, including al-Qayrawān, and laid siege to al-Mahdiyya. Such was the extent of his rebellion that Fatimid writers identify him with ‘the Deceiver’ (al-dajjāl), an apocalyptic figure in Muslim tradition similar to the Antichrist.12 When al-Qāʾim was on his deathbed, during the course of the rebellion, he summoned al-Manṣūr and made special recommendations for the protection of Jawdhar.13 With the beginning of the reign of al-Manṣūr, Jawdhar assumed greater eminence. When al-Manṣūr set out in pursuit of Abū Yazīd, he invested Jawdhar with authority over the palace and the entire country and left him in charge of the safes of the Treasury. Jawdhar thus became the third most important person in the Fatimid state, after the imam and the heir apparent. In 336/947, Abū Yazīd was finally defeated by al-Manṣūr, who had kept secret the news of his father’s death till then.14 After this victory, al-Manṣūr manumitted Jawdhar and, to honour him, designated him ‘Client of the Commander of the Faithful’ (mawlā amīr al-muʾminīn), and instructed him on the protocol to follow in correspondence, which confirmed him in the highest rank after the heir apparent.15 Al-Manṣūr honoured Jawdhar by having his name inscribed on the tirāz bands of embroidered fabrics and carpets manufactured at al-Mahdiyya; he clad him in robes of honour and gave him mounts to ride. On al-Manṣūr’s return to the palace after his victory, when food was served, he ordered Jawdhar to sit at the table with him. This was the first time that he had the honour of sitting at the same table as the imam. Al-Manṣūr founded his new residential capital, ‘al-Manṣūriyya’, near al-Qayrawān, to mark his victory. When he was presented with the first minting of coins bearing his name,16 he sent 1,000 dinars of these as a blessing to Jawdhar who

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continued for some time to operate from al-Mahdiyya. Al-Manṣūr used to collect the finest treasures of all kinds. He considered the books of his ancestors to be his richest treasure.17 One day he sent a selection of them to Jawdhar for safekeeping and transcribing, including Kitāb al-Īḍāḥ by al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān and the sermons given by himself and al-Qāʾim.18 On another occasion, in the year 341/953, the Byzantine emperor Constantine VII Porphyrogenitus (r. 945–959) sent a monk as an ambassador, bearing precious gifts, to the court of al-Manṣūr at al-Manṣūriyya. The purpose of the embassy was to establish friendly and peaceful relations with the Fatimid sovereign, following a truce established after Byzantine forces suffered a humiliating defeat in Sicily and southern Italy at the hands of the Fatimids. The ambassador was impressed by the majesty of the Fatimid sovereign and the pomp surrounding him, the like of which he had not seen in his own land. As a result, in return al-Manṣūr wanted to send gifts that were more beautiful and lavish than those he had received. Therefore he wrote to Jawdhar, with orders that he should bring from the treasure stores of which he had the care items which he described to him and which were suitable to be sent to kings.19 During his last illness, al-Manṣūr instructed his heir apparent al-Muʿizz to respond to Jawdhar’s letters. Then, sometime after his accession to the imamate in 341/953, al-Muʿizz summoned Jawdhar to al-Manṣūriyya and lodged him near himself in his palace complex. Jawdhar needed exquisite mats to furnish his new home and, even though the mat makers were under his authority, he asked the imam that he be allowed to have mats made, adding that he would himself bear the expenses incurred. The imam instructed him to have the best mats of finest craftsmanship made, which he would offer to him as a personal gift.20 In al-Manṣūriyya, Jawdhar became responsible for conveying to the imam any letters or pleas addressed to him. He received from the imam a reply indicating the decision he had to implement, the advice to give to the correspondent and the manner in which he should write to him. Jawdhar would receive letters from his subordinates whom he had left behind in al-Mahdiyya, as well as others in the service of the state. They corresponded with him to let him know what they needed, consulted him for advice and kept him informed. He extracted from their letters those passages that contained points on which advice was sought, leaving a blank on the roll of paper between every two extracts. Then, under each extract, al-Muʿizz wrote the reply in his own hand, advising what action to take. The letters and directives of al-Muʿizz addressed to Jawdhar, preserved in his biography, reveal with what care the imam attended to matters addressed to him and how closely

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Jawdhar was involved in dealing with all matters: these ranged from the defence of the realm, to financial administration, to the affairs of Sicily (where the Kalbid dynasty was ruling semi-independently under Fatimid suzerainty), to the construction and equipping of the Fatimid fleet, and to preparations for the final departure for Egypt, preparations that lasted from about 349/960 until the conquest of Fusṭāṭ in 358/969 by the Fatimid commander Jawhar al-Ṣiqillī (d. 381/992). Among the matters referred to al-Muʿizz were: disputes relating to land and grazing pastures, complaints against officials, the drunkenness of a secretary, the apostasy of slaves and rivalry between his allies in the Maghrib. He personally ordered a prayer mat for a Slav prisoner, and a shroud for the son of an official.21 He was caring towards those who served him and gave orders to look into the welfare and education of the children of officials in order to prepare them to serve the Fatimid state.22 When Jawdhar made him aware of the dire financial situation of the eminent dāʿī Jaʿfar b. Manṣūr al-Yaman (d. after 346/957), al-Muʿizz rescued him from his predicament.23 Among al-Muʿizz’s greatest personal concerns was the conduct of his relatives, and in particular his eldest son Tamīm (d. 374/985). Indeed, the imam also received letters from individuals directly, not channelled through Jawdhar. The latter, on the other hand, often took the initiative to write to the imam to inform him or seek an opinion or an order from him, without reference to anyone else’s correspondence. He also wrote to the imam to inquire about his health and well-being. Similarly, the imam himself also wrote to Jawdhar on his own initiative to express his concern for his health and well-being or to send him a memento. Once, when Jawdhar became ill, al-Muʿizz wrote to him to recommend a theriac produced by his physician, and sent him some with instructions on how to use it.24 On another occasion, he sent him a pair of leggings which were worn by al-Manṣūr and then by himself, because Jawdhar liked to wear leggings.25 Jawdhar knew the family of Banū Abi’l-Ḥusayn al-Kalbī, the Kalbids, very well; they gave outstanding military service to the Fatimids and ruled Sicily on their behalf. This family adopted the Fatimid cause early and was in favour from the reign of al-Mahdī. ʿAlī b. Abi’l-Ḥusayn al-Kalbī, sonin-law of Sālim b. Abī Rāshid, governor of Sicily (313–325/925–936), was killed in 326/938 during the siege of Jirjent (Agrigentum, Girgenti) while fighting for the Fatimids against local rebels. While he was away fighting, Jawdhar had two of ʿAlī’s sons in his care on the orders of al-Qāʾim.26 One of them, Abu’l-Ghanāʾim al-Ḥasan b. ʿAlī (d. 354/965), then played a leading role in the military campaigns waged by al-Qāʾim and al-Manṣūr

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against Abū Yazīd, and he was sent in 336/948 to Sicily as the governor to restore order and reassert Fatimid authority on the island following a rebellion there. He became the first of a succession of governors of Sicily who came from the Kalbid family. A document in the Sīra yields details on the rebellion put down by al-Ḥasan b. ʿAlī, which complements the account of these events by Ibn al-Athīr. Jawdhar possessed domains, including one granted to him by al-Mahdī in Jazīrat Sharīk,27 a fertile peninsula to the east of Tunis, whose farthest point in the north is the nearest point of Africa to Sicily. His chief source of income, however, was not these but his mercantile enterprises in Sicily. He owned ships and conducted business in his private capacity with the island, notably the importing of wood which he offered sometimes as a gift to the imam for his naval shipyard for the construction of warships.28 Once, when his ship brought him a large consignment of wood from Sicily, and the imam’s arsenal needed wood, he offered it to the imam desiring him to accept it.29 Jawdhar’s close ties with the ruling family of Sicily meant that he was able, with the approval of al-Muʿizz, to borrow funds from the Treasury in Sicily for his mercantile transactions, and then reimburse the Treasury in al-Manṣūriyya with the sum that he had borrowed. The imam held that his wealth was Jawdhar’s too. Shipping was not without its hazards and Jawdhar suffered losses at sea. Once, when al-Muʿizz learned that one of Jawdhar’s ships had sunk with all its cargo while coming from Sicily, he wrote to him, on his own initiative, to commiserate with him for his loss.30 On another occasion when Jawdhar’s ship was lost at sea, and he could not find another to buy to transport his cargo to the east, he asked al-Muʿizz to grant him one of two ships that had been purchased for the imam from the Byzantines. He feared, out of respect, to make this request, but the imam asked him to take any ships that he needed, for he did not consider his own goods to be other than Jawdhar’s.31 Jawdhar was well aware of matters in the Fatimid family, including certain disputes on which general historical sources remain silent. In fact al-Muʿizz considered him to be part of his family and allowed him to visit him whenever he wanted.32 He was informed of the salaries and allowances of the inhabitants of the palace in general and of those of the imam’s harem and his entourage in particular. We learn from his biography that the sons of al-Mahdī and al-Qāʾim, who resided in al-Mahdiyya in the palaces of al-Mahdī and of al-Qāʾim respectively, refused to acknowledge al-Manṣūr’s excellence and denied his right to the imamate. They were also making false accusations against Jawdhar. They demanded

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that they be able to pass freely through the markets with the common people, whereas Jawdhar forbade this and prevented them from so doing because of their shameful behaviour. In connection with this, al-Manṣūr wrote a letter to his heir apparent al-Muʿizz in which he calls the sons of al-Mahdī and al-Qāʾim ‘the Cursed Tree in the Qurʾān’ (Q. 17:60), because, like the Umayyads earlier, they had refused to recognise him. Al-Manṣūr promised to send him a book he had composed on the matter to guide the believers and end the doubt in their minds.33 The origin of all the disputes in the family is al-Qāʾim’s son, Qāsim, who is blamed in particular by al-Manṣūr for provoking a dispute between al-Mahdī and al-Qāʾim.34 The Sīra does not elaborate on what Qāsim did, but Ibn ʿIdhārī reports that in 316/928, while al-Qāʾim was conducting operations against Berber tribes in the Maghrib, in a letter that he received from his son Qāsim he learnt that rumours were being spread about al-Mahdī having designated his son Abū ʿAlī Aḥmad (382/993) as the heir apparent, and that the latter had led the prayer on ʿId al-fiṭr and on ʿId al-aḍḥā. This troubled al-Qāʾim, who returned immediately to al-Mahdiyya without engaging the enemy.35 Then Qāsim’s sons, who resided in al-Mahdiyya, continued to display animosity towards al-Manṣūr and al-Muʿizz. The threat posed by them was such that Jawdhar was authorised by al-Muʿizz to intercept correspondence from the inhabitants of the two palaces in al-Mahdiyya. He had previously submitted to al-Muʿizz the idea of seizing correspondence exchanged between the two palaces and the house of Tamīm, al-Muʿizz’s own son, but the imam had been reluctant to agree. Eventually al-Muʿizz himself wrote to Jawdhar agreeing with his suggestion and authorising the interception of correspondence.36 Jawdhar’s deputy in al-Mahdiyya also wrote to him enclosing notes from two of Qāsim’s sons that he had intercepted and that contained offensive material, which Jawdhar relayed to the imam to keep him informed.37 Abū ʿAlī Aḥmad was still alive when al-Muʿizz was preparing to leave Ifrīqiya permanently for Egypt. The imam’s great-uncle was accused of making slanderous remarks. It was said of him that he intended to remain behind and put off leaving with al-Muʿizz. Jawdhar sought information about Aḥmad from his deputy Nuṣayr, governor of al-Mahdiyya, and reported to the imam what was being said.38 Some time after the conquest of Egypt, just as al-Qāʾim had made Jawdhar privy to the designation of al-Manṣūr as heir apparent, al-Muʿizz made him privy to the designation of his second son ʿAbd Allāh (d. 364/975) as his heir apparent, at a time when it was generally expected that al-Muʿizz’s eldest son Tamīm would be granted that status. Jawdhar

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kept ʿAbd Allāh’s appointment secret for seven months.39 ʿAbd Allāh was designated heir apparent, rather than Tamīm, because the latter was in touch with his cousins, the sons of Qāsim, who had intrigued against the imam. Moreover, Tamīm had no posterity and, it seems, led so dissolute a life that the amir Aḥmad b. al-Ḥasan al-Kalbī wanted to kill his own son Ṭāhir when he learnt that he was a companion of Tamīm.40 He consulted Jawdhar on the matter and sought his advice. Jawdhar alerted the imam, who advised him to intercede with Aḥmad so as to prevent any harm to his son.41 Jawdhar paid his respects to ʿAbd Allāh, and the prince visited Jawdhar when the latter was ill. After the prince’s visit, he wrote to al-Muʿizz expressing how honoured he felt by the visit of the heir apparent. He followed this with the dispatch of a precious rug and asked the imam to allow the prince to accept it.42 When al-Muʿizz decided to leave for Egypt, there was an exchange of letters between Jawdhar and ʿAbd Allāh in which the prince expressed his consideration for Jawdhar.43 When preparations were being made to leave for Egypt, it was even rumoured that Jawdhar would be left behind to govern Ifrīqiya. When he heard this, he wrote to al-Muʿizz asking him not to leave him behind, because his happiness lay in being at the side of the imam. The imam replied, assuring him not to worry about unfounded rumours, for he had not thought of leaving him behind for several reasons.44 Moreover, he had to try to reconcile his two ambitious allies in the Maghrib, Yūsuf Bulukkīn b. Zīrī (373/984),45 chief of the Ṣanhāja Berbers, and his bitter rival Jaʿfar b. ʿAlī b. Ḥamdūn (372/983),46 who had sided with their enemies, the Zanāta Berbers.47 Subsequently al-Muʿizz gave Yūsuf b. Zīrī charge of governing Ifrīqiya, while Jaʿfar b. ʿAlī, who was governor of the district of al-Masīla, switched his allegiance to the Umayyads. Jaʿfar and his brother Yaḥyā had been brought up at the Fatimid court, and their father ʿAlī had played an important role in 315/927 in the founding of the city of al-Masīla which al-Qāʾim had charged him to construct. Jaʿfar was particularly close to Jawdhar. When provincial governors were seeking to take over Jaʿfar’s governorship by offering to raise more revenue for the Treasury, al-Muʿizz turned down their bids out of consideration for Jawdhar’s friendship with Jaʿfar. Jawdhar, however, was troubled that the imam had considered him to the detriment of the Treasury. He besought the imam to disregard his friendship for Jaʿfar and dismiss him from his governorship and accept a rival bid so as not to deprive the Treasury of higher revenues, but the imam would not withdraw a favour once it was granted.48 Jawdhar himself was actively engaged in the preparations for the depar-

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ture to Egypt. Members of the Kalbid family had arrived in Ifrīqiya in order to set out with al-Muʿizz and his entourage. Jawdhar became aware of disputes between some members of the Kalbid family. He refrained from appearing to take sides so as not to expose himself to blame, and he informed the imam about his decision.49 On al-Muʿizz’s instructions, he helped them to secure their travel permits from Jawhar al-Ṣiqillī, the Fatimid commander.50 At that time al-Muʿizz was busy with dispatching troops to the east and had to incur expenses. Jawdhar mentioned that he had assembled funds following a successful venture selling goods from the state warehouses and securing outstanding taxes to which he had added some of his own fortune, which he offered as a gift to al-Muʿizz.51 Jawdhar had previously dealt with Jawhar, regarding a share in a property that Jawhar had asked to be granted and a share in a domain he wished to purchase.52 Correspondence was exchanged between the two after Jawhar had conquered Egypt and had been manumitted by al-Muʿizz. When Jawdhar sought al-Muʿizz’s advice on how to address Jawhar after the latter was manumitted, the imam established a pact of brotherhood between the two former slaves, invoking the pact of brotherhood established by the Prophet between his Companions, and he advised Jawdhar on the protocol to follow in his correspondence with Jawhar in order to reflect this pact of brotherhood.53 When al-Muʿizz left for Egypt, Jawdhar, who was now frail, also set out at the same time. He was aware of his condition, and wrote to the imam asking for an item of his clothing which could serve him as a shroud and a blessing when he died. In response, al-Muʿizz wished him a long life so that he would witness further bounties, and he sent him items from his own wardrobe as well as from the wardrobes of his father, grandfather and great-grandfather (i.e. imams al-Manṣūr, al-Qāʾim and al-Mahdī).54 When Jawdhar and his party arrived at Ajdābiya, in Cyrenaica, he wanted to see al-Muʿizz. As he was too weak, he was brought to al-Muʿizz’s tent in a litter. The imam leaned into the litter and hugged him and comforted him. This was the last time they met. Then, as Jawdhar was approaching Barqa, he grew much weaker. The following morning the death agony began, and he died at the time of the midday prayer. That night, his body was carried from the town of Barqa to the palace where al-Muʿizz had set up camp, at a place called Mayāsir. The imam ordered that the body be washed. This ritual was carried out by the illustrious al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān (d. 363/974), Muḥammad b. ʿUthmān, the Secretary, and Manṣūr al-ʿAzīzī al-Jawdharī, the compiler of the Sīra.55 The imam recited the prayer over Jawdhar the following day and he was buried there in a local mosque in Barqa.56

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Jawdhar’s name is still preserved in a quarter of Cairo, al-Jūdariyya (al-Jawdhariyya), established by a group of individuals who bore the nisba al-Jawdharī, among them the compiler of the Sīra.57 Notes 1.

2.

3.

4.

5. 6. 7.

8.

On eunuchs and terms used for them in the sources, see David Ayalon, ‘On the Eunuchs in Islam’, Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam, 1 (1979), pp. 67–124; repr. in his Outsiders in the Lands of Islam: Mamluks, Mongols and Eunuchs (London, 1988), article III. Abū ʿAlī Manṣūr al-ʿAzīzī al-Jawdharī, Sīrat al-ustādh Jawdhar, ed. Muḥammad Kāmil Ḥusayn and Muḥammad ʿAbd al-Hādī Shaʿīra (Cairo, 1954); French tr. Marius Canard, Vie de l’Ustadh Jaudhar (Algiers, 1957); new critical edition and English translation, Hamid Haji, Glimpses from Early Fatimid Archives: The Biography of al-Ustādh Jawdhar (London, forthcoming). The first time al-Qāʾim led an expedition to the Maghrib, after al-Mahdī assumed power in Raqqāda, was when al-Mahdī dispatched him at the head of troops to fight those Kutāma who had rebelled following the killing of the Ismaili dāʿī Abū ʿAbd Allāh al-Shīʿī in 298/911. See al-Qāḍī Abū Ḥanīfa al-Nuʿmān b. Muḥammad, Iftitāḥ al-daʿwa, ed. Wadād al-Qāḍī (Beirut, 1970), p. 273, tr. Hamid Haji, Founding the Fatimid State: The Rise of an Early Islamic Empire (London, 2006), p. 227; and Taqī al-Dīn al-Maqrīzī, Kitāb al-Muqaffā al-kabīr, ed. Muḥammad al-Yaʿlāwī (Beirut, 1411/1991), vol. 4, p. 561. Al-Qāʾim conducted two expeditions to Egypt, in 301/913 and in 306/918, during al-Mahdī’s reign; see ʿIzz al-Dīn Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil fi’l-taʾrīkh, Carl. J. Tornberg (Beirut, 1387/1967), vol. 6, pp. 147, 149–150, 161; and al-Maqrīzī, Ittiʿāẓ al-ḥunafā bi-akhbār al-aʾimma al-Fāṭimiyyīn al-khulafā, ed. Jamāl al-Dīn Muḥammad al-Shayyāl and Muḥammad Ḥilmī Muḥammad Aḥmad (Cairo, 1967–1973), vol. 1, pp. 68–69, 71–72. Jawdharī, Sīra, p. 43. Ibid., p. 40. Jawdharī, Sīra, pp. 41–42. No work is cited, but the passage alluded to in the letter is found in Galen’s work ΠΕΡΙ ΔΙΑΓΝΩΣΕΩΣ ΚΑΙ ΘΕΡΑΠΕΙΑΣ ΤΩΝ ΕΝ [ΤΗΙ] ἙΚΑΣΤΟΥ ΨΥΧΗΙ ΙΔΙΩΝ ΠΑΘΩΝ, [Peri diagnōseōs kai therapeias tōn en [tēi] hekastou psychēi idiōn pathōn = De Propriorum Animi Cuiuslibet Affectuum Dignotione et Curatione], ed. Wilko de Boer, Corpus Medicorum Graecorum (Leipzig and Berlin, 1937), vol. 5 (4,1,1), pp. 13–15; tr. as The Diagnosis and Cure of the Soul’s Passions in Paul W. Harkins, tr. On the Passions and Errors of the Soul (Columbus, OH, 1963), pp. 39–41. This work was known in Arabic as Fī taʿarruf al-insān ʿuyūb nafsih. Ibid., pp. 41–42.

A Distinguished Slav Eunuch of the Early Fatimid Period 9.

10. 11.

12. 13. 14.

15. 16.

17.

18. 19. 20. 21. 22.

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Ibn Khaldūn, Kitāb al-ʿIbar wa dīwān al-mubtadaʾ wa’l-khabar fī ayyām al-ʿarab wa’l-ʿajam wa’l-barbar wa man ʿāṣarahum min dhawī al-sulṭān al-akbar, ed. Yūsuf Asʿad Dāghir (Beirut, 1956–1961), vol. 4, p. 98; and Maqrīzī, Ittiʿāẓ, vol. 1, p. 101. Jawdharī, Sīra, p. 116. On him see al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān, Iftitāḥ, p. 272 (tr. Haji, Founding the Fatimid State, p. 225); Samuel M. Stern, ‘Abū Yazīd al-Nukkārī’, EI2, vol. 1, pp. 163–164; and Roger Le Tourneau, ‘La révolte d’Abû Yazîd au Xme siècle’, Les cahiers de Tunisie, 1 (1953), pp. 103–125. Al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān, Iftitāḥ, p. 272; tr. Haji, Founding the Fatimid State, p. 225. Jawdharī, Sīra, p. 44. Al-Qāʾim died on 13 Shawwāl 334/17 May 946. See Ibn ʿIdhārī, Kitāb al-Bayān al-mughrib fī akhbār al-Andalus wa-al-Maghrib, ed. George S. Colin and Évariste Lévi-Provençal (Leiden, 1948–1951), vol. 1, p. 208. However, al-Mansūr did not style himself ‘Commander of the Faithful’ (amīr al-muʾminīn), and kept his death secret for a year and three months because of Abū Yazīd’s rebellion. It was only in Muḥarram 336/August 947, after his victory over Abū Yazīd, that he announced his father’s death and styled himself ‘Commander of the Faithful’. See Maqrīzī, al-Muqaffā, vol. 2, pp. 130, 148, 159, vol. 6, p. 179; Maqrīzī, Ittiʿāẓ, vol. 1, pp. 82, 86; Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 6, p. 317; and Ibn Ḥammād, Akhbār mulūk Banī ʿUbayd wa sīratuhum = Histoire des rois ʿobaïdides, ed. and French tr. M. Vonderheyden (Algiers and Paris, 1346/1927), pp. 21, 36 (tr., pp. 37, 57). Jawdharī, Sīra, pp. 51–52. After the death of al-Qāʾim on 13 Shawwāl 334/18 May 946, al-Manṣūr made no change in the coinage until after the end of Abū Yazīd’s revolt in 336/948. Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil, vol. 6, p. 317; Maqrīzī, al-Muqaffā, vol. 2, p. 1630; Maqrīzī, Ittiʿāẓ, vol. 1, p. 80. See specimens of dinars minted in al-Qāʾim’s name after his death in J. Farrugia de Candia, ‘Monnaies fatimites du Musée du Bardo’, Revue tunisienne, 27–28 (1936), pp. 354–355. Jawdharī, Sīra, p. 53. Among these books was al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān’s Kitāb al-Īdāḥ, ed. Muḥammad Kāẓim Raḥmatī (Beirut, 2007), and collections of sermons by al-Qāʾim and al-Manṣūr himself; some of these have been edited and translated by Paul E. Walker, Orations of the Fatimid Caliphs: Festival Sermons of the Ismaili Imams (London, 2009); on the Kitāb al-Īdāḥ see Wilferd Madelung, ‘The Sources of Ismāʿīlī Law’, Journal of Near Eastern Studies, 35, i (1976), pp. 29–40. Jawdharī, Sīra, p. 53. Ibid., pp. 60–61; Alexander Alexandrovich Vasiliev, Byzance et les Arabes (Bruxelles, 1935–1968). vol. 2, pt. 1, pp. 369–370, and vol. 2, pt. 2, pp 159–160. Ibid., p. 100. Ibid., pp. 88, 103. Ibid., pp. 97, 119–120, 126.

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23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33.

34. 35.

36. 37. 38. 39. 40.

Hamid Haji Ibid., pp. 126–127. Ibid., p. 108. Ibid., p. 113. Ibid., p. 131. Ibid., p. 99. Ibid., p. 119. Ibid., p. 121. Ibid., pp. 136–137. Ibid., pp. 127–128. Ibid., pp. 124–126. Ibid., pp. 61–64. The work in question is apparently Tathbīt al-imāma; see Ismail K. Poonawala, Biobibliography of Ismāʿīlī Literature (Malibu, CA, 1977), pp. 44–45. A manuscript of the work, MS no. 1120 (Zāhid ʿAlī Collection), is preserved in the Library of The Institute of Ismaili Studies, London. See Delia Cortese, Arabic Ismaili Manuscripts: The Zāhid ʿAlī Collection in the Library of The Institute of Ismaili Studies (London, 2003), p. 180. For a detailed description of the work see Wilferd Madelung, ‘A Treatise on the Imamate of the Fatimid Caliph al-Manṣūr bi-Allāh’, in Chase F. Robinson, ed., Texts, Documents and Artefacts: Islamic Studies in Honour of D. S. Richards (Leiden, 2003), pp. 69–77. Jawdharī, Sīra, p. 115. Ibn ʿIdhārī, al-Bayān, vol. 1, p. 193. It is interesting to note that subsequently, on 3 Rabīʿ I 404/12 September 1013, al-Muʿizz’s grandson al-Ḥākim bi-Amr Allāh (r. 386–411/996–1021) appointed as heir apparent ʿAbd al-Raḥīm b. Ilyās who was a descendant of Abū ʿAlī Aḥmad. See Maqrīzī, Ittiʿāẓ, vol. 2, pp. 100–101. Jawdharī, Sīra, pp. 99–100. Ibid., p. 98. Ibid., pp. 105–106. Ibid., pp. 139–140. ʿAbd Allāh was the second son of al-Muʿizz, the others being Tamīm the eldest son, Nizār, the future caliph as al-ʿAzīz bi’llāh (r. 365–386/975–996), and ʿAqīl. According to Maqrīzī (al-Muqaffā, vol. 2, p. 588), al-Muʿizz first appointed Tamīm heir apparent. Then, after Jawhar’s conquest of Egypt, al-Muʿizz wrote to Jawdhar and confided to him that he had revoked Tamīm’s designation in favour of ʿAbd Allāh. What prompted al-Muʿizz to revoke Tamīm’s designation was that Tamīm had no posterity and led a dissolute life. ʿAbd Allāh died in Cairo during al-Muʿizz’s reign. Then al-Muʿizz appointed Tamīm’s younger brother Nizār. See also Maqrīzī, Ittiʿāẓ, vol. 1, pp. 217, 235; Ibn Ḥammād, Akhbār, p. 47 (tr. p. 71); Ibn Muyassar, Akhbār Miṣr, ed. Ayman Fuʾād Sayyid as al-Muntaqā min Akhbār Miṣr (Cairo, 1981), pp. 165–166; Ibn Ẓāfir, Akhbār al-duwal al-munqaṭiʿa, ed. André Ferré (Cairo, 1972), pp. 26, 31. Cf. Idrīs ʿImād al-Dīn, ʿUyūn al-akhbār wa funūn al-āthār fī faḍāʾil al-aʾimma al-aṭhār, vol. 5, ed. Muḥammad al-Yaʿlāwī as Taʾrīkh

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41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46.

47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55.

56. 57.

273

al-khulafāʾ al-Fāṭimiyyīn bi’l-Maghrib: al-qism al-khāṣṣ min Kitāb ʿUyūn al-akhbār (Beirut, 1985), p. 702. Jawdharī, Sīra, p. 120. Ibid., p. 136. Ibid., pp. 141–142. Ibid., p. 109. On him see Maqrīzī, al-Muqaffā, vol. 1, p. 656, vol. 2, p. 385, vol. 3, p. 762, vol. 5, pp. 638, 730; and Hady Roger Idris, La Berbérie orientale sous les Zīrīdes, Xe-XIIe siècles (Paris, 1962), pp. 41–61. On the Banū Ḥamdūn see Ibn Khaldūn, al-ʿIbar, vol. 4, pp. 175–180; and Marius Canard, ‘Une famille de partisans, puis d’adversaires, des Fatimides en Afrique du Nord’, in Mélanges d’histoire et d’archéologie de l’Occident musulman II: Hommage à Georges Marçais (Algiers, 1957), pp. 33–49. Jawdharī, Sīra, pp. 100–101. Ibid., pp. 129–131. Ibid., pp. 114–115. Ibid., pp. 109–110. Ibid., pp. 92–93. Ibid., p. 122. Ibid., p. 135. Ibid., pp. 138–139. After Jawdhar’s death, al-Muʿizz appointed Manṣūr to succeeded Jawdhar. Manṣūr wrote the Sīra during the time of al-Muʿizz’s successor, al-ʿAzīz bi’llāh, and he lived up to the time of al-Ḥākim, and held several important offices, including the office of director of endowments (waqf ) and market inspector. Then, his son Jābir (d. after 390/1000) also held some of these offices during the reign of al-Ḥākim; see al-Maqrīzī, al-Muqaffā, vol. 3, p. 9. Jawdharī, Sīra, pp. 143–146. Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, al-Rawḍa al-bahiyya al-zāhira fī khiṭaṭ al-Muʿizziyya al-Qāhira, ed. Ayman Fuʾād Sayyid (Cairo, 1996), p. 54.

‫‪Ismail K. Poonawala‬‬

‫‪304‬‬

‫‪APPENDIX‬‬

‫رب ا ـ��ـ� ـ���ــ�‪ ،‬و��ّــ� ا��ــ� ��ــ�‬ ‫��ـ�ن ا�ـ���ــ�‪ .‬ا ـ ـ‬ ‫ـ��ـ� ا��ــ� ا�ـ� ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ��ــ� ّ‬ ‫� ّ���� ���� وآ�� ا��ٔ�����‪.‬‬ ‫���ـ�‪،‬‬ ‫��ـ� �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�ن ا ـ��ـ� و ـ‬ ‫�ـ� و�ـ� ا ـ��ـ�اغ �ـ� �ـ�ه ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫و�ـ� ّدة و�ـ ّ�ـ� �ـ� أر�ـ�‪� ،‬ـ��م ا ـ��ـ� �ـ�ـ�ـ�‪ ،‬ودا�ـ�ـ� دا�ـ� ا�ـ��ـ�ة‪ ،‬و�ـ�ـ�ـ�‬ ‫��ـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�ءه أ�ـ� ا�� ٓ�ـ��ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ ّ� ا ـ��ـ�ى وا�ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬ـ‬ ‫ا��ــ��ـ�ت‪ ،‬ا ـ���ــ� ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�‬ ‫����ـ�‪� ،‬ـ� ا ـ��ـ�م ا ـ��ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ‬ ‫����ـ� وآ�ـ� أ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫ود�ـ� ا�ـ�ا�ـ��ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ا ـ��ـ�‬ ‫��ـ� ‪� ١٢٣٣‬ـ� درس ا�ـ�ا�ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ�ر‪ ،‬ـ ـ‬ ‫ر�ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ ّ� �ـ� ـ‬ ‫�����‪��� �� ،‬ة ��رت ���ر‪ ����� ،‬ا��� �����‪.‬‬ ‫�����ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬وو�ّـ�ـ� ا ـ��ـ ُ� �ِـ�ـ� ُ�ـ���ــ�‬ ‫��ـ�ك ا ـ��ـ ُ� ـ��ـ���ــ�‪ ،‬وا ــ ـ ـ‬ ‫أ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� َ�ـ�ـ�‪،‬‬ ‫����ـ�ك‪ ،‬وأ�ـ��ـ� �ـ�‪�� .‬ــ َ� أ ـ‬ ‫و ُ�ـ��ـ� و ّ��ــ ُ�‪ ،‬وأ�ـ��ـَ� ـ��ـ� �ـ� ا ــ ـ‬ ‫ــــ� ا�ـ�ي أ�ّـ َ�ـ ُ� �ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� ����‬ ‫�ب ��ــ� ا ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫وأ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�ك ا ـ��ـ ُ� ا��ــ���ــ َ�‪�� ،‬ــ َ‬ ‫��ـ�‬ ‫��ـ�ه ��ــ�ب أدب ا ـ��ـ��ـ� ] ـ��ـ� ـ ّ‬ ‫ـ��ـ��ـ� ا ــ���ـ�ن وا��ــ� وا��ٕ �ـ�اب‪ ،‬و ـ ّ‬ ‫�ت �ـ� أ�ـّ�‬ ‫زا�ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ� ا ـ��ـ���ــ�‪ ،‬و�ـ� ا�� ٔ�ـ�‪ :‬آداب ا ـ���ّــ�ب[‪ ،‬وذ�ـ َ‬ ‫��ــ��ـ� ��ــ�ات ا��ــ� ���ـــ�‬ ‫أ�ـ َ‬ ‫�اء ا ـ��ـ�دة‪ُ ،‬و�ْـ� أ��ــ� ا ـ��ـ����ـــ� �ـ����ـ� و ّ‬ ‫�ت ا�� ٔ�ـ َ‬ ‫����ـ ِ� �ِـ�ـ� ��ــ� �ـ� ��ــ ِ‬ ‫��ـ َ�‬ ‫����ــ ُ�‪ ،‬وأو ـ‬ ‫���ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬وأ��ــ �� ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫�ن ا ـ���ــ� وا ـ ـ‬ ‫ـ ــ‬ ‫�����ـ�ا ـ��ـ َ� �ـ� ��ــ�‪ .‬وإ�ـّ�‬ ‫�����ـ� ُه‪ ،‬و ــ ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ ُ� ــ ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ ُ�‪ ،‬و ــ���ـ َ� ـ��ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫ـ��ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�‪� .‬ـ�ٔ ـ َ��ـ�ـ� �ـ�‬ ‫��ـ�ٍ �ـ� ا ـ��ـ�ل �ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫و ـ��ـ َ� ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ�ٍ ـ��ـ� ذ�ـ ُ� ـ‬ ‫���ـ ُ�‬ ‫���ـــ ُ� َ�ـ َ�ـ َ�ـ َ�ـ� ــ‬ ‫���ـــ ُ� ـ��ـ� ــ���ـ� أ �‬ ‫���ـــ ُ�‪ ،‬و ُ�ـ ُ‬ ‫ـ��ـ� ــ���ـ� ُ��ــ ّ��ــ� ـ��ـ� ذ�ـ� ــ���ـ� أ ُ‬ ‫�ـ� ذ�ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ب‪،‬‬ ‫���ـ َ� �ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� و�ـ� ـ ُ��ـ ُ�‪ .‬و�ـ�أ َت ـ��ـ �� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� و ـ��ـ ُ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ــ�‬ ‫��ـ� �ـ�ٔ�ـ َ� ��ــ� �ـ� ��ــ ِ�ن �ـ� ��ــ�‪ ،‬و�ـ��ـ ُ� �ـ� ـ��ـ���ــ�‪ ،‬وأو ـ ُ‬ ‫وأ ُ‬ ‫���ـــ� ـ ّ‬ ‫����ــ� ��ــ�‪ .‬ـ��ـ�ٔ�ـ َ� ـ��ـ� ذ�ـ� �ـ� �ـ� ��ــ ٍ‬ ‫�ب‬ ‫����ــ� �ـ� ��ــ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�ن‪.‬‬ ‫��ـ� �ـ� ا�ـ��ـ�دة وا ــ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�‪ ،‬وأو�ـ� �ـ� ا���ـــ�ن‪ ،‬وأ ـ‬ ‫ــ���ـ�ن أ��ــ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫�� َ‬ ‫��اء‪.‬‬ ‫��� ذ�� ��� ��ٔ َ‬ ‫��أ ُ‬ ‫�� ����ن أ��� �� ����� �� ������ ُه ا�� ٔ ُ‬

‫‪n. 44‬‬

‫‪colophon‬‬

‫‪n. 46‬‬

‫‪305‬‬

‫‪Al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān and his Refutation of Ibn Qutayba‬‬

‫���ـ ِ� وا�� ٔ ِ‬ ‫دب ٔان‬ ‫����ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ب �ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� �ـ� �ـ�ا ا ـ ـ‬ ‫ذ�ـ� ا�ـ ُ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�م‪� ،‬ـ� �ـ�ل‪:‬‬ ‫���ّـ�ـ ِ�‪� .‬ـ��ـ� و�ـ��ـ�ً �ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ ِ� و ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ�ٔ�ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫ـ ــ‬ ‫���ـ ِ�‪ ،‬و ـ��ـ��ـ ِ� أ�ـ��ـ ِ� �ـ�‬ ‫و�� ُ�ـ �� �ـ� ]‪� -‬ـ� ذ�ـ� ‪� [-‬ـ� ا ــ���ـ� �ـ� ُ�ـ َ�ـ ِ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ���ــ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ��ـ�‪:‬‬ ‫�ـ��ـ� ر�ـ�ل ا��ــ� ��ّــ� ا��ــ� ���ـــ� و��ــ� آ�ـ� ]و��ــ�[ و ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ن؛‬ ‫�اج �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ ُ� ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ ّ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ ّ��ـ� وا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�؛ وا ـ َ‬ ‫��ـ ُ‬ ‫ا ـ َ��ـ ��ـ َ�ـ ُ� ـ��ـ� ا ـ ُ‬ ‫و ُ�ـ ْ� ُح ا ـ َ��ـ ْ�ـ�ـ� ِء ُ�ـ�ـ� ٌر؛ و�� َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ُ� ا�ـ �� ْ�ـ ُ�؛ وا ـ ِ��ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ُ� �ـ�دودةٌ؛ ا ـ��ـ� ِر ��ـ ُ� ُ�ـ َ� �داةٌ؛‬ ‫��ـ َ� �ـ ٍ‬ ‫�ارث؛ و�� َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ� �ـ� َ�ـ َ�ـ ٍ� و�� َ�ـ َ�ـ�ٍ؛ و�� َ�ـ َ� َد إ��‬ ‫وا�ـ� ـ��ـ ُ� �ـ�ر ٌم؛ و�� و ـ ّ‬ ‫ـ��ـ��ـ� ٍة؛ وا ـ��ـ�أ ُة ُ�ـ�ـ� ِ�ـ� ا�ـ��ـ َ� إ�ـ� �ُـ ْ�ـ ِ� ]ا�ـ��ـ ِ�[ د ــ���ـ�؛ و�� َ�ـ ْ�ـ ِ�ـ ُ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ��ـ ُ�‬ ‫���ـ�ً‪ ،‬و�� ا��ــ�ا�ـ�ً؛ و�� �ـ��قَ �ـ� إ�ـ ٍ‬ ‫��ق؛ وا َ��ــ ��ـ�ـ�ن‬ ‫ـ��ـ�اً‪ ،‬و�� ��ــ�اً‪ ،‬و�� ــ‬ ‫�ـ� ـ ِ‬ ‫���ـ ���ـ�؛ وا ـ��ـ� ُر أ�ـ �� �ِـ َ�ـ َ�ـ ِ�ـ ِ�؛ وا ـ��ـ�� ُق �ـ��ـ��ـ�ل؛ وا ـ ِ��ـ ّ� ُة‬ ‫��ـ�ـ� ِر �ـ� �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�ا َ�ـ َ�ـ�‪،‬‬ ‫��ـ ْ�ـ�ِـ ِ� �ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ء؛ و ـ َ‬ ‫��ـ�ـ� َ�ـ َ�ـ�‪ ،‬وا ـ ُ‬ ‫��ـ�ـ��ـ�ة‪ ،‬وا ـ ُ‬ ‫���ـ�ع �ـ� ا ـ ُ‬ ‫�؛‬ ‫وا ـ ُ‬ ‫��ـ�ـ َ�و َ�ـ�‪] ،‬وا���ــ ْ�ـ�ـ�[؛ و�ـ� ِر ْ�ـ� �ـ� �ـ� ُ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ْ�؛ و �ـ� ��ــ� �ـ� �ـ� ُ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ْ‬ ‫و�ـ� َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ َ�ـ ْ�ـ�ِ �ـ� َ�ـ ْ�ـ َ�ـ ٍ�؛ و�ـ� ا ـ ّ‬ ‫��ـ�[ �ـ� ـ��ـ ٍ�؛ و�ـ� ـ��ـ ٍ�‬ ‫��ـ ْ� َ�ـ ْ�ـ�ِ ]�ـ� ـ‬ ‫��ـ�ا َ�ـ َ�ـ�؛ و�ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ�ء �ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ�ء؛‬ ‫و َ�ـ َ�ـ ٍ�؛ و�ـ� ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ ََ�رِ؛ و�ـ� ـ��ـ� ا ـ ُ‬ ‫���ـ�‬ ‫���ـ�ة‪ ،‬إذا �ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�ه ـ��ـ�ا ـ ـ‬ ‫و�ـ� �َـ َ�ـ ��ـ� ا�ـ �� ْ�ـ�ـ ِ�ن‪�] ،‬ـ� أ ـ‬ ‫����ـ�‪ ،‬و ـ ـ ّ‬ ‫������� و���ّ���‪ ،‬أ ْ� َ� ْ� ُ� ��ٕذن ا��� ����� �� ��� ٍ� �� إ���� ا�����ء‪[.‬‬ ‫���ـ��ـ� و�ـ�‬ ‫وإ�ـ� ��ــ ُ� ـ���ّــ�ـ ُ� ـ ُ��ـ ـ��ـ�ِ ا��ــ�ٔد�ـ ِ� �ـ� ا ـ���ّــ�ب ��ــ��ـ�ً �ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ّـ� ذ�ـ� ـ ـ ّ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ��ـ�ن‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ن وا ـ��ـ�‪ ...‬و�ـ��ـ ُ� ـ ـ‬ ‫ـ��ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫�����ــ� ـ��ـ�‬ ‫����ــّ�� ً إذا �ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬و ـ ــ‬ ‫��ـ�ره ــ‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ���ــ� ـ‬ ‫ا ـ��ـ��ـ� ُ��ــ� ـ ـ‬ ‫ٍ‬ ‫ٍ‬ ‫ٍ‬ ‫���� ���ٍ ‪ ،‬إذا ��ور‪.‬‬ ‫و���‬ ‫����‪،‬‬ ‫���� �� ����‬ ‫��ـ ِ�‬ ‫�ـ ٕ��ـ� رأ�ـ ُ� أ��ــ َ� أ�ـ�ِ ز�ـ���ــ� �ــ�ا �ـ� ���ـــ� ا��ٔدب �ـ� ِ�ـ��ــ�‪ ،‬و�ـ� ا ـ‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ�ا�ـ ٌ� �ـ� ا ــ�����ـــ�‪ ،‬وا ـ��ـ�د ُي‬ ‫���ــ��ـ�‪ ،‬و�� ٔ��ــ ِ� �ـ�ر��ــ�‪ .‬أ�ـ� ا��ــ��ـ ُ� ــ‬ ‫ُ�ـ ـ �‬ ‫����ـ�ء‬ ‫س ‪� ...‬ـ� ـ ــ‬ ‫�ـ�ر ٌك �ـ��زد�ـ�د‪ ،‬وا ـ���ــ�ٔ ّد ُب �ـ� ــ‬ ‫س أو ُ�ـ��ــ� ٍ‬ ‫���ـ�ان ا ـ���ــ�ب �ـ� ٍ‬ ‫�ت‬ ‫��ـ� �ـ�ى ـ��ـ ُ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ُ�ـ�ن ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�رون‪ ،‬و ـ��ـ ّ� ِة ا ـ ـ‬ ‫ــ‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ،‬و ـ��ـ ْ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫���ـ ُ�‬ ‫���ـ ُ� �ـ�راً ـ��ـ� �ـ���ــ�‪ ،‬وا ـ ـ‬ ‫�رت ـ��ـ��ـ ُ� أ ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬و�ـ�ر ا ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ� ُق ا��ــ ّ�‪ ،‬و�ـ ْ‬ ‫����ً ‪...‬‬

‫‪n. 77‬‬

‫‪n. 83‬‬

‫‪n. 84‬‬

‫‪Ismail K. Poonawala‬‬

‫���ــ ٌ�‬ ‫���ـ� ـ��ـ��ـ�ن‪ :‬إ ّن أدب ا ـ��ـ��ـ� ـ‬ ‫وا��ــ�س ـ��ـ��ـ�ن‪ :‬إ ّن أ��ــ� أ�ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ�� ـ��ـ ٍ‬ ‫���ـ�‬ ‫�ب �ـ�� ـ ـ‬ ‫�ب‪ ،‬وإ�ـ��ح ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ ٍ�‪ .‬و�ـ�ا ـ��ـ� �ـ�ع ـ ـ ّ‬ ‫����ـ� ـ��ـ ٌ‬ ‫���ّـ ٌ�‪ ،‬و�ـ� أ�ـ ّ�‬ ‫���ـ�‪� ،‬ـ�ٕن أدب ا ـ��ـ��ـ� �ـ� �ـ�ى �ـ� �ـ ّ� �ـ� ٍء‪ ،‬و�ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫ــ‬ ‫َ� َ� َ��� ��� ��ا ا���ل إ�� أن ا����� ���� ٌ�‪.‬‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� ـ ـ���ـ�ن ـ��ـ ً�‬ ‫ــــ� وإ ْن �ـ�ن ��ــ� أ�ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� ����‬ ‫إ ّن ��ــ� ا ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� ا��ــ�ٔ��ــ� ــ���ـ�‬ ‫����ـ ّ���ــ� �ـ� أ�ـ� ا ـ���ــ� �ـ�‪ ،‬و ـ‬ ‫ــ���ـ� رواه �ـ� ذ�ـ� �ـ� ا ـ ــ‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ،‬و��‬ ‫����ـ�ء �ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� وأ�ّـ�ـ� ��ــ�‪� ،‬ـ ٕ��ـ� ��ــ� �ـ� ــ���ـ� و�� �ـ� ـ��ـ�ٔ�ـ�ن ��ــ� ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫ــ‬ ‫�� �� أ���‪.‬‬ ‫���ـ�‬ ‫و�ـ� �ـ� ذ�ـ� �ـ� ّو �ـ� أ�ـ�اء ا ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬وأ�ـ�اء أو ـ��ـ��ـ�‪� ،‬ـ��ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� ٌي �ـ��ـ ٌ� �ـ��ـ� إ�ـ� ا ــ�����ـــ�‪ ،‬و�ـ��ـ� إ�ـ��ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� ��ــ� ا ـ��ـ ّ� وأ��ــ�‪ ،‬ـ‬ ‫وا ـ ـ‬ ‫أ�� ��� ر��ل ا��� ��ّ� ا��� ���� و�����‪ ،‬و���� إ���� أ��ا���‪.‬‬ ‫و ـ��ـ�ج �ـ� ذ�ـ� �ـ� �ـ�ود أ��ــ� ا ـ��ـ� ّ�ـ�‪ّ�� ،‬ــ� أ�ـ� ذ�ـ� �ـ� ��ــ��ـ� ا�ـ�ي‬ ‫�����ـ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ�ل‪ :‬وأ ّ�ـ�‬ ‫����ــ� �ـ� ��ــ� ��ــ�ات ا��ــ� ـــ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�رف ا ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�ه ��ــ�ب ا ـ ـ‬ ‫ـّ‬ ‫���ــ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ�ن ُ�ـ��ــ� أ�ـ� ��ــ� ا ـ��ـ�‪� ،‬ـ�ج ـ��ـ� �ـ��ـ�‪� ،‬ـ� ّ�ـ� إ��ــ� ���ـــ ُ� ا ـ��ـ�‬ ‫ـ‬ ‫��� �� ��� �� أ�� و��ص‪��� ����� ،‬ن �� ��� ا�����‪.‬‬ ‫�� ز��د َ‬ ‫��ـ�‪ :‬أ�ـ� ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ�‪،‬‬ ‫����ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ ّ� �ـ� أ�ـ� �ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬ـ��ـ�ن ُ�ـ ـ‬ ‫وأ ّ�ـ� ا ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� �ـ� أ�ـ�‬ ‫و�ـ�ج ُ�ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ�‪� ،‬ـ� ّ�ـ� إ��ــ� ���ـــ ُ� ا ـ��ـ� �ـ� ز�ـ�د ـ��ـ َ� �ـ� ـ‬ ‫و�ّـ�ص‪� ،‬ـ�ـ�ـ�ـ� �ـ�ـ� ُن �ـ� أ�ـ� أ�ـ� ا�ـ�ـ�ـ�ـ� �ـ�ـ َ� إ�ـ�ى و�ـ�ّـ�ـ�‪� ،‬ـ�م‬ ‫����راء‪.‬‬ ‫����ــ ُ�‬ ‫وأ�ـ� �ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ�و�ـ�‪��ُ ،‬ــ��ــ� أ�ـ� �ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬و� ّـ� ا ـ��ـ���ـ�‪ ،‬وأ��ــ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� ���ـــ� ا��ــ� �ـ� ز�ـ�د‬ ‫����ـ�‪� ،‬ـ��ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ�‪ ،‬و ـــ‬ ‫�ـ� ��ــ ّ�‪ ،‬ر�ـ� ا��ــ� ـ��ـ��ـ� ــ ـ‬ ‫��ـ� �ـ� أ�ـ� و�ّـ�ص‪ ،‬ـ��ـ���ــ�‪،‬‬ ‫�ـ� ��ــ� �ـ��ـ�‪� ،‬ـ� ّ�ـ� إ��ــ� ���ـــ ُ� ا��ــ� ـ��ـ َ� �ـ� ـ‬ ‫��ُ�� ا�����‪ ،‬ر��� ا��� ����� ���� ور��ا��‪.‬‬

‫‪306‬‬

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‫‪n. 94‬‬

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‫‪n. 97‬‬

‫‪n. 98‬‬

‫‪n. 99‬‬

‫‪307‬‬

‫‪Al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān and his Refutation of Ibn Qutayba‬‬

‫��ـ� ا ـ���ــ�‪،‬‬ ‫��ـ� ا ـ��ـ�ى إ�ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ن[ ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫وأ�ـ��ـ�ه ] ــ‬ ‫���ـ� أ ـ ّ‬ ‫�����ـ� �ـ� أ ـ ّ‬ ‫��ـ�ا ـ��ـ��ـ� �ـ�‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ،‬وأو ـ‬ ‫��ـ��ف ا ـ��ـ�س ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�ا �ـ� ا�ـ� ا ـ��ـ���ـ� �� ـ‬ ‫و�ـ� �ـ� ـ‬ ‫����ــ� ���ـــ� ا ـ��ـ��م �ـ�ر��ــ�ً‬ ‫���ــ�ا ا��ــ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫��ـ�ع ا��ــ�س ���ـــ� ‪ ...‬و ـ‬ ‫ـ��ـ�و�ـ� ��ٕ ـ‬ ‫��ّـ�‪� :‬ـ� �ـ�ج ـ��ـ� أ ّ�ـ�ـ�‬ ‫��ّـ� ا ـ��ـ� ـ���ــ� و ـ‬ ‫‪� ...‬ـ��ل ا�ـ�م ـ��ـ�ل ا���ـــ� ـ‬ ‫و�� ��� ٌ� ������ه �����ً �� ��ن‪.‬‬ ‫���ـ�ة‪� ،‬ـ���ـ� �ـ� ّل‬ ‫���ـ��ـ�ً �ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫�����ـ�‪ :‬ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� إ�ـ� ا ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫����ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫و�ـ�ن ا�ـ� ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�ت[‪ .‬و�ـ�ل ا ـ��ـ�ل �ـ� �ــ�ه‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�د ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ�‪ ] .‬ـ ـ‬ ‫ــ‬ ‫���ـ� ــ���ـ� ا ــ���ـ�ت ـ��ـ�‪��ُ ،‬ــ��ـ� �ـ��ـ�ؤ�ـ� وا ــ���� ّــ�‪،‬‬ ‫ا�� ٔ��ــ�ر أن �ـُ��ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ ّ� ــ‬ ‫���ـ�ء ا�ـ���ــ�‪ ،‬وأ�ـ� ��ــ� ا ـ��ـ�ش ا��ــ�ى‪ ،‬و�ـ� ــ���ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� و��ــ�ل إ�ـ� ا ـ ـ‬ ‫وأ�ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫���ـ� ـ��ـ� �ـ�‬ ‫�����ـ ٍ� أو �ـ �� أو أن ـ ـ‬ ‫وا ـ��ـ��ـ� �ـ� ـ��ـ� أن ـ��ـ�ل �ـ� ذ�ـ� ـ ـ ـ ـ ّ‬ ‫���ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� ـ��ـ� ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ�ء �ـ� �ـ� �ـ�ٔت‪ .‬ـ��ـ��ـ� أن ـ��ـ�ن �ـ� ذ�ـ� ا ـ��ـ�ل وا ـ ـ‬ ‫ا����ة ��اً‪ ،‬إن ��ء ا��� �����‪.‬‬ ‫���ـ�‬ ‫����ـ��ـ�ري[ �ـ��ـ�‪ :‬أ ـ ـ‬ ‫و ـ��ـ� ا ـ���ــ��ـ� وا�ـ�اودي �ـ� ا ـ��ـ��ـ� ]ا ـــ‬ ‫اب‪.‬‬ ‫ا�� ٔ ّ� ُ� ��� أ�� ]أي ا�� �����[ � ّ� ٌ‬ ‫�����ـ� وا ـ��ـ ّ�ا��ــ� ���ـــ�‬ ‫�ـ�ن ا�ـ� ����‬ ‫ــــ� �ـ�ى رأي ا ـ��ـ ّ�ا��ــ�‪�� ،‬ــ� ��ــ� ا ـ ـ ــ ّ‬ ‫�����ـ�‬ ‫���ـ� �ـ� �ـ ّ�ام‪ ،‬و�ـ�ن �ـ��ـ� إ�ـ� ا ـ ـ ـ ـ‬ ‫�ـ�ق‪� .‬ـ� ـ��ـ ّ�ا ـ��ـ� �ـ� أ ـ��ـ�ع ـ ـ ّ‬ ‫��� ���ه ��� �� ��ى �����ن‪.‬‬ ‫وا������‪ ،‬و���� ��� ّ‬

‫‪n. 101‬‬

‫‪n. 104‬‬

‫‪n. 106‬‬

‫‪n. 110‬‬

12

The Risāla al-Mudhhiba Attributed to al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān: Important Evidence for the Adoption of Neoplatonism by Fatimid Ismailism at the Time of al-Muʿizz? Daniel De Smet The Risāla al-Mudhhiba, a problematic work In 1956 ʿĀrif Tāmir (1921–1998), a member of the small MuḥammadShāhī (or Jaʿfarī) Nizārī community in Syria,1 published a collection of five Ismaili treatises in Salamiyya bearing the title Khams rasāʾil Ismāʿīliyya. Among them one finds the Risāla al-Mudhhiba, whose author is said to be the famous al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān (d. 363/974).2 Now, no preserved work by al-Nuʿmān refers to this text nor – to my knowledge at least – has it ever been cited by later Ismaili authors. Moreover, it does not seem to have been transmitted by the Bohras: it is not listed in the Fihrist by al-Majdūʿ (d. ca. 1184/1771) and no manuscript of this work has been catalogued in a Ṭayyibī library.3 Furthermore, the contents of the epistle prove to be unlike the issues of law that so typify most of al-Nuʿmān’s work. It is hardly surprising, therefore, that serious doubts have been expressed regarding its attribution to him.4 Nevertheless, eminent specialists of Ismailism such as Wilferd Madelung, Heinz Halm, Farhad Daftary and, with much less reserve, Yves Marquet (who at no point seems to have questioned its authenticity) have drawn extensively – though with great care – from this treatise. The interest of these scholars in the Muddhiba stems partly from the question of the introduction of Neoplatonic philosophy into what might be called ‘western’ Fatimid Ismailism (the daʿwa in North Africa and Egypt) in the reign of al-Muʿizz. Around 1960, on the basis of newly edited texts, Samuel Miklos Stern and Wilferd Madelung developed a theory that maintained that Neoplatonism was adopted in Iran and Central Asia from the beginning 309

310

Daniel De Smet

of the tenth century ce by the so-called ‘Qarmaṭī’ Ismaili5 dāʿīs who constituted the so-called ‘Persian School’ represented mainly by Muḥammad al-Nasafī (considered the founder of Ismaili Neoplatonism), Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī and Abū Yaʿqūb al-Sijistānī.6 Building upon the theories advanced by Stern and Madelung, Heinz Halm maintained that Neoplatonism represented only a later phase in the development of Ismailism. Early Ismaili doctrine as developed in North Africa and Yemen is said to have produced a cosmology and soteriology that can be described as of a ‘gnostic’, ‘mythical’, ‘pre-philosophical’ order; subsequently, it would have been reformulated in Iran and Central Asia by authors from the ‘Persian School’ with concepts drawn from Neoplatonism. Furthermore, the oldest Ismaili texts that have come down to us (especially those attributed to Jaʿfar b. Manṣūr al-Yaman, among them Kitāb al-Kashf) are said to have been almost entirely exempt from any Neoplatonic influence, just like the works emanating from the western Fatimid daʿwa, notably the Risāla by Abū ʿĪsā al-Murshid discovered by Stern7 and the abundant output of al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān.8 In spite of reservations expressed by Yves Marquet, according to whom from its beginnings Ismailism must have produced an emanationist doctrine imbued with Neoplatonic ideas,9 and in spite of the puzzling testimony of Abū ʿAbd Allāh Ibn al-Haytham asserting that Neoplatonic works were circulating in the entourage of the first Fatimid caliphs in Ifrīqiya,10 the theory advanced by Stern, Madelung and Halm has been accepted by most scholars.11 As such, it implies that Ismaili Neoplatonism was entirely the work of the ‘Qarmaṭī’ dāʿīs in Iran and Central Asia, and was only adopted later by the western Fatimid daʿwa in North Africa and Egypt under the imamate of al-Muʿizz, and not without serious concerns on the part of the imam himself.12 From this perspective the Risāla al-Mudhhiba assumes a special significance. It issued from the entourage of al-Muʿizz, whose authority is invoked on several occasions. The Risāla was deeply influenced by Neoplatonic speculations and was composed by no less notable a personage than al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān (‘nearing the end of his life’). The Risāla, if it is confirmed that it is by al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān, might reflect the radical transformation of the Fatimid daʿwa during the reign of al-Muʿizz. Thus it could be an invaluable testimony to the introduction of Neoplatonism into the ‘official’ doctrine of the Fatimids.13 In other words, the Risāla al-Mudhhiba may prefigure the major synthesis of Ismaili philosophy undertaken some decades later by Ḥamīd al-Dīn al-Kirmānī (d. ca. 411/1021) in his Kitāb Rāḥat al-ʿaql.

The Risāla al-Mudhhiba Attributed to al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān

311

However, in 1988 a new edition of the Risāla al-Mudhhiba by the same ʿĀrif Tāmir appeared in Beirut, but this time bearing the name of Yaʿqūb b. Killis, the famous vizier of al-Muʿizz (d. 380/991).14 Moreover, it presents a substantially different text from the 1956 edition. In his introduction, Tāmir accounts for this surprising change by declaring the discovery of another manuscript. I have found it useful to translate his explanation in full, since it speaks volumes about the methods he has followed: In 1956 – twenty-six years ago – I had the Risāla al-Mudhhiba published in Beirut at my own expense in a book containing four other philosophical treatises. I had found three manuscripts of this Risāla: the first in Qadmūs in Syria; the second in the village al-Mufakkar in the district of Salamiyya; the third in Maṣyāf, also in Syria. It turns out that these three manuscripts had been copied recently and that they are dependent on each other such that there are few differences in their presentation of the text and wording. However, it is very strange that the three manuscripts do not mention the name of the author [sic., it will become clear below that all the manuscripts are unanimous in attributing the text to al-Qaḍī al-Nuʿmān]. At the time, when Fatimid studies were only just beginning, I consulted the Guide to Ismaili Literature by the famous orientalist W. Ivanow as well as other sources and I found no mention of this Risāla. I searched most of the libraries specialising in Fatimid manuscripts in India, Yemen, Iran, Egypt and Baghdad, and found no manuscript of it. Furthermore, scholars and those who are experts in the field, were not aware of this sort of manuscript. At that time, in agreement with several specialists in Fatimid studies, including Asaf Fyzee, Muḥammad Kāmil Ḥusayn and the orientalist Ivanow, it was established that the author of this epistle was perhaps al-Nuʿmān b. Ḥayyūn al-Maghribī al-Tamīmī, qāḍī al-quḍāt of the Fatimid empire under the reign of the caliph al-Muʿizz li-Dīn Allāh, on the basis that its author mentions several times that he was the contemporary of this caliph. But as the years went by, every time this Risāla came to my mind, my dissatisfaction grew due to the uncertainty that surrounds some of the most renowned Fatimid philosophers. I was not as sure as before, as I had come to believe that the treatise is not one of the works by al-Nuʿmān because there is no resemblance between their respective languages. All this encouraged me to continue the search for another manuscript. I restricted my search to Syria given the fact that the Risāla is only found in this region. By chance, in 1968 I met one of my devoted friends (aḥad al-aṣdiqāʾ al-muhtammīn) in Damascus. He told me that an Ismaili family that had emigrated from Qadmūs to Damascus some two hundred years ago, still

312

Daniel De Smet had possession of a compilation (majmūʿa) of Fatimid manuscripts. I went to the family’s home. What a joy it was to discover a reliable copy (nuskha ṣaḥīḥa) of the Risāla! Fortunately, the name of its author was marked on the outside cover: the vizier Yaʿqūb b. Killis. I compared this manuscript with the others and noticed a major difference. I was convinced that the manuscripts in question [i.e. the three manuscripts used for the first edition] were very faulty. Thus, I took this [new] manuscript as the basis for the edition. Here, I did not follow the method of correcting the words; I was satisfied with this reliable copy.15

Apart from the astonishing revelation that the attribution of the Risāla al-Mudhhiba to al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān was not based on a manuscript but on sheer conjecture, Tāmir’s revised attribution to Yaʿqūb b. Killis is not only highly unlikely,16 it is entirely impossible – at least given the version that has been published – for reasons that shall be elaborated presently. First, however, the editions must be compared. Immediately evident is the fact that in the first edition (henceforth referred to as ‘Mudhhiba I’) the Risāla contains three fuṣūl (chapters; sing. faṣl), whereas it contains four in the second (henceforth referred to as ‘Mudhhiba II’), the fourth chapter having no equivalent in Mudhhiba I. One may therefore surmise that the three manuscripts on which Mudhhiba I is based are incomplete, unless the divisions in the treatise are indicated differently in each edition. Indeed, at the end of the exordium we read: It [i.e. the treatise] is in the form of three fuṣūl (Mudhhiba I, p. 28.14). It is in the form of four fuṣūl (Mudhhiba II, p. 22.3).

Then, at the end of the first faṣl, the author states: We have divided your questions in this treatise into three fuṣūl. Each faṣl is based on what you have asked. The response to questions in the first faṣl is here ended. Now, we shall ask God to enlighten us in order to be able to explain your questions in the second faṣl (Mudhhiba I, p. 49.5–8). We have divided your questions in this treatise into four fuṣūl and we shall answer you in sequence. We ask God to enlighten us about what you have asked (Mudhhiba II, p. 54.1–3).

The hypothesis that manuscripts of the Mudhhiba are incomplete must therefore be dismissed since the division into fuṣūl is indicated differently even in the actual text of the two versions. Moreover, the third faṣl of Mudhhiba II (p. 109 ult.) ends abruptly with wa huwa ʿilm al-nāṭiq. This phrase, as well as everything that precedes

The Risāla al-Mudhhiba Attributed to al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān

313

it, is found in Mudhhiba I (p. 87.7), but in this case the text continues for eight more lines. Then follows the explicit: tammat al-Risāla al-Mudhhiba al-mubāraka and the ḥamdala (Mudhhiba I, p. 87.14–17). This seems to indicate that the end of the third faṣl of Mudhhiba II in the manuscript was incomplete. A comparison of the first three fuṣūl in these editions reveals a considerable number of textual variants: words punctuated or read differently; words, sentences or entire passages missing in one version, often due to a leap ‘from the same to the same’.17 In addition, one discovers certain significant modifications. Thus the final sentence of the second faṣl is different (Mudhhiba I, p. 60.7–9; Mudhhiba II, p. 70.5). More disturbing is an account of a discussion between two men about whether the imam knows what is hidden (al-ghayb): They [in the plural] submitted their problem to Our Lord al-Muʿizz li-Dīn Allāh, the Commander of the Faithful … . The imam said: ‘What do you think about it, al-Nuʿmān?’ and so I said (fa-qultu) … (Mudhhiba I, p. 82.3–5). They [dual] submitted their problem to Our Lord the Imam al-Muʿizz li-Dīn Allāh, the Commander of the Faithful, while qāḍī al-Nuʿmān b. Ḥayyūn was present. Imam al-Muʿizz asked him: ‘And you, al-Nuʿmān, what do you think about it?’ And then he said (fa-qāla) … (Mudhhiba II, p. 103.5–8).

In the first version, al-Nuʿmān speaks in the first person: he is the presumed author of the treatise; in the second, he speaks in the third person: his words are only cited by the author of the treatise, in this case, Yaʿqūb b. Killis according to Tāmir’s attribution. Mudhhiba II also replaces the name of the first Fatimid caliph, al-Mahdī bi’llāh which appeared in Mudhhiba I with the name Muḥammad b. Ismāʿīl.18 The first three fuṣūl of the Risāla al-Mudhhiba are structured in a disorderly fashion. The author responds to questions posed pell-mell by a correspondent or disciple on various matters of Ismaili doctrine. Nevertheless, there is undeniable unity of style, vocabulary and doctrine. As we read the fourth faṣl of the Mudhhiba II, the argument becomes more systematic certainly, better structured, but differences in doctrine and terminology emerge in it in comparison with the first three fuṣūl. A close analysis indicates that the text is in fact a collage of excerpts from three works by Ismaili authors of various times, all previously edited by Tāmir. The structure of the fourth faṣl is as follows:

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(1) Mudhhiba II, pp. 111–151 is from the Risālat al-uṣūl wa’l-aḥkām by Abu’l-Maʿālī b. ʿImrān (d. ca. 497/1104), including the surprising passage (Mudhhiba II, p. 139) that attributes the Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ to the ‘hidden’ imam ʿAbd Allāh b. Muḥammad.19 (2) Mudhhiba II, pp. 152–168.3 takes up a long passage from Kitāb al-Shajara, attributed by Paul Walker to Abū Tammām, a disciple of Muḥammad al-Nasafī (d. 332/943).20 (3) Mudhhiba II, pp. 168.8–170 ult., an admonition directed to the disciple, is nothing other than the last section of al-Risāla al-Kāfiya by Muḥammad b. Saʿd b. Dāʾūd al-Rafna (d. 859/1454). Still, Mudhhiba II, p. 170.17–18, contains an invocation to imām zamānika al-Muʿizz li-Dīn Allāh al-Fāṭimī, a reference that does not appear in the corresponding passage of the Risāla al-Kāfiya.21 What conclusions can we draw from the above? Either we are in the midst of a pastiche, Tāmir having made up the fourth faṣl by gathering various texts that he had edited previously, going even as far as to amend certain parts of the first three fuṣūl in order to delete any reference to the structure of the text in three fuṣūl, as well as any element that might indicate authorship by al-Nuʿmān, in light of his revised attribution to Ibn Killis. But for what purpose? In his introduction to the Mudhhiba II, Tāmir does not advance any theory regarding the contents of the treatise: he is satisfied with a few general comments about Ibn Killis. Moreover, there is nothing that suggests that he has seriously examined the text, but instead it seems highly probable that it was simply typed up. However, it should be noted that the end of the third faṣl is missing from Mudhhiba II and that there are considerable textual variants in the first three fuṣūl of both versions. The same is true for the texts that make up the fourth faṣl: it is not simply a reprint of passages lifted from previous editions. Here too there are divergences, different readings, bits of sentences that are missing or have been added.22 One might thus suppose that a single manuscript served as the basis for Mudhhiba II, originally from Qadmūs and discovered by Tāmir in Damascus. If the Khams rasāʾil are drawn from a majmūʿa belonging to the library of the Āl Sulaymān in Qadmūs, Mudhhiba II may have come from a similar majmūʿa that originally contained the same texts but in a different order – al-Risāla al-Mudhhiba, Risālat al-Uṣūl and al-Risāla al-Kāfiya – to which was added the Kitāb al-Shajara. However, this would result in a rather incomplete manuscript: not only is the end of the Mudhhiba missing, but of the subsequent treatises only a few scat-

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tered folios remain, fragments with which a copyist could have made up a fourth faṣl. Tāmir would have simply reproduced the text of this manuscript, without ‘following the method of correcting the words’, as he says in his introduction. Lacking access to the manuscripts used by Tāmir, this must remain a hypothesis. Moreover, the first faṣl of the Risāla al-Mudhhiba was edited in 2004, in Cairo by Ṣāliḥ ʿAmmār al-Ḥājj (henceforth referred to as ‘Mudhhiba III’)23 based on a manuscript from Maṣyāf that is considered ‘problematic in terms of its writing and reliability’ by the editor,24 who reproduces the first and last page in facsimile. Now, the beginning of Mudhhiba III does not appear in either edition by Tāmir. The treatise bears a more elaborate title – al-Risāla al-Mudhhiba fī funūn al-ḥikma wa gharāʾib al-taʾwīl – and it is explicitly attributed to al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān.25 This treatise is divided into three fuṣūl just as in Mudhhiba I.26 Its text, however, contains several variants in comparison with the versions published by Tāmir. Finally, in the Library of The Institute of Ismaili Studies in London there is a Syrian majmūʿa that contains the Risāla al-Mudhhiba (MS 176/1031)27 (henceforth referred to as ‘Mudhhiba IV’). The incipit (p. 54) is identical with Mudhhiba III: it confirms the longer version of the title and the attribution to al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān, as well as the division into three fuṣūl (p. 55). The explicit (p. 160) is only slightly different from Mudhhiba I, notably the final formulation after tammat al-risāla. It thus confirms that the treatise ends after the third faṣl. The account of the debate between al-Muʿizz and al-Nuʿmān regarding al-ghayb (p. 150.7–10) is unfortunately badly corrupted: the key phrase – fa-qultu or fa-qāla – was omitted, such that it is impossible to draw any conclusions with regard to attribution. As a whole, the manuscript presents a mediocre text. All this serves to illustrate what we have known previously: that Ismaili works in general, and those transmitted by the Syrian Nizārīs in particular, have undergone substantial modification over the centuries,28 made worse at times by corruption due to the vagaries of manuscript transmission.29 Modern editions of them are often less reliable than the manuscripts themselves: the inadvertent actions of editors, their lack of philological rigour, numerous misreadings and typographical errors all have contributed to the dissemination of phantom texts on which scholars, lacking access to the manuscripts, have built their learned theories. Given these circumstances, the project ‘Ismaili Texts and Translations’ undertaken by The Institute of Ismaili Studies in London and directed by Farhad Daftary, with a view to publishing new critical editions of major Ismaili texts, bodes well for the future of Ismaili studies.

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What, then, to make of the Risāla al-Mudhhiba? It is clear that one must remove from it the fourth faṣl which is nothing but an amalgam of disparate texts, for the most part later than the first three fuṣūl. For this very reason, the attribution of the entire work to Ibn Killis is out of the question. Moreover, no particular element in the three remaining fuṣūl, of which the epistle is really composed, allows us to attribute the work to the famous vizier.30 As for its attribution to al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān, the issue is much more complicated. One must take the following matters into consideration. First of all, the epistle contains explicit references to other works. The author mentions a particular Kitāb al-Ibtidāʾ by ʿAbdān, the famous Qarmaṭī leader (d. ca. 286/899).31 He refers to a letter addressed by al-Muʿizz to a dāʿī from Sind called Ḥalam b. Shaybān. Now, this letter, preserved in the ʿUyūn al-akhbār by Idrīs ʿImād al-Dīn (d. 872/1468), was written in 354/965, which gives us a terminus post quem for dating the Risāla al-Mudhhiba.32 After a passage in which he briefly attacks a theory attributed to the believers in metempsychosis (ahl al-tanāsukh), the author comments: ‘This has already been said previously in the Kitāb al-Maʿād so we are not obliged to mention it here. This is part of what was said by our master Imam al-Muʿizz li-Dīn Allāh.’ In Mudhhiba II, Tāmir uses the ambiguity of the formulation to declare that it is a lost work by the imam. However, a Kitāb al-Maʿād appears in a list of works attributed by Ismaili tradition to al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān.33 Finally, the author refers twice to one of his own works: ‘We have explained this in our book, in a chapter dedicated to the natural reigns (al-mawālīd)’, a much too vague allusion to enable precise identification.34 The second reference is more explicit: ‘We have outlined this in our Kitāb al-Maʿālim’. Now, a Kitāb Maʿālim al-Mahdī is cited in two works by al-Nuʿmān as a work written in his own hand. It is likely, as Poonawala35 believes, that this is the same book. While there is nothing conclusive about these points, they do not contradict the attribution of the Mudhhiba to al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān: written after 354/965, it is possible that he is referring to two of his own earlier works (al-Nuʿmān died in 363/974). The Risāla al-Mudhhiba seems to have been written by someone in the entourage of the Fatimid imam-caliph al-Muʿizz who ruled from 341/953 to 365/975, first in Ifrīqiya, then from 362/973 in Cairo. On several occasions, the author invokes the authority of al-Muʿizz, whom he describes as ‘the imam of our age/time’ (imām ʿaṣrinā; imām zamāninā).36 We know that al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān spent the latter years of his long career in the service of al-Muʿizz, that he followed his master to the new capital Cairo, and

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died there shortly thereafter. A passage of the Risāla al-Mudhhiba quoted above reports a conversation between al-Muʿizz and al-Nuʿmān in which the latter speaks in the first person (at least according to Mudhhiba I). Regarding what was said by al-Muʿizz as reported in Kitāb al-Maʿād, the author alludes to the fact that the imam cursed two men: the first had maintained that the imams are gods, the second professed metempsychosis.37 Several sources, including the Kitāb al-Majālis wa’l-musāyarāt by al-Nuʿmān, indeed attest that during his imamate, al-Muʿizz had to struggle with some dāʿīs who taught all kinds of heresies regarding the imams.38 Moreover, the epistle devotes special attention to the rather complex and delicate question of the imamate and the appearance of the qāʾim. As this doctrine has been subject to a number of modifications in the course of time, there is here an element that may enable precise dating of our treatise. Invoking the enigmatic Qur’anic verse Q. 15:87, We have given thee seven of the oft-repeated, and the mighty Qur’an (wa laqad ataynāka sabʿan mina’l-mathānī wa’l-Qurʾāna’l-ʿaẓīma),39 the author maintains that God favoured Muḥammad such that his cycle was not limited to seven imams, as was the case for preceding prophets, but that after him the heptad of imams would be renewed. Implicitly, therefore, the author rejects the Qarmaṭī position which maintains that the era of Muḥammad came to an end with the seventh imam Ismāʿīl and the appearance of the qāʾim, the seventh nāṭiq Muḥammad b. Ismāʿīl.40 Still, far from breaking completely with Qarmaṭī doctrine, the author of the Mudhhiba integrates it into his own theory by maintaining that the qāʾim will appear twice, which would correspond to the two blasts of the trumpet in Qur’anic eschatology (Q. 39:68).41 In other words, the qāʾim had already emerged, but then went into hiding, before appearing for the second time: The qāʾim has two ranks: the rank of dissimulation (kitmān) and the rank of manifestation (iẓhār) … . He has two limits (ḥaddān): the limit of the Enunciators (nuṭaqā) in the cycle of the hidden imams (al-aʾimma al-mastūrūn) and the limit of the rightly-guided lieutenants (al-khulafāʾ al-rāshidūn). He appeared by revealing himself, then he went into hiding until the passing of a predetermined period of time. He will reappear to complete his work. …42 His appearance in the physical world took place with the completion of the cycle of the six Enunciators and seven imams. He established for himself eighteen lieutenants (khulafāʾ), who are hidden during [the time of] dissimulation (taqiyya) and apparent during [the time of] unveiling. By means of the last [lieutenant], the end (khitām)

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Daniel De Smet will come. He [i.e. the qāʾim] will then appear to them in the world of the celestial bodies (dawr al-jirm) … and he will settle men in Paradise or Hell.43

In spite of the obscurity inherent in this kind of text, the underlying doctrine is clear enough. Madelung, and then Daftary, gave it the following interpretation. After completion of Muḥammad’s cycle by the seventh imam (Muḥammad being the sixth Enunciator), the qāʾim appeared. Here we have the Qarmaṭī belief. However, according to the author of our epistle, the appearance of the qāʾim took place while the cycle of occultation was still in effect. Kitmān and taqiyya being necessary, the qāʾim soon went into hiding and established a series of eighteen lieutenants who succeeded each other in order to prepare for his second coming. The first among them lived in hiding as well – these are the ‘hidden imams’, the immediate successors of Muḥammad b. Ismāʿīl – then emerged into the open with the establishment of the Fatimid state by ʿAbd Allāh al-Mahdī. At the end of the line of Fatimid imams, the qāʾim will appear a second time. His ḥujja, the last of his lieutenants, will accomplish the messianic deeds as declared,44 before the qāʾim carries out the final Resurrection.45 Madelung has found a similar conception of the Fatimid imams as lieutenants of the qāʾim Muḥammad b. Ismāʿīl46 in a number of works dating back to the period of al-Muʿizz: the Munājāt attributed by the Syrian Nizārī tradition to the imam himself, Taʾwīl al-zakāt, Kitāb al-Fatarāt and Sarāʾir al-nuṭaqāʾ, all attributed to Jaʿfar b. Manṣūr al-Yaman. Madelung draws the conclusion that this doctrine may be one of the reforms introduced by al-Muʿizz in the hope of winning over some of the Qarmaṭīs to the Fatimid cause and as a means of getting closer to the ‘eastern’ daʿwa, mainly that of Iran and Central Asia, but also ʿIraq and Bahrayn.47 If Madelung’s theory is correct, the Risāla al-Mudhhiba fits into the ideological programme set out by al-Muʿizz. Moreover, the works he points to have a number of other similarities with our treatise, notably a common cosmology and usage of the same philosophical notions. A thorough analysis of these texts is required before drawing any conclusions about the intellectual milieu of what would have constituted the ‘western’ daʿwa of the Fatimids under al-Muiʿzz. I hope to be able to revisit this issue in a future study. The author of the Mudhhiba engages in polemics against certain extremists48 who claim that knowledge (ʿilm) of the bāṭin provides a dispensation from the practice (ʿamal) of the ẓāhir: according to them, the knowledge of the hidden meaning is a substitute for respecting legal prescriptions to the letter. On the contrary, our treatise preaches the strict

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complementarity of knowledge and practice: it is not until his (second) coming, that the qāʾim will abrogate all the Laws (nāsikh jamīʿ al-sharāʾiʿ) by revealing their inner meaning.49 Although the text leaves some room for ambiguity – will the Law be abrogated before the end of time, leading to a form of human society deprived of positive religious prescriptions, or only until the Last Judgement? Belief in the strict complementarity of ʿilm and ʿamal is typical of moderate Fatimid Ismailism, as it was conceived by al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān and subsequently by al-Kirmānī.50 These few considerations do not suffice to attribute the Risāla al-Mudhhiba to al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān with absolute certainty but they do enable us to situate the production of the work, in all likelihood, in the entourage of the imam-caliph al-Muʿizz. The Risāla al-Mudhhiba and Ismaili Neoplatonism The Risāla al-Mudhhiba,51 let us recall, is made up of a set of responses to questions posed to the author, in a disconcerting disorder, by an anonymous correspondent. It would therefore be in vain to expect to find a coherent system in it. Yet, by putting together certain scattered passages, it is possible to reconstitute, on some matters, a more or less homogenous doctrine that nevertheless contains a number of gaps and obscurities, aggravated by corruption of the text and the mediocrity of both editions.52 Leaving aside questions relating to the theory of imamate and the qāʾim, I shall limit myself to developing briefly four themes in which Neoplatonic influence on the treatise is clearly evident: (1) cosmology and the hierarchy of the celestial and terrestrial ranks (ḥudūd); (2) the fall of the soul; (3) the theory of knowledge; (4) the ascent of the soul and its salvation. 1. Cosmology and the hierarchy of celestial and terrestrial ḥudūd The first section on the creation of the universe that I would like to examine, straight away poses quite an arduous problem in textual criticism. Indeed, in the Mudhhiba II we read: When the Most-High wished to create Being (arāda khalq al-kawn), while there was no space, no time, no built sky, no extended earth, no dark night and no serene day, he raised (masaka) the heaven and levelled it; and He darkened its night, and brought forth its forenoon; and the earth— after that He spread it out; therefrom He brought forth its waters and its pastures; and the mountains He set firm (Q. 79:29–32). Then, He created in heaven angels of huge dimensions, after having created opposite them

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Daniel De Smet an angel He established for them as an awe-inspiring limit [or dignitary, ḥadd ʿaẓīm]: it is the source of souls (mubtadaʾ al-arwāḥ) and the place they shall return to. He said: Upon the day when the spirit and the angels stand in ranks they shall speak not, save him to whom the All-merciful has given leave, and who speaks aright (Q. 78:38). We will transmit on the authority of the Messenger of God [the following tradition]: ‘The angels will stand forth in ranks and this angel will stand facing them.’ Understand well these signs: they [the angels] place themselves near the Lote-Tree of the Boundary; nigh which is the Garden of the Refuge (Q. 53:14–15). Then, He created on earth the species of animals, one after another. The first thing produced (awwal al-maṣnūʿāt) was the form of man.53

Mudhhiba I and III have almost the same text54 except at the beginning where each version differs considerably. Mudhhiba I: ‘When the MostHigh wished to generate the qāʾim’ (fa-lammā arāda tabāraka wa taʿālā kawn al-qāʾim); Mudhhiba II: ‘When the Most-High wished to create Being’ (fa-lammā arāda tabāraka wa taʿālā khalq al-kawn); Mudhhiba III: ‘When the Most-High wished things to appear suddenly from nothingness to being, He created the Agent Intellect’ (fa-lammā arāda tabāraka wa taʿālā ibrāz al-ashyāʾ min al-ʿadam ilā’l-wujūd khalaqa’l-ʿaql al-faʿʿāl). If the difference between I and II could at most be ascribed to the inadvertence of the copyist, III reflects a deliberate modification of the text. The term al-ʿaql al-faʿʿāl is in fact anachronistic: to my knowledge, it was introduced into Ismaili doctrine by al-Kirmānī, after he had read Kitāb Ārāʾ ahl al-madīna al-fāḍila by Fārābī.55 This example urges us to proceed carefully. The uncertainty of the text is such that one must guard against reaching hasty conclusions based on one isolated passage. Citing version I of this passage, the only one to which he had access, Yves Marquet attempted to explain the surprising doctrine that would have the qāʾim be the first created being just like the Intellect. Marquet’s analysis must now be qualified given the other versions available.56 Although this first text is composed of elements from Qur’anic cosmology,57 it nevertheless demonstrates a doctrine that is foreign to the Qur’an: before the creation of the animal species and of man, God originated an ‘angel of huge dimensions’ – source of origin and return for souls – and a number of celestial angels. A second passage provides us with more specifics regarding the latter. After citing Q. 79:5, by those that direct the affair! (wa’l-mudabbirāt amran), an obscure verse that tradition relates to angels or stars, the author rises up against astrologers:

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The vain speculations of the astrologers (al-munajjimūn) maintain that these apparent stars are ‘those that direct’ (al-mudabbira). But how could God have established the directing (tadbīr) of His creatures in a body to which He had not yet given an intellect (ʿaql), nor endowed with intelligence (lubb), and which He could neither command nor forbid? When they advance as an argument the verse: No! I swear by the fallings of the stars; and that is indeed a mighty oath, did you but know it (Q. 56:75–76), they know the symbols (al-muthul), but are unaware of what is symbolised (al-mamthūl). If He had wished to designate these stars by His word, He would have said: ‘No! I swear by the stars’ … . He said instead: ‘No! I swear by the falling of the stars (bi-mawāqiʿ al-nujūm)’. He thus has in mind their orbits (mawāqiʿ), which are signs referring to them, i.e. the cherubim angels (al-malāʾika al-karūbiyya). Then, after them He created twelve spiritual beings (rūḥāniyya) and said: Over it are nineteen; We have appointed only angels to be masters of the Fire … (Q.74:30–31). Next, He generated beings (kawwana al-akwān), originated essences (abdaʿa al-aʿyān); He produced time and He created man and jinn.58

Remaining within a context deeply influenced by Qur’anic references, the author maintains that the mudabbirāt are not inanimate beings, deprived of a soul and an intellect. Contrary to what the astrologers assert, it is not the stars themselves that govern the world but nineteen angels: seven cherubim and twelve spiritual beings. Thus the author introduces the theme of seven cherubim and twelve rūḥāniyya whose occurrences Heinz Halm has pointed out in Ismaili works from the time of al-Muʿizz (apart from the Risāla al-Mudhhiba, he refers to the Risāla by Abū ʿĪsā al-Murshid and to Kitāb al-Fatarāt). Halm interprets this as the survival of an ancient Babylonian astral cult whose traces appear in Gnosticism, in doctrines attributed to the Sabeans of Ḥarrān and in certain texts of the ghulāt (Umm al-kitāb and the literature of the Nuṣayrīs).59 The relationship between these nineteen angels and the stars is explained as follows: Know that these stars to which you allude are ‘directors’ (mudabbirāt) only in the sense that they are apparent manifestations (ẓawāhir) that were established as symbols (muthul) of these seven cherubim. Similarly, the twelve signs of the zodiac (burūj) are apparent manifestations and locations (manāzil) for the twelve rūḥāniyya … . As for what you say about these stars, according to which they would be originators (mubdiʿāt), it is not the case. The Originator (al-mubdiʿ) ‘makes being from non-being’ (ayyasa min lays),60 whereas these (i.e. the stars) are simple creatures.61 [The twelve rūḥāniyya] are the ‘brought nigh’ (al-muqarrabūn) angels …

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Except for al-Tālī (the ‘Following’), the names of the seven cherubim are not given in the text.63 On the other hand, the author does provide those of the rūḥāniyya, if only eleven: al-Jadd, al-Fatḥ, al-Khayāl, al-Ḥayy, al-Muḥyī, al-Munkar, al-Nakīr, Riḍwān, Mālik, Malakūt and al-Khiḍr.64 Halm believes the missing name is that of al-Tālī or the Universal Soul.65 If that is the case, then the Universal Soul would belong to both the cherubim and rūḥāniyya. We shall see later what meaning I believe we should accord to this ambiguous position of the Soul in the Risāla al-Mudhhiba. The stars do not by themselves play any role in the creation and government of the sublunar world. If they have a role at all, they perform it only by the power of the angels whose external manifestations or ‘symbols’ they are. The Risāla al-Mudhhiba also establishes an explicit correspondence between these angels, the stars and their respective spheres: These seven higher ḥudūd were established by God as intermediaries (wasāʾiṭ) between Him and his creatures, as we have reported earlier on the authority of the imām al-Muʿizz li-Dīn Allāh, the Commander of the Faithful … .66 The Sābiq (the ‘Preceding’) and the Tālī (the ‘Following’) assist [or ‘transmit the influx to’, mumaddān]67 those that are below them. But the Sābiq remains veiled to the lower degrees such that the first among them is the Tālī. The six [ḥudūd] that come after it are deployed (mumadda) in the six heavens, except for the sphere of the fixed stars (kawākib) and (those) of the Sun and Moon. In the first heaven, which is the heaven of this world (al-dunyā), is located the Tālī: all the ḥudūd face it. In the second heaven, there is an angel responsible for intelligence (muwakkil bi’l-fiṭna); in the third heaven, there is an angel responsible for remembrance (dhikr); in the fourth heaven, there is an angel responsible for determination (himma); in the fifth heaven, there is an angel responsible for intention (niyya); in the sixth heaven, there is an angel responsible for fear (khawf ) and in the seventh heaven, there is an angel responsible for hope (amal). The Sābiq is in the sphere of paradise (falak al-firdaws), above all else. Its influx (mādda) crosses these heavens until it reaches the Tālī. These six cherubim attest to and glorify the Sābiq and they sanctify the Tālī. God established all seven of them in man, since he is the microcosm (al-ʿālam al-ṣaghīr) in whom all parts come together. Thus in man there is intelligence, remembrance, determination, intention, hope and fear while he gets his subsistence from the Tālī, from whom he receives the influx.68

This important passage poses troublesome challenges of interpretation, all

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the more so given the probable corruptions in the transmission and edition of the text. It becomes evident that the author locates the seven cherubim in the celestial spheres and to each among them he associates faculties of the soul that are gathered in the human soul, as man is conceived as a microcosm. The Sābiq, which clearly is not one of the cherubim, remains outside the system; it transcends all in the ‘sphere of paradise’. The Tālī is the first of the cherubim that governs the first heaven, and is identified with the heaven of this world. This cannot be an unfortunate interpolation since the passage ends by specifying that man receives his subsistence and influx from the Tālī: it is the junction point, the intermediary between the celestial hierarchy and the sublunar world. There are no cherubim in the sphere of the fixed stars: that is the realm of the twelve rūḥāniyya, the signs of the zodiac being their apparent manifestations. More difficult to grasp is the reason why the author asserts that no cherub governs the spheres of the sun and moon. No doubt, these are reserved for the qāʾim, at least if this is how we interpret an obscure passage that describes the successive phases of the occultation and manifestation of the qāʾim as analogous with the phases of the Moon in relation to the Sun.69 Six heavens remain, therefore, each governed by a cherub. Unfortunately, these heavens are not identified and it is not clear whether they are counted from lowest to highest (as the identification of the first heaven with the heaven of this world leads one to believe). If we interpret the text literally, there would be ten heavens altogether: three without cherubim and seven each governed by a cherub. The cosmology presumed by the Risāla al-Mudhhiba would thus correspond to the Ptolemaic system (as reviewed by Arabic thinkers) which serves as the basis for the emanation scheme developed by Fārābī and adopted in Ismailism by al-Kirmānī. To the nine spheres of Arabic astronomy (the all-encompassing sphere, the sphere of the fixed stars, Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, the Sun, Venus, Mercury and the Moon) correspond ten Intellects, except that no sphere corresponds to the First Intellect (which Ismaili Neoplatonism associates with the Sābiq) and the Tenth Intellect does not govern the Moon but forms a link between the celestial and sublunar world.70 Still, a major problem remains. What is the role of the Tālī at such a low level in the hierarchy, especially since the text acknowledges its priority over the six other cherubim: all turning towards it and sanctifying it, just like the Sābiq? 71 This reverence may be explained by the fact that the Tālī is none other than the Universal Soul, the third hypostasis in Plotinus, that forms a couple with the Sābiq, the Universal Intellect. Another passage of the Mudhhiba confirms this, but complicates everything by introducing

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another celestial hierarchy, no longer comprised of seven cherubim but of five ‘higher ḥudūd’: the Intellect, the Soul, al-Jadd, al-Fatḥ and al-Khayāl. The First Intellect (al-ʿaql al-awwal), which is the cause (ʿilla) of the rūḥāniyyāt and the place of divine influences (makān al-āthār al-ilāhiyya), returns from itself on itself (rājiʿ bi-dhātihi ʿalā dhātihi) and it acknowledges its debt to the Originator (al-Mubdiʿ), having had the privilege of receiving the influences that appeared in it, without any ipseity (huwiyya) by which one may refer to it and any determination (taqdīr) that might contain it. That indeed is what origination (ibdāʿ) in the originated being (al-mubdaʿ) is. Due to the Intellect’s submission to the One who is above it, it receives ‘emerging things’ (al-mabrūzāt, i.e. the forms) all at once, without any increase or decrease. As far as this refers to what we have explained about the nature of submission by the Intellect, the same applies to the Soul: it must submit to the Intellect, which is its cause and principle of existence.72 The Soul therefore submits to the Intellect, such that it can well and truly receive and make intellectual forms (al-ṣuwar al-ʿaqliyya) appear; forms that will enable it to compose the corporeal structures (bi-taʾlīf al-tarākīb al-jusdāniyya). Similarly, al-Jadd, as far as it is the cause (sabab) of the manifestation of actions linked to the soul (al-af ʿāl al-nafsāniyya) that resemble spiritual substances (al-jawāhir al-rūḥāniyya), is that which makes intellectual forms appear by the intermediary of the Universal Soul (al-nafs al-kulliyya). Al-Jadd owes this power and what it receives to its submission to the Universal Soul; it recognises its inability to perceive [the] being of the eternal cause (ays al-ʿilla al-azaliyya). Similarly, al-Fatḥ, which is located below the emanation (ifāḍa) of al-Jadd, receives from the Soul the subtle essences (laṭāʾif ) of divine, spiritual, demonstrable things (burhāniyya), without corporeal instrument or natural forces. Al-Fatḥ receives perfectly these essences [or meanings: maʿānī] composed of assembled letters. It must submit and recognise the magnitude of the grace bestowed upon it. The same is true for the rank of al-Khayāl and what is allotted to it … . It is like the imam who influences the imaginative faculty (mukhayyil) of the ḥujja’s soul, with those divine influences and intellectual sciences that are related to the spiritual ranks without any corporeal intermediary.73

This text, unfortunately corrupted in both editions, elicits extensive commentary that I cannot develop here. For the present purpose, suffice it to point out that this passage is deeply inspired by Neoplatonic thought: the First Intellect received the entirety of intelligible forms at once from the Originator; the origination merges with the first originated; from the Intellect, the Universal Soul receives the forms or archetypes that will enable it to organise the physical world; the Soul is assisted by three ḥudūd – al-Jadd, al-Fatḥ and al-Khayāl – which under its direction ‘prepare’ the

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forms, each adapting them to their own ontological level, in order to make their realisation in the physical world possible; by their mediation, the Soul plays a role in prophethood and the inspiration of the imams, as well as in the process of human knowledge; each ḥadd must submit to its superior ḥudūd in order to receive the influx by which it exists and due to which it is able to accomplish its function. Here we have a typical set of themes that belong to what is commonly called ‘Ismaili Neoplatonism’ as it appeared in the works of al-Nasafī and al-Sijistānī, among others, and later in a much reworked form, in Rāḥat al-ʿAql by al-Kirmānī.74 Other passages from the Risāla al-Mudhhiba reflect this same Neoplatonic influence. Unfortunately, once again, the text seems to have suffered substantial corruption during transmission: You asked me how the Soul appeared from the Intellect: as light comes from light (ka’l-ḍawʾ ʿan al-ḍawʾ), or as the form of matter comes from matter (ka ṣūrat al-hayūlā ʿan al-hayūlā), or as act comes from the agent and influence from the one who exercises it. The proof of it is that the act does not proceed literally from the agent nor form from matter, just as the influence does not come literally from the one who exercises it. As soon as what we say is established on clear proof, it becomes evident that the Soul appears from the Intellect like form appears from matter. 75

Although it is dangerous to draw conclusions hastily from this isolated and lacunar text, it seems to allude to the doctrine of the Arabic PseudoEmpedocles who places matter before form: form rises from matter, just as the Intellect proceeds from ʿUnṣur, the Element or primordial Matter.76 Once it has emanated from the Intellect, the Soul produces in conjunction with it the celestial spheres which, in turn and with the assistance of the signs of the zodiac, organise the corporeal world through their rotation and their ‘beneficial and harmful’ influences. Know that God originated (abdaʿa) the higher world, that is the Intellect and the Soul in a perfect manner. He assisted them (ayyada) in the creation (khalq) of the spheres and the completion of their work. In order to put their action of composition (tarkīb) into effect, they [i.e. the spheres] turn with the signs of the zodiac, by exercising beneficial and harmful influences.77

The universe is thus divided into an intelligible world and a sensorial world, the latter being the reflection, the ‘symbol’ of the former: God created two worlds (al-dārān): the one here below and the other. He established this world as apparent (ẓāhira) and the other as hidden

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(bāṭina), such that the apparent points to the hidden. This world belongs to physical beings … ; whereas the other is a spiritual world.78

An uninterrupted chain of ḥudūd, by which the influx is transmitted, links the highest degree of the intelligible world – the Intellect – with the lowest degree of the religious hierarchy in this world: the believer (al-muʾmin).79 Each ḥadd relates to the rank which is immediately above it, just like the wife to the husband. It receives from its ‘husband’ half of the influx that the latter has received from its predecessor, in keeping with the Qur’anic instruction: to the male the like of the portion of two females (Q .4:11).80 From all these passages it emerges that the Risāla al-Mudhhiba takes up emanationist cosmology as developed by Ismaili authors of the fourth/ tenth century based on a particular interpretation of Arabic paraphrases of Plotinus and Proclus. But it intertwines two different systems. On the one hand, the treatise adheres to a pentadic system according to which the intelligible world is comprised of five ḥudūd: the Intellect, the Soul, al-Jadd, al-Fatḥ and al-Khayāl.81 With the assistance of the latter three, the Universal Soul prepares the demiurgy: the intelligible forms are conditioned in order that they can be concretised in matter; next the Soul produces the celestial spheres, signs of the zodiac and the planets, that will serve it as instruments for the generation of the sublunar world. However, in addition, the Risāla al-Mudhhiba advances another system directly linked to the cosmology of the Arab astronomers. The ḥudūd of the intelligible world, which seem to number ten, with the exception of the Sābiq, the Intellect, which does not correspond to any sphere, animate and govern the celestial spheres: the external sphere is the realm of the twelve rūḥāniyya; the seven cherubim govern the spheres of the planets (from which one must exclude the Sun and the Moon); the seventh (or first) of the cherubim is the Tālī – the Universal Soul – which represents the junction point with the sublunar world. Telescoping these two systems renders the position of the Universal Soul ambiguous: is it located at a high degree in the hierarchy, immediately below the Intellect whose companion it is, the spouse (system 1) or, on the contrary, at the lowest rank, as the principle that governs the sublunar world (system 2)? 82 2. The fall of the soul In his responses to the rambling questions from his correspondent, the author of the Risāla al-Mudhhiba alludes to the fall of the Universal Soul into the matter of this world. Although the theme is not dealt with explic-

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itly, one is able to deduce from what he says that he considers the human soul as produced, the consequence, that is, of this fall. This doctrine is certainly a feature of Ismaili Neoplatonism,83 but our author introduces it with the help of an original image: he compares the fall of the soul into matter with the birth of a child: At the moment of childbirth, (the child) emerges from his mother’s womb headfirst as something that falls (hābiṭ) from heaven upon the earth, a body in which there is no soul (rūḥ). Its fall and the fall of the higher Soul (al-rūḥ al-ʿulwī) occurs in an instant, quicker than a flash of lightning: there is no difference between them … . The body and soul (nafs) intermingle, such that they become one [thing]. One unites with the other without being able to distinguish one from the other … . When the child emerges from his mother’s womb, he is created of six species (ajnās) like all the animals. But as soon as the seventh begins to mix with it, it rises above all the other animals such that it becomes more precious, higher, greater and nobler than them before God … . We see that in its mother’s womb, the child is not endowed with speech [or reason, nuṭq]. It acquires reason when it enters this world. The soul begins to cry because it is separated from the world from which it has come and has no means to return there. 84

Although this text, transmitted in a corrupted form, raises many questions to which it is not easy to respond (is there a difference between rūḥ and nafs? What are the six ‘species’ that the human soul possesses in common with animals?),85 the key idea is clear: at the moment of childbirth, the rational faculty, by which man distinguishes himself from animal, unites with the soul of the child.86 By his tears, the child expresses the disarray in his soul: after its fall into matter, the soul sees no means of escape from exile in order to return to its origin which is none other than the Universal Soul. 3. The theory of knowledge As with all Ismaili noetics, the theory of knowledge presented in the Risāla al-Mudhhiba – unfortunately in a very fragmentary and obscure manner – attempts to outline the path that will enable the fallen human soul to return to its place of origin. For our author, this return is only possible due to the rational faculty: there is no salvation without rational knowledge; thus explaining the importance he accords to the rational faculty (al-quwwa al-nāṭiqa) by which the human soul distinguishes itself from

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those of other animals. Exploiting the double meaning of the root n-ṭ-q (speech and reason), he takes up the example of the newly born: The child emerges from his mother endowed with seven sensory organs, namely two eyes, two ears, two nostrils and a mouth. When he sees with his eyes, he says with his tongue: ‘I see’; when he hears with his ears, he says with his tongue: ‘I hear’; when he smells with his nose, he says with his tongue: ‘I smell.’ The tongue is therefore the translator of the seven sensory organs (fa kāna’l-lisān al-mutarjim ʿan al-ḥawāss al-sabʿa).87

The rational faculty, which expresses itself by speech, is not only the ‘translator’ of sense-perceptions; its function above all is to have command over the other faculties of the soul – those that man possesses in common with animals.88 Here we see the Platonic image of the Charioteer: It is necessary to master the animal soul (al-bahīmiyya) and to bridle it, lest it separates itself from its companion [i.e. the rational soul] or weaken it and hurl it into perdition. If one perishes the other will perish along with it. On the other hand, if the reins are held firmly in the hands of the companion, the latter will turn it away [from the passions] and choose what is best for it. That is why it is necessary to make a pact with the soul (wajaba akhdh al-ʿahd ʿalā’l-nafs): as long as its bridles and reins direct it towards what is good, towards salvation (najāt), away from the darkness of ignorance towards the light of the Intellect.89

The author interprets the Aristotelian definition of the soul as ‘the substance that completes and perfects all natural beings gifted with organs’ (al-jawhar alladhī huwa tamām wa kamāl kull jism ṭabīʿī dhī āla)90 in the sense that the soul, at least by its rational faculty, is the principle that guarantees order and harmony in the natural body to which it is united. It performs this function because of its ability to acquire knowledge: ‘knowledge is the completion of the animal substance’ (al-maʿrifa hiya tamām jawhar al-ḥayawān).91 If knowledge (maʿrifa) is a ‘natural influence’ (athar ṭabīʿī) insofar as it relates to material beings and is obtained by sense-perception, knowledge (ʿilm) is defined as ‘the soul’s perception of the real essences (ḥaqāʾiq) of things’: it has to do therefore with intelligible realities. Now, this knowledge is described as a ‘divine influence’ (athar ilāhī),92 which means that it is not based on sense-perception but is acquired by ‘inspiration’ (taʾyīd).

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4. The ascent of the soul and its salvation For the author of the Risāla al-Mudhhiba, the salvation of the human soul, its escape from exile in the body and its return to its origin, all happen through the ‘acquisition of knowledge (ʿilm).93 This radiates (ashraqa) from the Intellect and the Soul; it is transmitted by the various ḥudūd of the celestial world (al-Jadd, al-Fatḥ and al-Khayāl or the cherubim governing the spheres, according to the system adopted)94 to the ḥudūd who constitute the earthly daʿwa – the imam, the ḥujja, the dāʿī – before reaching the simple believer.95 Hence the key role played by the imam in the perfection of the human soul: Know that the imam in himself (al-imām bi-dhātihi) is the sun of an intellect (shams ʿaql) that shines (ashraqa) upon the rational souls, such that they are illuminated by the emanation of substantiality (ifāḍat al-jawhariyya). [The souls] become substances (tajawharat) by receiving his (i.e. the imam’s) intelligibles (maʿlūmāt) … . With the appearance of [these intelligibles] they are purified, at the same time as their bodies.96

By deriving nourishment from the knowledge taught by the imam, human souls become substances: that is, they can subsist by themselves, liberated from their bodily attachments. They are ready to undertake the path of return (maʿād), in order to reunite with their celestial cause: the Universal Soul.97 Although the author remains very evasive and, perhaps deliberately, obscure regarding this subject, the conjunction (ittiṣāl) of the human soul with the Universal Soul occurs gradually, during the various prophetic and imamic cycles. It will not be complete until the second coming of the qāʾim, which prefigures the return of all the saved souls to their celestial origin: This will take place when he [i.e. the qāʾim] enters into conjunction with the Soul, without intermediary, once the bodily cycle reaches completion.98

Having entered into conjunction with the Universal Soul, the qāʾim will reveal salutary knowledge in its entirety. In turn, due to his teaching, the souls of the faithful will be fully actualised: freed from their bodily attachments they will be able to undertake the journey beyond this world and return to their place of origin.99 This partial analysis of the Risāla al-Mudhhiba suffices to demonstrate that with its vocabulary, cosmology and conception of the fall and rise

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of souls, it is close to the ‘Ismaili Neoplatonism’ of works emerging from the ‘Persian School’. Indeed it would be easy to point out a number of resemblances to texts by al-Nasafī, Abū Tammām and al-Sijistānī inspired by the Arabic paraphrases of Plotinus and Proclus. If we accept that the treatise was written in the entourage of al-Muʿizz, it constitutes a precious testimony of the reception of Neoplatonism by the Western Fatimid daʿwa in Ifrīqiya and Egypt in the second half of the fourth/tenth century. Unfortunately, the Mudhhiba, as it has come down to us, is only a ‘vestige’ or rather ‘a vestige of a vestige’. Indeed it represents one of the rare pieces of evidence – along with some works attributed to Jaʿfar b. Manṣūr al-Yaman, including Kitāb al-Fatarāt, also problematic from many points of view – of a mostly lost literature, superseded by the great Fatimid philosophical summaries of the fifth/eleventh century (al-Kirmānī, al-Muʾayyad fi’l-Dīn al-Shīrāzī, Nāṣir-i Khusraw). Not unlike most works transmitted by the Syrian Nizārīs, it has undergone a number of modifications, rewrites, interpolations, as well as an uncertain process of manuscript transmission. Moreover, our treatise proves to be quite unlike the systematic and well-constructed works of Sijistānī or Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī. Let us recall that we are dealing with what appears to be a collection of incoherent and obscure responses to scattered questions, in what is an isolated example of a doctrine whose details are not known. Furthermore, there are numerous contradictions and inconsistencies, notably on cosmology. We have thus pointed out the manner in which the author seems to have intertwined two different systems, leaving the Universal Soul in an ambiguous position, at once at the peak of the cosmic hierarchy, as ‘the spouse of the Intellect’ (zawjat al-ʿaql) and at the lowest position, as angel-cherub governing the sublunar world. The Risāla al-Mudhhiba and Kirmānī’s cosmology In a letter dated 9 March 1990, the late Yves Marquet sought my opinion on a question that occurred to him while writing his article ‘La pensée philosophique et religieuse du Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān à travers la Risāla Mudhhiba’: In this article, I speculated as to whether or not al-Kirmānī came round to the theory of the ten Intellects in an attempt to repair the disorder that al-Nuʿmān, and presumably the caliph al-Muʿizz, had introduced into the doctrine of the Intellect and the Soul.100

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This question seems entirely pertinent especially since the Mudhhiba contains elements that, one way or another, foreshadow al-Kirmānī’s cosmology. We have seen that the author establishes a correspondence between the ḥudūd of the intelligible world (the Intellect, the Soul, the twelve ruḥāniyya, the seven cherubim) and the celestial spheres. Without being described as ‘intellects’, the cherubim represent psychic faculties. Moreover, the Soul, relegated to the lowest level of the celestial world, intervenes in the generation of the sublunar world, the actualisation of the human intellect and the transmission of salutary knowledge, which closely recalls the function of the Tenth Intellect or Agent Intellect in al-Kirmānī’s writings. Marquet pointed out these similarities. But he ascribed the inconsistencies caused by the intertwining of two different systems (mainly regarding the position and function of the Soul) to the philosophical incompetence of the author: ‘It seems in any case that the concept developed by al-Nuʿmān, good jurist and good exegete perhaps, but poor philosopher, results from a contamination between the Plotinian system and that of the falāsifa.’ 101 A close analysis of the Kitāb Rāḥat al-ʿaql shows that al-Kirmānī’s theory of the ten Intellects contains exactly the same incongruities, such that it too appears to be the product of an overlapping of the two systems, as suggested by Marquet. Thus al-Kirmānī creates a puzzling duplication, where elements proper to the Soul in the previous Plotinian system are shared between the Third Intellect (which he explicitly identifies as ‘the Universal Soul’, described, for example, as being the female, passive counterpart of the Intellect, receiving the forms from it) and the Tenth Intellect (which he describes as informing Nature and the sensible world, but identifies it, following Fārābī, with ‘the Agent Intellect’ of the Aristotelian tradition) in such a manner that one can only conclude they are identical. Therefore, I have been led to formulate the hypothesis that the fall of the Third Intellect to the lowest level in the cosmic hierarchy – the ‘drama in heaven’, a recurring theme among Ṭayyibī authors – had been implied in the Rāḥat al-ʿaql.102 We see the same problem arise in the Risāla al-Mudhhiba, half a century earlier than the Rāḥat al-ʿaql. The only way to give meaning to its cosmology is to accept the fall of the Universal Soul that, following an error not specified by the author, lost its privileged position as ‘spouse’ of the Intellect, to find itself at the lowest level of the intelligible world. Marquet was right to consider the Risāla al-Mudhhiba an immediate precursor to the great synthesis by al-Kirmānī.103 In spite of the poor state in which it has come down to us, this text has special importance in the

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history of Ismaili philosophy. As such, it thoroughly deserves a critical edition and an in-depth study. Notes 1.

2.

On the Muḥammad-Shāhī branch of the Nizārīs, see Farhad Daftary The Ismāʿīlīs: Their History and Doctrines (Cambridge, 1990), pp. 441–442, 447–448; (2nd ed., Cambridge, 2007), pp. 415–418, 451–456. A minority among the Ismailis of Syria are known, like the Bohras in India, for having preserved and recopied Ismaili texts in Arabic, some of which date from the Fatimid period. Unfortunately, their libraries remain closed to researchers and no reliable inventory exists; cf. Wladimir Ivanow, Ismaili Literature: A Bibliographical Survey (Tehran, 1963), pp. 168–173 (contains a list of works that was conveyed to him by ‘an enterprising journalist of Beirut’); Paul E. Walker, ‘Abū Tammām and his Kitāb al-Shajara: A New Ismaili Treatise from Tenth-century Khurasan’, Journal of the American Oriental Society, 114 (1994), pp. 343–344. ʿĀrif Tāmir had the merit of publishing some of the texts transmitted by his community, although it remains unclear which manuscripts he used for his, often very faulty, editions. Al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān, al-Risāla al-Mudhhiba. Taʾlīf al-faqīh al-akbar wa’ldāʿī al-ajall al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān b. Muḥammad b. Ḥayyūn al-Maghribī al-Tamīmī, ed. ʿĀrif Tāmir, in Khams rasāʾil Ismāʿīliyya (Salamiyya, 1956), pp. 27–88. The collection also contains: Muḥammad b. Saʿd b. Dāʾūd al-Rafna (d. 859/1454), al-Risāla al-Kāfīya (pp. 90–99), Abu’l-Maʿālī b. ʿImrān (d. ca. 497/1104), Risālat al-Uṣūl wa’l-aḥkām (pp. 100–143), Abū Yaʿqūb al-Sijistānī (d. after 361/970), Tuḥfat al-mustajībīn (pp. 145–156) and Qays b. Manṣūr al-Dādīḥī (d. 655/1257), Risālat al-asābīʿ (pp. 158–179). Tāmir tells us (Khams rasāʾil, p. 12) he based his edition of the Mudhhiba on three manuscripts from (1) the library of Āl Sulaymān in Qadmūs, (2) the village of al-Mufakkar in the district of Salamiyya and (3) from the city Maṣyāf. On the other hand, as regards the other four texts in the collection, he acknowledges having found only one manuscript, belonging to Āl Sulaymān in Qadmūs, see Khams rasāʾil, pp. 13, 14, 17; cf. the introduction in the reprint of Tuḥfat al-mustajībīn in al-Mashriq, 61 (1967), p. 137; Ismail K. Poonawala, Biobibliography of Ismāʿīlī Literature (Malibu, CA, 1977), pp. 67, 87, 292, 294, 387. If this information is reliable, one may gather that the library in Qadmūs possesses a manuscript containing all five of the treatises published by Tāmir in Khams rasāʾil. These kinds of majmūʿāt, bringing together pell-mell various authors from different periods, seem typical of the Syrian manuscript tradition. The rare examples of it that are known are in fact of this kind; see, for example, the manuscript from Maṣyāf edited by Stanislas Guyard, Fragments relatifs à la doctrine des Ismaélîs (Paris, 1874) which Jean-Baptiste Rousseau, the French Consul-Général in Aleppo who

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acquired the manuscript in Damascus, described as ‘une compilation indigeste des principaux livres des Ismaélis’, cf. Guyard, p. 3); also MS 176/1031 at The Institute of Ismaili Studies in London, that contains al-Risāla al-Mudhhiba; cf. Delia Cortese, Ismaili and Other Arabic Manuscripts: A Descriptive Catalogue of Manuscripts in the Library of The Institute of Ismaili Studies (London, 2000), pp. 125–127. 3. Thus Asaf A. A. Fyzee, ‘Qadi an-Nuʿman: The Fatimid Jurist and Author’, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society (1934), pp. 1–32, is unaware of the Risāla. 4. Ivanow, Ismaili Literature, pp. 170–171 (‘it is highly probable that its attribution to Nuʿmān is fictitious’); Ismail K. Poonawala, ‘al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān’s Works and the Sources’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, 36 (1973), p. 112; Poonawala, Biobibliography, p. 67 (‘the authorship of this treatise to Nuʿmān is doubtful, and it is not mentioned in any source’); Farhad Daftary, Ismaili Literature: A Bibliography of Sources and Studies (London, 2004), p. 145 (‘the attribution of the work to al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān may be doubtful’). 5. The term ‘Qarmaṭī’, as used, for instance, by Madelung in connection with the Ismaili daʿwa forming what he called the ‘Persian School’, is rather ambiguous. Most of them, it is true, do not seem to have accepted the claim of the Fatimids to the imamate but adhered to the belief that Muḥammad b. Ismāʿīl was the last Imam and thus the Mahdī. However, linking them with the ‘Qarmatians’ of Bahrayn remains highly problematic. 6. Samuel M. Stern, ‘The Early Ismāʿīlī Missionaries in North-West Persia and in Khurāsān and Transoxania’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, 23 (1960), pp. 56–90 (also published in S. M. Stern, Studies in Early Ismāʿīlism (Leiden and Jerusalem, 1983), pp. 189–233); Wilferd Madelung, ‘Das Imamat in der frühen ismailitischen Lehre’, Der Islam, 37 (1961), pp. 101–114. One might include Abū Tammām in this ‘School’, as a disciple of Nasafī and author of Kitāb al-Shajara, according to the hypothesis by Walker, ‘Abū Tammām’. 7. Samuel M. Stern, ‘The Earliest Cosmological Doctrines of Ismāʿīlism’, in Stern, Studies, pp. 3–29. 8. Heinz Halm, Kosmologie und Heilslehre der frühen Ismāʿīlīya: Eine Studie zur islamischen Gnosis (Wiesbaden, 1978); Halm, ‘The Cosmology of the Pre-Fatimid Ismāʿīlīya’, in Farhad Daftary, ed., Mediaeval Ismaʿili History and Thought (Cambridge, 1996), pp. 75–83. For a more detailed report on the matter, see De Smet, ‘Les bibliothèques ismaéliennes et la question du néoplatonisme ismaélien’, in Cristina D’Ancona, ed., The Libraries of the Neoplatonists (Leiden and Boston, 2007), pp. 481–492. 9. Yves Marquet, ‘Quelques remarques à propos de Kosmologie und Heilslehre der frühen Ismāʿīlīya de Heinz Halm’, Studia Islamica, 55 (1982), pp. 115–135. 10. Ibn al-Haytham, Kitāb al-Munāẓarāt, ed. and tr. Wilferd Madelung and Paul E. Walker as The Advent of the Fatimids: A Contemporary Shiʿi Witness. An Edition and English Translation of Ibn al-Haytham’s Kitāb al-Munāẓarāt

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11. 12.

13.

14. 15. 16.

17. 18.

19.

20.

Daniel De Smet (London, 2000), pp. 50, 52, 111, 137–140, 150–151, 154; cf. De Smet, ‘Les bibliothèques ismaéliennes’, pp. 486–487. As evident, for example, in the study of the evolution of Ismaili doctrine by Daftary, The Ismāʿīlīs (1st ed.), pp. 122, 168, 179–180, 234–240, 245. On this subject one cites the passage in al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān, Kitāb al-Majālis wa’l-musāyarāt, ed. Habib Feki (= al-Ḥabīb al-Faqī), et al. (Beirut, 1997), pp. 374–375, which gives an account of al-Muʿizz’s frustration with an ‘eastern’ dāʿī who based Ismailism on principles drawn from ‘the doctrine of the philosophers’ (madhhab al-falāsifa); cf. Samuel M. Stern, ‘Heterodox Ismāʿīlism at the Time of al-Muʿizz’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, 17, i (1955), pp. 15, 30–31 (= Stern, Studies, pp. 265, 284–285); Madelung, ‘Das Imamat’, p. 112; Halm, Kosmologie, pp. 135–136. Madelung, ‘Das Imamat’, pp. 86, 100–101, 112; Halm, Kosmologie, p. 136; Daftary, The Ismāʿīlīs (1st ed.), pp. 177, 245 (2nd ed., pp. 164, 232–233, but in the latter passage, the second edition no longer refers to Risāla al-Mudhhiba); Cortese, Ismaili and Other Arabic Manuscripts, p. 125. Al-Wazīr Yaʿqūb Ibn Killis [attrib.], al-Risāla al-Mudhhiba, ed. ʿĀrif Tāmir (Beirut, 1988). This edition seems to have escaped the attention of scholars and I am not aware of any reference in secondary sources. ʿĀrif Tāmir’s introduction to Ibn Killis, al-Risāla al-Mudhhiba, pp. 5–7. For Yaʿqūb b. Killis, who is said to have written several works of fiqh all missing, see Poonawala, Biobibliography, pp. 78–79; Yaacov Lev, ‘The Fatimid Vizier Yaʿqub Ibn Killis and the Beginning of the Fatimid Administration in Egypt’, Der Islam, 58 (1981), pp. 237–249; Leila S. al-Imad, The Fatimid Vizierate, 969–1172 (Berlin, 1990), pp. 80–96; Paul E. Walker, ‘Fatimid Institutions of Learning’, Journal of the American Research Center in Egypt, 34 (1997), pp. 187–188. As a whole, Mudhhiba II seems to present a less corrupted, more reliable text. It is not possible to list all the variants here but I will point some out in the doctrinal analysis that follows. Wa qad dhakarnā fī Kitāb al-Maʿālim anna min walad al-Mahdī bi’llāh aḥad ʿashar imāman (Mudhhiba I, p. 57.11–12; cf. ibid. l. 15); wa qad dhakarnā fī Kitāb al-Maʿālim anna min Muḥammad b. Ismāʿīl aḥad ʿashar imāman (Mudhhiba II, p. 65.14–15; cf. ibid. pp. 65 ult.–66.1). Abu’l-Maʿālī b. ʿImrān, Risālat al-Uṣūl wa’l-aḥkām, ed. Tāmir, in Khams rasāʾil, pp. 100–143. This work is comprised of long excerpts from Kitāb al-Fatarāt attributed to Jaʿfar b. Manṣūr al-Yaman which was probably written in the entourage of the Imam al-Muʿizz. Kitāb al-Shajara experienced a fate similar to that of Risāla al-Mudhhiba. First it was edited by ʿĀrif Tāmir as Kitāb al-Īḍāḥ (Beirut, 1965) and attributed to Shihāb al-Dīn b. al-Qāḍī Naṣr Abū Firās al-Maynaqī (d. 937/1530 or 947/1540), then partially re-edited by Tāmir as Kitāb Shajarat al-yaqīn (Beirut, 1982), but this time in the name of the Qarmaṭī leader ʿAbdān b. al-Rabīṭ (d. ca. 286/899); the chapter on Satan from a manuscript contain-

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21.

22. 23.

24. 25. 26. 27.

28.

29.

30.

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ing the hitherto unpublished Part One of the work was edited and translated by Wilferd Madelung and Paul E. Walker in An Ismaili Heresiography: The ‘Bāb al-shayṭān’ from Abū Tammām’s Kitāb al-shajara (Leiden, 1998); cf. Walker, ‘Abū Tammām’, pp. 343–345 and the preface and introduction to Madelung and Walker, An Ismaili Heresiography. The passage quoted in Mudhhiba II corresponds to pp. 91.5–105.4 of the Beirut 1982 edition. Muḥammad b. Saʿd b. Dāʾūd al-Rafna, al-Risāla al-Kāfiya, ed. Tāmir, in Khams rasāʾil, pp. 90–99; reprinted in Tāmir’s Thalāth rasāʾil Ismāʿīliyya (Beirut, 1983), pp. 25–33. The passage taken up in Mudhhiba II corresponds to Thalāth rasāʾil, pp. 31.16–33.14; Khams rasāʾil, pp. 95.4–97.7. Walker, ‘Abū Tammām’, pp. 344–345, 349, raised exactly the same points when comparing both editions of Kitāb al-Shajara. Al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān [attrib.], al-Risāla al-Mudhhiba fī funūn al-ḥikma wa gharāʾib al-taʾwīl, ed. Ṣāliḥ ʿAmmār al-Ḥājj (Cairo, 2004), pp. 145–178. I am most grateful to Ahmed from the Librairie Avicenne in Paris for bringing this edition to my attention and obtaining a photocopy of it. Mudhhiba III, p. 145 note. Mudhhiba III, p. 145, confirmed by the reproduction of the first page of the manuscript that precedes the edition of the text. Mudhhiba III, p. 146.12–13; p. 178.13–16. Cortese, Ismaili and Other Arabic Manuscripts, pp. 125–127. According to Cortese, the manuscript may date from the twentieth century. I would like to thank Omar Alí-de-Unzaga for sending me a copy of the first and last folios. One can cite out of others as an example, Kitāb al-Fatarāt attributed to Jaʿfar b. Manṣūr al-Yaman. Heinz Halm, ‘Zur Datierung des ismāʿīlitischen “Buches der Zwischenzeiten und der zehn Konjunktionen” (Kitāb al-Fatarāt waʾl-qirānāt al-ʿašara) HS Tübingen Ma VI 297’, Die Welt des Orients, 8 (1975), p. 105; Halm, Kosmologie, pp. 136–137, has shown that this work, probably written in the entourage of al-Muʿizz – just as the Risāla al-Mudhhiba, with which it has many similarities – underwent several modifications during the Fatimid period, until the reign of al-Ḥākim, even later, before being accepted in a form adapted to the doctrine of his time, by the Syrian Nizārī author, Abu’l-Maʿālī b. ʿImrān (see above, n.19). Kitāb al-Shajara seems to have undergone similar treatment (see above, n.20). Regarding the condition of Syrian Ismaili manuscripts, refer to the comments by Josef van Ess in his review of Ash-Shāfiya (The Healer), an Ismāʿīlī poem attributed to Shihāb ad-Dīn Abū Firās, edited and translated with introduction and commentary by Sami Nassib Makarem (Beirut, 1966) and of al-Qasīda al-Shāfiya. Texte arabe établi et annoté par Aref Tamer (Beirut, 1967) in Der Islam, 46 (1970), pp. 92–95, esp. p. 92. A fragment from the Genizah in Cairo states that Ibn Killis held majālis in which jurists, men of letters, philosophers and theologians belonging to different confessions participated; see Mark R. Cohen and Sasson Somekh,

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31. 32. 33. 34.

35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43.

44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49.

Daniel De Smet ‘In the Court of Yaʿqūb Ibn Killis: A Fragment from the Cairo Genizah’, The Jewish Quarterly Review, 80 (1990), pp. 283–314. But nothing suggests that he personally wrote works like the Risāla al-Mudhhiba. Mudhhiba I, p. 41.10–11; Mudhhiba II, p. 43.1–2. This title is cited by Poonawala, Biobibliography, p. 32, n.10, among the works by ʿAbdān, but he does not mention any manuscripts. Mudhhiba I, p. 56.22–24; Mudhhiba II, p. 64.15–17. Regarding this letter, see Stern, ‘Heterodox Ismāʿīlism’, pp. 11–13, 24–25, published also in Stern, Studies, pp. 258–261, 276–281. Mudhhiba I, p. 43.22; Mudhhiba II, p. 46.15–17 and footnote; cf. Poonawala, Biobibliography, p. 68, n.61. Mudhhiba I, p. 35.15–16; Mudhhiba II, p. 33.13–14. Nevertheless, in his second edition, Tāmir adds a footnote: ‘this belongs among one of the lost works by vizier Ibn Killis’. I do not know where he obtained this information. Mudhhiba I, p. 57.11; Mudhhiba II, p. 65.14; cf. Poonawala, Biobibliography, pp. 58, n.17, 67, n.54; Poonawala, ‘al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān’s Works’, p. 112 n.17. Here again, Tāmir insists on considering this a missing work by Ibn Killis. Mudhhiba I, pp. 38.7, 43.23, 54.2, 56.23, 82.4. Mudhhiba I, pp. 43 ult.–44.1. Stern, ‘Heterodox Ismāʿīlism’, in his Studies, pp. 257–288. According to traditional Islamic exegesis, it would be either the seven verses of the Fātiḥa, or the seven longest suras of the Qur’an; cf. Régis Blachère, Le Coran (Paris, 1980), p. 290. Mudhhiba I, pp. 46, 70; Mudhhiba II, pp. 51, 85. Mudhhiba I, p. 74.10–18; Mudhhiba II, p. 90. Mudhhiba I, p. 71.13–19; Mudhhiba II, pp. 86.22–87.4. Mudhhiba I, p. 79.5–8; Mudhhiba II, p. 98.15–19. One must correct al-baqiyya as al-taqiyya as Madelung suggests in ‘Das Imamat’, p. 88 n.233. In Ismaili Neoplatonic texts, and in Arabic Neoplatonism in general, jirm usually refers to the celestial bodies, whereas the physical bodies are referred to by the term jism. These terms are sometimes used as synonyms, though, so a certain ambiguity remains. Mudhhiba I, p. 69.1–2; Mudhhiba II, p. 83.13–14. Madelung, ‘Das Imamat’, pp. 88–89; Daftary, The Ismāʿīlīs (1st ed.), pp. 177–178; (2nd ed.), pp. 164–165. Let us recall, however, that this name does not appear in Mudhhiba I; on the other hand, it is mentioned on several occasions in Mudhhiba II. Madelung, ‘Das Imamat’, pp. 90–101. On the notion of ‘exaggeration’ (ghuluww), see Daniel De Smet, ‘Exagération’, in M. A. Amir-Moezzi (ed.), Dictionnaire du Coran (Paris, 2007), pp. 292–295. Mudhhiba I, pp. 31.15–17, 70.18–19, 75.20–25; Mudhhiba II, pp. 27.13–15, 86.2, 93.1–5.

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50. Regarding this matter, see Daniel De Smet, ‘Loi rationnelle et loi imposée. Les deux aspects de la šarīʿa dans le chiisme ismaélien des Xe et XIe siècles’, Mélanges de l’Université Saint-Joseph, 61 (2008), pp. 515–544. 51. The author says he named his epistle al-Mudhhiba (‘that which eliminates, which makes disappear’) ‘because it eliminates (tudhib) temptations from Satan and illuminates the hearts of the learned by faith’, clearly an allusion to Q. 8:11, ‘to put away from you the defilement of Satan, and to strengthen your hearts’ (wa yudhhiba ʿankum rijza’l-shayṭān). See Mudhhiba I, p. 28.12–13; Mudhhiba II, pp. 21 ult.–22.1. This calls into question the reading ‘al-Mudhahhaba’ (‘the gilded’) that Tāmir (Mudhhiba II, p. 21 note) is said to have found ‘in another manuscript’ and which is strangely retained by Fuat Sezgin, Geschichte des arabischen Schrifttums, Band I (Leiden, 1967), p. 577, n.12. 52. A first attempt at a systematic analysis of the treatise was undertaken by Yves Marquet, ‘La pensée philosophique et religieuse du Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān à travers la Risāla Muḏhiba’, Bulletin d’Etudes Orientales, 39–40 (1987–1988), pp. 141–81. At no point does Marquet doubt the attribution of the treatise to al-Nuʿmān. 53. Mudhhiba II, p. 42. 54. Mudhhiba I, pp. 40.23–41.9; Mudhhiba III, pp. 166.12–167.5. However, in the last sentence, Mudhhiba III describes the human form as ‘the last of the natural beings’ (ākhar al-maṭbūʿāt). 55. See Daniel De Smet, ‘Al-Fārābī’s Influence on Ḥamīd al-Dīn al-Kirmānī’s Theory of Intellect and Soul’, in Peter Adamson, ed., In the Age of al-Fārābī: Arabic Philosophy in the fourth/tenth Century (London, 2008), pp. 131–150. 56. Marquet, ‘La pensée philosophique et religieuse du Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān’, pp. 158, 162–164; Marquet, ‘Les Iḫwān aṣ-Ṣafāʾ et l’ismaïlisme’, in Convegno sugli Ikhwān aṣ-Ṣafāʾ (Rome, 1981), p. 78; Marquet, La philosophie des alchimistes et l’alchimie des philosophes. Jâbir ibn Ḥayyân et les ‘Frères de la Pureté’ (Paris, 1988), p. 74. 57. Following the passage translated above, the author maintains that the ‘human form’ appeared in a dark and incandescent (muḥriq) world in which there was no light. He supports this with a quotation from ʿAbdān, Kitāb al-Ibtidāʾ, who reports a tradition according to which, at the moment of his fall from paradise, Adam had become entirely black; then, as he repented his error, he turned white by one-third per day, such that he became completely white on the third day of his repentance (Mudhhiba I, p. 41.9–15; Mudhhiba II, p. 43.1–7). An allusion to the same tradition can be found in Druze texts; see also Daniel De Smet, Les Épîtres sacrées des Druzes. Rasāʾil al-Ḥikma. Volumes 1 et 2. Introduction, édition critique et traduction annotée des traités attribués à Ḥamza b. ʿAlī et Ismāʿīl at-Tamīmī (Louvain, 2007), p. 245. 58. Mudhhiba I, p. 36.5–16; Mudhhiba II, pp. 34.16–35.15; Mudhhiba III, p. 159.2–16; cf. Mudhhiba IV, pp. 68.9–69.6. My translation is based on Mudhhiba I and III which seem less corrupted than II.

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59. Halm, Kosmologie, pp. 90–100; cf. Stern, Studies, pp. 26–29. 60. This is my correction of the text, visibly corrupted in both editions, that read: ayyasa min ays. It is in fact the definition of origination (ibdāʿ) formulated by Kindī; see Rasāʾil al-Kindī al-falsafiyya, ed. M. Abū Rīda (Cairo, 1950), vol. 1, pp. 182–183. This terminology is also used by Sijistānī in Kitāb al-Yanābīʿ and by Kirmānī in Rāḥat al-ʿaql; refer to my study, La Quiétude de l’Intellect. Néoplatonisme et gnose ismaélienne dans l’œuvre de Ḥamîd al-Dîn al-Kirmânî (Leuven, 1995), pp. 42–43, 119. 61. Mudhhiba I, p. 54.5–10; Mudhhiba II, p. 61.5–11. 62. Mudhhiba I, p. 78.23–ult.; Mudhhiba II, p. 98.7–9. In both editions, I have corrected al-tisʿa al-karūbiyya, changing it to al-sabʿa al-karūbiyya. 63. See the passage translated below, p. 322. 64. Mudhhiba I, p. 78.22–23; Mudhhiba II, p. 98.5–7. This varied list, in which the first three names are those of the enigmatic ḥudūd that appear in several Ismaili works, was analysed in the light of similar lists contained in contemporary texts by Halm, Kosmologie, pp. 90–94. 65. Halm, Kosmologie, p. 92. 66. See Mudhhiba I, p. 34.3; Mudhhiba II, p. 31.5–6. 67. In other words, they bring the influx (mādda) down to the lower levels in the hierarchy. On the Ismaili notion of mādda as the influx that passes, starting from the higher ḥudūd, across all levels of the celestial and terrestrial hierarchy, conferring subsistence and knowledge upon each level, see Daniel De Smet, Les Épîtres sacrées des Druzes, pp. 59–60. 68. Mudhhiba I, p. 53.4–19; Mudhhiba II, pp. 59.17–60.14. 69. Mudhhiba I, p. 71.8–19; Mudhhiba II, pp. 86.18–87.4; cf. Yves Marquet, ‘Le Qāḍī Nuʿmān à propos des heptades d’imāms’, Arabica, 25 (1978), pp. 226–228. 70. For the systems developed by Fārābī and Kirmānī, see Ian R. Netton, Allāh Transcendent: Studies in the Structure and Semiotics of Islamic Philosophy, Theology and Cosmology (Richmond, Surrey, 1994), pp. 116, 228, as well as De Smet, ‘Al-Fārābī’s Influence’, where I show that this correspondence is less evident in al-Kirmānī than it is in his Farabian source. 71. Marquet, ‘La pensée philosophique et religieuse du Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān’, pp. 148–150, pointed out this aporia; he attributes it to a lack of rigour on the part of al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān, if not to his incompetence in matters of philosophy. 72. I translate this corrupted sentence rather freely. Surely one ought to replace ans with ays? 73. Mudhhiba I, pp. 60.22–61.18; Mudhhiba II, pp. 71.12–72 ult. 74. See Paul E. Walker, Early Philosophical Shiism: The Ismaili Neoplatonism of Abū Yaʿqūb al-Sijistānī (Cambridge, 1993), as well as De Smet, La Quiétude de l’Intellect; cf. Halm, Kosmologie, p. 136. 75. Mudhhiba I, p. 64.19–24; Mudhhiba II, pp. 76.20–77.3. 76. On this doctrine, which results from a particular interpretation of Arabic

The Risāla al-Mudhhiba Attributed to al-Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān

77.

78. 79. 80.

81. 82. 83.

84.

85. 86.

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paraphrases of Plotinus, see my book, Empedocles Arabus. Une lecture néoplatonicienne tardive (Brussels, 1998), pp. 96–111. Marquet, ‘La pensée philosophique et religieuse du Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān’, p. 144, on the other hand, detects an incongruence here, perhaps further proof of al-Nuʿmān’s ‘lack of philosophical acumen’. Mudhhiba I, p. 79.12–15; Mudhhiba II, p. 99.2–5. Then follows a very muddled passage that describes the parallelism between the celestial world and man as the microcosm: the harmony of the spheres is reflected in man’s composition. Mudhhiba I, p. 47.10–13; Mudhhiba II, p. 51.16–21; Mudhhiba III, pp. 175.19– 176.1. Mudhhiba I, p. 73.5–8; Mudhhiba II, p. 88.12–16. Mudhhiba I, p. 35.1–2, p. 55.14–15, p. 84.4–5; Mudhhiba II, p. 32.15–17, p. 62.19, p. 105.18–20. The sexual ambivalence of the ḥudūd is characteristic of the Ismaili interpretation of Neoplatonic emanationism: it is found, also based on the same Qur’anic verse, in the Risāla by Abū ʿĪsā al-Murshid and in the Druze epistles; see De Smet, ‘La valorisation du féminin dans l’ismaélisme ṭayyibite. Le cas de la reine yéménite al-Sayyida Arwā’, Mélanges de l’Université Saint-Joseph, 58 (2005), pp. 111–112, as well as my book, Les Épîtres sacrées des Druzes, pp. 50–52. Traces of the pentadic scheme are found in several Ismaili texts of the tenth century, as well as in the epistles of the Druze; refer to Halm, Kosmologie, pp. 67–74, and De Smet, Les Épîtres sacrées des Druzes, pp. 46–50. On the obvious contradiction between these systems, see Marquet, ‘La pensée philosophique et religieuse du Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān’, pp. 169–170. Thus one of the points of disagreement among various authors of the so-called ‘Persian School’ was the question whether the human soul is an ‘influence’ (athar) or a ‘part’ (juz’) of the Universal Soul; see De Smet, ‘Die ismāʿīlitischen Denker des 10. und frühen 11. Jhs.’, in Ulrich Rudolph, ed., Philosophie in der islamischen Welt. Vol 1: Von den Anfängen bis zur Gegenwart (Basel, forthcoming). Mudhhiba I, pp. 42.14–43.6; Mudhhiba II, pp. 44.19–45.19; Mudhhiba III, p. 169. After ‘crying befalls a soul that is separated,’ Mudhhiba III contains a sentence that is missing from both editions by Tāmir following a leap from the same to the same: ‘from its precious (nafīs) world. It cries with sadness (for having left its world), since it is now linked to a fatal world. It is tormented by the desire to return to the world from which it emerged.’ According to Marquet, ‘La pensée philosophique et religieuse du Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān’, p. 153, it would be the four natures that form the substrata of the soul, to which are added the vegetative soul and the animal soul. As Marquet notes in ‘La pensée’, p. 153, the author of the Mudhhiba clearly differs on this point from the Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʾ, according to whom the rational soul enters the child’s body at four years of age; see Carmela Baffioni, ‘L’embryologie islamique. Entre héritage grec et Coran: les philosophes, les

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87. 88. 89. 90.

91. 92. 93. 94. 95. 96.

97. 98. 99.

Daniel De Smet savants, les théologiens,’ in Luc Brisson, Marie-Hélène Congourdeau and Jean-Luc Solère, ed., L’embryon: formation et animation. Antiquité grecque et latine, traditions hébraïque, chrétienne et islamique (Paris, 2008), pp. 218–219. Mudhhiba I, p. 44.2–6; Mudhhiba II, p. 47.3–8; Mudhhiba III, pp. 170 ult.– 171.4. Mudhhiba I, p. 81.6–9; Mudhhiba II, p. 101.15–19: mentions the sensitive soul (al-nafs al-ḥissiyya), the vegetative soul (al-nafs al-nāmiyya) and the rational soul (al-nāṭiqa). Mudhhiba I, pp. 61. 24–62. 4; Mudhhiba II, p. 73.7–13. Mudhhiba I, p. 62.21–22; Mudhhiba II, p. 74.11; cf. Aristotle, De Anima, II, 1, 412a 27–29. On the interpretation of this definition in Fatimid and postFatimid Ismaili literature, see Daniel De Smet, ‘Perfectio prima – Perfectio secunda ou les vicissitudes d’une notion: de S. Thomas aux Ismaéliens ṭayyibites du Yémen’, Recherches de Théologie et Philosophie médiévales, 66 (1999), pp. 263–269. Mudhhiba I, p. 65.11–12; Mudhhiba II, p. 77.18. Mudhhiba I, pp. 65.7–66.1; Mudhhiba II, pp. 77.12–78.12. This entire passage, in which the author gives a number of definitions of cognisance and knowledge, is especially muddled and corrupted in both editions. Mudhhiba I, p. 64.7–14; Mudhhiba II, p. 76.7–14. As is the practice in Ismaili texts, the author is very discrete regarding the content of this ‘knowledge’; see De Smet, ‘Loi rationnelle et loi imposée’, pp. 540–541. On the contradictions about this subject resulting from the interweaving of two systems see Marquet, ‘La pensée philosophique et religieuse du Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān’, pp. 170–173. Mudhhiba I, p. 34.2–13, p. 54.13–18, p. 60.18–21; Mudhhiba II, p. 31.4–15, p. 61.14–18, p. 71.9–11. Mudhhiba I, p. 81.12–15; Mudhhiba II, p. 102.4–6. Marquet, ‘La pensée philosophique et religieuse du Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān’, p. 153, interprets the expression shams ʿaql to mean that the imam acts, like the sun, as an intermediary between man and the spiritual world, represented here by the Universal Intellect. Mudhhiba I, pp. 62.25–63.13; Mudhhiba II, pp. 74.16–75.6 (muddled and corrupted passage in both editions). Mudhhiba I, p. 74.5–7; Mudhhiba II, p. 90.1–3; cf. Mudhhiba I, pp. 74.19– 75.1, p. 78.15–16; Mudhhiba II, p. 91.1–9, p. 97.16–17. Marquet, ‘La pensée philosophique et religieuse du Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān’, pp. 162–164, believes to have found in the Risāla al-Mudhhiba a theory maintaining that the Soul was incarnated on earth the first time in Adam; it then moved, gradually purifying itself, into successive prophets before uniting with its celestial archetype at the moment of its manifestation in the qāʾim. However, the passages on which this reading is based are so obscure and corrupted that one must advise great caution.

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100. I wish to take this occasion to pay homage to the eminent scholar Yves Marquet to whom Ismaili studies owes so much; see Daniel De Smet, ‘Yves Marquet, les Iḫwān al-Ṣafāʾ et le pythagorisme’, Journal Asiatique, 295 (2007), pp. 491–500. 101. Yves Marquet, Poésie ésotérique ismaïlienne. La Tāʾiyya de ʿĀmir b. ʿĀmir al-Baṣrī (Paris, 1985), p. 229. 102. Refer to De Smet, La Quiétude de l’Intellect, pp. 229–234, 243–251, as well as De Smet, ‘al-Fārābī’s Influence on Ḥamīd al-Dīn al-Kirmānī’. Still, my hypothesis has been contested by Tatsuya Kikuchi, ‘Some Problems in D. De Smet’s Understanding of the Development of Ismāʿīlism: A Reexamination of the Fallen Existent in al-Kirmānī’s Cosmology’, Orient: Report of the Society for Near Eastern Studies in Japan, 34 (1999), pp. 106–120. Whatever the case may be, the Risāla al-Mudhhiba seems to me to be an important document to insert into the current file. 103. Marquet, ‘La pensée philosophique et religieuse du Qāḍī al-Nuʿmān’, pp. 149–150, 180–181; Marquet, La philosophie des alchimistes, p. 74.

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Cosmos into Verse: Two Examples of Islamic Philosophical Poetry in Persian Alice C. Hunsberger

Just as the architecture and art of cathedrals and churches can tell the tale of the development of Christian ideas in Europe and beyond, the art of poetry can trace the trajectories of Islamic spiritual and intellectual life in the Persian-speaking world over 1,300 years. More than just architecture, churches also contain paintings, wood carvings, stone sculptures, stained glass, jewelled vestments, illuminated books, tilework, metalwork and many other art forms, in styles that have evolved over the centuries. So, too, Persian poetry contains many revered art forms and styles that also reflect change over time and space. These twin histories of cathedrals and poetry reveal the faith, fears and feelings, as well as certainties and sublime visions, of two profoundly faith-based cultures. They also show the trail of technical theories and experiments, that is, the human intellect and craft, devoted to transforming mankind’s most meaningful meditations into material and intelligible artefacts able to touch the soul and bring a tear to the eye. Transcending time, place and medium, artistic production through the ages bears witness to the ability of human beings to express (literally, to press out) intangible elements – thoughts and sentiments – into tangible forms which, in a conversely intangible way, somehow affect the hearts and minds of other human beings. Over the centuries, schools and styles of constructing cathedrals and composing poetry have arisen and subsided: certain cities became beacons of visionary creativity only to eventually see their influence dim, and equally artists and wordsmiths have worked in fame or anon­ymity. Acknowledging that waves of change and development have affected Persian poetry as much as Christian art and architecture is not equivalent to saying that what came later is superior to what came before, that 343

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some kind of ‘progress’ has always taken place, in either instance. Rather, it means that we must take care in our critique to acknowledge the value of each work in its own time and place, as well as in our own time and place in history, to understand the artistic theories under the influences of which we live. In the case of literature, we need to understand the purpose for which certain poems were composed and to analyse them according to how well they fulfilled that purpose. The poet Ezra Pound, in his ABC of Reading, pointed out that the exactitude of terminology found in the Middle Ages has been largely obliterated,1 and we need to rediscover this lost knowledge. But it is not just vocabulary we need to review; it is the aims of poetry, that is, what poetry was expected to offer. Persian poetry is deservedly famous for the soaring monuments of its Sufi and mystical love poems, as well as its sweeping arches of national epic and its traditions of sharply pointed didactic and moralising verse. These are some of what we mean by the ‘purposes’ of poetry. But poetry in the Persian language, as well as in Arabic, was also a legitimate vehicle for expressing Islamic theological and philosophical ideas. So highly esteemed was this intellectual poetry, in fact, that one philosophical poem could occasion hundreds of pages of prose commentary by another intellectual2 and, vice versa, an admired philosophical prose work could inspire a poet to adapt it in a poetic form.3 In addition, philosophical texts were frequently transformed into verse in order to facilitate student learning: students could easily memorise the poem for the information it contained, employing it as an aide-mémoire.4 Thus poetry was generally accepted as a medium for not only expressing rational, intellectual and philosophical ideas, but also for arguing in support of them. Indeed, poetry itself was regarded as the proper vehicle for articulating the highest truths. That is, if something was noble and true, it should be presented in equally noble language and format. This chapter will address a challenge that arose in the twentieth century to the legitimacy and even poetic content (‘poeticity’) of the genre of philosophical poetry, as it has played out in the context of Persian poetry. Some of the argument derives from a sharp distinction between the words ‘poetry’ (shiʿr) and ‘verse’ (naẓm) in Persian, a difference not always felt or forced in English. Specific criticism in the case of the poet Nāṣir-i Khusraw will be noted. Can philosophy be expressed in poetic form? Is it still philosophy? This is only one part of a long debate over the relative strengths of these two endeavours, a debate asking which of these two, philosophy or poetry,

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brings us closer to truth, closer to understanding reality. Plato himself asserted that ‘philosophy has a quarrel with poetry’,5 and banned poets from his utopian Republic, which was to be ruled most wisely by a philosopher, the famous philosopher-king, not a poet-king. Why was this? Is there a quarrel between philosophy and poetry? Plato, that most poetic of philosophers, considered poets dangerous because they take people away from reality, instead of bringing them closer to it. According to Plato’s theory of forms, this world is not reality but only an image, so language describing this world is only an image of an image, and therefore doubly removed from reality. Hence poets are dangerous. Only philosophers bring people closer to reality. However, Plato’s student Aristotle had a radically different view of reality, saying that what is here and now is the real. With this opposite outlook, Aristotle defended poetry as a useful art, and did not consider art as merely an imitation of an imitation. He was thinking of Greek drama, with its moral lessons chanted by a chorus observing the action on stage. All Greek drama, tragedies and comedies alike, were poems which expounded the fundamental truths of human existence. Aristotle defended poetry as a means of achieving catharsis and a reminder of which human actions are good and noble and which are ignoble and base. Comparing history to poetry, Aristotle argued that poetry is the higher-language art; poetry ‘is a more philosophical and higher thing than history: for poetry tends to express the universal, history the particular’. 6 Significantly, by ‘poetry’ Aristotle meant not only the final product, a poem, but poesis, the act of art itself, the creative act of making poetry. In fact, we should recall here that poesis in Greek literally means ‘to make, or create’ generally, not just poetry. Western poetry continues to be affected by the dictum of the Latin poet Horace that the purpose of poetry was twofold – to both ‘instruct and delight’,7 and didactic poetry, poetry that teaches and instructs, has a noble history, in spite of the attacks against it by the Romantics, including Keats and Shelley,8 and twentieth-century poets such as Archibald MacLeish and I. A. Richards.9 Persian epics and mystical texts contain great amounts of didactic verse, with which Persian speakers delighted to be instructed. The poet as teacher has a long history in Persian.10 Muslim philosophers, including al-Fārābī, Ibn Sīnā (Avicenna) and Ibn Rushd (Averroes) – to name major ones – sought to bring Aristotle’s statements on poetics into line with the rest of his philosophy, by summarising, commenting and expanding on his Poetics. While a study of Islamic philosophical poetics is beyond the scope of this article, it is worth remembering, as we consider the purposes and aims of philosophical

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poetry, that poetic statements were regarded as an aspect of logic (as in the hierarchy: demonstration, dialectic, sophistic, rhetoric and poetic).11 Poetry is a syllogistic art, with its own meaningful logic and imaginative discourse. As for purpose, Ismail M. Dahiyat explains that for Ibn Sīnā, ‘the proper function of [poetry] is to move the soul towards an attitude involving either pursuit or avoidance and not [like rhetoric] to present propositions asserting that something is or is not’.12 In other words, poetry’s goal is to get us to act. What do we mean by philosophical poetry? The Princeton Encyclopaedia of Poetry asserts two ways a poem may be philosophical. First, the poem may simply be a vehicle for conveying ideas, so that it would be quite simple to restate the philosophy in abbreviated prose form without changing the meaning. Second, idea and poetry may be intertwined in so complex a fashion, the full repertoire of literary devices having been called into play, that the poem would fall apart were the philosophy to be removed.13 This article aims to present one of each of these types of philosophical poems: one by Abu’l ʿAbbās al-Lawkarī (d. ca. 517/1123) and one by Nāṣir-i Khusraw (d. ca. 470/1077). Philosophical poetry in Persian Examining the genre of philosophical poetry in the Persian language specifically, we could take several approaches. Here are four possibly fruitful paths for such study. Looking broadly, a first approach might be to examine the large number of poets whose subject matter was highly intellectual, to the extent that they were, and still are, honoured with the sobriquet ḥakīm (‘sage’), one who dispenses ḥikmat (translated as ‘wisdom’ or, at times, ‘philosophy’). The title ḥakīm distinguishes these poets from those with other titles, such as mawlānā (‘our master’), the most famous of whom is Rūmī. Major ḥakīm poets include luminaries like Firdawsī, Sanāʾī of Ghazna and Niẓāmī of Ganja, yet who, in spite of their respected intellectuality, are not considered philosophers, nor have they produced philosophical writings as such. For example, Firdawsī’s epic Iranian masterpiece, the Shāhnāma, is filled with knights, warriors and kings who established, protected or threatened the well-being and security of Iran with dynastic dramas and love stories which evoke the poet’s reflections and didactic advice on God’s purposes, human morality and the ultimate meaning of existence. Sanāʾī is acknowledged as the first to put mystical ideas, which are highly philosophical, into verse and Niẓāmī’s epic romance Haft paykar

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(‘Seven Beauties’) opens with pages of philosophical verse on God, the Universal Intellect, the Universal Soul and matter, as well as praise of the Prophet Muḥammad. Yet none of their works would be called philosophical poems. On the other hand, there were philosophers who wrote poetry, such as Afḍal al-Dīn Kāshānī (d. after 654/1256),14 Naṣīr al-Dīn al-Ṭūsī (d. 672/1274), Awḥad al-Dīn al-Rāzī (seventh/thirteenth century), Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī (d. 606/1209), and even perhaps Ibn Sīnā (d. 428/1037),15 but not one is a poet. A second approach could be to explore how some critics and intellectuals have spoken of philosophy in Persian poetry. For example, taking the earliest extant anthology of Persian poetry, the Lubab al-albāb by Muḥammad ʿAwfī (wr. 617/1220), we find an entry for Abū Bakr Muḥammad b. ʿAlī al-Khusrawī al-Sarakhsī al-Ḥakīm (d. before 383/1005),16 a poet who served in the intellectual court of the Daylamī Ziyarid prince Shams al-Maʿālī Abu’l-Ḥasan Qābūs b. Wushmgīr (d. 402/1012).17 Note that ʿAwfī includes the title ‘al-Ḥakīm’ as part of Sarakhsī’s full name, indicating that he was considered a poet who deserved this appellation. With a play on the first part of his name, ʿAwfī calls Khusrawī al-Sarakhsī a veritable ‘king of the realms of speech’ (khusraw-i mamālik-i sukhan), and praises Sarakhsī’s poetry, specifically saying that ‘while the verse of others can be good or bad, Sarakhsī’s verse (naẓm) is filled to the brim with philosophy (ḥikmat)’. ʿAwfī cites five verses calling on the listener to ‘know God though the Intellect (ʿaql)’ rather than imagination (wahm). In the twentieth century, the Iranian scholar Badīʿ al-Zamān Furūzānfar, in his Sukhan wa sukhanwārān, called Sarakhsī the first poet (shāʿir) who combined philosophical ideas and poetic images, adding that after Sarakhsī this genre became a very important feature of Persian poetry (ashʿār). Further combing through anthologies would doubtless turn up more examples. A third approach would be to arrange the poets themselves into broad types or schools of philosophy, such as: (1) The Peripatetic rational scientists, philosophers and intellectuals who wrote poetry in addition to prose. In fact, the longest extant Persian poem written before Firdawsī’s Shāhnāma is a medical poem dedicated to a Samanid governor of Khurāsān, composed by the physician Ḥakīm Maysarī (wr. 380/970), describing various illnesses and cures.18 Maysarī says that cures consist of more than just drugs, and include also our own thoughts, prayers and behaviour. In this group, however, the most famous philosopher is Ibn Sīna who, in addition to his influential philosophical prose works, wrote an ode (qaṣīda) on the soul, an

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important philosophical poem in Arabic,19 although we do not have a body of Persian poetry from him. From Ibn Sīnā’s follower, Abu’l ʿAbbās Lawkarī, a philosopher and professor of philosophy, we have a qaṣīda as well as his commentary on it (examined below).20 Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī, the Sunni theologian, jurisprudent and philosopher who wrote against Ibn Sīnā, composed a qaṣīda expressing his own philosophy, to which he too added a commentary.21 We could also consider the scientist and mathematician ʿUmar Khayyām as being in this category, since his quatrains display a certain philosophy of life. Two major philosophers of the School of Iṣfahān which flourished in the eleventh/seventeenth century, Mīr Dāmād and Mīr Findiriskī, also wrote poems. Mīr Findiriskī composed a famous qaṣīda on the reality of gnosis (ḥikmat), in direct response to, and in the same rhyme scheme as, a poem by Nāṣir-i Khusraw.22 (2) Sufis who wrote poetry (such as Anṣārī, Sanāʾī, ʿAyn al-Quḍāt al-Hamadānī, Niẓāmī, ʿAṭṭār and Rūmī); with a subdivision including those mystical or Sufi poets who followed Ibn ʿArabī’s ideas (such as ʿIrāqī, Maḥmūd Shabistarī, Muḥammad Shirīn Maghribī, Shāh Niʿmat Allāh, Shaykh Bahāʾ al-Dīn ʿĀmilī, Jāmī and Fayḍ Kāshānī). (3) The ʿIshrāqī or Illuminationist school which developed from Shihāb al-Dīn Yaḥyā Suhrawardī, who intersperses his philosophical texts with his own poetry to illustrate his points. (4) The Ismaili poets, which include Nāṣir-i Khusraw and Niẓārī Quhistānī. A fourth approach could undertake to search through the centuries of Persian poetry for philosophical terms or topics, looking for poems that treat with distinctly philosophical terms or topics, such as the Prime Mover, the one and the many, Plato’s theory of form and matter, Plotinus’ emanations from the One, Logos, the Intellect (ʿaql or khirad), the ten intellects, the Active Intellect, the Universal Soul, the human tripartite soul (of reason ruling, spirit aiding reason and appetites obeying); Aristotle’s categories, Pythagoras’ mathematical theories of the revolving planets and the music of the spheres; other Neoplatonic theories; Logic, Mathematics, Physics, Metaphysics, and so on. Using this chronological approach in seeking philosophical vocabulary, we could also examine the nineteenth-century versified Qurʾanic commentary by Nūr ʿAlī Shāh Iṣfahānī and the twentieth-century qaṣīdas of Parwīn Iʿtiṣāmī, a woman writing in a classical style frequently compared to that of Sanāʾī and Nāṣir-i Khusraw.

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The two philosophical qaṣīdas by Lawkarī and Nāṣir-i Khusraw examined here make for apt comparison because not only were both these poets of the fifth/eleventh century, from Khurāsān, and students, teachers and writers on philosophy, but both were also actively involved in enlarging the scope of the Persian language, regarding it as an entirely appropriate vehicle for philosophy. Lawkarī, a student of one of Ibn Sīnā’s most celebrated students, has left us Asrār al-ḥikma, a qaṣīda combining philosophy with commentary. Nāṣir-i Khusraw, an Ismaili famous not only for several major philosophical works, such as Jāmiʿ al-ḥikmatayn, Zād al-musāfirīn, Khwān al-ikhwān, Gushāyish wa rahāyish and Wajh-i dīn – any one of which would be sufficient to earn him the title of philosopher – also left a substantial collection of philosophical poetry which for the past thousand years has been held to be among the highest levels of poetic achievement.23 Abu’l ʿAbbās al-Lawkarī, philosopher and poet Ancient Greek philosophy spread quickly throughout the Muslim world, first by means of the industry of translation, then through networks of students and followers inspired by Ibn Sīnā’s original and revolutionary treatment of Aristotle’s metaphysics.24 Ibn Sīnā wrote all his works, save one,25 in Arabic, the lingua franca for scholars of all religions in Muslim-majority lands. However, until the early decades of the twentieth century, in the lands east of ʿIraq the pre-eminent language of intellectual, diplomatic and courtly discourse was Persian.26 Therefore, teachers needed to find ways to effectively convey philosophical ideas in Persian. One of those who can be credited with spreading Avicennan philosophy in the eastern regions of the Islamic world was Abu’l-ʿAbbās al-Lawkarī, whose biography and writings are undergoing close study by Roxanne D. Marcotte, which greatly informs this present work. Marcotte counts Lawkarī as one of the ‘most important figures in the history of the transmission of the post-Avicennan Peripatetic philosophical tradition’.27 Lawkarī’s own teacher, Bahmanyār Ibn Marzubān (d. 458/1066), was a student of Ibn Sīnā, and in fact, had been brought up practically as a son by Ibn Sīnā.28 Lawkarī was listed in the key classical biographies of intellectuals and learned men, and his fame as a philosopher, teacher of philosophy and doorway to future generations of philosophy students was widespread. One of the oldest of these sources, Bayhaqī’s Tatimmat Ṣiwān al-ḥikma, composed in the sixth/twelfth century29 firmly asserts that ‘the philosophical sciences (ʿulūm al-ḥikma) were spread into Khurāsān by the

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littérateur (adīb) Abu’l-ʿAbbās [al-Lawkarī]’.30 The use of the term adīb should be particularly noted in our context of philosophy, as it highlights the literary quality of his writing.31 Lawkarī wrote both in Arabic and Persian, and examples of his poetry as well as philosophy have been found in both languages.32 Fortunately we have extant one of the teaching tools prepared by Abu’lʿAbbās al-Lawkarī for his students and for the wider dissemination of Peripatetic philosophy. It is a composite book, consisting of a qaṣīda and a commentary on the poem, both composed by Lawkarī himself, published as Sharḥ-i qaṣīda-yi Asrār al-ḥikma (‘Commentary on the Poem “Secrets of Knowledge” ’).33 It was for two reasons – one of the traditional marks of learning was extensive memorisation and poetry is easier to memorise than prose – that Lawkarī composed a qaṣīda for pedagogical purposes, seeking to assist his students in studying the discipline of philosophy. Explaining that this poem (shiʿr) is an ʿilmī (scientific) qaṣīda,34 and later on the same page calling it ‘this scientific poem’ (īn shiʿr-i ʿilmī), Lawkarī used metre and rhyme to write a poem filled with student-like questions covering philosophy’s main topics. Then he wrote his commentary to answer the questions and expand on each topic. The final product is a weaving alternation between a few lines of poetry and a page or two of prose explanation, and is a veritable textbook designed to both attract and instruct students. In his introduction to the book, Lawkarī explains that he arranged his qaṣīda-yi Asrār al-ḥikma into four disciplines (ʿulūm) of philosophy (ḥikmat): Logic, Physics, Mathematics and Metaphysics, as well as, he adds, the science of practical Ethics (ʿilm-i akhlāq wa ʿamalī).35 We see immediately that this arrangement primarily concerns itself with philosophy’s hierarchy of theoretical topics. Greek Peripatetic philosophy was divided into two parts, theoretical and practical, with each one having three parts. The theoretical part comprised Physics, Mathematics and Metaphysics (which included music and astronomy). The Practical part of philosophy comprised Ethics, for an individual; Economics, for the family or household (from oikonomos, ‘house manager’, meaning household management, translated into Persian as tadbīr-i manzil); and Politics, for managing society at large. Lawkarī explains that he has a tripartite purpose in composing this qaṣīda and commentary. That is, he had three audiences in mind. First, those desirous of learning, when they hear (emphasis added) these problems, their interest will be piqued so they will want to master them completely, and from the answers they will become aware, and then exert

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themselves in studying these sciences. I have emphasised his use of the word ‘hearing’ to remind us of how much education was oral and involved memorisation. Second, for those who had already mastered these sciences, this work could serve as a reminder, since ‘most of the difficult topics and abstruse matters’ are mentioned in it. If the poem itself is not sufficient for such a person to deduce the answer himself, the commentary is at hand for him to make use of so he can understand. The third aim of Asrār al-ḥikma is directed towards those who would fulfil the lessons of the poem and debate its inner meanings. Such a person would have already acquired all ten human virtues, which Lawkarī lists: there are four spiritual virtues, three bodily and three external. The spiritual virtues are temperance, generosity, courage and wisdom; the bodily virtues are health, strength and beauty; and the external virtues are wealth, friends (and) leadership, and family. Certain external factors are necessary to develop each human being’s potential – enough money not to suffer, training by family, advice of friends and good government with just rulers. Lawkarī’s list thus appears to have four external virtues, but if friends and just leadership are seen as external even to the family, that is the polis, the ‘village’, ‘community’, or ‘city-state’, then we can accept his count of three external virtues, for his total of ten.36 Lawkarī explains further that, by ‘courage’ he does not mean what military men think, but the golden mean between cowardice and foolhardiness. He closes his introduction by saying a person who acquires these virtues in full shall be praised in panegyric and long remembered. Now, if theoretical philosophy comprised Physics, Mathematics and Metaphysics, why did Lawkarī put Logic first? This follows the pattern set by some Muslim philosophers – though not all – who considered Logic not as a part of philosophy itself, but rather a necessary tool to carry out the philosophic method. For these philosophers, Logic was the means,37 the craft, by which to achieve the philosophic goal, which is knowledge. Needing to defend themselves against the grammarians, who held that the rules of grammar were sufficient to analyse meaning in language, some philosophers responded that Logic was the grammar of reason.38 Limitations of space do not allow a full analysis of the entire poem, but highlighting a few structural points will help us compare Lawkarī’s qaṣīda with the one by Nāṣir-i Khusraw. Looking at Lawkarī’s qaṣīda, we can see the relative importance he ascribes to these disciplines by comparing the number of verses and pages of commentary:

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Part I II III IV V Closing

Section Logic Physics Mathematics Metaphysics Ethics

Verses 22 50 21 44 12 2

Pages 22 (pp. 14–36) 29 (pp. 37–66) 11 (pp. 67–78) 20 (pp. 78–98) 4 (pp. 99–103)

Throughout Lawkarī’s poem, each line raises at least one question or one important concept in philosophy, but it is only in the opening section on Logic that each verse receives nearly one page of commentary, reflecting the importance of learning the methodology and terminology of Logic before embarking on philosophy. Structurally, Lawkarī’s first lines open with the employment of technical terms; having declared his composition an intellectual poem, he does not compromise his statement by presenting an introduction on the subject of spring or autumn, or love, or any kind of metaphor: Have you heard of syllogism and understood proof,   And learned all the teachings of Logic from Greece? I have a few questions that need to be answered   If the enigmas of Logic are easy for you. Why have they set out all these varieties of Analogical Logic   What has demonstration to do with these shapes and forms? Why is one of the three preferred over all of the others?   Why is the first type labelled the first?

In addition, it is noteworthy that Lawkarī opens this textbook with a question: aya is the first word. Not only the vocabulary, the terms the student needs to know, but even the methodology is philosophical. Lawkarī is using the tools of Logic to teach Logic. And yet, the way the questions are posed can also be read as if a student were putting questions to a teacher. The question format, of course, also sets up the commentary as answer: ‘First I will define “syllogism” (qiyās) and then I will comment on it.’ The poem asks for definitions of terms, for an explanation of the difference between universals and particulars, genus and species, cause and effect, and different kinds of analogies. Questions also directly address the problem of Logic, how primary and fundamental is it and how should it be understood? Lawkarī refers to Ibn Sīnā’s Kitāb al-Shifāʾ to bolster his commentary arguing that Logic is an art or craft (ṣināʿat).39 Since Logic

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veers into other fields, he ends his commentary on it by saying that he will address certain points in the sections on Metaphysics and Physics. The Physics section (ṭabiʿiyyāt) begins with basic questions concerning motion and rest, and explanations of such concepts as prime matter, form, essence, the four Aristotelian causes (sing. fāʿil), and the relation of the universal nature (ṭabīʿat) to the human soul. Then it moves on to questions about the motions of the heavens and the rotation of the spheres of the stars and planets. The answer about the rotation of the spheres takes up four and a half pages, yet he says he will come back to it in the Metaphysics section. Lawkarī says he does not need to present proofs for the soul and its substance and so on because so many books have been written precisely on that subject, but he is mainly concerned to convey the relationship of the human rational (or ‘speaking’) soul to the body and the intellect. He also covers questions about the material world, such as how do things that are not warm give warmth to other things, how does water have colour, what is the reason for the lapis lazuli colour of the sky, and how to explain the eventual decay of bodies. Some of this has to do with attributes, which he says he will delve into further in the section on Metaphysics. Starting his third section on Mathematics (riyāḍiyyāt), in verses 73 and 74 Lawkarī for the first time actually indicates a transition in his first line, from one topic to the next, and lays out some of the breadth of what comprises Mathematics, namely Astronomy and Music: Passing on from that, to Mathematics my questions,   On the sciences of astronomy and musical notes. It is obvious that the larger spheres are higher,   By reason of the orbits of Saturn and Mars.

His commentary on these verses begins with the Ptolemaic background to Mathematics: ‘So states Ptolemy, in the beginning of the ninth chapter of his Almagest, that proof is solid (burhān qāʾim ast) that the spheres of these three planets are in this order … that Mars is the lowest,40 with Jupiter above it, and Saturn above Jupiter. Of this there is no doubt.’ But on the next page Lawkarī states that he disagrees with Ptolemy, and others, regarding the order of the planets. Lawkarī the teacher presents his students with the history and various aspect of the debate. In the Mathematics section, he also devotes a considerable amount of attention to the Pythagorean theory of the music of the spheres and how music and the sound of the voice and other sounds affect the soul. This leads him to ask questions about all the senses, especially about taste: how is it that one

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body can taste and another not (p. 73) since both are related on the level of knowledge (ʿilm)? 41 His answer takes him into the rules of poetry and scansion of lines, and the ways in which they differ from prose. The fourth section, on Metaphysics (ilāhiyyāt), the second longest section of the poem, also includes verses on Theology, following the standard practice of his time. Lawkarī’s first line not only provides a transition, but also offers a metaphor that is echoed in Nāṣir-i Khusraw’s qaṣīda:

Since we have passed from Mathematics to Metaphysics, Speak, you and I and the Horse of Question, out there on the field.42

He asks for an explanation of Neoplatonic cosmogony, of the Soul and Intellect and God above them, and how causation enters into the picture. ‘Since the Soul and Intellect are one, and the First Cause is one, what explains the different motions and relations of intelligences, souls, planets and spheres?’ 43 The happiness of the soul is achieved by perfecting it, and its perfection lies in knowing its own essence, the Necessary Existent, the active intelligibles, and earthly and heavenly souls.44 The soul derives pleasure from those acts performed that lead to the achievement of perfection. Other topics include the attributes of God, the two paths on the road to knowledge, causality, and generation and decay (traditionally translated as ‘corruption’). The fifth and final section, on Ethics (ʿamaliyyāt wa’l-khuluqiyyāt), poses questions about the causes of morals, and whether these are an innate part of the human soul’s natural disposition, bestowed by the Giver of Forms, or whether they are the result of a proper balance (mizāj). Related to this is education, how to activate the divine intuition within each person (bi hads-i qudsī-yi mardum hami shawad ʿālim).45 Yet, true to his time, Lawkarī assumes an innate difference between races, and then asks how character traits are communicated from one to the other, ‘For the nature of the Indian shall never become Turk’.46 The questions of ethics and education in a Muslim setting has a serious foundation, that is, the ultimate fate of souls after death, and how actions of the body adhere to the soul. Since this is a philosophical and not a theological poem Lawkarī only allows twelve verses and a few pages of commentary to summarise the philosophical response to these large questions. But as Marcotte notes, ‘Some of the most important philosophical theses are, therefore, included in the 151 verses of Lawkarī’s Persian qaṣīdah which remains of great didactic value for students who would not have been familiar with Arabic. The qaṣīdah may in fact have helped Persian speakers to integrate and assimilate Arabic scientific terminology.’ 47

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Lawkarī closes the qaṣīda with two verses about his purpose in composing it, and comments that he handled the material in both poetry and prose. In asking my questions about each one of these   My goal was to know the Originator, creator of heaven and earth. For a beneficial purpose, I collected all these notions,   And answered them all in both poetry and prose.48

What we see, then, in Lawkarī’s philosophical qaṣīda, is poetry used for teaching purposes, and not only the moral lessons we can see in Firdawsī, for example. Lawkarī wanted his students to memorise the qaṣīda so they could internalise, and have forever readily available, the entire framework of philosophy. They would at least know what the questions were. However, we do not see the reverence and humility towards God that both Firdawsī and Niẓāmī exhibited. For them, this reverence was an organic part of the starting of their works of art. Just as many Muslims invoke the name of God before starting work or a speech or a journey, so too these poets placed praises to God at the opening of their works. Lawkarī wrote a secular piece of poetry. And yet at the end, he avowed that Greek philosophy is a valid way to understand the scriptural God, the Creator of both worlds – the spiritual and physical. A philosophical qaṣīda by Nāṣir-i Khusraw About a century before Lawkarī, the intellectually vibrant eastern regions of Khurāsān produced the literary and scholarly star, Nāṣir-i Khusraw. Important aims of Nāṣir-i Khusraw’s writings were to explain Ismaili beliefs and dogmas, to attract believers to the faith, and to defend it intellectually against deniers. His success in these ends, along with his allegiance to the Cairo-based Fatimid Ismaili caliphate, stirred up virulent enemies who threatened his life. He fled eastwards from Khurāsān and spent his last years in exile in the Pamir mountain range which now extends through parts of the modern states of Afghanistan, China, Kyrgyzstan, Pakistan and Tajikistan. Cited in the most important literary anthologies, Nāṣir-i Khusraw was known for excellence in three genres: (i) Ismaili philosophical texts, (ii) a travelogue of his journey to Cairo and his three-year sojourn at the Fatimid court there, and (iii) lofty philosophical poetry. He is the first Persian poet to place specifically religious and philosophical ideas at the core of his poetry, not simply as introductions or scattered moral truths

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(as are found in the Shāhnāma of Firdawsī, Haft paykar of Niẓāmī, and Bustān and Gulistān of Saʿdī). The qaṣīḍa form calls for the poet to make a specific point, to have a particular goal (qaṣd) in mind. The main purpose of Nāṣir-i Khusraw’s poetry, as he says frequently in his verse, is to open the reader’s or listener’s inner eye to universal truths and thereby save their souls from ignorance.49 While frequently inserting Qurʾanic verses and phrases from ḥadīths into his poetry as evidence or proof of his philosophical points, he expounds on Neoplatonic metaphysics as the structure of all Being. In addition, his argumentative method is also philosophical, even Socratic, in asking questions to draw lessons out of the reader. Indeed, his pen-name, ‘Ḥujjat’, usually translated as ‘Proof’, meaning philosophical or mathematical proof, is ‘Argument’ itself in the field of Logic. Theologically, it signifies an expert authority on Islam, and in Nāṣir-i Khusraw’s Ismaili context it means a living proof, a representative, of the Imam. But being more than a philosophic mind taking up a poetic pen, and more than a technical virtuoso with rules of rhetoric and prosody, Nāṣir-i Khusraw’s creative powers in language are reflected in his rank over the centuries as one of the leading poets in the Persian language. The high esteem which Nāṣir-i Khusraw’s poetry enjoyed over a millennium was questioned in the twentieth century, when several scholars made disparaging comments about it. For example, Badīʿ al-Zamān Furūzānfar, asserts on the one hand that ‘Nāṣir-i Khusraw is a master with a powerful poetic nature and a rare style’, and his poetry ‘profound and meaningful’, yet, on the other, also declares that, since Nāṣir ‘composed poetry to propagate the faith and to pass on his beliefs to others, his verses became a collection of religious and rational arguments, devoid of poetic fervour and thought’.50 Another critic, Shiblī Nuʿmānī, in a chapter of his work specifically entitled ‘Philosophical Poetry’ (Shiʿr-i Falsafana), classifies Nāṣir-i Khusraw as the poet who first ‘inserted philosophical ideas and concepts into poetry before anyone else’, yet, after providing his biography, Shiblī ends by saying, ‘we have not quoted any poems because the style is not poetical’.51 A third scholar, Yahya al-Khachab, the author of the first full-length biography of Nāṣir, maintains that he ‘is not a pure poet … [with his] subjects too political to give rise to flights of the imagination … [and his poetry containing] no lyrical themes worth remembering’.52 ʿAlī Dashtī, author of the first book-length study on Nāṣir-i Khusraw in Persian, asserts that the poet is skilful but stuck in a ‘monotonous groove of tiresome advice’ on worldly matters. While Dashtī admits that Sanāʾī, ʿAṭṭār and Rūmī were also ascetics (sing. zāhid) and religious observers who brought their religious beliefs into their verses, he complains that

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they at least sprinkled the spice of love (chashni-yi ʿishq) into their mystical poetry, giving it a special vibe (tamawwuj-i khāṣṣī) and, in the case of Rūmī, humour making the poetry more enticing.53 A fifth critic wrote that Nāṣir’s poetry is a ‘means, not an end, and therefore not really in the ranks of poetry’.54 These judgements question the validity of the inspiration, content and purposes of Nāṣir-i Khusraw’s poetry. I argue elsewhere55 that such rejections of his poetry reflect a recent, that is, twentieth-century unease with philosophical poetry itself, an unease arising from theories of poetry and literature that have developed in the West over recent centuries and which affected judgements by Iranians (and others) on Persian poetry and its uses. This is not solely applied to Nāṣir-i Khusraw, but questions the validity of the genre itself. Having examined Lawkarī’s philosophical poem and discussed its inspiration and uses, let us consider the poem by Nāṣir-i Khusraw that begins ‘kumayt-i sukhan-rā ḍamīr ast maydān / sawar-ash chī chīz ast? jān-i sukhan dan’. Here I want to compare a few verses with Lawkarī’s lines, and note differences between the two works. To start with the opening verse, we saw that Lawkarī opens his qaṣīda with questions about Logic, the first tools a student of philosophy needs. Nāṣir-i Khusraw’s first two verses are: 1 The steed of speech has the whole mind as running field,   Who, what, is the rider? The eloquent soul. 2 Craft your reins out of intellect and your saddle of thought,   To mount this horse of the tongue, in its expansive space.

Immediately we see and sense a difference. We have been thrown into the land of metaphor with the first phrase, the ‘steed of speech’ (kumayt-i sukhan). To continue reading the poem, we have to accept the reality of the metaphor, that it contains and confers meaning. And with this strange, original metaphor, we have to let the poet guide us to discover its meaning. This is a different kind of teaching, a pedagogy different from that of Lawkarī, the professor who wants us to memorise. Nāṣir-i Khusraw has immediately incited, excited, our active imaginations. Whatever image our imaginations conjure with this phrase must be nimble enough to adjust to any new information the poet may provide. We have to trust the poet. And while we had to trust Lawkarī to teach us the main terms and topics of philosophy, we need Nāṣir-i Khusraw to both ground and loosen our imaginations, which are asking, ‘What is a steed of speech?’ He asserts in the second phrase that the steed of speech has full rein to gallop and play all over the field of the mind (kumayt-i sukhan-rā ḍamīr

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ast maydān). Maydān is ‘field, polo field, field of war, field of combat’ (in British English, also ‘pitch’), and for the gallant (we imagine it must be a magnificent) horse which is Speech, the mind (ḍamīr) is its rightful realm. While supplying further details in order to enhance the image in our mind, the poet has also established particular items of vocabulary that he wants us to be aware of; he has given us four nouns, two metaphors (horse = Speech; field = Mind) which our mind must keep in play for the next phrases. The poet switches the rules, however. He throws a question at us, a gauntlet, a challenge: who is the rider of this steed? How would we know? We run all over our own minds, but find no answer. Here we are, right at the very heart of the method of philosophy, which is questioning. Questioning which makes the mind work; and at the moment when we admit we do not have an answer. Thankfully, the poet gives the answer right away. The rider is the speaking soul (jān-i sukhandan), the eloquent soul, the soul of language itself, therefore often translated as the rational soul, the human soul, which is the only soul which speaks. Rationality depends on speech. The other effect of this question is that our original image is transformed from a wild, free-running horse, to one with a rider. Language does not operate freely; speech is controlled by a soul whose special feature is speech itself. The poet wants us to be aware of the dynamism between horse and rider. A rider is not a rider without a mount. Through its control of speech, the rider becomes more rational; and by being controlled by the rational soul, speech is made more powerful, by being made more rational. The second line continues the equine metaphor, but now the poet again shifts tone. He uses imperative verbs to command us, the readers. See how rapidly he expects us to follow his lessons. Not only with the question, but now with the command Nāṣir-i Khusraw brings us right into the metaphor. We are not allowed to watch the combat from the sidelines. We are not allowed to learn the lesson and then decide whether to enter the lists. Here, in the second bayt, he points to our task. Since we are human, we each have a rational soul, a soul whose function differs from that of the vegetative soul (which grows and reproduces) and from the animal soul (which grows, reproduces, and moves around). The human soul’s rightful activity is to use language, the basis of thought. The poet commands his readers to fashion their own reins out of intellect (khirad) and a saddle out of thought (andīsha) in order to mount the steed of speech. But here he varies his wording, and calls it the horse of language (asp-i zabān). And since in Persian, as in English, the word for language also means tongue (zabān), Nāṣir-i Khusraw makes the image much more concrete.

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Our language is from our tongue, and we must control it with our minds and thought. We could be imaginative and think that by the phrase, ‘in its expansive space’ (andar īn pahn maydān), the poet is not only speaking of the mind as the maydān of speech, but in fact here is referring to the physical ‘wide field’ or ‘broad space’ for our tongues, that is, the entire interior of the mouth, teeth, throat and palate, the interplay of which makes language come out. This qaṣīda of Nāṣir-i Khusraw has eighty couplets (bayts).56 And, like all qaṣīdas, it has topical sections, but they are not like the sections of Lawkarī’s qaṣīda, which are clearly shaped on philosophy’s topics. Nāṣir continues the ‘horse and rider’ metaphor through bayt five, at which point he shifts the focus to the other riders, that is, the competition and the need to polish our horsemanship skills of language. But if we move down to line 12, we see a long series of questions, each one beginning with ‘who?’ (kih). If we listen to the lines recited out loud, with the rush of questions and the ‘k’ sound clattering like hooves, we would find our minds racing from science to science over the realm of natural philosophy. 12 Who knew at the beginning, what do you think?   That time, as it is, could be measured in a glass? 13 Who knew that Jupiter, Saturn, the Moon,   All take their light from the light of the Sun? 14 Who knew that the mountains, oceans and deserts   Stay up in the air without any support? 15 Who knew that the area of the sun is 160 times larger,   Bigger by far than this whole earth of ours? 16 Who started first the blacksmith’s art,   When there were no tongs, no hammer, no anvil? 17 Who knew that this bitter, foul medicine, myrobalan,   Could chase away fever from the human form? 18 Who first prescribed for stomach-aches and pains,   ‘Take rhubarb from China and fennel from Byzantium’? 57 19 Who was it invented red Turkish ink   From powdery red sulphur and aqueous mercury? 58 20 Who knew that a stone from the mountain of Iṣfahān   Would increase the light that comes from the eyes? 59 21 Who was it who valued gold as more precious   Than silver, all over the whole world entire? 60 22 Who was it whose word made the Yemen carnelian   To be valued less than the Badakhshān ruby?

Note how Nāṣir turns what seems to be simply a catalogue of questions of Astronomy, Physics and Medicine into a question of Ethics. The last two

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bayts of this section ask about fundamental value – what is the intrinsic value of any metal or stone, and how does intrinsic value have anything to do with worldly, monetary value? Nāṣir’s use of the qaṣīda differs from Lawkarī’s in that Nāṣir is not just laying out a field of study for philosophy, but rather is asking the reader to question assumptions, to challenge the ‘givens’ in equations. He is teaching, through the experience of reading the poem, the philosophical technique. This is an experiential qaṣīda, not simply a transfer of information. But, lest anyone think that the poet strives for a merely ‘rational’ view of intellect (khirad, ʿaql), he makes it clear that he is pushing the reader towards another kind of knowledge: 25 Now look deep in these with the eye of your heart   For the eye of your head cannot see them. 26 You’ve been consumed with curing the eye of your head   Now, make a cure also for the eye of your heart.

Nāṣir-i Khusraw wants the readers and listeners to move beyond rational understanding, and to see with the ‘eye of the heart’. This is where metaphor reigns, because it lifts the mind and imagination out of the realm of rational, discursive thinking into the realm of speech, where the creative, ‘speaking soul’ (nafs-i sukhan gūy) creates knowledge and understanding and brings this understanding into language and speech. While Nāṣir-i Khusraw is teaching the philosophic method and forcing his readers to use their minds and imaginations to keep up with his images and his challenges, he does not separate philosophy from his religious faith. In the middle of the qaṣīda he speaks of God the Creator and All-Knowing (lines 40 and 41). He then shifts to a discussion on God’s first created being, Intellect (khirad), with the perhaps surprising image of Intellect as God’s messenger-prophet (rasūl) to human beings and the command ‘recite!’ (furū khwān!): 42 Intellect, which is a Messenger of God to you,   What has it recited to you of this matter? You recite it! Say it! 43 On this matter, for a proof of your Speaking Soul   I do not want to hear you say that so-and-so told you so. 44 If one people knows these sciences, you, too, my son,   are still a human being like them.

In these three lines, Nāṣir-i Khusraw crystallises his philosophy and faith and pedagogy. God has sent you your mind to use and to listen to, so ‘recite!’ from what it teaches you, just as Muḥammad was commanded to recite the message of God. Here, Nāṣir is also highlighting the Ismaili

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Neoplatonist correspondence of Muḥammad to the Intellect in the cosmic hierarchy: The One, Intellect, Soul, Nature.61 In addition, in a strong condemnation of taqlīd (blindly, mindlessly following a religious leader’s teaching, when asked about religious questions), the poet warns, you may not say that you heard the truth from someone else, some great teacher – it must come from inside. As human beings we all share this ability and responsibility. Whilst Lawkarī was also a Muslim believer, he did not blend philosophy and faith in the way that Nāṣir-i Khusraw did in his qaṣīda. Lawkarī kept the two separate, whereas Nāṣir expounded on how they work together, both coming from God. Conclusion We began by making a case for seeing the richly textured past millennium of Persian poetry as a treasury embodying the full range of ideas in the culture, embracing all human emotions, virtues and vices, as well as history, humour, invective, moral didacticism, astronomy, medicine, science, philosophy, religious faith and mystical drive. Twentieth-century criticisms of the work of Nāṣir-i Khusraw, perhaps the most important philosophical poet in Persian, occasioned our argument to show how Persian poetry participates in the long and celebrated tradition of philosophical poetry, that is, specifically poetry exploring ancient Greek philosophical ideas. By comparing selections of two qaṣīdas by Lawkarī and Nāṣir-i Khusraw, the aim here has been to respond to the critics of philosophical poetry as a respected genre of poetry, and also to reveal one level of depth in the genre, that we have here two different approaches to philosophical poetry. Lawkarī’s poem follows the most basic definition of poetry then current (‘metered speech with an established rhyme’, sukhan-i manẓūm), but contains few flights of fancy.62 It hardly enters into the realm of imagination (wahm), which Ibn Sīnā and other Islamic philosophers considered essential to poetry. Lawkarī’s qaṣīda has rhymed and metered speech for easier memorisation of key concepts. Nāṣir-i Khusraw treats his poem differently. He uses metaphor; he speaks in an allegorical way; he uses literary and rhetorical devices. It is literature. It is poetry. Perhaps the readers are not transported out of themselves, or they do not see the aesthetics, or share his beliefs. But it is still poetry. Moreover, there is an added significant element in Nāṣir-i Khusraw’s work. He is not taking the idea of poetic instruction as a means of merely pouring information into the reader’s head. He is not trying to teach his

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readers philosophy as he does in his prose works; he is trying to stimulate their minds, to make them ponder. He is trying to get his readers to think in a philosophical way, to consider the perplexity of nature, marvel at its glorious variety, and then he wants them to progress from marvelling to thinking of the ultimate causes and purposes of Creation. His poetry is not trying to impose information on them, just the opposite – it seeks to create an outward movement in their minds so that it is their own innate creativity that produces the sought-after truth. He wants to use language to transform the thinking of his reader, taking it to a higher level. In his poetry, Nāṣir-i Khusraw uses philosophy to impel their imagination out of its normal comfort zone into a new rational progression to truth. This is the philosophical method at its best. Nāṣir-i Khusraw’s poetry exhibits a rich array of imaginative poetic devices, while Lawkarī’s hardly ever does. But both qaṣīdas count as philosophical poetry. Notes 1. 2.

3.

Ezra Pound, ABC of Reading (London, 1951; repr., 1979), pp. 19–20. An example of this is the three-hundred page response to a philosophical poem by the obscure Ismaili author Abu’l-Haytham al-Jurjānī (fl. fourth/tenth century) which was written by Nāṣir-i Khusraw: Kitāb Jāmiʿ al-ḥikmatayn, ed. Henry Corbin and Muḥammad Muʿīn as Kitab-e Jamiʿ al-Hikmatain. Le livre réunissant les deux sagesses, ou harmonie de la philosophie grecque et de la théosophie ismaélienne (Tehran and Paris, 1953; 2nd ed., 1984). See ʿAzīz Allāh Juwaynī, ‘ʿUlūm wa riyāḍī dar kutub-i naẓm wa nathr-i Nāṣir-i Khusraw’, in Nāma-yi maʿnā, ed. Bihrūz Īmānī (Tehran, 1383 Sh./2004), pp. 355–363. See also the forthcoming article by Alice C. Hunsberger, ‘Jāmiʿ al-Ḥikmatayn’, in Dāʾirat al-Maʿārif-i Buzurg-i Islāmī [The Greater Islamic Encyclopaedia], ed. Kāẓim Mūsawī Bujnūrdī (Tehran, 1367 Sh.–/1989–). Regarding Jurjānī, Corbin, Kitab-e Jamiʿ al-Hikmatain, p. 48, n.107, and Muʿīn, ibid., p. 10 nn.4–7, say that his only trace is Ẓahīr al-Dīn Abu’l-Ḥasan ʿAlī b. Zayd al-Bayhaqī’s Tatimmat Ṣiwān al-Ḥikma (completed in 553/1158), published with a Persian tr. by Nāṣir al-Dīn Khwāja Muntakhab al-Dīn as Tārīkh al-ḥukamā al-musammā bi-Durrat al-akhbār wa lumʿat al-anwār, yaʿnī tarjuma-yi Tatimma-yi Siwān al-Ḥikma, ed. Muḥammad Shafīʿ (Lahore, 1935), Arabic text, no. 80, p. 132; Persian text, no. 73, p. 91; Henry Corbin, ‘Abu’l-Hayṯam Gorgānī’, EIr, vol. 1, pp. 316–317; see also Farhad Daftary, The Ismāʿīlīs: Their History and Doctrines (2nd ed., Cambridge, 2007), p. 155 and n.22. An example of this is a poem by Nūr ʿAlī Shāh Iṣfahānī (d. 1212/1797–1798) which is a versification of Sharīf Jurjānī’s (d. 816/1797–1798) succinct Persian

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5. 6. 7.

8. 9. 10.

11.

12. 13.

14.

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prose textbook on logic, known as Kubrā; see Jurjānī, Dū mantiq-i fārsī: Kubrā, Sughrā, ed. Murtaẓā Mudarrisī Chahārdihī (Tehran, 1334/1956), pp. 5–22. The poem is mentioned in p. 9 of the introduction to Iṣfahānī, Dīwān-i Nūr ʿAlī Shāh Iṣfahānī, bi-inḍimān-i Risāla-yi Jāmiʿ al-asrār, Kanz al-asrār, ed. Aḥmad Khūshniwīs ʿImād (Tehran, 1370 Sh./1991). Two examples of this are the qaṣīda by Lawkarī analysed in this paper (see note 22 re Marcotte), and Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī (d. 606/1209), ‘Manẓūma-yi manṭiq wa falsafa’, in Nasrollah Pourjavady, Dū mujaddid: Pazhūhishāʾī dar bāra-yi Muḥammad al-Ghazzālī wa Fakhr Rāzī (Tehran, 2002), pp. 551–564. This ‘quarrel’ has been much studied; for a review, see Mark Edmundson, Literature against Philosophy, Plato to Derrida: A Defence of Poetry (Cambridge, 1995), pp. 1–29. Aristotle, Peri Poiētikēs, ed. and tr. Samuel H. Butcher as The Poetics of Aristotle (4th ed., London, 1922), p. 35; see Edmundson, Literature against Philosophy, p. 8. ‘Aut prodesse volunt aut delectare poetae’ (Poets want either to benefit or delight us): Horace, Ars Poetica, line 333, tr. Osborne B. Hardison and Leon Golden, Horace for Students of Literature: The “Ars Poetica” and Its Tradition (Gainsville, FL, 1995), p. 17. This background is analysed in Willard Spiegelman, The Didactic Muse: Scenes of Instruction in Contemporary American Poetry (Princeton, 1989), pp. 3–5. Philip Wheelwright, ‘Philosophy and Poetry’, in Alex Preminger et al., ed., Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics (enlarged ed., Princeton, 1974), p. 617. For example, see Johannes T. P. de Bruijn, Persian Sufi Poetry: An Introduction to the Mystical Use of Classical Poems (Richmond, Surrey, 1997), p. 86: ‘If one could characterize the Persian literary genius by a single pervasive trait, the tendency to moralising would be a good choice. This is easily supported by evidence from all periods.’ See Salim Kemal, The Philosophical Poetics of Alfarabi, Avicenna and Averroës: The Aristotelian Reception (London and New York, 2003), pp. 63, 107, 261–263, and throughout; Ismail M. Dahiyat examines al-Fārābī in Avicenna’s Commentary on the ‘Poetics’ of Aristotle: A Critical Study with an Annotated Translation of the Text (Leiden, 1974), pp. 16–18. Dahiyat, Avicenna’s Commentary, p. 47. This two-part scheme is developed by Philip Wheelwright, ‘Philosophy and Poetry’, in Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics, pp. 615–617, with examples for the first type (Lucretius’ De Rerum Natura and Pope’s Essay on Man), and the second (Shakespeare’s King Lear, Keats’ Ode to a Grecian Urn, and Eliot’s Four Quartets). See William C. Chittick, The Heart of Islamic Philosophy: The Quest for Self-Knowledge in the Teachings of Afḍal al-Dīn Kashānī (Oxford, 2001), pp. 127–131.

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15. Ibn Sīnā wrote a qaṣīda on the soul in Arabic, ed. Fathalla Kholeif, Avicenna on Psychology: A Study of His Poem on the Soul (al-Qaṣīda al-ʿAyniyya) (Beirut, 1974), pp. 129–131; tr. Edward G. Browne, A Literary History of Persia (London and Cambridge, 1902–1904; repr. Cambridge, 1969), vol. 2, pp. 110–111; tr. Arthur J. Arberry, Avicenna on Theology (London, 1951), pp. 77–78. 16. See the entry on ‘Abū Bakr Muḥammad b. ʿAlī al-Khusrawī al-Sarakhsī al-Ḥakīm’, with several poetry selections, in Sadīd al-Dīn Muḥammad b. Muḥammad ʿAwfī, Kitāb Lubāb al-albāb, ed. Edward G. Browne as The Lubábu‘l-albāb of Muḥammad ʿAwfí (London and Leiden, 1903; Tehran, 1361 Sh./1982), Part II, pp. 18–19; Tehran pagination pp. 505–506. 17. Qābūs b. Wushmgīr, who ruled over Gurgān and Ṭabaristān, attracted many intellectuals, including al-Bīrūnī, who dedicated his Chronology of Nations to Qābūs, and Ibn Sīnā, who sought patronage from him; his grandson, Kay Kāʾūs b. Iskandar b. Qābūs b. Wushmgīr, wrote a treatise of advice for rulers which honours his grandfather: A Mirror for Princes: The Qābūs Nāma, tr. Reuben Levy (New York, 1951), pp. ix–xi. ʿAwfī, Lubāb al-albāb, p. 18 (505), also states that what he records is a panegyric by Sarakhsī for the prince Nāṣir al-Dawla Abu’l-Ḥasan Muḥammad b. Ibrāhīm b. Sīmjūr (d. 378/989). 18. Ḥakīm Maysarī, Dānish-nāmaʾ-ī dar ʿilm-i pizishkī, ed. Barāt Zanjānī (Tehran, 1366 Sh./1987), a scientific and medical poem written for a governor of Khurāsān under the Samanids. See Gilbert Lazard, Les premiers poètes persans édités et traduits (IXe–Xe siècles): fragments rassemblées (Tehran and Paris, 1964), pp. 36–40; partial French tr., pp. 163–180. Lazard (p. 39) argues that Maysarī’s confident style shows him as no pioneer or radical poet in this genre, but rather ‘heir to a tradition already well established’ by the fourth/tenth century. 19. See note 15. 20. See, for example, Roxanne D. Marcotte, ‘Preliminary Notes on the Life and Work of Abū al-ʿAbbās al-Lawkarī (d. ca. 517/1123)’, Anaquel de estudios árabes, 17 (2006), pp. 150–152. 21. See note 4. 22. The qasīda by Abu’l-Qāsim b. Mīrzā Burzurg Mīr Findiriskī (d. 1050/1640) has been published, with ʿAbbās Sharīf Dārābīyi’s commentary on another commentary, as Tuḥfat al-murād: sharḥ-i qaṣīda-yi Mīr Findiriskī, shāriḥ Ḥakīm ʿAbbās Sharīf Dārābī, bi-ḍamīma-yi sharḥ-i Khalkhālī Wagīlānī, ed. Muḥammad Ḥusayn Akbarī Sāwī, introduction by Sayyid Jalāl al-Dīn Āshtiyānī (Tehran, 1372 Sh./1994). 23. See the recent volume of articles occasioned by the international scholarly conferences celebrating his birth, Nasir Khusraw: Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow, ed. Sarfaroz Niyozov and Ramazon Nazariev (Khujand, Tajikistan, 2005); for a survey of Nāṣir-i Khusraw’s writings and thought, see Alice C. Hunsberger, Nasir Khusraw, The Ruby of Badakhshan: A Portrait of the Persian Poet, Traveller and Philosopher (London and New

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26.

27. 28. 29. 30. 31.

32.

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York, 2000; 2nd ed., 2003), pp. 17–32; Persian tr. Farīdūn Badraʾī, Nāṣir-i Khusraw, laʿl-i Badakhshān: taṣwīrī az shāʿir-i jahāngard wa fīlsūf-i Īrānī (Tehran, 1380/2001), pp. 49–62. Nāṣir’s poetry was the subject of an international conference in London in 2005, the proceedings of which will be the first in-depth inquiry into his poetry and its genre of philosophical poetry: Alice C. Hunsberger, ed., Pearls of Persia: The Philosophical Poetry of Nāṣir-i Khusraw (London, forthcoming). For an introduction to Ibn Sīnā’s contribution to Aristotelian philosophy, see Lenn E. Goodman, Avicenna (London and New York, 1992), pp. 14–16, 60–83. Ibn Sīnā, Dānish-nāma-yi ʿalāʾī, ed. Muḥammad Muʿīn and Muḥammad Mishkāt (Tehran, 1952, repr. 1975); tr. Parviz Morewedge, The Metaphysica of Avicenna (Ibn Sina) (London and New York, 1973); cf. Goodman, Avicenna, p. 37, and nn.45–7. A case might even be made for Ottoman Turkey, but certainly in territories now defined as Afghanistan, Pakistan and India, the British and French overlords themselves functioned in Persian through most of the nineteenth century. In Central Asian territories, Persian was only forcibly supplanted by Russian well after the 1917 Revolution. Marcotte, ‘Preliminary Notes’, pp. 137–157. Ibid. Bayhaqī’s Tatimmat Ṣiwān al-ḥikma was completed in 533/1158; see Marcotte, ‘Preliminary Notes’, pp. 134–135, with extensive references. Marcotte’s translation, ‘Preliminary Notes’, p. 138. For a study examining the relationship between adīb and faylasūf, see Everett K. Rowson, ‘The Philosopher as Littérateur: al-Tawḥīdī and His Predecessors’, Zeitschrift für Geschichte der arabisch-islamishchen Wissenschaften, 6 (1990), pp. 50–92, cited in Peter Heath, Allegory and Philosophy in Avicenna (Ibn Sînâ), with a translation of the Book of the Prophet Muḥammad’s Ascent to Heaven (Philadelphia, 1992), p. 30. Marcotte notes that Arabic verses by Lawkarī are included in the anonymous Itmām Tatimmat Ṣiwān al-ḥikma, written in 689/1290 (pp. 135–140). Over forty Arabic verses selected from several qaṣīdas by Lawkarī are included in the anonymous anthology of Arabic philosophical poetry known as Itmām Tatimmat Ṣiwān al-ḥikma, which is extant in several unpublished manuscripts. I am grateful to Professor Frank Griffel for sending me photocopies of the relevant pages from the Istanbul MS Köprölü 902, fols 187b–189a (with a colophon dated Rabīʿ II 637 [=October 1239]), as well as his unpublished study of the Ṣiwān al-ḥikma circle of texts. Six of the verses by Lawkarī were published in the editor’s introduction to Abu’lʿAbbās al-Lawkarī, Bayān al-ḥaqq bi-ḍimān al-ṣidq: al-ʿilm al-ilāhī [Section on Metaphysics], ed. Ibrāhīm Dībājī (Tehran, 1373 Sh./1414/1995), p. 19. For the section on Lawkarī in the Itmām, Marcotte (‘Preliminary Notes’, p. 135) cites MS 935/2 (copied in 689/1290) from the Central Library of Tehran

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33. 34. 35. 36.

37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49.

50. 51.

52. 53.

Alice C. Hunsberger University, fols 151r.8–152v.2; see also the British Museum MS Or. 9033, fol. 142a, cited in Joel L. Kraemer, Philosophy in the Renaissance of Islam: Abū Sulaymān al-Sijistānī and His Circle (Leiden, 1986), p. 105. Lawkarī, Sharḥ-i qaṣīda-yi Asrār al-ḥikma, text established by Ilāhah Ruhidil, ed. Muḥammad Rasūl Daryāgasht and Reza Pourjavady (Tehran, 1382/2002). Ibid., p. 12. Ibid. Ibid, p. 13. The Persian terms are: nafsānī-ʿiffat, sakhāwat, shajāʿat, ḥikmat; jismānī-siḥḥat, quwwat, jamāl; khārij-māl wa yārān wa farmānbardārī wa nasab. The khārij could be read as containing four virtues, in which case the total would be eleven, not ten. See Roger Arnaldez, ‘Mantiḳ’, EI2, vol. 6, p. 450: ‘Ibn Sīnā and the Muslim Neoplatonists reconcile these two concepts: logic is a part of philosophy to which it constitutes an introduction.’ For more on this debate, see Nicholas Rescher, The Development of Arabic Logic (Pittsburgh, 1964), pp. 50–52. Lawkarī, Asrār al-ḥikma, p. 35. Reading the original zir instead of the editors’ zi bar. Lawkarī, Asrār al-ḥikma, p. 67. Lawkari, Asrār al-ḥikma, p. 73; verses 73 and 74. Ibid., verse 94. Ibid., p. 78. Ibid., p. 82. Ibid., p. 100, verse 141. Ibid. Marcotte, ‘Preliminary Notes’, p. 150. Asrār al-ḥikma, verses 150–151. These themes are developed by Nāṣir-i Khusraw over the course of lengthy qaṣīdas. See, e.g. Dīwān, no. 5:1, 3 (tr. Hunsberger in Nasir Khusraw, The Ruby of Badakhshan, p. 76): ‘Look with the inner eye at earth’s hiddenness, For the outer eye cannot see it./ Not with iron should the world be chained, But with chains of wisdom should it be bound’; see also Dīwān, nos 26: 37–38 (Ruby, p. 250), 78:15 (Ruby, p. 72), 179: 9–10 (Ruby, p. 2552), and 39:80 (analysed in Hunsberger, Pearls of Persia, forthcoming). Badīʿ al-Zamān Furūzānfar, Sukhan wa sukhanwarān (Tehran, 1369 Sh./1990), p. 154, n.1. Muḥammad Shiblī Nuʿmanī Hindī, Shiʿr al-ʿajam (Lahore, 1908–1918); Persian tr. Muḥammad Taqī Fakhr Dāʿī Gīlānī as Shiʿr al-ʿajam yā tārikh-i shiʿr wa adabiyyāt-i Īrān (Tehran, 1363 Sh./1984), vol. 5, pp. 177–179 (in a chapter entitled ‘A Philosophical Poet’). Yahya El-Khachab, Nāṣir è Ḫosraw: son voyage, sa pensée religieuse, sa philosophie et sa poésie (Cairo, 1940), p. 271; cf. p. 284. ʿAlī Dashtī, Taṣwīrī az Nāṣir-i Khusraw (Tehran, 1362 Sh./1983), pp. 21–22.

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54. Sayyid Jaʿfar Shahīdī, ‘Afkār wa ʿaqāʾid-i kalāmī-yi Nāṣir-i Khusraw’, in Yād-nāma-yi Nāṣir-i Khusraw (Mashhad, Persian Imperial Year 2535/1396 sh./1976), p. 316; cited in Raḥīm Musalmāniyān Qubādiyānī, Pāra-yi Samarqand (Tehran, 1378 Sh./1999), pp. 59–60. 55. Alice C. Hunsberger, ‘The Eloquent Soul: An Analysis of a Philosophical Poem by Nasir Khusraw’, in Alice C. Hunsberger, ed., Pearls of Persia: The Philosophical Poetry of Nasir Khusraw (London, forthcoming). 56. In the Muḥaqqiq edition of the Dīwān; compare the Taqawī edition, with 79 bayts (missing bayt 57 of the Muḥaqqiq edition), and the Ethé edition, with 78 (missing bayts 57 and 71 of the Muḥaqqiq edition). 57. Following the Taqawī edition, here I read ‘ furuzh’ (rhubarb or galangale); see Francis J. Steingass, Persian-English Dictionary (n.p., 1892; repr. Lahore, 1981). 58. Red sulfur and mercury were the two basic elements of alchemy. In this line, however, Nāṣir seems to report that they were also main ingredients in the production of the most important form of red ink used for transcribing titles or entries in manuscripts. 59. This is based on the ‘emission’ theory of perception, which was current among some Greek and Muslim philosophers, that sight was the result of how much and how clearly light was coming out from the eyes encompassing the object. Here, a particular stone from Iṣfahān was ground into a powder, surmih, to make the eyes healthier. For a similar verse from Khāqānī and a line in Arabic from Hajjāj b. Yūsuf’s Thamar al-Qulūb, see Mujtabā Mīnuwī and Mahdī Muḥaqqiq, Sharḥ-i buzurg-i Dīwān-i Nāṣir-i Khusraw (Tehran, 1386 Sh./2007), vol. 1, p. 479. 60. Here I follow the Mīnuwī/Muḥaqqiq version. 61. For more on the Ismaili doctrine of human intellect (ʿaql) as the messengerprophet (rasūl), see Mohamed Abualy Alibhai, ‘Abu Yaʿqub al-Sijistani and “Kitab Sullam al-Najat”: A Study in Islamic Neoplatonism’, Ph.D. thesis, Harvard University, 1983, pp. 153–156, which elaborates on two types of prophecy (risāla): bodily (jismānī) and spiritual (ruhānī). 62. Compare Julie Scott Meisami, ‘Poetic Microcosms: The Persian Qasida to the End of the Twelfth Century’, in Stefan Sperl and Christopher Shackle, ed., Qasida Poetry in Islamic Asia and Africa. 1: Classical Traditions and Modern Meanings (Leiden, 1995), p. 138 (137–182); and Michael Glünz, ‘Poetic Tradition and Social Change: The Persian Qasida in Post-Mongol Iran’, ibid., p. 183 (183–204).

14

Early Evidence for the Reception of Nāṣir-i Khusraw’s Poetry in Sufism: ʿAyn al-Quḍāt’s Letter on the Taʿlīmīs Hermann Landolt

In his magnum opus The Ismāʿīlīs, Farhad Daftary points out ‘close analogies’ between Nizārī Ismaili doctrine and certain Sufi ideas and practices, such as the role of a Sufi shaykh or pīr which the imam takes in relation to his followers, or the spiritual experience associated similarly with Nizārī qiyāma and Sufi ḥaqīqa. While carefully avoiding any confusion between the two traditions, Daftary rightly suggests that such analogies – rather than being the mere desire on the part of the Nizārīs to escape persecution after the destruction of Alamūt, one might add – ‘laid the ground for the coalescence between Nizārī Ismailism and Sufism in Persia during the post-Alamūt period’.1 Here I should like to examine two somewhat different, earlier cases of possible cross-ties between Ismailism and Sufism, both having to do with the – Daftary’s words – ‘multi-faceted personality’ 2 of Nāṣir-i Khusraw (d. 465/1072 or later). To begin with, I shall briefly discuss the general questions of Sufi influence on, and reception of, the great Ismaili poet himself. I will then turn to the recently discovered fact that eight verses from Nāṣir’s unquestionably authentic Qaṣīda no. 106, which served much later as a model for a ‘philosophical qaṣīda’ attributed to Mīr Findiriskī (d. 1050/1640 or 1641) of the ‘School of Iṣfahān’, were already quoted and interpreted by the famous Sufi ʿAyn al-Quḍāt-i Hamadānī in support of his own views. ʿAyn al-Quḍāt was indeed suspected of crypto-Ismailism and executed in 525/1131, that is, less than a decade after the death of the reputed founder of the Nizārī daʿwa jadīda, Ḥasan-i Ṣabbāḥ (d. 518/1124).

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The widely received image of Nāṣir-i Khusraw as a Sufi poet of sorts has, to a significant extent, been generated by two didactic mathnawīs that were traditionally attributed to him, the Saʿādat-nāma3 and the Rawshanāʾīnāma.4 However, the authenticity of these works has been strongly questioned by modern authorities. While few today would maintain the genuineness of the former and draw far-reaching conclusions from it, the debate is far from closed in the case of the Rawshanāʾī-nāma, as may be seen from the thorough discussion of the question by François de Blois.5 It should be noted that doubt arises in this case not only from matters of style, and problems relating to the date of its composition, but also from the existence of another Rawshanāʾī-nāma, written in prose by the same author. This prose Rawshanāʾī-nāma was published for the first time in 1949 by Wladimir Ivanow under the title Six Chapters or Shish Fasl also called Rawshana’i-namah.6 Yet Ivanow’s title was slightly misleading in that the author himself, while describing it in his own preface as consisting of six chapters (shish faṣl), clearly indicates only Rawshanāʾī-nāma as its title, not shish faṣl. This work is an openly Ismaili-Neoplatonic treatise and, like most of Nāṣir’s doctrinal prose works, of which – in addition to this one – no less than four 7 have gradually come to light during the past century, it is written explicitly on behalf of the Fatimid imam-caliph al-Mustanṣir bi’llāh (r. 427–487/1037–1094), who is frequently praised by Nāṣir in his qaṣīdas. By contrast, the metrical Rawshanāʾī-nāma contains little if any explicit references to specifically Fatimid or Shiʿi teachings. Whereas this mathnawī does not even mention the imams, it displays, at least in the presently available editions, unmistakable traces of a strongly Sufi-coloured version of Neoplatonism. The oldest extant manuscripts of both the metric and the prose Rawshanāʾī-nāmas date from approximately the same time from which we also have a collection of selected qaṣīdas from Nāṣir’s Dīwān, i.e. the late seventh/thirteenth and early eighth/fourteenth centuries.8 But while the prose Rawshanāʾī-nāma seems to have remained unknown outside strictly Ismaili circles for centuries, the mathnawī was evidently well known from that time on and regarded by some Sufis as a work by Nāṣir-i Khusraw. Evidence for this is found in the Saʿādat-nāma by the early fourteenthcentury Sufi Maḥmūd-i Shabistarī, who is more famously known from his Gulshan-i rāz as a radical follower of Ibn ʿArabī. In this Saʿādat-nāma, he paradoxically turns against philosophers such as Ibn Sīnā (d. 428/1037) and the ishrāqī Suhrawardī (d. 587/1191), condemning them as utter here-

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tics, and places Nāṣir-i Khusraw in the same category.9 It is quite obvious that he has the metrical Rawshanāʾī-nāma as we know it in mind, for he mentions not only the name of the author, Nāṣir-i Khusraw, and the title (shortened to Rawshanī-nāma for metric reasons), but also paraphrases a verse, which is indeed found in the original text, in which the ‘vegetative spirit’ (rūḥ-i nāmiya) rather than God himself is made responsible for the existence of the plants in their variety.10 A metrical Rawshanāʾī-nāma – presumably the same – is also ascribed to Nāṣir in Amīr Dawlatshāh’s (wr. 892/1487) notoriously fictional account of Nāṣir’s life.11 This seems to derive from Sufi sources, too; for the point of the story is the miraculous conversion of the philosopher-poet to Sufism by the Sufi saint Abu’lḤasan-i Kharaqānī (d. 425/1033–1034).12 By the ninth/fifteenth century, Nāṣir-i Khusraw appears as a pure Sufi in pseudo-ʿAṭṭār’s Lisān al-ghayb.13 Now while there is certainly something to be said for the suspicion that the metric Rawshanāʾī-nāma has perhaps more to do with the Sufi reception of Nāṣir-i Khusraw than with the man himself, there is also evidence from the Dīwān which appears to suggest that he was indeed at some point in his life touched by Sufism. In this regard, a word must be said about the famous qaṣīda known as A Wasted Pilgrimage or The Pilgrims (no. 141 in the Mīnuwī/Muḥaqqiq edition), which had already been singled out by E. G. Browne as a ‘very remarkable poem’, as he believed that in it ‘we can see in its best light the application of the characteristic Ismaʿili doctrine of taʾwīl, or allegorical interpretation’.14 Perhaps not surprisingly, it is now available in at least four English translations.15 As was pointed out by Mahdī Muḥaqqiq,16 this qaṣīda is quite unique, though not exactly for the reason suggested by Browne: it is no more and no less than a poetic version of a well-known Sufi tale, a prose version of which is found in the Kashf al-maḥjūb, the standard Persian manual of classical Sufism written by Nāṣir’s Sunni (indeed anti-Ismaili) contemporary, ʿAlī b. ʿUthmān al-Ghaznawī al-Jullābī, better known as Hujwīrī, who attributes it to no less a figure than the celebrated Junayd of Baghdad (d. 297/910).17 In both versions, the tale carries a typically Sufi message: true performance of the sacrifice during the pilgrimage (ḥajj) ceremonies means the sacrifice of everything related to the lower self (nafs).18 What is more is that the qaṣīda under discussion has strictly nothing to do with specifically Ismaili taʾwīl of the pilgrimage rituals as given by Nāṣir himself in his Wajh-i dīn.19 Rather it tallies perfectly with the whole story as given by Hujwīrī. This leaves, it seems to me, only one of two possible conclusions: either Nāṣir heard the tale of the missed pilgrimage from a Sufi, with the remote possibility that this Sufi was none other than

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Hujwīrī himself. As is known, both Nāṣir and Hujwīrī travelled extensively in the eastern part of the Islamic world; and although the chronology of Hujwīrī’s travels is not known to any sufficient degree of precision and certainty, it may nevertheless be worth mentioning that both visited the tomb of Abū Yazīd-i Basṭāmī, and both were of course familiar with travelling routes and famous places between Lahore and Syria.20 Or it may be the case that the qaṣīda is not, after all, Nāṣir’s own. In that case, we would have to assume that it was incorporated into his Dīwān sometime before 714/1315, since it is already included in the earliest extant collection of his qaṣīdas mentioned above. ʿAyn al-Quḍāt and Ismailism In his short notice on Nāṣir-i Khusraw, Jāmī (d. 898/1492) cites six verses which, he says, were quoted by ʿAyn al-Quḍāt in his Zubdat al-ḥaqāʾiq from a poem by Nāṣir-i Khusraw.21 The book referred to by Jāmī as Zubdat al-ḥaqāʾiq is, of course, ʿAyn al-Quḍāt’s Persian work more commonly known as Tamhīdāt, where the same verses are indeed spelled out and introduced in such a way that he appears to be quoting another author.22 However, from another citation of the same verses found in ʿAyn al-Quḍāt’s Letter no. 65,23 it appears that he was, rather, quoting himself. Be that as it may, the verses in question are, in fact, part of a qaṣīda which was included in older editions of Nāṣir’s Dīwān but excluded, for good reasons it seems to me, from the critical edition by Mujtabā Mīnuwī and Mahdī Muḥaqqiq.24 Jāmī was nevertheless not entirely wrong. As we now know, thanks to ʿAlīnaqī Munzawī’s extensive comments on ʿAyn al-Quḍāt’s Letters,25 he did in fact quote verses from the Dīwān of Nāṣir-i Khusraw, though not those ‘almost blasphemous’ verses just referred to, but eight verses from a very different qaṣīda (no. 106) that reflects Nāṣir’s Ismaili views in nuce. I have translated this qaṣīda in full at the end of this article, indicating the verses quoted by ʿAyn al-Quḍāt in the notes for easier reference. Apart from their intrinsic interest, ʿAyn al-Quḍāt’s quotes and variants are also important from a purely philological point of view, since they must have been written some two hundred years before the earliest extant manuscript of the Dīwān itself (i.e. the collection dated 714/1315 mentioned above) was copied. ʿAyn al-Quḍāt probably knew the whole qaṣīda, for he quotes seven verses in Letter no. 75 (vv. 21, 22, 24, 26, 23, 29, 38, in this order),26 and verse 40 independently in Letter no. 87.27 As was common practice in

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such cases, he does not mention the name of the poet. However, in this case there can be little doubt that he knew very well that he was quoting Nāṣir-i Khusraw. He mentions elsewhere that a friend from Badakhshān told him about a strange form of Islam practised in those regions, 28 so that he might well have had access to sources deriving immediately from Nāṣir himself, as it was in Badakhshān that he spent the last fifteen years of his life. Letter no. 75 was written in answer to a question on the way to attain true knowledge or gnosis (ṭarīq-i ḥuṣūl-i maʿrifat). In particular, it was an occasion for ʿAyn al-Quḍāt to explain his own doctrine of the master– disciple (pīr–murīd) relationship29 in line with the Sunni Sufi tradition, and to distinguish it from the doctrine of the taʿlīmiyān, i.e. the Nizārīs. In actual fact, however, he himself propounds a kind of taʿlīm and only refutes the Nizārī argumentation insofar as it is meant to prove an exclusive status for their imam’s taʿlīm. By so doing, he clearly distances himself from Ghazālī, as we shall see presently. Given the heated religio-political climate under the Saljūq sultan Maḥmūd b. Muḥammad b. Malikshāh (r. 511–525/1118–1133), who was ultimately responsible for ʿAyn al-Quḍāt’s execution, such a display of implicit acceptance of the enemy, or what could be seen as such, could by itself be dangerous, especially since Letter no. 75 was most probably addressed to one of the most important figures in the Saljūq administration, the controller of finances (mustawfī) and one of ʿAyn al-Quḍāt’s close disciples, Abū Naṣr ʿAzīz al-Dīn al-Iṣbahānī (who was also executed two years after ʿAyn al-Quḍāt, in 525/1131). The main responsibility for the execution of both ʿAzīz al-Dīn and ʿAyn al-Quḍāt, as well as of a number of other prominent Sunnis, is generally ascribed by Saljūq historians such as ʿImād al-Dīn al-Iṣbahānī, ʿAzīz al-Dīn’s nephew, to ʿAzīz al-Dīn’s rival in power politics, the controversial vizier Qiwām al-Dīn al-Dargazīnī (also executed in 527/1133),30 whom they are quick to identify as a secret agent of the Nizārīs. There are, however, several problems with this simple explanation,31 not least among which being the fact that ʿAyn al-Quḍāt himself was accused of crypto-Ismailism during his lifetime. As he himself complains in his Shakwā al-gharīb, it was his ‘adversary’ (al-khaṣm) – whoever that may have been – who had ‘chosen to interpret my words as being in line with the doctrine of the Ismailis [literally, ‘those who profess the doctrine of taʿlim’ (madhhab al-qāʾilīna bi’l-taʿlīm, i.e. the Nizārīs]’.32 He begins the discussion in Letter no. 75, which shows him to be a true master of Socratic irony, by referring first to the ‘habit of the taʿlīmiyān’ to initiate their daʿwat by asking the question, “How is gnosis attained?

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Through the intellect, or through an infallible imam?”’ This question, he goes on, has many ramifications, and whoever says that it must be either the intellect or the infallible imam, has no idea of the truth of the matter.33 At first sight, this introductory reference to the ‘habit of the taʿlīmiyān’ looks as though ʿAyn al-Quḍāt was simply going to repeat Ghazālī’s famous critique of Nizārī taʿlīm. However, the immediately following caveat amounts, in fact, to a veiled criticism of Ghazālī’s, simplified version of it, which criticism is confirmed a little later in the letter, by ʿAyn al-Quḍat’s remark that the ‘Proof of Islam’ dealt with the matter in a manner that was ‘inadequate’ (muqaṣṣir).34 Indeed it was Ghazālī, not Ḥasan-i Ṣabbāḥ, who reduced the question to this simple alternative form.35 By putting it this way, Ghazālī was trying to prove the answer had to be in favour of the intellect.36 Continuing on the topic of simple either/or questions, ʿAyn al-Quḍāt then suggests that the same attitude characterises theologians in general: they argue for (or against) doctrines they have not properly understood themselves. For example, they argue about whether or not God can be seen, without even knowing what ‘seeing’ really means (ḥaqīqat-i dīdār); or they debate whether the Qurʾan is created or not, but when you ask them what ‘created’ or ‘speech’ (kalām) really means, they remain perplexed. After this reference to famous debates among the theologians (mutakallimūn), he quotes the first seven verses from Nāṣir-i Khusraw, obviously to underline the sceptical argument against certainty obtained from reason alone.37 ʿAyn al-Quḍāt then refers directly to Ghazālī’s writings about the main issue, calling his ‘inadequate’ judgement into question, as already mentioned, and turns to a more detailed discussion of the matter. It would be too long to analyse it in every detail here, but his main points may be summarised as follows: First of all, it has to be made clear whether one is talking about intuitive knowledge of God, such as the one possessed by certain companions of the Prophet like Abū Bakr, ʿAlī, Uways-i Qaranī – he mentions only those recognised by the Sunnis, including ʿUmar in later passages – or by mystics like Bāyazīd-i Basṭāmī, or whether ‘knowledge’ means the rational certainty of the existence of God gained through proof. In both cases, however, the need for a good teacher is the norm, even in mathematics, as we learn later. Secondly, as far as the first kind of ‘knowledge’ is concerned, the teacher need not be impeccable (maʿṣūm az gunāh), since even the Prophet was not. All he needs is experience of the path leading to God, and compassion

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(shafaqat) for his murīd. Thirdly, it is by no means established that there can be only one such teacher in the world; indeed there may be thousands, as is suggested by the verses Q. 7:181 and Q. 3:104. Nor does he necessarily have to reside in Egypt, or in Iṣfahān, or in Baghdad, or in Hamadān, in clear reference to, respectively, the seats of the Fatimid imam-caliph, the Saljūq sultan, the ʿAbbasid caliph, and – possibly – himself. Indeed he may be an uneducated village saint such as Abu’l-Ḥasan-i Kharaqānī.38 Fourthly, if they (the Nizārīs) argue that from among all these, one must be more perfect, and the others below him, this is admissible (rawā). However, only a human with all-encompassing vision can truly know who this might be. Even Khiḍr, supposed to have knowledge of all the Friends of God, said one day, ‘I met a walī whom I had never seen before!’ 39 The message is clear enough. Despite very close analogies between his thought and Nizārī taʿlīm, of which even more striking examples can be found in other passages of his Persian writings,40 or perhaps, rather, because of such similarities, ʿAyn al-Quḍāt certainly does not wish to be misunderstood as siding with the Nizārīs. But, contrary to Ghazālī, he does not really accept Saljūq authority as legitimate, either. In fact, he frequently reminds his high-placed disciple that he cannot serve God and ‘the Turks’ at the same time,41 another point which is, of course, reminiscent of Nāṣir-i Khusraw.42 To return to Qaṣīda no. 106, it should be noted that ʿAyn al-Quḍāt interprets the remaining verse 40 (in Letter no. 87) in a sense which was hardly intended by the Ismaili poet. He understands the ‘Command of God’ (amr-i Khudā) not as the creative Order, ‘Be!’, but in the sense of man’s legal obligations (taklīf), which would ‘leave’ the lover (ʿāshiq) ‘if intellect were to leave him’,43 that is to say, if he passes to the stage ʿAyn al-Quḍāt (like Ghazālī in his mystical writings) often calls the ‘stage beyond reason’. Perhaps a similar Sufi hint was given to the Nāṣir-i Khusraw of Dawlatshāh’s tale when he was taught by Kharaqānī that love is superior to intellect.44 a ppe n di x

A translation of Nāṣir-i Khusraw’s Qaṣīda no. 106 N.B: Verse numbers indicated on the left side are those of the Mīnuwī/ Muḥaqqiq edition.45 Variants of the Taqawī edition (= T), and verses quoted by ʿAyn al-Quḍāt-i Hamadānī (= AQH), are mentioned in the notes. I have taken the liberty of changing the verse order occasionally,

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and of arranging the verses in groups of seven times seven, as was done by Julie Scott Meisami in a similar case.46 Verses 1–8, 44–46 and 48 are also found in a slightly different translation in Faquir Muhammad Hunzai/ Kutub Kassam, Shimmering Light (London, 1996), pp. 69f. For an alternative translation of verses 1–2 see Annemarie Schimmel, Make a Shield from Wisdom (London, 1993; 2nd ed., 2003), pp. 18f. 1

What kind of canopy is this? An ocean full of pearls, you might say Or thousands of candles lit inside a burnished bowl

2

A garden on the sphere, perhaps? Then Jupiter would be the tulip And if the sphere were in the garden, its rose-bush would be Gemini

3

No one would be able to tell the Capella from the red rose The resplendent from the fragrant.

4

See the morning light as it follows the Pleiades A coral-coloured griffin pursuing a silver pheasant

6

Its signs glimmer bright in the dark revolving vault You might say: a bright idea in an ignorant soul! 47

5

It adorns the face of the East with its many-coloured hues So it looks just like the throne of Darius.48

7

The crescent moon would not sail every month as a golden boat If this rolling blue sphere were not an ocean.



* * *

8 9

Nay, this is not an ocean, but a pavilion of delightful paradise Or else it would not be full of fair black-eyed ones!

10

Really, it is a mill-stone, with the stream running outside it This is why it is rotating. I have heard this from a truthful one.

11

You would see the miller50 once you got outside You might also have seen him inside, if your eye were one that could see.

Rather, it is a ‘complete artefact’, as the logician would say If ‘complete’ means that which suffers no deficiency.49

Early Evidence for the Reception of Nāṣir-i Khusraw’s Poetry 12

Think: what is the cereal51 the mill produces to the miller? If he had no need for the cereal, he would not have set up the mill.

13

This is what intellect indicates to the soul of the wise: It would indeed seem that it had been made for our sake.

15

How could our soul ever become the king of the mill thanks to the intellect If human souls were not parts (ajzā) of their Whole [i.e. of the Universal Soul]? 52



* * *

14

Time (rūzgār), the sphere and the stars would all be idle play If there were no Morrow to this long Day, to this unmeasured Time (dahr).53

16

The Wheel’s message through its turning is: I am passing! If it were speaking in words as we are, it would say just that.

17

The wise one understands its message from its turning If it had a voice, as we do, its turning would be audible.

18

Nobody knows how things are outside this cupola If a person were up there, he would bow his head.54

19

There is nothing to be seen outside this, and that is why Some would believe that there might be empty space out there.55

20 Unmeasured Time (dahr) itself passes or its state keeps changing Its state would not be changing if it did not have a beginning. 21

Each one says something out of his unlit reasoning So you might believe he is a Qusṭā bin Lūqā! 56 * * *

22 Says one: If we did not have two creators, It would not be necessary for thorn and date ever to come together.57 23 Why else would it be that Light, Good, Purity, Beauty Are natural enemies of Darkness, Evil, Filth and Ugliness? 58 24 Says another: If the world had a just Creator His justice would at once be apparent to the world and man.59

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25 Sand, salt-marsh, rock, desert, caves and brackish water Would be cultivated land, orchards, meadows and gardens like brocade.60 26 Why would the one be a poor slave, servant, beggar The other a king, a lord majestic and strong? 61 27

If God had wanted the world to be altogether Muslim Neither Jew nor Christian would exist beside Muslims! 62

28 Yet another one says: All this is justice, and we are to be [nothing but] slaves It was and shall be His to want, not ours.63 29

* * * I would give the true [answer] if, through the language of these mean people, My speech could encourage the intelligent ones to listen.64

30 If every mean one were entitled to dispense a religion The Creator would not have established prophethood in the world. 31

If there were no difference, all men being equal Everyone would be unique and peerless in his essence

32

But this, too, cannot be so for the mind, because then Everyone would be both equal to his fellow creature, and yet, unique.

33

And whatever turns out to be absurd, after reflection, cannot come true. Therefore, one should not say: ‘Were it like that, it would be beautiful!’

34 Thus, absurd was the discourse on the world’s condition advanced by him who said: ‘It would be better if there were neither masters nor slaves!’ 65 37 35

He resembles the intelligent ones as long as he keeps silent, but As soon as he speaks, you would say his head is full of black bile! 66 * * * As for him who said: ‘It is not for us to want’, the intellect will reply: This surely is the opinion of a drunkard or one insane! 67

Early Evidence for the Reception of Nāṣir-i Khusraw’s Poetry 36

How could such a mindless person ever [be allowed to] go to miḥrāb and pulpit If the commoners were not altogether blind in the eye of the heart [=mind]?

38 Why would he face the miḥrāb [i.e. pray] if it were not out of hope To get [a piece of] bread and a pot of fried food and ḥalwā in Paradise! 68 T37 Why would the backs of this handful of imitators be bent in prayer If it were not in the hope of fruit from the Ṭūbā-tree in the Garden? 39

How could there be a place in Paradise for the pious ascetics and the saints If it were to be measured by the belly and stomach of these people? 69

40 Say, the Intellect is from the Command of God [cf. Qurʾan 17:85] for man, O Son, The Command would leave him if Intellect were to leave him.70 41

In the human composition it is Intellect which is the ruler in creation If it were not for Intellect, there would be no How and Therefore for man.71 * * *

42 Both Creation and Command belong to Him [Qurʾan 7:54]. He made and ordered what He willed. How is it, then, permissible to say after this: ‘If He willed’? 72 43 If only you listened, O Brother, for I told you a full story Pure and worthy, so you might say: ‘This is pure ambergris!’ 73 44 And if someone objects: ‘If the “Proof” [i.e. the author] were a sage, why, then Is he sitting alone like a lonely pauper in the Yumgān valley?’ 74 45 He knows not that if my plight were evil like his My back would be bent like his before kings! 75 46 I would not wish to possess what the king has And let him have all the knowledge I have instead.76 47

Why would I stay in Yumgān, friendless, distressed and a pauper

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If the affairs of religion were not in such disturbance and confusion? 77

48 How could my soul have been mounted on such wisdom If my support were not the rider of the ash-coloured Duldul [i.e. ʿAlī]? 78

Notes 1. 2. 3.

4.

5. 6. 7.

8.

Farhad Daftary, The Ismāʿīlīs: Their History and Doctrines (2nd ed., Cambridge, 2007), p. 366. Ibid., p. 205. Saʿādat-nāma, first ed. (with a French summary) by Edmond Fagnan, ‘Le livre de la felicité par Nāçir ed-Dîn Khosroû’, Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft, 34 (1880), pp. 643–674 and 36 (1882), pp. 96–114; tr. George M. Wickens, ‘The Saʿādatnāmeh attributed to Nāṣir-i Khusrau’, Islamic Quarterly, 2 (1955), pp. 117–132 and 206–221. Nāṣir-i Khusraw (attrib.), Rawshanāʾī-nāma [in verse], ed. and tr. Hermann Ethé as ‘Nâsir Chusrau’s Rûśanâinâma, oder Buch der Erleuchtung’, Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft, 33 (1879), pp. 645–665 and 34 (1880), pp. 428–464; also as an appendix in Nāṣir-i Khusraw, Safar-nāma, ed. Maḥmūd Ghanīzāda (Berlin, 1341/1922); and as an appendix in Nāṣir-i Khusraw, Dīwān, ed. Naṣr Allāh Taqawī et al. (Tehran, 1304– 1307 Sh./1925–1928; 3rd ed., Tehran, 1348 Sh./1969–1970), pp. 511–542. François de Blois, Persian Literature: A Bio-Bibliographical Survey (London, 1992), vol. V, 1, pp. 206–211. Wladimir Ivanow, ed. and tr., Six Chapters or Shish Fasl also called Rawshana’i-nama (London and Leiden, 1949). Or five, if the short version of Nāṣir-i Khusraw’s Jāmiʿ al-ḥikmatayn – a ‘Risāla’ published as an appendix to Nāṣir-i Khusraw’s Dīwān, ed. Naṣr Allāh Taqawī et al. (3rd ed., Tehran, 1348 Sh./1969–1970), pp. 563–583 – is counted as an independent treatise. The oldest recorded copy of the metric Rawshanāʾī-nāma, which has apparently not been used in any edition, is dated 710/1310 (see de Blois, Persian Literature, vol. V, 1, p. 210). Another metric Rawshanāʾī-nāma, which has absolutely nothing to do with the one ascribed to our author, was written in the eighth/fourteenth century by a certain Iftikhār al-Dīn-i Dāmghānī and published by Ḥasan Dhu’l-Fiqārī in Iraj Afshar and Karīm Iṣfahāniyān, ed., Nāmwāra-yi duktur Maḥmūd-i Afshār-i Yazdī (Tehran, 1373 Sh./1994– 1995), vol. 8, pp. 2300–2335; a photocopy of this was kindly provided by Nasrollah Pourjavady. As for the prose Rawshanāʾī-nāma, the oldest manuscript, as described in a more recent edition by Taḥsīn Yazījī and Bahman Ḥamīdī (Tehran, 1373 Sh./1994), is dated 27 Ṣafar 674 (= 22 August 1275).

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9. 10.

11.

12. 13. 14. 15.

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The earliest manuscript of the Dīwān, or, more precisely, of a collection of poetry containing in addition to selections from five other poets, 78 of Nāṣir’s qaṣīdas, is dated 714/1315. It is found in MS 132 of the Persian Collections in the India Office Library (now in the British Library) and corresponds to MS 903 in Hermann Ethé, Catalogue of Persian Manuscripts in the Library of the India Office, vol. 1 (Oxford, 1903), pp. 564–565; see also Edward G. Browne, A Literary History of Persia (London and Cambridge, 1902–1924), vol. 2, p. 219; it is referred to as MS sīn in the critical edition of Nāṣir’s Dīwān by Mujtabā Mīnuwī and Mahdī Muḥaqqiq (Tehran, 1357 Sh./1978). Leonard Lewisohn, Beyond Faith and Infidelity: The Sufi Poetry and Teachings of Maḥmūd Shabistarī (Richmond, 1995), pp. 26f. Nāṣir-i Khusraw (attrib.), Rawshanāʾī-nāma [in verse], v. 176, ed. Ethé, p. 430; Safar-nāma, ed. Ghanīzāda, appendix, p. 12; Dīwān, ed. Taqawī et al., appendix, p. 518. Shabistarī’s paraphrase reads rūḥ-i namāʾ for the ‘vegetative spirit’; see Ṣamad-i Muwaḥḥid, ed., Majmūʿa-yi āthār-i shaykh Maḥmūd-i Shabistarī (Tehran, 1365 Sh./1986–1987), v. 706 on p. 186, see also p. 269. Lewisohn’s translation in Beyond Faith (p. 27) should be revised accordingly. See Dawlatshāh-i Samarqandī, Tadhkirat al-Shuʿārāʾ, ed. Edward G. Browne as The Tadhkiratu ʼsh-shu‘ará (“Memoirs of the poets”) of Dawlatsháh bin ʿAláʼ uʼd-Dawla Bakhtísháh al-Ghází of Samarqand (London, 1901), pp. 61–64. Dawlatshāh identifies Nāṣir’s Rawshanāʾī-nāma specifically as a work ‘in verse’ (dar naẓm, ibid., p. 63.24). It is not clear exactly on what evidence Yahya El-Khachab, Nāṣir è Ḫosraw: son voyage, sa pensée religieuse, sa philosophie et sa poésie (Cairo, 1940), pp. 4–11, and Alice C. Hunsberger, Nasir Khusraw, The Ruby of Badakhshan: A Portrait of the Persian Poet, Traveller and Philosopher (London and New York, 2000), pp. 21–26, ascribe what is, in fact, Dawlatshāh’s account of Nāṣir’s life, to al-Qāḍī al-Bayḍāwī’s Niẓām al-tawārīkh (written in 674/1275), so that Dawlatshāh, writing in 892/1487, would have taken it from there. Nothing whatsoever about Nāṣir-i Khusraw is to be found in any existing edition of the Niẓām al-tawārīkh, ed. Hakim Sayyid Shams-Ullah Qadri (Hyderabad, 1930); ed. Bahman Mīrzā Karīmī (Tehran, 1934); ed. Mīr Ḥāshim Muḥaddith (Tehran, 1383 Sh./2003). On various versions, manuscripts and editions of this work see Charles Melville, ‘From Adam to Abaqa: Qāḍī Baiḍāwī’s Rearrangement of History’, Studia Iranica, 30, i (2001), pp. 67–86 and 36, i (2007), pp. 7–64. Summary in El-Khachab, Nāṣir è Ḫosraw, pp. 5–6, and Hunsberger, Nasir Khusraw, pp. 22–24. Pseudo-ʿAṭṭār, Lisān al-ghayb, ed. Aḥmad Khwushniwīs ʿImād (Tehran, n.d. [preface dated 1344 Sh./1966]), pp. 149 and 188. Browne, A Literary History of Persia, vol. 2, pp. 241f. Arthur J. Arberry, Classical Persian Literature (London, 1958; 2nd ed. 1967), pp. 69–71; Peter L. Wilson and Gholam Reza Aavani, tr., Nasir-i Khusraw:

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16. 17. 18.

19. 20.

21.

22.

23. 24.

25. 26. 27.

Hermann Landolt Forty Poems from the Divan (Tehran, 1977), pp. 81f.; Annemarie Schimmel, Make a Shield from Wisdom: Selected Verses from Nāṣir-i Khusraw’s Dīvān (London, 1993), pp. 94–96; Hunsberger, Nasir Khusraw, pp. 194f. Mahdī Muḥaqqiq. ‘Chihra-yi dīnī wa madhhabī-yi Nāṣir-i Khusraw dar Dīwān’, in Yād-nāma-yi Nāṣir-i Khusraw (Mashhad, 2535 Persian Imperial Year/1356 Sh./1976), p. 495. Hujwīrī, Kashf al-Maḥjūb, ed. Valentin A. Zhukovskii (Tehran, 1336 Sh./1957), p. 425, tr. Reynold A. Nicholson, The Kashf al-Maḥjúb: The Oldest Persian Treatise on Ṣúfism (London, 1911), p. 328. See especially vv. 18 and 20 of the qaṣīda: qurbān-i nafs-i shūm-i laʾīm and sharr-i nafs – a very unusual usage of the term nafs for Nāṣir-i Khusraw. For him, the soul (nafs) is normally a ‘noble substance’ (gawhar-i sharīf ). In his Khwān al-ikhwān, ed. ʿAlī Qawīm (Tehran, 1338 Sh./1959), ch. 43, p. 138, Nāṣir points out that for the religious scholars, it is the spirit (rūḥ) which is nobler than the soul, whereas it is the other way round for the philosophers. Summarised by Hunsberger, Nasir Khusraw, pp. 189–192. Hujwīrī visited Basṭāmī’s tomb twice, the second time for a period of three months (see Hujwīrī, Kashf, p. 77; tr. Nicholson, pp. 68f.). Nāṣir says in the Safar-nāma, ed. Maḥmūd Ghanīzāda, p. 4, that he ‘paid a visit (ziyārat) to Shaykh Bāyazīd-i Basṭāmī’ on his way from Nīshāpūr to Dāmghān; he left it on 8 Dhu’l-Qaʿda 437/17 May 1046. Earlier in his life, he had apparently lived at the court of Sultan Maḥmūd (r. 388–421/998–1030) and his son Masʿūd in Ghaznī (r. 421–432/1030–1041), and visited Lahore (cf. Safar-nāma, pp. 78 and 90). Nūr al-Dīn ʿAbd al-Raḥmān Jāmī, Bahāristān, ed. Ismāʿīl Ḥākimī (3rd ed., Tehran, 1374 Sh./1995–1996), p. 95. For an English translation of the same verses, see Browne, A Literary History of Persia, vol. 2, p. 243; Browne, ibid., p. 242, refers to them as the ‘almost blasphemous verses’. ʿAyn al-Quḍāt al-Hamadhānī, Tamhīdāt, ed. ʿAfīf ʿUsayrān in Muṣannafāt-i ʿAyn al-Quḍāt-i Hamadānī (Tehran, 1341 Sh./1962) part II, p. 189. For further references and bibliography see Hermann Landolt, ‘ʿAyn al-Quḍāt al-Hamadhānī [Part 1]: Life and Work’, EI3. ʿAyn al-Quḍāt, Nāmahā-yi ʿAyn al-Quḍāt-i Hamadānī, vol. 2, ed. ʿAfīf ʿUsayrān and ʿAlīnaqī Munzawī (Beirut and Tehran, 1350 Sh./1972), pp. 7f. This qaṣīda can be found in the edition by Taqawī et al., pp. 364–368, with the relevant verses (38–43) on p. 366. In an additional note at the end of an article, Bertel’s mentions that, in the opinion of Mujtabā Mīnuwī, these verses should be attributed to Sanāʾī. See Andrey E. Bertel’s, ‘Naẓariyāt-i barkhī az ʿurafā wa shīʿayān-i ithnā ʿasharī rājiʿ bi arzish-i mīrāth-i adabī-yi Nāṣir-i Khusraw’, in Yād-nāma-yi Nāṣir-i Khusraw, pp. 118f. ʿAyn al-Quḍāt, Nāmahā-yi ʿAyn al-Quḍāt-i Hamadānī, vol. 3, ed. ʿAlīnaqī Munzawī (Tehran, 1377 Sh./1998–1999), Introduction, pp. 68 and 78. ʿAyn al-Quḍāt, Nāmahā, vol. 2, pp. 114f. ʿAyn al-Quḍāt, Nāmahā, vol. 2, p. 219.

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28. ʿAyn al-Quḍāt, Nāmahā, vol. 2, p. 303. 29. Forough Jahanbakhsh, ‘The Pīr-Murīd Relationship in the Thought of ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt Hamadānī’, in Sayyid Jalāl al-Dīn Āshtiyānī et al., ed., Consciousness and Reality: Studies in Memory of Toshihiko Izutsu (Tokyo, 1998), pp. 129–147. Still indispensable for the emergence of the ‘training shaykh’ in classical Khurāsānī Sufism are two studies by Fritz Meier: ‘Qušayrīs Tartīb as-sulūk’, Oriens, 16 (1963), pp. 1–39, and ‘Ḫurāsān und das ende der klassischen ṣūfik’, in Atti del convegno internazionale sul tema: La Persia nel medioevo (Roma, 31 marzo – 5 aprile 1970) (Rome, 1971), pp. 545–570. Both are now available in English in Fritz Meier, Essays on Islamic Piety and Mysticism, tr. John O’Kane with editorial assistance by Bernd Radtke (Leiden, 1999), respectively ‘Qušayrī’s Tartīb as-sulūk’, pp. 93–133 and, ‘Khurāsān and the End of Classical Sufism’, pp. 189–219. See also Ahmet T. Karamustafa, Sufism: The Formative Period (Edinburgh, 2007). 30. Naser Shoarian-Sattari, ‘Abū al-Qāsim al-Dargazīnī’, Encyclopaedia Islamica, vol. 2, p. 427. 31. See Landolt, ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt al-Hamadhānī’. For a lengthy discussion, see Hamid Dabashi, Truth and Narrative: The Untimely Thoughts of ʿAyn al-Quḍāt al-Hamadhānī (Richmond, 1999), pp. 475–536. 32. ʿAyn al-Quḍāt, Shakwā al-gharīb, in Muṣannafāt, ed. ʿAfīf Usayrān, part III, pp. 10f.; tr. Arthur J. Arberry, A Sufi Martyr: the ‘Apologia’ of ‘Ain al-Qudat al-Hamadhani (London, 1969), p. 34. 33. ʿAyn al-Quḍāt, Nāmahā, vol. 2, p. 113. 34. ʿAyn al-Quḍāt, Nāmahā, vol. 2, p. 115. 35. Contrary to what is suggested by Ghazālī in his Kitāb al-Mustaẓhirī, ed. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān Badawī, Fadāʾiḥ al-bāṭiniyya wa faḍāʾil al-mustaẓhiriyya (Cairo, 1383/1964), esp. paras 159–186 (pp. 79–90); partial tr. Richard Joseph McCarthy, Freedom and Fulfillment (Boston, 1980), esp. pp. 222–231, Ḥasan-i Ṣabbāḥ’s principal argument for the necessity of a ‘trustworthy teacher’ does not necessarily amount to a pure and simple denial (ibṭāl) of reason. Al-Shahrastānī’s Arabic translation of Ḥasan’s Chahār Faṣl rather points to the insufficiency of reason in knowing God without taʿlīm; see al-Shahrastānī, Kitāb al-Milal wa’l-niḥal, ed. Sayyid Muḥammad al-Kaylānī (Cairo, 1387–1388/1967–1968), vol. 1, pp. 195–199; French tr. Daniel Gimaret and Guy Monnot as Livre des religions et des sectes (Louvain, 1986), vol. 1, pp. 560–565. For an analysis of the difference between Ghazālī’s and Shahrastānī’s versions see Farouk Mitha, Al-Ghazālī and the Ismailis: A Debate on Reason and Authority in Medieval Islam (London, 2001), pp. 54f. As was pointed out by Gimaret, Livre des religions et des sectes, vol. 1, p. 561, n.80, Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī had already noticed the difference and even explained Ḥasan’s argument empathically by comparing reason to the pupil of the eye, and taʿlīm to the light, while at the same time arguing for the exclusive validity of reason, and criticising Ghazālī for having failed to really do so. See Rāzī, Munāẓarāt Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī fī bilād Māwarāʾ

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36.

37. 38. 39. 40.

41. 42.

43. 44. 45. 46.

Hermann Landolt al-Nahr, ed. and tr. Fathalla Kholeif, A Study on Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī and his Controversies in Transoxiana (Beirut, 1966), Arabic pp. 39–42, translation pp. 62–65. It is also noteworthy that Rāzī refers not only to Shahrastānī but also discusses an otherwise non-extant Persian treatise by Ghazālī on the same issue, which may have indeed contained direct quotes from Ḥasan-i Ṣabbāḥ, especially given that the crucial word basanda (Munāẓarāt §102) can mean ‘sufficient’ and does not have to be read as pasandīda. Accordingly, the question is whether intellect is ‘sufficient’ or not, not whether it should be ‘accepted’ or not as Kholeif’s translation (p. 62) suggests. For a major geistes-and sozialgeschichtlich survey of the background of this problem, see Joseph van Ess, Die Erkenntnislehre des ʿAḍudaddīn al-Īcī (Wiesbaden, 1966), especially pp. 281–288. Van Ess suggests (ibid., p. 287) that Rāzī’s dissatisfaction with Ghazālī’s presentation of the issue may have been influenced by ʿAlī b. Muḥammad Ibn al-Walīd’s Dāmigh al-bāṭil wa ḥatf al-munāḍil, ed. Muṣṭafā Ghālib (Beirut, 1403/1982), vol. 1, pp. 273ff. However, this suggestion seems difficult to accept given that Rāzī’s munāẓarāt were held in 582/1186 in Transoxiana, whereas Ibn al-Walīd’s activity as a doctrinal writer had hardly begun before 584/1188, when he was appointed by Ḥātim al-Ḥāmidī as his deputy in Ṣanʿāʾ; cf. Ismail K. Poonawala, Biobibliography of Ismāʿīlī Literature (Malibu, CA, 1977), p. 156. ʿAyn al-Quḍāt, Nāmahā, vol. 2, pp. 114–115; see also van Ess, Die Erkenntnislehre, p. 287. ‘Abu’l-Ḥasan Ḵaraqānī’, EIr, vol. 1, pp. 305–306. ʿAyn al-Quḍāt, Nāmahā, vol. 2, pp. 115–120. On the soul of the master as a mirror of God for the disciple, see ʿAyn al-Quḍāt, Tamhīdāt, pp. 9 and 30ff.; on the need for the murīd to obey the pīr even if the order appears to go against the religious conventions, see ʿAyn al-Quḍāt, Nāmahā, vol. 1, p. 270; on the need for a ‘prophet’ who can be seen presently, see ʿAyn al-Quḍāt, Nāmahā, vol. 2, p. 366. For example, ʿAyn al-Quḍāt, Nāmahā, vol. 2, pp. 166 and 430. For ample evidence for Nāṣir’s moral, social and political attitudes, i.e. his praising of the Fatimids and his spite and indignation vis-à-vis the Khurāsānī ʿulamāʾ and their supporters, the Saljūqs, see Jalāl Matīnī, ‘Nāṣir-i Khusraw wa madīḥa-sarāʾī’, Majalla-yi dānishkada-yi adabiyyāt wa ʿulūm-i insānī, 10, ii (1353 Sh./1974), repr. in Yād-nāma-yi Nāṣir-i Khusraw, pp. 465–492 and Ghulām-Ḥusayn Yūsufī, ‘Nāṣir-i Khusraw, muntaqidī ijtimāʿi’, in Yād-nāma-yi Nāṣir-i Khusraw, pp. 619–640; see also the index of the Taqawī edition of Nāṣir’s Dīwān, s.v. ‘Turk’. ʿAyn al-Quḍāt, Nāmahā, vol. 2, p. 219. Cf. Hunsberger, Nasir Khusraw, pp. 22–24. Nāṣir-i Khusraw, Dīwān, ed. Mīnuwī and Muḥaqqiq, pp. 225–228; ed. Taqawī et al., pp. 439–441. Tr. Julie Scott Meisami as ‘That Which is Best’, in Hermann Landolt, Samira Sheikh and Kutub Kassam, ed., An Anthology of Ismaili Literature: A Shi‘i

Early Evidence for the Reception of Nāṣir-i Khusraw’s Poetry

47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55.

56.

57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64.

385

Vision of Islam (London, 2008), pp. 271–275; originally published in Julie Scott Meisami, ‘Symbolic Structure in a Poem by Nāṣir-i Khusrau’, Iran: Journal of the British Institute of Persian Studies, 31 (1993), pp. 103–117. T. v. 5. T. v. 6. The ‘logician’ is probably Aristotle; cf. Aristotle, Physics III, 6, 207a 9–15. The ‘miller’ is presumably the Universal Soul (cf. v. 15). The ‘cereal’ = mankind (mardum); cf. Nāṣir-i Khusraw, Zād al-musāfirīn, ed. Muḥammad Badhl al-Raḥmān (Berlin, 1923), p. 463. Following Abū Yaʿqūb al-Sijistānī (as opposed to Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī): the individual soul is a particle (juzʾ) (not a ‘trace’ – athar) of the Universal Soul. T. v. 14. T. v. 15. For the translation of dahr as ‘unmeasured time’ see Nāṣir-i Khusraw, Jāmiʿ al-ḥikmatayn, ed. Henry Corbin and Muḥammad Muʿīn (Tehran and Paris, 1332 Sh./1953), p. 118. Perhaps to be understood as ‘I would bow my head’ (kardī=kardamī ?); cf. v. 29 man biguftī. Against the Platonising idea of an eternal, empty space, held by the famous anti-Ismaili philosopher and physician Abū Bakr Muḥammad b. Zakarīyā al-Rāzī (Rhazes), Nāṣir-i Khusraw defends a thoroughly Aristotelian concept of space/place: see e.g. Nāṣir-i Khusraw, Zād al-musāfirīn, ch. 9, pp. 96–109. AQH v. 1. This verse is the first among the seven verses quoted from this qaṣīda by ʿAyn al-Quḍāt in Letter no. 75 (Nāmahā, vol. 2, pp. 114f.). It is also the one verse quoted much later by way of embedded citation (taḍmīn) in the qaṣīda attributed to Mīr Findiriskī; see ʿAbbās Sharīf-i Dārābī-yi Shīrāzī, Tuḥfat al-murād: Sharḥ-i qaṣīda-yi ḥikmīya-yi Mīr Abu’l-Qāsim-i Findiriskī (Tehran, 1337 Sh./1958 or 1959), Preface and pp. 170–172. Qusṭā b. Lūqā al-Baʿalbakkī (d. ca. 300/912) was a famous scholar and translator of Greek astronomical, mathematical, medical and philosophical works. His influential Arabic translation of the Placita Philosophorum (edited with a German translation and commentary by Hans Daiber as Aetius Arabus: Die Vorsokratiker in arabischer Überlieferung, Wiesbaden, 1980) was used and commented upon by Abū Bakr al-Rāzī; see also Mahdī Muḥaqqiq, Fīlsūf-i Rayy (Tehran, 1349 Sh./1970), pp. 100 f. AQH v. 2. AQH v. 5 (after v. 26). AQH v. 3. T. v. 27. T. v. 28. T. v. 24. AQH v. 4 (with variant reading: chākir-i har kas budī instead of chākir-u sāsīstī). T. v. 25. T. v. 26. AQH v. 6, with variant reading: Man bigūyam az zabān-i Ibn-i Ḥayyān rāstī,

386

65.

66. 67. 68.

69. 70.

71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78.

Hermann Landolt instead of Man biguftī rāstī gar az zabān-i īn khasān. It is not clear which Ibn-i Ḥayyān is meant. If this variant represents Nāṣir-i Khusraw’s original, one could think of Jābir b. Ḥayyān, the famous alchemist. If it is only ʿAyn al-Quḍāt’s version, one would, rather, think of Harim b. Ḥayyān, the companion of Uways-i Qaranī; see Arberry, A Sufi Martyr, p. 32. Cf. v. 26 above. For the use of mawlā in opposite senses (i.e. ‘masters’ and ‘slaves’), see Qaṣīda no. 2, v. 50; for a similar critique of egalitarianism, see Nāṣir-i Khusraw, Jāmiʿ al-ḥikmatayn, pp. 156ff. I would like to thank Faquir Hunzai for these references. As in many other places, Nāṣir’s target is here probably Abū Bakr Muḥammad b. Zakarīyā al-Rāzī. T. v. 41. Cf. v. 28 above. Here, the target is evidently the common ‘traditionalist’ Sunni position. T. v. 42. AQH v. 7 with variant reading: Pusht-i īn mushtī muqallid kham ki kardī dar rukūʾ, Dar bihisht ar na umīd-i qalya-u ḥalwāstī, which is almost identical to the reading of the oldest extant MS (i.e. India Office Library MS 132 = MS. sīn in the Mīnuwī/Muḥaqqiq edition (see p. 630)). Still another variant of the same verse is attributed to Nāṣir-i Khusraw in Haft Bāb-i Bābā Sayyidnā, tr. in Marshall G. S. Hodgson, The Order of Assassins: The Struggle of the Early Nizārī Ismāʿīlīs against the Islamic World (The Hague, 1955), p. 317 (referring to the text edited by Ivanow, Two Ismaili Treatises, p. 35); the verse reads as follows in Jalal Badakhchani‘s new forthcoming edition of Haft Bāb, p. 28: kas naburdī nām-i firdaws-i barīn-rā bar zabān, gar na bahr-i/ murgh-u nān-u kulcha-u ḥalwāstī. T. v. 38. Independently quoted variant by ʿAyn al-Quḍāt in Letter no. 87, Nāmahā, vol. 2, p. 219: ḥujjat-i amr-i khudāy ast ay pisar dar mard ʿaql, Amr az ū bar-khāstī gar ʿaql az ū bar-khāstī. Similarly, T. v. 40 has ḥujjat-u amr … bar mard. T. v. 39. T. v. 43 (var.). T. v. 44. T. v. 45. T. v. 46 (var., plus one additional verse 47). T. v. 48. T. v. 49. T. v. 50 (var.).

15

A Dream Come True: Empowerment Through Dreams Reflecting Fatimid– Sulayhid Relations1 Delia Cortese

The aim of this contribution is to revisit the early political history of the Sulayhid dynasty of Yemen (439–532/1047–1138). I will deal in particular with the dynamics that brought about the rise of an Ismaili dāʿī, ʿAlī b. Muḥammad al-Ṣulayḥī (d. 459/1067), from obscurity to become the founder of an important – yet short-lived – vassal dynasty in Yemen of the Shi‘i Ismaili Fatimid rulers of Egypt. If of limited consequence for the Fatimids per se,2 the narratives informing us of the relationship between the Sulayhids and their Egyptian masters played a foundational role in the Ṭayyibī Ismailis’ reconstruction of their own origins and of their sacred history as a distinctive branch of Ismailism.3 Here I will explore the relationship between ʿAlī al-Ṣulayḥī and his master, the Cairo-based imam-caliph al-Mustanṣir bi’llāh (d. 487/1094), as illustrated in narratives of dreams attributed to, and/or claimed to have been dreamed by, ʿAlī himself following the sudden death of his son and heir apparent al-Aʿazz (d. 458/1065).4 When contrasted with the portrayal of this master–vassal relationship featured in Ṭayyibī sources that cover the Sulayhids, these dream narratives provide us with some valuable insights. They show how, in the face of spatial and temporal distances, ʿAlī is portrayed as legitimising his political and spiritual charismatic credentials on the basis of a visionary proximity to the imam and how his authority as a ruler is ultimately endorsed by God. The narratives also show how ʿAlī is invested with the power to avert or discourage tribal dissent and to secure the genealogical transmission of his authority through his bloodline. The contextualised analysis of these dream narratives will serve as the basis for making some remarks on the Ṭayyibīs’ own understanding of their history and of the spiritual pedigree of their leaders.5 As Toufic Fahd puts 387

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it in relation to the function that dream narratives play vis-à-vis ʿAbbasid history, ‘The dream serves as a screen on which past history is projected, a history [that when the] chroniclers were unable to write [it] … they used the dream as a subterfuge for telling it.’ 6 The Sulayhid dream narratives on which this study is based form the text of a yet unstudied, unpublished manuscript (MS Ar.I. 1283) dated 1905, from the Zāhid ʿAlī collection of Ismaili manuscripts in the Library of The Institute of Ismaili Studies in London.7 There are four known extant manuscript copies of this text, but it was possible to consult only one manuscript for this paper.8 The manuscript used contains two narratives, the first entitled Qiṣṣat al-ruʾyā min wafāt al-walad al-sayyid al-fāḍil al-muʿtamad (‘The narration of the dream about the death of the son, the lord, the excellent, the reliable’) and the second Qiṣṣat al-ruʾyā al-thāniya (‘The narration of the second dream’). Both narratives are seemingly autobiographical in that ʿAlī al-Ṣulayḥī is shown to be both the dreamer and the narrator, writing in person or seemingly dictating his account to a hypothetical, unnamed scribe.9 In the broader field of Islamic dream tradition, ʿAlī’s dreams fall within the ruʾyā category, that is sleep visions that are believed to be true because – according to a commonly accepted Islamic belief – they are ultimately inspired by God.10 In turn, the word ruʾyā expresses three different kinds of experience: enigmatic, visionary and oracular.11 In mediaeval Islam, an epistemological classification of a dream image required – while considering a wide variety of criteria – an apparent understanding of hierognosis. The importance of the message conveyed in the dream would have to be proportional to the importance of the spiritual authority believed to have appeared in the dream or to have instigated the very occurrence of the sleep vision. In turn, the dreamer could see his social and cultural status enhanced on the basis of being ‘chosen’ as receiver of a sleep vision conveyed by a figure of authority.12 On that basis, the narratives discussed here reflect dreams that could – from an Ismaili perspective – be classed as being of the highest order, given that ʿAlī’s interlocutor is indicated as being no less than the Fatimid imam-caliph al-Mustanṣir in person.13 Of the several categories of dreams in the mediaeval Islamic context discussed by Gustave von Grunebaum, his category ‘dream as a tool of political prophecy’ is the most relevant here as it concerns predictions such as future political undertakings and achievements or the death of a ruler.14

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ʿAlī al-Ṣulayḥī’s dream world What follows is a paraphrased translation of both texts. The first account, which runs from fol.1b to fol.10b of the manuscript, begins with a long laudatory formula. Here the line of ʿAlī al-Ṣulayḥī’s spiritual pedigree, and, through that, his Shi‘i Ismaili credentials, can be retraced all the way back to the first Shi‘i imam, ʿAlī b. Abī Ṭālib. The account of the dream begins with the narration of an extraordinary event reported as having taken place during the night of 19 Ṣafar 458, that is twenty-eight days after the death of ʿAlī al-Ṣulayḥī’s son, the prince al-Aʿazz. That night ʿAlī al-Ṣulayḥī has a dream in which he sees himself in a vast house sitting in front of the imam-caliph al-Mustanṣir dressed in a bright white garment, and he is complaining to God and to the imam, asking why he deserves (5a) the sorrow caused by the death of his son al-Aʿazz. In the dream ʿAlī sees a broken pillar, a derelict house and desert behind the imam whose face shines like the sun, so much so that ʿAlī cannot withstand its light. During the vision the imam explains to ʿAlī that the broken pillar and its surroundings stand for al-Aʿazz and calls on ʿAlī, his wife (i.e. Asmāʾ bint Shihāb, d. 467/1074) and the rest of the believers not to despair. As the imam speaks (5b) light pours out of him, cascading like pearls and white sapphires. ʿAlī reaches over to him and embraces him. At this point the imam stands up and ʿAlī finds himself walking with him until they reach an incredibly big house which is a lush green. Inside it ʿAlī sees his other son (6a) ʿAbd al-Mustanṣir (that is, al-Mukarram) walking across gardens, wearing the most beautiful of green cloaks, surrounded by a group of thirty men from the Ḥimyārī, the Ḥijāzī and the Maghribī tribes. Al-Mukarram is seen leaning towards them (6b), smiling and laughing. His face is like the moon, with a brilliant light (nūr sāṭiʿ) shining between his eyes. Some 140 men and women, sitting in the house and the gardens, are also all clad in green cloaks. ʿAlī al-Ṣulayḥī asks al-Mustanṣir who those people are and the imam replies that those are the believers who obeyed him through ʿAlī [al-Ṣulayḥī], who did not oppose (lā yaʿsūka) ʿAlī and did not conflict with ʿAlī, and they are sitting at ease because of their obedience to God and to the imam through ʿAlī. ʿAlī’s son is their leader and intercessor. (7a) Al-Mustanṣir asks ʿAlī which of the two houses he thinks is best and ʿAlī replies that definitely the house in which his son al-Mukarram and the believers are is the best one. In that case, the imam says, ʿAlī should not to be upset since he, his wife and the believers are already in the house of goodness (dār khayr). The imam foresees lasting happiness for ʿAlī’s son and confirms that he is the leader of the believers. The imam lifts his head and invites ʿAlī to rejoice for what he has seen

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about his son and the believers and suggests that the perishing of al-Aʿazz was destined. ʿAlī should rejoice for that and announce the glad tidings to those believers who obey him. (8a) Al-Mustanṣir praises all those who obey God, him and ʿAlī, and instructs ʿAlī to be tolerant towards those who do not obey him and oppose him despite the imam’s love for them. ʿAlī sees al-Mustanṣir going through a magnificent, great door, and as he does so the door closes on that gathering of ʿAbd al-Mustanṣir and the believers. Beyond the door ʿAlī sees countless people, wrapped in red and yellow shabby clothes. (8b) Al-Mustanṣir says that those are the people among the Ḥijāzīs, the Ḥimyārīs, the Maghribīs and others from the people of the daʿwa who did not obey the imam’s command, were disloyal to ʿAlī and displeased the imam’s heart. They are the people of the daʿwa who took the oath of allegiance (dakhalū taḥta ʿahdī wa mīthāqī) to the imam but did not do what he had ordered through ʿAlī: those people are abominable and are excluded from the above-mentioned abode of bliss. The imam tells ʿAlī to warn them about what he has seen (9a) so that they may mend their ways. Al-Mustanṣir reiterates that whoever obeys ʿAlī obeys the imam and that what is ʿAlī’s is the imam’s. Whoever does not obey God and does not obey the imam, through ʿAlī, will incur what ʿAlī has seen happening to the disobedient ones from the people of the imam’s daʿwa, which the imam has placed under ʿAlī’s control. The imam has conferred on ʿAlī authority over them and invites him to warn them about what he saw and leave the proof (that is, to leave a record of the dream) of what he saw for the sake of the believers so that they will not decrease and the rebels increase. When ʿAlī begins to wake up15 he is still with the imam and does not part from him until he is fully awake. (9b) ʿAlī swears that the account is a faithful report of what he saw in his dream and poses the rhetorical question: Isn’t this dream, O Brothers, strong proof and wholesome wisdom for whoever is rightly guided? He swears that the imam ordered him to communicate it to believers and the infidels. The account of the second dream runs from fols 10b to 13b and is oracular in character. Having announced the matter of the first dream, ʿAlī states that he was confronted by doubters, accusing him of delusion and fabrication. He was just in the process of exhorting them to believe him when, during the second night after the night of the first dream, ʿAlī dreams once again of sitting in front of the imam who, looking at him, delivers a monologue, confirming and strengthening his message delivered in the first dream. He calls ʿAlī his servant, walī (lit. ‘friend’) and helper in the religion of God and the imam’s and in the sunna of

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the imam’s ancestor the Prophet of God and in the sunna of the imam’s ancestors after him. Al-Mustanṣir exhorts ʿAlī al-Ṣulayḥī to divulge, to the people of the daʿwa, to whoever is included in his ‘island’ (jazīra) and to those who have taken the oath to God and to him, what he had ordered ʿAlī to do in the first dream. In other words, he orders ʿAlī to take charge of the people of the daʿwa. Whoever agrees with ʿAlī and follows God, the imam and ʿAlī, and obeys ʿAlī in whatever he orders and abstains from what is abominable, he will partake of what the imam showed in relation to ʿAlī’s son al-Mukarram and the believers among the people of the daʿwa and those who responded to ʿAlī’s command. In contrast, (11b) for the minority who opposed ʿAlī and disobeyed him and falsely testified their faith, what God decrees for them is what the imam showed ʿAlī in the previous dream. There the people of the daʿwa were languishing in the desert, exposed to the sun, crucified naked and with their heads exposed, excluded from what is bestowed upon those who obey the imam, God and ʿAlī. (12a) The imam encourages ʿAlī to divulge the message with no fear as he has God by his side and he is an established ‘proof’ (ḥujja) of God and the imam. Whoever obeys him has blessings as shown bestowed on ʿAlī’s son and the obedient believers while those who deride him, oppose God, ʿAlī, and the imam will be damned. There is nothing else for ʿAlī to do but to warn the people of the daʿwa that whoever listens to his words, believes in his dream and follows his orders will prosper, be guided and succeed. Thus the second dream narrative ends. The text of these dream narratives is clearly legitimising in purpose and ideological in nature.16 It is intended to show its aimed audience that ʿAlī and al-Mustanṣir are close; that al-Mustanṣir has the Yemeni jazīra at heart and applies his gift of foreknowledge to forecast success for ʿAlī and his son al-Mukarram in that region;17 that al-Aʿazz was meant to die for the better good of Yemen in order for ʿAlī and his followers truly to succeed; that al-Mustanṣir confers on ʿAlī and his son both spiritual and secular authority to rule over the people of the daʿwa and the regions they aspire to control. We also learn about al-Mustanṣir’s decree that whoever obeys him and God via ʿAlī and, eventually, his son will be rewarded. However, whoever opposes him by opposing ʿAlī will be punished. On the basis of the narrative, ʿAlī’s leadership is shown to follow in a line of authority that ultimately stems from God and that, via al-Mustanṣir’s endorsement of al-Mukarram as successor, is meant to be perpetuated in the Sulayhid line. Through the account of his dreams, ʿAlī can be seen as receiving the imam’s endorsement in shifting the criterion for establishing the leadership of the Yemeni daʿwa from a form of appointment to a dynastic and

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genealogical mode. We can also infer from the tone of the text that people need some persuading to accept the appointment of al-Mukarram as ʿAlī’s successor; that there are dissenting Yemeni tribes which are against ʿAlī and which need to be warned of the consequences if they do not accept him; that some of the people of the daʿwa have been breaking the oath of allegiance and need to be alerted to the consequences. One should note the shift of emphasis between the first and second dream narrative. The second one reveals ʿAlī’s efforts to strengthen his claim to authority through the words of the imam. Both dream narratives ‘function as the displaced authority of the authorial “I”: what the author cannot say on his own authority, he can support with testimony from an outside source through the narration of a dream or vision’.18 As far as genre is concerned, these Sulayhid narratives display literary conventions which are consistent with those found across the entire spectrum of Islamic ‘political’ dream narratives.19 Here are some examples: planetary activity surrounding the body of the figures in authority appearing in the dream; the symbolic association of a light-face as characteristic of figures with special charisma; the ‘great house’ metaphor; the juxtaposition of landscapes; the distinctive clothing and colour symbolism. Unlike most mediaeval Islamic political and other dream narratives, ʿAlī’s narratives here are standalone accounts, that is, they do not reach us as part of broader texts or generic frameworks.20 For instance, mediaeval biographies, historiographies and chronicles often feature dream narratives that could serve as devices to further legitimise the spiritual and political authority of the master or masters in whose honour the chroniclers were writing. The Sulayhids did not last long enough to generate a tradition of ‘dynastic’ chroniclers. Nevertheless, as discussed later in this paper, accounts of ʿAlī’s dreams, other than those narrated in the Qiṣṣas, were to be integrated by the Ṭayyibī Ismaili historian-cum-dāʿī muṭlaq Idrīs ʿImād al-Dīn (d. 872/1468) in his ʿUyūn al-akhbār, in the section on al-Mustanṣir’s reign dealing with the rise to power of the Sulayhids. In most dream narratives, the interpretation of the dream (taʿbīr) forms a separate part of the account and involves the intervention of a ‘wise’ third party.21 Here instead ‘dream’ and ‘interpretation of the dream’ are accomplished within the dream itself. The interpretation of the dream is revealed as part of the same sleep vision. Moreover the ‘interpreter’ of the dream is the same authority that appears to ʿAlī, that is, the imam. This can be interpreted as a clear intent to add potency to the ideological character of the dream, to prevent accusations of misinterpretation and to

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ensure that the ‘correct’ interpretation of the dream is transmitted. ʿAlī al-Ṣulayḥī’s material world When contrasting the scenarios described as having taken place in ʿAlī al-Ṣulayḥī’s dream world with the salient events marking early Sulayhid history as presented to us by Idrīs ʿImād al-Dīn, we find that, in the material realm, ʿAlī’s relationship with the imam was far from being a consistently close affair as ʿAlī would have liked his contemporaries to believe. Reading through the lines of Idrīs’ account we gather that al-Mustanṣir’s initial attitude to ʿAlī could at best be described as one of laissez faire. ʿAlī had somehow to resolve the problems that the imam’s physical and emotional distance posed, in order not to see his spiritual and political credibility compromised in what amounted to a single-handed effort to reinvigorate the Yemeni Ismaili daʿwa which was languishing in a hostile and complex tribal environment. After more than a century of obscurity since the ‘glorious’ days of the first major phase of Ismaili activity in Yemen through the mission of the famous dāʿī, Manṣūr al-Yaman (d. 302/914), the Yemeni daʿwa resurfaced tentatively with a line of dāʿīs who proved ineffective at gaining the allegiance of the all-important Yemeni tribal rulers (mostly pro-Zaydī at this stage).22 It was eventually one of these dāʿīs, Sulymān b. Amīr al-Zawahī, who appointed ʿAlī al-Ṣulayḥī as his successor to lead the daʿwa in Yemen. ʿAlī eventually assumed the leadership towards the end of the reign of the imam-caliph al-Ẓāhir (d. 427/1036).23 In the late summer of 439/1047 ʿAlī is reported to have informed the imam-caliph al-Mustanṣir in writing of his intention to declare the Ismaili daʿwa openly in Yemen. Dutifully, al-Ṣulayḥī waited for the imam’s permission to act but Idrīs’ account of the events leads us to understand that an answer failed to arrive. In the meantime, ʿAlī and his supporters were threatened by tribal adversaries. It is in the context of this breakdown in communications that we are shown ʿAlī entering into oneiric contact with the imam. Idrīs ʿImād al-Dīn reports that al-Ṣulayḥī dreamed that al-Mustanṣir gave him the order to openly declare the Fatimid daʿwa and to build a fortress on the top of Jabal Masār. In the dream al-Mustanṣir also prophesied that al-Ṣulayḥī would one day control the entire province of Yemen. According to Idrīs’ account ʿAlī’s dream seems to have had the desired effect since he gathered support from various tribal groups and raised funds for supporting the Ismaili daʿwa. Ostensibly emboldened by his visionary endorsement, ʿAlī is reported to have written letters to the people of Ḥarāz to declare his intention to

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control the region.24 At long last, in early 440/1048 messengers returned from al-Mustanṣir to al-Ṣulayḥī confirming al-Mustanṣir’s order that the daʿwa in Yemen be openly proclaimed as well as his prophecy of victory.25 It took a further fifteen years for ʿAlī’s prophetic dream to come true, as it was only by 455/1063 that Ṣanʿāʾ and all of southern Yemen was under al-Ṣulayḥī’s control. The victory must have generated warm appreciation of ʿAlī on the part of al-Mustanṣir, since from this moment, having being a ‘mere’ dāʿī, ʿAlī was reappraised. In a letter of thanks from the imam he is described as ‘most sublime sultan, singular king, grand amir, support of the caliphate (ʿumdat al-khilāfa), crown of the regime, possessor of the two glories, sword of the imam, victorious in religion, the order of the believers’.26 Al-Mustanṣir had his reasons: it was during his reign from 433/1041 onwards that the Fatimid empire began to experience territorial decline, and apart from the brief capture of Baghdad in 449/1058, Fatimid dominion was on the downturn until ʿAlī’s success in Yemen. This province was to become the last significant territorial holding of the Fatimids and an essential outpost for the revival and redirection of the daʿwa and its ancillary activities, primarily trade. Presumably emboldened by his new status as sultan and king, ʿAlī appointed his son al-Aʿazz as his successor in the daʿwa, thus de facto transforming the nature of the Yemeni dāʿī-ship into a dynastic monarchy to be passed on through his bloodline.27 Idrīs ʿImād al-Dīn informs us that al-Mustanṣir agreed to al-Aʿazz’s appointment in a letter dated Rajab 456/June–July 1064.28 But, somewhat unexpectedly, on 22 Muḥarram 458/24 December 1065 al-Aʿazz died. In Ṣafar 458/January 1066 ʿAlī duly informed al-Mustanṣir of his sad loss and, hardly a month after receiving ʿAlī’s communication, the imam-caliph is reported to have replied with a letter, dated Rabīʿ I 458/January–February 1066, offering condolences to ʿAlī and enjoining him to appoint his other son, al-Mukarram, as his successor.29 However, according to the dating that Idrīs gives, this letter – entrusted to two Sulayhid messengers who were at the imam’s court at the time – appears not to have reached ʿAlī until a year later, that is in Rabīʿ II 459/February–March 1067.30 It is in the context of these postal ‘inconsistencies’ that the dream narratives ascribed to ʿAlī can be appraised as historiographical ‘gap fillers’, so to speak, and, ultimately, as Ṭayyibī foundational stories projected back in time to validate the Sulayhids as a dynasty endowed with a special spiritual and secular authority. As successors of the Sulayhids in the leadership of the Yemeni daʿwa, the Ṭayyibī

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leaders reworked their own spiritual pedigree retrospectively so as to substantiate their own claims as rightful leaders of the Ṭayyibī community. The dreams, ostensibly recorded by ʿAlī al-Ṣulayḥī a posteriori, are dated Ṣafar 458/January 1066 which is the same month when, Idrīs tells us, ʿAlī wrote to al-Mustanṣir to inform him of al-Aʿazz’s death. In filling the gap between the death of al-Aʿazz and the arrival of the envoys in Yemen confirming al-Mukarram’s succession, which was over a year long, the recording of the ‘true’ dreams served as: 1. A narrative device to give, retrospectively, greater weight and spiritual significance to the appointment of al-Mukarram as spiritual and political leader of the daʿwa, by presenting it as willed by the imam, rather than having occurred by default following the sudden death of the son ʿAlī had initially intended as his heir, the prince al-Aʿazz. 2. A device to voice the imam’s sanctioning of genealogical descent as an acceptable mode to determine al-Mukarram’s right to succeed ʿAlī al-Ṣulayḥī as leader of the Yemeni daʿwa, a role typically determined by appointment.31 3. Evidence for the existence of a metaphysical line of communication between ʿAlī and the imam whereby, when they cannot contact each other by letter, they can resort to oneiric encounters. 4. Evidence that ʿAlī possessed the gift of foreknowledge: after all – if we accept Idrīs’ dating – it was not until a year after the occurrence of the dreams that ʿAlī received al-Mukarram’s appointment as successor confirmed in writing by the imam. 5. As warning against religious and political dissent.32 In the light of what is reported by Idrīs vis-à-vis the circumstances of al-Mukarram’s designation as successor, one asks: why the need to record in writing ‘as proof for posterity’ such empowering dreams? In time – according to Idrīs’ sequence of events – ʿAlī did receive his much awaited letters of endorsement from the imam (not one, but two, one of which was addressed to al-Mukarram himself), reiterating his support for al-Mukarram and approving ʿAlī’s request to install his son as walī al-ʿahd. ʿAlī’s aspirations for his son came true: al-Mukarram’s appointment was publicly announced on 8 Jumādā I 459/27 March 1067 from the mosque in Ṣanʿāʾ.33 By this time, al-Mustanṣir had bestowed more titles on ʿAlī al-Ṣulayḥī and valued – to some extent encouraged – his endeavours to calm (or take advantage of) the politically volatile climate

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in Mecca. However, over the course of five years, the imam repeatedly turned down ʿAlī’s insistent requests to visit Cairo and to meet the imam in person.34 But on Dhu’l-Qaʿdā 459/September 1067, without having ever met al-Mustanṣir, en route to Mecca and still determined go to Cairo, ʿAlī was murdered. Considering the nature and charged content of the dream narratives analysed here, it is somewhat surprising to find that these Qiṣṣas, either in the form of quotations or references or extracts, have left no trace in Ṭayyibī literature and Ṭayyibī-related historiography. Particularly notable is their absence as a source for the fourth/eleventh-century anonymous author of the biography of al-Mukarram (Sīrat al-Malik al-Mukarram), who does quote the dreams of al-Ṣulayḥī but not those featured in the Qiṣṣas. Also Idrīs ʿImād al-Dīn, who in his ʿUyūn quotes the dreams featured in the Sīra, appears to have ignored the dream narratives presented in this paper. This conspicuous absence raises questions about the dating and attribution of these texts and, therefore, the ultimate function that these narratives were meant to perform for the audience they were written for.35 The legacy The recognition of the authority of the persons appearing in the sleep vision is the first crucial step towards the understanding of the dream and the weight to assign to it. However, the cognitive power of a dream does not rest on the belief that the dream may convey factual and objective data about the characters and events appearing in it. Rather it rests on the relevance that the recipient of the dream assigns to the information that the sleep vision conveys. The a posteriori quality implicit in the act of disseminating or publicising the content of a dream through a narrative indicates therefore that, at least in the eyes of the narrator, the dream’s cognitive force has collective relevance for the intended audience of his narrative. Who would have a ‘collective’ investment in the recording of ʿAlī’s powerful sign of the spiritual and secular endorsement of his authority, disseminated via the recording of his ‘true’ dreams? Since the first half of the sixth/twelfth century, the spiritual and secular leadership of the Ṭayyibīs of Yemen first, and then of the Ismaili Dāʾūdī Bohras of India, has rested on the figure of the dāʿī muṭlaq (lit. ‘absolute missionary’). This is a leader invested with supreme spiritual and secular authority to guide the Ṭayyibī community on behalf of the hidden Ṭayyibī imam. When retracing the origins of the spiritual credentials attached to the position of dāʿī muṭlaq, we observe a number of doctrinal ‘adjustments’

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that scholarly dāʿīs muṭlaq of the Ṭayyibīs had to make a posteriori in order to demonstrate a continuous link between their spiritual charisma and the spiritual authority of the Fatimid imams. The formation of the role of dāʿī muṭlaq as the spiritual leader of the Ṭayyibīs and their successors, mainly though not exclusively, passed on dynastically to this day, is said to have been masterminded by the widow of al-Mukarram, Queen Arwā (d. 532/1138). In 526/1132 she declared that the chief dāʿī of her time, al-Dhuʾayb b. Mūsā al-Wādiʿī al-Hamdānī (d. 546/1151), was dāʿī muṭlaq, thus marking the foundation of a distinctive Ṭayyibī daʿwa hierarchy and system in Yemen that would be independent from that in Cairo. In time the Ṭayyibī daʿwa also became independent of the Sulayhid regime which ended with the death of Queen Arwā. For a dāʿī muṭlaq to be able to claim the spiritual charisma attached to his role, it would be logical to expect that, in turn, the initiator of such a role, in this case Queen Arwā, would have a high spiritual status. This would grant this person the authority, albeit nominally, to take the initiative of forming an altogether new role in the daʿwa leadership. Indeed Queen Arwā stands out as a unique example in the history of Islam of a woman believed to have been formally bestowed with spiritual authority of the highest order. In fact, according to correspondence preserved in the Ṭayyibī tradition, the Fatimid imamcaliph al-Mustanṣir made the queen a ḥujja, the second highest spiritual rank after that of the bāb (lit. ‘gate’) who, as head of the central daʿwa, was next to the imam-caliph in the daʿwa hierarchy as structured at the time of al-Mustanṣir. The belief in the bestowal of the rank of ḥujja on Queen Arwā served to legitimise the spiritual ascendancy of the dāʿīs muṭlaq by situating the origin of their rank in a spiritually endowed source. 36 As an Ismaili denomination, the Ṭayyibīs of Yemen (and their successors in India) owed their origins to Queen Arwā and the fact that a large faction of her followers pledged their support, after the death of the Fatimid imam-caliph al-Āmir, to his infant son al-Ṭayyib as his rightful successor. This challenged the claims of the Ḥāfiẓī daʿwa in Cairo which defended the rights of al-Āmir’s cousin al-Ḥāfiẓ, who actually succeeded to the Fatimid caliphate. Al-Ṭayyib is believed to have died in infancy and the very evidence for his existence has been subjected to scrutiny.37 In any event, the elusiveness of al-Ṭayyib was ‘resolved’ by his supporters by resort to the doctrine of occultation. The belief in al-Ṭayyib’s concealment gave the Ṭayyibīs a name and a defined identity that would separate them doctrinally and politically from their Cairo-based rivals, the upholders of the Ḥāfiẓī imamate of the later Fatimids. But an occulted, infant imam would eventually be of little consequence to the Ṭayyibī leaders in terms

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of enabling them to link their spiritual pedigree to an explicit designation (naṣṣ) by an imam. The empowerment of the Sulayhids through the metaphysical transmission of spiritual and secular authority, from imam to dāʿī (and the subsequent elevation of the status of the dāʿī to monarch) as recounted in the dream narratives presented here would resolve this epistemological problem since it would make the emergence of the Ṭayyibī leadership, as spiritual and ideological successors of the Sulayhids, ultimately the outcome of a divine design. The redaction of these dream narratives could be therefore regarded as a late Ṭayyibī reconstruction, possibly dating to the period after Idrīs ʿImād al-Dīn. This was a time when Ṭayyibī history came to be marked by internal dissent and factionalism and, therefore, when laying claim to ‘the past’ by a faction must have been of paramount importance in defending its legitimacy against the claims of a rival group. The stories in the Qiṣṣas, whilst also serving as a severe warning against dissent, functioned as foundational political myths. Their role was to fill obscure gaps in the narrative of the resurfacing of the Ismaili daʿwa in Yemen and ‘resolve’ shifts in the quality of authority, from mundane to supernatural, first in the Sulayhid and then the subsequent Ṭayyibī franchising of the Fatimids’ distinctive brand of spiritual power. Notes 1.

2.

I wish to express my gratitude to the British Academy for awarding me an Overseas Conference Travel Grant that allowed me to present a paper based on this study at the Middle Eastern Studies Association (MESA) conference in Montreal, Canada, in November 2007. Previous to that event I presented preliminary remarks based on this research at the Colloquium on Egypt and Syria in the Fatimid, Ayyubid and Mamlūk Eras, University of Ghent, Belgium, in May 2007. I also owe my thanks to many friends and colleagues who greatly assisted me in developing and completing this work. I am particularly grateful to Professor Eric Ormsby, The Institute of Ismaili Studies, London, and Mr Alnoor Merchant, the Library of The Institute of Ismaili Studies, for facilitating my access to the manuscript on which this research is based. A big thank you goes to Drs Marzia Balzani and Simonetta Calderini, Roehampton University, London, Dr Iain Edgar, University of Durham, Professor Yehoshua Frenkel, University of Haifa, Professor Heinz Halm, University of Tübingen, and Professor Sholeh A. Quinn, UC Merced, University of California. While I have benefited from their invaluable advice in writing this paper, I am solely responsible for any shortcomings it might feature. The relationship between the Fatimids and the Sulayhids, is, by and large, ignored in contemporary Fatimid sources containing historical informa-

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4.

5.

6.

7. 8.

9.

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tion on the Fatimids and in later historiographies dealing with them. The Ṭayyibīs emerged, mostly in Yemen, as a faction that, upon the death of the Fatimid caliph al-Āmir (d. 524/1130), upheld the succession rights of his alleged son al-Ṭayyib against the claims of those who supported al-Āmir’s cousin, al-Ḥāfiẓ (d. 544/1149). The Ṭayyibīs believed that al-Ṭayyib went into occultation as an infant, thus initiating a period of ṣatr (concealment) that continues to this day. There is extensive academic literature dealing with dreams in Islamicate contexts. Among recent works see Louise Marlow, ed., Dreaming Across Boundaries: The Interpretation of Dreams in Islamic Lands (Cambridge, MA, 2008), and John C. Lamoreaux, The Early Muslim Tradition of Dream Interpretation (New York, 2002). Both publications provide comprehensive coverage and bibliography of previous scholarly work done on the subject. For other examples in Islamic historiography of dream narratives functioning as dynastic foundational stories to show how God singles out a specific person or family for future rule, see Sholeh A. Quinn, ‘The Dreams of Shaykh Ṣafī al-Dīn in Late Safavid Chronicles’, in Marlow, ed., Dreaming, p. 222. Toufic Fahd, ‘The Dream in Medieval Islamic Society’, in Gustave von Grunebaum and Roger Caillois, ed., The Dream and Human Society (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1966), p. 352. In this article, Fahd also highlights the ideological character of ʿAbbasid dream narratives as devices to reinforce the supernatural character of claimed political legitimacies and authority. In recent times, the ‘political’ power of dreams came to be questioned by senior Ayatollahs such as Abolfazl Moussavian in the context of Iran’s parliamentary elections of March 2008. See Roula Khalaf and Najmeh Bozorgmehr, ‘Qom Highlights Iran Power Battle’, The Financial Times (8 March 2008), http://www.ft.com/cms/s/0/067fa5c4-ecb3-11dc-86be0000779fd2ac.html. For a full description of the manuscript see Delia Cortese, Arabic Ismaili Manuscripts: The Zāhid ʿAlī Collection in the Library of The Institute of Ismaili Studies (London, 2003), no. 114, pp. 129–130. The known copies are in the following collections: (1) Zāhid ʿAlī, now in the Library of The Institute of Ismaili Studies; (2) Shaykh Muḥammad ʿAlī al-Hamdānī, Surat, India, now in the Abbas Hamdani Collection (still uncatalogued) recently donated to the Library of The Institute of Ismaili Studies; (3) Dāʾūdī Atbaʿ-i Malak Wakīl, Mumbai, India, transcribed from the collection of ʿAbd-i ʿAlī Imād al-Dīn; (4) the Library of the daʿwa, al-Khizāna al-ʿĀmira, Mumbai, being the Dāʾūdī Bohra literary heritage collection kept under the tutelage of the current dāʿī-muṭlaq, Sayyidnā Muḥammad Burhān al-Dīn. Within the corpus of early and mediaeval Islamic dream literature, autobiographical dream narratives are rare. John C. Lamoreaux, ‘An Early Muslim Autobiographical Dream Narrative: Abū Jaʿfar al-Qāyinī and his Dream of

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10. 11. 12. 13.

14. 15.

16. 17.

18. 19.

20. 21. 22. 23.

Delia Cortese the Prophet Muḥammad’, in Marlow, ed., Dreaming, p. 79. Toufic Fahd and Hans Daiber, ‘Ruʾyā’, EI2, vol. 8, pp. 645–649. Cf. Lamoreaux, The Early Muslims, pp. 84–85. Cf. Marlow, ed., Dreaming, p. 5. Shi‘i traditions rank at the same level the appearance in dreams of the Prophet or the imam. If either of them orders a ruler to do good the vision is automatically taken as a true one and must be accepted as genuine. Cf. Khalid Sindawi, ‘The Image of ʿAlī b. Abī Ṭālib in the Dreams of Visitors to His Tomb’, in Marlow, ed., Dreaming, pp. 187–188. Gustave von Grunebaum, ‘The Cultural Function of Dream as Illustrated by Classical Islam’, in von Grunebaum and Caillois, ed., The Dream, pp. 18–20. The indication of the exact timing of the occurrence of the dream is a typical device used to add a greater sense of veracity to the narrative. Cf. Lamoreaux, The Early Muslims, p. 83, on the significance of the hour of the night and even the season of the year in determining how seriously the dream ought to be taken. On the function of dreams as legitimising devices in Islamicate contexts see Leah Kinberg, ‘The Legitimization of the Madhāhib Through Dreams’, Arabica, 32 (1985), pp. 47–79. The theme of the imam-caliph al-Mustanṣir’s prodigious power of foreknowledge, pointing to the Ṭayyibī understanding of the predestined and supernatural nature of al-Mukarram’s succession to ʿAlī al-Ṣulayḥī, is also found in the fourth/eleventh-century Sīrat al-Malik al-Mukarram. This is the anonymous biography of al-Mukarram, where al-Mustanṣir is shown to have had knowledge of al-Aʿazz’s death before he was actually informed of it and to have sent a sijill of al-Mukarram’s appointment as successor before receiving a request from his father. See Mohammed Shakir, ‘Sīrat al-Malik al-Mukarram: an Edition and a Study’ (Ph.D. thesis, School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London, 1999), part 1, pp. 17–18; part 2, p. 6. Patricia Cox Miller as cited in Marlow, ed., Dreaming, p. 6. Cf. Sholeh A. Quinn, ‘The Dreams of Shaykh Safī al-Din and the Safavid Historical Writing’, Iranian Studies, 29 (1996), pp. 127–147; Iain R. Edgar, ‘The “True Dream” in Contemporary Islamic/Jihadist Dreamwork: A Case Study of the Dreams of Taliban leader Mullah Omar’, Contemporary South Asia, 15 (2006), pp. 263–272; Iain R. Edgar, ‘The Dream Will Tell: Militant Muslim Dreaming in the Context of Traditional and Contemporary Islamic Dream Theory and Practice’, Dreaming, 14 (2004), pp. 21–29. Cf. Marlow, ed., Dreaming, p. 10. Ibid., pp. 7–8. Farhad Daftary, The Ismāʿīlīs: Their History and Doctrines (2nd ed., Cambridge, 2007), p. 208. On the line of Yemeni dāʿīs before ʿAlī al-Ṣulayḥī and the circumstances of ʿAlī’s appointment to the leadership of the Yemeni daʿwa, see Ḥusayn F.

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25. 26.

27.

28. 29.

30.

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al-Hamdānī with Ḥasan S. Maḥmūd al-Juhanī, al-Ṣulayḥiyyūn wa’l-ḥaraka al-Fāṭimiyya fi’l-Yaman (Cairo, 1955), pp. 49–61. Idrīs ʿImād al-Dīn, ʿUyūn al-akhbār wa funūn al-āthār, vol. 7, ed. Ayman Fuʾād Sayyid, with summary tr. by Paul E. Walker and Maurice A. Pomerantz, The Fatimids and their Successors in Yemen: The History of an Islamic Community (London, 2002), pp. 33–35 English; pp. 5–11 Arabic. Ibid. Ibid., p. 38 English; p. 22 Arabic. According to the fourth/eleventh-century anti-Sulayhid author Muḥammad b. Mālik al-Ḥammādī al-Yamanī, gifts were exchanged at this point between ʿAlī al-Ṣulayḥī and al-Mustanṣir. ʿAlī sent to the imam-caliph 70 swords with agate hilts, 12 daggers with agate handles, 5 embroidered robes, as well as bowls and ring-stones made of agate, Kabulite myrobalans, musk and ambergris. In return, al-Mustanṣir, besides awarding ʿAlī governorship and titles, presented him with banners. See Muḥammad b. Mālik al-Ḥammādī al-Yamanī, Kashf asrār al-bāṭiniyya wa akhbār al-Qarāmiṭa, tr. Muhtar Holland as Disclosure of the Secrets of the Bāṭiniyya and the Annals of the Qarāmiṭa (Doha, 2003), pp. 124–125. The questions of the accommodations in the structure of the Yemeni daʿwa that resulted from this change in the nature of the Yemeni Ismaili religious leadership are partly discussed by Abbas Hamdani, ‘The Dāʿī Ḥātim Ibn Ibrāhīm al-Ḥāmidī (d. 596h/1199ad) and his book Tuḥfat al-Qulūb’, Oriens, 23–24 (1970–1971), pp. 262–263. He speculates about the reasons for the five-year mission at al-Mustanṣir’s court of the Yemeni Qāḍī Lamak, sent to Cairo by ʿAlī al-Ṣulayḥī in 454/1062. Hamdani suggests that the separation between religious and political leadership in Yemen was introduced by Lamak b. Mālik al-Ḥammādī during the reign of al-Mukarram. In his Tuḥfat al-qulūb, the dāʿī al-Ḥāmidī states that Lamak returned to Yemen from his mission having been nominated chief dāʿī by the imam-caliph. This appointment brought about an accommodation whereby al-Mukarram, who had inherited both the dāʿīship and the monarchy from his father, was made dāʿī with responsibility for the state while Lamak was dāʿī with responsibility for the daʿwa proper, that is the religious affairs. Idrīs ʿImād al-Dīn, ʿUyūn al-akhbār, p. 53 English; p. 99 Arabic. Shakir, ‘Sīrat’, part 2, p. 39, refers to a sijill (epistle) indicating Rabīʿ II 456/March 1064 as the date of ʿAlī al-Ṣulayḥī’s appointment of al-Aʿazz. At this point Idrīs ʿImād al-Dīn, ʿUyūn al-akhbār, pp. 53–54 English; pp. 98–101 Arabic, inserts the story mentioned earlier, taken from Sīrat al-dāʿī al-Mukarram al-Ṣulayḥī, where the imam-caliph al-Mustanṣir miraculously has knowledge of the death of al-Aʿazz before messengers from Yemen reach him in Cairo. Ibid. p. 55 English; pp. 102, 103 Arabic. The Fatimids relied primarily on pigeon homing and merchant networks for their postal needs rather than using a barīd (postal) system. This made the postal service somewhat unreliable and, especially, when using merchant networks, it is difficult to estab-

402

31.

32.

33. 34.

35.

36. 37.

Delia Cortese lish the average speed at which the distance between far-flung destinations was covered. On the Fatimid postal system see Adam J. Silverstein, Postal Systems in the Pre-Modern Islamic World (Cambridge, 2007), pp. 121–125. Hamdani, ‘The Dāʿī’, p. 278, stresses that prominent Fatimid and Ṭayyibī literature dealing with the organisation of the Ismaili daʿwa does not mention hereditary succession as a condition or qualification for holding the office of dāʿī. In time, however, the role of leader of the Ṭayyibī daʿwa, the dāʿī muṭlaq, became mostly dynastically transmitted. The history of the post-Ṣulayḥī Yemeni daʿwa is characterised by internal dissent. The Ṭayyibīs, who indeed emerged as a dissenting group, became spilt between the mid-sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries into disputing branches, namely the Dāʾūdīs, the Sulaymānīs and the ʿAlawīs. In turn, each of these groups experienced internal factionalism. Idrīs ʿImād al-Dīn, ʿUyūn, pp. 55–56 English; pp. 102–109 Arabic. These five years, from 454/1062 to 459/1067, coincide with the great famine and plague that hit Egypt during the reign of al-Mustanṣir. Abbas Hamdani suggests that ʿAlī al-Ṣulayḥī’s keenness to visit the imam during this time had had to do, among other reasons, with his ambition to appear in Egypt as saviour of the country, the role that the Armenian governor of Damascus Badr al-Jamālī was eventually to play in 466/1074. In response, the imam not only dissuaded ʿAlī from making the journey but, in a patent attempt to divert his attention elsewhere, he suggested that ʿAlī should conquer the Ḥaḍramawt. Hamdani, ‘The Dāʿī’, p. 261. The very concept of ‘authorship’ involved in the transference of the dream from an experiential level to become literary product raises questions as to the very idea of an ‘author’ of a dream narrative. See Norman N. Holland as cited in Marlow, ed., Dreaming, p. 10. Shakir, ‘Sīrat’, does not question the authenticity of ʿAlī al-Ṣulayḥī’s authorship of the Qiṣṣas, therefore dating the text to the second half of the fourth/eleventh century, part 2, p. 66 and p. 78. In the broader context of scholarly debates over the ‘authorship’ of mediaeval Islamic dream narratives, Hagar Kahana-Smilansky sustains the diverging view that ‘Prima facie there is no reason to doubt that an autobiographical dream is based on real experience’. Hagar Kahana-Smilansky, ‘Self-Reflection and Conversion in Medieval Muslim Autobiographical Dreams’, in Marlow, ed., Dreaming, p. 102. For a full discussion of Queen Arwā and the question of her ḥujjaship, see Delia Cortese and Simonetta Calderini, Women and the Fatimids in the World of Islam (Edinburgh, 2006), pp. 129–140. For a full discussion of the controversies surrounding the figure of al-Ṭayyib as successor of al-Āmir see Samuel M. Stern, ‘The Succession to the Fatimid Imam al-Āmir, the Claims of the Later Fatimids to the Imamate, and the Rise of Ṭayyibī Ismailism’, Oriens, 4 (1951), part 2, pp. 193–255; repr. in Samuel M. Stern, History and Culture in the Medieval Muslim World (London, 1984), article XI.

16

From the ‘Moses of Reason’ to the ‘Khiḍr of the Resurrection’: The Oxymoronic Transcendent in Shahrastānī’s Majlis-i maktūb … dar Khwārazm Leonard Lewisohn Introduction Born in 479/1086–1087 in the northern frontier of Khurāsān in Persia,1 ʿAbd al-Karīm Tāj al-Dīn al-Shahrastānī was the most important theologian in the Islamic philosophical tradition to renew and reinvigorate Ghazālī’s polemic against Avicennian Peripatetic rationalism.2 His education in the Islamic sciences was comprehensive, having studied with students of the great Sunni theologians, Imām al-Ḥaramayn al-Juwaynī (d. 478/1085) and the latter’s student Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī (d. 505/1111), in Nīshāpūr. His studies covered the fields of Qurʾanic exegesis (tafsīr), scholastic theology (kalām) of the Ashʿarī school and the Prophetic traditions (sing. ḥadīth). He learned jurisprudence (fiqh) under Abu’l-Muẓaffar Aḥmad al-Khawāfī, a pupil of Juwaynī. This study of Sunni traditionalism was also supplemented by attendance at the classes of the son of the famous mystic Abu’l-Qāsim al-Qushayrī (d. 465/1072) of Nīshāpūr, author of al-Risāla fī ʿilm al-taṣawwuf , ‘probably the most widely read summary of early Sufism’.3 During the second decade of the twelfth century ce, Shahrastānī held a chair at the celebrated Niẓāmiyya college in Baghdad for three years. Amongst his many pupils was the maternal uncle of the famous Shiʿi theologian Naṣīr al-Dīn al-Ṭūsī (d. 673/1274), who would later go on to teach Ṭūsī’s father. During the following decade, Shahrastānī took up a post in the chancellery of the Saljūq sultan Sanjar, which he maintained until he retired to his native village Shahrastān (currently in the Republic of Turkmenistan), where he died in 548/1153.4 Shahrastānī’s most celebrated work, the Kitāb al-Milal wa’l-niḥal,5 was a kind of encyclopaedia of religious ideas and denominations that 403

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was dedicated to analysing the various sects and religions of the world. The chapters of this work, as Guy Monnot observes, ‘as a carefully crafted whole … remained, until the eighteenth century, totally unique. They represent the high point of the Muslim histories of religion.’ 6 In respect to the esoteric traditions of Islam, perhaps the important aspect of this encyclopaedia is its discussion of extra-Islamic religious communities and faiths, in particular Zoroastrians, Jews, Manichaeans, Sabians and Arab pagan cults, not to mention Hindu sects and thinkers.7 Although an intense anti-philosophical polemic, particularly against Peripatetic rationalism, pervades most of his works, the most significant of these attacks is found in his Kitāb al-Musāraʿa (or Kitāb Muṣāraʿat al-falāsifa), a refutation of Avicenna.8 As an Ashʿarī theologian, Shahrastānī’s best-known work is his Kitāb Nihāyat al-aqdām fī ʿilm al-kalām,9 which addresses the full range of Muslim theological sects and denominational differences from a Sunni perspective. Despite his strong Ashʿarī theological background and staunch public affiliation with Sunnism, the significance of the presence of the numerous Ismaili terms, ideas, indications and allusions in his various works still remains puzzling.10 For instance, concerning Shahrastānī’s Qurʾanic commentary, Mafāṭīḥ al-asrār wa maṣābīḥ al-abrār,11 his largest work,12 estimated to be ‘equal, and sometimes superior to those of Ṭabarī or Rāzī in terms of precision, breadth, antiquity and variety of sources quoted’,13 a contemporary Iranian scholar wrote: By studying this work one becomes intimately acquainted with the basic ideas and thoughts of this great thinker, allowing us to conjecture that beneath the cover of his Ashʿarī and Shāfiʿī theology, he was not unacquainted with the teachings and esoteric hermeneutics (taʾwīlāt) of the Ismaili denomination.14 … It is probable that Shahrastānī followed their method, even if he did not allow himself to publicly declare himself a follower of the Ismaili faith.15

In this respect, it is important to note that the Shiʿi theologian Naṣīr al-Dīn Ṭūsī in his autobiographical work Sayr wa sulūk referred to him as dāʿī al-duʿāt,16 an Ismaili title meaning ‘the supreme missionary’. Shahrastānī’s Ismaili affiliation, if only on the basis of this assertion alone, is considered as confirmed beyond all reasonable doubt by many scholars,17 although by some it is still ‘treated with caution’,18 while others claim the title was ‘merely honorary’.19 But the fact remains that notwithstanding his Shāfiʿī Sunnism and his high rank in the Sunni community, in three of his works – his Qurʾan commentary, the Mafātīḥ al-asrār wa maṣābīḥ al-abrār (Keys

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to the Arcana and Lamps of the Godly), the Kitāb al-Muṣāraʿa, and the Majlis-i maktūb – are found signs of a definite predilection for aspects of Ismaili doctrine and thought. On the basis of these works, then, as Wilferd Madelung and Toby Mayer judiciously comment, ‘some of his core beliefs and religious thought’ could be described as Ismaili.20 Yet a study of Shahrastānī’s terminology, comparing it with that of other authors that influenced, and were influenced by, him – particularly the likes of Ghazālī and Ṭūsī – which would definitely resolve this ‘Ismaili issue’, is still lacking. Shahrastānī’s character typology of Moses and Khiḍr Shahrastānī’s only Persian work, Majlis-i maktūb-i Shahrastānī munʿaqid dar Khwārazm (A Public Lecture in a Congregation held by Shahrastānī in Khwārazm), contains a long esoteric commentary on the meaning of the story of Moses and Khiḍr from Q. 18:67–82.21 It is by far the most profound, lucid and beautiful commentary on the tale I know of, excelling any prose or verse commentary on the subject by any of the Sufis I have found to date. The profound meditative spirituality and the soaring visionary insights of Shahrastānī’s depiction of Moses and Khiḍr to my knowledge are not equalled by other commentaries on this tale in Persian literature.22 This work takes the form of a dissertative dialogue, in the Platonic sense, as between Socrates and some other disputant, with Khiḍr playing here the Socratic role. In Persian literature, this passage may also be compared to Rashīd al-Dīn Maybudī’s sublime depiction of the Qurʾanic story of Adam and the angels in his Qurʾan commentary, Kashf al-asrār, and to the account of the same legend given by Aḥmad Samʿanī (d. 534/1140) in his Rawḥ al-arwāh.23 At the same time, he opens up entirely new vistas to the reader on the meaning of time, eternity, sin, punishment, prophecy, sainthood and a host of other topics. Among its major themes, the treatise elucidates the concepts of creation (khalq) and the divine Command (amr); the role of angels in the hierarchy of the cosmos, the various stages of human evolution and the cycles of prophecy. The account of Moses’ abortive discipleship of Khiḍr given in Q. 18:65– 82 is well known and need not be repeated here. 24 For the purposes of the present essay, suffice it to say that in the Qurʾanic account there appear several fundamental motifs presented in succinct, almost epigrammatic, form that are later more fully deciphered and expounded by a host of authors from different schools of Islamic philosophy, theology and mysticism. The six most important of these motifs, to which nearly all Muslim

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authors allude when interpreting the tale, can be itemised under the following rubrics: 1. Esoteric knowledge. Khiḍr is the perfect mystic who is both adept at and possessor of ‘esoteric knowledge’ (ʿilm-i ladunī) or knowledge by divine inspiration, as the Qurʾan says: We have taught him knowledge proceeding from us (ʿallamnāhu min ladunnā ʿilman, Q. 18:65). 2. Character typology. In Islamic mystical and philosophical texts, Moses and Khiḍr represent two fixed, stock character types: rationalist theologian vs. inspired saint. Khiḍr is thus a symbol of the inspired divine knowledge which transcends time, space and causality, while Moses personifies pedestrian reason bound to regulations based on hair-splitting sharī‘a rationalism and kalām theology. 3. In Sufi psychology, Moses represents human reason, fantasy, nomocentric legalism and prophecy, while Khiḍr symbolises divine inspiration, the higher intuitions of metaphysical imagination, sainthood, the esoteric faith and the Religion of Love. 4. The spiritual guide. Khiḍr symbolises the spiritual guide par excellence, whether this be the Ismaili imam/ḥujjat/the Sufi master; Moses typifies the wavering follower (murīd) of the imam/ḥujjat/the Sufi master. 5. Paradoxical behaviour. Khiḍr’s paradoxical behaviour and shocking actions are always allegorically interpreted as expressive of hidden spiritual meanings decipherable by hermeneutical exegesis (taʾwīl). 6. Immortality and transcendence of temporality. In a number of commentaries on the tale, Khiḍr represents a knowledge of eternity that transcends temporal duration and soars beyond the mutable transient sphere of all that which is past, present or to come. Khiḍr is immortal according to legend, having drunk of the water of life in the land of darkness and is more or less identical to the prophet Ilyās (Elijah). Although all six motifs are present in Shahrastānī’s account, there will not be enough space to explore them all in this chapter, so only those motifs most immediately relevant to the subject under discussion will be examined below. Here it is necessary to give an overview of the seven basic theological/theosophical notions that appear in Shahrastānī’s character sketches of the personalities of Moses and Khiḍr in the Majlis. The following summary should provide a useful itemisation of the basic themes that the text presents:

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1. Moses represents a black-and-white, sharīʿa-centric viewpoint, vainly attempting to strictly weigh Khiḍr’s actions in the balance of Islamic Law, on the supposition that iniquity is solely determined by disobedience and probity by obedience to that Law. 2. Moses inhabits the realm of doubt and vague suspicions (shakk u shubhat), whereas Khiḍr dwells in the realm of certitudes (yaqīn). 3. Moses inhabits the narrow temporal realm divided up artificially into past, present and future. From Khiḍr’s standpoint, such temporal distinctions are irrelevant since he considers the past, present and future to be ‘all one’. Khiḍr claims that time and space obey his dictates, and maintains that the judgements he passes cannot be subjected to any temporal or spatial conditions. 4. Khiḍr’s knowledge hails from the realm of the Oxymoronic Transcendent where contraries embrace and merrily court each other side by side. Moses’ mind is blind, unable to fathom how the unifying force of divine love can blot out these contraries, so that Khiḍr’s paradoxes only arouse in him further indignation and perplexity. 5. Khiḍr’s judgement relies on divine foreknowledge (ʿilm), and his teaching (taʿlīm) is based on a symbolic, esoteric hermeneutics (taʾwīl) which gives him an insight into the original gist and intent of every word or deed. All events have already been finalised and actualised (mafrūgh), says Khiḍr, who sees everything impending and in an inchoative state (mustaʾnaf ) as having already occurred – the future and the past being for him illusory divisions of a single, undivided temporal structure. 6. For Moses, there do not seem to be any explicitly clear ethical values underlying Khiḍr’s judgements. Khiḍr explains himself in an ex cathedra manner as follows: ‘in the realm of causelessness (ʿālam-i bī-sababī), judgements are made without any (underlying) causes; judgements are made according to the Command (farmān).’ The terms amr or farmān (divine order) in Shahrastānī’s lexicon draw on both Ismaili and Ghazālian terminology, referring to a realm outside space and creation that is the original homeland of the divine spirit (rūḥ), the spiritual world composed of celestial intelligences.25 This realm is always contrasted to the mutable realm of material creation (khalq),26 the realm of cause and effect (ʿālam-i sabab) in which Moses remains stranded. 7. The theory of the two rulings or rules (ḥukm) as elaborated by Khiḍr to Moses, relates, in the first place, to the world of becoming which is impending or inchoative (mustaʾnaf ) and yet is to be fulfilled, so

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Leonard Lewisohn that its judgements are based on Canon Law (sharīʿa). The second rule concerns what has been preordained in eternity where judgements are based on a clairvoyant foreknowledge of the resurrection (qiyāmat). According to the second rule, all temporal actions and events have already been elaborated, actualised (mafrūgh) and completed. Mafrūgh and mustaʾnaf are well-known terms in the Ismaili lexicon. Jalal Badakhchani points out that, The terms ‘primordial decree’ (ḥukm-i mafrūgh) and ‘subsequent decree’ (ḥukm-i mustaʾnaf ) are related to the notions of ‘primordial past’ (mafrūgh), i.e. the realm of predestination, and ‘subsequent future’ (mustaʾnaf ); i.e. the realm of free will. According to Shiʿi theology, mankind dwells between these two realms. … [so that] a person’s spiritual perfection depends on divine grace as well as personal effort. Shahrastānī, in his commentary on the Qurʾan, dedicates an entire chapter to the explanation of these principles.27

So mustaʾnaf signifies the realm of the law, which is in a condition of constant change and becoming, and mafrūgh alludes to the rule of the resurrection which has already been achieved and actualised through preordained destiny (taqdīr).28 Moses typifies the Muslim jurist who judges matters strictly by the sharī‘a; Khiḍr typifies the judge whose decisions rest on a vision of the laws of eternity. As Khiḍr explains to Moses, ‘I am a judge (ḥākim) whose rule is over the eternally actualised, while you are a judge whose authority is over what is impending and inchoative. I am a man of spiritual hermeneutics (mard-i taʾwīlam); you are a man of literal exoteric religion (mard-i tanzīl). I pass judgement over and command the esoteric interior reality of things (bāṭin); your mandate is over exoteric external phenomena (ẓāhir).’ 29 Shahrastānī on Time, Eternity and the Oxymoronic Transcendent Besides the strongly worded Shiʿism of the Majlis,30 one also finds a great many Ismaili technical terms in it: in fact, there are many of exactly the same terms that later appear in Ṭūsī’s great Ismaili philosophical text, the Taṣawwurāt (or Rawḍa-yi taslīm).31 The most important of these terms, mentioned in the fifth and seventh points above, are mafrūgh and mustaʾnaf, both of which relate to the theory of the two rulings or rules. Mafrūgh refers to the eternal decree that has already been elaborated, actualised and conclusively terminated by God. Whereas in the sphere of mafrūgh everything has already been predetermined, having literally

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‘undergone the resurrection’ already, everything is mutable in the realm of the inchoative (mustaʾnaf), which is that of impending or incipient degree still in the process of becoming (mustaʾnaf ), and which belongs to the domain of human laws.32 In his Qurʾanic commentary, Shahrastānī contrasts the exoteric exegesis of the Qurʾan (tafsīr) to its esoteric interpretation or taʾwīl. He notes that while the exoteric exegesis is focused on temporal concerns conditioned by events still in flux (mustāʾnaf ), the science of taʾwīl focuses on hermeneutics, which is the knowledge of archetypal meanings or intelligible realities (maʿanī) pertaining to the eternal verities of Providence that are already effectively completed and ‘foreclosed’ (mafrūgh).33 If we examine the structure of reality and time/eternity as outlined in the Majlis, we find, altogether, three realms: 1. The first pertains to the realm of becoming (mustāʾnaf ) where everything is subject to the realm of exoteric time in which consequences have causes, wages demand prior work, and punishment is occasioned by sin. 2. The second is an eternal and timeless realm, which Shahrastānī calls ‘the world of causelessness’ (ʿālam-i bī-sababī). In this realm, the resurrection has already occurred. 3. The third and last realm pertains to what I have termed the ‘Oxymoronic Transcendent’ because it can be explained only in surrealistic, often literally absurd, images which take the form of either literary oxymora, or else apparently senseless statements, that is to say, paradoxes. The ‘Oxymoronic Transcendent’ uses a numinous symbolic language drawn from scripture and poetry to express a natural language of spiritual knowledge which, to our modern sensibility at least, blind to the language of myth and symbol and nurtured on Protestant iconoclastic materialism, appears meaningless.

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Leonard Lewisohn Diagram 1: Shahrastānī and the Oxymoronic Transcendent Shahrastāni’s Three Realms of Time and Eternity: Exoteric, Esoteric and the Oxymoronic Transcendent

1. The Realm of Causes (ʿālam-i sabab) The Teachings of the Law of Moses (taʿlīm-i ẓāhir-i sharīʿat) The Realm of Causes and Consequences Work and Wages – Sin and Punishment Temporal Change, Becoming, Mutability ḥukm-i mustaʾnaf kawn-i mushābahat ḥukm-i ẓāhir qāḍī-yi sharīʿat = mard-i tanzīl = Mūsā 2. The Realm of Causelessness (ʿālam bī-sababī) The Esoteric Lore of Khiḍr (taʾwīl-i bāṭin-i qiyāmat) The Realm of the Divine Command and Providence Wages without Work, Harmonious Maturity of Acts The Immutable Conditions of Timeless Eternity ḥukm-i mafrūgh kawn mubāyanat ḥukm-i bāṭin qādī-yi qiyāmat = mard-i taʾwīl = Khiḍr 3. The Realm of the Oxymoronic Transcendent: The Coincidentia Oppositorum of Time and Eternity The Angel: One Half Made of Fire, One Half Made of Snow The Gazelle: One Half Cooked and One Half Raw Shahrastānī uses two oxymora to describe this realm. The first concerns the Prophet’s image of an angel that God created half from fire and half from snow. Yet, the fire does not melt the snow nor does the snow extinguish the fire, God having united together fire and snow. The second image, which he explicitly identifies with the first image, is that of a living gazelle, one half of which is cooked, and the other half raw. Khiḍr is able to eat of the cooked side, but Moses cannot, being forced to make a fire for himself to cook the raw side.34 Shahrastānī’s explanation of the oxymoron of the angel in his Mafātīḥ al-asrār in this context merits citation: [Examining] the image of the angel, half of which was fire and half of which was ice, [it should be understood that] the fire side relates to what

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has been already actualised and consummated (mafrūgh), and the ice side to what is still in the process of becoming (mustaʾnaf ). Just as fire does not melt ice nor ice extinguish fire, likewise the rule of what is already actualised and consummated does not invalidate the rule of what is still in the process of becoming. Therefore the Prophet of God transposed those speculations [made by Abū Bakr and ʿUmar] to that ‘angel’. Then, when they requested him to set the matter straight, after the decree [was given by the Prophet], they asked, ‘If the matter is finished with, then what is action for?’ and he replied, ‘Act! For all is disposed towards what it has been created for.’ Thus, he ruled in favour of both their judgements, since his statement ‘Act!’ alludes to the rule of what is still in the process of becoming, and his saying that ‘all is disposed towards what it has been created for’ alludes to the rule of what has been already actualised and consummated.35

In short, the nature of Khiḍr’s realm can only be expressed by paradoxes and transcendent oxymora. The oxymoron of the gazelle, one side cooked and one side uncooked, depicts Khiḍr’s situation perfectly. The gazelle itself symbolises the present moment which flies past too quickly for mortal men to catch; its uncooked side is the past that seems unbaked and which cannot be eaten in any case; its cooked side is the future which is already roasted and ready for consumption for the immortal man, Khiḍr. Moses is stranded unbaked in the past, he doesn’t understand what is happening, that is, he cannot catch up with (the gazelle’s fleeting past) the present moment, much less comprehend the baked side of eternity’s sunrise, where the future has already been actualised. In the wider context of world mysticism, it should be stressed that this oxymoronic realm is a commonplace in mystical, particularly Spanish Catholic, literature as well. St Teresa of Avila (d. 1582), the famous Carmelite mystic, expresses the connection between the fire of love’s divine passion and the water of love’s grief (tears) as follows: If the water which falls on our fire comes from heaven, it will not extinguish it; it will rather quicken it. The fire and water are not opposites, but come from the same land. Do not be afraid that one element will destroy the other; on the contrary, each helps the other achieve its effect. The water of true tears – tears which are shed in real prayer – is a gift of the King of Heaven and this water makes the fire burn with a stronger and lasting flame. The fire, in turn, helps the water in its cooling. O my God! How beautiful, how wonderful it is, that fire should cool.36

Khiḍr’s/ Shahrastānī’s penchant for these literary oxymora is typified by the following passage:

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Leonard Lewisohn I [Khiḍr] reside in the realm of causelessness (ʿālam-i bī-sababī), where I am delegated to represent what is cooked and mature. I act as an envoy of that which was eternally actualised (niyābat-i mafrūgh), so I demand that my food be cooked. In my world, all deeds, all affairs are matured and seasoned. All trees swarm with fruit and those fruits all are ripe and mature. All beings have already been. All intelligences have already become perfectly developed and mature. All souls have reached the peak of perfection. All temperaments have realised harmony and balance …

Shahrastānī’s allegory of Moses and Khiḍr: Between Ismailism and Sufism It cannot be disputed that Shahrastānī’s analysis of the story of Moses and Khiḍr in the Majlis is, to a large degree, based on Ismaili doctrines. Diane Steigerwald is entirely right to argue that ‘in order to understand the deep meaning of this story, it is necessary to understand Khiḍr’s status in Nizārī Ismaili philosophy. Then everything becomes clear in Shahrastānī’s exposition.’ 37 She elaborates this basic thesis as follows:38 In Nizārī Ismailism, Khiḍr has the status of ḥujjat,39 as opposed to the speaking Prophet (nāṭiq), the ḥujjat-i imām is infallible.40 His knowledge is of divine nature, since he benefits from the divine assistance (taʾyīd).41 He is the epiphany of the universal intellect (ʿaql-i kullī) in this physical world. For this reason Shahrastānī describes Khiḍr as being beyond time and space, as having his judgement based on divine knowledge (ʿilm) and divine will (mashiyyat), as being the governor of the accomplished world since his essence is perfect as the intellect (ʿaql).42 The intellect’s level in the Fatimid Ismaili hierarchy is often associated with the divine Word.43

This Ismaili theory of the immaculate imam and his immediate spiritual double, the ḥujjat, was further elaborated in later Nizārī Ismaili doctrinal works of the Anjudān period in Iran, in particular in the treatise Faṣl dar bayān-i shinakht-i imām by Khayrkhwāh-i Harātī (d. after 960/1553). In this work, the ḥujjat appears as ‘a divinised Sufic pīr’.44 The ḥujjat is also explicitly excused from following any of the commands of the sharīʿa; in fact, part and parcel of the truth (ḥaqīqat) that he manifests lies in the fact ‘that he absolutely does not observe the prescriptions of the sharīʿa’.45 His behaviour in this respect has distinct similarities to Khiḍr’s antinomian morality in the Qurʾanic account. However, although the equation that ‘Khiḍr = the Ismaili ḥujjat’ may be true in the denominational sense of the word, to interpret Shahrastānī’s

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vision of Khiḍr’s esoteric personage entirely as a disguised Ismaili allegory of the mystical hierarchy of adepts, as I hope to show below, simplistically restricts the broader, cosmopolitan scope of Shahrastānī’s theosophical references. Ismaili esoteric doctrines do not really explain every detail in Shahrastānī’s portrayal of Khiḍr’s strange apophatic theology. Despite the quite substantial and solid evidence advanced by scholars such as Farhad Daftary 46 and Diane Steigerwald to prove, in her words, that ‘Shahrastānī clearly belongs to the Nizārī Ismaili tradition’,47 the ‘Sufi colouring’, as Steigerwald calls it, of the figure of Khiḍr is undeniable.48 In this connection, it should be mentioned that later Ismaili authors of the Mongol and Timurid period drew heavily on Sufi poets and ideas to buttress and expound their own beliefs, as can be seen in Khayrkhwāh-i Harātī’s own citation of several verses from Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī’s Mathnawī 49 regarding the superiority of Khiḍr to Moses when he tries to explain the Ismaili idea that all references to the prophets and Paradise in the Qurʾan should be allegorically interpreted as indicating the ḥujjat.50 Since Shahrastānī’s hermeneutical exegesis of the figures of both Khiḍr and Moses is heavily coloured by current and antecedent depictions of these figures in the Persian Sufi tradition, in what follows I will briefly draw attention to some of these portrayals, citing Shahrastānī’s own exposition wherever possible, while mentioning the six above-cited motifs utilised by Muslim interpreters of the tale. Regarding the motif of character typology, in the Majlis Shahrastānī identifies the knowledge of Moses as restricted and confined to legalistic matters pertaining to Canon Law, a view, of course, not particular to him, but held in common with many of the earliest Sufis, such as Abū ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Sulamī (d. 412/1021),51 as well as Sufis of the later classical period, such as Ibn ʿArabī (d. 638/1240) in particular.52 Moses thus appears as representative of a purely exoteric viewpoint (ẓāhir) of the letter of the divine revelation (tanzīl), and the lore of Khiḍr, ‘un personnage énigmatique’,53 is characterised as one who ‘passes judgment on and commands the esoteric interior reality of things (bāṭin)’. As Khiḍr announces to Moses, ‘I am a man of spiritual hermeneutics (mard-i taʾwīlam); you are a man of literal exoteric religion (mard-i tanzīl).’ Regarding the motif of the spiritual guide, in the Persian Sufi tradition the Sufi master’s purported infallibility vis-à-vis his disciples derives directly from the same chapter and verses of the Qurʾan concerning the tale of Moses and Khiḍr, i.e. Q. 18:67–82.54 He also has cosmological functions reminiscent of the concept of the Perfect Man in Sufism, the insān kāmil being identified by Ibn ʿArabī as a majmaʿ al-baḥrayn (the place

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where the two seas meet, Q. 18:61).55 This conventional doctrine is contradicted by the paradoxical fact that in the Sufi esoteric hierarchy, Khiḍr occupies a position that actually transcends the rank and role of the Sufi master (shaykh, pīr, murshid), insofar as he is the supreme master of all those who refuse to adopt – or who at least claim under the mantle of his investiture to be able to dispense with – any human master, by tracing their ṭarīqa affiliation trans-historically directly back to him.56 Thus he is the sole initiatory figure in the history of Sufism to stand outside the cumulative religious tradition of Islam, his mortality pre-dating and his immortality transcending normative historical prophetology. For this reason, he is not a figure easily integrated into Sufi doctrinal tradition. He rather hovers in an imaginal space beyond chronological time, from whence his paradoxical presence pervades the entire hiero-history of Islamic mysticism. I think it is wrong, nonetheless, to argue – as did Massignon – that Khiḍr’s uniquely elevated position in Sufism allows the mystic to completely dispense with prophecy,57 since most Sufis were always careful to point out the theological absurdity of the view which would interpret Khiḍr’s superiority to Moses implying the pre-eminence of the cycle of Sufi sainthood (wilāyat) over the prophetic tradition (nubuwwat). As Abū Naṣr Sarrāj al-Ṭūsī (d. 378/988) in his Kitāb al-Lumaʿ put it: The prophets have an understanding of the rank of messengership (risālat) and prophethood (nubuwwat) while the saints have not any such expertise. If even one intelligential ray of the Mosaic light had shone upon Khiḍr, he would have been utterly annihilated. God, however, did not vouchsafe Khiḍr this degree so that Moses would be made purer and more elevated. Strive to understand this point, so you may apprehend how it is that sainthood (wilāyat) and friendship with God derives all its illumination from the lights of prophethood (nubuwwat), to which it never may attain. So how can saintship ever be considered superior to prophethood? 58

The point made by Sarrāj al-Ṭūsī here is that Moses’ outward humiliation was actually a kind of esoteric elevation – one might here recall certain Sufi masters such as Bāyazīd who professed themselves to have received nuggets of true wisdom from cats or dogs, although no one of course would ever dream of entering the names and biographies of such creatures alongside the masters themselves in the history books. Likewise, whatever the virtues of walāyat that set it apart from – and occasionally above – nubuwwat, the superior qualities of the prophet always upstage whatever inclusive virtues are possessed by the saint.

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A similar interpretation was advanced two centuries later by Rashīd al-Dīn Maybudī (d. 520/1126) in his celebrated Sufi commentary on the Qurʾan, when he glossed Q.18:65–66 with this explanation: Beware! Do not imagine that just because Moses was sent back to school to be the student of Khiḍr, that Khiḍr thereby was his better. Certainly not! Never! For – after Muḥammad – there has never been a prophet of such expansive disposition nor one so intimate with God as was Moses. However, Khiḍr functioned as a forge of ascetic discipline for Moses. The case resembles one who wishes to refine and purify silver, to which purpose he lights a fire in the forge so that the superiority of the silver over the fire beneath the forge – rather than the forge’s fire over the silver – becomes apparent.59

In respect to the motif of esoteric knowledge in Islamic mysticism, one of the most interesting aspects of Khiḍr’s virtues is the fact that the knowledge he communicates is always characterised by a certain strangeness and paradox, especially when his lore is contrasted and compared to the sober logocentrism and temporal, legalistic truths of prophets such as Moses. In the psychology of Sufism in particular, the characters of Moses and Khiḍr came to function as motifs that exemplified the differences between the conjectural faculty that operates by vain opinion (wahm) – which is, as Shakespeare says, ‘but a fool, that makes us scan/The outer habit for the inward man’ 60 – and the clairvoyant understanding based on divine revelation (wahy) and which is infused with mystical ‘inspiration (ilhām)’.61 Rūmī thus diagnoses Moses’ objections to Khiḍr as typical of the distortions of the human conjectural faculty: Moses was afflicted with fantastic vana opinio and weak vis aestimativa; hence, ‘despite all his brilliance and art (bā hama-yi nūr u hunar)’,62 the higher insights of Khiḍr to him remained concealed. Defending the slaying of the boy by Khiḍr, Rūmī remarks that since the saint is ‘a recipient of the divine revelation and one whose prayers are answered (waḥy u jawāb), whatever he does or says is the essence of truth’. Even murder may thus be justified because ‘he is the hand of God (ū dast-i khudā’st)’.63 In contrast to Moses’ misconceptions based on fantasy, the spiritual level of Khiḍr, Rūmī remarks, corresponds to the degree of Muḥammad’s spirit of prophecy (rūḥ-i waḥy), which is beyond, and invisible to, human reason.

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4. The Realm of the Logos (martaba-yi rūḥ-i waḥy) Esoteric Knowledge of Experiential Visionary Realisation (ʿālam-i taḥqīqī) The Harmony of the Apparent Incongruity of Khiḍr’s Actions Comprehended by the Prophet’s/Prophetic Spirit or Logos ʿilm-i Khiḍr ʿilm-i ḥāl rūḥ-i waḥy shuhūd ʿālami-i Muḥammad ghayb 3. The Realm of Human Reason (ʿālam-i ʿaql) Exoteric Traditional Knowledge Based on Servile Imitative Following of Religious Precedent and Authority (ʿilm-i taqlīdī) The Realm of Moses, Who is Perplexed by the Apparent Incongruity of Khiḍr’s Actions ʿilm-i Mūsā rūḥ yā jān-i ḥayawānī ḥukm-i bāṭin 2. The Realm of the Human Vital Spirit (ruḥ-i ḥayawānī, i.e. anima bruta) ruḥ-i ḥayawānī jān-i makhfī 1. The Material, Physical Realm of the Body (jism-i ẓāhir) Parenthetically, it should be noted here that this is more or less the same view propounded by Shahrastānī (and later by Khayrkhwāh-i Haratī who cites Rūmī’s Mathnawī to defend the rank of the ḥujjat as equivalent to that of Khiḍr)65 when he asserts that Khiḍr’s spiritual degree hails from the realm of causelessness (ʿālam-i bī-sababī), whence the clairvoyant adept perceives consequences before their physical causes become actually manifest. When Moses objects to Khiḍr’s justification of the murder of the boy – that he is pre-destined to become a heretic when he grows up (‘How can you ordain a heresy to be present, or judge that an act of infidelity has taken place, when no act of infidelity itself has been committed?’) – Khiḍr retorts by saying that the knowledge he possesses embraces all Providence, irrespective of time past or time present: In the realm of causes (ʿālam-i sabāb), causes occur before judgements about them, but in the realm of causelessness (ʿālam-i bī-sababī), judge-

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ments are made without any (underlying) causes; judgements are made according to the Command (farmān);66 they are made according to knowledge (ʿilm), and according to the disposition of Providence (mashiyyat). ‘So this is what divine Providence has ordained for you, it is not Your speech (qawl). It is by Your divine will, without interdiction.’ That which is apparent and known has been already ordained (in pre-eternity), and that which is intended to be has already been fixed by decree.

Rūmī’s psycho-spiritual analysis of Khiḍr’s preposterous and perplexing conduct in this respect echoes Shahrastānī’s theodicy here: The intellect of the Prophet was not veiled to anyone, but his spirit of prophecy could not be grasped by just every soul. His spirit of prophecy has its own type of harmonious congruity that is incomprehensible to reason, for it is exceptionally exalted. Sometimes the rationalist regards that spirit as madness, sometimes he is perplexed and bewildered by it, since he is prevented from understanding until he actually becomes it. This situation resembles the harmony and concord underlying the conduct of Khiḍr, before which Moses’ intelligence was troubled. Khiḍr’s actions all seemed lacking in congruity and harmony to Moses because Moses did not possess his mystical state (ḥāl).67

Rūmī explains here that the harmony of the spirit of divine revelation (rūḥ-i waḥy munāsibhā’ast) possessed by the prophets is invisible and in fact inaccessible to ordinary rational modes of perception. In the tenth section of the third chapter of Najm al-Dīn al-Rāzī’s (d. 654/1256) manual of Sufi doctrine, the Mirṣād al-ʿibād – which is an exposition of the Sufi master–disciple theory inspired by the scriptural account of the Khiḍr–Moses relationship – Moses’ lack of insight and lack of mystical consciousness is explained as deriving from literalism. Moses’ exoteric logocentric understanding fails to comprehend that certain truths must remain ultimately ineffable. For the purposes of understanding Shahrastānī’s vision of Khiḍr’s apophatic theology at least, what he explains about the ineffability of Khiḍr’s esoteric vision here is quite significant. There is no doubt, Rāzī underlines, that Moses communed directly with God, that he heard and in fact spoke to God, which is why he is termed ‘the one who spoke to God’ (kalīm Allāh) in the Islamic tradition. The most famous of the various Qurʾanic verses attesting to Moses’ capacity for supernatural interlocution concerns the oxymoronic image of the burning bush that hailed Moses from the right side of the valley, announcing, ‘I am God’ (Q. 28:30). Yet despite his reception of such divine

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communications, Moses still lacked Khiḍr’s inner vision. Rāzī explains this by asserting that his communion was still veiled by the intermediation (wāsiṭa) of words and speech, and so lacked perfection. The pre-eminence of Khiḍr’s vision, on the other hand, derived from its ineffability and the transcendence of the literal letter of revelation: The speech of God, it should be understood, is beyond letters, sounds or voice. Moses was only able to hear God by mediation of letters, sounds or voice. If he had been able to hear God without the mediation of these things, he would not have been ordered to keep the company of Khiḍr.

The term ‘intermediation/intermediary (wāsiṭa)’ here is of fundamental significance. Moses’ theology belongs to the literal form of external religion; compared to Khiḍr he incarnates a spiritual comedown or declension into religious dogma (tanzīl). It is for this reason that Shahrastānī’s Khiḍr rebukes Moses as being merely a mard-i tanzīlī, someone who has remained stuck in the lower domain of positive religion, and so is unable to comprehend the highest reaches of negative contemplation. Rāzī, likewise, explains this aspect of Moses’ spiritual limitation in the following passage in which he tells us that the Khiḍr’s pre-eminence in knowledge lay in his ‘submitting to being taught from the divine presence without any intermediary (taʿallum-i ʿulūm azḥaḍrat bī-wāsiṭa)’, And that [pre-eminence] can only be realised when the blemish and stain of all the spiritual, intelligible, traditionally narrated sciences as well as what is learned through the senses/sensory experience (ʿulūm-i rūḥānī u ʿaqlī u samʿī u ḥissī) is washed clean from the slate of the heart. For as long as there is any trace of these types of sciences left as a mark upon the heart’s slate, they will preoccupy the heart and hinder its capacity to receive knowledge directly from the divine presence without any intermediary. Although Moses had acquired knowledge of the Torah, his knowledge was still obtained by the intermediary of the stone tablets: And we inscribed for him, upon the tablets. [Q. 7:145] So, one of the benefits in keeping the company of Khiḍr for Moses lay in his becoming disposed and susceptible to receive the divine writ directly from God in his heart without the inconvenience of reading those stone tablets.68

In a word, as can be seen from the various Sufi exegeses (Sulamī, Maybudī, Rūmī, Rāzī) of the story cited above, Shahrastānī’s exegesis of the Moses and Khiḍr legend in the Majlis shares much in common with traditional Sufi hermeneutics. Even if much of his terminology may be of Ismaili provenance, his exegesis owes just as much to the mystical culture of the

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Persian Sufi tradition as to the theology of classical Ismailism. From Shahrastānī’s Khiḍr to Shelley’s Ahasureus In the foregoing section, I have drawn attention to some of the key Sufi interpretations of Moses’ literal-minded exoteric personality, Khiḍr’s enigmatic character and esoteric lore, and indicated how the motifs of their character psychology, Khiḍr as the spiritual guide, Khiḍr’s esoteric knowledge and the Sufi psychology of both figures in the Islamic mystical tradition can aid our understanding of Shahrastānī’s literary portrayal and metaphysical allegory of their relationship, and also place his Majlis in the broader context of mystical Islam. However, Shahrastānī’s visionary insights into Khiḍr’s deeds and words also belong to the far more significant and yet broader context of comparative world mysticism and literature, to which I would here like to draw attention. As will have been noticed by the discerning reader, in the last section little was mentioned about the motif of Khiḍr’s immortality in the Sufi tradition. It is to this aspect of his character that I would now like to turn in what follows, endeavouring to show the timelessness of his character as he appears under the guise of Elijah in the poetry of William Blake and the figure of the mysterious Wandering Jew who is named Ahasureus in Shelley’s epic poem Hellas. To introduce these literary comparisons it will be useful first to refer to Henry Corbin’s and Carl Jung’s interpretations of this motif, which assist us in understanding the motif of his immortality within wider spiritual and intellectual contexts. Shahrastānī characterised Khiḍr as a transcendent being of immortal vision who is beyond place and time, situated in the realm of the ‘resurrection of the life hereafter’ (qiyāmat). Khiḍr exemplifies the esoteric dimension (bāṭin) of the adept who understands the Scripture through its inner hermeneutic exegesis (taʾwīl). As Henry Corbin explains: Khiḍr initiates Moses ‘into the science of predestination’. Thus he reveals himself to be the repository of an inspired divine science, superior to the law (sharīʿa); thus Khiḍr is superior to Moses in so far as Moses is a prophet invested with the mission of revealing a sharīʿa. He reveals to Moses precisely the secret, mystic truth (ḥaqīqa) that transcends the sharīʿa, and this explains why the spirituality inaugurated by Khiḍr is free from the servitude of the literal religion.69

In his commentary on Q. 18:65–82, Carl Jung touches on perhaps the most fascinating aspect of Shahrastānī’s vision of Khiḍr’s personality, namely

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the motif of immortality and transcendence of time. Jung also draws attention to the motif of the spiritual guide, underlining that the psychological function of Khiḍr is as being a symbol of the initiate’s higher immortal Self: ‘He is analogous to the Second Adam. … He is the counsellor, a Paraclete, “Brother Khiḍr”. Anyway Moses accepts him as a higher consciousness and looks up to him for instruction.’ 70 Jung identifies Khiḍr with the fish which Moses’ servant, while travelling, had left behind at the place where the two seas meet (Q. 18:61), and which then miraculously revived and found its way into the ocean. It is at this juncture in the story that Khiḍr appears, which makes him ‘mysteriously connected with the disappearance of the fish. It looks almost as if he himself had been the fish. … Where the fish disappears, there is the birthplace of Khiḍr. The immortal being issues from something humble and forgotten, indeed, from a wholly improbable source. This is a familiar motif of the hero’s birth and need not be documented here.’ 71 Jung concludes that both tales in this Qurʾanic Sura – of Moses and his servant (Joshua ben Nun), and of Moses and Khiḍr – are connected to the symbolism of rites of death and rebirth. Khiḍr functions as a projection of the timeless sense of immortality that is realised during this experience: The intuition of immortality which makes itself felt during the transformation is connected with the peculiar nature of the unconscious. It is, in a sense, non-spatial and non-temporal. … The feeling of immortality, it seems to me, has its origin in a peculiar feeling of extension in space and time.72

Setting aside the obvious theological differences between Jung’s archetypal psychology and traditional Islamic metaphysics, the motif of immortality to which Jung draws attention clearly illuminates the psychological effect one experiences when reading Shahrastānī’s dramatic literary evocation of the soaring flights of Khiḍr’s meditations on the laws of eternity that never deign to condescend to solve the petty moral and religious dilemmas of this lower temporal realm. Shahrastānī evokes this motif of immortality in the Majlis using well-known Nizārī Ismaili terminology, viewing Khiḍr as an adept in the mysterious and timeless ‘justice of the resurrection’ that occurs at the end of time.73 And (as Jung postulated) the figure of Khiḍr portrayed by Shahrastānī likewise functions as a symbol of the self’s immortality, alluding to the motif of an esoteric knowledge that is beyond time and space. In a key passage, we read how Khiḍr rebukes Moses for his purely mundane orientation:

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Yesterday, today and tomorrow are all temporal: they all pertain to time. And you, of course, being a temporally-bound man, a man of ‘the times’, you pass judgement according to ‘the times’. But I am not a ‘man of the times’: yesterday, tomorrow and today to me are all one. Whatever shall come into existence in the future has already occurred for me. The tyrant who ‘shall come in the future’ has already visited me. The infidelity of that child, that is bound to occur, has for me already happened. The wall that shall crumble for me has already fallen down. Therefore, I don’t pass judgement according to ‘the times’, for the judgement I pass is not a temporal one; it transcends time. You must spend an entire year wandering about to find me, whereas I can find you instantaneously, in a single moment travelling from East to West. Time and Space obey my dictates. I transcend Space and Time, so that all the judgements I pass are not subject to temporal or spatial conditions, nor pertain to what is temporal.74

Having shown, I hope, how Jung may help to illuminate Shahrastānī’s exegesis of the motif of immortality in this tale, I will now conclude by turning to an important literary parallel to Khiḍr in English romantic literature, which sheds even more light on this motif. Percy Bysshe Shelley (d. 1822) was an unrivalled master of mythological themes and complex symbolic figures, in the handling of which he stands with Spenser, Milton, Blake, Coleridge and Keats above all other English poets except Shakespeare.75 He was profoundly learned not only in the Platonic tradition (having translated the Symposium from Greek into English), but was well versed in Indian, Kabbalistic and Hermetic works of metaphysical gnosis. Furthermore, he was deeply influenced by Persian Sufi poetry, having composed imitations of some of the ghazals of Ḥāfiẓ.76 It is thus entirely in order to compare his type of Platonic hermeticism with traditions of Islamic gnosis such as Shahrastānī’s as well as works in the Sufi tradition. The comparisons about to be made are also particularly apt insofar as Shelley’s verses cited are spoken by the figure of the Wandering Jew – Ahasureus – who has also sometimes been conflated with Khiḍr by Muslim authors.77 In the poem, Ahasureus addresses a Muslim sultan – Mahmud – whose kingdom in Greece (and hence the title of Shelley’s dramatic poem: Hellas) is on the verge of being overthrown. Many of the motifs attributed to Khiḍr in Islamic literature also typify and characterise Ahasureus. Like Khiḍr, Ahasureus possesses esoteric knowledge: he is famous for having ‘attained sovereignty and science/Over those strong and secret things and thoughts/Which other fear and know not’.78 Ahasureus is described as one who dwells in a sea cavern79 which, in symbolic terms, is the same mythological realm of impenetrable darkness to which Khiḍr is associated by legend.80 As with Khiḍr, the motif of

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immortality also characterises Ahasureus. Just as with Moses’ pursuit of Khiḍr’s esoteric lore, Sultan Mahmud seeks the wisdom of Ahasureus in order to reveal the future of his temporal worldly kingdom to him, believing him to be an expert in the art of prognostication. As we read the following oracular utterance of Ahasureus, the Wandering Jew, it is clear that it expresses perfectly, albeit by poetic paraphrase, Shahrastānī’s/Khiḍr’s evocations of a timeless wisdom for which ‘yesterday, tomorrow, and today … are all one’. Like Shahrastānī’s dramatic speeches addressed to Moses in the Majlis and put into Khiḍr’s mouth, Ahasureus’ predictions to Sultan Mahmud are all couched in confusing paradoxes describing the weird realm of the Oxymoronic Transcendent. His pronouncements astonish and confound the worldly Mahmud. Asking the Wandering Jew to predict the outcome of his next battle, Ahasureus replies Sultan! Talk no more Of thee and me, the future and the past; But look on that which cannot change–the One, The unborn and the undying. Earth and Ocean, Space, and the isles of life or light that gem The sapphire floods of interstellar air, This firmament pavilioned upon chaos, With all its cressets of immortal fire, Whose outwall, bastioned impregnably Against the escape of boldest thoughts, repels them As Calpe the Atlantic clouds–this Whole Of suns, and worlds, and men, and beasts, and flowers, With all the silent or tempestuous workings By which they have been, are, or cease to be, Is but a vision; all that it inherits Are motes of a sick eye, bubbles, and dreams; Thought is its cradle and its grave, nor less The future and the past are idle shadows Of thought’s eternal flight–they have no being; Nought is but that which feels itself to be.81 Mistake me not! All is contained in each. Dodona’s forest to an acorn’s cup Is that which has been or will be, to that Which is–the absent to the present, Thought Alone, and its quick elements, Will, Passion, Reason, Imagination, cannot die; They are what that which they regard appears,

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The stuff whence mutability can weave All that it has dominion o’er–worlds, worms, Empires, and superstitions. What has thought To do with time, or place or circumstance? Wouldst thou behold the future?–ask and have! Knock and it shall be opened–look and lo! The coming age is shadowed on the past As on a glass.82

Ahasureus’ message of timeless universal wisdom beyond the reach of human reason and imagination is more or less identical with the transcendental truths spoken by Khiḍr in Shahrastānī’s exegesis of Q. 18:65– 82, representing the same prophetic voice of truth surpassing the vagaries of conventional morality and the vicissitudes of temporal truths. To my mind, perhaps the most significant philosophical aspect of Shahrastānī’s imaginary dialogue between Moses and Khiḍr is his emphasis on the Sufi motif of Khiḍr’s immortality, his transcendence of ‘all that mutability holds sway o’er’, as Shelley says. Shahrastānī’s use of Ismaili terminology to expose and expound this fundamental theme of comparative world mysticism not only enriches the Islamic tradition but, if interpreted in terms of the kind of prophetic consciousness found in the poetry of a Blake or a Shelley, proves indeed that the figures of Idrīs (Enoch/Hermes), Ilyās (Elijah), Jesus and Khiḍr, who are often viewed in the Islamic tradition as prophets withdrawn from the eyes of men and who inhabit the hidden realm (ghayb),83 are still actually eternally living beings, regardless in which religious spheres their literary incarnation may appear today. Perhaps this is the message of Blake’s verses: Los84 is by mortals nam’d Time, Enitharmon85 is nam’d Space: But they depict him bald & aged who is in eternal youth All powerful and his locks flourish like the brows of morning: He is the Spirit of Prophecy, the ever apparent Elias. Time is the mercy of Eternity; without Time’s swiftness, Which is the swiftest of all things, all were eternal torment. All the Gods of the Kingdom of Earth labour in Los’s Halls: Every one is a fallen Son of the Spirit of Prophecy.86

In its imaginative scope and philosophical depth – with Moses and Khiḍr debating a series of wide-ranging themes encompassing the literal revelation of external religion (tanzīl) vs. its esoteric exegesis (taʾwīl), freewill vs. predestination, the causeless truths of eternity vs. the temporal laws of this world – Shahrastānī is stunning in his daring and depth. In the end,

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Khiḍr’s apparently irrational abrogation of religious laws is shown to be an exact mirror-image of the wild events that took place in Moses’ own youth. The ever-living sage’s conduct is thus justified on solid scripturaltheological grounds and pedagogical principles by Shahrastānī, and even analysed in terms of the psychology of Moses’ personality! 87 With its startling insights, Shahrastānī’s treatise remains an illuminating commentary on the Moses–Khiḍr legend that is unequalled in the annals of Persian literature. This work is a wonderful example of how the ‘sober’ Muslim theological imagination can scale the peaks of apophatic theology, articulating the same ecstatic insights that one normally associates only with the likes of ‘drunken’ Sufis such as Manṣūr al-Ḥallāj, Rūzbihān Baqlī or Rūmī. Notes Guy Monnot, ‘al-Shahrastānī’, EI2, vol. 9, p. 214. Most of the circumstances for Shahrastānī’s biography can be found in Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt al-aʿyān wa anbāʾ abnāʾ al-zamān, ed. Muḥammad Muḥyī’l-Dīn ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd (Cairo, 1367/1948), vol. III, pp. 403ff. (no. 583); tr. William MacGuckin de Slane, Ibn Khallikān’s Biographical Dictionary (Paris, 1892–1897), vol. 2, pp. 675f. 2. Henry Corbin, Histoire de la philosophie islamique (Paris, 1964), pp. 261–262. 3. Annemarie Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam (Chapel Hill, NC, 1975), p. 88. 4. Guy Monnot, ‘al-Shahrastānī’, EI2, vol. 9, p. 215. 5. Shahrastānī, Kitāb al-Milal wa’l-niḥal, ed. William Cureton (London, 1842– 1846); tr. Adbul-Khaliq Kazi and J. G. Flynn as Muslim Sects and Divisions in Kitāb al-Milal wa’l-Niḥal (London, 1984); French tr., Daniel Gimaret, Jean Jolivet and Guy Monnot, Livre des religions et des sects (Louvain, 1986– 1993); Persian tr. by Muṣṭafā Khāliqdād Hāshimī (wr. 1021/1612) in Sayyid Muḥammad Riḍā Jalālī Nāʾīnī, ed., Tawḍīḥ al-milal: tarjuma-yi Kitāb al-Milal wa’l-niḥal (Tehran, 1358 Sh./1979). 6. Guy Monnot, ‘al-Shahrastānī’, EI2, vol. 9, p. 216. 7. Shahrastānī’s section on Hindu and Buddhist sects and schools (‘Ārāʾ al-Hind’) from the Milal was translated by Bruce Lawrence as Shahrastānī on the Indian Religions (The Hague, 1976). 8. Shahrastānī, Kitāb al-Muṣāraʿa al-falāsifa, ed. and English tr. Toby Mayer and Wilferd Madelung as Struggling with the Philosopher: A Refutation of Avicenna’s Metaphysics (London, 2001). 9. Shahrastānī, Kitāb Nihāyat al-aqdām fī ʿilm al-kalām, ed. and tr. Alfred Guillaume as The Summa Philosophiae of al-Shahrastānī (London, 1934). 10. See Sayyid Muḥammad Riḍā Jalālī Nāʾīnī, Sharḥ-i ḥāl wa āthār-i Ḥujjat 1.

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11.

12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21.

22. 23.

24.

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al-Ḥaqq Abu’l-Fatḥ Muḥammad b. ʿAbd al-Karīm b. Aḥmad Shahrastānī, bih inḍamām-i Majlis-i maktūb-i Shahrastānī (Tehran, 1343 Sh./1964), pp. 9–10. Shahrastānī, Tafsīr al-Shahrastānī al-musammā Mafāṭīḥ al-asrār wa maṣābīḥ al-abrār, ed. Muḥammad ʿAlī Ādharshab, vol. 1 (Tehran, 1997); repr. 2008, with different pagination in 2 vols. (vol. 1: Q.1–Q.2:123; vol. 2: Q. 2:124–286); this full commentary is not extant, and the existent MS only covers the first two suras of the Qurʾan; a facsimile edition was published in Tehran in 1368 Sh./1989; English trans. by Toby Mayer as Keys to the Arcana: Shahrastānī’s Esoteric Commentary on the Qur’an: A Translation of the Commentary on Sūrat al-Fātiḥa from Muḥammad b. ʿAbd al-Karīm al-Shahrastānī’s Mafātīḥ al-asrār wa maṣābīḥ al-abrār (London, 2009). See Jalālī Nāʾīnī, Sharḥ-i ḥāl, p. 47. Guy Monnot, ‘al-Shahrastānī’, EI2, vol. 9, p. 216. Jalālī Nā’īnī, Sharḥ-i ḥāl, p. 47. Jalālī Nāʾīnī, Sharḥ-i ḥāl, p. 51. See also Diane Steigerwald, Majlis: Discours sur l’Ordre et la création (Quebec, 1998), p. 26. See Naṣīr al-Dīn Ṭūsī, Sayr wa sulūk, ed. and tr. S. Jalal Badakhchani as Contemplation and Action: the Spiritual Autobiography of a Muslim Scholar (London, 1998), p. 26, sec. 26. Ibid., Badakhchani’s tr., pp. 55–56, note 4; Jalālī Nāʾīnī, Sharḥ-i ḥāl, p. 51. For the number of other scholars who also support the thesis that he was a crypto-Ismaili, see Diane Steigerwald, Majlis, pp. 23 and 58, notes 58–61. Guy Monnot, ‘al-Shahrastānī’, EI2, vol. 9, p. 216. Mayer and Madelung, Struggling with the Philosopher, Introduction, p. 6. Ibid, p. 4. Shahrastānī, Majlis-i maktūb-i Shahrastānī munʿaqid dar Khwārazm; the Persian text has been published twice – first, on the basis of a single manuscript in Tehran, in Sharḥ-i ḥāl, ed. Jalālī Nāʾīnī (Tehran, 1343 Sh./1964), and then using two manuscripts in Dū maktūb, ed. Jalālī Nāʾīnī (Tehran, 1369 Sh./1990). Diane Steigerwald reprinted this latest edition in her Majlis, with a parallel French translation accompanied by a comprehensive introduction on Shahrastānī’s life and theological thought. Steigerwald, Majlis, Introduction, pp. 29–31, provides a brief overview of some Sufi accounts of the tale, but a proper survey of authors who have written on this subject remains to be done. See William C. Chittick, ‘The Myth of Adam’s Fall in Aḥmad Samʿanī’s Rawḥ al-arwāḥ’, in Leonard Lewisohn, ed., The Heritage of Sufism. Vol I: Classical Persian Sufism from its Origins to Rumi (Oxford, 1999), pp. 337–359. This is not the place to enter into an exhaustive study of (a) the role of al-Khiḍr/al-Khaḍir/al-Khaḍīr in early Near Eastern mythology, or (b) the place of Khiḍr in later Qurʾan commentaries, nor (c) his role in later Islamic esotericism. For (a), see Arent J. Wensinck, ‘al-Khaḍir’, EI2, vol. 4,

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25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30.

31.

32.

33. 34.

35.

Leonard Lewisohn pp. 902–905; for an interesting, albeit somewhat superficial, account of (c), see Peter Wilson, Sacred Drift (San Francisco, 1993), pp. 138–146; idem, ‘The Green Man: The Trickster Figure in Sufism’, Gnosis Magazine (Spring, 1991), pp. 22–26. Steigerwald, Majlis, Introduction, p. 35. Ibid., pp. 27–28, 34–39. S. Jalal Badakhchani’s comment in Ṭūsī, Contemplation and Action, p. 70, n.39. Cf. Steigerwald’s discussion of these terms, Majlis, Introduction, p. 47. Nāʾīnī, Sharḥ-i ḥāl, p. 33; Steigerwald, Majlis, Persian text and French tr., p. 105. For instance, Shahrastānī writes: ‘The monotheist (muwaḥḥid) can be clearly discerned and separated from the polytheist (mushrik) by the (profession of faith) “There is no deity but God” (Lā ilaha illā Allāh); the Muslim is divided from the infidel (kāfir) by his acknowledgment that “Muḥammad is the Prophet of God”, but the faithful believer (muʾmin) and the hypocritical believer (munāfiq) will go either to Paradise or Hell depending on their love for or hatred of ʿAlī’; see Nāʾīnī, ed. Sharḥ-i ḥāl, p. 20; Diane Steigerwald, tr., Majlis, p. 94 (Persian text and French tr.). Other terms adopted by Ṭūsī in his Taṣawwurāt from Shahrastānī’s lexicon included ‘the realm of illusory similitudes (kawn-i mushābahat)’, which he contrasts to ‘the realm of clear discrimination and distinction (kawn-i mubāyanat)’; see Nāṣir al-Dīn Ṭūsī, Rawḍa-yi taslīm, ed. and tr. by Sayyad Jalal Badakhchani as Paradise of Submission: A Medieval Treatise on Ismaili Thought (London, 2005), pp. 43, 44, 53, 57, 61–64, 78, 116, 121. Any future study of the genesis and development of Ismaili terminology in Saljūq and Mongol Persia would do well to concentrate on such key terms in Shahrastānī’s esoteric lexicon. Elaboration of these terms can be found in Shahrastānī’s Mafātīḥ al-asrār, pp. 185–186=facsimile edition, pp. 21 (b)–23 (b); see also Mayer, Keys to the Arcana, Arabic text pp. 55–60; tr. pp. 113–118; see also Steigerwald, Majlis, Introduction, p. 27; Mayer, Keys to the Arcana, Introduction, pp. 28–30. Shahrastānī, Mafātīḥ al-asrār, vol. 1, p. 179. I am indebted to Dr Toby Mayer for drawing my attention to this passage; see Mayer, Keys to the Arcana, Arabic text p. 50; tr. p. 108. This story is repeated by ʿAzīz Nasafī (d. between 1281 and 1300) in his ‘Treatise on the Meaning of Heaven and Hell’ (Risāla dar biyān bihisht va dūzakh)’, in Majmūʿa-yi rasāʾil mashhūr bih Kitāb al-Insān al-kāmil, ed. Marijan Molé as Le Livre de l’homme parfait (Kitâb al-Insân al-Kâmil): recueil de traités de soufisme en persan (Tehran, 1379 Sh./2000–2001), pp. 299–310. Shahrastānī, Mafātīḥ al-asrār, vol. 1, ch. 10, p. 185. I am indebted to Dr Toby Mayer for drawing my attention to, and translation of, this passage (which I have considerably modified); for his own translation see Mayer, Key to the

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Arcana, p. 114. 36. Teresa of Jesus, Camino de perfección, in P. Silverio de Santa Teresa, ed., Obras de Sta. Teresa de Jesús (Burgos, 1916–1919), vol. 3, p. 102; cited by Eleanor McCann, ‘Oxymora in Spanish Mystics and Metaphysical Writers’, Comparative Literature, 13 (1961), pp. 21–22. 37. Diane Steigerwald, ‘The Divine Word (Kalima) in Shahrastānī’s Majlis’, Studies in Religion/Sciences Religieuses, 25 (1996), p. 341. 38. Since her assertions are based on precise Ismaili sources which are integral to her argument, her four footnotes in this quotation are also reproduced here as nos 39–43 below, in a modified style. 39. Khayrkhwāh-i Harātī, Qiṭaʿāt, in the lithographed edition by Sayyid Munīr Badakhshānī, Kitāb-i Khayrkhwāh-i Muwaḥḥid Waḥdat (Bombay, 1333/1915), sect. 27, fol. 22; see Henry Corbin, Trilogie ismaélienne (Paris and Tehran, 1961), p. 31, n.18. 40. Abū Isḥāq Quhistānī, Haft Bāb, p. 50, and Khayrkhwāh-i Haratī, Kalām-i Pīr, ed. Wladimir Ivanow (Bombay, 1935), p. 94; the latter is apparently a plagiarised version of Quhistānī, Haft Bāb (see Daftary, Ismaili Literature, p. 124). 41. Khayrkhwāh-i Harātī, Faṣl dar bayān-i shinākht-i imām wa ḥujjat, ed. Wladimir Ivanow in ‘Ismailitica’, Memoirs of the Asiatic Society of Bengal, 8 (1922), p. 23, fol. 15v; this work was also translated by Ivanow as On the Recognition of the Imam (Bombay, 1947). 42. Seyyed Hossein Nasr, Ideals and Realities of Islam (London, 1975): ‘The first being in the created order is the First Intellect, or Universal Intellect, which is identified with the Divine Word. It is a reality that at once veils and reveals the Supreme Name, Allah’, p. 167. 43. Steigerwald, ‘The Divine Word’, pp. 342–343. Elsewhere (Majlis, Introduction, p. 46) she notes: ‘In order to fathom the profound meaning of this story, we must understand the status Khiḍr has in Ismaili gnosis, and then, as if by magic, everything becomes clear in Shahrastānī’s argument, which leads one to the belief that he was an Ismaili. Khiḍr, in Nizārī Ismailism, has the status of ḥujjat-i imām (proof of the imam), who is second in importance after the imam. Unlike to the Speaker-Prophet (nāṭiq), the ḥujjat is infallible, thus resembling the Perfect Man (al-insān al-kāmil) of the Sufis. He is the place of the manifestation (maẓhar) of the Universal Intellect (ʿaql-i kullī).’ 44. Ivanow, On the Recognition of the Imam, Introduction, p. 10. 45. Harātī, tr. Ivanow, On the Recognition of the Imam, p. 43 (fol. 13). 46. Farhad Daftary, The Ismāʿīlīs: Their History and Doctrines (2nd ed., Cambridge, 2007), pp. 340, 379f. 47. Steigerwald, ‘The Divine Word’, pp. 342–343. 48. Ibid., p. 352. 49. Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī, Mathnawī, ed. Reynold A. Nicholson as The Mathnawí of Jalálu’ddín Rúmí (London, 1925), vol. 1, vv. 224, 237.

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50. Harātī, tr. Ivanow, On the Recognition of the Imam, p. 30 (fol. 7). 51. Cf. Abū ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Sulamī, Ḥaqāʾiq al-tafsīr, ed. Sayyid ʿUmrān (Beirut, 1421/2000), vol. 1, p. 415, commentary on Q. 18:69. 52. See Ian R. Netton, ‘Theophany as Paradox: Ibn al-ʿArabī’s Account of al-Khaḍir in his Fuṣūṣ al-Ḥikam’, Journal of the Muhyiddin Ibn ʿArabi Society, 11 (1992), pp. 11–22; Ibn ʿArabī, al-Futūḥāt al-Makkiyya (Cairo, n.d.), vol. 2, ch. 161, pp. 260–262, and Denis Gril’s analysis and translation of this chapter in ‘Le terme du voyage’, in Michel Chodkiewicz, with William C. Chittick et al., ed., Les Illuminations de La Mecque: Textes choisis (Paris, 1988), pp. 339–347; see also Steigerwald, Majlis, Introduction, pp. 29–31. 53. This is the apposite phrase of Steigerwald (Majlis, Introduction, p. 28) who also provides an excellent overview of the significance and role of Khiḍr in Twelver Shiʿi, Sufi and Ismaili teachings, pp. 28–33. 54. See Najm al-Dīn al-Rāzī, Mirṣād al-ʿibād min al-mabdāʾ ilā’l-maʿād, ed. Muḥammad Amīn Riyāḥī (2nd ed., Tehran, 1986), pp. 336ff; Rūmī, Mathnawī, vol. 1, pp. 224–237. 55. Michel Chodkiewicz, Seal of the Saints: Prophethood and Sainthood in the Doctrine of Ibn ʿArabī, tr. L. Sherrard (Cambridge, 1993), p. 70. 56. Henry Corbin, En Islam iranien: aspects spirituels et philosophiques (Paris, 1971–1972), vol. 3, p. 25. 57. He stated that the higher esoteric standard of Khiḍr enables the mystic who receives initiation from him to effectively become emancipated from the tutelage of the prophetic law; see Louis Massignon, Essay on the Origins of the Technical Language of Islamic Mysticism (Notre Dame, IN, 1997), p. 91. 58. Abū Naṣr Sarrāj al-Ṭūsī, Kitāb al-Lumaʿ fi’l-taṣawwuf, tr. into Persian by Mihdī Maḥabbatī (Tehran, 1382 Sh./2003), book 14, bāb 21, p. 441. 59. Abu’l-Faḍl Rashīd al-Dīn Maybudī, Kashf al-asrār wa ʿuddat al-abrār, ed. Ali Asghar Hekmat (Tehran, 1331–1119 Sh./1952–1960), vol. 5, p. 728. 60. William Shakespeare, Pericles, II: 2: 55–56. 61. Rūmī, Mathnawī, I: 237. 62. Ibid. 63. Ibid.: 225. 64. Rūmī, Mathnawī, ed. Nicholson, vol. 2, pp. 3253–3267. 65. See notes 13–14 above. 66. Steigerwald, Majlis, p. 122, n.154, explains that, ‘This term is intimately connected to taʿlīm, which is the teaching of the Imām in Nizārian Ismailism, whose teaching is the source of the taʾwīl of the earlier revelations. It is the responsibility of the ḥujjat to transmit this teaching, because the Imam is ṣāmit (silent). This is contrary to the advocates of following personal opinion and individual reason (aṣbāb al-raʾy wa al-ʿaql).’ 67. Rūmī, Mathnawī, II: 2259–2263. 68. Rūmī, Mirṣād al-ʿibād al-mabdā ilā’l-maʿād, ed. Muḥammad Amīn Riyāhī (2nd ed., Tehran, 1986), p. 339. 69. Henry Corbin, Creative Imagination in the Sufism of Ibn ʿArabī, tr. Ralph

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Manheim (Princeton, 1969), p. 55. 70. Carl G. Jung, ‘Concerning Rebirth’, in Jenny Yates, ed., Jung on Death and Immortality (Princeton, 1999), p. 61. 71. Jung, ‘Concerning Rebirth’, pp. 60–61. 72. Ibid., p. 62. 73. Farhad Daftary, A Short History of the Ismailis: Traditions of a Muslim Community (Edinburgh, 1998), pp. 141–142. It may be pointed out that this juxtaposition of the wisdom of the resurrection (qiyāma) to the knowledge of the law (sharīʿa) is completely typical of Nizārī Ismaili thought of the same period, as Steigerwald, Majlis, Introduction, pp. 41–42, notes: ‘Shahrastānī uses the term Qiyāmat (Resurrection), which is part of the vocabulary of the Shiʿis. Resurrection means the “spiritual birth” or eschatological event during which the hidden meaning of revelation will be revealed in its fullness. Shahrastānī does not use this term in the sense of a “spiritual birth” that liberates the human being from the servitude of the law (sharīʿat).’ 74. Jalālī-Nāʾīnī, Sharḥ-i ḥāl, pp. 30–31; Steigerwald, Majlis, p. 103 (Persian text and French tr.). 75. Kathleen Raine, ‘A Defence of Shelley’s Poetry’, in her Defending Ancient Springs (Suffolk, 1985), p. 145. 76. See Farhang Jahanpour, ‘Western Encounters with Persian Sufi Literature’, in Leonard Lewisohn and David Morgan, ed., The Heritage of Sufism: Late Classical Persianate Sufism (1501–1750). The Safavid and Mughal Period (Oxford, 1999), pp. 50–51. 77. Arent J. Wensinck, ‘al-Khaḍir’, EI2, vol. 4, p. 904. 78. Percy Bysshe Shelley, Hellas, II: 159–161, p. 324. 79. Ibid., II: 164, p. 325. 80. Wensinck, ‘al-Khaḍir’, EI2, vol. 4, pp. 904–905. 81. Shelley, Hellas, II: 766–805, p. 334. 82. Ibid.: 792–806, p. 334. 83. See Douglas Crow, ‘Ghaybah’, in Mircea Eliade, ed., Encyclopedia of Religion, vol. 5, p. 540. 84. Blake’s term for the creation imagination of the inspired poet, which is the spiritual sun (Los = Sol), symbolic of Elijah, Khiḍr, Gabriel. 85. Blake’s term for the Eternal Feminine. She is the Zenith of Harmony (Enitharmon), and corresponds exactly to the metaphysical role of Malāḥat (aesthetic and spiritual harmony) in the Persian Sufi tradition. 86. William Blake, Complete Writings, ed. G. Keynes (London, 1972), Milton, 24: 68–76. 87. The ‘three key deeds’ which Khiḍr performs are compared by Shahrastānī’s Khiḍr to events that occurred to Moses himself. This is also a feature typical of other esoteric commentaries on this tale; on which, see Gril, ‘Le terme du voyage’, pp. 342, 572, n.46.

17

Poems of the Resurrection: Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd-i Kātib and his Dīwān-i Qāʾimiyyāt S. Jalal Badakhchani

My first acquaintance with Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd’s Dīwān-i Qāʾimiyyāt (‘Poems of the Resurrection’) was in the summer of 1964 when, in the company of a team of health workers, I was travelling among villages inhabited by Ismailis in the Iranian province of Khurāsān. For a few days we happened to stay in Yahn, a small village some 36km north of Bīrjand. Our host was Mr Barzgar, better known among the villagers as Ākhūnd Mullā Murtaḍā, whom I found to be a man of great learning and insight. During the day, when my colleagues were attending to their work, I had the opportunity to collect first-hand information about Ismaili authors, scholars and their literature produced in southern Khurāsān, that is, the historical Quhistān, a prominent centre of the Nizārī Ismaili mission (daʿwat) in mediaeval times. During our conversations, Mr Barzgar referred to the existence of a collection of poems compiled some seven hundred years earlier entitled Dīwān-i kabīr-i Qāʾimiyyāt (‘The Great Collection of Poems of the Resurrection’), a copy of which had recently been discovered while renovating an old building. ‘The manuscript contains only two volumes of the Dīwān,’ he said, ‘hidden for centuries in the cavity of a wall, plastered over, safeguarding its existence from enemies.’ He added sorrowfully: ‘Out of the original seven volumes only that portion has survived to our times.’ In response to my inquiry whether the manuscript was seen by Wladimir Ivanow, the famous orientalist and expert on Ismaili literature,1 Mr Barzgar replied with a smile on his face: ‘Ivanow came to us, but we did not disclose the existence of this book to him, because no one owns the complete collection.’ Mr Barzgar further added, ‘The only copy that exists in our village belongs to the family of Mr Shafīʿ Riḍāʾī.’ 431

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Mr Riḍāʾī’s copy, hereafter referred to as ‘D’, which he kindly lent to me, is a relatively complete text of volumes one and two, except for the first few pages of the poet’s introduction, which are missing. It is dated 10 Ramaḍān 1105 (i.e. 5 May 1694), and is written in broken nastaʿlīq, with page dimensions of 18x28cm with fourteen to sixteen lines per page. The scribe was a certain Mīrzā ʿAlī, the son of ʿAbd al-Muʾmin, who copied the book for his brother while acting as schoolmaster in Māʾūsk (currently pronounced Māhūsk), a village approximately 48km north-east of Bīrjand and still inhabited by Ismailis. At the time, I could not make a copy of the manuscript for myself and all my efforts to trace another copy proved fruitless. After almost thirty-three years, in 1997, when I was preparing a list of Persian manuscripts at the Library of The Institute of Ismaili Studies, London, I had a second encounter with the Dīwān-i Qāʾimiyyāt. In this instance, too, it was not a complete version, but scattered materials photographed unprofessionally from an original manuscript in Iran. Based on what could be retrieved from the defective photocopies, hereafter referred to as ‘N’, and notes prepared by Mr Ghīyāth al-Dīn Mīrshāhī, an Ismaili dignitary with a special interest in collecting literary materials, a total of 146 odes (qaṣīdas) of various lengths (twelve to sixty-five couplets) and a few additional fragments (qiṭʿa) of four to five couplets were collected. At the margin of one ode, the unknown scribe of this collection has added: ‘Copied in the year 1101 [1689], from a manuscript dated 855 [1451]’, which makes it almost five years older than ‘D’. This copy was the nucleus of my work on the Dīwān until June 2008, when manuscript ‘D’ along with yet another incomplete copy of the Dīwān, hereafter referred to as ‘M’, were transferred to the library of The Institute of Ismaili Studies. Manuscript ‘M’ is made up of two different manuscripts bound together. Part one, dated 29 Shaʿbān 806/12 March 1404, contains 109 odes, specially prepared with colourful margins that have faded with the passage of time. Part two, undated, contains twenty-five odes with a colophon much resembling that of manuscript ‘D’, and thus either itself or a copy of it might have been the origin of ‘D’. Both parts had been professionally prepared and the majority of the odes in part one had been given titles and dates of compilation. This manuscript, I am told, had survived among the remote offspring of Aga Khan I, Ḥasan ʿAlī Shāh, who migrated to India in the later part of the nineteenth century. The approximate dimensions of ‘M’ are the same as manuscript ‘D’. Having access to three manuscripts of the Dīwān, I was able to prepare the final version of the extant two volumes. The entire collection of what

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we have currently at our disposal consists of 157 odes (totalling 4,779 couplets). As for the quality of these manuscripts, both parts of ‘M’ have the most legible script. ‘D’ is also professionally prepared, but its value is undermined by the absence of titles for the poems and, probably an intentional act on the part of the scribe, the deleting of some lines that he either could not understand or considered faulty in the first place. In this respect, ‘N’ is superior to ‘D’ as most of the poems therein are complete, even though they were photographed carelessly. Manuscript ‘M’ constitutes the basis upon which I am preparing a critical edition of the poems.2 In total, twenty-eight odes are missing in ‘M’, eight odes are missing in ‘D’ and eleven odes in ‘N’. The discrepancy in the number of odes in the existing manuscripts indicates that the original version might have been larger than what we have now at hand. Such an assumption becomes more tenable if we draw a relationship between the poet’s life-span and the length of the Dīwān. According to ode 8, the existing two volumes were put together in Muḥarram 631 (i.e. October 1233), when Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd prepared a special copy to be presented to the Ismaili imam of his time, ʿAlāʾ al-Dīn Muḥammad (d. 653/1255), the great grandson of Ḥasan ʿalā dhikrihi’l-salām (d. 561/1166). The poet himself died at Alamūt probably a few years after 640/1243, when the final version of the Rawḍa-yi taslīm (the lectures on Ismaili doctrine by the philosopher-scientist Naṣīr al-Dīn Ṭūsī) was produced.3 It seems unlikely, however, that a talented poet like Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd, who composed two lengthy odes in one day, odes 139 and 141, did not compose any poems during the latter years of his life. Moreover, in the present collection we cannot trace the origin of some of the odes that the poet is known to have composed.4 Another complicating factor is that not all poems in the collection belong to Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd.5 This suggests that a large portion of the original Dīwān might have been the collective work of several Ismaili poets of his time or the earlier periods, such as ʿAmīd ʿAlī, Jamāl and Raʾīs Ḥasan, which probably confirms the tale of ‘seven volumes’.6 Our poet, Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd-i Kātib, whose name is recorded differently as Jalāl al-Dīn Ḥasan,7 Sayyid al-Duʿāt Ṣalāḥ al-Dawla wa’l-Dīn, Munshī-yi Jahān, Mubdiʿ al-Naẓm wa’l-Nathr Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd,8 Malik al-Kuttāb Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn Ḥasan,9 Ḥasan-i Ṣalāḥ-i Munshī,10 and Ḥasan-i Ṣalāḥ-i Bīrjandī,11 is the author of a prose treatise entitled Haft bāb (‘Seven Chapters’) wrongly attributed to ‘Bābā Sayyidnā’, that is, Ḥasan-i Ṣabbāḥ, because of the resemblance of their names.12 He is also the author of a lost treatise on Ismaili history composed before 630/1232 during his service to the muḥtasham (governor) Shihāb al-Dīn, when the latter was in

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command of Gird Kūh.13 Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd was probably born in the vicinity of Qazwīn during the first half of the sixth/twelfth century and at a young age joined the Ismaili community or, to use his own expression, the qāʾimiyān.14 Evidently, at the time of the proclamation of the doctrine of qiyāmat (p; qiyāma, ar: resurrection) by Imam Ḥasan ʿalā dhikrihi’l-salām in 559/1164, he was very young since in reference to himself, he uses the plural pronoun ‘we’ 15 when referring to his witnessing of the event. At the time when Naṣīr al-Dīn Ṭūsī was considering his conversion to the Ismaili faith, Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd was living at Gird Kūh and acting as secretary (munshī) for the muḥtasham Shihāb al-Dīn, because the latter’s reply to Ṭūsī’s letter is in his hand.16 The poet continued to serve Shihāb al-Dīn when he was subsequently appointed to the governorship of Quhistān. Some of our sources give Ḥasan the nisba Bīrjandī, which alludes to his long stay in Quhistān and particularly in the city of Bīrjand.17 In or around the year 630/1232, probably in the company of Ṭūsī, he appears to have moved to Alamūt, the centre of Nizārī Ismaili political power at the time. During his stay in Alamūt or Maymūn Dizh, Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd remained a close associate of Ṭūsī, collecting and compiling his voluminous writings. Among these, the Rawḍa-yi taslīm was completed on 15 Shawwāl 640/7 April 1243.18 Ḥasan’s close personal and intellectual relationship with Ṭūsī enabled him not only to have a good grasp of the philosopher’s ideas and understanding of Ismaili thought but also to render them in poetic form. In the critical edition of the Dīwān-i Qāʾimiyyāt, I have attempted to identify the majority of instances that appear to directly reflect the thinking of Ṭūsī as found in his Ismaili treatises such as Rawḍa-yi taslīm, Sayr wa sulūk, Āghāz wa anjām, Tawallā wa tabarrā, Maṭlūb al-muʾminīn,19 and probably other treatises that have been lost with the passage of time.20 Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd lived during one of the most turbulent periods in the history of the Nizārī Ismailis. Having emerged from more than a century of militant struggle against the Saljūqs, the Ismailis of Iran were confronted by the hostility of a new and much more powerful adversary, the Mongols, who were on a quest for world power. Having devastated Transoxiana, the Mongols were now poised to enter Khurāsān. It is understandable, therefore, to see some reference to these troubling events find their way into the Dīwān.21 As mentioned earlier, the Qāʾimiyyāt includes a number of poems by Ḥasan’s contemporaries which, due to the absence of pen names, cannot

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be accurately attributed.22 An example of this is an ode composed probably by ʿAbd al-Raḥīm, father of the Ismaili muḥtasham of Quhistān Nāṣir al-Dīn ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Abī Manṣūr (d. 655/1257). On the evidence of the poem, it appears that it was engraved on the foundation stone of the castle of Tūn during the time of the imam Nūr al-Dīn Aʿlā Muḥammad (d. 607/1210): During the reign of a man who is obeyed by mankind, Lord Muḥammad, son of [Ḥasan] ʿalā dhikrihi’l-salām, Eternally, he is the aspiration of existence in its quest for perpetuity and good order; That Resurrector, who out of bounty and generosity, Has stood firm, seeking betterment for all people At the time when his message is reaching everyone, O mankind, the Qiyāmat has been proclaimed. On an auspicious sign was laid the foundation And in three months this castle was built; On the Hijrī calendar it was khā, kāf and hā, seventeen days elapsed from the month of Ramaḍān.23 May the castle survive forever and bring a good omen for its inhabitants, And may all its inhabitants be servants of the imam of the time Peer of the faithful and lord of the people with certainty Son of Ḥasan, Muḥammad, beloved of everyone Divine shadow, the truthful light, whose eternal grace may forever bless his servants To serve him is pure blessing and absolute fortune, for anyone blessed to be honoured by it. In the whole world there is no lower creature than this humble servant, Dust in the path of his servants, namely ʿAbd al-Raḥīm. When, in his blessed name, I laid the foundation of this building, and supplicated to God Almighty, my last words were: May this castle be the abode of the good people and May God protect it from the evil eye.24

In the following fragment, which might have been composed on the occasion of the opening ceremony of the castle, Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd confirms ʿAbd al-Raḥīm’s governorship of Tūn: O God, protect the city of Tūn from mishaps, Make it the abode of happiness, bliss and joy. Bestow eternal good fortune and wealth Upon the one who resides in this lofty place, Sustain its government with the command of the Lord of the time at the hand of the great king ʿAbd al-Raḥīm.

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S. Jalal Badakhchani And bless the humble mind of Ḥasan, in his praise to shine as a glittering gem and a virgin pearl.25

From a theological perspective, although the Qāʾimiyyāt is permeated with what is generally known as ‘exaggerative expression’ (ghulūww) in eulogy of the Ismaili imams, the analysis of applied vocabulary and comparison with what we find in early Shiʿi literature shows that none of these terms are alien to the general lines of Shiʿi thought, especially when the doctrine of imamate and its relation to prophethood becomes the main issue. For Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd, following the same approach as his patron Naṣīr al-Dīn Ṭūsī, the imam who succeeds the Prophet as ‘leader of the community’ must possess three distinctive features: he should be from the Prophet’s progeny (ahl al-bayt); he must have a clear designation for his post; and he should summon people to the knowledge of the Divine.26 The imams of the Alamūt period were believed to have these attributes and, according to our poet, rightly deserved to be addressed with such inspiring epithets. The main concern of Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd in the Dīwān is to produce a vivid description of the doctrine of qiyāmat and convey its message to the readers. In the words of Farhad Daftary, It [i.e. the qiyāmat] implied a complete personal transformation of the Nizārīs who henceforth were expected to perceive their imam in his true spiritual reality. The imam in his eternal essence was defined as the epiphany (maẓhar) of the word (kalima) or command (amr) of God. In Shīʿī thought, the imam had always been considered as the ḥujja or proof of God. But in the Paradise of the qiyāma, the present Nizārī imam became the manifestation of the divine word or order to create, that is to say, the cause of the spiritual world. It was essentially through this vision of the imam that men could find themselves in Paradise, and not by being in Rūdbār, Quhistān or any other particular locality. More specifically, this vision did not consist of merely knowing the identity of the true imam of the time, or of seeing the body of that imam. It required the metaphysical transcending of the person of the imam so as to enable the believer to see the unveiled truth. As a result, the believer would view the world from the imam’s viewpoint, enabling him to lead a purely spiritual life, which was the afterlife expected by the Ismāʿīlīs. This view of the universe, and of the imam in particular, would lead the individual to a third level of being, in effect a world of bāṭin behind the bāṭin, the ultimate reality or ḥaqīqa [read qiyāma], contrasted to the worlds of the sharīʿa and its bāṭin as interpreted by the ordinary Ismāʿīlī taʾwīl.27

In the development of Persian poetry and its Ismaili component, to quote Shafīʿī Kadkanī’s remark: ‘The Qāʾimiyyāt is a masterly poetical work

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much richer in Ismaili terminology, not only of the Dīwān of Nāṣir-i Khusraw, his predecessor, and Nizārī Quhistānī, who flourished after him, but also of the prose writings of Naṣīr al-Dīn Ṭūsī.’ 28 The importance of Ḥasan’s works lies in the fact that, until the discovery of a more reliable text on the Nizārī Ismaili doctrine of qiyāmat, his writings remain the most extensive and contemporary interpretation to survive up to our time. Although Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd was neither a practising theologian, nor even an outstanding exponent of Persian prose writing, he was certainly a master poet, and his long-lasting friendship and professional collaboration with Ṭūsī should be regarded as a measure of the accuracy of his theological articulations. The proclamation of the Qiyāmat by Imam Ḥasan ʿalā dhikrihi’l-salām left a profound and wide-ranging impact on Nizārī Ismaili thought of the late Alamūt period. A comparison between the traditional (that is, Fatimid) and the Nizārī versions of Ismaili doctrine is beyond the scope of the present paper. But insofar as it relates to the works of Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd, both in his Haft bāb and the Dīwān, it is worth mentioning that by the time he composed these works, the theological vocabulary of Ismaili literature had already undergone a major transformation. While the Nizārī Ismaili daʿwat of the time continued to adhere to the foundational principles of classical Shiʿi and Fatimid Ismailism, there emerged an additional set of conceptual formulations to reflect the new intellectual and spiritual vistas that opened out in the age of the Resurrection. An interesting aspect of the doctrine of qiyāmat as exhibited in the Dīwān, which does not conform to the narratives of non-Ismaili historical and theological writings, pertains to the relationship between the Resurrector (qāʾim) and the religious law (p. sharīʿat; ar. sharī ʿa). In the Sunni, often anti-Ismaili, historical sources, such as Tārīkh-i jahān-gushā by ʿAṭā-Malik Juwaynī, Jāmiʿ al-tawārīkh by Rashīd al-Dīn Faḍl Allāh, and Zubdat al-tawārīkh by Abu’l-Qāsim Kāshānī, Imam Ḥasan ʿalā dhikrihi’lsalām is depicted as having abrogated the sharī ʿa.29 In the Dīwān-i Qāʾimiyyāt, however, the qāʾim is essentially portrayed as the agent of the perfection of the religious law.30 This conforms to Ṭūsī’s representation in the Rawḍa where he says: He [i.e. Prophet Muḥammad] warned mankind and conveyed the glad tidings about the Resurrector who would bring about the Resurrection, and since he was the last herald and conveyor of the glad tidings of the Resurrection, he said: ‘The Hour and I were sent together, like these two forefingers,’ 31 meaning, ‘Both the Resurrector and I have come together like two forefingers that are stretched out beside each other …’ Since it

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S. Jalal Badakhchani was intended that there be no further religious law after Muḥammad, and since the mission and religious laws of all previous Prophets were to be terminated by means of his own mission [in summoning people] to the Resurrection, he was thus the Seal of all the Prophets and their various legal codes (sharāyiʿ). The legal statutes of each Prophet who succeeded the Prophet who preceded him were all aimed at perfecting those previous laws, not their abrogation. But that perfection has, from the exoteric and formal point of view, appeared like abrogation not perfection, because until something is changed from one state to another it cannot be given the form which is the aim of the perfection of that thing. For example, until the sperm changes its state through alteration and modifications, it will not move on from the form in which it is and pass through the stages of coagulated blood, embryo, flesh and bone—in attaining to each of which it moves closer to the soul—and so it will not attain the completeness of the human form. One must understand the process of perfecting and abrogating (ibṭāl) religious laws in the same manner. If [for instance] a religious statute instituted by one Prophet remains unchanged and is not followed by another edict instituted by the Prophet who succeeds him, then in the end, the Lord of the Resurrection (qāʾim-i qiyāmat) will be unable to exercise his [proper] spiritual authority, and consequently, those who are subject to this [outdated] religious edict will never be able to progress from the way to the aim, from the letter to the spirit, from deceptive similitudes to what is distinctly clear, from relativity to reality, and from legalistic religion (sharīʿat) to the Resurrection (qiyāmat).32

Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd presents a very similar description in one of his odes on the subject: In obedience to God’s command, the Prophets guided people to the eternal life. They said: The commandment of the Resurrection is absolute existence, whereas the periods of religious laws are possible beings. They said: When the period of the sharīʿat is fulfilled, all ambiguities will turn into distinctions. They said: In the period of Resurrection, through the eternal Divine Command, the pillars of the sharīʿat will obtain their perfection.33

In another composition, he reflects on the relationship between sharī ʿa and the qiyāma: In comparison, the sharīʿat is like matter and the qiyāmat the form; the qiyāmat a ring and its esoteric meaning the [mounted] gem. Yes, in this world, when they beat the drum of the Resurrection that will be the moment when the world will witness the splendour of his

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­ anifestation. m In the realm of the sharīʿat, when you speak of the Imam, the Qāʾim and God, that is how it should be. But in the realm of the Resurrection, by the dictate of truth, you have to perceive all the three as one.34

A close scrutiny of the Dīwān-i Qāʾimiyyāt does not reveal any explicit indication to support the allegation of Persian historians that the religious law was abrogated following the proclamation of the Qiyāmat. It appears as if the Persian historians mentioned earlier, who all wrote after the fall of Alamūt in 654/1256, totally neglected the subsequent developments of Ismaili religious thought that took place during the reigns of the imams Jalāl al-Dīn Ḥasan (d. 618/1221) and ʿAlāʾ al-Dīn Muḥammad (d. 653/1255). The only possible explanations are that either they were not aware of these developments or that they disregarded them for not conforming to their anti-Ismaili stance. Interestingly enough, the poet uses the term abrogation (naskh) – a technical term denoting fundamental change in the application of the sharī ʿa – only once, and that denoting the abrogation of heavenly rank (naskh-i martaba-yi āsmiyān): That Great Resurrection (qiyāmat-i kubrā), which the Qurʾan describes in time and space, will be proclaimed. Time will shine with Divine Light, and earth as a result, will abrogate heaven’s rank.35

It is clear from these lines that for Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd and his contemporaries, the doctrine of qiyāmat constituted not a revocation of the religious law, but rather a summons for spiritual transformation in the quest for the knowledge of the Divine. From a different perspective, within the rich heritage of Persian poetry and its Ismaili constituent, the Dīwān-i Qāʾimiyyāt is a masterpiece containing a rich interweaving of religious motifs and poetical constructions, and one which hitherto has remained hidden. Its publication, it is hoped, will open a window for new areas of investigation and literary appreciation. In term of its place in the poetic heritage of the Ismailis, the Dīwān is a lively continuation of the poetic tradition established by Nāṣir-i Khusraw (d. after 462/1070) and continued by Nizārī Quhistānī (d. 720/1320), Ḥusayn b. Yaʿqūb Shāh-i Ṣūfī (ca. eighth/fourteenth century), Khākī Khurāsānī (d. after 960/1056) and many other Nizārī Ismaili poets.

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Although Ivanow does not mention Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd’s Dīwān in his Ismaili Literature: A Bibliographical Survey (Tehran, 1963), he had seen some poems of Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd in what he termed the ‘Kerman Manuscript’, including an ode in praise of the fidāʾīs (Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd, Dīwān, ode: 75), which he wrongly attributed to Raʾīs Ḥasan, an Ismaili poet who flourished a generation earlier, and he published the text with an English translation in Journal of the Bombay Branch of the Royal Asiatic Society, New Series, 14 (1938), pp. 63–72. 2. Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd-i Kātib, Dīwān-i Qāʾimiyyāt, ed. S. Jalal Badakhchani, with an introduction and glossary of technical terms by Muḥammad Riḍā Shafīʿī Kadkanī (Tehran, forthcoming). 3. Naṣīr al-Dīn Ṭūsī, Rawḍa-yi taslīm, ed. and tr. by S. Jalal Badakhchani as Paradise of Submission: A Medieval Treatise on Ismaili Thought (London, 2005), p. 170, Persian text, pp. 211–212. 4. See, for instance, the references in odes 91: 2805; 94: 2902. 5. See, for example, odes 76 and 100. 6. In odes 78, 86, 132 and 136, Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd mentions their names and imitates their style of poetry. Odes 4 and 79 are imitations of the famous poet Sanāʾī Ghaznawī (d. 525/1131). Sanāʾī here is addressed as an Ismaili dāʿī with the title ‘Candlelight and Crown of Preachers (shamʿ wa tāj-i dāʿiyān)’. In the oldest manuscript ‘M’, described below, a complete ode of Sanāʾī is merged into the Dīwān. 7. MS D, fol. 4a. 8. Ṭūsī, Rawḍa-yi taslīm, p. 170; Persian text, p. 212 where he is described as: ‘Most noble among preachers, prudent measure (ṣalāḥ) for kingdom and religion, the world famous secretary (munshī), producer of poetry and prose, Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd, may his grandeur prevail.’ 9. Ṭūsī, Sayr wa sulūk, ed. and tr. by S. Jalal Badakhchani as Contemplation and Action: The Spiritual Autobiography of a Muslim Scholar (London, 1998), p. 30, Persian text, p. 6. 10. Rashīd al-Dīn Faḍl Allāh, Jāmiʿ al-tawārīkh: Qismat-i Ismāʿīliyān va Fāṭimiyān va Nizāriyān va dāʿīyān va rafīqān, ed. Muḥammad Taqī Dānishpazūh and Muḥammad Mudarrisī Zanjānī (Tehran, 1338 Sh./1959), pp. 153–161. 11. Naṣīr al-Dīn Tūsī, Majmūʿa-yi rasāʾil, ed. Mudarris Raḍawī (Tehran, 1335 Sh./1956), p. 123. 12. Haft Bāb-i Bābā Sayyidnā, in Wladimir Ivanow, ed., Two Ismaili Treatises (Bombay, 1933), pp. 4–44. This work is listed as anonymous in Farhad Daftary, Ismaili Literature, A Bibliography of Source and Studies (London, 2004), pp. 47, 162. For the English translation see Marshall G. S. Hodgson, ‘The Popular Appeal of the Qiyāma’, in his The Order of Assassins: The Struggle of the Early Nizārī Ismāʿīlīs against the Islamic World (The Hague, 1955; repr. New York, 1980), pp. 279–324. I am in the process of preparing a 1.

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new edition based on newly found manuscripts of the text. 13. Rashīd al-Dīn, Jāmiʿ, pp. 153–161. 14. As he calls them in the most complete version of Haft bāb, part of a collection at The Institute of Ismaili Studies Library, MS 64 (copied 1330/1911, fols 2–35). 15. In Ivanow’s edition of the Haft Bāb, the word is in singular: ‘bidīdam’ (I saw), in the oldest manuscript mentioned above ‘bidīdīm’ (we saw), and in the Dīwān, ode 46, no. 1399, ‘bididand’ (they saw). 16. Ṭūsī, Sayr wa sulūk, p. 31; Persian text p. 6. 17. See Mudarris Raḍawī, the editor of Ṭūsī’s Majmūʿa-yi rasāʾil, p. 123, citing from Aḥmad Amīn Rāzī, Tadhkira-yi haft iqlīm, in which part of ode 58 is attributed to ‘Raʾīs Ḥasan-i Ṣalāḥ Bīrjandī’. 18. Ṭūsī, Rawḍa, p.170, Persian text, p. 211. 19. Ṭūsī, Āghāz wa anjām: muqaddima wa sharḥ wa taʿlīqāt, ed. Ḥasan Ḥasanzāda Āmulī (Tehran, 1366 Sh./1987); Tawallā wa tabarrā (printed with Ṭūsī’s Akhlāq-i muḥtashimī), ed. Muḥammad Taqī Dānishpazūh (Tehran, 1339 Sh./1960), pp. 562–570; Maṭlūb al-muʾminīn, ed. Ivanow in Two Ismaili Treatises, pp. 43–55. For a new edition and English translation of these three texts see S. Jalal Badakhchani, Shiʿi Interpretations of Islam: Three Treatises on Islamic Theology and Eschatology (London, 2011). 20. An example of this category is his elaboration on the three parameters of the doctrine of qiyāmat, that is, qiyām, thawāb and baʿth, which is based either on a missing treatise by Ṭūsī or earlier authors. In his Haft bāb, Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd does not mention these parameters. 21. Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd, Dīwān, odes 49, 114, 124 and 133. For a historical overview see Daftary, The Ismāʿīlīs, pp. 382–388. Another example is Ivanow, ‘An Ismaili Poem’. 22. Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd, Dīwān, author’s introduction and ode 71: 2107–2111. 23. Khā, kāf and hā equals 628, so the exact date is Saturday 17 Ramaḍān 628/26 July 1231. At the time, Ismailis celebrated 17 Ramaḍān as the feast of Resurrection (ʿīd-i qiyāmat). 24. Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd, Dīwān, ode 100: 3020–3032. 25. Ibid., ode 74: 2191–2195. 26. See Ṭūsī, Sayr wa sulūk, pp. 43–44; Persian text, pp. 14–15. 27. Daftary, The Ismāʿīlīs, p. 364. 28. M. R. Shafīʿī Kadkanī’s foreword to Dīwān-i Qāʾimiyyāt. 29. See ʿAlāʾ al-Dīn ʿAṭā-Malik Juwaynī, Tārīkh-i jahān-gushā, ed. Mīrzā Muḥammad Qazwīnī (Leiden and London, 1912–1937), vol. 3, pp. 225–230, 237–239; tr. John A. Boyle as The History of the World-Conqueror (Cambridge, MA, 1958), vol. 2, pp. 688–691, 695–697; Jamāl al-Dīn Abu’lQāsim Kāshānī, Zubdat al-tawārīkh: tārīkh-i Ismāʿīliyya va Nizāriyya va malāḥida, ed. Muḥammad Taqī Dānishpazūh in Revue de la Faculté des Lettres, Université de Tabriz, Supplément no. 9 (1343/1964), pp. 201–202, 204; and Rashīd al-Dīn, Jāmiʿ, pp. 164–166, 168–169. For an overview of the

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30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35.

S. Jalal Badakhchani qiyāmat doctrine based on historical sources see Daftary, The Ismāʿīlīs, pp. 358–367. Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd, Dīwān, ode 62: 1870 ‘They said, when the cycle of religious law comes to an end, the qāʾim, as required by his rank, will perfect it.’ Cited in Muḥammad b. Ismāʿīl al-Bukhārī, al-Jāmiʿ al-Ṣaḥīḥ (Cairo, 1932), vol. 6, p. 206. Ṭūsī, Rawḍa, pp. 139–140, Persian text, pp. 173–174. Ḥasan-i Maḥmūd, Dīwān, ode 31: 968–972. Ibid., ode 46: 1393–1397. Ibid., ode 62: 1871. Further, ode 142 is devoted to the celebration of the feast at the end of the month of Ramaḍān, ʿīd-i fiṭr, which confirms that the practice of fasting was observed.

18

Further Notes on the Turkish Names in Abu’l-Faḍl Bayhaqī’s Tārīkh-i Masʿūdī C. Edmund Bosworth

Introduction In what was regrettably the final volume to appear of the journal Oriens – a volume of studies in honour of Professor Franz Rosenthal, happily appearing just before his death – I published an article ‘Notes on some Turkish names in Abū’l-Faḍl Bayhaqī’s Tārīkh-i Masʿūdī’.1 In this article, before listing and attempting to elucidate these personal names, I discussed the lexicographical works and materials which we possess for this task and the previous publications in this field by Turcologists.2 I noted the paucity of these Hilfsmittel and some of the egregious mistakes made by one writer who tried to elucidate Turkish, Mongolian and Chinese (sic) names in Bayhaqī’s History (written 451/1059) without apparently knowing any of these three languages.3 It was only after this article had been written that there came to my notice a work which had appeared in Turkey a few years previously, the posthumously published work of the well-known historian of Saljūq Turkey, Faruk Sümer, on the Turkish names in Islamic history up to the Saljūqs and in the ensuing period of the Anatolian beyliks and the Türkmen dynasties of the central Islamic lands entitled Türk devletleri tarihinde şahis adları.4 A section entitled ‘Samaniler ve Gazneliler türkce adlar’ 5 is essentially a dictionary of Turkish names appearing in pre-Islamic and Islamic historical sources, with the personages in question placed in their historical settings; the apparent basic meaning of the names is sometimes, though not always, noted, but the compiler’s aim was primarily to achieve a historical listing of the names and not to attempt detailed philological explanations of them. Nevertheless, information from this work will be 443

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noted below where it seems helpful. The great Hungarian Turcologist László Rásonyi (1899–1984) won a prize offered in 1932 by the Hungarian Academy of Sciences for the compilation of an onomasticon of Turkish anthroponyms and ethonyms, making a collection of over 60,000 names and variants by the various Turkish-speaking peoples from the opening of known Turkish history (essentially from the sixth century ad) to the first half of the twentieth century. Unfortunately, the demands of a busy academic career and the onset of blindness towards the end of his life meant that he was never able to put this collection into publishable form, and all we have had until recently has been the provisional list of entries made by Imre Baski, A Preliminary Index to Rásonyi’s Onomasticon Turcicum.6 This has been useful as an indication of the richness of the material, although it inevitably lacked any explanation of the names listed and of their provenance. In my ‘Notes on some Turkish names’ I had to use existing works, foremost amongst which were of course the two modern milestones in Turkish lexicography, Gerhard Doerfer’s Türkische und mongolische Elemente im Neupersischen7 and Sir Gerard Clauson’s An Etymological Dictionary of Pre-Thirteenth Century Turkish.8 A great step forward is the recent publication of Rásonyi’s work in full, published as Onomasticon Turcicum, Turkic Personal Names as Collected by László Rásonyi (henceforth, R), thanks to the labours of Baski and the sponsorship of the Denis Sinor Institute for Inner Asian Studies at Indiana University.9 The lengthy introduction, put together by Baski on the basis of the many articles which Rásonyi wrote over the years on the topic of Turkish onomastic, contains a most valuable survey of the principles discernible in Turkish name-giving, the categories of these names and their grammatical structures; any future researcher in this field should take it thoroughly to heart before undertaking any work of their own. The main body of the Onomasticon, then, has alphabetically arranged entries, with the occurrences of the personal and tribal names found in the written corpus of materials for the Turkish languages, with translations and explanations where this is possible; obviously, many of these last must be tentative. Of course, work on Turkish onomastic did not stand still in the thirty or forty years which have elapsed since the works of Doerfer and Clauson appeared. This is not the place to attempt a detailed listing or critique of the advances made during this period (in any case, beyond the present writer’s sphere of expertise), but he would like merely to mention here that he has benefited much by the works of Peter B. Golden, such as his Khazar

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Studies: An Historico-Philological Inquiry into the Origins of the Khazars, and other writings.10 Moreover, Professor Golden has kindly read through a draft of this article and has made many useful observations and suggestions; these are duly acknowledged below. The names (1) Bāytūz (Gh 450, F 582)11 This was the leader of the group of Turkish former ghulāms of the Samanids who had established themselves at Bust in the mid-fourth/tenth century, and who were overthrown by Sebüktegin (r. 366–387/977–997) as part of his policy of expansion into southern Afghanistan.12 Rásonyi (R I:105) could only tentatively suggest for this name the combination of two components: bay (‘rich, noble person’)13 + tuz (‘salt’),14 noting a few usages of this as the first component in names. However, Professor Golden feels that there may be other possibilities for the second component, such as töz-, tüz- (‘to suffer, endure’, ‘to arrange, set in order’),15 and toz (‘birch bark’, especially the kind wrapped round bows).16 Yet this, he goes on to say, does not exhaust all the possibilities, if we have here an example of the sound change from Old Turkic /dh/ > Middle Qïpchaq /z/ (roughly speaking, that of the period between the eleventh and the fourteenth–fifteenth centuries ad), noted by Kāshgharī17 as occurring in the speech of some of the Qïpchaq, Yimek, etc. This could yield toz from tōdh- (‘be satiated’),18 later toy-, with a further sound shift /z/ > /y/. (2) Begtūzūn (Gh 640, F 865) This commander of the last Samanids, almost certainly a ghulām, was governor of Nīshāpūr in 388–389/998–999 and an opponent of Maḥmūd of Ghazna (r. 388–421/998–1030) when the latter rose to power in Khurāsān.19 The first component is the familiar beg/bek (‘chief’) and the second, todhun, tudhun. This last was a title in the Old Turkish administrative hierarchy, according to Chinese sources, a hereditary title for high officials not of royal blood who supervised conquered territories left under the nominal rule of their indigenous princes; at the other end of the Turkish world, it is also attested in Byzantine sources on the Khazars.20 By Samanid times, it had, like tégin, gone down in the social scale within the Islamic milieu.21 But again, Professor Golden notes that a form tuzun could have existed in Common Turkic at this time; examples are lacking, although later Rus’ sources mention the trunove as leaders of the Bulghārs on the middle Volga, a name which would involve the sound shifts

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tudhun > tuzun > turun, the latter shift characteristic of Bulghāric Turkic. Nevertheless, his personal feeling is that we could well have here tüzün (‘self-controlled, well-behaved, gentle’),22 and that beg could be bek < berk (‘firm, solid’ = ‘very’); good behaviour and gentleness are not qualities to be associated with this particular ambitious and bellicose commander in Khurāsān, but the name would doubtless have been given to him as a child. (3) Khumārtāsh (ad ‘Notes on some Turkish names’, 306–307) Rásonyi (R I, 290–291) has many examples for the first component from Ghaznavid, Saljūq and Khwārazm-shāhī usage onwards, with two ranges of meaning: first, ‘gambling’, which must come from Arabic qimār, and does not seem appropriate here; and second, ‘intense emotion, wish’, which does have some semantic connection with the meaning, given in ‘Notes on some Turkish names’,23 of ‘memento, keepsake’, ‘well-remembered’, since one needs an effort of the emotions and memory to achieve remembrance of a person or thing. Sümer suggests for this element the associated ideas of ‘encouragement, consolation’.24 Professor Golden further suggests a meaning from the Middle Qïpchaq qumar (‘inheritance, heritage, estate’)25 Old Turkic qumār (‘legacy, memento’). (4) Nūshtegin (ad ‘Notes on some Turkish names’, 308) Rásonyi (R I, 65) has for the first component, anush, the meaning ‘faithful’, citing the Khīwan historian Abu’l-Ghāzī (fl. eleventh/seventeenth century); this would provide a parallel etymology to the Iranian one given in ‘Notes on some Turkish names’. The most famous Anūshtegin was the commander of the Great Saljūqs, Anūshtegin Gharchaʾī, governor of Khwārazm for the Saljūq sultan Malik Shāh (r. 465–485/1072–1092) from ca. 470/1077 and precursor there of the line of shāhs begun at his death in 490/1097 by his son Quṭb al-Dīn Muḥammad.26 For the component tégin, see below. (5) Öge (Gh 496, F 647: ʾ.W.K.ʾ) This is the name of a messenger sent by the sons of the Qarakhanid ruler of Bukhārā and Samarqand ʿAlītegin (d. 425/1034) in 427/1035 to the Saljūq sultan Masʿūd (r. 421–432/1030–1041);27 he had apparently the given name of Mūsātegin and must have been a person of significance at the Qarakhanid court, perhaps a member of the ruling family. The term Öge is explained by Kāshgharī, as an appellation for ‘a person of superior

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intelligence’.28 It was in fact an important title in the Old Turkish ruling structures, apparently equivalent to ‘counsellor, aide’, something like the Arabic vizier.29 (6) Qadïr (Gh 77, F 88, etc.) This was the onghun name of Sultan Maḥmūd’s ally against ʿAlītegin, the Great Qāghān of the Qarakhanid confederation, Yūsuf b. Hārūn (or Ḥasan) Bughra Khān of Balāsāghūn, Kāshghar and Khotan (r. 416–423/1025–1032).30 Its usage by Turkish peoples seems to be ancient; Golden has noted, on the evidence of an Armenian historian, a Khazar commander who raided through the Caucasus of the mid-seventh century apparently with the name *Qadïr Ilteber.31 The basic meaning of qadhïr/ qadïr is ‘brutal, violent, tyrannical, oppressive’, hence as a royal appellative, ‘powerful, mighty’. Because of the identical consonantal ductus in Arabic script, it was often confused with the semantically close Arabic word qadr (‘power, might’), and with the corresponding adjective qādir (‘powerful, mighty’).32 (7) Qalpāq (Gh 679, F 926) This man was a commander in Maḥmūd’s army which in 408/1017 invaded and annexed Khwārazm to the Ghaznavid empire.33 In later Turkish, qalpaq is well known as a cone-shaped, sheepskin hat, used for protection in the harsh steppe winter, but the information on the word as a personal name refers to very late Türkmen usage.34 Its appearance in Bayhaqī, however, implies that it has a much longer history as a personal name. (8) Qāyï Oghlan (ad ‘Notes on some Turkish names’, 309) Rásonyi (R II, 404) notes that, as well as being a tribal name, qayï has the simple meaning of ‘hard, strong’. (9) Q.W.N.SH. (Gh 445, F 575) This was the commander-in-chief of the army of ʿAlītegin’s sons in Transoxiana in 426/1034–1035, with the name later written as t.w.n.sh.35 It is only the first form, however, that yields possible sense, and the attestations here are very late; Rásonyi (R II, 471) gives qonïsh as a component of names frequently occurring in Kazakh of the nineteenth century with the meaning ‘residence, abode, staying for the night when on a journey’. Professor Golden regards Rásonyi’s suggestion as possible, but would asso-

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ciate the name rather with Middle Qïpchaq qonush- (‘to raid’), in particular, to employ the tactic on the battlefield of a feigned withdrawal and then a return to the attack.36 Also, given Bayhaqī’s spelling of the name on occasion as t.w.n.sh, the possibility of a corruption t.w.t.sh (‘Tutush’) cannot be excluded. (10) Satï (Gh 327, F 417, etc.) This was the name of a son of the Khwārazm-shāh Altūntāsh (r. 408–432/1017–1041), governor of Khwārazm for Maḥmūd and Masʿūd, who was kept at Masʿūd’s court as, in effect, a hostage for his father’s good behaviour, dying in possibly suspicious circumstances in 425/1034. As noted in ‘Notes on some Turkish names’, the verbal stem sat- (‘to sell’) was productive of various forms, obviously appropriate for slaves who had been purchased.37 Rásonyi (R II, 641–642) gives many examples of the name Satï (lit. ‘selling, sale’), from Uyghur Qaghanate times (i.e. third/ ninth century) onwards. (11) Sāwtegin (ad ‘Notes on some Turkish names’, 309–310) Rásonyi (R II, 644) has an alternative etymology for the first element: sāw (‘healthy’), with other examples of its use in compound names. Professor Golden, however, notes a slight problem here: that it is not certain that the sound shift gh > w, as in sagh > saw (‘sound, healthy’) had occurred in Qïpchaq at this time (i.e. mid-fifth/eleventh century) although the Old Rus’ chronicles mention at the end of this century a Coman with the name Saouk, suggesting that the change had in fact taken place. (12) S.N.K.W.Y. (ad ‘Note on some Turkish names’, 310) Rásonyi (R II, 680) lists süngü (‘lance, spear, pike’), citing Houtsma (the anonymous text in question dates from the eighth/fourteenth century), where it is noted as a personal name and, in the form süngüchi (‘lance, spear-maker’), as a noun of profession.38 The person bearing this name could well have been a lance-wielder, since he is mentioned as being, towards the end of Masʿūd’s reign, commander of the palace guard (amīr-i ḥaras; Gh 659, F 893), though the connection may be purely fortuitous. (13) Sübashï (ad ‘Notes on some Turkish names’, 310) Rásonyi (R II, 677) surmises that this was an Oghuz title. This is confirmed by the fact that the traveller Aḥmad Ibn Faḍlān, who journeyed from Khwārazm to the kingdom of Bulghār on the middle Volga

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in 309–310/922, encountered amongst the Oghuz nomadising north of the Aral and Caspian seas their war leader (ṣāḥib al-jaysh, obviously a rendering of sü bashï),39 and also confirmed by the attribution of the title, according to Kāshgharī, to the eponymous founder of the Saljūq dynasty, Saljūq b. Duqāq (fourth/tenth century).40 (14) Tégin (Gh 410, 589, 604, F 529, 782, 804) This is found as a name tout court for a commander of the Buyid ruler of Rayy and the Jibāl, Majd al-Dawla (r. 387–420/997–1029), who was keeper of the royal wardrobe, and for two of Masʿūd’s commanders, a chamberlain called Tegin-i Saqlābī, and a certain Tegin j.y.l.m.y (the latter word unexplained) who may have been head of the ghulāms billeted in the royal palace barracks. Golden points out that the early Turk empire meaning of ‘prince, immediate male relative of the Qāghān’ had to some extent been forgotten by Kāshgharī’s time; unaware of the title’s glorious past in Orkhon Turkish times, Kāshgharī defines it as ʿabd, with a rather forced explanation that tégin by itself was a title of respect used by sons addressing their father (hence like the later Persian use of banda referring to oneself when in an inferior social relationship), but when used by slaves was compounded with another element.41 Much more probable is Golden’s own explanation that tégin was widespread from the third/ninth century onwards as an element in the names of military slaves (ghilmān, mamālīk) in the armies of the ʿAbbasids and then of their successor states like the Samanids and Buyids, and it thereby became associated with slave status; for such soldiers there are numerous examples: see Rásonyi (R II, 727). (15) T.K.L.Y. (ad ‘Notes on some Turkish names’, 310–311) Rásonyi (R II, 728) notes teke (‘ram, he-goat’), with Uyghur usage in the twelfth to fourteenth centuries, so that tekeli would mean ‘having a he-goat’, or perhaps ‘like a ram’, i.e. ‘having its strength’. Professor Golden adduces the existence of tügli ‘hairy’ in Middle Qïpchaq.42 (16) Üker (Gh 465–466, F 604–605) Üker or Öger would appear to be the likely rendering of ʾ.w.k.ʾ.r, a commander of the sons of ʿAlītegin involved in the attack on the Ghaznavidheld fortress at the Oxus crossing-point of Tirmidh in 426/1035. Rásonyi (R II, 592) lists Öker as part of a nineteenth-century Kazakh name, Ökerbay, but without any suggestion regarding its meaning; Clauson has the

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verbal stem ögir- (‘to be joyful, rejoice’), from which a personal name seems semantically feasible.43 Notes 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

11.

12. 13. 14. 15.

Clifford Edmund Bosworth, ‘Notes on some Turkish names in Abū’l-Faḍl Bayhaqī’s Tārīkh-i Masʿūdī’, Oriens, 36 (2001), pp. 299–313. Ibid., pp. 299–302. Qiyām al-Dīn Rāʿī, ‘Lughāt-i Turkī, Mughūlī, wa Chīnī dar Tārīkh-i Bayhaqī’, in Yad-nāma-yi Abu’l-Faḍl-i Bayhaqī (Mashhad, 1350 Sh./1971), pp. 182–198. Faruk Sümer, Türk devletleri tarihinde şahis adları, ed. Turan Yazgan (Istanbul, 1999), 2 vols. Ibid., vol. 2, pp. 535–552. Imre Baski, A Preliminary Index to Rásonyi’s Onomasticon Turcicum (Budapest, 1984). Gerhard Doerfer, Türkische und mongolische Elemente im Neupersischen (Wiesbaden, 1963–1975), 4 vols. Gerard Clauson, An Etymological Dictionary of Pre-Thirteenth-Century Turkish (Oxford, 1972). László Rásonyi and Imre Baski, Onomasticon Turcicum, Turkic Personal Names as Collected by László Rásonyi (Bloomington, IN, 2007), 2 vols, henceforth R. Peter B. Golden, Khazar Studies. An Historico-Philological Inquiry into the Origins of the Khazars (Budapest, 1980); ‘The Terminology of Slavery and Servitude in Medieval Turkic’, in Devin DeWeese, ed., Studies on Central Asian History in Honor of Yuri Bregel (Bloomington, IN, 2001), pp. 27–56; ‘Khazar Turkic Ghulâms in Caliphal Service. Onomastic Notes’, Archivum Eurasiae Medii Aevi, 12 (2002–2003), pp. 15–27; ‘Khazar Turkic Ghulâms in Caliphal Service’, Journal Asiatique, 292 (2004), pp. 279–309; ‘Khazarica: Notes on Some Khazar Terms’, Turkic Languages, 9 (2005), pp. 205–222. These sigla and numbers refer to the page numbers of the two different editions of Abu’l-Faḍl Bayhaqī, Tārīkh-i Masʿūdī, ed. Qāsim Ghanī and ʿAlī Akbar Fayyāḍ (Tehran, 1324/1945) (siglum: Gh); and ed. ʿAlī Akbar Fayyāḍ (Mashhad, 1350/1971) (siglum: F). C. E. Bosworth, The Ghaznavids, their Empire in Afghanistan and Eastern Iran 994–1040 (Edinburgh, 1963), pp. 37, 42–43; R, I, 105; repr. with updated bibliography (Beirut, 1973). See Bosworth, ‘Notes on some Turkish names’, p. 304. See R II, 805. Clauson, Etymological Dictionary, pp. 572–573; Sümer, Türk devletleri ­tarihinde şahis adaları, vol. 2, p. 543; Recep Toparlı, Hanifi Vural and Recep Karaatlı, Kıpçak türkçesi sözlüğü (Ankara, 2003), p. 283.

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16. Clauson, Etymological Dictionary, p. 571; Toparlı, et al., Kıpçak türkçesi sözlüğü, p. 28. 17. Maḥmūd b. Ḥusayn al-Kāshgharī, Dīwān lughāt al-turk, Facsimile and Turkish tr. Besim Atalay (Ankara, 1939–1943), 5 vols, vol. 1, p. 32; English tr. Robert Dankoff and James Michael Kelly, Compendium of the Turkic Dialects (Dīwān Luγāt at-Turk) (Cambridge, MA, 1982–1984), 2 vols, vol. 1, p. 85. 18. Clauson, Etymological Dictionary, p. 451. 19. Wilhelm Barthold [=Vasily Vladimirovich Barto’ld], Turkestan down to the Mongol Invasion, tr. Tatiana Minorsky and ed. C. E. Bosworth (3rd ed., London, 1968), pp. 265–268. Originally published as Turkestan v ėpokhu mongolʹskago nashestviya (St Petersburg, 1898–1900). 20. Gyula Moravcsik, Byzantinoturcica. I. Die byzantinischen Quellen der Geschichte der Türkvölker, II. Sprachreste der Türkvölker in den byzantinischen Quellen (Berlin, 1958; 3rd repr., Leiden, 1983), vol. 2, pp. 317–318; Golden, Khazar Studies, vol. 1, pp. 215–216. 21. Clauson, Etymological Dictionary, p. 457; R II, 787. 22. Clauson, Etymological Dictionary, p. 576. 23. Bosworth, ‘Notes on some Turkish names’, pp. 307–308. 24. Sümer, Türk devletlerin tarihinde şahis adları, pp. 545–556, and see pp. 714–715. 25. Toparlı, et al., Kıpçak türkcesi sözlüğü, p. 162. 26. C. E. Bosworth, The New Islamic Dynasties. A Chronological and Genealogical Manual (Edinburgh, 1996), pp. 178–179, no. 89. 27. Barthold, Turkestan, pp. 281ff., 295–298; Bosworth, The Ghaznavids, p. 23ff.; ‘Additions to the New Islamic Dynasties’, in Yasir Suleiman, ed., Living Islamic History: Studies in Honour of Professor Carole Hillenbrand (Edinburgh, 2010), pp. 14–31, no. 90. 28. Al-Kāshgharī, Dīwān lughāt al-turk, vol. 1, p. 11; Eng. tr., Dankoff and Kelly, vol. 1, p. 74. 29. Doerfer, Türkische und mongolische Elemente, vol. 2, pp. 157–159, no. 614; Clauson, Etymological Dictionary, p. 101. 30. Barthold, Turkestan, pp. 280–285, 294–295; Muḥammad Nāẓim, The Life and Times of Sulṭān Maḥmūd of Ghazna (Cambridge, 1931), pp. 54–55; Bosworth, ‘Additions to the New Islamic Dynasties’, no. 90. 31. Golden, Khazar Studies, vol. 1, p. 197. 32. Doerfer, Türkische und mongolische Elemente, vol. 3, pp. 378–380, no. 1381; Clauson, Etymological Dictionary, pp. 603–604; Golden, Khazar Studies, vol. 1, p. 198; R I, 401. Already in Kāsgharī, tr. Atalay, vol. 1, p. 364, tr. Dankoff and Kelly, vol. 1, p. 281. 33. Barthold, Turkestan, pp. 275–279; Nāẓim, Sulṭān Maḥmūd, pp. 56–60. 34. Doerfer, Türkische und mongolische Elemente, vol. 3, pp. 494–495, no. 1506, and R II, 413. 35. Gh 464, 470, F 604, 611.

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36. Toparlı et al., Kıpçak türkce sözlüğü, p. 153. 37. Bosworth, ‘Notes on some Turkish names’, p. 309, s.v. Satïlmïsh. 38. Martijn Theodoor Houtsma, Ein türkisch-arabisches Glossar (Leiden, 1894), p. 78. 39. Ahmed Zeki Velidi Togan, Ibn Faḍlāns Reisebericht (Leipzig, 1939), §34, text pp. 15–16, Ger. tr. pp. 28–30 and Excursus 34a at pp. 141–142. 40. C. E. Bosworth and Gerard Clauson, ‘Al-Xwārazmī on the Peoples of Central Asia’, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society (1965), p. 11; also in C. E. Bosworth, The Medieval History of Iran, Afghanistan and Central Asia (London, 1977); Sümer, Türk devletleri tarihinde şahis adları, vol. 2, p. 550. 41. Golden, ‘The Terminology of Slavery and Servitude’, pp. 52–53; see also his Khazar Studies, vol. 1, pp. 186–187 and ‘Khazar Turkic Ghulâms in Caliphal Service: Onomastic Notes’, Archivum Eurasiae Medii Aevi, 12 (2002–2003) p. 27. 42. Toparlı et al., Kıpçak türkce sözlüğü, p. 286; Clauson, Etymological Dictionary, p. 433. 43. Ibid., pp. 113–114.

19

A Book List from a Seventh/ThirteenthCentury Manuscript Found in Bāmyān1 Iraj Afshar

This brief note describes a list of manuscripts that were owned by a unknown bibliophile from Bāmyān, in modern-day Afghanistan, around the seventh/thirteenth century. As it is an invaluable document, I would like to offer it to my friend Farhad Daftary in this commemorative volume. The list was discovered by Mohammad Shafi of Lahore in an additional sheet which was attached to a folio belonging to the unicum, or only extant manuscript, of Wāmiq wa ʿAdhrāʾ, a Persian mathnawī written by Abu’lQāsim Ḥasan b. Aḥmad ʿUnṣurī (d. 441/1049).2 The rest of the manuscript consists of twenty-four folios and was found inside the paper cover of another manuscript, written in Arabic and entitled al-Kitāb al-Mukhtaṣar min Kitāb al-Waqf, a work devoted to the recitational pauses (wuqūf) of the Qurʾan.3 Mohammad Shafi edited the Wāmiq wa ʿAdhrāʾ folios, but the work was only published, together with facsimile plates, four years after his death in 1963 by his son, Aḥmad Rabbānī, by means of a grant received from the then shah of Iran. Mohammad Shafi published the first two lines of the page attached to the manuscript, but not the contents of the book list included on the page, which I will describe below. The extra sheet of paper is attached to the Wāmiq wa ʿAdhrāʾ manuscript folio in such a way that only four verses (bayts) and three hemistichs (miṣraʿs) are readable. It contains a book list consisting of some twenty works that belonged to and were kept in the house of the otherwise unknown scholar ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd Zakī b. Muḥammad b. ʿAlī al-Bāmyānī. In the nisba (Bāmyānī), the only dotted letter is the bāʾ, while the letters yāʾ and nūn are dotless, but it is highly probable that it refers to Bāmyān and not to any other place. Mohammad Shafi’s introduction does not provide 453

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any information about the identity of this man, and I have not been able to find any reference to him in the standard reference sources. The list is undated, but, as Mohammad Shafi says, the manuscript of the Kitāb al-Waqf was copied on 15 Ramaḍān 526 (i.e. 30 July 1132).4 It is therefore reasonable to assume that the attached list naturally belongs to a later date. This is further supported by the fact that it is written in the taʿlīq calligraphic script, a style that was popularised about a century later, which indicates that it is likely that the manuscript was written in the seventh/thirteenth century at the earliest.5 The order of the books in the list, their titles and the style of the columns are reminiscent of the siyāqī genre. The hand-list, which is reproduced here in table form with the titles numbered from one to twenty, was written in three columns (see tables on pp. 456 and 457). The first column contains seven items, which are referred to by the genre they belong to (tafsīr, fiqh, shʿir), but no titles are given (except for no. 7). The second column consists of six items, three of which have specific identifiable titles – Kalīla wa Dimna and the Dīwāns of Masʿūd-i Saʿd (d. 525/1130) and Sanāʾī (d. 535/1140) – while the other three are generic (sermons, magic and a compendium of various subjects). One of the items, a collection of sermons (daʿawāt), is said to comprise four volumes. The third column lists four books. It is noteworthy that out of the twenty manuscripts included in the list, five are well known while others remain obscure. The known works were written near to the time the list was compiled, around the fifth–sixth/ eleventh–twelfth centuries, as we can see from the authors’ dates: • • • •

•

no. 7: probably refers to the Garshāsb-nāma by Abū Naṣr Aḥmad b. Manṣūr ‘Asadī Ṭūsī’ (d. 465/1073); no. 8: the Dīwān of Abu’l-Majd Majdūd b. Ādam ‘Sanāʾī Ghaznawī’ (d. 535/1141); no. 9: the Persian translation of Kalīla wa Dimna by Naṣr Allāh Munshī (wr. sometime between 541/1146 and 552/1157); no. 10: the Dīwān of Masʿūd-i Saʿd-i Salmān (d. 525/1130); it should be pointed out that no. 19, judging by the title (The Dīwān of the ‘antiMasʿūd’), could be a work satirising the Dīwān of Masʿūd-i Saʿd written by a certain Nāṣir Shamsa.6 no. 17: Maqāma-yi Ḥamīdī, by Ḥamīd al-Dīn Abū Bakr ʿUmar ‘Ḥamīdī’ (d. 559/1163).

Book List from a Seventh/Thirteenth-Century Manuscript

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Notes 1. 2.

3. 4. 5. 6.

This article was translated from the Persian by Rahim Gholami. Abu’l-Qāsim Ḥasan b. Aḥmad ʿUnṣurī, Mathnawī Wāmiq wa ʿAdhrāʾ, introduced, edited and commented on in the margins by the late Dr Mawlawī Muḥammad Shafīʿ [Mohammad Shafi] ‘Sitāra-yi Pākistān’, ed. Aḥmad Rabbānī (Lahore, 1967), pp. nūn + 129 (introduction) + 78 (Urdu introduction) + 20 (notes and table of contents) + 28 (edited text) + 23 (facsimile text) + 8 (English Introduction). For a description of this edition see the review by C. Edmund Bosworth, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 1, ii (1970), pp. 184–186. This work was commissioned for ʿAtīq b. Muḥammad b. Khusraw Hirawī, the author of the famous Tafsīr. See Mohammad Shafi’s Persian introduction to Wāmiq wa ʿAdhrāʾ, p. 2. Aḥmad Munzawī, Fihrist-i mushtarak-i nuskhahā-yi khaṭṭī-i Fārsī-yi Pākistān (Islamabad, 1986), vol. 7, p. 12, also comments on this and refers to the same possibility. This author’s name does not appear in sources like Saʿīd Nafīsī’s Tārīkh-i naẓm wa nathr-i Fārsī (Tehran, 1344 Sh./1965) or ʿAbd al-Rasūl Khayyāmpūr’s Farhang-i sukhanwarān (Tabriz, 1340 Sh./1961).

‫‪Iraj Afshar‬‬

‫‪456‬‬

‫]‪1-2# Z.$[. [١٧‬ی‬ ‫]‪$G8 [١٨‬ب ا‪@%‬ل ‪$7‬ر)` ]= ‪$U‬ر)‪[+‬‬ ‫]‪ [١٩‬د‪@R‬ان ‪@eJ.$,‬د ‪IJ2f (%$,‬‬ ‫]‪14 ١ IC- ‪ I8‬دو ر)‪$G8 $R I0$‬ب ‪@7‬ده‪.‬‬ ‫‪(y 1R$f ٦‬آن ‪@xC.‬ر ‪.1f$7‬‬ ‫‪(E$| ٧‬اً ‪ Z.$, !)$f(z‬ا)‪1‬ی ‪.+)@g‬‬

‫]‪14 ]R !)$f(8 [٧‬د‬

‫‪٧‬‬

‫]‪ [٦‬ادوات ‪14 ]R‬د‬

‫]‪$G8 [١٦‬ب ‪$\,(-,‬ت‬

‫]‪ [١٥ $= ١٢‬د‪@4‬ات ‪$Fo‬ر ‪14‬د‬

‫]‪$U ٣I) :(-J