Iranian Civilization and Culture: Essays in Honour of the 2500th Anniversary of the Founding of the Persian Empire 9780773592285

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Iranian Civilization and Culture ESSAYS IN HONOUR OF THE 2,500TH ANNIVERSARY OF THE FOUNDING OF THE PERSIAN EMPIRE

Edited by Charles J. Adams

Montreal

McGill University Institute of Islamic Studies

1972

°Copyright 1973, Institute of Islamic Studies, McGill University Printed in Canada

TABLE OF CONTENTS FOREWORD PREFACE MEMBERS OF CANADIAN COMMITTEE L.V. GOLOMBEK

Anatomy of a Mosque: The Masjid-i Shah of Isfahan.

5

Archaeology and the Fire Temple.

15

Mystique Iranienne: Suhravardi Shaykh al-Ishräq (549/1155-587/ 1191) et `Ayn al-Quzat-i Hamadani (492/1098-525/1131).

23

Prelude to Monarchy: Iran and the Neo-Assyrian Empire.

39

Persian Manuscript Illumination and Painting.

47

WILLARD GURDON OXTOBY Interpretations of Iranian Dualism.

59

The Tribes of Iran: Reflections on their Past and Future.

71

Iran: A 2,500-Year Historical and Cultural Tradition.

77

Policy Making Process in the Government of Iran.

91

EDWARD J. KEALL HERMANN LANDOLT

LOUIS D. LEVINE G.M. MEREDITH-OWENS

PHILIP C. SALZMAN ROGER M. SAVORY KHALID B. SAYEED GUSTAV THAISS

Unity and Discord: The Symbol 111 of Husayn in Iran.

A.D. TUSHINGHAM

The Takht-i Marmar (Marble 121 Throne) in Teheran.

G.M. WICKENS

The Imperial Epic of Iran: A 133 Literary Approach.

INDEX

145

His Excellency the Governor-General of Canada, Roland Michener, with the Irani portrait-carpet presented him at the time of the celebrations in 1971.

GOVERNMENT HOUSE OTTAWA To look back2,500 years in recorded history is to go back well into the ancient world, but this is what the Shah of Iran invited contemporary states to do last year when he staged in Persepolis and Teheran a pageant to commemorate the founding of the Persian Empire. My wife and I, as representatives of Canada at the ceremonies, were beneficiaries of this initiative. It focussed our attention upon Iran, past and present, in common with official guests from sixty-nine other countries and millions throughout the world, who were brought in by television, radio and the press, as well as by the initiative of sympathetic national groups. One of these was the Canadian Committee to Celebrate the Anniversary of the Founding of the Persian Empire by Cyrus the Great, which was formed in Canada under the Chairmanship of the Honourable Jean Paul Deschatelets, P.C., Q.C., President of the Senate. A notable achievement of this Committee was to sponsor the Conference on Iranian Civilization and Culture arranged by Professor R. M. Savory, Chairman of the Department of Islamic Studies of the University of Toronto, and Professor Charles Adams, Director of Islamic Studies at McGill University, and held in the Ontario Institute for Studies in Education, Toronto on December 10th and 11th, 1971. I had the honour to open this Conference and, although I did not have the opportunity to attend all the sessions, I was greatly impressed by the papers which heard, and I am very happy to commend this volume which reproduces all of them. Because our own Canadian culture has its main roots in Indo-European civilizations, these studies are relevant and interesting. Furthermore, our relations with Iran have developed with considerable cordiality in the last two decades. Many Canadians, as well as trade and cultural associations, and our Government itself, are now following with new interest the modern Iran. It seems to be emerging from history with the sort of vigour and strength which have appeared at intervals in the past and are a tribute to the durability of Persian culture. This was one of the points which the Shah was keen to emphasize in his pageantry. Canadian appreciation was also shown by the gift to Iran of two sturdy mobile health clinics capable of taking their facilities into remote or difficult terrain. Beyond the foregoing I do not wish to impinge on the reader's enjoyment of the following essays, other than to express for Canadians generally our thanks to those who participated in the Conference in such scholarly fashion, and to the Chairman and Members of the Canadian Committee who are responsible for the publication of this volume.

November 1972

.dA,,,,,a._ ix

PRESIDENT DU SENAT

SPEAKER OF THE SENATE

CANADA

I was very honoured to accept the invitation to become the Chairman of the Canadian Committee for the Celebration of the 2,500th Anniversary of the founding of the Persian Empire, celebrated the week of October 11-18, 1971. A committee of about forty well known Canadians representing all the provinces of Canada willingly accepted to assist me in promoting the importance of this unique and historical anniversary. We were very grateful to Her Imperial Majesty, the Empress of Iran, during her visit to Ottawa in June, 1971 for the gracious invitation to the members of the Committee to meet informally with her. We were all impressed with her charm and the great interest she was taking in our organization. It was a great honour, too, that a young Canadian, Roland Dominique, a Montagnais Indian from Schefferville, Quebec, was chosen to represent the red race along with other representatives of different races in various parts of the world who were awarded bursaries to complete their education. In November, 1971 several members of the Committee visited Iran, travelling to Teheran, Isfahan, Shiraz and Persepolis. This was a tremendous experience for them, and they returned delighted with the trip and the warm reception given them by the Iranian officials. One of the highlights of the work of the Committee was indeed the important conference held at the University of Toronto. This conference on Iranian Civilization and Culture presented by Canadian professors on December 10-11, 1971 was officially opened by His Excellency the Governor General of Canada. My thanks to Professor Roger M. Savory, Chairman, Department of Islamic Studies University of Toronto and Professor Charles J. Adams, Director, Institute of Islamic Studies, McGill University for their very capable organization of this conference. It is now with the greatest pleasure and pride that I present this book of published lectures from the Conference to the Iranian government as our contribution to their great celebration. This publication will forever remain as a testimony of the interest taken by Canadians in the history of the Persian Empire. On behalf of the Canadian Committee, I would like to extend my sincere thanks to His Excellency the Governor General and Mrs. Michener, His Excellency Mohamed Goodarzi, Ambassador of Iran in Canada and Dr. Z. Ghahary, Minister Counsellor, Imperial Embassy of Iran, Ottawa, Mr. C. Eberts, Canadian Ambassador to Iran and also Mr. W. George presently our Canadian Ambassador in Iran. In addition I wish to thank Professors Roger M. Savory and Charles J. Adams and Mr. Maurice Boisvert, Assistant Chairman, for their interest and cooperation in making the programs of the committee highly successful. A special thanks is additionally extended to Professor Adams for arranging the publication of this book.

I November, 1972

Jean Paul Deschatelets. x

IMPERIAL EMBASSY OF IRAN OTTAWA

His Imperial Majesty, the Shahanshah Aryamehr, has recently stated that Iran's greatest pride lies in the victories her people have achieved throughout history for the advancement of human culture and civilization and for the expansion of science, art and literature. These victories have been achieved through the efforts of cherished legions of men and women who, throughout Iran's long and illustrious history, have held aloft the torch of culture and knowledge. The history of Iran is a history of civilization and culture rather than an account of military and political conquests. The Persian empire, founded by Cyrus the Great 2,500 years ago, was based on humanitarian ideals of equality and freedom. This message was first introduced by Cyrus' Declaration of Human Rights. Since that time, the slogan of equality and freedom for all, regardless of race, colour or religion, has illuminated the spirit of Iranian life. To exemplify this message, his Imperial Majesty, the Shåhanshåh Aryamehr initiated the White Revolution of Iran in 1963. The twelve points of this White Revolution have enabled a new Iran to come to grips with modernization by a bloodless process. In the short period between 1963 and 1971, when these points began to be implemented, the Iranian way of life has advanced considerably in every aspect: social, economic, cultural and administrative. These programs have led to achievements towards a better life for the Iranian people. This accomplishment was the motive for Iranians to celebrate the heritage of their civilization which has endured for 2,500 years since the founding of the Achaemenid Empire. As part of the celebration of this Anniversary, various countries were invited to cooperate in the presentation of the Iranian culture and civilization. Celebration committees from each country, composed of prominent individuals and personalities desirous of developing closer relations with Iran and its culture, were formed. In Canada, the Committee of Celebration, under the Chairmanship of the Honourable Senator Jean Paul Deschatelets, Speaker of the Senate, deserves to be congratulated and praised for its painstaking efforts to make the celebrations in Canada a success. This valuable publication, contributed by the highly qualified professors and experts who attended the Conference of Iranology in Toronto on December 10th,

xi

1971, will add new chapters to the annals of Persian history and civilization. It also presents a scholarly view of Iranian culture and history to the Canadian public. There are good reasons, therefore, to be grateful for the precious and enlightening research conducted by these distinguished scholars. I believe that this great effort has created a new cultural cooperation between Iran and Canada and that it marks a mile-stone towards a better understanding between the peoples of Canada and Iran. Finally, I should like to convey my appreciation and gratitude for the valuable efforts of Professor Savory of the University of Toronto for organizing the conference and to Professor Adams of McGill University for compiling and editing this magnificent book.

Ø Ø ..,&440401 •

Mohammad Goodarzi, Ambassador

xii

Preface The essays collected in this volume are revised versions of the papers presented by a group of distinguished scholars in Canadian universities at an academic conference on Iranian Civilization and Culture organized under the auspices of the Canadian Committee for the Celebration of the 2,500th Anniversary of the Founding of the Persian Empire by Cyrus the Great. The conference was held in the building of the Ontario Institute for Studies in Education in Toronto on Friday and Saturday, December 10 and 11, 1971. Sessions of the conference were open, not only to the academic community and to officials of the governments of Iran and Canada who were interested, but also to members of the general public. It is a source of gratification to the Canadian Committee that a large audience was on hand to hear these papers and to participate in discussion about them. Financial support for the expenses of the conference was generously given by the Department of External Affairs of the Government of Canada and by the Canada Council. The same two agencies along with the Imperial Embassy of Iran in Ottawa have provided the resources to make publication of the present volume possible. The work of planning and staging the conference was undertaken by Professor Roger N. Savory of the Department of Islamic Studies at the University of Toronto. Their Excellencies, Governor-General Roland N. Michener and Mrs. Michener, kindly extended their patronage to the conference and were present to inaugurate it and to attend its sessions on the first day. The inclusion of an academic conference as part of the Canadian participation in the celebration of the 2,500th Anniversary of the founding of the Persian Empire has afforded the opportunity to demonstrate the range of Canadian interest in Iran, her people and her affairs. The period since the close of World War II has brought the exchange of diplomatic missions between the two countries and has seen the development of trade and commerce on an increasing scale. Iran's magnificent participation in Expo '67, in the form of one of the most beautiful and striking pavilions which that great show boasted, as well as her continued part in Man and His World, have served to make many individuals among the Canadian public aware of the glories of her cultural heritage and the achievements of her modern development. There has, however, been another kind of interest in Iran, fostered in the universities of Canada, which is of much longer standing than these more recent developments. For many years in centres of higher learning spread across Canada, scholars have laboured to cast light on the history of Iran and the contributions of her people to humanity. This Canadian tradition of academic studies relating to Iran is an honourable one, counting among its achievements contributions to international scholarship of the first magnitude, even though individual scholars have often worked in isolation and without due recognition. Something of the seriousness, the quality and the breadth of this scholarship are demonstrated in the essays of the present volume. We have here scholarly endeavours that treat Iran's most remote history as well as her current development. In addition to history

there are studies of Iran's spiritual tradition both in the ancient and in the Islamic periods, reflections on her great literature, presentations of aspects of her plentiful treasure in the plastic arts, and analyses of her trenchant intellectual heritage. The scope of subject matter covered in these essays corresponds to the richness of Iranian culture itself, a culture whose fascination and attraction grow ever stronger even for those who know it best. At the present time there is lively interest both in Iran and Canada for an increased degree of scholarly exchange and communication between the two countries. Especially on the part of the Iranian Government this interest has been translated into financial support for Canadian scholarly efforts in the Iranian field. The Imperial Government of Iran has dispensed generous resources to aid the work of Canadian scholars in Iran itself but also to assist academic programs in Canada, based at Canadian universities, where Iranian studies are pursued. The future development of Canadian scholarly work on Iran would seem, therefore, to hold a bright projnise, and it is earnestly to be hoped that those in Canada who are in a position to foster its expansion will match the initiative taken so boldly and generously by their Iranian counterparts. The academic conference in Toronto in December of 1971 was in a sense the climax of the efforts of the Canadian Committee for the Celebration of the 2,500th Anniversary of the Founding of the Persian Empire in that it was the last major activity sponsored by the Committee. It was, however, by no means the only enterprise of the Committee. Throughout the whole of 1971 members of the Committee were active in publicizing the anniversary celebration and in dispensing information about Iran to the public through a variety of means. The Committee was able to publish a number of articles in newspapers and journals, took part in radio and television programs, organized cultural events of interest to the public, distributed pamphlets and other publications on Iran, arranged for screening of films on Iran, and in other ways sought to make Iran better known to Canadians. Among the high-lights of these activities, in addition to the academic conference, were the Iran Week celebrations conducted at the Iranian pavilion at Man and His World in Montreal. This week of cultural activities was initiated by Her Imperial Majesty, Farah Diba, Shahbanu of Iran, when she visited Canada in June of 1971. The events of that special week included several appearances of a folkloric group, a group of singers and dancers, and a gymnastic group all supplied by the Ministry of Art and Culture of the Imperial Government of Iran. Another major event of the celebration activities was the selection of a young Montagnais Indian boy, a native of Schefferville, Quebec, as the recipient of a scholarship award from the Imperial Government of Iran that will defray the costs of his education through the university. As a part of the celebrations in Iran in October, 1971, the Iranian authorities chose four children, one each from the black, yellow, white and red races as recipients of scholarships. The racial diversity of the group was meant to symbolize the values of equality and freedom which were proclaimed by Cyrus the Great, founder of the Persian Empire. The black child chosen was a citizen of Kenya, the yellow child a citizen of Japan, the white xiv

child a citizen of Iran and the red child, Roland Dominique of Schefferville, a native of Canada. Each of the children was precisely 2,500 days of age on October 14, 1971, the day of the beginning of the celebrations in Iran. A ceremony to announce the award of the scholarship to Roland Dominique was held in Schefferville in October, 1971, with His Excellency, Dr. Zia Eddin Ghahary, Minister Counsellor of the Iranian Embassy in Ottawa present to represent the Imperial Government of Iran. The transliteration systems employed in this volume for Persian and Arabic words are those used by the Library of Congress. In the case of Arabic, the system is perhaps the best ever devised, but the transliteration scheme for Persian poses a variety of problems since it is intended to permit a precise reconstruction of the written Persian words without regard to pronunciation. A number of acknowledgments must gratefully be made by the editor to those who have assisted with the realization of this work. Warm thanks are due to their Excellencies, Mr. Mohammad Goodarzi, Ambassador of Iran and Dr. Zia Eddin Ghahary, Minister Counsellor of the Iranisn Embassy; to Mrs. Joyce Renton, Secretary of the Canadian Committee; to Mr. Don Kearns of Kearns Limited, Printers, Montreal; to Professor Hermann Landolt for editorial assistance; to Mr. Rizå Nåzann for assistance with the calligraphy; and to Miss Eve Yuile, the editor's Administrative Assistant. By far the greatest debt of gratitude is owed to Miss Linda Northrup of Montreal who undertook the demanding task of preparing the manuscript for the press, reading proofs, preparing the index, and otherwise facilitating and supervising a diffucult piece of work. Without her contribution the finished product would have been less pleasing and useful as well as much delayed in seeing the light of day. This volume is respectfully dedicated to the people of Iran. Charles J. Adams Montreal, January, 1973

xv

MEMBERS OF THE CANADIAN COMMITTEE The Honourable Jean Paul Deschatelets, P.C., Chairman, Speaker of the Senate, Ottawa. His Worship Mayor Jean Drapeau, Vice Chairman, City of Montreal. Maurice Boisvert, Deputy Chairman, Assistant Chairman, Tax Appeal Board, Ottawa. Joyce A. Renton, Secretary, Private Secretary to the Speaker of the Senate, Ottawa.

Charles J. Adams, Director, Institute of Islamic Studies, McGill University, Montreal. Jean Boggs, Director, National Gallery of Canada, Ottawa. The Honourable Maurice Bourget, P.C., The Senate, Ottawa. Marie Claire Boucher, Journalist, Montreal. The Honourable Donald Cameron, The Senate, Ottawa. The Honourable Therese Casgrain, Montreal. F. Charpentier, Journalist, Ottawa. The Honourable Lionel Chevrier, P.C., Barrister, Montreal. Grant Deachman, MP., House of Commons, Ottawa. Gaby Desmarais, Gaby Productions Incorporated, Montreal. John Dickey, Q.C., Halifax. R. L. Elliott, Middle Eastern Division, Department of External Affairs, Ottawa. André Fortin, M.P., House of Commons, Ottawa. Zia Eddin Ghahary, Minister Counsellor, Imperial Embassy of Iran, Ottawa. His Excellency Mohammad Goodarzi, Ambassador of Iran to Canada, Ottawa. The Honourable Douglas Harkness, P..C., House of Commons, Ottawa. Hu Harries, MP., House of Commons, Ottawa. The Honourable George Hees, P.C., House of Commons, Ottawa. William Heine, Editor, London Free Press. Burke E. Inlow, Chairman, Political Science Department, University of Calgary. Charles Jennings, Vice President, Canadian Broadcasting Company, Ottawa. Douglas Jung, Barrister, Vancouver. Adrienne Lafortune, Man and His World, Montreal. Gertrude Laing, Calgary. His Worship Mayor Gilles Lamontagne, Quebec City. Donald P. Little, Institute of Islamic Studies, McGill University, Montreal. Grace Maclnnis, M.P., House of Commons, Ottawa.

Pierre O'Neill, President, Parliamentary Press Gallery, Ottawa. Jamshed K. Pavri, Director, The Zoroastrian Society of British Columbia, Vancouver. Raymond E. Robichaud, Simultaneous Interpretation, House of Commons, Ottawa. Kay Rowe, The Brandon Sun. Jeanne Sauve, Montreal. Roger M. Savory, Chairman, Department of Islamic Studies, University of Toronto. The Honourable James Sinclair, P.C., West Vancouver. The Honourable Richard Stanbury, The Senate, Ottawa. Madame Georges P. Vanier, Montreal. Jacques Veilleux, M.P.P., Quebec. Mehdi Haeri Yazdi, Institute of Islamic Studies, McGill University, Montreal.

Philomene Dominique and her son Roland, Montagnais Indians from Shefferville, Quebec, discuss their plans to visit Iran with Jeanne Sauve and other members of the Canadian Committee who went to Iran for the Anniversary Celebrations. Left to right: Pierre O'Neill, Zia Eddin Ghahary, Jean Paul Deschatelets, George Hees, and Douglas Harkness.

ANATOMY OF A MOSQUE THE MASJID-I SHAH OF ISFAHAN L. V. GOLOMBEK* That the patronage of architecture in Islamic Iran came largely from the ruling class is a well known fact. Wealthy princes endowed their cities with great avenues, markets, mosques, schools, hospitals, and palatial dwellings. Their private funds were also distributed throughout the vast countryside in profit-making ventures such as caravanserays, as well as in charitable foundations — shrines, hospices, and Stiff cloisters — where the needs of the indigent were provided. But although all of these institutions and their physical settings were sponsored by royalty, few can truly be called `royal' or `imperial' monuments. Perhaps we might put in this category some of the more spectacular princely tombs such as the mausoleum of Uljaytti at Sultåniyah or the great Friday mosque of Timtir, the Bibi Khanum of Samargand. But the monument which best fits this appellation is the Masjid-i Shah of Isfahan, commissioned by Shah `Abbas I in 1612. For this reason the mosque has been thought a suitable choice for the study of the role of monarchy in Iranian civilization. Hardly a visitor to Isfahan, whether an adventurous merchant of the seventeenth century or a present-day tourist admiring the photogenic dome of the sanctuary, has failed to form some opinion of the great mosque of Shah `Abbas.t More recently, very important scholarly work has been done in relation to the mosque, which now makes it possible to raise certain questions. Architectural and archaeological studies of the maydirn and its buildings are being carried out by the Istituto Italiano per it Medio e l'Estremo Oriente (ISMEO) with a view to preserving the monuments.2 The excellent reports of these investigations are complemented by the very admirable work of Mr. Lutf-Allah Hunarfar, who has recorded all of the inscriptions in the mosque in his compendium of the monuments of Isfahån.3 In this paper we shall try to indicate the direction which further investigations, based on these recent studies, might take. To appreciate fully the significance of the Masjid-i Shah one must take into consideration its setting — the great maydån of Isfahan, an enormous rectangular space, seven times the size of the piazza in front of San Marco's in Venice. It is enclosed by arcaded bazaars which run between the four major architectural pieces for which the maydån is famous. On the east the dome of the Lutf Allah Mosque looms over the horizon. Probably the first monument built on the maydån, it is located somewhat south of the midpoint. This in itself is a curious fact and a question which deserves further study elsewhere. Had its builder Shah `Abbas the Great been completely free to design this brilliant urban monument, he would have planned it to be perfectly symmetrical. But perhaps existing structures prevented this. Seven years after the foundations of the little mosque were laid, a palace *West Asian Department, Royal Ontario Museum, Toronto, Ontario, Canada.

—5—

pavilion five stories high began to rise directly opposite it. The `Alf Qåpil, as it was called, was the royal reception hall as well as the official gate to the palace grounds. Three years later in 1612 Shäh `Abbas commissioned his piece de resistance: the Royal Mosque, or Masjid-i Shäh, to adorn the south side of the square. It was an ambitious task. It took four years to complete the majestic portal alone. Once this impressive portal stood in all its splendour, there was little need to press the project toward completion. The inward-facing facade of the maydcin was finished. The mosque portal faced an equally splendid entrance to the grand bazaar on the opposite side. The arcades of the covered bazaar linked the four architectural gems — the `Ali Qäpü, the Masjid-i Shah portal, the Lutf Alläh Mosque, and the Qayariyah bazaar — like pearls on a string. About twenty years later the prayer halls of the Masjid-i Shäh were ready for use, but Shah `Abbas himself never lived to see his dream fulfilled. He died in 1629, just as the dome of the sanctuary was being clothed in its arabesque robe of polychrome tiles. A brief tour of the mosque will precede our discussion of some of the more significant questions that it poses. The portal embraces three sides of a rectangular space set back in the arcades of the maydån. The actual door to the mosque is reached through a vaulted bay, or ayvån. The facade of the vault takes the form of a rectangular screen, topped by two slender chimney-like minarets. Since the maydån itself is oriented toward the cardinal points, any mosque built into its arcades must be turned on its axis to face the southwest, or qiblah. When one passes from the entrance door into a small vestibule and then into the triangular bay at the end of another ayvän facing an open courtyard, he is completely unaware that his direction has been shifted to coincide with the qiblah, and that he now faces the holy city of Mecca, the correct orientation for prayer. After passing through this broad ayvän, one comes into a spacious rectangular courtyard. Two similar ayvåns appear on either side of the courtyard. The ayvans are connected by rhythmic arcades, and except for the qiblah side the arcades run in two stories. The upper ones form pleasant balconies, some of which have rooms behind. As one leaves the entrance ayvän, the monumental qiblah-ayvån stands directly opposite. Behind the qiblah-ayvån lies the domed hall of the sanctuary, the holiest and most beautiful part of the mosque, the part which contains the mihra7i, or prayer niche. The screen in front of the sanctuary ayvån is crowned by a pair of minarets, complementing those of the entrance portal. The outer dome is covered with turquoise tile, shot through with spiralling arabesque ornament in yellow and white. It rests on a tall cylindrical drum, pierced by windows which shower light onto the interior of the sanctuary. This dome is not, in fact, the true covering of the sanctuary. It is only an outer shell. The actual dome which one sees inside the sanctuary is low and shallow. It rises to a majestic but human height. The entire wall surface of the sanctuary is covered with majolica tiles. The beautiful inscription band, written by leading Isfahäni calligraphers of the day, testifies to the legitimacy of `Ali, cousin and son-in-law of the Prophet. These —6—

declarations, almost propagandistic in their intent, distinguish the Masjid-i Shah as a Shi'i mosque. From the sanctuary or from the courtyard we can enter the columned prayer halls that flank the dome. These stark marble columns, like trunks of trees, support a series of tile-covered vaults. Each of the two-aisled halls has its own mihrdbs. The sanctuary itself could never accommodate the entire congregation, and the overflow could find its way into the quiet oratories at the sides or in the lateral ayvåns at the sides of the courtyard. Behind these ayvans, too, there was a small dome chamber, which served as a chapel in much the same way as the chapels built along the aisles of cathedrals. In these more secluded areas lectures were also held, and solitude could be found for study and meditation. From the courtyard one can pass through the lateral arcades into the two small courtyards in the south and west corners. The courtyards are part of two madrasahs, or schools for traditional religious learning, built into the mosque proper. They are surrounded by shaded arcades and filled with beautiful trees and pools of water. The ayvåns and arcades are decorated in tilework like that of the mosque itself, but were not completed until the second half of the seventeenth century. Having completed the tour, we may now turn to some of the questions posed by the mosque. The first deals with the architectural conception. How original was its plan, its methods of construction and its decoration? The second question touches upon the symbolic significance of the architecture, in other words, whether or not it succeeds as a mosque. Finally, we shall remark upon the relationship between the mosque and its founder Shah `Abbas the Great. Basically, the Masjid-i Shah is a four-ayvån mosque, that is, it has four large vaulted halls on the axes of a courtyard. Let us briefly review the evolution of this form. From its very origins, the mosque, as it took form in the Arab world, was a building in some way related to a courtyard.4 The Arab type of mosque, which developed during the first centuries of Islam, was essentially a pillared hall. The hall sometimes had a central nave leading to the wall facing Mecca; the qiblah opened onto a courtyard. The roof of the hall was supported by arches on columns. Columns were readily available throughout the Mediterranean world where there was an abundant supply of Roman buildings to be pillaged. This blueprint for the uniquely Islamic building was carried by the Arab conquerors into the Persian world. But here certain obstacles were encountered. Roman ruins were few and far between. For the most part, Persia was a nation of brick masons who employed the tradition of forms which go with brick architecture such as vaults and domes. There were a few early attempts to translate the hall of stone columns into the brick idiom, but by the eleventh century the Arab plan was to all intents and purposes abandoned. The courtyard was still surrounded by arcades, but the new design of the courtyard façade established the courtyard as the centre of the building rather than the `uncovered half.' Together with the centralizing effect of the courtyard went the transformation of the covered parts of the mosque into an architectural unity through the creation of a —7—

courtyard façade with four axial ayvåns. The artistic value of the ayviin, which made its first appearance in the mosque at this time, was appreciated far beyond the borders of Iran and was eventually translated into stone in the Arab world. By the twelfth century Persia was no longer on the receiving end of Muslim culture; in many senses, particularly in art, it set the pace. The second innovation in the Persian mosque was the transformation of the pillared hall into a large domed sanctuary often flanked by vaulted oratories. The sanctuary ayvän followed by its massive dome became the focal point of the architect's interest. For centuries after the complement of ayvän plus domed sanctuary first appeared, the Persian mosque changed little except in the proportions of these two units and their relationship to each other. The proportions worked out by the architect of the Masjid-i Shah were perhaps the most successful of all, but we must bear in mind that the idea was not original. With respect to methods of construction also, the Masjid-i Shah represents little that can be called a technical advance over Saljüq models. The dome is supported by a system of squinches. This system, by which the square is transformed into an octagon and ultimately into the circle of the dome, goes back to pre-Islamic times. In the Saljüq period the system was highly refined, and a new decorative motif appeared that was to affect architectural decoration for centuries to come. In the mosque of Isfahan the squinch arch was broken into stalactite sections forming the so-called `mugarnas' composition. We meet these stalactites time and time again in Persian architecture, notably, in the semi-dome of the portal in the Masjid-i Shah. Nor was the double-dome a new idea. It appeared as early as the eleventh century even though it was not fully exploited for artistic purposes until the age of Timur, the fifteenth century, as for example, in the Giir-i Amir. Was there anything new in the architectural conception of the Masjid-i Shah? It is the only Friday mosque to incorporate smaller courtyards within the walls of the mosque proper.' There are many examples of madrasahs being added on to existing mosques. But the idea of building a madrasah-form into the original plan seems to be new. Or was it accidental? Had the architect of Shah `Abbas originally planned to fill the south and west oratories with pillared halls like those flanking the sanctuary? We must bear in mind that the madrasahs were completed long after Shah `Abbas' death. A second innovative feature was the use of small dome chambers behind the lateral ayvüns. This idea seems to have appeared first in the famous Bibi Khånum mosque in Samargand built by Timur two centuries earlier. But the Bibi Khånum seems to have had no successors in the Timurid realms — as if one dared not duplicate the great work of Ti'miir. But it was perhaps in emulation of Timür that Shah `Abbas adopted this feature for his own imperial mosque. If the inspiration for the corner cloisters and the lateral domes was not wholly original, their coordination in the plan of the Masjid-i Shah was. The dome chambers can be seen either as axial units of the central courtyard or as secondary sanctuaries related functionally to the corner madrasahs. But the most outstanding artistic accomplishment in the Masjid-i Shah is the —8—

manner in which the architect coped with the problem of shifting its axis. The sides of the maydän face the cardinal points, and any mosque built behind its walls had to be rotated toward the qiblah direction. This was also true of the Lutf Allah Mosque in which the visitor is taken through an L-shaped corridor before being brought into the sanctuary directly opposite the mihräb. In the Masjid-i Shah the shift takes place within a single space, the triangular bay of the northeast ayvän. The visitor senses no deviation from his path of entry. The passage from entrance portal to sanctuary seems direct, immediate. The central question of the orientation of the maydän itself nevertheless remains to be explored. It poses a problem as puzzling as the asymmetrical positioning of the Lutf Allah Mosque and `Ali Qåpü mentioned earlier. Why had Shah `Abbas not oriented the whole maydän toward the qiblah, thus avoiding the problem of adjusting the axis of the mosque? Perhaps archaeology will some day suggest an answer to this question. Literary sources indicate the existence here of large palatial gardens, the Bagh-i Naqsh-i Jahån, in pre-Safavid times .6 No doubt its orientation and its structures — canals, walls, pavilions — helped determine the character of the Safavid maydän. Otherwise, Shah `Abbas might have considered the needs of the mosque first and turned the whole maydän in the direction of the qiblah. This was the solution preferred by the Mughal emperors, who planned their entire palace-cities with the orientation of the mosque in mind. Finally, in terms of the proportions of the building, the relationship between ayvdn and dome, the pairing of entrance portal and sanctuary, and the subordination of surface design to architectural lines, the Masjid-i Shah represents the culmination of many developments that had gone through experimental stages in the centuries preceding. Each of these points could be discussed and elaborated in further detail. But having stressed what seem to be the more essential architectural features, I would like to turn now to the two remaining questions. How does the Masjid-i Shah fare as a mosque? Like all mosques from North Africa to India, the Masjid-i Shah fulfills the minimal requirements of a Muslim house of prayer. In the sanctuary, in the wall facing Mecca, there is an arched niche, the mihräb, giving the proper orientation for prayer. Some of the early Persian mihriibs are quite elaborate. Compared with these the Safavid mihräb is relatively simple. It blends into the whole qiblah wall and is coordinated with the decorative scheme of this wall. As in all mosque decoration, living forms, human and animal, are absent. This was certainly not true of decoration in secular buildings or on objects and illustrated books, but in the mosque all efforts were made to avoid the temptation of idolatry. Outside Safavid religious buildings, however, we occasionally find a pair of peacocks represented on the portal. They appear on the portal of the Masjid-i Shah as well as other shrines and mosques in the area of Isfahan. Up to now we have been talking about the ritual aspects of mosque architecture. More difficult to define are the symbolic aspects of its forms. Obviously a mosque is more than a shelter from the sun oriented in the proper direction. To the Muslim the sanctuary of the mosque is a microcosm of the —9—

universe. The surface of the dome was often decorated with sunburst or stellar designs. This brought the worshipper in direct contact with the awesome heavenly bodies. It is basically the same idea as a Gothic cathedral, spiritual uplift through architecture, but the means of achieving this are quite different. In the West the vertical thrust of the architecture carries the worshipper's eyes upward towards a heaven that is unreachable. In the Masjid-i Shah, or any other Persian mosque, the heavens themselves are brought down to the level of man. They are completely visible. Their divine order and beauty are appreciated although never fully grasped. The use of trees and water in the mosque is an allusion to the concept of the mosque as a preview of paradise, a splendid garden, the jannah of the Qur'an. The corner madrasahs in the Masjid-i Shah contain real gardens. Foliate and floral ornament covers the surfaces of the architecture. After the domed sanctuary, the entrance portal is the most spectacular feature of the Masjid-i Shah. Persian mosques did not acquire monumental entrance portals until the Mongol period. From this time onward the portal became an essential feature, and the whole process of `entering' the mosque took on symbolic meaning. The mosque portal, perhaps borrowed from shrine architecture, became a gateway to salvation. Highly revered spiritual leaders were known as `biibs' or `gates' through whom the devotee could ascend spiritual heights, hence the well-known sect of the Bibis and Bahi'is active in the nineteenth century. One often finds inscribed on the portals of shrines: `The Gate of the Sayyids (that is, the holy men) is the Gateway to Happiness.' In the Masjid-i Shah we find repeatedly in the inscriptions: `I (that is, the Prophet) am the City of Knowledge, and `Ali is its Gate. He who wishes knowledge should come to the Gate.' In the Masjid-i Shah the symbolic significance of the portal is conveyed with particular success by its architecture — its soaring portal screen and minarets which, in the words of the Persian poet, `Compete with the heavens' — and by the extension of its sides to form wings, inviting and embracing the worshipper. So the Masjid-i Shah is a traditional rendering of a mosque, which, however, stands out as a particularly effective one through its aesthetic refinements. To its founder, so state the inscriptions, it was the equal of the Masjid al-`Agsa (that is, the sanctuary at Jerusalem), where even the dumb beast Buraq, upon whom Muhammad made his ascent, acquired holiness. It would be so to anyone taking note of the massiveness of the structure of this mosque. Elsewhere the mosque is called a `second Ka`bah.' Let us turn now to our final question, to what extent does the Masjid-i Shah reflect the personality of its founder, Shah `Abbas? The answer is suggested in an anecdote, perhaps apocryphal, but nevertheless, containing a grain of truth. Shah `Abbas was in such a hurry to proceed with the construction of the mosque that he did not wish to allow the foundations to settle. The architect took measurements from the foundations and went into hiding. He emerged years later, threatened with his life and proved that the foundations had, in fact, shifted. He was pardoned and resumed work. Even so, the building is poorly constructed and shows points of weakness. —10—

Another indication of the speed demanded by the Shah is the technique of decoration used for most of the building. Painted majolica tiles, rapidly mass-produced, replaced mosaic-faience, which required expensive, timely labour. The effect of covering huge expanses with coloured tile is dazzling, but on close view these painted tiles lack the brilliance of mosaic-faience. Why the rush? Why the stage-like superficiality? We must bear in mind that the Masjid-i Shah, like the Sultans' mosques in Istanbul, was the major architectural undertaking of Shah `Abbas' reign. The mayØn was the ideal setting for such a monument, for it was here that embassies were received, troops reviewed, polo matches held, and public entertainments, including executions, took place. The mayd n was the main theatre or arena for all official functions, and the Masjid-i Shah with its magnificent portal was to be the backdrop. So conscious of the dramatic possibilities was the Shah that the portal headed the list of things to be completed. Only twenty years later could the mosque itself be used. Even within the walls of the mosque the sense of pomp and ceremony predominates. The architect planned the shift of axis in the entrance-way to achieve the most spectacular view of the sanctuary and its dome. This sense of the theatrical, the dramatic, the grandiose must be seen as a reflection of the personality of the Shah, its founder. The Masjid-i Shah was a monument to him, not merely another Friday mosque for Isfahan. It is imperial not only in name, the `Royal Mosque,' but in conception — it is a true embodiment of the concerns and ethos of monarchy. Notes 1. 2.

3. 4. 5.

6.

For a convenient and lavishly illustrated description of the city see W. Blunt, Isfahan, Pearl of Persia (London 1966). While no individual studies of the Masjid-i Shah have yet been published by Istituto Italiano per it Medio e l'Estremo Oriente (ISMEO), remarks on the maydån and its monuments can be found throughout Travaux de restauration de monuments historiques en Iran, Part II (ed.), G. Zander (Rome 1968). Ganjtnah- i Asar-i Tarlkh7-i IFfandn (Isfahan 1344/[1965.66]); A. Godard, 'Isfahan, Åthår-e Iran, II, 1 (1937), 107-16, is still useful and contains the relevant bibliography. Cf. J. Sauvaget, La Mosquee Omeyyade de Medine: Etude sur les origines architecturales de la mosquee et de la basilique (Paris 1947). With the possible exception of the.Mosque at Ziytiratgah near Herat (1485), where two narrow courtyards flank the entrance vestibule. Architecturally speaking, they are variants to the typical Timurid 'entrance complex,' and therefore different from those of the Masjid-i Shah. (G. A. Pugachenkova, 'Tri pozdnetimuridskikh pamiätnika Ziaratgokhe bliz Gerata,' Obshchestvennye Nauki v ilzbekistane, VIII-IX (1969), 30-42. The history of the maydän is reviewed by L. Hunarfar in 'Maydan-i Naqsh-i Jahån-i Isfahan,' Hunar w Mardum, No. 105 (July 1971), 2-28.

Plate 1. The Masjid-i Shah as seen from the mavelim with the'Ali Qapüü at right.

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Plate 2. Plan of the maydån: Masjid-i Shäh at south end, Lutf Allah Mosque on east side, `Ali Qäpil and extensive gardens of Chihil Sutün on west,bazaar portal with covered bazaar area on north.

Plate 3. Northeast side of courtyard in Masjid-i S11511.

Plate 4. View of the maydån. From J.-P. H.R. Dieulafoy, La Perse, la Chaldee et la Susiane. Paris 1887.

ARCHAEOLOGY AND THE FIRE TEMPLE EDWARD J. KEALL* Zoroastrian studies of the Sasanid period have often been approached largely at the philosophical level. The lack of real substantive evidence in the material form has meant that there has been an inordinate stress placed upon writings that are in no way contemporary with the heyday of Sasanid Zoroastrianism. Furthermore, we have tended to colour the picture by referring to the more immediately recognizable Zoroastrian traits of Achaemenid Iran and rituals practiced by the modern-day Zoroastrians of Iran and India. In other words, we have a tendency to take the fire altar of Darius, seen above his tomb at Naqsh-i Rustam, combine it with rituals practiced by the Parsees, and expect that we have a reasonable approximation of the scene as it was in Sasanid times. While that deduction may be quite correct, nevertheless, the method of arriving at such a conclusion is far from satisfactory. The purpose of this paper is to point out that as a result of recent archaeological activity, particularly in Iran, the amount of factual evidence available to us has now increased considerably, providing an opportunity for interpretation along different lines than before. With the continued exposure of archaeological remains we may find a greater variety of religious expression at the local level than we had previously suspected as a result of reading pious, posthumous texts. Many of the observations made by mediaeval Arab historians are immensely valuable in the identifications they provide for sites and monuments. Yet it should not be forgotten that these observations were being made by people who probably understood less than we about the entire Church system of Zoroastrian Iran under the Sasanid empire. The chroniclers may have publicized the more dramatic aspects of fire worship as compared with other religious practices because they saw fire worship as best reflecting the spirit of the Dark Ages which they believed the pre-Islamic period to be. Since by the ninth century it was only a vestige of Zoroastrianism that remained — presumably the most conservative and orthodox aspect of it — we may suppose that many of the local cults that had managed to survive even under the repressive aegis of Zoroastrianism were transferred into the daily-life habits of the ordinary people who by now had been absorbed within the new Islamic system. (The expression of these local cult beliefs may be found in some of the more confusing elements of Islamic art, elements that often appear at first to be contradictory to the strict tenets of Islam.) We are suggesting here then, that the religious practices of Zoroastrian Iran may have been quite diverse in nature at the local level and certainly more varied than the Ninth Century Books would lead us to believe. Turning now to the mainstream of Sasanid Zoroastrianism, we can admit quite freely that fire did play a vital part for both Church and State. At the king's *West Asian Department, Royal Ontario Museum, Toronto, Ontario, Canada.

— 15 —

coronation a fire was consecrated in his name. That fire is portrayed on coins issued by each individual monarch. The coins, for instance, of Shäpür I bear on the reverse face two attendants flanking an altar and an inscription that reads Adhur-i Shåhpuhr (Fire of Shäpür). The discovery of altar fragments from excavations conducted at Takht-i Sulaymän by the German Archaeological Institute has shown that the altar depicted on the coins represents not just a metaphysical expression of an idealized altar, but a physically known type. The excavation of two hundred and thirty-four bullae from a storeroom located at the rear of the main shrine buildings at Takht-i Sulaymän has given us actual evidence that we are dealing with a fire temple and not with a hunting pavilion or the like. In addition, eighteen of those bullae from the store-room have been stamped with a seal that carried the inscription Mobadh-i Adhur-i Gushnasp (Priest of the Sanctuary of the Warriors' Fire). The value of this identification of one of the three great national shrines is inestimable. During the 1930's, when Iranian archaeological studies were beginning to expand, Andre Godard formulated a number of theories regarding the Sasanid fire temple. As a result of these studies a simple, square monument, a pavilion, conveniently termed a chahår {åq from the four open, arched sides of the building, became associated with fire worship in Sasanid Zoroastrianism. This was largely deduced from studies of the ground plans of temples found in the Zoroastrian community of modern Iran. Excavations at Takht-i Sulaymän have subsequently proved that perspicacious hypothesis to be true. Basically the Sasanid fire temple can be seen as a square structure, with arches on all four sides, and surmounted by a dome. The circular form of the dome is fitted onto the square ground plan by means of arched features in the corners, called squinches. The weight of the dome is borne by the four main, load-bearing arches whose thrusts carry into the four heavy blocks located in each of the corners of the structure. The excavations at Takht-i Sulaymän have shown that the altar was positioned centrally on the floor of the temple. Godard recognized the need for a sanctuary that could be labelled fire temple proper. In order to explain the existence of several seemingly isolated chahår täq pavilions Godard coined the phrase `signal station.' He suggested that these pavilions may have served the double purpose of acting as a focal point of the religion as well as serving as a beacon and landmark for travellers. Certainly if one looks at the chahår gig pavilion at Jirrah overlooking the Farråshband plain, that picture is not hard to conjure up. The light would have been visible for miles. However, during the 1960's, L. Vanden Berghe travelled extensively in the province of Fars and discovered a considerable number of hitherto unknown fire temples. One of the remarkable aspects of his discoveries was that in the plain of Farråshband there were the remains of no less than nine chahår tag pavilions. Most striking of all was that not a few of the basic chahår taq types — those seemingly open sided buildings — had in fact originally been partially enclosed with a corridor running round all four sides. This outer corridor was pierced by narrow openings in each of the four sides. — 16—

In other words, under these circumstances the altar would have been visible from only a few angles or from a very close distance. The theory of a burning beacon thus becomes far from plausible. Instead, we should perhaps change the picture and visualize the faithful peering through narrow openings at what may have been a largely incomprehensible ritual being performed within. Such a ceremony, hidden from the rays of the sun, seems to accord better with the tradition that the sacred fire was not supposed to be exposed to the elements. Exposure demanded that a special process of purification be initiated in order to restore the fire to its former sacred condition. Vanden Berghe implied that he found physical evidence of such a process of ritual purification, in so far that he found a new type of structure that he labelled ätish-kadah. By this he meant the holy of holies, the fire sanctuary proper. His thesis was derived from the fact that at some sites, and notably at Kunår Siyåh, he found a group of buildings amongst which there was represented the classic type of chahär täq pavilion. In addition, there was another square kiosk whose enclosed nature was particularly striking. In Vanden Berghe's eyes that made it the perfect candidate for an inner sanctuary, the shrine whither the fire was returned after completion of ceremonies conducted publicly in the chahär fåq pavilion. Unfortunately Vanden Berghe had largely destroyed the forcefulness of such an idea by showing that the pavilions were not always the open type of building they were believed to be in Godard's day. In other words, the new version of the chahär Ng pavilion with its enclosing corridor could have functioned quite well as a fire sanctuary. Furthermore, the wider entrance of the kiosk at Kunar Siyah faced away from the temple complex, a seemingly inappropriate orientation if the building were to function as an inner sanctuary. We have, too, to explain the existence of an altar at Qanåt-i Bågh. The altar is located on the lower slopes of a range of hills flanking the Farråshband Plain. The altar would appear to be closely connected with a chahär {äq pavilion that lies a little way out into the plain. In this particular case, it could be argued that the needs for ceremony and sanctuary seem to be met by the existence of isolated altar and chahär fäq pavilion. The same relationship of ceremonial altar to fire temple sanctuary seems to exist again on the other side of the Farråshband Plain which the writer visited in 1965. The existence of a pier of masonry (and possibly even two piers) situated on the lower slopes of a range of hills overlooking the chahår faq pavilion of Gumbad seems to echo very closely the pattern already observed in the case of Qanåt-i Bågh — that is, a ceremonial altar located on a rise overlooking the site of a fire temple sanctuary. These discoveries present invaluable new evidence, but we are left with just as many unanswered questions by way of the problems concerning the interrelationship of altar, ceremonial pavilion and sanctuary-kiosk. One way to improve our knowledge of the Sasanid fire temple would be through the organization of an archaeological program. The excavations at Takht-i Sulayman have already demonstrated the unique potential of archaeological work. Yet this is the only example of a fire temple in the process of being excavated; and the ruins at Takht-i Sulayman represent the remains of a national shrine. It would — 17 —

be especially useful at this point to explore the remains of a fire temple that could be associated with a village community. We know from Tabari that Mihr-Narse, the famed minister of Bahråm V, founded in honour of his sons during the fifth century, four villages, each with a fire temple. The region of Farråshband seems to fit very well the description of their location. It is not unreasonable to suppose that the remains of one of those villages founded by Mihr-Narse could be found there. They were reported to have been in good condition in the ninth century. The obvious target for such excavation work is the site of Gumbad which has already been mentioned in connection with the discussion about altar and sanctuary. Traces of walls, indicating the presence of a village, can be found on the ground covering an area of at least five hundred metres square. Excavation at this site promises to illuminate the obscure transitional phase between Sasanid and early Islamic occupation. Above all, exposure of the ruins should aid the debate about the delicate relationship between Church and State in Sasanid times. It would be interesting to see, for instance, whether the fire temple appeared to be an isolated monument or an integral part of the community. The size and nature of the priestly college would also be a fascinating question to investigate by way of excavations. The significance of the Church and State debate is made more relevant by observing what part Zoroastrianism played during the Sasanid period. It could be said that the Sasanids rebuilt the shattered edifice of Zoroastrianism after a period of decay during the murky phases of Parthian history. It could also be said that the Sasanids revived Zoroastrianism in order to legitimize the regime in the eyes of the people. The same link with the Achaemenid past was preserved in the use of the title `king of kings.' In face of the need to counter the rising dogmas of Christianity and Manichaeism the Sasanids found themselves, as R. C. Zaehner has remarked, in search of an orthodoxy. In the course of this search the Church became wedded to the State. At first, under the resurrected scheme, the deified Anåhita and Mithra played minor roles, perhaps rated as archangels as compared with the creator-lord Ohrmazd. Yet there can be no doubt that at different times even the monarchs differed in their personal attention to Ohrmazd. The standard iconographical representation of the royal investiture scene is to show the royal diadem, symbol of kingship, being offered to the king by Ohrmazd. The substitution of Anåhita as the god-figure in the rock relief at Naqsh-i Rustam clearly underlines a divergence from standard practice during the reign of Narse. The purges instituted by the high-priest Karter following Shåpür II's death are also indications that Sasanid Zoroastrianism was never totally standardized to the satisfaction of the Church hierarchy. Furthermore, we know that Shåpür II dedicated a shrine to the Fountain of Ardvi Süra Anåhita (Denkart, IV: 27). Until recently we have been unable to identify any Sasanid buildings that might be connected with the cult of Anähita. But the remarkable excavations at Takht-i Sulaymn have shown that there are reasonable grounds for suggesting that the ruins of this great national temple-

-18—

complex include remains of an Anähita shrine, and possibly the one we are told Shåpür built. The argument is based on the discovery at Takht-i Sulayman of a sanctuarykiosk adjacent to the chahår ITN pavilion. The centre of the floor of the kiosk is taken up by a feature sunken below floor level. The existence of a pipe draining from the sunken area towards the lake in the south would seem to suggest that this was the remains of a pool. Of the two doorways leading from the kiosk the one that connects with the chahirr Iaq pavilion is quite narrow. All in all the orientation of the kiosk seems to be more towards the lake. It might be more appropriate, therefore, in the case of the kiosk, to speak in terms of the Pahlavi åpan khiinak (or ab khånah) rather than åtish-kadah (or fire sanctuary) according to the categorization made by Vanden Berghe. It is admittedly, at the moment, a tenuous theory. Nevertheless, the role of Anähita has probably been underestimated. Her part has been somewhat overlooked in the philosophical debates on religion. The placing of the goddess on an equal footing with the creator-lord can be cited in the example of Achaemenid Pasargadae, even though the identification here is unproven. The case for the association of twin structures with ceremonies involving the adoration of fire and water is further enhanced by noting the existence of altars of the Sasanid period side by side at Naqsh-i Rustam. Above all, the increasing number of the goddess' representations in art shows that the cult of Anähita was at times quite strong. We have been exposed in the past to a discussion concerning the significance of the so-called paridaeza motif that appears on a few examples of Sasanid silver platters. Oleg Grabar has rightly pointed out that it is dangerous to suggest that the paridaeza arcades are more than decorative motifs of symbolic origin. There can be little justification in Lars-Ivar Ringbom's claim that the Berlin salver holds a representation of the shrine of Ardvi Süra Anähita. (A similar weakness exists, to a lesser degree, in the claim made earlier in this paper that the shrine was located at Takht-i Sulayman. In the latter case, however, we are dealing with an actual building.) There may not be a one to one correspondence between the shrine of Anähita and the paridaeza shown on the platters. It is, however, to our advantage to look at the decorative architectural feature for which a symbolic interpretation may not be too far-fetched. The feature in question consists of a panel of flat recesses occurring on the façade of some of the better preserved Sasanid monuments. The kiosk at Kunär Siyah is a good example, as well as the pavilion at Tall-i Jangi. Incidentally, the tradition of this type of panelling is preserved at Bukhara in the façade of the tenth century Samanid tomb which in other ways, too, echoes a Sasanid past. The most important example of this blind arcading is the panel of shallow niches that occurs above the main entrance to the sacred enclosure at Takht-i Sulayman. Camilla Trever refers to a passage in the Avesta (Yasht V) that described the sanctuaries of Anähita as having 'une centaine d'ouvertures pour I'eclairage, claire, avec un millier de colonnes joliment construites et dotees de dix mille frashkemba (porticoes).' The Parthian temple of Anåhita at Kangåvar with its columnar — 19 —

make-up would seem to fit this description very well. So would the paridaeza arcades on the silverware just mentioned. When we deal with actual surviving monuments of the Sasanid period, however, we are faced with a different architectural tradition. Is it not possible that, in the spirit of religious conservatism, the columnar building was considered inappropriate and that an enclosed structure was demanded for liturgical ceremonies? Yet the spirit of the Anåhita temple as described in the Avestan text may have remained. Is it not possible that this columnar tradition may have been preserved, symbolically, in the panels of arcading that exist on façades of certain monuments? Possibly in that sense we can urge, along with Trever, that the dancing figures seen on Sasanid silver carafes can be identified as representations of Anähita even though the artist has depicted the arcading on them in the vocabulary of a different time and place. One of the most exciting problems facing the excavators at Takht-i Sulaymån will be to determine whether the portico flanking the pool, making the monument look for all the world like an Umayyad palace, cannot be interpreted as part of the shrine of Ardvi Sara Anåhita about which so much speculation has raged. Suggested Reading Godard, Andre. `Les monuments du feu,' Athdr-e Iran, III (1938). Grabar, Oleg. Review of Paradisius Terrestris, by Lars-Ivan Ringbom. Ars Orientalis, V (1963). Huff, Dietrich. `Takht-i Suleiman,' in `Survey of Excavations,' Iran, VIII (1970). . Der Tshahar Tay-e Gumbad bei Farrashband,' Archaeologische Mitteilungen aus Iran, Neue Folge, III (1970). Naumann, Rudolf. `A Fire-Temple of the Magians in N. W. Persia,' Illustrated London News, January 16, 1965. . `Takht-i Suleiman and Zendan-i Suleiman,' Survey of Persian Art, New Studies, ed. A. U. Pope, XIV (1967). Schippmann, K. Die Iranischen Feuerheiligtum. (`Religionsgeschichtliche Versuche and Vorarbeiten,' band XXXI; 1971). Trever, Camilla. `A propos des temples de la deesse Anahita en Iran sassanide,' Iranica Antiqua, VII (1967). Vanden Berghe, L. `Recentes decouvertes de monuments sassanides dans le Fars,' Iranica Antiqua, I (1961).

—20 —

so

0

1X)

200

Plate 5. Temple complex at Takht-i Sulaymiin. From Dietrich Huff, 'Takht-i Suleiman' in 'Survey of Excavations,' Iran, VIII (1970), 195.

300 M.

Plate 6. Temple complex at Kunär Siyåh. From L. Vanden Berghe, 'Recentes decouvertes de monuments sassanides dans le Fars,' Iranica Antiqua, I (1961), plate XXII.

Plate 7. Silver carafe. Hermitage Museum. From C. Trever, 'A propos des temples de la deesse Anahita en Iran sassanide,' Iranica Antiqua, VII (1967), plate XXVII.

MYSTIQUE IRANIENNE: SUHRAVARDI SHA YKHAL-ISHRAQ (549/1155 - 587/1191)

ET `AYN AL-QUZAT-I HAMAD,ANI (492/1098 - 525/1131) HERMANN LANDOLT*

L'un des paradoxes de notre temps est qu'au moment meme oü l'Occident se met a explorer non seulement les terres les plus eloignees, mais aussi des regions exterieures å notre planete, ce meme Occident s'engage egalement dans la recherche du monde interieur, de ces regions de I'äme oü se situe tout ce qu'on appelle la mystique. Qu'il s'agisse lå en effet d'un paradoxe, et que ('effort de conquerir le monde exterieur, ethos de l'homme occidental et moderne, vise un but situe å ]'extreme oppose de celui de la quete mystique, ethos traditionnel de l'homme oriental, ce fait saute immediatement aux yeux si l'on se rend sensible å ce que la `decouverte du monde' signifie pour un mystique, tel l'auteur de ce celebre quatrain persan: O toi (homme) qui es la copie du Livre divin, Toi qui es le miroir de la Beaute royale (alivine), Tout cc qui existe dans le monde, n'est pas cn dehors de toi: Tout ce que tu veux gitre, cherche-le done en toi-meme!

r

UJL?:Mr5 Bien entendu, il y a lieu de se demander si l'identification un peu rapide d'un ethos traditionnel de l'homme oriental avec la quete mystique est justifiee, puisqu'il est notoire que l'Orient n'a jamais manqué de conquerants du monde, et que d'autre part une certaine tradition d'introspection mystique existe sans doute meme en extreme Occident. Aussi bien, si la mystique est un phenomene humain tout court, gitre, certes, le privilege d'aucune region comme nous l'admettons, elle ne ni, a fortiori, de n'importe quelle race ou nation. Mais il reste vrai que geographique ce qui distingue l'Occident de l'Orient depuis l'Antiquite classique, ou disons plutöt: ce par quoi la conscience occidentale se veut differente de l'Orient, tette difference contient un element essentiellement non-mystique et quelquefois meme anti-mystique, alors qu'en Orient, une telle attitude ne commence å se repandre que tres recemment. Et il est remarquable que la notion d'un Orient mystique, d'autre part, n'existe pas seulement dans l'imagination des occidentaux, ou de certains occidentaux: il existe egalement une conscience orientale qui s'identifie elle-meme avec ce que nous appelons la mystique. *Institute of Islamic Studies, McGill University, Montreal, Quebec, Canada and Teheran, Iran.

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C'est en Iran, et plus exactement en Iran musulman, que nous trouvons l'un des meilleurs exemples d'une telle conception orientale d'un Orient mystique. Cet exemple nous est fourni par la philosophie `illuminative' ou 'theosophie des Lumieres' de celui que l'on a pu appeler 'le resurrecteur de la sagesse de l'ancienne Perse,' Shihab al-Din Abu al-Futüh al-Suhravardi, Shaykh al-Ishråq (1155-1191). Déjà le fait est significatif que ]'oeuvre de Suhravardi ait ete å peu pres totalement negligee par nos manuels occidentaux de philosophie islamique jusqu'å il n'y a pas tres longtemps, c'est-å-dire tant qu'on s'est contente de considerer le role de la philosophie islamique uniquement comme celui d'un transmetteur å l'Occident de ]'heritage gret, et que par consequent la figure du fidele disciple d'Aristote dans le monde islamique occidental, Averroes (1126-1198), est apparue comme celle du dernier des grands representants de la philosophie en Islam. Il a fallu l'oeuvre d'un Henry Corbin2 pour nous montrer qu'il existe bel et bien une philosophie islamique qui ne se contente nullement d'être seulement l'interprete d'Aristote, et que l'oeuvre de Suhravardi, du contemporain oriental donc d'Averroes, prend sa signification dans ce contexte precis. Car c'est en la detournant du peripatetisme des philosophes hellenisants, et en la reconduisant å un platonisme mystique dont il percoit la source en Orient, que Suhravardi devient le fondateur de toute une ecole de philosophie connue comme `orientale-illuminative' (mashrigi = ishrii0), et qui se developpera nommement en Iran, å cote de l'avicennisme. Certes, la source `orientale' dont s'inspire la pensee de Suhravardi ne designe pas, en premier lieu, une region determinee du monde materiel. C'est toujours å l'Orient que se leve la Lumiere; et c'est pourquoi la philosophie orientale au sens vrai, pour Suhravardi,3 est precisement la philosophie illuminative, c'est-ii-dire celle qui s'oriente vers l'acte de Lumiere (ishrdq) qui est å la fois principe de I'etre et du connaftre. Mais le sens geographique du mot `oriental' ne devient pas un sens figure pour autant. De meme que la Lumiere elle-meme n'est pas, pour Suhravardi, une simple facon de parler que l'on pourrait aussi bien remplacer par une autre, comme il est possible en Occident, et c'est lå encore caracteristique, de parler par exemple d'un 'siecle des lumieres' mais d'entendre celui de la raison — de meme, l"Orient' de Suhravardi n'est pas une expression purement metaphorique et depourvue de toute valeur intrinseque. Puisque la Lumiere est, selon notre Shaykh al-Ishraq, la realite concrete dont il s'agit dans ]'experience mystique — c'est-å-dire mon acte d'être et ma connaissance de moi-meme plutot que la connaissance abstraite et le concept universel de l'etre4 — on comprend que ]'Orient identifie comme lieu de cette experience ne peut etre que realite concrete lui aussi. C'est ainsi que dans les resits symboliques tels que celui de l'Exil Occidental, la patrie spirituelle du mystique se concretise dans l'Orient geographique — en ['occurrence le Yemen —, et que la sagesse de l'ancienne Perse devient par excellence le prototype de cette philosophie orientale-illuminative dont Suhravardi a la conscience d'être le renovateur. On saft que le trait le plus caracteristique de cette sagesse de l'ancienne Perse, le dualisme de la Lumiere et des Tenebres, de l'Esprit du Bien et de celui du Mal, si on le comprend comme postulant l'existence a un meme niveau d'être de deux principes eternels antagonistes, c'est-å-dire si on l'identifie avec la doctrine que — 24 —

l'histoire objective des religions attribue å l'orthodoxie mazdeenne,s ce dualisme n'a evidemment pas de place dans l'Islåm, religion monotheiste par excellence qui est aussi celle de Suhravardi et des siens. C'est pourquoi attribuer å Suhravardi le desk d'une restauration politique serait se meprendre profondement sur le sens et la portee des motifs zoroastriens dans sa pensee. En cela au morns, ses adversaires ne se sont pas trompes: s'ils ont obtenu, de la part du Sultan Salah al-Din (Saladin), l'ordre de son execution, ce fut en l'accusant non pas de vouloir restaurer un regime du passé, mais d'avoir l'intention d'instaurer une nouvelle religion prophetique.° Ce dont il s'agit pour Suhravardi, c'est de revivre au present l'experience mystique de Zoroastre, c'est-å-dire de percevoir, en extase mystique, l'angelologie zoroastrienne comme titant identique å la vision et au `goat mystique' (dhawq) d'Hermes, l'ancien Prophete d'Egypte' et `Pere des philosophes,' et de Platon, 1"imam des philosophes.'7 Et c'est pourquoi la doctrine `orientale' (qä`idst al-sharq) concernant la Lumiere et les Tonebres, et qui fut celle des Sages de Perse (hukamå'al-Furs), nous dit Suhravardi, n'est point l'heresie dualiste.8 Ainsi, la pensee de Suhravardi s'inspire en fait egalement de l'emanatisme neoplatonicien, et il n'y a plus aucun doute que la prestiance revient a la Lumiere, puisque c'est d'abord une pure Lumiere qui pro cede de l'Un absolu, ce dernier titant la `Lueniere des Lumieres' (nür al-anwdr), et que la dimension de I'Ombre, c'est-å-dire le monde materiel, ne s'accroft qu'apres la multiplication de plusieurs mondes de lumieres donnant naissance les unes aux autres. En d'autres termes: les Tonebres, en tant que negation de la Lumiere, n'en sont pas l'antagoniste, mais plutOt l'absence.9 La philosophie `orientale' de Suhravardi est donc essentiellement, on vient de le voir dans ce qui precede, une pensee mystique. Aussi bien, les vrais philosophes de l'Islam sont-ils pour lui les grands soufis de l'epoque classique, tels que Sahl-i TustarT (ob. 896), Bayazid-i Bastämi, ou BistamT (ob. 848 ou 874), et Hallaj (ob. 922); et il ne fait pas de doute qu'il a eu lui-meme de l'influence sur le soufisme, surtout å travers ses ecrits persans.' ° Pourtant, si l'on se rend compte de la distance qui separe notre Shaykh al-Ishräq d'un soufi tel son homonyme Abü Hafs `Umar al-Suhravardi (ob. 1234), le célèbre Shaykh de Baghdad auquel se rattache l'ordre soufi des Suhravardiyah, on hesitera alors å le classer simplement parmi les soufis. Si la meditation soufie doit quelque chose å une tradition ecrite, c'est en premier lieu au Coran et å un certain choix de dicta prophetiques ou consideres par ailleurs comme inspires; et l'on rencontre frequemment chez les soufis au sens strict un certain mepris de la philosophie. En revanche, Suhravardi le Shaykh al-Ishrirq fut d'abord un philosophe peripateticien avant de se convertir å la philosophie `orientale' å la suite de son experience mystique de lumiere; et il n'a jamais regrette cette formation prealable. Le sage parfait est pour lui celui qui possede simultanement la connaissance speculative et l'experience spirituelle; et c'est lå-meme que son oeuvre assume une signification proprement iranienne, car c'est avant tout en Iran que la vie spirituelle ne se limite pas å celle des congregations soufies, mais existe egalement, et jusqu'å nos jours, au sein meme de la philosophie.

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II. A cote de la philosophie, il ne faudrait jamais oublier la poesie, et surtout en Iran, pays q i est par excellence, selon Goethe, la Terre de la Poesie. Il y a peut-gitre une affinite de nature entre la mystique et la poesie en general; mais le fait caracteristique de l'Iran est que la poesie proprement mystique — celle d'un Sanå'i (ob. 1131), `Attar (ob. 1220 ou plus tard) et Jalål al-Din-i Riimi (ob. 1273), pour n'en mentionner que les noms les plus celebres, est une partie integrale de la grande litterature classique et en tant que telle est chere å tout Iranien de culture traditionnelle, qu'il soit soufi ou non; voire, le genie iranien a souvent su interpreter d'une maniere mystique celles d'entre les oeuvres poetiques que l'analyse detachee verrait sous un jour tout different, avant tout Håfiz, mais meme les grands themes heroiques de l'epopee nationale.' 1 Et l'art d'interpreter d'une maniere mystique ce qui ne l'est peut-@tre pas, cet art ressort lui-meme d'une ancienne pratique soufie developyee en fonction du concert spirituel (samä).' 2 On n'a qu'å evoquer ici la figure exemplaire d'un Abü Said b. Abi al-Khayr (ob. 1049), relativement bien connue en Occident puisque Nicholson lui avait consacre une etude devenue classique,' 3 pour voir que le soulisme proprement persan est anime essentiellement, dans sa pratique aussi bien que dans sa theorie, par ce qu'il faut appeler son esprit poetique, une liberte spirituelle dont le corollaire est l'absence de tout legalisme rigoureux.' 4 Pour vous donner un exemple concret qui permettra d'approfondir un peu ce å quoi nous venons de toucher, je voudrais vous parler dans ce qui suit d'une personnalite spirituelle encore peu etudiee, mais dont l'importance pour le soufisme iranien apparaft de plus en plus: `Ayn al-Quzat-i Hamadani (1098-1131).1 5 S'il y a un leitmotiv a degager å la foil de la vie et de la pensee de ce mystique, c'est sans doute celui de la conjonction des opposes. Tout d'abord, comme l'indique son surnom `Ayn al-Quzåt, Hamadåni fut juge de profession; et lui-meme se nomme frequemment `le juge de Hamadan.' Mais c'est un juge extraordinaire qui nous dit que celui qui veut trouver la Verite doit depasser la Loi! Et c'est cela exactement que notre `fuge de Hamadan' nous fait comprendre, non seulement par des allusions plus ou moms timides, comme le font la plupart des soufis qui nous laissent entendre qu'il existe une Verite absolue et cachee (Hagigat) sur un plan autre que celui de la Loi de la Religion pratique (Shari'at).' 6 Pour Hamadåni en effet, il n'existe qu'une seule Verite absolue et divine; et tout ce qui ne l'est pas, y compris la Loi de l'Islåm conventionnel, n'est qu'une idole. C'est pourquoi il insiste sur ce que le conformisme consistant en l'idolåtrie de cette Loi (sharl'at-parasti) n'est rien d'autre que n'importe quel conformisme (`ådat-parasti); et la premiere condition pour celui qui desire voir la Beauté secrete de la Verite, est precisement de se debarasser de ('observance de toute convention.' On comprend alors quelle a pu gitre la vraie cause du deplaisir que son enseignement suscita aupres des autorites. Execute sur l'ordre du vizir seljoukide de l'Iraq Qivam al-Din-i Darguz ni å l'endroit meme oü il avait donne son enseignement å Hamadan, il cubit donc, å Tåge de trente-trois ans, le meme sort que celui que connurent avant lui Hallåj (922) et — 26 —

apres lui Suhravardi (1191). Que les accusations lancees contre Hamadåni aient ete justifiees ou non — entre autres, on l'accusait de tendances ismaeliennes, comme Hallåj, et de la pretention å un etat prophetique, comme Suhravardi — son exemple met en relief, en tout cas, l'incompatibilite fondamentale entre l'esprit d'une conscience mystique allant jusqu'au bout, et celui des docteurs de la Loi incompatibilite d'ailleurs qui ressort nettement de l'ironie supreme avec laquelle Hamadåni, tout au long de ses ecrits persans, traite d'aveugles ceux qui ne voient que I'exterieur de la realite prophetique de Muhammad, les zåhir-bindn. Dans la preface å son oeuvre de theologie mystique ecrite en arabe å ('age de vingt-quatre ans, la Zubdat al-hagd'iq, Hamadåni nous dit qu'apres avoir etudie toutes les sciences å sa portee, et en particulier la theologie speculative, sans trouver la satisfaction spirituelle qu'il cherchait, ce fut grace å Dieu et par la lecture pendant quatre annees des oeuvres de Ghazåli qu'il fut enfin delivre de l'erreur; et dans son apologie ecrite neuf ans plus tard en prison å Baghdad, il soulignera encore cette influence en assurant que toutes ses theses incriminees sont en accord parfait avec celles du grand theologien celebre pour avoir `reconcilie' le soufisme et I'orthodoxie.' 8 Mais ce n'est pas la lecture des oeuvres de Ghazåli qui a fait un mystique de notre Hamadåni — ce qu'il ne pretend d'ailleurs pas: c'est seulement pour I'avoir delivre de l'erreur et de l'incroyance qu'il lui rend graces dans la preface å la Zubdat al-hagå'iq. que nous venons de citer, tout en parlant avec reserve, dans la meme oeuvre, d'un livre de theologie comme Al-igtisåd jl a!-i`tigåd.' 9 Cinq ans plus tard, dans son long livre persan intitule Tamhidrit ou `Commentaires' et qui revele la vraie pensee soufie de Hamadåni, il dira meme qu'il n'a jamais auparavant reconnu la `Preuve de l'Islåm' Ghazåli comme un vrai mystique, jusqu'å ce jour present oü `Dieu m'a fait savoir .. que lui aussi est un des nötres.i2 0 Aussi ne trouvons-nous dans ce livre entier qu'une seule citation de Ghazåli: c'est la definition de la Lumiere divine comme etant ce par quoi les choses apparaissent, c'est-å-dire existent — citation donc du Mishlait al-anwär, oeuvre la plus esoterique du Maitre theologien.21 L'evenement decisif aboutissant vraiment å ('initiation de Hamadåni åla mystique fut la rencontre du frere du theologien Ghazåli, Ahmad,2 2 puissante personalite soufie (ob. 1126) connue notamment par son Traite de l'amour mystique (Sawånih jt al-`ishq) en persan2 3 et un traite redige en arabe sur le sens spirituel de la pratique soufie de la musique (Bawåriq al-ilmo").24 Hamad-arilnous raconte en effet, en continuant la trame de son recit personnel dans la preface å la Zubdat al-hagå' id dejå citee, que le vrai sens d'une experience visionnaire (wagi'ah) qu'il avait en vain cherche å comprendre pendant pres d'une annee, ne lui fut devoile que lorsque le destin amena Ahmad-i Ghazåli å Hamadan et qu'il eut la chance de s'attacher å lui comme serviteur. Aussi, la vraie quete mystique ne lui reussit -elle qu'apres cette rencontre2 s C'est donc la presence d'un Maitre vivant et non pas l'etude des livres qui fut la Condition Premiere de la vie mystique de notre Hamadåni; et ce qui est vrai pour Hamadåni en particulier, l'est aussi pour le soufi en general. L'importance pour le soufi d'un Maitre dont la fonction depasse celle d'un simple professeur parce qu'il joue plutöt le role d'un modele existentiel, cette importance semble etre, en effet, — 27 —

1'un des fondements du soufisme, et surtout du soufisme iranien 2 6 Elle s'annonce déjà au troisieme siecle de l'hegire au Khuräsän, dans la maniere dont Abü Hafs al-Iladdäd, I'un des grands soufis de Nayshäpür, traite ses disciples, et qui differe sensiblement du style professoral d'un Junayd, du chef des soufis de Baghdad;2 ' et elle est certainement tres accusee dan s les biographies d'Abü Said b. Abi al-Khayr.28 Chez Hamadäni, l'experience personnelle d'une telle relation avec Ahmad-i Ghazäli et avec d'autres maitres soufis29 se reflete egalement dans une theorie generale de l'education mystique (tarbiyat), developpee surtout dans ses ecrits persans. Il est vrai que d ans la Zubdah arabe, la fonction du shaykh est egalement definie en termes generaux comme titant celle de la direction spirituelle, seule garante de la vraie connaissance et de la beatitude parfaite.30 Mais c'est dans les Tamhidät persanes que nous apprenons au juste ce que cela veut dire concretement. D'une part, il s'agit d'une methode devenue celebre en Occident, dans un contexte historique tout å fait different, sous le nom de psychanalyse. Il est en effet de regle pour le disciple, dit Hamadäni,3 ' de raconter å son maitre, et å lui seulement, tous les etats d'äme vecus par lui, en particulier les experiences visionnaires. D'autre part, ce qui est en cause ici, depasse de beaucoup la psychanalyse, car le but de cette pedagogie spirituelle est l'apprentissage de la malt rise par ('imitation de I'exemple du maitre 32 Et c'est cela meme qui fait que cet `apprentissage' soit la Voie mystique. Car la regle la plus importante pour le disciple est la contemplation de Dieu dans le miroir qu'est l'esprit de son maitre, que ce dernier soit present physiquement ou non.33 Quand il sera devenu maitre å son tour, il se contemplera lui-meme dans le miroir qu'est l'esprit de son disciple, de m@me que Dieu se contemple lui-meme dans le miroir qu'est la Creation, en la creant.3 a Malgre les apparences, la pedagogie spirituelle de Hamadäni n'aboutit donc nullement å quelque chose comme une idolätrie du maitre concret. Bien au contraire, une telle interpretation de la relation disciple/maitre ne senit pour lui qu'un autre exoterisme, une forme de ce zdhir-bini dont nous l'avons déjà vu denoncer les perils. La preuve en est qu'il ne se garde meme pas d'en appliquer la logique a la fonction du Prophete Muhammad, figure du Guide par excellence: C'est le debutant, dit-il, qui contemple Dieu dans la Lumiere de Muhammad, alors que le mystique acheve reconnait cette contemplation du debutant comme un acte de `polytheisme' (shirk), et la Lumiere du Prophete devient pour lui un voile qu'il faut depasser pour voir la Lumiere divine.3 s Des lors, on ne s'etonnera guere de ce que Hamadäni considere ici la qualite d'un mystique acheve (valåyat) comme superieure å la mission prophetique (risalat) 36 — position qui n'est pas sans evoquer celle des Ismaeliens de l'Iran quant å l'imamat,37 mais qui semble contredire celle plus orthodoxe que Hamadäni avait defendue auparavant, dans la Zubdat al-bagå'ig 38 ecrite en arabe. Il est evidemment permis de penser que les differences que l'on pent relever entre les Tamhidåt persanes et la Zubdah arabe, cette derniere titant ecrite encore du vivant d'Abmad-i Ghazäli, ne font que refleter un developpement de la pensee de notre auteur vers un esoterisme radical. Il n'en resulte pas pour autant que

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l'homme qui s'exprime dans ces deux oeuvres ait change essentiellement. Les differences entre la Zubdah et les Tamhidåt nous semblent en effet gitre dues plutöt au mode d'expression qu'å ('intention fonciere. C'est la langue arabe qui est en Orient islamique le moyen classique d'expression d'une pensee disciplinee, comme le Latin le fut en Occident chretien, alors que c'est surtout en persan que l'on peut se permettre de donner libre tours å l'inspiration poetique. Ainsi, plutöt que de se contredire, Hamadåni nous semble en fait reunir en personne, par ses deux chefs-d'oeuvre, les deux grands courants complementaires de la tradition spirituelle de l'Iran musulman que nous avons distingues plus haut, et en eire l'un des premiers representants. Peut-gitre l'avait-il pressenti lui-meme, en faisant dans les Tamhidåt cette remarque suggerant I'idee de la conjonction des opposes: Un homme de Perse Cajami), [dit-il], est incapable de comprendre la langue arabe, si ce n'est par l'intermediaire d'un drogman (tarjumän) qui sache å la fois l'arabe et le persan... D'une maniere semblable, le corps materiel, qui vient du monde inferieur, et le coeur, qui est une substance subtile (latifah) provenant du monde superieur, n'ont proprement aucun rapport entre eux-memes; mais Dieu ayant etabli entre eux un intermediaire et lien qui soit leur drogman,... ce dernier est la substance subtile qui est la realite fonciere de l'Homme (hagigat-i ädami, aussi = nihäd).3 9

Nous verrons å la fin de cet expose comment, d'une maniere analogue, le dualisme dont le monde en general est constitue, sera sublime par la realite fonciere de l'Etre divin. Que ce soit au fond une meme pensee mystique qui s'exprime de maniere differente dans la Zubdat al-hagå'iq et les Tamhidåt, c'est ce que seule une analyse detaillee des deux oeuvres's ° pourrait mettre en evidence. Tres brievement, on dira ici ce qui nous semble constituer la vraie these de la Zubdah, pour ensuite esquisser le theme principal des Tamhidåt qui en est l'expression poetique. Dans la Zubdat a!-haga'iq, Hamadäni se propose entre autres de demontrer l'insuffisance de la doctrine emanatiste enoncant que de l'Un ne peut sortir que l'un et que par consequent Dieu ne saurait connaftre les particuliers. C'est dont la position opposee, celle du theologien Ghazåli, que Hamadan( fait ici sienne, du moms en apparence; et il s'en servira d'ailleurs plus tard pour se defendre contre les accusations d'heterodoxie.41 Mais si l'on regarde de plus pres, on s'appergoit que ce n'est nullement par conformisme que Hamadäni rejoint ainsi la position de la theologie exoterique. Il ne s'agit jamais, pour lui, de sacrifier la raison å la foi, mais plutöt de la depasser pour obtenir un organe de perception mystique (basirah); et ce dernier pergoit les Mysteres divins, nous explique Hamadåni,4 2 de la maniere meme dont la raison connaft ce qui est evident de par soi-meme, c'est-ii-dire directement et sans premisses. Ainsi, quant au probleme evoque, les differents systemes emanatistes des philosophes hellenisants ne sont pas faux selon Hamadäni tant qu'on reste dans le domaine de la raison, encore que la limitation au nombre de trois des anges intermediaires entre l'Etre necessaire et le premier Ciel — Avicenne semble gitre vise ici — ne soit pas justifiee, meme du point de vue de la raison, et que l'experience mystique leur substitue en fait des milliers43 — une idee qui anticipe — 29 —

clairement la solution de Suhravardi.44 Mais il y a plus. Ce qui se revele comme evident a I'oeuil de la connaissance mystique ('ayn al-ma'rifah), c'est qu'il n'est point besoin d'expliquer la procession des titres multiples a partir de l'Un, tout simplement parce qu'il n'y en a pas, parce qu'il n'y a pas d'hierarchie existentielle (tartib) necessitant une telle explication4 5 L'anteriorite de l'Etre necessaire (sabq al-wujitd) consiste paradoxalement en ce que Dieu est simultanement present (mutasawi, musåwiq) å toute chose, parce que son acte d'être se situe en dehors du temps et qu'aucune chose nest avec Lui, si ce n'est en vertu d'une relation purement existentielle, dont l'image est l'irradiation du Soleil (ishraq)4 6 Ce n'est donc pas par son agir dans le temps que Dieu a connaissance de toute chose, mais par son titre meme (huwiyah) qui n'est pas plus proche du Premier Emane des philosophes qu'il ne l'est de toute chose, de sorte qu'on dira plutöt, avec Hamadani: `C'est le lieu dont procedent les choses qui est le multiple, alors que la totalite des choses n'est qu'un atome par rapport a sa grandeur,'4 7 ou encore: Le rapport entre la totalite des choses et l'etendue du savoir divin est equivalent

å celui entre un rien et un infini..., parce qu'en realite, c'est Dieu qui est le multiple et le tout, et c'est tout ce qui n'est pas Dieu qui est l'un et la partie, ou mieux dit: tout ce qui n'est pas Dieu n'est meme pas une partie et une unite, si ce n'est en vertu de la Face (eternelle de cette chose (wajh)), qui avoisinc Sa totalite et Sa multitude 4 8

Ainsi donc, nous sommes tres loin du monotheisme officiel, pour nous trouver en presence d'un theomonisme non moins radical que celui d'un Ibn `Arabi (ob. 1240).49 Des lors, on pourra dire que la facilite avec laquelle la doctrine du grand mattre andalou fut acceptee plus tard en Iran,5 9 s'explique au moins en partie du fait qu'une pensee mystique tres proche de la sienne existait déjà avant lui en Iran, chez notre juge de Hamadan. Ce dernier affirme que seuls les gnostiques ('arifün) sont capables de comprendre de la maniere qu'il vient de nous exposer, le rapport entre l'un et le multiple ou entre le multiple et l'un. Ce sont ceux qui ont cet organe de perception mystique auquel nous avons fait allusion plus haut. Or, la verification d'une telle perception ressemble, Hamadani y insiste,51 au gout (dhawq) de l'experience poetique, que l'on a ou que l'on n'a pas. Et si notre penseur se soumet autant que possible a la stricte discipline de la logique dans la Zubdah arabe, il n'en est point ainsi dans les Tarnhidåt persanes. Ici, en revanche, l'inspiration poetique ne s'epuise meme pas avec les parties poetiques au sens formel, mais s'etend egalement sur toute l'oeuvre, de sorte que celle-ei represente entierement une pensee en images. Aussi bien, cette pensee n'est-elle pas soumise å un ordre logique evident; elle s'ecoule plutöt en associations libres. `C'est le coeur qui pane et la langue qui ecoute'. dit l'auteur au debut, `et c'est pourquoi je pane ici comme cela me survient, et il est impossible de garder un ordre! 'S2 Tout lecteur de Håfiz connaft la predilection du grand poke persan pour l'esprit qalandari, ce jeu coquet avec l'incroyance, ces invitations de quitter la mosquee pour aller å la taveme (kharabdt), de colorer le tapis de priere du pieux

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ascete avec le vin des Mages. Or ce theme cher å la poesie lyrique est aussi un des motifs recurrents des Tamhidat de Hamadäni qui ne cache guere sa sympathie pour tout ce qui est å !'oppose de la bienseance, en particulier pour le chef de tous les malfaiteurs, le diable (Iblis). Cependant, l'apparence parfois legere de cet esprit galandari n'est chez Hamadåni, on s'y attendra, que la forme exterieure d'un contenu directement relie au secret de sa pensee mystique. Tout d'abord, il y a ici, å l'arriere-fonds, le celebre passage coranique refletant å son tour l'histoire de l'Ange Satan connue d'un apocryphe chretien, et qui explique la chute et la damnation de ce dernier par son refus, malgre ]'ordre divin, de se prosterner comme les autres anges devant Adam.s3 C'est å la suite de Hallåj, mais sans doute aussi sous !'influence de son maitre Ahmad-i Ghazäli, que Hamadäni interprete ce refus d'Iblis de se prosterner devant ce qui n'est apres tout qu'une creature, comme un acte de pur amour pour Dieu.' 4 Mais Hamadäni ne s'arrete pas lå. Pour lui, Iblis n'est pas seulement le prototype de celui qui est injustement condamne, mais en meme temps il a vraiment la fonction d'induire en erreur, d'être le representant du Mal oppose au Bien. S'il est le `gardien' (pardah-där) de la Jalousie divine, c'est aussi parce qu'il est le representant de l'incroyance (kufr), cette incroyance que le vrai mystique doit non pas ignorer mais assumer pour la depasser.' s Il y a en outre dans ce dualisme chez Hamadäni un arriere-fonds nettement iranien dont il semble eire tout å fait conscient. Il cite en effet la doctrine des Majüs, selon laquelle La divinite est deux: l'un c'est Yazdän, et c'est la Lumiere; l'autre, c'est Ahriman, et c'est les Tenebres. La Lumiere est ce qui commande le Bien, et les Tenebres, c'est ce qui commande le Mal. La Lumiere est le Temps primordial du Jour, les Tenebres, c'est le Temps final de la Nuit. L'incroyance (kufr) resulte de l'un, la foi Oman) de l'autre.s6

On est loin ici meme d'un Suhravardi qui, nous l'avons vu plus haut, condamnait l'heresie dualiste en reduisant les Tenebres å !'absence de la Lumiere. Hamadäni ne se rallie pas directement åla doctrine dualiste qu'il nous rapporte, certes; mais il ne la condamne pas non plus. Plutöt, il faut dire qu'il l'a sublimee par le meme theomonisme mystique dont il donne !'expose systematique dans la Zubdat al-Itagä'iq. Car ce dualisme est å la fois un monisme en ce sens qu'il ',Metre non seulement le monde entier, mais meme l'Etre divin au niveau des attributs de l'Essence, qui sont divises en deux grandes categories: 0 mon amil Quand le Point de la Grandeur divine se mut å partir de l'Essence une dans le Cercle de la preeternite et de la posteternite, il ne s'arreta en aucune chose, de sorte que ce fut dans le monde de ['Essence qu'il etendit l'etendue de ses Attributs. Et cela ce n'est rien d'autre que la Beauté divine, homologue de Muhammad (Jamal-i 'wa-ma arsalnåka ilia rahmatan li al•'alamin') et la Majeste divine, homologue d'Iblis (Jalål-i 'inna 'alayka la'nati ila yawm al-din'). s 7

D'origine probablement gnostique et bien connue en soulisme avant Hamadäni,' 8 la distinction fondamentale entre deux grandes categories d'attributs —31—

divins, ceux de la Beauté ou Grace (Jamäl, Lull) et ceux de la Majeste ou Violence victorieuse (Jakil, Qahr), devient ainsi chez Hamadåni l'homologue d'un dualisme total qui s'inspire aussi de la tradition des `hages' que notre auteur cite — dualisme cependant qui n'a pour lui un sens vrai qu'en titant 1'expression parfaite de la conjonction des opposes dans l'Etre divin unique. Et c'est lå au fond, semble-t-il, la raison pour laquelle Iblis lui-meme est la Figure la plus paradoxale qui solt: å la fois Lumiere de la Majeste divine et Tenebre de ce qui en est le plus eloigne, la `Lumiere Noire' (nür-i siyah) situee au-dessus du Trone divin.s 9

Pour conclure, nous allons essayer maintenant de comparer les traits caracteristiques des deux personnalites spirituelles dont nous avons suivi la pensee jusqu'ici. Or, ce qu'une telle comparaison devra etablir en premier lieu, nous semble-t-il, c'est le fait qu'en depit de leur commun arriere-fond 'irJåni (mystique), Suhravardi et Hamadåni representent chacun des types de pensee mystique bien differents l'un de l'autre. Peut-gitre ce fait est-il d'ailleurs assez significatif en soi-meme, puisqu'il mettrait en evidence la richesse de cette tradition 'irfåni de l'Iran musulman, qui ne saurait donc titre ramenee å une seule doctrine bien definie. Rappelons-nous tout d'abord qu'il existe des oeuvres telle la Risdlah-i Yazdän-shindkht que la tradition attribue tantöt å l'un, tantöt å l'autre de nos deux auteurs.6 ° Une telle confusion ne peut evidemment que resulter du sentiment qu'il y a quelque chose de commun entre les deux philosophes mystiques. Or, ('element peut-eire le plus important qui semble permettre un rapprochement des deux pensees, est sans doute la notion de l'ishråq que nous avons vu jouer un role capital non seulement chez Suhravardi, mais aussi chez Hamadåni. Ainsi, on pourrait meme dire, dans un certain sens au moins, que Suhravardi le Shaykh al-Ishraq ne fut pas le premier penseur ishrägi, puisque Hamadåni le preceda de quelque soixante ans. Mais en realite, il faudrait plutöt parler de deux versions differentes de 1'ishrdq: `emanatiste' chez Suhravardr, mais `existentialiste' dans le cas de Hamadåni. L'emanatisme de Suhravardr se definit par les structures hierarchiques des differents ordres de Lumieres, dans lesquelles le monde des Tenebres n'occupe qu'un rang tres inferieur sur le plan cosmologique; et sur le plan de la psychologie mystique individuelle, les Tenebres ne sont que ce qu'il faut eviter, la Prison dont la Lumiere doit titre liberee. Et c'est precisement cette pure negativite des Tenebres qui donne d'autre part å la pensee de Suhravardr une certaine touche de dualisme de couleur `manicheenne,' malgre sa condamnation de I"heresie dualiste,' comme l'a bien vu Henry Corbin.6 ~ En revanche, ce qui nous apparaft comme titant l'inspiration fondamentale de Hamadåni, se situe justement å l'oppose de cette vision `manicheenne-emanatiste' de Suhravardr. Hamadåni, en effet, commence, pour ainsi dire, par se montrer ouvertement dualiste, puisqu'il cite la doctrine des 'Majus' sans la condamner; mais c'est seulement pour aboutir, en fait, a ce qu'il faut bien qualifier de monisme. Son `dualisme' n'a aucune resonnance manicheenne, mais se rapproche plutbt de la solution zurvaniste du probleme, le cote tenebreux — 32 —

de l'existence titant aussi important pour lui que le cöte lumineux. Aussi bien, 1'ishrdq `existentialiste' de Hamadni est-il en fait une critique de la philosophie emanatiste, aboutissant a une doctrine de l'unite de l'Etre. Bien qu'il reconnaisse la validite de l'ordre emanatiste t an t que l'on se limite å l'entendement rationnel, et qu'il nous laisse meme entendre å l'occasion, en depassant ainsi l'interpretation rationnaliste d'Avicenne comme le fera SuhravardT, qu'il est possible pour l'emanatisme de fructifier en perception mystique, Hamadni insiste sur ce qu'en realite, c'est-å-dire pour l'entendement mystique au sens vrai, il n'y a pas d'hierarchie dans l'existence, mais une seule et meme relation de simultaneite et d'equidistance entre la Source de l'Etre et toute chose, ou entre l'Etre tout court et le Want. Pour bien mettre en relief la difference typologique entre ces deux visions, on dira tentativement que si la pensee de Suhravardi peut titre caracterisee par son dynamisme preponderant, celle de Hamadni a, au contraire, quelque chose de statique, une predilection pour les structures equilibrees. Si la mystique du type statique est centree sur l'idee de l'Etre, c'est plutöt le Devenir que constitue le foyer mental d'une mystique du type dynamique. Ce qui importe vraiment pour SuhravardT est une orientation (istishraq), c'est-å-dire le mouvement de l'ame vers l'Orient des Lumieres; et sa notion de Lumiere elle-meme est une notion dynamique: elle est plus ou moms forte. Par contre, Hamadåni nous offre en premier lieu une sorte d'harmonie preetablie qui semble titre incompatible avec toute idee de mouvement. Aussi bien est-ce l'Etre reposant en lui-meme qu'il voit au fond de toute chose. Dans un passage particulierement dense de ses TamhTddt, il va meme jusqu'å identifier le fond ultime de l'Etre (as1-i vujüd) avec une Substance (jawhar) dont 1'Accident ('araz) est la Lumiere de l'Etre qui, elle, est identique au Nom `Allåk' (cf. Coran 24:35).6 2 Bien entendu, cette difference entre la mystique `dynamique' de SuhravardT et la mystique `statique' de Hamadni n'est que d'ordre typologique; c'est-å-dire elle accentue ce qui nous semble caracteristique chez nos deux auteurs sans pretendre å les `expliquer,' puisque les etiquettes typologiques n'expliquent jamais les personnalites auxquelles on les attache. Mais precisement, en tant qu'etiquettes, elles devraient titre capables de s'appliquer egalement å la pensee d'autres grands mystiques et ainsi de nous faire comprendre un aspect plus general de cette tradition 'irf nr å laquelle ils appartiennent. Je pense ici en particulier åla celebre controverse qui avait separe les mystiques au sujet de la doctrine de l'unite de l'Etre formulee par Ibn `ArabT(1165-1240). On salt que ce dernier fut critique severement par le grand mystique de l'ordre Kubravi, `A1å' al-Dawlah -i Simnäni (1261-1336), pour avoir identifie l'Etre divin (Haqq) avec l'Etre absolu (vujüd mutlaq)6 3 Je n'entrerai pas ici dans les details de cette critique; mais il me semble å propos de rappeler qu'au lieu de parler d'un malentendu de la part de Simnäni, comme tant de soufis de 1'ecole d'Ibn `Arabi l'ont fait en essayant ainsi de ramener Simnåni å leur cause, il serait sans doute plus juste de voir dans la critique de Simnanr 1'expression d'un dynamisme qui, å cause de ses premisses fondamentales, ne saurait eire ramenee å la pensee d'Ibn `Arabi — 33 —

qui, elle, est sans doute ]'expression la plus achevee de la mystique du type `statique' en Isläm. II serait, certes, abusif d'identifier purement et simplement Ibn `Arab! avec Hamadan! ou Simnåni avec Suhravardi. Mais les analogies entre les deux cas semblent assez importantes pour justifier une etude comparative. Tout d'abord, on remarquera ici qu'une meme observation s'impose, dans le cas d'Ibn `Arabi et de SimnanT, au sujet de leur notion-clef de tajalli ou theophanie, que celle que nous venons de faire au sujet de la notion d'ishraq dans le cas de Hamadåni et de Suhravardi. Dans l'un et l'autre cas, la meme notion n'implique pas du tout la meme pensee. Alors que pour Ibn 'Arab!, la multitude infinie des theophanies ou auto-manifestations de l'Etre divin (Haqq) ne sont, en derniere analyse, qu'un seul et mane tajalli, 6 4 Simnåni insiste sur une difference ontologique entre quatre niveaux de tajalli qu'il distingue partout, parce qu'il les congoit plutöt comme des manifestations de l'activite divine du faire-gitre (fi'1 al-ijad), done d'une entite dynamique. Aussi bien est-ce le Devenir plutöt que l'Etre qui est le but de son effort spirituel, c'est-å-dire un mouvement ascensionnel qui ne prend jamais fin, et qui se dinge vers un Moi absolu (anånTyat) 6 5 Ce n'est peut-gitre pas par hasard, en vue de ce qui vient d'être esquisse, que chez Suhravardi egalement,66 la `connaissance presentielle' (Wm huzüri) soit essentiellement celle du Moi (ant Tyat), et qu'en revanche, ce soit plutöt l'Etre absolu ou un Lui absolu (huviyat) qui assume le role principal dans le monde spirituel d'un Hamadåni et d'un Ibn `Arabi 6 7 Bref, la conclusion me semble inevitable que ce qui separe Simnåni des mystiques de l'ecole vujüdi, releve en effet d'une profonde difference typologique, analogue de celle que nous avons trouvee entre Suhravardi et Hamadåni; et cette analogie nous permet å son tour d'avancer l'hypothese que ces divergences existantes å l'interieur de la tradition 'irfant ne sauraient gitre expliquees uniquement par les contingences de 1'histoire des idees, mais devraient gitre etudiees å la lumiere d'une phenomenologie generale de la mystique. Notes 1. Cc quatrain souvent cite, et qui est attribue tantöt å Riimi, tantöt å Majd al-Din-i Baghdådi et encore å d'autres, est en realite de Najm al-Din-i RäzT (ob. 654/1256). Ce demier I'insere, en effet, dans la Preface de son Marmfzdt-i asadT dar mazmürrft-i Di vudi, en precisant qu'il s'agit d'un poeme compose par lui-meme. (Marmüzdt §1 de ]'edition en cours de preparation dans la Serie, `Wisdom of Persia/Dänish-i Irgnt,' Publications de la Branche de Teheran de l'Institut des Etudes Islamiques de l'Universite McGill. Comme le systeme de transcription employe ici demende la signalisation de la prononciation persane, du moins en ce qui concerne certaines consonnes dont la valeur est differente en arabe, il y a des cas ou l'on a dit rendre un memo mot tantöt sous sa forme persane (v.g. vujiid, 'frig), tantöt sous sa forme arabe (v.g. wujud, is ), scion lc texte dont provient la citation. 2. Cf. Henry Corbin, En Islam iranien: aspects spirituels et philosophiques, T. II: Sohrawardi et les Platoniciens de Perse (Paris 1971), ouvrage qui resume les recherches sur la `theosophie orientate' entreprises par l'eminent philosophe orientaliste depuis plus d'une trentaine d'annees. Rappelons que Corbin a egalement donne l'editio princeps de plusieurs d'entre les oeuvres les plus importantes de Suhravardi: Opera metaphysica et mystica, I ('Bibliotheca Islamica,' Vol. 16-a; Istanbul/Leipzig 1945), et Opera metaphysica et

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3.

4.

5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14.

15.

16. 17. 18. 19.

mystica, II (=Oeuvres philosophiques et mystiques, I (`Bibliotheque Iranienne,' Vol. 2; Teheran/Paris 1952)). Les Oeuvres en persan (=Opera metaphysica et mystica, III=Oeuvres philosophiques et mystiques, II), viennent d'être editees, accompagnees de prolegomenes par H. Corbin, par les soins de S. H. Nasr, comme Vol. 17 de la'Bibliotheque Iranienne'; Teheran/Paris 1970. Voir aussi !'etude de S. H. Narr, Three Muslim Sages (Cambridge, Mass. 1964), pp. 52-82. Du cote occidental, un premier essai d'interpretation de la philosophie ishrägi avait ete donne par Max Horten, Die Philosophie der Erleuchtung nach Suhrawardi (Halle a.S. 1912). La question du rapport de I' 'Orient' de Suhravardi avec celui d'Avicenne (cf. Corbin, En Islam iranien, II, 26 ff.), vient d'être reprise par Parviz Morewedge, 'The Logic of Emanationism and $üfism in the Philosophy of Ibn Sixth (Avicenna),' Pt. I, Journal of the American Oriental Society, XCI (1971), 467-76. L'objection principale de Suhravardr contre le peripatetisme semble €tre precisement sa propre these que le predicat `existence' n'a en soi aucune realile. Des tors, la prcuve dite ontologique de l'existence de Dieu ne resulte que d'une confusion entre la logique et la metaphysique — la vraie metaphysique titant celle de 1'ishrirq (cf. Suhravardi `Hikmat al-ishräq,' Opera metaphysica et mystica, H, § §56-63 et §§114- 20. Cf. Jacques Duchesne-Guillemin, La religion de l'Iran ancien (Paris 1962), pp. 302 ss. et 362 ss. Corbin, En Islam iranien, II, 23 ss., et tout le Chapitre III. Cf. Corbin, En Islam iranien, 11,15 ss. Suhravardr, `Hikmat,' Opera metaphysica et mystica, II, §§3.4 et §166, et Corbin, 'Prolegomenes,' Opera metaphysica et mystica, II, 33 ss. Suhravardi, `Hikmat,' Opera metaphysica et mystica, II, §4. Ibid., §§109 et 42. Une touche de dualisme reste cependant en ce que le monde physique est l'ecran de la lumiere, le barzakh; cf. Corbin, En Islam iranien, II, 109 ss. Notamment par les traites 'Mu'nis al-`ushshäq' et 'Rini ba jamå`at-i güfryån,' respectivement les traites IX et VII dans !'edition Nag, Opera metaphysica et mystica, III. Cf. H. Corbin, `De I'epopee herofque å l'epopee mystique,' Eranos-Jahrbuch, XXXV (Zürich 1967), 177-239, et tout le Chapitre IV de Corbin, En Islam iranien, II. Cf. Fritz Meier, 'Der Derwischtanz: Versuch eines Überblicks,' Asiatische Studien (Bern 1954), notamment p. 122 ss. Reynold Alleyne Nicholson, Studies in Islamic Mysticism (Cambridge 1921), pp. 1-76. Voir aussi l'article de Hellmut Ritter, 'Abü Said b. Abi 1-Khayr' dans la nouvelle Encyclopedie de !'Islam. Quant å la conscience proprement persane de ce soufisme, il est remarquable qua l'auteur de la plus ancienne biographie d'Abü Sa`Td, ecrite une centaine d'annees apres la mort de ce demier, definisse la valayat (qualite d'un mystique parfait, d'un Ami de Dieu) non seulement comme l'hemologue et la continuation de la prophetie (nubuvvat) apres la cloture historique de cette derniere en Muhammad, mais aussi, et en particulier, comme une affaire reservee aux hommes de Perse qui viendraient quatre cent ou cinq cent ans Wires le Prophete. Cf. Hälät w sukhanan-i Shaykh Abü Said-i Abü al-Khayr-i Mayhani, ed. Iraj-i Afshär, (Teheran 1341 h.sh.), p. 7 s. On trouvera une bibliographie hamadanienne dans A Sufi Martyr: The Apologia of Ain al-Qui/ t al-HamadhänT,, trad., introd. et annote par A. J. Arberry (London 1969), p. 9. Voir aussi Hellmut Ritter, Das Meer der Seele: Mensch, Welt and Gott in den Geschichten des Fariduddin 'Agar (Leiden 1955), Index, p. 678. Une etude recente de Toshihiko Izutsu, `Mysticism and the Problem of Equivocation in the Thought of 'Ayn al-Qudät HamadinT,' Studia Islamica, XXXI (1970), 153-70, met en lumiere l'importance de Hamadäni comme precurseur de la tradition iranienne de pensee mystique de type hikmat. En outre, nous avons le plaisir d'annoncer ici la publication prochaine d'une traduction anglaise accompagnée d'une etude analytique de la Zubdat al-hagä'iq de Hamadäni par M. `Umar Jah, M.A. de l'Institut des Etudes Islamiques de l'Universite McGill. Cf. par exemple HujvirT, The Kashf al Mah/üb, trad. R. A. Nicholson, (`E. J. W. Gibb Memorial Series,' Vol. XVII; Leiden/London 1911), p. 383 s. Hamadäni, Tamhidät,' Musannafat 'Ayn al-Qurt-i Hamadåni, ed. `Afif-i' Usayrån (Publications de l'Universite de Teheran No. 695; Teheran 1341 h.sh.), pp. 12 et 320. Hamadäni, `Zubdat al-haga'iq,' Mu. annaJt 'Ayn al-Qurt-i Hamadini, ed. 'Afif-i `Usayrån, p. 6, et Hamadänr, `Shakwå al-gharib, (meme publication), p. 9. Cf. A Sufi Martyr, trad. Arberry, p. 14 s. `Zubdah,' Musannafeit, p. 12. Arberry, `Introduction,' A Sufi Martyr, p. 11, retie 'le début de l'ouverture de l'oeuil spirituel' ('Zubdah,' p. 7), directement å la lecture des oeuvres de Ghazäli, comme titant causee par elle, ce qui n'est pas dans le texte de HamadånT. Ce demier affirme au contraire (`Zubdah,' p. 6:ultima), que le resultat de ces etudes etait qu'il s'imaginait seulement gitre 'arrive' c'est-a-dire qu'il avait le defaut caracteristique du groupe III (=les theologiens speculatifs) de la classification etablie en p. 9 s. (cf. p. 5, 4-12).

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20. `Tamhidåt,'Musannafdt, p. 280 s. 21. Ibid., p. 255. Cf. Abii Hämid al-Ghazåli, Mishkät al-anwär, ed. 'Afifi (Le Caire 1382/1964), pp. 59, 4 et 63, 11. 22. Cf. Corbin, Histoire de la philosophie islamique, Vol. I (Paris 1964), p. 280 ss. Selon SimnanT, Al}mad-i Ghaza"7T serait mort en 517/1123 (cf. Die Fawä'ih al-Cama7 xa•Fawåtih al-Caliil des Nam ad-Din al-Kubrä, ed., introd. et annote par Fritz Meier (Wiesbaden 1957), p. 27s. de ('introduction allemande. 23. Edite, avec une breve introduction, sous le titre Ahmad Ghazze lrs Aphorismen über die Liebe, par Hellmut Ritter ('Bibliotheca Islamica,' Vol. 15; Istanbul/Leipzig 1942). Plusieurs editions egalement en Iran, dont celle de (raj- i Afshär dans la Revue de la Faculte des Lettres de l'Universite de Teheran, An 14, No. 5-6, pp. 1-51. 24. Edite avec traduction anglaise par James Robson, Tracts on Listening to Music ('Oriental Translation Fund New Series,' Vol. XXXIV; London 1938), pp. 63-184. 25. `Zubdah' MusannaJät, p. 7. Toutefois, Ibid., p. 72 presuppose la rencontre d'un autre 'grand Sh aykh' soufi avant celle d'Ahmad-i GhazälT. 26. Cf. notre etude 'Autour de l'enseignement spirituel,' Introduction a Correspondance spirituelle echangee entre N. A. EsfaräyenT et AM'oddawleh Semnäni (`Bibliotheque Iranienne,' Vol. 21; Teheran/Paris 1972), p. 5 ss. 27. La `doctrine' d'Abii Hat's (ob. ca. 260/874) consistait en ce que le soulisme tout entier, y tompris la plus haute experience mystique, n'est que 'regles dc conduite' (ada). (Hujv►ri, Kashf al-Mahjüb, trad. Nicholson, p. 41 s.). Ainsi, son disciple prefere devait d'abord apprendre å se.comporter vis-å-vis du maitre comme vis-å-vis d'un Roi, pour gitre accepte (cf. Abu- Nag al-Sarräj, The kitäb al-luma' fi'l-tasawwuf, ed. R. A. Nicholson (`E. J. W. Gibb Memorial Series,' Vol. XXII; London/Leiden 1914), p. 117, 16-21. Le comportement royal (adab al-mull k) d'Abü Rafs suscita l'etonnement de Junayd, Iorsqu'il visita ce dernier, avec ses disciples, å Baghdad, (Cf. Abü Hal al-Suhravardi, Awarif al•ma'årif ii 1966), p. 276; et `Attar, The tadhkiratu'l-awli yä, ed. R. A. Nicholson (`Persian (Bayrt Historical Texts,' III; London/Leiden 1905-1907), Pt. 1, p. 326, 20-23. Comparer l'important article de Fritz Meier, 'Huriisan and das ende der klassischen süfik,' Atti del Convegno Internazionale sul Tema: La Persia nel Medioevo, Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei, Anno CCCLXVII, Quaderno no. 160 (1971), pp. 545-70, notamment 556 ss. 28. Cf. Nicholson, Studies, notamment p. 21 ss. 29. Cf. A Sufi Martyr, p. 12. 30. `Zubdah, Musannafät, pp. 71-74. 31. 'iamb-Mat,' MusannaJt, p. 32 s. 32. Ibid., p. 33. 33. Ibid., pp. 9 et 30 ss. 34. Ibid., pp. 9, 30 et surtout 272. 35. Ibid., p. 76 s. 36. Ibid., pp. 42-47. 37. C'est-a-dire la tradition d'Alamüt. Sur celle-ci, cf. Corbin, Histoire, I, 137 ss. et notamment p. 144 ss. (sur la connaissance spirituelle de l'Imäm). Les assonances ismaeliennes de Hamadåni semblent en effet gitre beaucoup plus profondes que ne veut le reconnaitre Arberry, 'Introduction,' A Sufi Martyr, p. 16). On se propose d'y revenir. 38. `Zubdah,' MusannaJät, p. 30 s. 39. 'Tamhidåt,' Musannafåt, p. 142 s. 40. En preparation. 41. `Shakwii al-ghanb,' MusannaJät, p. 10, 11-12; Hamadån►, A Sufi Martyr, trad. Arberry, p. 34. 42. `Zubdah,' MusannaJät, pp. 27 et 65. 43. Ibid., p. 64 s. 44. Cf. Corbin, En Islam iranien, II, 119 ss. 45. 'Zubdah,' Musannaf t, pp. 24, 63, 66. 46. Ibid., pp. 56 ss., 61 ss.; 76 et passim. La version 'existentialiste' de l'ishräq sera developpee, on le sait, par Mullå Sadra. 47. Ibid., p. 66. 48. Ibid., p. 20 s. Pour ce jui precede, comparer l'article de T. Izutsu, cite supra, n. 15. Le probleme de 1'ambiguite de la Face eternelle (wa/h) meriterait une etude comparative, depuis Ghazali (Mishkät al-anwär) et HamadänT jusqu'å Ibn `Arabi et toute l'ecole wuftidC 49. Comme Hamadani, Ibn 'Arabi refutera le fondement meme de toute pensee emanatiste, Ex Uno non fit nisi unum: 'Idhä ha gagta hödhihi al•mas alah, yabtul qawlu al-hakim: lä yasduru 'an al-wähid i11ä wahid.' Al f utühät al•makkTyah (Le Caire 1293 h.), Vol. II, 603. 50. Non sans rencontrer d'opposition, tependant. Cf. notre article 'Der Briefwechsel zwischen Kä?;åni and Simnäni über Wandat al-wugu-d,' Der Islam, L, 1 (1973), 30-83 (å paraitre), et `Simnåni on Wal}dat al-Wuj-üd,' Collected Papers on Islamic Philosophy and Mysticism (`Wisdom of Persia/Dönish-i Iränr•, Vol. IV; Teheran 1349/1971, 99-111.

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51. `Zubdah,' Musannaf t, pp. 4 et 28. 52. "TamhTdåt,' Musannafat, pp. 16-18. L'image est classique en soufisme; cf. Kålabädhi-, Al-ta'arruf li-madhhab ah! al-tasawwuf (Le Caire 1960), p. 149. 53. Cf. Ritter, Das Meer der Seele, pp. 536-50. 54. 'Tamhidirt,' Musannarn, pp. 223 et 284. 55. Ibid., pp. 28-30, 48-50r 74 s., 119. C'est le theme du Kufr-i tarigat. Comparer les vers de 'Attir, Mantiq al-tayr, ed. Gawharin (Teheran 1348/1969), p. 67, v. 1168 ss.:

»

•'

»•

Irubelf iiii:/tjl

or'

••

•

»•

A

oftr-

«

56. Ibid., p. 305. Je prefere mabda'-i riz å miäd-i rüz. Soulignons la couleur zurvanite de cette phrase, puisque le Temps devient ainsi le denominateur commun des deux opposes. 57. Ibid., p. 73. Cf. 126, 187. 58. Cf., Die Fawå'ih al-tamåt, ed. et annote par Meier, p. 79 ss. de ('Introduction allemande. 59. 'Tamhrdåt,' Musannafdt, p. 118 s. Ce theme sera amplifie plus tard, notamment chez les mystiques kubravis. 60. Voir Opera metaphysica et mystica, III, traite no. XIII. 61. Voir Corbin, En Islam iranien, 11, p. 57 ss. 62. 'Tamhidåt,' Musannafat, p. 257. Comparer le vers de Shabistarr,

63. 64. 65. 66. 67.

critique par Mullä Sadr-i, Le livre des penetrations metaphysiques, publ., trad. et annotations par Henry Corbin, ('Bibliotheque Iranienne,' Vol. 10; Teheran/Paris 1964), p. 121 de l'introduction fran9aise. Voir nos deux articles, cites supra, n. 50. Sadr al-Drn-i QiinawT insiste lå-dessus dans son P/äz al-baydn fi tå wTl umm al-qur än (Hyderabad-Deccan 1949), p. 35. Sur la notion d'anönTyat (ou an6'ryat) chez SimnånT, voir Corbin, En Islam iranien, T. III, p. 275 ss. Voir Corbin, En Islam iranien, II p. 63. Pour HamadånT, voir supra, p. 30. Pour Ibn 'Arabi, cf. T. Izutsu, A Comparative Study of the Key Philosophical Concepts in Sufism and Taoism - Ibn 'Arabi and Lao-Tzü, Chuang-Tzü. Pt. 1. The Ontology of Ibn 'Arabi ('Studies in the Humanities and Social Relations,' Keio Institute of Cultural and Linguistic Studies, Vol. VII; Tokyo 1966), Index, s.v. huwiyyah.

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PRELUDE TO MONARCHY: IRAN AND THE NEO-ASSYRIAN EMPIRE LOUIS D. LEVINE* The early history of the Iranian peoples is only vaguely perceived through the mists of prehistory. And even when these mists begin to lift sometime in the course of the ninth century B.C., the sources which are available are not Iranian, but those of her neighbor to the west, the Assyrian empire. It is not until some three hundred years later, with the appearance of the Achaemenid records, that we get our first political documents from the plateau proper, written by Iranians. Given this situation, a study of the Assyrian records is vital to understanding the early history of the Iranians, their relationship with the other people inhabiting the plateau, and their interaction with the great power of the time, Assyria. Other later sources, such as Herodotus' History, can be used to supplement the picture gained from the contemporary records, but these same later sources confront us with historiographical problems even greater than those of the Assyrian documents themselves. The Assyrian involvement with Iran began during the reign of King Shalmaneser III. Shalmaneser's father, Ashurnasirpal II, had devoted a great deal of effort to pacifying Zamua, the area of southern Kurdistan which roughly corresponds to the Sulaymäniyah Liwa' in modern Iraq.' Ashurnasirpal had, however, stopped short of the chafne magistrate, the great ridge of the Zagros which separates Iran from Iraq north of the Diyålå River. His reasons for stopping at this point are never stated (the Assyrian kings rarely felt constrained to give reasons for their actions), but they can be deduced. First, Zamua was a self-contained unit that was manageable both politically and militarily. Second, with Zamua under control, a buffer zone was established between the Assyrian homeland and the mountain people to the east. This done, Ashurnasirpal could turn his attention to matters which were for him more pressing, such as the problem of the Aramean tribes threatening Assyria from the west. Finally, although this is more speculative, one can perceive in Ashurnasirpal's strategy the myopia towards Iran that was to be characteristic of most of the Assyrian kings and that was eventually to lead to the demise of their empire. Returning to Shalmaneser, that king relates in his annals a number of campaigns to Iran, but significantly does not ever claim any lasting political control.' What is very important in these records, however, is that they present us with the first view of the ethno-historical situation on the plateau. Thus, they set the stage for our understanding of political and military developments as revealed in the later Assyrian records. The picture of the Iranian Zagros which can be drawn from the annals of Shalmaneser is a complex one, and any attempt to present it here is clearly to be *West Asian Department, Royal Ontario Museum, Toronto, Ontario, Canada.

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understood as an oversimplification. However, with that understanding, we can proceed. The Zagros break down into three areas politically. The northernmost certainly included Iranian Kurdistån and the southern tip of Azerbaijan, although the northern and eastern borders may be greater. In this sector the Assyrian records present a picture of a loose confederation of states, more often at each others' throats than politically united. The generic name of these groups is the Manneans.3 Unfortunately, we as yet know little of the Manneans, so it is difficult to be sure just where they fit ethnically. There is some indication that they are descendants of peoples who had been in the northern Zagros since at least the middle of the second millennium,4 but other factors point to a more recent arrival which may be connected to the Iranian migrations .s At present it is impossible to resolve this problem on the basis of the information available. The second unit in the Zagros is more difficult to define. It consists of Zamua, the area of which we spoke previously, of Luristän and the westernmost approaches to the Great Khuräsan Road. No single group occupied this large and geographically diverse area, but all the groups shared one common trait; they were descendants of long established peoples who had been in the Zagros for centuries if not millennia. Again our information is not as clear as we would like, but the mention of places such as Harhar, Namri and Lullume, all of which occur in much earlier texts, points strongly in the direction of continuity.6 It is the third Zagros area which is, in a sense, the most interesting. This area appears to be confined to parts of the Mähi-dasht and to the Great Khuräsiin Road eastward from that plain. In reality, however, it must have encompassed a far greater area, the extent of which is not reflected in the texts simply because the Assyrians never penetrated far enough. It is in this third area that we find Iranians. According to the annals of Shalmaneser — and the situation reflected there remains unchanged for over one hundred years — the Iranians were divided into two groups. The first of these to be mentioned is the inhabitants of Parsua, i.e., Persians.' They apparently occupied areas in the northern Mähi-dasht and perhaps parts of southern Iranian Kurdistän as well s The Persians were divided into twenty-seven ruling houses, each of which could not have consisted of much more than a local khan controlling a few villages or nomadic tribes, and there is nowhere any evidence of a central organization linking these various houses. It is still unclear whether it was common language, descent from a supposed eponymous ancestor, geographical proximity, or some other factor that we as yet do not understand which led all of these groups to be called Persians. The second of the Iranian groups which came in contact with Assyria during the reign of Shalmaneser was the Medes .9 As with the Persians, we are still at a loss for much concrete information about the Medes. They occupied areas stretching east from present-day Bisutün, but how far is unclear.' ° They too, appear to have lacked any central organization at this point in time, and the exact significance of the term 'Mede,' as was the case with the term `Persian,' is still uncertain. As we have already noted, Shalmaneser's presence in Iran was a passing one and did not entail any permanent control. His successors spent even less effort on the — 40 —

east although both Shamshi Adad V and Adad Nirari Ill did campaign in the area." In the period following Shalmaneser 1II it is not the Assyrians who play the dominant role in the Zagros, but the Urartians. The Urartians, the people who established an empire based in the area of Lake Van, began to penetrate into Iran toward the end of the ninth century.' 2 While the Urartian presence in Iran can be seen most clearly in the northwest, we know from inscriptions left by the kings of Urartu that they penetrated south as far as Parsua.' 3 Their involvement in Mannea is also clearly reflected in the annals of later Assyrian rulers, a point which we shall presently take up. The effect of the Urartians on the Zagros picture does not seem to have been of immediate significance, at least in areas aside from the northwest. What effect it did have became clear, however, when the Assyrian star began to rise once again. This rise was the result of two extremely successful military and political minds — Tiglath Pileser III and Sargon II. When Tiglath Pileser came to the throne, Assyria was in a state of disarray. She had lost control of virtually all of the west and the east. Both of these areas were aligned with Urartu, Assyria's primary rival. It was Urartu, then, that Tiglath Pileser decided to confront. After securing his southern flank, he attacked west, giving battle to a Syrian alliance led by Urartu at the city of Arpad. ' 4 Having defeated this alliance, Tiglath Pileser turned his attention to the Zagros. Unwilling to move against Urartian strength in this area before winning the support of Mannea (or at least southern Mannea) and the areas south of Mannea including Ellipi, he campaigned first in the central Zagros. The campaign seems to have been a rather benign one, and the result was a series of alliances with both Ellipi and Mannea.1 s Tiglath Pileser was now ready to move against Urartu in the east. But trouble in the far west and other matters prevented this and occupied both him and his son Shalmaneser V for the remainder of their reigns. Shalmaneser V was followed on the throne by one of the most remarkable of Assyrian monarchs, Sargon II. This king, whose needs led him, among other things, to build an entirely new capital at Khorsabad, was also among the most politically astute of Assyrian monarchs. Sargon realized, as did Tiglath Pileser III, that to ignore Iran and the Urartian presence there was to leave an open sore on Assyria's flank. Thus, more than any other Assyrian monarch, Sargon consciously pursued an eastern policy that was coherent and that aimed at lasting stability. To effect this policy, Sargon campaigned in Iran at least six times.' 6 Until recently, our sources for these campaigns were basically limited to three. First and foremost amongst these were the annals of Sargon inscribed on the walls of his palace at Khorsabad." These annals were supplemented by a prism found at Nineveh which also contained a second version of the annals, but unfortunately this prism was in a very poor state of preservation.' 8 Finally, there existed the great tablet with the letter to Ashur recounting the events of the eighth campaign.' 9 Additional material could be gleaned from the official correspondence found at Nineveh and Nimrud2° and by references to these same campaigns in summary inscriptions.21 — 41 —

From these inscriptions an overall strategy can be discerned. Sargon, like Tiglath Pileser, wished to confront Urartu and its allies in the Zagros. Before doing this, it was necessary to secure the loyalty or submission of the central Zagros peoples, the southern Manneans, Ellipi, the Persians, and the Medes. Starting with year three of Sargon's reign, the alliance with southern Mannea was renewed. The pretext upon which Sargon acted was that Urartu's ally Zikirtu, another Mannean kingdom, was interfering in southern Mannean affairs. Sargon put down the Zikirtian-inspired revolt and installed a puppet king, thus insuring Mannean support for Assyria. Sargon did not return to the Zagros until his sixth year. With this campaign, however, he put into effect his grand scheme for the east. Once again Urartian-inspired trouble in Mannea served as the catalyst, and Sargon reacted by marching into the Zagros. He first dealt with the immediate problem, but at that point, rather than turning north to confront Urartu, Sargon turned south. The annals then give an account of how he subjugated Karalla, Shurgadia, Kishesim, and Bit Sagbat, all of which are to be located between Marivän and the Mähi-dasht. With these areas under control, Sargon attacked Harhar, a city in the eastern Mähi-dasht and apparently the most important fortress in the area. He succeeded in capturing it and deemed this victory so important that he renamed the city Kar Sharruken, the Quay of Sargon. The annals close the account of this campaign with a one line statement to the effect that Sargon then received tribute from the Medes. Were the annals our sole source for this campaign, it would appear that Sargon never penetrated farther east than Harhar. Fortunately, we now have another source available. In 1965 during the first season of excavations at Godin Tepe near Kangävar, the author and Dr. T. Cuyler Young, Jr. investigated a rumor that an inscription had been found in the nearby village of Najafabåd. The rumor proved true; a stele of Sargon II of Assyria recording the events of the sixth campaign was discovered 2 2 While the stele proved important in many respects, the most startling part of the text inscribed upon it was the description in detail of the sixth campaign. After recounting the events known from the annals, the stele then proceeds to describe Sargon's march from Harhar deep into Median territory. It is still impossible to locate the places mentioned in this text with any precision, but it is clear that the march followed the route of the modern road from Kirmänshäh to the Asadäbäd valley. Thus, we now know that the major effort of the sixth campaign, aside from the conquest of Harhar, was a show of Assyrian might in western Media. Year six laid the foundation for the great thrust against Urartu, and the discovery of the stele of Sargon, the first Assyrian monument ever found on the Iranian plateau, helps make this abundantly clear. Sargon spent year seven in some minor actions in Mannea and the areas to the south of it. With year eight he was ready for the critical play of his game. Entering the Zagros near Marivån, Sargon swung south to Parsua and collected tribute from the lands subdued in year six. He then turned north, confronted Urartu's army and defeated it. While Urartu continued to exist as a vital force, its influence in the Zagros was smashed, and Assyria's eastern border was now secure. Sargon's plan — 42 —

had been carried out with foresight and brought to a successful conclusion. He spent year nine revisiting Media, but it was a minor campaign aimed at capping the efforts of the previous years. Assyria now had garrisons. The situation was stable. A curious and as yet inexplicable thing occurred after the reign of Sargon. While Assyria continued to be the great power in the Near East at the time, the sources attesting Assyria's presence in Iran change radically. Thus, while we know from the annals of Esarhaddon and Ashurbanipal that Assyria continued to be involved with the east, both of these sources are extremely succinct and offer little detail 2 3 The picture can be amplified by other sources such as the vassal treaties of Esarhaddon24 and the omen texts,2 s but when compared with the relative richness of the earlier sources, these seem barely adequate for reconstructing the course of events. Even with this lack of sources, certain general trends are clear. First, and perhaps most important, sometime between the reigns of Sargon and Esarhaddon a radical shift in the precarious power balance in the Zagros takes place. Parsua seems to disappear from the northern Mähi-dasht, only to reappear in the reign of Ashurbanipal somewhere to the south, this time under a king named Cyrus 2 6 The Manneans, erstwhile allies of Assyria, are counted among the enemies of Assyria2' Finally, the Medes also virtually disappear, only to reappear two generations later at the doors of Assyria, this time in the dress of conqueror rather than conquered2 s As yet we can only speculate on the reasons for this realignment of powers, but one factor looms large. In the Assyrian records a new element is introduced into the Zagros picture after Sargon — the arrival of the Scythians and/or Cimmerians.29 Archaeologically, this group did not have great impact, and we do not know how large a presence they were. But, and here Herodotus too seems to hint at this, they may have served as the catalyst in the rearrangement of power.3 ° That they played an important role is reflected in as distant a source as the Book of Jeremiah, where they are named along with Urartu, the Medes and Manneans as the wrath that emanates from the north (51:27ff.). The effect of the Scythian presence in Iran, as transient as it may have been, was to radicalize the long standing alliances, as we have already noted. In political terms, it is perhaps here that we should seek the rise of the Median confederacy. Under pressure from the Assyrians from the west and from the Scythians from the north, the old loose structure of local principalities was no longer adequate. The Assyrians, occupied in the west, could not help control the Scythians in the Zagros. If the Medes were not to be forced out entirely (as happened to the Persians, apparently), they had to unite to meet the threat. That this is what they did is strongly suggested at the end of our story. In 614 B.C., the Babylonian Chronicle notes that the Medes, now apparently unified, attacked the heartland of Assyria and that cities as important as Calah and Arrapha were destroyed during this campaign.3 I Two years later a second attack devastated the countryside, and Nineveh, the great capital of Assyria, fell. The Assyrian kings were forced to flee to the west where they maintained a shadow government for some years, but eventually disappeared completely. The Medes succeeded to much — 43 —

of Assyria's empire and thus laid the foundations for Cyrus and the Achaemenids. Beyond the fall of Assyria, then, the story is of Achaemenids and Medes, and it is a story that relies on a new set of sources. It has often been told, but will require retelling again and again as our materials, both archaeological and epigraphical, continue to multiply. But then, that is true also of the history of Assyria in Iran, for the telling of history is no less a process than history itself. Notes 1. For the Zamua campaigns of Ashurnasirpal II, see E.A. Speiser, 'Southern Kurdistan in the Annals of Ashurnasirpal and Today,' Annual of the American School of Oriental Research, VIII (1928), 1-42. 2. There are a number of accounts by Shalmaneser of his campaigns to the Zagros, but they have never been collected in a single work. The more important accounts may be found in the following publications: For year four — British Museum, Department of Egyptology and Assyrian Antiquities, The Cuneiform Inscriptions of Western Asia, Prepared for publication by Sir H.C. Rawlinson, Vol. III, Plate 8, Column II, lines 75-78 (Monolith); Die Welt des Orients, I, 6 (1952), 462, 10-15 (Cameron annals — so also the account on the Bull Collosi); Die Welt des Orients, II, 1 (1954), 30, 6-9 (Safar annals); Die Welt des Orients, II, 2 (1955), 146-48, 50-82 (Obelisk); for year sixteen — Die Welt des Orients, 1, 6 (1952), 470-72, III, 58 — IV, 25; Die Welt des Orients, II, I (1954), 36, 33-37;Die Welt des Orients, II, 2 (1955), 152, 93-95; for year twenty-four — Ibid., 154-56, 110-26 (so also the account on the Nimrud Statue, Iraq, XXI (1959), 147 ff.); for year thirty — Die Welt des Orients, II, 3 (1956), 226-28, 159-74. 3. I have attempted to define the limits of Mannea in my thesis, The Historical Geography of the Zagros in the Neo-Assyrian Period (Ann Arbor 1969), pp. 153-66. See also the forthcoming articles on this subject in Iraq. 4. R.M. Bochmer, 'Volkstum and Städte der Mannear,' Baghdader Mitteilungen, III (1964), 11-24. 5. This second point of view is a necessary corollary of T.C. Young, Jr.'s thesis linking the spread of Iron I grey wares with the Iranian migrations. See his articles, 'A Comparative Ceramic Chronology for Western Iran, 1500-500 B.C.,' Iran, III (1965), 53-85, and `The Iranian Migration into the Zagros,' Iran, V (1967), 11-34. 6. Harhar is mentioned in late third millenium texts (Cf. the forthcoming entry in the Reallexikon der Assyriologie, hrsg. v. A. Ebeling). Namri is known also from this same period, as it is mentioned on a tablet of Tisadal (F. Thureau-Dangin, 'Tablette de Samarra,' Revue d'assyriologie et d archdologie orientate, IX [1912], 1-4). On Lullu, cf. I.J. Gelb, Hurrians and Subarians (`Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilization,' Vol. XXII; Chicago 1944). 7. Parsua is first mentioned in the campaign of year sixteen (845 B.C.). See note 2, above, for the sources. 8. The location of Parsua is one of the most perplexing problems of Iranian proto-history. For a summary of the various positions and my arguments for this location, see Levine, Historical Geography, pp. 129-52. 9. The Medes are first mentioned in the campaign of year twenty-four (837 B.C.). See note 2, above, for the sources. 10. Media is discussed in my Historical Geography, pp. 181-83. 11. Shamshi Adad's efforts can be seen in his Monolith inscription, The Cuneiform Inscriptions of Western Asia, ed. Rawlinson, Vol. I, 29 ff., while those of Adad Nirari are recounted in his Nimrud Slab, Ibid., Vol. I, plate 35, line 1. There are entries for both in the eponym lists as well, Reallexikon der Assyriologie, hrsg. v. A. Ebeling, II (1938), 429 ff. 12. A number of inscriptions indicate this to be the case. Thus, the Kelishin stele and the Tash Tepe inscriptions, F.W. König, Handbuch der Chaldischen Inschriften 'Archiv für Orientforschung Beiheft,' Vol. VIII (Graz 1955-57), and the inscription from Qålat Gåh, O. Muscarella, `Qalatgah: An Urartian Site in Northwestern Iran,' Expedition, XIII, 3-4 (1971), 44-49. 13. König, Handbuch, VIII, p. 40, no. 7, II and p. 86, no. 80, 5, V.

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14. See the entries in the eponym chronicle for the years 743-740 B.C., Reallexikon der Assyriologie, II (1938), 430, and the forthcoming edition of the annals of Tiglath Pileser III by H. Tadmor. 15. That this was the purpose of the campaign of 737 B.C. is clear from the new stele of Tiglath Pileser just published. See Louis D. Levine, Two Neo-Assyrian Stelae from Iran ('Royal Ontario Museum, Art and Archaeology Paper,' 23; Toronto 1972), pp. 6-7. 16. These campaigns were in the years 717, 714-711 and 704 B.C. 17. Sargon, King of Assyria, The Inscriptions of Sargon II, King of Assyria. Pt. 1, The Annals, Transliterated and translated with notes by A.G. Lie (Paris 1929). 18. H. Winckler, Die Keilschrifttexte Saigons, Vol. II (Liepzig 1889), Plates 44-46. Cf. H. Tadmor, 'The Campaigns of Sargon II of Assur,' Journal of Cuneiform Studies, XII (1958), 2240 and 77-100. 19. H. Thureau-Dangin, 'Une relation de la huitieme campagne de Sargon,' Textes Cundiformes, Musee du Louvre, Vol. III (Paris 1912). 20. L. Waterman, Royal Correspondence to the Assyrian Empire (Norwood, Mass. 1931; and H.W.F. Saggs, 'The Nimrud Letters, 1952' - Part IV; 'The Urartian Frontier,' Iraq, XX (1958), 182-212. 21. There is no proper edition of Sargon's inscriptions. A convenient place to read them in translation is D.D. Luckenbill, Ancient Records of Assyria and Babylonia (2 vols.; Chicago 1927), II, 1-114. This is by no means a complete collection, but is the best presently available. 22. Levine, Two Neo-Assyrian Stelae, pp. 25-50. 23. For the former, see R. Borger, Die Inschriften Asarhaddons Königs von Assyrien, 'Archiv für Orientforschung Beiheft,' Vol. IX (Graz 1956); for the latter, M. Streck, Assurbanipa! und die Letzten Assyrischen Könige (Leipzig 1916). 24. D.J. Wiseman, 'The Vassal-Treaties of Esarhaddon,' Iraq, XX (1958), 1-99. 25. E. Klauber, Politisch-religiöse Texte aus der Sargonidenzeit (Leipzig 1913), and J.A. Knudtzon, Assyrische Gebete an den Sonnengott (Leipzig 1893). 26 E. Weidner, 'Die älteste Nachrichte über das persische Königshaus. Kyros I. ein Zeitgenosse Assurbånaplis,' Archiv für Orientforschung, VII (1931-32), 1-7. 27. See the sources quoted above, n. 25. 28. D.J. Wiseman, Chronicles of the Chaldean Kings (London 1961). 29. The Cimmerians are mentioned in relation to Urartu during the reign of Sargon II. See S. Parpola, 'Neo-Assyrian Toponyms,' Alter Orient und Altes Testament, Vol. VI (Neukirchen-Vluyn 1970), sub `Gimirraja,' but they do not seem to affect the part of the Zagros that is of interest to the Assyrians until the reign of Esarhaddon (Ibid.). The Scythians also first appear during the reign of Esarhaddon (Ibid., sub `I?ikuza'). 30. Herodotus, The Persian Wars, Book I. Chap. 103 ff. 31. See note 28, above.

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Plate 8. The sleeping Rustam carried away by the demon Akvän. From a Shåh-nåmah, ca. 1440.

Plate 9. Majnün brought to Laylå's tent, attributed to Mir Sayyid `Ali. From a Shåh-nåmah copied between 1539 and 1543. Courtesy of the Trustees of the British Museum.

PERSIAN MANUSCRIPT ILLUMINATION AND PAINTING G. M. MEREDITH-OWENS* To appreciate Persian miniature painting to the full, one must accept an entirely new set of conventions at the very outset. It is primarily an art of book illustration — portraiture as a genre came comparatively late — and the aim of the artist first and foremost was to please the eye of his patron. This decorative quality of Persian art is very marked in the elaborate stucco architectural ornaments, the gorgeous tile mosaics of Persian mosques, the exuberant patterns of carpets, and the flourishing tropes of calligraphy. Here the penman becomes so absorbed in making the letters graceful and flowing that the legibility of what he has written takes second place — but after all, it was the general effect that mattered to the Persian artist. Each miniature is an exquisite design becoming more and more complex over the centuries but still preserving an unerring sense of colour and line along with an instinct for unity and harmony. The artist, with relatively few exceptions, is not concerned with emotions and individual characteristics. His world is one of romance and enchantment removed from reality — a nocturnal scene is shown exactly as in daylight except that we have the moon and stars or a dark blue sky to indicate that it is night, and the beholder may enjoy the beauty of a carpet much better if he is allowed to look down on it from above, ignoring the matter of perspective. The figures are idealized symbols and types which occur over and over again in the miniatures — we are completely detached from what is taking place in a battle scene as in a theatre, for the artist spares us the more sinister aspects of warfare. In short, the beauties of Persian painting are all plain to see — the artist has no underlying message. His sole desire is to please us or to illustrate a story to the best of his ability; but with what skill and perfection he works within the limitations and formalism of his craft! Nothing survives of Sasanid painting except for a few remains such as the early seventh-century frescoes at Piandjikent in the ancient Sogdiana, some of which show scenes from the exploits of the Persian hero Rustam, and the traces of an isolated painting on a rock at Dukhtar-i Nttshirvån in Afghanistan. It is still possible, however, to gain some idea as to what illustrated Sasanid manuscripts were like from the fragments of Manichaean books discovered in Central Asia. The earliest Islamic paintings known are the ninth-century murals found at Såmarrå and Nayshåpiir which show strong Sasanid influence. Excavations at Lashkar-i Båzår in Afghanistan revealed a frieze of forty-four members of the Ghaznavid palace guard which dates from the early eleventh century. These go back in tradition to the lines of Immortals at Susa and at Persepolis, and they may also be compared with the offering-bearers in Buddhist paintings from Central Asia. A very few other murals from the eleventh century are still in existence. The illuminated manuscripts of *Department of Islamic Studies, University of Toronto, Toronto, Ontario, Canada.

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these early periods are known to us only from references. We read, for example, that Chinese painters were called in by the Samanid ruler Nasr ibn Abmad (913-942) to illustrate a Persian version of Kai lah wa Dimnah by the poet Rtüdaki. It is not until the time of the Saljugs that we encounter a Persian manuscript with miniatures — a copy of the Persian romance Varqah va Gulshåh of `Ayyügi at Istanbul, dating from the first half of the thirteenth century. The miniatures stand very close to those of the Arabic manuscripts of the `Iraqi (or Mesopotamian) School in composition and colour, and they also closely resemble the figures on contemporary Persian pottery. These depict scenes from the works of Nizami and Firdawsi showing how the genius of these famous poets stirred the imagination of artists, and we can conjecture how the many vanished manuscripts were illustrated. Under the Saljiigs many finely-illuminated Qur'åns were copied. Their `bent' Kufic script and restrained yet elegant ornamentation are very characteristic. It is not until the Ilkhanid period that we find a distinctly Persian style emerging from the Chinese influence brought by the artists from the Far East employed by the Mongol rulers of Iran. This distinctive new style came to reanimate Persian painting. Instead of the ornamental spirit and linear methods which were in vogue up to this time, we experience a new grace, a feeling for nature and figures of truer proportions which give an impression of depth — a contrast to the stocky and stereotyped figures of the past. The Persian taste for brilliant colour gives way to monochrome greys with subdued tints, background landscapes contain skies with curly clouds, waves are indicated very carefully, animals are now more life-like, and trees assume varied shapes; some are even shown in blossom for the first time in a Persian miniature. The earliest dated manuscript of this period is the Persian translation of the Maniii' al-hayawiin made by `Abd al-Hadi in the Pierpont Morgan Library, New York. This was copied at Maråghah, probably at the order of the Ilkhanid ruler of Iran, Ghåzan Khan, towards the end of the thirteenth century. Here one sees the mixture of Chinese and traditional Persian elements. This kind of work is related to the mediaeval bestiaries, and the lion, for example, is described among other things as being afraid of ants and white cocks, and it mentions that eating lion's flesh is good for paralysis. Two portions of a manuscript of the Jämi' al-Tavirikh (`History of the World') by the scholar-statesman Rashid al-Din are at Edinburgh (dated 1306) and in London (dated 1314). These are practically all that remain of the fine productions of the studios set up by Rashid al-Din himself at TabrTz. The next manuscript to be considered, the Demotte Shåh-nrimah, shows how the Chinese influence had been absorbed into Persian painting and how it enhanced its beauty. The date of these miniatures, now unfortunately dispersed among several collections, has long been a matter of debate and varies between 1330 and 1370. A number of Shåh-nåmah miniatures of small format of ca. 1330 show the Persian element predominating over the Chinese. Some of these are probably from Shiraz. Much finer workmanship is to be seen in a Kalilah wa Dimnah manuscript at Istanbul, copied perhaps between 1360 and 1374. Here the artist returns to the older tradition of colour. The famous Khvåjü Kirmani manuscript in the British Museum (dated 1396) has some distinction in that the — 48 —

miniatures are by Junayd, an artist of the Jala'irid Court at Baghdad towards the end of the fourteenth century. The romantic aspect of Persian painting is particularly evident in the illustration which depicts Humay visiting Humayün's castle. Other scenes provide valuable evidence about the textiles and metalwork of the period. With the overthrow by Timür (Tamerlane) of the various lesser dynasties which arose upon the ruins of the Ilkhanid state in Iran, Persian painting enters a new and brilliant phase. Under the rule of his descendants, Shiraz and Herat became the main centres for the production of fine illuminated manuscripts. A copy of Kalilah wa Dimnah, now in the Gulistan Library, Teheran, was probably made for Iskandar Sultan, a grandson of Timür, who was governor of Fars, then of Isfahan where his ambition led to his downfall in 1414. It is characterized by the very vivid portrayal of the animals and their relation to the landscape, painted in rich and harmonious colours, showing how much progress in manuscript illustration had been made since the Ilkhanids. Unfortunately the manuscript bears no date, but the style indicates a period ca. 1410-20. A `pocket library' in the British Museum with exquisite miniatures was certainly copied for Iskandar Sultan in 1410-1i. The Shåh-niimah in London made for Muhammad Jüki, son of Shah Rukh and grandson of Timür, is a fine example of the art of the book from Herat in ca. 1440. Along with a greater feeling for nature than one finds in the other manuscripts of the age made for Timurid princes, there is a new elaboration of detail. The episode of the sleeping Rustam carried away by the demon Akvan forms the subject of one striking miniature(Plate VIII).Another son of Shah Rukh,Baysunqur, ruled for his father at Herat and established a lavish organization for book production there — a taste for fine books became a tradition of the Timurids until their disappearance at the beginning of the sixteenth century. A bold yet simple style was practiced under the rule of the Turcoman dynasties in southern and western Iran during the second half of the fifteenth century, and the miniatures of this School have a direct appeal all of their own. The appearance of Bihzåd at Herat shortly before 1480 ushers in a new and splendid era in the history of Persian miniature painting. Although he followed the basic canons of Persian painting, we find a new skill in depicting nature, and his figures bear a strong individualized stamp, adding a new lustre to the masterpieces produced at Herat where by now, after the time of Båysunqur, the style was becoming rigid and losing its former promise. Two copies of the Khamsah of Nizåmi in the British Museum contain scenes by Bihzåd. One of these is a view of a bath-house visited by the Caliph al-Ma'mün with such intimate details as the towels hanging up to dry, painted in 1494-95. From the other manuscript comes the battle between rival Arab clans with Majnün looking on helplessly; and Mahan, mounted on a horse which turned into a seven-headed dragon, surrounded by ghouls in the desert, was probably painted by one of Bihz5d's circle. After Shah Ismail, the founder of the Safavid line, had defeated the Özbeks and occupied Herat in 1510, Bihzåd followed him to his new capital at Tabriz. His influence still dominated miniature painting for some time; although he was growing old and painted little, his style was taken up by younger artists, bringing — 49 —

Persian painting to the highest peak of technical perfection, but by this time some of the vigour of Timurid miniatures had gone forever. A scene from the romance Laylit wa Majnün of Nizåmi (now in the British Museum), copied at the royal studio for Shalt Tahmasp, son of Shah Isme i1, between 1539 and 1543, comes from a sumptuous Khamsah. It is attributed to Mir Sayyid `Ali and shows Majnün, captured while living with wild animals in the desert, brought in chains by a beggar woman to Layla's tent (Plate IX). There are so many little details calculated to entertain the observer — the small boys throwing stones, the barking dog and the activities of the Bedouin camp going on in the background. A battle scene attributed to Mahmtiid-i Musavvir in the Freer Gallery of Art (dated ca. 1530) shows how over-elaborated and crowded miniatures had become. The same feature can be observed in another detached illustration of ca. 1584 at Philadelphia. In it Khusraw sees Shirin bathing — her horse Shabdiz whinnying a greeting to Khusraw's mount. The rocks are characteristic of this manuscript with their curious appearance of cotton-wool lightness. This picture is a production of the School of Shiraz which still retained something of its former artistic importance under the new dynasty. A more spontaneous touch is to be seen in an illustration from a copy of the Ajå'ib al-makhliügdt (`Wonders of Creation') of Qazvini (dated 1545) in the Chester Beatty Library, Dublin. With an eye for the marvellous which matches the semi-legendary character of much of this work, the artist in simple colours portrays tree-dwellers, a buffalo and a very fanciful rhinoceros (Plate X). From now on the figures increase in size and wear large loosely-tied turbans. Shah-nåmahs of large format with abundant illustrations are typical of the later Safavid period. With the removal of the capital of Iran to Isfahan in 1598 by Shah `Abbas the Great, the arts flourished under royal patronage; but in the separate drawings and paintings which now were popular, the style becomes languorous, decadent and erotic (for example, the love-scene painted by Muhammad Yüsuf al-Husayni about 1630 in the Pierpont Morgan Library and the young prince in the British Museum which dates from ca. 1590). From the middle of the seventeenth century there was a decline in the art of book illustration which was frequently left to less talented artists who were unable to do more than repeat the same old scenes and conventions over and over again. European influence altered the character of Persian painting, but did not give new life to remove the stagnation which set in. Nevertheless, the earlier part of the seventeenth century produced much graceful yet mannered work in the form of studies of youths and maidens by such artists as Rizå-'i `Abbasi and Mu'in with their mastery of line. One of the most famous paintings by Riza= i `Abbasi is that of the lovers in the Metropolitan Museum, dated 1629. which conveys most effectively an atmosphere of tenderness (Plate XI). Only very few illustrated manuscripts of the eighteenth century have any real artistic merit; and the best work of the nineteenth century when the Qåjårs reigned over Iran is in the field of portraiture. The same tendency towards increasing elaboration and complexity which has been mentioned in connection with miniatures is found in manuscript illumination; but calligraphy, as one of the most prized arts,

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remained at a high level in Iran, even when other arts of the book had begun to deteriorate. TEXTILES Only a few examples have come down to us of the fine textiles of the Buyid period with their hunting scenes and stylized animals. One of the best known of these is the silk fabric from the Church of Saint Josse-sur-Mer, now in the Louvre, decorated with confronted elephants and rows of smaller camels and peacocks. An inscription gives the name of Amir Mansur Bukhtigin of Khurasän who died in 960. The tradition of fabrics with angular figures of animals goes back to Sasanid times from which there are Chinese and Arabic references to the excellence of Persian textiles. The earliest carpets from Iran are known to us only from representations in Persian miniatures. Towards the end of the fifteenth century, carpets with arabesques and floral designs became popular in Iran, but the geometrical designs of an earlier period still survived, particularly in the carpets and rugs made by the nomads. The Safavid era was the golden age of the Persian carpet. These are classified according to their pattern — `medallion' carpets (like the famous Ardabil carpet of 1539 in the Victoria and Albert Museum, London), `hunting' carpets, `vase' rugs, `Polish' silk rugs so-called because they were once thought to have been made in Poland, `tree' and `garden' rugs. The French traveller Tavernier describes his visit to the royal carpet manufactory at Isfahan in the seventeenth century. He states that it covered a vast area in the centre of the city, and he mentions the costly silks, fine wool and gold and silver thread used by the weavers. At this time Persian brocades were being exported to Europe from such centres as Käshån and Yazd in addition to Isfahiin. Fine workmanship in the traditional style was still being produced up to the beginning of the last century. The establishment of carpet manufactories by European firms in Iran, employing cheap local labour, had a detrimental effect upon quality. The decoration and colours changed for the worse, owing to the inferior dyes and also, it must be admitted, to the poor taste of the Europeans who bought these carpets. Thanks to the efforts of the Ministry of Culture and Education, there has been a great improvement, and the age-old skills are still being kept alive. The illustration shows a sixteenth-century carpet from Tabriz (Plate XII). METAL WORK Since the Sasanid style of decoration continued in use for a long period, particularly in the case of silver vessels, many of these were long attributed to the pre-Islamic era. A gold jug from the Freer Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C., decorated in low relief with rams and winged creatures within stiff scrollwork, is in traditional style but bears an Arabic inscription giving the name of a Buyid dignitary, Abu Mansur Bakhtiyår who died in 978. The eighth-century bronze ewer from Egypt found near the tomb of the Umayyad Caliph Marwän II (744-750) belongs to a type which is associated with Persian metal-workers with its elaborately engraved globular body and long tubular neck surrounded by a single —51—

band of pierced decoration at the töp.The spout is in the form of a bird(PlateXIII). It was between the eighth and the tenth centuries that the first attempts were made to use copper for inlaid decoration. This was developed under the Saljügs in twelfth-century Khuråsän into the splendid technique of inlaying bronze (and later brass) with copper and silver. One of the finest examples is the bronze kettle from Herät (dated 1163) in the Hermitage at Leningrad bearing processions of musicians, dancers and riders in horizontal bands, together with inscriptions, some of which are in `animated' Kufic with the Arabic letters ending in human and animal heads. A gold bracelet in Seattle with repousse work chased and decorated with doves and cones belongs to the eleventh century. An inscription inside reads `Joy, happiness and blessing to the owner.' A great number of ewers still of Sasanid type, pen-boxes, mortars and incense burners are known from this period. Some of the latter are of fantastic shapes like lions with pointed upstanding ears. These lion incense-burners are occasionally ornamented with openwork patterns. A brass ewer from the British Museum is one of the most magnificent examples of the metalwork produced in Iran and dates from about 1200. The inlay is silver and copper for the eyes of the birds. Some pieces made after the Mongol invasion show a mixture of Persian and Mesopotamian (`Mawsil') decorative motifs which had been separate at the beginning of the thirteenth century. This was due to a movement of artists, some fleeing westwards before the Mongol hordes, and some travelling east to enter the service of the Mongol Ilkhans when times became more settled. An Ilkhanid bowl in the Royal Ontario Museum bearing the signs of the Zodiac is typical. The Timurid period ushers in a time of decadence in metalwork, both in quantity and quality, although the earlier forms persist. A signet-ring in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, is a fine specimen of the goldsmith's art of ca. 1400 with its Chinese dragon heads, inscriptions and arabesques. The best work of the Safavid artist in metal consists of elaborately inlaid steel weapons and armour.

WOODWORK Many of the earlier examples of Persian woodwork are in the Özbek,S.S.R. but dated items from the Saljüq era are to be found in various collections, notably parts of a pulpit (minbar) in the Metropolitan Museum. The carving from Iran is characterized by the very deep undercutting of its intricate patterns which are arranged in planes. Fine woodwork is also known from the Ilkhanid and Timurid periods. A door of the late fifteenth century from Khokand bears traces of colour which foreshadows the use of lacquer painting, the earliest works of this nature being book covers dating from the first half of the sixteenth century. Lacquer painting becomes more widespread from the early seventeenth century, and some of the finest work is to be seen on doors which are sometimes decorated with bone and ivory intarsia as an alternative. A lacquered casket from Berlin (Plate XIV) shows Shah `Abbas I and belongs to his reign (1587-1629). During the (Aar period the lacquer-painted box or pencase is a typical objet d'art, and these often bear panoramas or portraits. — 52 —

CERAMICS The innate Persian good taste and sure sense of form are reflected in ceramics as well as in the other arts. Although Persian craftsmen contributed a great deal towards the development of `Abbasid pottery, it is necessary to turn to Transoxania to see the first flowering of the native genius. Under the Samanids, centered at Bukhårä, pottery technique was at a high level, and many fine examples are known from excavations at Afräsiyäb and Nayshåpür. The designs are simple, yet often aesthetically perfect, with their rich colours and restrained decoration. Some bear Kufic inscriptions, but no human forms appear; and the birds and animals can rarely be recognized as such. There is never any shade of blue, but yellow-green, tomato-red, purplish-black and brown are found. The Samarqand potters discovered that they could avoid damage to painted decoration covered over with lead glaze if they mixed their metallic colouring agents with a paste of fine clay slip. Another kind of decoration employed at this time is found in the lead-glazed sgraffiato wares upon which designs were scratched through a white slip. These are named after the various centres in western Iran where they were made in the tenth and eleventh centuries. During the Saljüq period an important innovation came into being. An artificial paste was made conterfeiting some of the qualities of the fine translucent Chinese porcelain which was so much admired and imitated by the Islamic potters. Plain white wares, sometimes with sparse ornament, are characteristic of the earlier Saljüq pottery. Slightly later, in the twelfth century, monochrome and carved wares make their appearance, but it was not long before several different coloured glazes were used on a single vessel. The designs were carved in hollow grooves or in relief so as to keep the colours in their appropriate compartments. A fine example of these lagabi or painted wares is the polychrome dish from Berlin with the displayed eagle which dates from the twelfth century (Plate XV). In some vessels of this period the design is carved through a black background, the whole being covered with a turquoise or ivory-white glaze. The main centres for fine lustre ware towards the end of the twelfth century were Rayy and Käshän. The latter which gave its name to tile work (kåshi) is famous for its wall-tiles painted in lustre with designs in relief and with Qur'anic texts picked out in blue glaze. In the course of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries tiles began to be made in the shape of stars and crosses, decorated with inscriptions and human and animal figures. Scenes from the Shah-nämah and other masterpieces of Persian literature were used to cover the enamelled pottery (minä'f) noted for its lovely shades, made at Rayy, Käshån and perhaps Sävah. The wide range of colours was fixed by a second firing since some colours proved to be less stable than others. From Käshän also comes a painted ware with designs in black and blue under a turquoise or colourless glaze, dating from the early thirteenth century. For some time after the Mongol conquest there was little change in the pottery. Some minäT vessels were still being made, and there is also the läjvardinah ware with red, white, black and gold painted over a deep blue or turquoise glaze. Sometimes Chinese motifs were used such as the lotus, phoenix and dragon. The — 53 —

modern town of Sultanabiid has given its name to a style of pottery associated with the time of the Ilkhans. The predominant colours are blue and grey, and the densely-patterned decoration is often interspersed with panels and medallions containing Chinese motifs and figures similar to those in contemporary manuscripts. Analysis in recent years has proved that the blue of Ming porcelain came from the high-grade cobalt ore imported from Iran; thus the source of the blue-and-white ware is likely to have been there rather than in China — the transmission of a pottery technique in the reverse direction. Only a few isolated examples are known of early Persian blue-and-white ware. From the evidence of manuscript illustrations, it seems that blue-and-white ware was not common until after 1400. The finest ceramic work of the fifteenth century is to be seen in the magnificent tile-mosaics which adorn so many of the buildings of the period as, for example, the Blue Mosque at Tabriz, the Gawhar Shad Mosque at Mashhad and the Shah-i Zindah complex at Samargand. The earliest kiibachi ware was made in the second half of the fifteenth century, probably in northwest Iran. This type of pottery survived well into the Safavid period, the later polychrome specimens showing busts of young men and women sometimes in Western costume, surrounded by floral scrolls. Fine white translucent wares were exported to Europe in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries from Gombroon (Bandar `Abbs), and for this reason they are known as `Gombroon' wares. Many of the later Safavid wares were inspired by Chinese porcelain, and there is a great variety of shapes. Kirmån became an important centre in the seventeenth century for the production of pottery. Wall-tiles, which were used with such splendour in the mosques of Isfahån, deteriorated in quality after the fall of the Safavid dynasty. By the nineteenth century the Persian markets were flooded with mass-produced English wares, and this brought about the decline of the local industry.

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Plate 10. Tree-dwellers, a buffalo and a rhinoceros. 1545. Courtesy of the Chester Beatty Library, Dublin.

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Plate 11. Lovers. By Rizä-i'Abbiisi. 1629. Courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

Plate 12. Carpet from Tabriz. Sixteenth century. Lyons.

Plate 13. Bronze ewer from Egypt. Eighth century. Cairo.

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Plate 14. Lacquered casket showing Sh5h 'Abbås 1 ( 1587-1629). Berlin.

Plate 15. Polychrome dish with displayed eagle. Twelfth century. Berlin.

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INTERPRETATIONS OF IRANIAN DUALISM WILLARD GURDON OXTOBY* Of the various strands which together make up the fabric of the 2,500-year Iranian cultural tradition we are celebrating, the religious strand is a broken one. At the midpoint of the span, very nearly 1,250 years ago, the ancient Iranian material was replaced by a new fabric, the tradition of Islam. My task will be to examine some details of the religious heritage of Iran which preceded Islam. I do not mean to contend that the role of religion in the Iranian tradition is utterly discontinuous from pre-Islamic to Islamic times. The sense of the Divine Right of Kings, for which R.M. Savory has made a case, is certainly a legacy from pre-Islamic Iran.' But if I may be permitted an analogy, I see in the Iranian mystique of kingship about the same sense of divinity which the West finds in the traditions of Roman antiquity. Pagan Rome is part of the West's cultural heritage in the civic tradition and in literature. In religion, the ancient myth and cultus have been replaced, judged to be in error, but are still regarded with a certain condescending affection as part of the total cultural heritage. I wish to focus on one theme in that rich and often bafflingly complex heritage: the theme of dualism. When the Western world thinks of religion in Iran before Islam, it thinks of the religion of Zarathushtra, or Zoroaster, as the Greeks called him. And when the Western world thinks of Zoroaster, it thinks in particular of one feature associated with his religion, namely, dualism. By dualism I mean, of course, a conception of the universe which postulates two ultimate principles, seen as opposed to each other and more or less evenly matched. In the Iranian case the opposition is most commonly represented as involving God (Avestan — Ahura Mazda; Pahlavi — Ohrmazd) on one side, and the evil spirit (Avestan — Mira Mainyu; Pahlavi — Ahriman) on the other. This is a familiar enough picture to most of us, but please note that it is a picture of a religion as a system of principles. We are heirs of a tradition of inquiry that has regarded religions as systems of doctrine, as stable essences, as `isms'. Zoroastrianism according to this view is a set of affirmations about God and the world, and man's place and obligation in it and his ultimate destiny, a system more or less encoded into certain passages of the Avestan scripture, and therefore valid for all time as revelation—direct revelation, with a directness comparable to the Sermon on the Mount for Christians or even the Qur'an for Muslims. Revealed as the stable essence of Zoroastrianism in this view is the cosmic conflict between God and the Devil. In our present inquiry, I suspect we shall come to feel that this sort of stable-essence view of Zoroastrianism as unvaryingly dualistic is misleading. We shall have to suggest that a tradition which is dualistic at one point in its development need not have been so at another time. First, about the term `dualism': The word `dualism' appears to have been coined *Department of Religious Studies, University of Toronto, Toronto, Ontario, Canada.

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specifically as a description of the Zoroastrian religion. It first turns up in the writing of Thomas Hyde, in the year 1700, in the history of the religion of the ancient Persians.2 Hyde used the term to mean a system of thought in which there is an evil being set over against the being who is the source of good. Use of the term as a description of Zoroastrian teaching caught on during the eighteenth century. In the sense in which Hyde employed the word dualism, it denoted a moral or ethical duality: the conflict between God and the Devil as the personifications of good and evil. To see what happened next to the word `dualism' we must digress for a moment into Western philosophy. It was not long after Hyde coined the word for the struggle between the spirit of good and the spirit of evil—in fact, it was within a generation—that others began to use the word `dualism' to discuss the contrast between spirit as such and the physical world. The eighteenth-century philosopher Christian Wolff called dualists `those who admit the existence of both material and immaterial substances.'3 In so speaking, Wolff was referring to a long tradition of philosophical speculation which goes back to the ancient Greeks before Plato, a tradition which can be said to be practically as old as philosophy itself. That souls should have an immaterial existence, distinct from bodies, was implicit in pre-Socratic Greece in the Pythagoreans' belief in the transmigration of souls, and the philosopher Anaxagoras explicitly differentiated between mind (or spirit; Greek nous) and matter. But it was Plato who put this type of distinction into a formulation influential for more than a thousand years, by speaking of the world of Ideas as distinct from the world perceived by the senses. (Much later, for modern philosophy, the mind-and-matter distinction was given a fresh lease on life by the seventeenth-century French philosopher Rene Descartes, and it is this Cartesian dualism which was fresh at hand when the word `dualism' was coined and when Wolff adapted it from ethics to metaphysics.) Now it would be convenient for clarity if we could distinguish neatly between these two senses of the word `dualism,' between ethical dualism (Zoroaster's dualism of good and evil, as described by Hyde) on the one hand and metaphysical dualism (Descartes' distinction between mind and matter, as espoused by Wolff) on the other. It would simplify matters if the distinction between good and evil had had nothing to do, historically, with the distinction between mind and matter. Things are, however, not that simple. For we have already mentioned Plato. In Plato there is an ethical overtone to his metaphysics: not only is the realm of Ideas distinct from the realm of the physical world, it is also truer and in some sense better. Mind has been given a good valuation and matter a negative one. I do not mean to try to argue here that Plato is, therefore, historically responsible for any subsequent celebration of spirit as good at the expense of matter as evil, but merely to say that he illustrates the possibility of gaining an audience for such a line of thought. We should, therefore, not be surprised that in the Semitic-, Greek-, and Latin-speaking world around the Mediterranean in the first three Christian centuries there flourished a movement of thought, generally in — 60 —

Jewish and Christian circles, which did stress the goodness of the spirit and the corruption of matter, a religious philosophy which we know as Gnosticism. Gnosticism relates to our inquiry today in that, with its offshoot Manichaeism, it is the other religious tradition in antiquity to which we commonly refer as dualistic. To be sure, Gnosticism, like Zoroastrianism, has as a central theme in its drama the struggle between good and evil. To be sure, Gnosticism, like Zoroastrianism, pits the figure of the Devil against God in a struggle where there is some question as to the triumph of the good unless man does his part. But the resemblance of the two traditions begins to dissolve on closer scrutiny. The differences emerge with force the moment one looks at the different interpretation each gives to the physical world. In the Zoroastrian tradition the world is the scene of the struggle between God and the evil one, but the world itself is ethically neutral. In the Gnostic and Manichaean account of things on the other hand, the world is inherently evil; the creation of the world is the result of the fall of the godhead into materiality through an initial event such as temptation. Zoroastrianism is an ethical, good-and-evil dualism in a fairly straightforward sense. Gnosticism and Manichaeism on the other hand are a form of spirit-matter dualism, ontological dualism, with an ethical value given to spirit as opposed to matter. Historically, both dualisms have flourished in Iran since both Zoroaster and Mani lived there. But while Zoroaster's contribution is, so far as we can tell, his own, Maas dualism represents a packaging of Jewish and Christian Gnosticism for a cosmopolitan audience in the initial generation of the Sasanid empire. We have now briefly sketched the identity of what we are talking about when we discuss `dualism'. I should like next to examine a certain fascination which dualism has held in modern times. The past hundred years have seen a considerable amount of speculation concerning the historical origins and, therefore, supposedly the nature, of religion. The intellectual excitement generated by Darwin's discovery of biological evolution turned many minds in the nineteenth century to the construction of theories of the evolutionary development of human cultural institutions as well, and not least among the structures of human culture was religion. Evolutionary schemes tended to portray man as the culmination, the goal, of nature's process of biological selection. In the case of religion, the end goal for most synthesizers was monotheism .4 The norm for monotheism was usually the belief of classical Judaism, Christianity and Islam that there exists only one divine being, as over against the religious option of treating other gods, spirits or powers as having an independent reality.s The distillation and purification of man's awareness of the divine—from the worship of local spirits in nature, on to the celestial pantheons of ancient religions, through to the Biblical conception of a single divine being and to subsequent theological sophistications of it—this was thought to be evolution, and it was also thought to be progress. (And it still is: lately I heard a religious educator state that one of the goals of religious education was to develop in the student a purification and a refinement of the idea of God, purging the God concept of plurality and — 61 —

anthropomorphism. To me, this is diametrically opposed to understanding a mythic tradition such as Shintö on its own terms.) If man should see himself as the end product of evolution, nineteenth-century Christian man would understandably see Christianity as the end product of the history of religion. But in such evolutionary schemes, where does the Iranian contribution fit in? What is the place of Zoroastrian dualism, or of Manichaeism? Zoroaster's teaching has been attractive to some in the past century as a penultimate stage on the road to monotheism: from many gods, to two, to one.6 And Zoroaster appears in just the right period of time to fit the scheme: he comes immediately on the eve of the attainment of a truly cosmic monotheism on the part of the Hebrew prophets (especially the 40th to 55th chapters of Isaiah), or at least immediately prior to the sixth-century B.C. dispersal of Hebrew ideas with Jewish exiles to Mesopotamia and elsewhere in the ancient world. A theory of movement from two to one might make sense if the evidence fit. I shall be contending shortly that the evidence does not really fit. But there is one analogy which does fit and which may have helped to make the theory speculatively attractive. The analogy: in philosophy, monism, the postulating of a single metaphysical principle of ultimate reality, does seem on the whole to have been a reaction to spirit-matter dualism.' It seems to have been so in Greek philosophy after Plato, in modern philosophy after Descartes, and also, I am convinced, in mediaeval Indian philosophy where it is actually known as advaita, non-duality. If such a progression is demonstrable in the history of philosophy, could it not be plausible that monotheism is an outgrowth of dualism in religion? For a theory of dualism as a penultimate stage in the development to monotheism, our other Iranian dualism, Manichaeism, was of less interest than Zoroastrianism. Måni's religion came too late, after monotheism had already established itself and had, therefore, to be treated as a heresy, a devolution away from monotheism. Heresy, of course, is what the church had always called Manichaeism, and at the turn of the century Manichaeism's independent character was not yet appreciated; only its opponents' views were then known as the principal Manichaean texts had not yet been discovered. In contrast with this evolutionary view, from many gods to two to one, we may consider an alternative hypothesis concerning the origin and, therefore, the meaning of dualism. This would be that the progression is from many to one and only thereafter to two. It does not seem logically necessary to think of two before thinking of one, nor psychologically necessary. A person does not look at the stars in the sky, pick out two and then focus on one. Languages regularly distinguish between singular and plural, but special noun inflections for the dual, where they appear, occur largely for parts of the body such as hands and eyes or other items commonly encountered in pairs. From many items to one by way of a special focus on two is simply not the pattern.8 But apart from these logical speculations there is a compelling reason to think that monotheism comes before dualism in the history of religious thought. That reason is the problem of evil. We know the problem of evil: if God is good and God is all powerful, how can — 62 —

he allow evil to exist? It is one of the classic problems of the philosophy of religion, and all the attempts at its resolution seek to modify one or more of the three terms of the problem: either God isn't fully good, or God isn't fully powerful or evil doesn't really exist. And in the long run anyone who has been brought up a monotheist feels a bit cheated or mystified by such solutions since in his experience God is good, and God is powerful, and still evil does exist. The stage is set; enter dualism, which removes the problem of evil. It preserves the utter goodness of God by recognizing alongside him a devil to whom then goes the responsibility for evil. That evil should have an independent force certainly seems psychologically plausible. Even in our monotheistic culture we still speak of the demonic out of more than mere literary convention. Only in a thoroughgoing monotheism is the problem of evil really a problem; evil is simply not a problem for a system which has a plurality of supernatural forces. It is, therefore, out of frustration with monotheism that dualism arises. This thesis, that dualism is subsequent to monotheism because at bottom it is a solution to monotheism's problem of evil, was first stated, so far as I know, by Friedrich Spiegel in 1873? It has been picked up afresh by Iranists in the last twenty years: W.B. Henning in 1951, and more recently R.C. Zaehner and Jacques Duchesne-Guillemin.t ° What does this do for the place of Zoroastrianism in world religious history? It makes of Zoroaster the first rebel against monotheism and perhaps the first philosopher of religion. Henning puts it this way: Zoroaster's view of man . .. was not reached by nebulous feeling or by the dreams that may come to one in a drugged stupor; it can have been reached only by thinking, and I should say by very clear thinking.... Zoroaster's answer, that the world had been created by a good god and an evil spirit, of equal power, who set out to spoil the good work, is a complete answer: it is a logical answer, more satisfying to the thinking mind than the one given by the author of the Book of Job, who withdrew to the claim that it did not behove man to inquire into the ways of Omnipotence.' t

To review the two options for evolutionary theory that we have to this point: either dualism comes before monotheism and leads to it, or dualism comes after monotheism as a reaction against it. It is now appropriate to turn to the historical data to see whether we can really endorse either of these evolutionary views. To me it is inescapable that each rests on an interpretation of Zoroaster's own teaching. To find dualism later in the tradition, as manifestly one can, is not sufficient, for these theories are theories of origins. It is his religious consciousness and his religious contribution for which we must provide historical documentation if either overall thesis is to be defended. We are invited either to see the great Iranian prophet as one who distilled monotheism out of dualism or else to view him as one who, having tried monotheism, was forced into the dualist solution of the problem of evil. Do we know enough to say either of these things? It is no secret that the historical evidence on which we would like to draw is — 63 —

scanty, fragmented and often ambiguous. Specialists in the ancient Iranian field will be aware that in the space we have available I can only begin to indicate the nature of such complexity. Let me enumerate a few of the problem areas for the historian. First, there is the question of the character and dating of the sources. The Avestan scriptures are our logical source document for the content of the Zoroastrian religion under the Achaemenids, but according to the inventory of the contents of the Avesta furnished in the Sasanid Pahlavi source, the Denkart, only a quarter of the Avesta survives. What did survive the fall of the Achaemenid empire in the time of Alexander may very well have been subjected to editorial activity as late as the time of the early Sasanids five centuries later when Zoroastrianism was revived as the national religion. Now, on the whole, the Avesta is neither explicitly dualistic nor explicitly monotheistic. Its hymns invoke other deities besides Ahura Mazda, representatives of the pantheon of the ancient Indo-Iranians known to us also from the Vedas in India. Quite clearly, the worship of gods other than Ahura Mazda preceded Zoroaster in Iran. And it continued after him as well, as we know, for example, from the invocation of Mithra by some of the later Achaemenid kings in their inscriptions, as well as, of course, from the role of Mithra in Parthian times. Next, we look within the Avestan sources for the thought of the prophet Zoroaster himself. Here tradition isolates for us a certain nucleus or kernel of hymnic material, the Gåthås (which form part of the Yasna section of the Avesta), and on grounds both of linguistic dialect and of theological content their distinctiveness is confirmed. These are the hymns of Zoroaster, and they are our best evidence for him. Legendary biographies give details of his life that are at best questionable; at least the Gåthås demonstrate his chief religious concerns. It is clear that in these poems Zoroaster's devotion is directed toward the Wise Lord, Ahura Mazda, and the Gåthås give no evidence of any role for Mithra or the rest of the pantheon in his piety. When one uses the Gåthås as evidence, the argument for Zoroaster as a monotheist is an argument from silence; Zoroaster does not set about to argue against the existence of divine beings other than Ahura Mazda; he simply doesn't invoke them. And the thoroughness of Zoroaster's monotheism is further called into question by the reference to a number of qualities—good mind, dominion, righteousness, and the like—through the aid of which the prophet expects Ahura Mazda to work his divine will. These are personified almost to the point of an independent existence, and in subsequent Zoroastrian theology they do, of course, become a group of angelic beings, the Amata Spentas, or Holy Immortals. Traditional orthodoxy has tended to take these divine beings as attributes or manifestations of the Wise Lord, thus maintaining the unity of Ahura Mazda. If they do pose a problem for the purity of Zoroastrian monotheism, they do so for its elaboration in the tradition more than they do for the thought of Zoroaster himself. The case can be made then, if the Gåthås are the evidence, and if one wants to make it, that Zoroastrian tradition may have mingled Zoroaster's thought with the pre-existing Iranian polytheism or with subsequent elaboration of divine or demonic beings. — 64 —

What, then, is the textual evidence for Zoroaster's being a dualist? Here the standard text is his poem known as the 'Gdthå of the Choice,' Yasna 30. The key passage runs: And when these two spirits came together, they created in the beginning Life and Not-life, and agreed that at the end the worst existence should fall to the followers of the Lie, But the Best Mind to the followers of Truth. Of these two spirits the Deceitful One [dragvant] chose to do what is most evil, The Holiest Spirit, who is clad in the stone-hard sky, chose Truth, as did all who by choice seek to please Ahura Mazda by righteous deeds.12

In this passage the holy spirit and the evil spirit are together credited with creating the world: one with creating life and the other with non-life. But how are these two spirits related to the Wise Lord, Ahura Mazda? Any answer to the question of whether Zoroaster was a dualist will center on an evaluation of the role of the two spirits mentioned in Yasna 30. One alternative is to interpret Ahura Mazda as identified with the holy spirit. There is some warrant for this within the Gc7thcis, for in Yasna 47, for example, Ahura Mazda is portrayed as working through the holy spirit and comes close to being identified with him. In this case we have a dualism in which Ahura Mazda's powers are decidedly limited by an independent evil force. In general, the presumption is that the good will triumph if man does his part, but the game is not over until the last play has been made. That an even combat between Ahura Mazda and the evil spirit was one way in which this text would be read, we can infer, for example, from the Sasanid Zoroastrian cosmological text, the Bundahi. n: Then Ohrmazd, in his omniscience, knew that if he did not fix a time for battle against him, Ahriman could do unto his creation even as he had threatened; and the struggle and the mixture would be everlasting, and Ahriman could settle in the mixed state of creation and take it to himself.... And Ohrmazd said to the Evil Spirit, "Fix a time so that by this pact we may extend the battle for nine thousand years." For he knew that if a time were fixed in this wise, the Evil Spirit would be made powerless. Then the Evil Spirit, not seeing the end, agreed to that treaty, just as two men who fight a duel fix a time limit, "Let us on such a day do battle until night falls."t 3

In such terms, the conflict is a conflict of equals. The struggle is between God and the Devil. This interpretation preserves the goodness of God and denies his ultimate power (even if it credits God with the knowledge that he can in fact win). The alternative in interpreting the relation of the two spirits of Yasna 30 is to make both good and evil subject to divine purpose. God is the parent of both spirits, one can say, in a way such that he is responsible for the evil as well as the good, however fond may be God's hope, and man's hope, that the good will win. — 65 —

To make God responsible in that way is to credit him with all power but to deny him goodness. Now this form of alternative was also advocated in ancient Iran with a parent figure from whom the good and the evil spirit are descended. This was the interpretation of the tradition know as Zurvanism, which was a principal intellectual contender during the Sasanid era, though from mention of the name Zurvän in Hellenistic sources, its roots may be considerably earlier. Zurvån is the figure of infinite or primeval Time, postulated as the parent of Ohrmazd and Ahriman, the good and evil spirits. By being equated with the good spirit, Ohrmazd can retain the ethical role the Avesta gives him; he is spared the function of creating evil, and that function can be ascribed to the more distant parent Zurvån. Which interpretation is correct? Orthodoxy and heresy are really retrospective judgments made by posterity. In the Sasanid era the dualistic interpretation of the Bundahin became orthodoxy, and Zoroastrianism in effect became a dualism. But it is equally possible to interpret Yasna 30 in accord with the spirit of Zurvanism, subordinating the struggle to divine power. From the point of view of our historical inquiry, therefore, we cannot trust Sasanid theologians to tell us whether Zoroaster was a dualist. They can tell us what Sasanid theologians thought, but as for what Zoroaster thought, we are thrown back on our own interpretation of the older data. We seem to have reached an impasse. I have attempted to show that Zoroaster's words can be used to support either a God-and-Devil dualism or a system in which a divine parent lets a pair of spirits fight it out under his control, and in fact, Zoroaster's words have been used both ways. We are now blocked from answering the question of whether Zoroaster was a monotheist or a dualist, an answer which would have been so useful to the theories of the evolution of religion with which we began. Is there any way to break this impasse? What I want to propose as a way out is an attack on the question itself. To me it seems that we are, like all users of ancient scriptures, trying to make old texts answer newer questions. We are in danger of reading the G~rthiis as a philosophical treatise, rather than as the prayers or hymns which they are. In a hymn the worshipper usually commits himself to the bounty and goodness of God, rather than challenging the implications of doctrine. I do not think the religion of Zoroaster was either a thoroughgoing, thought-out monotheism or a systematized dualism. The religion of Zoroaster has a strong moral preaching, but it is expressed in terms closer to myth than to philosophy, just as, let us say, the words of the biblical prophet Hosea were. Philosophy had not come to Iran yet; when it did develop in Iran, it asked the kind of speculative questions which we can see in the Pahlavi books of the Sasanid era and later. In the world's major religions one can observe in several cases such a transition from mythology to philosophy—one in which, while mythological materials remain in use at face value in worship and popular piety, new speculative questions come to be raised. Religious philosophy does not start with a clean slate; it takes the existing repertory of narrative and imagery and interprets that material in the light of logical or other critical considerations. In the Iranian case, as a well-developed instance of religious philosophy, we have the iinth-century Pahlavi apologetic work — 66 —

gkand Gumanfk Vicar, whose author criticizes the other religions of his age—Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Manichaeism—for the logical inconsistency of their narrative details. (Of the virgin birth of Jesus he says: `The religion is founded on a girl's testimony as to how she got pregnant; how preposterous.' 5 ) The Sxkand has read other traditions' narrative in the manner of a fundamentalist while allegorizing its own in the manner of a liberal. It is wrong to see Zoroaster as a dualist if that means the next-to-last step on an evolutionary road to monotheism, I contend. The Gtithas, which are our only first-hand evidence, are not a logically clear, unmistakable, discursive portrayal of the ultimacy of the evil principle as co-ordinate with the good. It is also wrong to see Zoroaster as a dualist if that means dualism is an evolutionary sequel to monotheism. For to hold that Zoroaster rebelled against monotheism, as Henning held, is to imply that he had first tried the speculative possibilities of a monotheistic system and found it wanting. I see no evidence that the Gallas are explicitly conscious of monotheism. One can argue from silence, in that Zoroaster omits mention of the rest of the ancient Iranian pantheon. But there are enough personified entities and spirits in the Grthas to suggest that the terms of reference are still a universe populated with a plurality of divine entities. We have, then, dismissed two possibly stimulating, but nonetheless simplistic, views of the evolution of religion, and found that the Iranian evidence does not fit them as neatly as it might. Zoroaster himself was, in my view, neither a monotheist nor a dualist. The tradition which reveres him has at different times laid each of these interpretations on him. The Bombay Parsees, indeed, embarrassed by the charge of dualism made by Westerners, have in modern times emphasized the monotheistic tendencies in their ancient faith. But in dismissing some evolutionary theories of religion, I do not argue against all developmental theories in principle. I wish, in fact, to stress the importance of seeing religious traditions—and that includes the pre-Islamic Iranian religious heritage—in developmental terms. The great prophet of ancient Iran stands admittedly at an early stage in a continuum which I would want to trace from mythology to philosophy. To explore the ramifications of that developmental view in the world's religions is another story, for another occasion.

Notes 1. See R.M. Savory, `Iran: A 2,500-Year Historical and Cultural Tradition,' in the present volume. 2. T. Hyde, Historia religionis veterum Persarum (Oxford 1700), p. 164. 3. C. Wolff, Paychologia rationalis (Frankfurt 1732), §39, p. 26. 4. See, for example, E.B. Tylor, Primitive Culture (2 vols.; London 1871), 11, 402, 417. The nineteenth century amassed ethnographic data to fit the scheme of an original polytheism stated as early as 1757 by David Hume in his Natural History of Religion. 5. Writers on ancient Near Eastern religion have tended to portray the historical differentiation of Hebrew monotheism from henotheism (an acceptance of the existence of other gods for other peoples) and from monolatry (an ignorance, rather than an explicit denial, of others' gods). See, for example, T.J. Meek, Hebrew Origins (rev. ed.; New York

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6. 7. 8.

9. 10. 11.

12. 13. 14.

15.

1950), pp. 205-06. Philosophers discussing monotheism have been more concerned to differentiate it from such positions as pantheism in its implications for the reality of the physical world as well as of other possible divine realities. See, for example, Josiah Royce, 'Monotheism,' Encyclopaedia of Religion and Ethics, ed. J. Hastings, VIII (1915), 817-21. See, for example, Paul Radin, Monotheism among Primitive Peoples (Arthur Davis Memorial Lecture, Jewish Historical Society, 1924; reprinted Basel, Ethnographical Museum, 1954), p. 6. The word 'monism' appears to have been introduced by Wolff as an alternative to metaphysical dualism in his Psychologia rationalis, §32 p. 24. One sails a treacherous, or at least a complicated, course in arguing from language to thought. My suggestion naively assumes 'many' to be intuitively fully as evident as the concept 'both' in the context of number, a point the discussion of which is beyond the scope of this essay. But in the context of negation, psychological and philosophical arguments have been amassed for the fundamental status of dichotomies in thought. Reviewing the contributions of K. Groos, E. Durkheim, E. Cassirer, and others, Soren S. Jensen writes: 'We may safely conclude, therefore, that a tendency to interpret the world and its phenomena in terms of a fundamental dualism — i.e., some sort of "dualisme de contraires" — is natural to man and practically unavoidable from a realistic point of view.' Dualism and Demonology (Copenhagen 1966), p. 23. F. Von Spiegel, Eriinische Altertumskunde (3 vols.; Leipzig 1871-1878), II, p. vi. W.B. Henning, Zoroaster, Politician or Witch Doctor? (London 1951), p. 46; R.C. Zaehner, The Teachings of the Magi (London 1956), pp. 53-59; J. Duchesne-Guillemin, The Western Response to Zoroaster (Oxford 1958), p. 1. Henning, Zoroaster, p.46. Yasna 30:3-5, trans. G. Widengren, 'The Principle of Evil in the Eastern Religions,' Evil, ed. Curatorium of the C.G. Jung Institute, Zürich (Evanston, Ill. 1967), pp. 34-35. Bundahin 1:12-13, trans. R.C. Zaehner in Zurvan, a Zoroastrian Dilemma (Oxford 1955), p. 314, slightly altered by Widengren, Evil, p. 32. I claim no novelty whatever for an emphasis on the emergence of critical philosophy in the ancient world and on its consequences for the formulation of traditional religious affirmations. For examples of presentations involving one or another aspect of this emergence see F.M. Cornford, From Religion to Philosophy, a Study in the Origins of Western Speculation (London 1912), and H.A. Wolfson, Religious Philosophy (Cambridge, Mass. 1959). Even if limited to its definitional aspects, the subject is vast. gkand-Gumanik Vicar, 15:4-17.

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A READER'S GUIDE TO DUALISM For an introduction to the subject of Zoroastrianism and the problems of reconstructing its history, a good statement is Jacques Duchesne-Guillemin, `The Religion of Ancient Iran,' in C. Jouco Bleeker and G. Widengren, (eds.), Historia Religionum, Handbook for the History of Religions (Leiden 1969), I, 323-76. Also useful are R.C. Zaehner's brief summary `Zoroastrianism,' in his Concise Encyclopaedia of Living Faiths (London 1959), pp. 209-22, and his book The Dawn and Twilight of Zoroastrianism (London 1961). Readers of French may wish to begin with Jacques Duchesne-Guillemin, La religion de 1'Iran ancien (`Mana,' Introduction å l'histoire des religions, 1:3; Paris 1962). Studies on Iranian dualism by these same two writers include Jacques Duchesne-Guillemin, Ormazd et Ahriman, l'aventure dualiste dans l'antiquite (Paris 1953), and R.C. Zaehner, Zurvan, a Zoroastrian Dilemma (Oxford 1955). For the comparison of various ancient dualisms see Simone Petrement, Le dualisme dans 1 histoire de la philosophic et des religions (Paris 1946) and her longer study Le dualisme chez Platon, les Gnostiques et les Manic/teen, (Paris 1947). Petrement's views and those of Karl Groos, Der Aufbau der Systeme, eine formale Einführung in die Philosophie (Leipzig 1924), constitute the point of departure for an important introductory chapter, `On Some Aspects of the General Theory of Metaphysical and Religious Dualism,' in Søren Skovgaard Jensen,

Dualism and Demonology, the Function of Demonology in Pythagorean and Platonic Thought (Copenhagen 1966), pp. 19-50. Ethnographic material involving the conflict of good and evil spirits from various culture areas has been assembled by Ugo Bianchi, Il dualismo religioso, sagglo storico ed etnologico (Rome 1958), and also informs his article `Le dualisme en histoire des religions,' Revue de l'Histoire des Religions, CLIX (1961), 1-46. Northern European material has recently been discussed in detail, with some mention of Iran by comparison, by Hannjost Lixfeld, Gott and Teufel als Weltschöpfer (`Motive, Freiburger Folkloristische Forschungen,' Vol. II; Munich 1971). A quite different ethnological context for the term `dualism' is the structure of tribal societies. To cite only a few studies in the area: Josef Haekel, Die Dualsysteme in Afrika,' Anthropos, XLV (1950), 13-24; A.E. Jensen, Dual-Systeme in Nordost-Afrika,' Anthropos XLVIII (1953), 737-59; Jean Guiart, `Dualisme et structure du contröle social en pays Canada, Nouvelle-Caledonie,' L'Homme, II, 2 (1962), pp. 49-79; and Claude Levi-Strauss, `Les organisations dualistes existent-elles? ' Bijdragen tot de Taal—, Land— en Volkenkunde, CXII (1956), 99-128, with discussion by Ina E. Slamet-Velsink, `Les organisations dualistes existent-elles? Het historisch perspectif,' in the same journal, CXIV (1958), 292-305, and David Maybury-Lewis, `The analysis of dual organizations, a methodological critique,' CXVI (1960), 17-44. Polarities and dualities in the structure of tribal societies and in various — 69 —

cosmogonic myths are recounted and contrasted by Mircea Eliade, `Prolegomenon to Religious Dualism: Dyads and Polarities,' in his book The Quest: History and Meaning in Religion (Chicago 1969), pp. 127-75. This ambitious essay, which offers some beginnings of a taxonomic analysis, also attempts to place the topic in the context of the history of ethnological theory. For the subject of monotheism and theories of its development, a good starting point is Raffaele Pettazzoni, `The Formation of Monotheism,' in his Essays on the History of Religions (`Studies in the History of Religions,' Supplements to Numen, Vol. I; Leiden 1954), pp. 1-10. The French original, 'La formation du monotheisme,' appeared in Revue de l'Universite de Bruxelles (March-April 1950). On reactions to Cartesian dualism in modern philosophy, a classic is Arthur 0. Lovejoy, The Revolt against Dualism, an Inquiry Concerning the Existence of Ideas (2nd ed.; `Paul Cams Lectures,' series 2; La Salle, Ill. 1960).

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THE TRIBES OF IRAN: REFLECTIONS ON THEIR PAST AND FUTURE PHILIP C. SALZMAN* By defining this presentation as a set of reflections, I have given myself licence to look here and there among the historical and sociological data about the tribes in Iran rather than forcing myself to present a systematic account, to explore viewpoints from unusual and perhaps contorted stances rather than placing my intellectual feet solidly upon our well-established scholarly foundations, and to conjecture (suggestively, if possible), about arcane tribal matters while leaving the necessary documentation and substantiation (or refutation) to some later time or some more diligent scholar. I would justify this approach on two counts: As a social anthropologist, 1 have done research which has given me firsthand knowledge of the Sarhad of Iranian Baluchistan in the latter part of the 1960's,' but which leaves a substantial portion of the 2,500 years that we are celebrating uncovered, not to mention the fact that there is more to Iran than Baluchistån. Thus, I have to plead ignorance, and say that I do not control the overall data well enough to present a systematic account. On the other hand, I shall try to make a virtue of necessity, by saying that the untutored, through being uninhibited, is sometimes creative. I often feel that our historical accounts do not give a fair shake to the tribes. There are several reasons for this. First, tribesmen do not usually leave written records or write history (although there are a few important exceptions). We thus have to depend upon the documents of sedentaries, usually urban sedentaries. Furthermore, we ourselves are sedentaries and depend upon and care about the styles and products of sedentary life. Both the historical record and our proclivities bias us against the tribesmen. Secondly, we usually emphasize the political and focus upon the cataclysmic rather than upon the social and the usual. Would we not get a rather different picture if we were to study the social history of everyday tribal life rather than the political history of empire building and empire destruction? Thirdly, by taking Persian culture and society as our frame of reference, we bias our response to many of the tribal peoples because they are intruding foreigners with different tongues and different customs. I do not mean to suggest here that our accounts are purposely slanted or even that they are wrong. It is simply that other perspectives can be taken which will perhaps give a somewhat different tone to our understandings. The term `tribe' is used here as a shorthand for a number of features which are exhibited by social groupings in Baluchistan to a greater or lesser degree: tribal social organization, pastoralism and nomadism .3 What are these features and what are their implications? Tribal social organization is a pattern of social relations that is, generally speaking, egalitarian and decentralized.4 Local groups that function more or less independently are tied together by a symbolic idiom, usually based *Department of Anthropology, McGill University, Montreal, Quebec, Canada.

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upon concepts of kinship, which provides justification for collective enterprise under extraordinary circumstances. From this point of view, tribal organization incorporates values of independence and autonomy, and is thus not so much an inferior and more primitive version of more `advanced' centrally organized and hierarchical systems of social organization as rather a different type altogether. Tribal social organization is intimately related to ecological adaptation. Pastoralism as an economic enterprise is usually territorially extensive but not labor intensive, which means that pastoralists need lots of space, preferably with pasture and water, but do not work terribly hard (although they do have to know what they are doing and exercise good judgment based upon sound knowledge). They produce animal products useful to themselves and to sedentaries as well. In the course of their pastoralism they are usually nomadic, that is, they move about with their animals as they move their animals to fill the animals' needs. The arrangements to do this also allow them to move to scattered sedentary resources such as the grain fields, palm groves and wild resources that supplement their pastoralism.s The tribesmen not only need autonomy and independence to engage in these adaptational patterns, but these patterns, given pre-industrial transportation and communication, guarantee the tribesmen's autonomy and independence. The reasons for this are simple: individuals with mobile resources and mobile establishments do not make docile subjects, for they can easily rebel through flight. Furthermore, such mobility is conducive to military manoeuvre, so that the technology of flight supports the alternative strategy of fight, if such should be necessary. Thus, tribal leaders tread lightly lest they become leaders without followers. So it is with the Lurs, the northern Balüch and the Turcomans of Iran. This relationship between egalitarian tribal organization and pastoral nomadism is supported by cases from so-called tribal areas, such as Kurdistan and southern Bahichistån,6 where the class stratification and political hierarchy rested upon intensive agricultural enterprise. These tribally-based, quasi-feudal social systems depended upon hierarchical control of agricultural resources and the basic means of production—a control that is not possible in the nomadic pastoral context. But what about the great Ilkhans of the Zagros tribes? Does not the existence of hierarchical authority structures here give the lie to the egalitarianism of nomads? In fact, power was more limited than it would seem to be upon first glance, for the segmentary dynamics of fission and fusion continued to underlie the pyramidal structure. And the actual power that did reside in the higher echelons was heavily dependent upon the control of sedentary resources such as peasant agriculture and markets. In short, the nomadic tribesmen of Iran were independent citizens of their egalitarian, decentralized societies, their economic welfare and social relationships dependent upon their own initiative and abilities. How did this type of sociocultural system manifest itself in the personality structure of individuals? Our data on this point come from elsewhere,' but the conclusions are, I believe, applicable to the tribesmen of Iran. In contrast to sedentary agriculturalists, the pastoral nomads tend to: — 72 —

1. display a more open emotionality and to be generally freer in the expression of affect, whether positive or negative; 2. be given more to direct action in interpersonal relationships and less to deviousness and indirection; 3. be more independent-minded in their behaviour; 4. display more social cohesiveness despite their greater independence of action; 5. have stronger and more sharply defined social values, including (a) independence, (b) self- control and (c) bravery .8 Once again, the point is that the tribesmen are not inferior to sedentaries, rude primitives without social consciousness or cultural values. Rather, they are people living a different kind of life, following their own culturally-defined destiny. Perhaps the tribes would be of less concern had they lived in isolation, separated from other peoples with other ways of life and other values and goals, and free to carry on outside the broader and more varied socio-cultural context. In other places and at other times, such was the case. But in Iran, the tribesmen were part of a complex society, usually to the detriment of some sector of that society. The tribesmen themselves were dissidents, ydghis, rebelling against any attempt to incorporate them into a wider social order since such order meant for them a loss of independence and initiative. I think that we often compare, perhaps unconsciously, the tribesman with the cultivated urbanite. But this is inappropriate, for the actual alternative to tribal life was peasant life. The tribesmen knew this, and their determination to resist encapsulation, pacification and sedentarization was a rejection of peasantization and of the life style and life chances of the peasantry. What underlay such vehement response? In the political history of the cataclysmic and the cultural history of the spectacular upon which we often focus, as opposed to the social history of everyday life that we examine less frequently, peasants are given less attention than their numbers and contributions warrant. Why? Because the peasantry is the dull foundation rather than the elegant superstructure or sparkling facade of civilization. But they are always there, carrying the burden, paying the bill. Every pre-industrial state and pre-industrial civilization- is a small, finely-tooled structure of politicocultural specialists resting upon an undifferentiated mass of primary producers veined by slender channels of administration .9 Iran was no different;' ° it could not have been. If there were to be civilization, it had to be paid for; and the peasants paid with their meagre produce, which, when extracted from them, became surplus to support the politico-cultural specialists and their creation of products that we call civilization. There were some benefits for the peasants, of course: great literature passed along orally, opportunities for the very gifted few and sometimes peace from outside depredations. But the daily costs were great: rapaciousness of landowners and tax collectors, conscription into armies to fight strangers in foreign lands for obscure reasons, loss of resources and products, lack of rights to initiate and choose, and legal insecurity. — 73 —

This being the situation of the peasant, is it surprising that the tribesman preferred to opt out? The peasant belonged to the state; the tribesman was his own man. Perhaps from some more Olympian view of human life and human history, we might agree that the literary Great Tradition, the arts, and the civilized and refined ways of life are the best of human manifestations, and that ultimately the costs must be considered acceptable. Indeed, we are celebrating the contributions of one of the world's great civilizations. But if you had to choose, would you rather be a peasant and pay the costs or be the tribesman living his self-determined life? There was of course another alternative to being dragged into the subterranean levels of a civilization-supporting state: to sweep onto the pinnacle of the state. If tribesmen appreciated the problems of being peasants, they also appreciated the advantages of being rulers. They might not have been skilled enough to produce civilization, but they were subtle enough to consume its products. The myriad of Iranian dynasties that were tribally based — up to and including the Qåjårs — are ample testimony of the tribesman's willingness to be won over by civilization, on his terms.' My intention is not to write an apology for the tribes, to suggest that the tribesmen were the real `good guys' in Iranian history. Indeed, they were often very, very bad! For example, having seen the disagreeable situation of the peasant, did they manifest sympathy for those worse off than they? Hardly. The peasants were more often seen as a resource to be exploited through predatory raiding, as were caravans and cities. There is a Persian proverb which affirms that Isfahan will be destroyed by water, Yazd by sand and Kirmån by horsehooves — not wild horse herds, of course, but fierce Arab, Turkish, Mongol, or Balüch raiding hooves. The tribesman with his nomadic pastoralism was not only a grass roots democrat, but a militaristic hard hat with an eye for spoils and a pride in military toils. He raided to eat when his herds failed him; he raided to eat well; he raided to keep in practice; he raided because he and his fellows liked to raid. From the civilized point of view, he was not only a drop-out, but a siphon-off, and in the hardest of times, a take-over. The Gatling gun and applied technology have changed things: the tribesmen are effectively encapsulated by the state. But also, al-hamd li-allah, modern technology can carry an increasing share of the burden of supporting civilization, with the benefits going in greater and greater amounts to the masses, peasants and tribesmen alike. If the tribesmen have lost their independence, they have at least not gained the burdens of the pre-industrial state. What is to be done about these old dissidents from Iranian civilization, these several millions of Turcomans, Balüch, Arabs, Turks, Lurs, Kurds? They have now been incorporated, but is it necessary to remold them? If we look back to their values, their style of life, we see that there is something to preserve. I have argued in — 74 —

some detail elsewhere,' 2 and I shall not recapitulate here, that we should view the tribes according to present circumstances and that old antagonisms should not be allowed to obscure current values. The welfare of all Iranians, tribesmen included, is one such value. Their nomadic pastoralism, now benign since military fangs have mostly been pulled, still supports them in a respectable style and contains the seeds of an animal husbandry industry that could benefit the larger whole. The perspectives and goals suggested by that dissident culture can be of greater benefit when they are incorporated into civilization than when they remain outside of and in opposition to it. To be civilized means to refine and perfect achievements and values, but also to draw vitality from untamed sources and direct it for the greater good. Notes 1. P.C. Salzman, 'Movement and Resource Extraction Among Pastoral Nomads: The Case of the Shah Nawazi Baluch,' Anthropological Quarterly, XLIV, 3 (1971), 185-97. 'Adaptation and Political Organization in Iranian Baluchistan,' Ethnology, X, 4 (1971), 433-44. 'Adaptation and Change Among the Yarahmadzai Baluch,' (Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University of Chicago, 1972). 2. For the Orkhon Inscriptions and the Secret History of the Mongols, see John'M. Smith, Turanian Nomadism and Iranian Politics, delivered at the Conference on the Structure of Power in Islamic Iran, held at U.C.L.A., Near Eastern Center, June 26-28, 1969. For materials from the Bakhtiyari, see Gene R. Garthwaite, The Bakhtiyilri Ilkhan: An Historical View, delivered at the American Anthropological Association Annual Meeting, New York, 1971. 3. For a more precise discussion, see my paper, 'National Integration of the Tribes in Modern Iran,' The Middle East Journal, XXV, 3 (1971), 325-36. 4. E. Service, Primitive Social Organization (New York 1962); M. Sahlins, Tribesmen (Englewood Cliffs, N.J. 1968). 5. Salzman, Anthropological Quarterly, XLIV, 3. 6. B. Spooner. 'Politics. Kinship and Ecology in Southeast Persia,' Ethnology, VIII, 2 (1969), 139-52; Salzman, Ethnology, X, 4. 7. W. Goldschmidt, 'Independence as an Element in Pastoral Social Systems,' Anthropological Quarterly, XLIV, 3 (1971), 132-42. 8. Ibid., pp. 132-33. 9. J.M. Potter, et al. (eds.), Peasant Society: a Reader (Boston 1967). 10. A.K.S. Lambton, Landlord and Peasant in Persia (London/New York 1953). 11. Smith, Turanian Nomadism; A.K.S. Lambton, 'Ilat,' Encyclopaedia of Islam, New Edition. 12. Salzman, The Middle East Journal, XXV, 3.

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IRAN A 2,500-YEAR HISTORICAL AND CULTURAL TRADITION ROGER M. SAVORY* In this volume we celebrate the 2,500th anniversary of the founding of the first Persian empire by Cyrus the Great in 550 B.C. We are celebrating this anniversary because the present Shåhanshah of Iran sees himself as being, in a very real sense, the heir of Cyrus the Great and the inheritor of his empire. No one, I think, who was present at the dignified and moving ceremony at the tomb of Cyrus, could doubt this for one moment. I think we should be clear at the outset exactly what it is we are celebrating. We are not celebrating 2,500 years of unbroken empire, still less 2,500 years of monarchy, with king following king in unbroken dynastic succession. The first Persian empire, known as the Achaemenid empire, which stretched from the Indus River in the east to the frontiers of Greece in the west, was overthrown by Alexander the Great in 330 B.C. Alexander died shortly afterwards, and for five hundred years Persia was ruled, rust by his successors, the Seleucids, and then by the Parthians, a nomadic people of Aryan stock who never succeeded in outgrowing their nomad origins, and whose culture was an amalgam of Iranian and Hellenistic elements. However, after the Parthians had extended their dominion over most of the territories which had formerly been part of the Achaemenid empire, they saw themselves as the political heirs of the Achaemenids and adopted the Persian title `king of kings.' The second Persian empire, the Sasanid, was founded in 226 A.D. and lasted for over four hundred years until the conquest of Iran by the Arabs in the seventh century AD. The Sasanid monarchs traced their lineage to the Achaemenid dynasty. After the Arab conquest, for nearly nine hundred years Iran had no independent existence and was little more than a geographical abstraction, either forming part of a larger unit such as the Caliphate, or broken up into a number of smaller units. During this period of nearly nine centuries, Iran was subject to the rule of a succession of foreign rulers — Arabs, Turks, Mongols, and Tatars. In 1501 the Safavid dynasty re-established in Iran the ancient Persian monarchy in all its kingly glory and royal splendour for the first time since the overthrow of the Sasanid dynasty in the seventh century. But even in the last four and a half centuries, the course of monarchy has not run smoothly; there was the brief interregnum of the Afghan usurpers, and the death of Nådir Shah in 1747 was followed by nearly half a century of civil war before the Qajars definitively established themselves on the throne in 1795 — only to be overthrown in their turn by the father of the present Shah, who seized power by coup d'état in 1921 and founded the reigning Pahlavi dynasty in 1925. I hope that this extremely brief synopsis of historical facts is sufficient to convince you that we are not celebrating a 2,500-year continuum of empire, or even of monarchy. What we are celebrating, I suggest, is a 2,500-year-old continuing *Department of Islamic Studies, University of Toronto, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. — 77 —

historical and cultural tradition in which the institution of the monarchy has played an important, indeed, an essential part: an historical and cultural tradition so strong that not all the political vicissitudes which Iran has experienced and military catastrophes which Iran has suffered — and she has suffered a greater number than most countries of the world — have succeeded in destroying it. The purpose of this paper is to suggest what some of the ingredients of this tradition are and briefly to discuss each of them. Since I have already stated that the institution of the monarchy is an important, if not essential, part of this tradition, it will be logical to begin by a consideration of this institution. `An historical and cultural tradition' perhaps adequately describes many of the elements which go to make up this tradition, but as a description of its monarchical component, it is somewhat jejune; here `mystique' would be a better word, though one should immediately caution against the assumption that what we are dealing with is merely a personality cult of the charismatic type. Rather, we are dealing, to use Professor Inlow's memorable phrase, with `something deep and timeless and gaunt with age.' What we are dealing with is, quite simply, the theory of the Divine Right of Kings as slightly modified by the Persian Constitution of 1906. In the course of the 2,500 years of Persian history, the power of the Persian kings has from time to time rested on other, additional bases, some of which will be referred to in due course. But the original basis of their authority, the only pre-Islamic basis, is the theory of kingly divinity. Many people in our egalitarian age find this an unpalatable theory. The institution of the monarchy, however, lies at the heart of Persian culture and tradition, and an understanding of its role is of fundamental importance to the understanding of Iran, whether past or present. In the age of the common man we have to face the fact that we are dealing with an unusual phenomenon, and an uncommon man. In our times, kingship, it has been said, is `a declining profession,'2 and Professor Inlow has pointed out that, `of the three great imperial rulers of the ancient world to enter the twentieth century — the Emperors of China, the Pharaohs of Egypt, and the Kings of Persia — only the Persian still reigns:3 In order to explain the survival of the Persian monarchy in 1971, therefore, it is not sufficient to say, as people frequently do, `the Shah is an autocrat,' implying that he maintains his position purely by the exercise of despotic power. In the long course of Persian history, as in the history of every other nation in the world, despots have been put down and tyrants overthrown. The continued survival of the monarchy in Iran therefore postulates the continued support for this institution by a majority of the Persian people, and this in turn posits that the institution of the monarchy forms part of an historical and cultural tradition to which the majority of Iranians still subscribe. I stated earlier that the original, pre-Islamic basis of the authority of the Persian kings was kingly divinity. The concept of the Persian king as a priest-king existed from the foundation of the Achaemenid empire by Cyrus. Both Greek and Jewish sources bear witness to this.4 The Sasanid kings, the founders of the second Persian empire regarded themselves as ruling by divine right because they were the — 78 —

inheritors of the 'kingly glory' or 'royal splendour' (in Old Persian: hvarnah; in Avestan: khvarenah; and hence, through a cognate form khvarrah, to the modern Persian farr).5 The possession of this 'kingly glory' marked the sacred character of their kingship. Unequivocal confirmation of the fact that the present Shah is regarded as inheriting the 'kingly glory' (farr), is contained in the special hymn composed for the 2,500th Anniversary Celebrations. This hymn contains the words:

'Our everlasting happiness and prosperity derive from your kingly glory, 0 King! ' In addition, in the case of both Cyrus, the founder of the Achaemenid empire, and of Ardashir, the founder of the Sasanid empire, we have the same motif indicative of the charisma of Persian royalty, namely, the legend of the nurture of the child who is destined to found the dynasty by shepherds or poor people who either do not know, or who conceal the fact, of the child's royal descent.6 With the Arab conquest of Iran and the overthrow of the Sasanid empire in the seventh century, Persia was politically eclipsed for several centuries. This conquest changed the whole course of Persian history. First the egalitarian religion of the conquerors, Islam, superseded the ancient religion of Iran, Zoroastrianism, which had by Sasanid times associated itself with the institution of the monarchy to produce a closely-knit alliance between Church and State. Eventually, the Persians adopted a heterodox form of Islam, Shi'ism, and used it as a weapon against the Arabs. Second, the language of the conquerors, Arabic, for several centuries superseded the Pahlavi, or Middle Persian, language of the Sasanid empire, as the administrative and cultural language of Iran — rather in the same way that Norman French replaced Anglo-Saxon in eleventh-century England. It was not until the fourth century after the hijrah, or the tenth century A.D., that Persian reappeared as a written language, and, when it did, it was written in the Arabic script, and contained a large number of Arabic words which remained permanently absorbed into the language. Third, the more democratic Arab concept of an elective Caliphate (at least in its initial theory) challenged the ancient Persian tradition of an absolute monarchy based on the Divine Right of Kings. The very word for 'king' in Arabic, 'malik,' was repugnant to most, though not all, Arab ears, attuned as they were to the concept of a tribal shaykh, freely elected by the members of the tribe, but entitled to their allegiance only as long as they judged he deserved their respect. After the death of Muhammad, therefore, the Arabs designated their leaders by the term khalifah/Caliph ('successor — [of the Prophet of God]'), or imam, ('leader of the Muslim community'). They were so opposed to the dynastic principle that the Umayyad Caliph, Mu'awiyah, was execrated for introducing this principle into Islam by securing the succession of his son, Yazid. The only dissentient voice in this chorus of universal condemnation was that of the great Muslim thinker Ibn Khaldiin, for whom the transition from a Caliphate based on the religious law of Islam, to a realm in which the Caliph exercised royal authority, was 'natural, and, therefore, necessary.'' Most Arabs however, considered that the term al-malik

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('sovereign'), since it was one of the `Most Beautiful Names' (al-asmå'al-husnå) of God, should properly be used only to describe the perfection of divine power. Under the whole weight of Islamic law and tradition, however, the Persian monarchical tradition remained alive, although for three centuries devoid of any semblance of political reality. Then, during the brief `Iranian intermezzo,' as Minorsky called it, from the middle of the tenth to the middle of eleventh century A.D., during which a Persian dynasty, the Buyids, usurped the political power of the Caliphs, this tradition revealed a glimpse of its continuing vigour when some of the Buyid rulers styled themselves shcihanshåh, `King of Kings' — the khshciyathiya khshciyathiydnåm of the Old Persian inscriptions — even though their rule did not extend over all the Iranian lands. With the arrival of the Saljüq Turks and the reimposition of Islamic orthodoxy in Iran, the Persian monarchical tradition once again went underground, but was kept alive and nourished by other elements of the Iranian historical and cultural tradition of which we shall speak shortly. Both under the Saljüqs and under their successors in Iran, the Mongol Ilkhans, a series of brilliant Persian vazirs tried to civilize their uncultured nomad masters and to mould them into likenesses, however feeble, of Persian kings. Finally, in 1501, the Safavids, as I have already mentioned, revived in all its former glory the ancient Persian tradition of kingship, based on divine right. They succeeded in doing this because they cleverly pulled together several of the other strands which, when plaited together, formed the unbreakable rope of the Iranian historical and cultural tradition. It is now time to see what some of these other strands were. In the first place, there is the ethnic tradition. Now obviously, in a country which has been overrun by so many waves of conquerors of different races — Arabs, Turks (of many different types) and Mongols — the purity of the original Aryan stock has been somewhat diluted over the centuries not to mention the effect of large imports of Armenians, Georgians, Circassians, and the like. Nevertheless, despite all the intermingling that has gone on, an Aryan type is still distinguishable; the `average' (and I emphasize the quotation marks) Iranian does not look like the `average' Turk or the `average' Arab. So, while one cannot agree with the celebrated Nazi minister Dr. Schacht, who visited Iran in 1936 to tell the Persians that the Führer had exempted them from the provisions of the Nuremburg race-laws, because he considered them to be pure Aryans, one cannot agree either with Amin Banåni when he asserts, with reference to the Safavid period, that 'we must discount any ethnic connotation in this "national spirit" which, it is alleged, enabled Persia to withstand powerful enemies to east and to west.'8 The truth is, I think, that in the course of time, foreign invaders who settled in Iran and were subjected to the powerful influences of the Iranian historical and cultural tradition, came to think of themselves as Iranians. In this way there developed a sort of 'Iranismus,' a feeling of common identity which was not based necessarily on blood-relationship, but upon a sense of being different from the peoples of the countries on their borders. Even the gizil-bash, Turcoman tribesmen who constituted the military basis of the power of the Safavid state, although they felt extremely `Turkish' when engaged in some quarrel with a tåjik — that is to say, a — 80 —

Persian official — considered themselves to be 'Iranians' as opposed to the `Turks' of the Ottoman empire, or the 'Turks' of the Özbek empire in Transoxania. One of the terms used in the historical chronicles to describe the Safavid state is dawlat-i gizil-bush, the 'gizil-bash state.' The first and obvious implication of this term, of course, is that the gizil-bash considered themselves to be the people who held the power in the state and who ought, by rights, to have the sole say in the running of it; but I think it also carries the implication that the gizil-brish realized that the dawlat-i gizil-bash, the Safavid state, was an Iranian state, distinct from the empire of the Ottoman Turks, because they, the gizil-bash, although ethnically Turks, considered themselves in this context to be 'Iranians,' loyal to the Safavid royal house and to the tradition of the Persian monarchy. Closely linked with this idea of 'Iranismus,' however one defines it, is the idea of identity based on geography, although the geographical boundaries were based on cultural criteria rather than on political frontiers — the Iran of today is considerably smaller than the Iran of Safavid times, large areas of territory in the northwest and northeast being annexed by the Russians during the nineteenth century, and some territory in the east, including the important city of Herat, being lost to the Afghans. In the course of their long history, Iranians have exercized political power over many areas peripheral to Iran proper; for this 'Greater Iran,' the French coined the convenient term Y7ran exterieur.' But the heartlands of Iran have always been the Iranian plateau, the historic homeland of the Aryan peoples, and it is not accidental that this fact has always been reflected in the name given to this area by the Iranians — aryånizm khshathram, 'land of the Aryans,' in Old Persian; er nshahr in Sasanid times, and in modern times, Irvin-zamin, or Iran. Across the Oxus River, the traditional boundary, lay Türan, the land of the Turanians or Turkish peoples, the traditional enemies of the Iranians. The two were sharply distinguished throughout Persian history, and the epic legends of the wars between Iran and Than enshrined in the Iranian national epic, the Shah-nåmah, were kept alive by the repeated invasion of the Iranian plateau by Turkish and other nomadic peoples from the steppes of Central Asia. Similarly, although Iranians have always been ambivalent about Mesopotamia because in pre-Islamic times it formed for over four centuries an integral part of the Sasanid empire — in fact, one of the Sasanid capital cities, Ctesiphon, was not in Iran at all, but near modern Baghdad — they have always been quite clear that they did not wish to live in the hot, steamy lands around the head of the Persian Gulf, or across the Gulf in Arabia proper; 'the places where the Arabs live are fit only for dogs,' said the great Sasanid king Shipür II.9 Closely associated with the concept of 'Iranismus' (a powerful factor despite the fact that, as we have seen, the original Aryan stock has been much diluted over the centuries), and with the idea of a common identity based on geography (a powerful factor despite the fact that, as we have noted, Iran-zamin has meant different things at different periods of Iran's history), is the sense of possessing a distinctive history. Iran's 2,500-year tradition of monarchy makes it unique in Iranian eyes among the countries of the Middle East; so does its ability over the —81 —

centuries to civilize and assimilate so many waves of foreign invaders; and so does, in more modern times, the fact that Iran, alone of the principal nations of the Middle East, was never a colony of any of the Great Powers. It will by now be apparent that, although each strand of the Iranian historical and cultural tradition so far enumerated is a separate and identifiable element of this tradition, all the strands are closely interwoven and inter-dependent, and derive strength one from the other, or, to change the metaphor, are all interlocking pieces of the total picture of Iranian history and culture. Another element of the total tradition which, again, is readily identifiable as a separate element, but which contributes also to the Iranian's sense of possessing a distinctive history, is the bureaucratic tradition. This is an extremely tough and flexible strand in Iran's historical tradition. From early times, the Aryans were famous for their administrative ability and their legal system — the latter immortalized by the reference in the Book of Daniel to `the law of the Medes and Persians, which altereth not.' After the Arabs conquered Iran in the seventh century, the Caliphs found they could not govern their vast new empire without making use of Persian administrative and financial expertise obtained in the course of centuries of imperial government. Ibn al-Tigtagå, who wrote his book on systems of government in 1302, tells the story as follows: But in A.H. 15/[A.D. 636], in the Caliphate of 'Omar, [the Caliph] saw that the conquests continued one after another, that the treasures of the `Persian kings' had been seized, and that the imports of gold, silver, precious jewels, and splendid clothes followed in succession, and he decided to benefit the Moslems and to divide this wealth among them. But he did not know how to do it nor how to arrange this. There was, in Madinah a Persian marzubån [governor of a frontier province], who, when he saw the perplexity of `Umar, said to him, "Commander of the Faithful, the `Persian kings' had something they called a `register' [divan], in which their total revenue and expenditure were set out with no omissions. The recipients of pay were arranged by grades into which no error crept." 'timer was interested and said, "Describe it to me," and the marzubån described it. 'Umar understood it, organised the [divans] 'registers,' and allocated pay. t

This tradition of Persian bureaucratic expertise continued, and alien dynasty after alien dynasty found itself compelled to rely on the administrative ability of Persian vazirs (ministers), mustawfts (comptrollers of finance) and the whole vast, complex and hierarchichal bureaucratic structure built up by the Persians over the centuries. Since many of these foreign rulers were totally without experience in these matters, administrative manuals were written to guide them, works which were part introductory courses in political science and part distilled worldly wisdom of the kind dear to Persian hearts. The monarch would be advised not only on the art of controlling his armed forces and on the conduct of kingship, but also on such personal matters as marrying a wife and the purchase of houses and estates. Thus arose a whole genre of literary works known by the general title of `Mirrors for Princes,' and this leads me to the next strand in the Iranian historical and cultural tradition which I wish to identify — the literary tradition. This literary tradition is in many ways one of the most important strands in the whole historical and — 82 —

cultural tradition because literature was one of the chief vehicles by which this tradition was transmitted from generation to generation. Closely allied with the literary is the linguistic tradition. The Persian language, which was, of course, the medium by means of which the literary tradition was transmitted, has undergone remarkably little change during the last thousand or more years. Naturally, the vocabulary has not remained constant, and the grammar of classical Persian has been modified, but the Persian of the Shah-n~rmah, completed about 1000 A.D., is far more readily understood by the Trani of today, than is Chaucerian English by the contemporary English-speaker. One finds in the pages of Bayhagi , an eleventh-century Persian historian, or in the great thirteenth-century epic of the mystic Jalål al-Din-i Riimi, innumerable colloquial expressions which are still in use today. Because of this, the Irani feels himself to be in close contact with his literary heritage, which in its turn has transmitted many essential ingredients of the Iranian historical and cultural tradition. The literary tradition itself may be subdivided into two main branches — the national epic and the `Mirrors for Princes' tradition which I have just referred to. Of the immense influence of the Iranian national epic, especially in its grandest form, the Shåh-nåmah or Book of Kings, in keeping alive and transmitting the tradition of the institution of the monarchy, I shall not speak here, since this will form the subject of another paper. I will merely mention that in the sixteenth century the professional reciters of the Shah-nrtmah, or Shah-nåmah-khans, were still so important that they received special mention in one of the principal historical chronicles of the time. Possibly the outstanding work of the `Minors for Princes' genre is the famous Siyåsat- nfmah, `the Book of Government' or `Rules of Conduct for Kings,' written toward the end of the eleventh century by Nizåm al-Mulk, who was for over thirty years the vazir of two successive sultans of the Turkish Saljüq dynasty. These alien monarchs, who came from a line of nomad chiefs from the Kirghiz steppes of Central Asia, were very much in need both of the wisdom of an experienced Persian bureaucrat and his advice on how to govern a large empire of settled peoples and also of the civilizing influence of Persian culture. A large proportion of the anecdotes which Nizåm al-Mulk uses to illustrate his points relate to the Sasanid kings or to the `Iranian intermezzo' under the Buyid rulers. In this way, Nizåm al-Mulk emphasizes the continuity of the Persian bureaucratic tradition, and, incidentally, of the institution of the monarchy. Curiously, he is censured by Sir Hamilton Gibb for doing this: It was the same Niz m al-hulk who reaffirmed this duality (i.e., the functional division between the ruling and religious institutions) by restating in his Siyåsatnåmah the old Persian tradition of monarchy, with its independent ethical standards based on force and opportunism, thus perpetuating the inner disharmony which has always proved to be the principal weakness of Islam as a politico-social organism."

I say `curiously' advisedly, because Sir Hamilton is censuring Nizåm al-Mulk for being true to the Iranian historical and cultural tradition, and the whole history of Islamic Persia demonstrates that, whenever a major conflict occurred between Islam — 83 —

and the Iranian historical and cultural tradition, the latter won. Furthermore, Nizåm al-Mulk was merely being a realist, for by his time the duality of the Caliphate and the Sultanate was an accomplished fact, whatever the more ostrich-like political scientists like al-Måwardi might assert in defiance of reality. Towards the end of the `Abbasid Caliphate, the Caliphs had departed so far from the original theory of this office as to style themselves `the Shadow of God' (till allah), and `successor of God' (khalifat allah),. in place of the original `successor of the Prophet of God' (khalifah rasa' allåh) — a rather significant change! The use of such titles brought the Caliphs within hailing distance — no more than two bows-length,' 2 as it were, of the ancient Iranian theory of the Divine Right of Kings. Along with this theory went the principle, so hated by orthodox theologians and jurists, of the right of the Caliph to designate his successor — a principle which the more realistic jurists managed to accommodate within the system of Islamic jurisprudence. In support of my contention that, if there was a conflict in the soul of a Persian between his loyalty to Islam and his allegiance to the Iranian historical and cultural tradition, the latter was invariably victorious, I will cite only the case of another eminent eleventh-century Persian, the theologian and jurist al-Ghazali — a man so distinguished as a scholar that he was known as /Mat al-Islåra (`The Proof of Islani). Al-Ghazali writes of the theory of kingship in terms which are a clear echo of Sasanid theory, and owe little to Islam although `he seeks to give Qur'anic sanction to his interpretation. "It must be understood," he writes, "that God gave him (the king) kingship and the divine light (farr-i izadT). " '' 3 The use of terminology like this by a man steeped in the traditional learning of Islam, must have been enough to make the pious 'Umar turn in his grave! Reference was made earlier to the fact that, when the Arabs conquered Iran in the seventh century, Zoroastrianism, the ancient religion of Iran, was superseded by the religion of the conquerors, Islam, and that the Persians eventually adopted a heterodox form of Islam and used it as a weapon against the Arabs. It is now time to consider the function of the religious tradition as an important strand in the Iranian historical and cultural tradition. By adopting, and adapting to their own ends, the Shi`i (or heterodox), rather than the Sunni (or orthodox), form of Islam, the Persians forged a political weapon of immense strength, which has served them well throughout their centuries of effort to preserve their historical and cultural tradition and in recent times has constituted an important element in Iranian nationalism; Shi`ism was, in origin, a political movement, the Shi`at `Ali (`Party of `Ali') which supported the claim to the Caliphate of `Ali, the cousin and son-in-law of the Prophet, Muhammad. Shi`ahs believe that `Ali was formally designated by the Prophet as his successor (khalifah), at a ceremony at Ghadir Khumm in the year 10 A.H./632 A.D. Consequently, they regard the first three Caliphs as usurpers, and the ritual cursing of Abii Bakr, `Umar and `Uthman has always been a proper duty of Shi'ahs although the emphasis placed on it was varied from time to time. At the beginning of the Safavid period, when Shi`ism had been declared the official — 84 —

religion of the new state, and people were still in the first flush of religious zeal, particular emphasis was placed on this ritual cursing. A class of Safavid supporters known as tabarrå'iyån (lit: 'those who have pledged themselves body and soul to the Shah') was charged with walking through the streets and bazaars and cursing the three 'orthodox' Caliphs, the enemies of 'Ali and the other Imams, and Sunnis in general. Anyone who did not respond without delay,

('may it (the cursing) be more and not less'), was put to death on the spot.' 4 To this political stem, the Shi'at Ali, the Persians grafted the legend that Zayn al-`flbidin, the son of Husayn the younger son of 'Ali, married the daughter of Yazdigird Ill, the last of the Sasanid kings. In this way, Shi'ism was shifted out of its purely Islamic context and linked with the Iranian historical tradition. When Husayn was killed at Karbala' by the troops of the Umayyad Caliph Yazid, Shi'ism acquired a martyr-figure with a powerful and lasting emotive effect. As Minorsky has put it: 'Even up to our day, Shi'ism, with its overtones and its aroma of opposition, of martyrdom, and of revolt, is matched quite well with the Persian character — a character formed in the course of a long history which is very different from the history of other peoples nearby" — the 'sense of possessing a distinctive history' tradition which I mentioned earlier. It is significant that Wilber should have suggested that the secret to the success of Dr. Musaddiq lay in his appeal as a Husayn-like martyr-figure.' 6 The events connected with the death of Husayn are still commemorated during the month of Muharram by mourningprocessions and the performance of passion plays. As Gustav Thaiss has put it: 'The performance and ritual remembrance of the myth is the result of the desire to express certain sentiments associated with basic problems confronting man as Being and man as Iranian' (my italics).' An extract from a nineteenth-century marsiyah, or threnody on the martyrdom of Husayn, may give some idea, even in translation, of the powerful emotive effect of these performances: What rains down? Blood! Who? The Eye! How? Day and Night! Why? From grief! What grief? The grief of the Monarch of Karbala! What was his name? Husayn! Of whose race? 'All's! Who was his mother? Fatima! Who was his grandsire? Mustafa! How was it with him? He fell a martyr! Where? In the Plain of Måriya! When? On the tenth of Muharram! Secretly? No, in public! Was he slain by night? No, by day! At what time? At noontide! Was his head severed from the throat? No, from the nape of the neck! Was he slain unthirsting? No! Did none give him to drink? They did! Who? Shimr! From what source? From the source of Death! Was he an innocent martyr? Yes! Had he committed any fault? No! What was his work? Guidance! Who was his friend? God! Who wrought this wrong? Yazid! Who is this Yazid? One of the children of Hind! By whom? By bastard origin! Did he himself do this deed? No, he sent a letter! 18

After Karbalä', Shi'ism ceased to be merely a political movement and became a politico-religious movement which rapidly developed its own distinctive theological — 85 —

doctrines and system of religious law. We are concerned here with only one aspect of this development, the one which bears on the institution of the monarchy, namely, the doctrine of the imamate as developed by Shi ahs. To a Sunni, the term `im~rm' meant the leader of the Muslim community, the man chosen by the community to lead the faithful in the congregational prayers at the mosque, or, if the term were used in the sense of Caliph, it meant the man chosen to be the leader of the whole Muslim community, the man whose duty it was to defend the faith and administer justice based on the religious law. To the Shi`ahs, however, the term 'imam' meant 'AG and his eleven successors culminating in the Maltda, the twelfth or Hidden Imam. otherwise called the Lord of the Age, who disappeared from earth in 874 A.D. These Twelve Imams possess, in the Shri view, the pre-eminent prerogatives of being the witness and interpreter of the revelation, and are the sole repositories of all truth and knowledge. They are distinguished by two special characteristics which have no parallel in Sunni Islam: the first is the redemptive nature of the suffering and martyrdom of the Imams, which gives rise to their function of intercession; the second is their quality of sinlessness or infallibility. This latter doctrine was promulgated by Shi`i theologians as early as the tenth century A.D., with the clear purpose of demonstrating the superiority of the Shi`► Imam over the Sunni Caliph. Equally important is the messianic role of the Hidden Imam, whose expected return to earth will herald the Day of Judgment. After the disappearance of the Twelfth Imam from earth, he was represented on earth for a time by a series of vakils, or vice-gerents, but from 940 A.D., the beginning of the period of the `Great Occultation,' his representatives have been the mujtahids, that small band of Sill theologians judged by their fellow-citizens to be pre-eminent in scholarship and piety. In 1501, therefore, when the Safavid kings made Shfism the official religion of their new state and claimed to be themselves the representatives of the Hidden Imam, they not only usurped the prerogatives of the mujtahids, but united with the traditional theory of the Divine Right of Persian kings, another powerful element in the Persian historical and cultural tradition; by so doing, they satisfied the latent nationalist aspirations for which Shi`ism had been a medium of expression for nine centuries and thus reinforced the institution of the monarchy with another basis of power as strong and as absolutist as the original theory of divine right. The Imams are hypostases of God. They direct the destinies of the world, and preserve and guide it. With them, all is salvation; without them, all is perdition. Their ministry, their intercession (tavassul), are indispensable. The religious tradition of Shi`ism, as developed by the Persians, not only gave powerful support to the theory of the Divine Right of Persian kings, but provided a connecting link with the ancient Persian religion — Zoroastrianism. This link is most noticeable in the area of eschatology. As already mentioned, the return to earth of the Hidden Imam will herald the Day of Judgment and the end of the world. Various eschatological signs will mark this: the world will have lost its religious faith and its capacity for justice, and will have become totally secular and irreligious; all copies of the Qur'an will have become blank pages, and the Anti-Christ, al-Dajjäl, will make his appearance. After the reappearance of the —86—

Mandi, there will be a battle between Ijusayn and Yazid, and this will be followed by a final battle between `Ali and the hosts of Satan; `All's forces, after being initially overwhelmed, will be saved by an angelic host, led by Muhammad and armed with spears of light. This bears a strong resemblance to Zoroastrian eschatology, according to which the Last Judgment is to be announced by a Messiah named Saoshyant, after which the forces of evil, led by Ahriman, will be overthrown at Armageddon. The final strand which I wish to identify in the Iranian historical and cultural tradition is what one might call the `pre-Islamic socio-cultural tradition.' Although some features of this pre-Islamic tradition were, after the advent of Islåm, merged and blended with Muslim social and cultural institutions, their pre-Islamic provenance is clear. One example of a pre-Islamic institution which continued to flourish unchanged is the zürkhånah, which is believed to have `originated in a remote period when Iran was occupied by foreigners and the youth of the country trained in secret against the day when they would be able to expel the invaders,i19 Another example is the festival of Naw Rüz, which marks the spring equinox and is the Iranian national festival par excellence. The fact that Iranians have celebrated the arrival of spring since Achaemenid times is `evidenced by the long rows of sculptured reliefs at Persepolis showing groups of people from every part of the mighty Achaemenid empire bringing their tribute to the ruler of Iran on this occasion.i2 0 The Naw Rnz festival is as important for Iranians today as it was 2,500 years ago, and, although the institution of the zürkhånah is declining, its importance as part of Iran's cultural heritage is recognized by the fact that the state lends its patronage to a troupe of pahlavånån (lit.: `champions'). The very use of the term pahlavan is a direct link with Iran's pre-Islamic Parthian heritage. The concept of the pahlavån, the hero who was not only brave but also noble, just and upright in all his dealings, developed in Islamic Iran into the concept of the javånmard. Islamic fata is, in fact, but Sasanid javdnmard writ large. In its classical sense, javdnmard denoted a man who possessed noble qualities; `he carried out his promises, spoke the truth and developed such virtues as perseverance, valor and purity in thought, desire and action. He avoided bringing harm to anyone, championed the weak, and opposed cruelty.'21 The Persian word javånmard is synonymous with the Arabic fats in the sense of `young man,' and the abstract noun javanmardi was used as the Persian equivalent of futuwwah (Persian: futuvvat). From at least as early as the fifth century A.H./eleventh century A.D. groups of people, mainly of the lower orders, began to band together in futuwwah organizations. The object of these organizations was to persuade `the ranks of the ordinary people to show concern for good morals and to forsake blameworthy habits. They had a special purpose, and special rules of conduct, orders and signs.'2 2 Massignon has defined futuwwah as pacte d'honneur artisan!.' In this paper, however, I am not concerned with the futuwwah organizations as a force for moral good in society. The point I wish to emphasize is that these and similar groups, with their complicated initiation ceremonies, their use of allegorical terminology and cabalistic signs, and their secret organization, were the perfect — 87 —

vehicle for the transmission of heterodox Shi`i religious ideas, which formed part of the Iranian cultural protest against alien rule. The authority of `Alf himself is invoked to justify the existence of futuwwah organizations. The futuwwah organizations were, of course, closely linked with more orthodox (the use of the term `orthodox' is only relative) Süfi organizations, but to inquire into this question would take us too far afield. One related type of organization which should briefly be mentioned is that of the akhis (akhf is an Arabic term meaning 'my brother'). We know little about the akhis in Iran (much more is known about their confreres in Ottoman Turkey), but the fact that existence of akhis is attested as early as the eighth century A.D., and still in Safavid times, postulates their important and continuing role in helping to preserve Iran's distinctive identity. It was akhis who, according to popular legend, constituted the bulk of the rebel forces which Abii Muslim led against the `Abbasid Caliph in the eighth century, and for Iranians, Abü Muslim has assumed the character of a national hero.Z 3 The use of the term akhf 750 years later by Shah Ismi d I to denote his followers was therefore emotive and deliberately evocative, and is one more indication of the continuing force of the Iranian tradition. I have described briefly some of the principal elements which have made up, and in many cases continue to make up, the distinctive Iranian historical and cultural tradition. Other contributors will, in the course of this volume, refer to other aspects of this tradition, but I hope I have sufficiently indicated why it is that, when all these manifold strands are plaited together, the resulting cord has been for the Persians, through twenty-five centuries, a veritable `strong rope.'24

Notes 1. E. Burke Inlow, `The Divine Right of Persian Kings,' Journal of Indian History, Vol. XLV, Part II, no. 134 (1967), 400. 2. E. A. Bayne, Persian Kingship in Transition (New York 1968), p. 248. 3. Inlow, Journal of Indian History, XLV, Part It, no. 134, 399. 4. Ibid., pp. 407, 409. 5. See R. N. Frye, The Heritage of Persia (Cleveland/New York 1963), p. 40. 6. See Frye, Ibid., p. 79 ff. 7. See Erwin I. J. Rosenthal, The Role of the State in Islam: Theory and Medieval Practice, a paper presented to a Colloquium on Tradition and Change in the Middle East at Harvard University, March 1968. I have paraphrased some of Professor Rosenthal's words here. See also Muhsin Mandi, Ibn Khaldün's Philosophy of History (Chicago 1964), p. 206. 8. Amin Banäni, 'The Social and Economic Structure of the Safavid Empire in its Heyday,' a paper submitted to the Harvard Colloquium on Tradition and Change in the Middle East, December 1967, p. 5. 9. Ibn al-Balkhi, FØs-niimah, ed. G. Le Strange and R. A. Nicholson, (`E. J. W. Gibb Memorial Series,' New Series I; Cambridge 1921), p. 67. 10. Ibn al-Tigtagå, al-Fakhri, trans. C. E. J. Whitting (London 1947), p. 80 (with errors corrected). 11. H. A. R. Gibb, Studies on the Civilization of Islam, ed. Stanford J. Shaw and William R. Polk (London 1962), p. 24. 12. Qur'an, LIII: 9. 13. A. K. S. Lambton, 'The Theory of Kingship in the Nasihat ul-Mulak of Ghazåli, 'Islamic Quarterly, I, 1 (1954), 51. 14. Nast. Allah Falsafi, Zindagnni-i Shah Abbas (4 vols.; Teheran 1345-47), III, 31. 15. V. Minorsky, `Iran: Opposition, Martyrdom and Revolt,' Unity and Variety in Muslim Civilization, cd. G. E. von Grunebaum (Chicago 1967), p. 201.

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16. D. N. Wilber, Contemporary Iran (London 1963), p. 89. 17. Gustav Thaiss, Religious Symbolism and Social Change: The Drama of Hussain, a lecture delivered at McGill University, Montreal, February 1970, p. 20. 18. The translation is by E. G. Browne; see his Literary History of Persia (4 vols.; Cambridge 1953), IV, 177-80. 19. D. N. Wilber, Iran, Past and Present (6th ed.; Princeton 1967), p. 184. D. N. Wilber, Ibid., p. 185. 20. 21. Reza Arasteh, 'The Character, Organization and Social Role of the Lutis (Javan-Mardan) in the Traditional Iranian Society of the Nineteenth Century,' Journal of Economic and Social History of the Orient IV (February 1961), 47. 22. 'Abbiis Igbiil, quoted in R. M. Savory, Communication in Der Islam, XXXVIII, 1-2 (1962), 161-62. 23. See F. Taeschner 'Futuwwa,' Encyclopaedia of Islam, New Edition. 24. Cf.

otØJy o i e.s.01.ILUiØ9

Ibn Manziir, Lisån al-Arab (Bayrüt 1955), Vol. XLIV, 137.

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POLICY MAKING PROCESS IN THE GOVERNMENT OF IRAN KHALID B. SAYEED* The hallmark of a policy decision is the systemic change it generates or is expected to bring about. It has `a high level of generality with consequences extended in organizational space and time,' and is to be distinguished from a decision which is `highly specific and has no effect upon organizational structure''. One can again distinguish between policy strategies or policy directives and detailed discrete policies. Policy strategies or directives have been termed as master policies or mega-policies? These master policies or broad policy directives set the framework or provide guidelines for sectoral or ministerial policies. Thus, a planning commission or a supreme economic council or the central cabinet itself may decide upon a policy of balanced industrial and agricultural development of a country. This major policy directive determines the specific policies that ministries of industry and agriculture may follow in their respective sectors. Even though we have termed both mega-policy decisions and ministerial policy decisions as policy decisions, yet such decisions should be distinguished from highly specific or departmental decisions, the impact of which is considerably narrower. We are also concerned with the nature of the policy making process. First of all, in policy making we are involved in the formulation and evaluation of goals and determination of means to attain those goals or maximize the attainment of those goals. All this means that policy makers have to make hard choices. It is said that sometimes the constraints under which policy makers work and the facts that stare them in the face are so inexorable that they do not make policy, but policy is made for them. Sometimes policies are not decisions consciously and deliberately arrived at or foreseen, but `just happen.' At other times, policies are the outcomes of new opportunities and not produced by problems at all. Very often a given policy is the outcome of a compromise among policy makers. Policy process is embedded in a broader social and political process which is influenced, but not entirely determined by, intellectual and rational analysis of given problems by policy advisors. Banfield has argued that policy `is an outcome which no one has planned as a "solution" to a "problem." It is a "resultant" rather than a "solution." i3 In a country like Iran, where because of expanding oil revenues a rapid growth rate can be maintained and where the political system is much less politicized and, therefore, less exposed to public demands and pressures, policy process to this extent may be more grounded in rational or objective analysis than is the case in more or highly politicized political systems. By pointing out all this we are by no means trying to understress or disregard the innovative nature and significance of certain policies. In this paper, we shall emphasize the innovative aspects of policy making and also the ingenuity and skills that are required of civil servants as policy advisors in developing countries. Indeed, *Department of Political Science, Queen's University, Kingston, Ontario, Canada.

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the same, if not a greater, degree of inventiveness and `uncertainty bearing' are required of the supreme policy makers, whether they are kings or presidents or prime ministers in developing countries. The capacity to comprehend a complex situation, to identify and isolate the independent and crucial variables, and the experience and training which enable one to think of or produce apt solutions for certain problems are the essential qualities of an innovative policy maker in developing countries. This has been characterized as the `art of judgment' by Sir Geoffrey Vickers.4 It is well known that advanced and affluent nations are keen to offer not only their economic and technical aid, but also experts on the assumption that developing countries are merely passing through certain stages of development which the advanced countries had to go through before they reached their present levels of development and maturity. Therefore, one of the skills that both the supreme policy maker as well as his policy advisors have to develop is how to tailor such counsels to suit the unique circumstances of their particular countries. Such skills involve the capacity to select the appropriate `mix' of policies for the particular stage of development that the country is passing through. Role of the Shah in Policy Making The governmental system in Iran is very much like the American presidential system. The Cabinet in Iran is as completely the Shah's cabinet as the Cabinet in the United States is the President's cabinet. The Shah probably does not have as well organized a staff of his own as the President's White House Staff. There is, of course, the Ministry of Court. But probably the Shah does not need a highly organized palace staff because he can get most of his staff work done by his cabinet ministers. He grants audiences to the Prime Minister and all his ministers. The Foreign Minister sees him every day. The Governor of the Bank-i Markazi (Central Bank) and the Managing Director of the Plan Organization report to him regularly. His power to remove cabinet ministers is as complete as the power of the President. In one of the meetings of the High Economic Council, when the Prime Minister reported that the previous year's decision to reduce government expenditure in every ministry by 12.5 per cent was not carried out, the Shah made it clear that no one would be forgiven if decisions were not implemented. `All ministers and deputy ministers should be able to manage their respective ministries; if not, they would be dismissed and asked to go home and rest.'S It is often said that foreign and defense policies are within the prerogatives of the Shah. Both at home and abroad, the Shah is known for his profound and perspicacious grasp of foreign affairs. An economist may be alarmed by the mounting costs of the Russian-supported steel project in Isfahan. But from the overall national and foreign policy interests of the country, such projects are extremely advantageous in terms of greater cordiality that develops between Iran and the Soviet Union. It has also been suggested that the Shah has taken into account the growing depletion of oil resources of the Soviet Union and its increasing dependence on Middle and Near Eastern oil supplies. In a developing country like Iran nearly all the vital policy decisions pertaining — 92 —

to planning, development and social welfare are intertwined with defense and foreign policies. In other words, such vital policy strategies or mega-policies determine ministerial or sectoral policies. It may be said that in Iran the highest policy making body which considers and formulates policies which come under the category of master policies or mega-policies is the High Economic Council presided over by the Shah. There is no other advisory council in which the Shah is present and which plays such a key role in decision making as the High Economic Council. However, what is unique is that this council has no constitutional status and is an ad hoc body set up by the Monarch. During the last few years, the members who have frequently attended meetings of the High Economic Council are the Prime Minister, Deputy Prime Minister and Minister of State in charge of Economic Affairs, Ministers of Finance, Economy, Housing and Development, Labour and Social Affairs, Water and Power, the Managing Director of the Plan Organization, and the Governor of the Bank-i Markazi. But there has emerged a kind of permanent and nuclear membership of the Council and this consists of the Prime Minister, Ministers of Finance, Economy, and Labour and Social Affairs, the Managing Director of the Plan Organization, and the Governor of the Bank-i Markazi. In addition, the Deputy Prime Minister and Minister of State in charge of Economic Affairs, Mr. Asfiya, is always present to function as a secretary of the Council responsible for taking notes and maintaining records. One cannot overemphasize the unique role that Mr. Asfiya plays in committees of ministers appointed from time to time to investigate problems and matters arising out of discussions in the High Economic Council. Again, it is Mr. Asfiya who insures concerted and coordinated inter-ministerial implementation of instructions of the Shah or decisions arrived at in the High Economic Council. We shall dwell later on his role in the Council of Ministers and the High Planning Council. It is significant that the permanent membership of the High Economic Council is drawn from ministries and agencies which play a crucial role in policy making pertaining to matters of economic development and social welfare. However, from time to time other ministers like those of Water and Power and Housing and Development may be called upon to attend the High Economic Council when matters relating to their fields are being considered by the Council. I have been told that the Prime Minister often tries to clarify and define some of the economic issues to be discussed in the High Economic Council in an informal economic committee of the Cabinet consisting of the Ministers of Economy, Finance, the Deputy Prime Minister and Minister of State in charge of Economic Affairs, the Managing Director of the Plan Organization and the Governor of the Bank-i Markazi. What sort of decisions emerge from the High Economic Council? First of all, it must be made clear that the Shah allows his ministers to present their ideas and views as clearly as possible. It has been reported that sometimes there are intense and considerable disagreements between ministers. When there are such differences, and when the Shah himself has not made up his mind as regards the most appropriate course of action, he would rule that the ministers concerned should get together, discuss the matter more thoroughly and report their conclusions to him. — 93 —

But there are areas where he expresses his wishes most clearly and forcefully. These are matters like reduction in the cost of living and raising wages of industrial labour. Probably his main concern is that industrialization should not create any urban discontent. In matters like literacy programs and public health projects, he has declared, `We cannot permit any economies.i6 Now that three volumes of the Records of the High Economic Council have been published, one can see what kind of discussions take place in this body. It is clear that the Shah has given much prior thought to the problems that are presented before the Council and has probably worked out in his mind some of the solutions. Basing his judgment on discussions that he has had with foreign leaders as well as the staff work that has been done on given problems, the Shah may announce his decisions in the High Economic Council some of which belong clearly to the category of mega- or master policies. One such decision was with regard to the supply of natural gas to the Soviet Union. From the Records of the High Economic Council, it is clear that the Shah had discussed this problem with the Soviet and French Premiers. He had considered the possibility of supplying gas to Western Europe, but decided that `it is not economical to build a 4,000 kilometre gas pipeline going through Iran, Turkey, Greece and Yugoslavia to Trieste for the export of twenty billion cubic meters of gas only.' The decision as reported in the Shah's own words was: `I concluded, therefore, that we shall be better off to supply the gas to the Russians and let them deliver gas to the European Consortium in Central Europe.' It may further be noted that such decisions involve intricate and even multilateral foreign policy variables which a supreme policy maker like the Shah has to take into account. The rationale behind such policy decisions is sometimes disclosed by the Shah in the High Economic Council. In the same announcement regarding the supply of natural gas to the Soviet Union, the Shah pointed out that under this arrangement the Russians could deliver gas through their northern outlets to Western Europe and use Iranian gas for the southern parts of their country. The Shah had suggested to the French Premier to take the initiative in this matter, but owing to the fact that Western relations with the Soviet Union had become tense as a result of Soviet incursion into Czechoslovakia, the French could not take such an initiative .8 The sort of policy alternatives that are considered in the High Economic Council may be seen in the following example. When Dr. Kåzim-zadah, then the Director of the Central Bureau of Budget and Planning, reported a deficit of eight billion rials for the year 1968, a discussion started as to how some of this deficit could be met by effecting economies and raising taxes. The Shah pointed out that the deficit could perhaps be met by resorting to one or all of the following three solutions: (1) reduction of expenditures on development programs; (2) reduction in defense expenditure; (3) meeting the deficit by partly reducing the developmental and defense expenditures. He rules out the third solution as the most undesirable. `It is just like having two-thirds of a dam erected and leaving one-third to be completed later on. A single flood would be enough to destroy the completed part.'9 As regards the first solution, reduction in development expenditure, he — 94 —

cautioned against hasty action in this direction because the country was well on its way towards economic development. The second option, reduction in defense expenditure, would endanger the security of the country both from internal and external sources. `.... What are we to do in order to cope with this situation? The answer is to economize wherever possible, to attend to activities of higher priority and to eliminate unimportant expenditures. Meanwhile we must think of new ways to increase our income. Discuss these matters among yourselves and report your findings. 1 ° The Shah expects the issues or problems presented before the High Economic Council to be well defined. He also expects the directors or the ministers concerned to suggest alternative or apt solutions to the problems of their agencies or departments. Thus, when the Managing Director of the Mortgage Bank presented a series of six proposals to overcome the financial difficulties with which the Mortgage Bank was faced, the Shah, instead of discussing the merits of these technical proposals, ruled that the proposals be considered by a committee consisting of the Prime Minister, Minister of Finance, Governor of Bank-i Markazi and other concerned authorities to determine which of the solutions suggested by the Managing Director would be the most effective.'' This indicates that adequate staff work had not been done by the ministries and agencies responsible for economic matters with the result that the Shah in the High Economic Council was being expected to consider the relative merits of as many as six fairly technical proposals and reach a decision. In certain matters like land reforms, rural development and the adult literacy campaign, the Shah may feel that even though the major decisions and outlines of the Five Year Plan have been laid down, the Plan Organization and concerned ministries, by making the necessary adjustments in their priorities, should find money for such activities. In the light of such instructions given to the Prime Minister or the Managing Director of the Plan Organization, the technocrats at the Plan Organization have altered their annual development plans. Similarly, it has been reported that the Plan Organization and the Ministry of Economy have recently tried to release resources for social welfare projects by reducing government investment in industry.' 2 Although we have said that mega-policies or master policies are often considered and discussed in the High Economic Council presided over by the Shah, yet it may be noted that sometimes discrete or ministerial policies are also discussed in the High Economic Council. Therefore, it cannot be said that the High Economic Council concerns itself primarily with master policies. Moreover, all master policies are not considered and discussed in the High Economic Council. Sometimes these policies may be announced by the Shah himself in which case the High Economic Council and the Council of Ministers would examine how these announced policies of the Monarch are being pursued and implemented. The principles of the White Revolution involving land reforms, profit sharing in industry, reform of the electoral law, the Literacy and Health Corps, etc., may be cited as an example of a mega-policy which was announced by the Shah and in which the role — 95 —

of the High Economic Council and the Council of Ministers was to insure the implementation of these policies. Policy making as well as policy execution, tend to be highly complicated processes in any system of government. In Iran, we have already indicated that master policies are formulated by the Sh-ah and that often such policies are discussed in the High Economic Council. But the question remains, how are these fundamental policy directives to be interpreted precisely by ministers, individually or collectively as the Council of Ministers, when they formulate their specific or discrete ministerial policies? We have also stated that the Shah grants audiences to ministers in which certain instructions may be given. Again, the question arises, what is the mechanism through which these different sets of policy directives are to be coordinated? Presumably, the High Economic Council provides most of this coordinating mechanism. In addition, it must be emphasized that the Prime Minister functions as a vital coordinator. We shall discuss the role of the Prime Minister and his office in the following section where we will also suggest how the existing organization of the Prime Minister's Office may be improved and streamlined for purposes of better policy coordination. Policy Coordinating Institutions — Prime Minister's Office and the Plan Organization When we talk of the policy making process in the government of Iran, we are thinking principally of the following variables: 1. Certain basic policy commitments which have already been made and policies which are, so to speak, already in the pipeline. 2. Directives from the Shah suggesting modifications of policies adopted or urging the adoption of new policies. 3. Ideas and proposals emerging from ministers. 4. Ideas and proposals originating from under secretaries and in some cases from directors general. 5. Evaluation and coordination of policy proposals emerging from ministries by institutions and bodies like the Prime Minister's Office, the Cabinet, the Plan Organization and the High Planning Council, etc. We have not listed policy proposals originating from public pressures and majority party demands or from foreign advisors as major variables because such proposals are often funnelled through the ministers and other public servants. We would like to see how these variables are interrelated or how they interact on each other and how the policy making process is shaped by these interrelationships and interactions. At this stage of the analysis we are not going to describe or evaluate the role that under secretaries and directors general play in the policy making process within a ministry. We shall treat this matter at greater length in later sections. For the time being, we shall assume that a policy proposal has emerged from a ministry. Our principal concern here is to trace the processes through which a ministerial policy proposal passes before it is adopted as a policy decision. We can divide such proposals into economic or developmental proposals and designate the —96—

others as general proposals. The former are processed through the Plan Organization and the High Planning Council. We shall deal with the processing of economic and developmental proposals in a more detailed fashion later. So far as proposals pertaining to general matters, for example, municipalities or ustäns (provinces), are concerned, before they are considered by the Council of Ministers, they are examined by a sub-committee of the Council of Ministers headed by Mr. Kashfyån, Minister without Portfolio. Sometimes certain proposals present legal problems and have to be drafted carefully before being presented to the Parliament. In such cases, the Prime Minister's Office would convene a meeting of under secretaries responsible for legal matters from the ministries and agencies concerned. It is obvious that in the Prime Minister's Office there takes place interministerial consultation in sub-committees of the Cabinet for purposes of examination and coordination of policy proposals before they are presented to the Council of Ministers. It is said that often the Council of Ministers is seized with so many problems that the meetings last a long time, sometimes without the business on hand being completed. The Prime Minister has felt that perhaps some of the issues that come up before the Council are of a nature which can be examined and sometimes disposed of by Cabinet sub-committees. So far as matters relating to economic policy and developmental projects are concerned, adequate staff work is done by the Plan Organization. There is also the High Planning Council which reviews all matters relating to economic policy and keeps a close watch on the execution of the projects under the Five Year Plan. We have also referred earlier to an informal economic committee of the Cabinet consisting of the Ministers of Economy, Finance, the Deputy Prime Minister who is also Minister of State in charge of Economic Affairs, the Managing Director of the Plan Organization and the Governor of the Bank-i Markazi. Since matters relating to economic policy and developmental projects are examined and reviewed by the Plan Organization, the High Planning Council and the informal economic sub-committee of the Cabinet, and, above all, since there is the High Economic Council to oversee all this work and determine economic mega-policies, it may be said that the Council of Ministers is not too much involved in matters of economic policy. With regard to matters relating to noneconomic matters or those relating to social affairs, there is a sub-committee for social affairs. This committee meets every week under the chairmanship of Mr. Asfiyå. Its membership consists of the Deputy Prime Minister, Ministers of Information, Interior, Labour and Social Affairs, Minister of State in charge of State Organization for Administration and Employment, and two ministers without portfolio. Everyone in the government refers to the unique role that the Deputy Prime Minister, Mr. Asfiyå, plays at different levels of the policy making process. Here is an indefatigable committee man, a diplomat who can disarm all opposition, a well-known engineer, an economist, and an adroit administrator, whose counsels are heeded by all his colleagues because he speaks from experience, and the interests he pursues are the larger and long-term interests of his country. What is the secret of — 97 —

the sway that this extraordinary man exercises over his colleagues? He is mild looking, arouses no antagonisms, creates no jealousies, and what is more, a number of his colleagues have either served him as his deputies or assistants when he was Managing Director of the Plan Organization or have been his students in the Faculty of Engineering. The Ministers of Agricultural Products and Consumer Goods, Housing and Development, Information, Labour and Social Affairs, Post, Telephone and Telegraph, Minister of State in charge of State Organization for Administration and Employment, and Minister of Water and Power have been his deputies or assistants. When the Council of Ministers is grappling with an issue which cannot be easily resolved or is faced with a problem which needs to be further studied and explored, the ministers concerned are eager to have Mr. Asfiyå as Chairman of the ad hoc sub-committee to examine the issue. A senior minister who is also a member of the High Economic Council said to me: `When I am faced with a major problem in my Ministry, I often consult Mr. Asfiyå. When he lends his support to my proposals, I feel confident of their easy passage in the Council of Ministers.' It is an intellectually intriguing and exciting question as to whether men like Asfiyå can be replaced by institutions. Can the role of such an individual be explained in organizational terms? He has been described as an overlord in British Cabinet terminology, as a supreme coordinator and a mediator and, above all, the principal advisor to the Prime Minister. But organizational descriptions cannot accurately describe the role of such an individual. We have noticed that his influence is uniquely personal and the role of a mentor cannot be described in organizational terms. Policy proposals as well as others which require the approval of the Prime Minister or his Council of Ministers come to the Prime Minister's Office. One may ask how well equipped his office is to study, process and evaluate the vast array of such proposals and advise the Prime Minister or the Council of Ministers regarding their feasibility. In order to answer this question, one should consider what organizational resources and strength the Prime Minister's Office possesses. A few years ago, the Prime Minister had an active Bureau on Projects under a deputy, the principal task of which was to evaluate and watch the progress of various projects launched by the Plan Organization and other ministries. This Bureau was in contact with the members of Parliament and the public at large to find out what the impact of developmental projects was and whether the needs of the people were being satisfied. It had a fairly elaborate staff consisting of advisors, economists and statisticians. Organizationally it still exists, but in terms of personnel and activities, it is in a state of abeyance. There is another unit of advisors and inspectors which functions under the direct supervision of the Prime Minister. It has six advisors and fourteen inspectors. A number of such office holders have been political appointees. Some of them have been men with specialized knowledge and competence. Our suggestion here is that this unit of advisors and inspectors and the Bureau of Projects (referred to earlier) should be combined and reorganized into a full-fledged cabinet secretariat under the Deputy Prime Minister who is functioning as a policy coordinator without any organizational support. — 98 —

We have emphasized the important role that the Prime Minister and his office play in policy making and policy coordination. But we find that the Prime Minister, besides being handicapped by the absence of a cabinet secretariat, is saddled with additional and extraneous responsibilities which must impose heavy burdens on his time and energy. The offices attached to the Prime Minister's Office are: State Security and Intelligence Agency, State Organization for Administration and Employment Affairs, Endowments Organization, Iran National Tourist Organization, Imperial Inspectorate, Central Cooperatives Organization, and the Plan Organization which includes the Central Budget Bureau and several other centres and authorities attached to the Plan Organization. As may be seen later, the Plan Organization performs an extremely essential task of integrating and coordinating economic policies and, therefore, the present practice of this organization being an integral part of the Prime Minister's Office should continue. Similarly, the Prime Minister would need the State Organization for Administration and Employment Affairs to control and coordinate the policies, practices and standards pertaining to civil service matters. It is also conceivable that the Prime Minister may like to be responsible for the State Security and Intelligence Agency. But organizations like the Imperial Inspectorate and those concerned with matters such as endowments, tourist affairs and central cooperatives should be detached from the Prime Minister's Office and attached to the relevant ministries. For example, the Endowments Organization might well be with the Ministry of Justice, the Iran National Tourist Organization could possibly be with the Ministry of Information or better still with the Ministry of Culture and Arts because many of the tourists from foreign countries visit Iran to see monuments and other objects of artistic and historical beauty. The Central Cooperatives Organization, which establishes standards and rules and regulations for the setting up and maintenance of cooperatives on a sound basis, should be integrated with the Ministry of Land Reforms and Rural Cooperatives. In the matter of economic policy and developmental proposals, one notices that there is an interlocking of policy making power. The Prime Minister with his control over the Plan Organization, the Minister of Finance and the Minister of Economy together constitute this interlocking of policy making power in economic affairs. The Prime Minister probably exercises his influence and power in matters of economic policy in the last resort. The person who wields considerable influence with the support of the Prime Minister in matters of economic policy is the Managing Director of the Plan Organization. Very close to this organizational set-up is the Governor of the Central Bank who is a member of the High Economic Council and the High Planning Council and is responsible for formulating the currency and credit policy of the government. What is the dynamic context in which this policy proposing power is wielded? What organizational support is available to the policy makers in the economic sphere through which they wield this power? In terms of pure organization, there is no question that the most formidable of these is the Plan Organization. In its heyday it was the Plan Organization which prepared projects in a number of areas — 99 —

like water, power and housing and which also executed them. When ministries such as Water and Power and Housing and Development were created, some of the ministers and the technocrats who manned these ministries came from the Plan Organization. Thus, even though the Plan Organization has ceased to control directly activities pertaining to water and power and housing, it has continued to exercise its influence. What is the extent of the power of the Plan Organization and how effective is it in exercising this power? First of all, the Five Year Plans, which include all the major policy objectives of the government in the field of economic and social development and the allocations and projections with regard to both public and private sector projects, are prepared by the Plan Organization. It is true that in their preparation it consults all the ministries and agencies, and in areas like industries and water and power it is considerably influenced by the ministries responsible for these two areas. The Law of the Fourth National Development Plan states clearly that the Plan Organization is responsible for `the study, approval, and if necessary, preparation of projects,' and for `the disbursement of funds for the execution of approved projects.' 3 The annual economic reports that the Plan Organization prepares in consultation with the Ministries of Finance and Economy and the Central Bank determine both the revenue and development budget and the credit policy for the year. The High Planning Council, headed by the Prime Minister, consists of six members — the Minister of Finance, the Minister of Economy, the Governor of the Central Bank, and three persons competent in economics appointed on the recommendation of the Managing Director of the Plan Organization. The Law of the Fourth National Development Plan states that the High Planning Council should review and make decisions on the policy relating to the execution of the Plan and should also be responsible for making recommendations on the economic, financial, administrative and social policies of the government in the light of the annual Economic Report.'" However, it may be noted that the Managing Director wields considerable influence in all such decisions. He runs the Plan Organization, and the Law states that the High Planning Council will meet at his invitation. It is he who recommends the names of three persons competent in economics for appointment to the High Planning Council. We have already indicated that in the High Economic Council discussions regarding choices that lie at the heart of mega- or master policies are discussed. Faced with scarcity of resources, should the government reduce its defense expenditure or development expenditure or should there be retrenchment in both expenditures? In one of the discussions in the High Economic Council which has been referred to, we have noticed that the Shah was averse to the idea of reducing either of the two expenditures. Most of the staff work for these policy discussions is done in the Plan Organization and it is from that body also that suggested remedies and recommendations emerge. When faced with scarce resources and mounting demands for development from ministries, the Ministry of Finance and the Bank-i Markazi, which are both represented in the High Planning Council, have — 100 —

to explore and evaluate alternative sources for increasing the government's resources. Since the policy of the government is to keep prices stable, in a given year faced with shortage of funds the government has to try either to raise funds by borrowing from abroad or by pressuring the Oil Consortium to increase its royalties to Iran. The other choice is to instruct the Central Bank to increase the supply of money. This alternative has to be kept within severe limits because excessive supply would increase the inflationary pressure and raise prices. Even if the government is successful in increasing its oil receipts, increases in defense and development expenditure are such that the pressure on balance of payments will continue resulting in a steady depletion of foreign exchange reserves. An obvious resource base for economic development which has not as yet been tapped satisfactorily, particularly in view of the buoyancy of Iran's economy, is taxation. If one looks at the forecasts of the government's financial situation during the Fourth Plan prepared by the Plan Organization, one notices that both direct and indirect taxation constitute no more than 11.9 per cent of the total receipts,' 5 a proportion which is low when one compares Iran even with developing countries. Again, a policy issue arising out of the problem of taxation is how equitable and progressive the taxation policy should be. Should the relatively well-to-do groups bear the heaviest burden with the proportion of direct taxes to total receipts increasing steadily? In the resolution of such policy questions, the leadership and initiative of the Ministry of Finance will have a decisive influence. When a government tries to mobilize more resources through taxation or tries to make the tax burden more equitable, it obviously runs certain risks. The government of Iran, under the dynamic leadership of the Shäh, has embarked on a comprehensive developmental program. There is no reason why it cannot be equally venturesome in the matter of mobilization of tax resources. The problem is that faced with shortage of resources and the constraint of continuing essential defense expenditure, the Plan Organization has to take the unpopular line of making it clear to the various ministries that some of their developmental projects will have to be staggered and other relatively non-essential ones will have to be postponed. In addition, the Plan Organization is the only staff agency which has to evaluate all developmental projects by placing them within the perspective of national goals and priorities. If rapid industrialization is the only goal, then industries may continue to be concentrated in Teheran and the surrounding areas because of certain locational advantages that this area possesses. But this would create discontent in other regions, besides creating problems for Teheran. Similarly, if exclusive attention is devoted to industrialization, agriculture will suffer. The Plan Organization has also to think of equitable allocation of resources between regions and sectors. Excessive urbanization not only creates social and political problems within the urban areas, but also results in the neglect of rural areas. It was faced with such hard policy choices and above all with such a shortage of resources that the Plan Organization last year tried to hold in check the expansionist proclivities of ministries and agencies. Its view was that the Plan — 101 —

should move from one consolidated plateau to another instead of allowing certain ministries to scale their individual peaks of achievement with others lagging behind. The project of building a new airport near Teheran and others designed to provide the country with better communications were shelved. The National Iranian Oil Company had to postpone its plans to build super tankers. A few of the big dams were likely to disappear from the next Five Year Plan. Above all, the construction of the gas pipeline to Russia was to be slowed down. The Managing Director was merely asserting the central role of the Plan Organization in containing and disciplining the `developmental' proclivities of the ministries. This was precisely what the Plan Organization and its Managing Director were expected to do. But the fact that the Plan Organization could not continue to exercise its restraining power means that some of the ministries had acquired considerable organizational power and influence. Does this mean that the authority of the Plan Organization should be increased proportionately or does it mean that henceforth the Plan Organization should play an attenuated role? It may have to go after influence rather than pure restraining or regulative power. It may be said to the credit of the Plan Organization that its homilies on restraint are being heeded. As we shall see later, the Ministry of Economy is relying more and more on the private sector to undertake industrial projects even in the area of sophisticated industries rather than appropriating these fields for the public sector and thereby increasing public investment and expenditure. Secondly, the Plan Organization has been able to persuade a number of ministries to dovetail their developmental plans and projects with those of other ministries on a regional basis. So far, ministries have tended to concentrate powers of decision making, and in certain cases even, to concentrate projects in Teheran with the result that certain regions have either felt neglected or others have resented the fact that they are mere receivers of aid and advice without having much say as to how their regions should be developed. We have tried to look at some of the economic and social policies of the government of Iran in their widest perspective. We have suggested that questions, as for instance, what resources should be allocated between sectors like industry and agriculture, or between regions or political districts like one ustån compared to another or between social sectors like the urban versus the rural sector, are in the ultimate analysis value questions. The central function of a political system is authoritative allocation of values. But it is difficult to measure values and professional economists do not feel quite at home in areas which do not lend themselves to quantitative analyses. When they recommend a project as economically sound or reject a project as an uneconomic proposition, they apply certain quantitative criteria like the availability of resources, the opportunity costs of such resources, the return on investment, etc. Some economists, particularly in developed countries, have evaluated public investment in terms of discount rates which are not lower than the current yield on government bonds. They argue to let the facts speak for themselves. However, to the Managing Director of the Plan Organization, the constellation of power interests represented by ministries is also — 102 —

an objective fact. Thus, to the cost-benefit analysis of his professional advisors, he has to add certain political and social variables in order to come up with a policy recommendation which would not only be economically feasible, but politically acceptable. What the economists may recommend as technically or rationally impeccable may have to be modified or even abandoned because of the different value preferences or priorities of a society or its political decision makers. Lack of Coordination in the Agricultural Sector The land reforms introduced in 1962 and brought to successful completion through three stages, undoubtedly constituted a master policy initiated by the Shah. The objective was to bring about a radical transformation in the status of peasants from that of servile and helpless sharecroppers to that of relatively self-sufficient peasant proprietors. Presumably, the Shah and the government also thought that the reforms would result in increased agricultural productivity. A master policy of this kind in the field of agriculture, when implemented, obviously creates several problems which have to be tackled by timely and appropriate ministerial policies. One of the major consequences of land reforms is that out of the total cultivable area, as many as one million hectares of land will be under the control of about one hundred thousand farmers. These farmers would have the requisite capital assets and if given easy access to better techniques and inputs, would be able to develop their managerial ability and emerge as agricultural entrepreneurs. If one looks at the problem from the point of view of the largest number of farms capable of earning an adequate income, one finds that there are about a million farms of five hectares or more constituting about seventy-five per cent of the cultivated area in village agriculture. Then there are another million or so families holding less than five hectares on an average. It is obvious that the most crucial input for all these farmers is water. In addition there are other facilities such as credit, fertilizers and improved technical knowledge, which have to be provided by the government. We find that there are five ministries, besides other agencies, responsible for agricultural functions as, for instance, provision of irrigation and water facilities, credit, inputs (e.g., fertilizers), and services such as extension, education and research. These are the Ministries of Agriculture, Land Reform, Natural Resources, Agricultural Products, and Water and Power. There is considerable overlapping of responsibilities for these agricultural functions among the five ministries. To cite a striking example, one finds that in the field of irrigation and water use, the Ministry of Agriculture and the Ministry of Water and Power have overlapping and even conflicting responsibilities. It has been reported that there is a considerable time difference between the moment when irrigation dams are completed and water is made available to the farmers. This problem has arisen because of divided responsibilities between the Ministry of Water and Power and the Ministry of Agriculture. In the matter of constructing dams and providing similar facilities to farms which are over two thousand hectares, the Ministry of Water and Power is responsible. Similarly, the construction and maintenance of irrigation distribution — 103 —

systems which provide water to areas of over about one hundred hectares fall within the purview of the Ministry of Water and Power. The responsibility for providing irrigation water to areas which are of less than one hundred hectares, with the exception of agri-businesses and farm corporations, has been allotted to the Ministry of Agriculture. It is well known that the Ministry of Agriculture is not very active in the field of irrigation and is equipped with very few irrigation specialists. Thus, in practice, irrigation services are largely provided by the Ministry of Water and Power which is not primarily responsible for agriculture, whereas the Ministry of Agriculture, which is primarily concerned with agriculture, is not active and efficient in providing water facilities, likely one of the most important inputs in any viable agricultural operation. This probably explains the caustic comment of Mr. Nåsir Gulsurkhi, Minister of Natural Resources. He has pointed out: When our agricultural production fluctuates by as much as one million tons according to whether there is sufficient rainfall or not, then that is an indication that what you are doing is not agricultural planning, it is sheer gambling. t 6

Role of Ministers, Under Secretaries and Civil Servants in Policy Making In our discussion of the policy making process in Iran we have been concentrating on the policy making processes and the organizational set-up in institutions such as the High Economic Council, the Prime Minister's Office, the Council of Ministers, the High Planning Council, the Plan Organization, and ministries dealing with the field of agriculture. In this section we shall be illustrating our analysis with appropriate examples from the Ministry of Economy. We are doing this not merely because it is difficult to extend our scope to every ministry and agency in the government of Iran, but also because some of the ministries that we have chosen for purposes of our concentrated study are probably more policy oriented than other ministries. Perhaps this is because they represent constituencies and sectors in the Iranian society which are more developed than other sectors. Obviously the business groups which make demands on the Ministries of Economy and Finance and the Plan Organization are better organized than agricultural and other rural groups. Similarly, economists, engineers, trained public administrators and other professional groups who occupy key positions in the Plan Organization, the Ministries of Economy, Finance, Water and Power, Housing and Development, and the State Organization for Administration and Employment, etc., are likely more influential than other groups of public servants in the government. Few ministries in Iran have been able to bring about as harmonious a blending of the functions of research, staff work, policy planning, and policy implementation as the Ministry of Economy. In this Ministry, Minister `Alikhåni not only consulted his deputies regularly in the formulation of his plans and policies, but won the confidence and enthusiastic cooperation of the lower echelons as well, by having the work of the Ministry discussed in staff meetings held once every two weeks in which under secretaries, directors general, heads of attached agencies and organizations, heads of divisions, and experts from each of the divisions were present. Thus, there was not only management by objectives but — 104 —

management through conviction and commitment. Through interviews with the under secretaries and by watching them work, one could discern that behind the detailed input-output analyses there lay fierce nationalism and pride. An under secretary told me: Western countries have not supported certain projects and they cooperate only when we are successful in obtaining the cooperation of Eastern European countries. They vetoed our steel project. We had to get the assistance of the Russians. They talked about setting up a tractor plant for seven years. We made a deal with the Rumanians. Now they are begging to let them come in. They look down upon our potentialities. They said that Iran cannot operate Abadan Refineries. Egypt cannot operate the Suez Canal. They underestimate us always. Our growth target is 9.2 per cent. The World Bank says we can't achieve more than 7 per cent. I am confident that we should be able to get close to 10 per cent.

When Mr. `Alikhåni was Minister of Economy (1963-69), it could be argued that the country was going through the early stages of its industrial expansion. The emphases were on heavy industries and import substitution under the initiative and leadership of the public sector. A few extracts from the chapter dealing with general policies of the Fourth Plan may be cited: In this era of economic and social change, in which the foundations for heavy industry and large-scale agriculture are being laid, ... the development activities of the Government cannot be limited to investments in infrastructure projects ..., because a number of agricultural and industrial projects require immense capital beyond the reach of a single individual or family under present circumstances.... Furthermore, private investors, because of their inexperience in technical matters, lack of information about or access to foreign markets, or fear of foreign competition, often do not dare to enter new branches of industry, and this forces the Government to play the pioneering role....1 7 Considering the problems that exist at present in the establishment of large, private joint-stock companies,... the Government must, at this stage of industrial growth, play a more active part and increase its share of investment in relation to its past performance. t s

However, by 1969-70, the basic constellation of circumstances had undergone a considerable change. It was also significant that this change was signaled by the departure of Mr. `Aflkhåni from the Ministry of Economy during the summer of 1969 and the appointment of Mr. Htishang AnsårT as the new minister. It seemed that the inexperienced and timid private sector had emerged experienced and enterprising enough to step even into areas largely set apart for the public sector. This maturity of the private sector was also accompanied by the arrival of a new set of policy advisors at the Plan Organization and other agencies. These were Iranian economists from the World Bank and International Monetary Fund. It was noteworthy that two of them occupied senior positions in the Plan Organization: one became the Deputy Governor of the Central Bank, and one became a policy advisor in the Ministry of Economy. These changes and the increasing buoyancy and confidence of both the policy advisors and the private sector industrialists were reflected in the statement of Mr. Ansåri, the Minister of Economy, made at the Iran Investment Conference in May, 1970. In what he described as a `new industrial — 105 —

development policy,' the government was `placing greater emphasis on encouraging private enterprise to carry a bigger load in our industrialization plans, and; he concluded, `there are clear indications that this sector is both willing and capable of living up to our expectations.' Pointing out that the public sector would concentrate on the development of infrastructure, he declared: Unless otherwise dictated by the exigencies of national interest, it will refrain from launching new industrial projects wholly-owned by the State. What is more, expansion of the existing state-owned industries will be permitted only in their own immediate fields. Ancillary ventures to such state-owned industries as Steel, Petro-chemical and Machine-building will, therefore, be set up by the private sector.

The new minister, besides being a former ambassador to several countries, had also brought considerable business experience to his new job. The emphasis was to shift from import substitution to export expansion. Therefore, while industrial growth in the past was almost entirely domestic-market oriented, we have every intention of being outward-looking in our future projects.

Thus, it seems that changes initiated by Mr. Ansåri, the present Minister of Economy, in the industrial policy during recent years, have been made in response to certain objective factors such as overall development of Iran's economy and the growing strength and competence of the private sector. Again in this case, one may go so far as to say that the policy is not so much made by the minister as it is made for him by the objective factors that exist in a given period. However, in this connection two other variables may be stressed. As suggested earlier, the phenomenal growth rate in a particular sector may also be attributed to the dynamic leadership of a minister and his under secretaries. Secondly, the fact that industrial policy in Iran can be formulated and pursued in response to certain objective factors indicates that Iran has enjoyed political stability of an unusual nature during recent years. In other developing countries there are strong political and regional pressures which often sway the nature and direction of economic policy. The role of a deputy in the Plan Organization or an under secretary in a ministry is pivotal in the policy making process. He should not be regarded as a patronage or political appointee. The job of an under secretary is very often held by a person who has either risen through the civil service or ranks of the Plan Organization or who is an expert brought in from an Iranian agency such as the National Iranian Oil Company. In a few cases, noted above, some of the deputies or under secretaries are expatriates returning from the World Bank or International Monetary Fund. It may be noted that an under secretary is not appointed entirely for his expertise, but also because the minister or the head of an agency or a bank regards him as a congenial and trustworthy advisor. In other words, his role and position is very much like that of an assistant secretary in a department or bureau of the U.S. government. This suggests that like his counterpart in the United States, the under secretary in Iran tries to evaluate a policy proposal both in terms of its — 106 —

technical and political feasibility. He knows under what constraints his minister works. Therefore, he has to blend into his `policy' advice both technical and `other' considerations. However, some under secretaries may argue that their primary loyalty is to the standards and norms of their profession. Non-technical or other constraints are realities imposed upon them, and they would try to persuade their minister to accept a `mix' in terms of policy which is as rational as possible or the least irrational of a given set of alternatives. In some ministries there may be a council of under secretaries which meets from time to time under the chairmanship of the minister. This council or committee is the policy advisory body for that ministry. But this does not mean that all under secretaries are policy innovators. I have been told that most of the policy proposals in certain ministries (e.g., Finance and Housing and Development) usually originate from their research and planning bureaus. But in a ministry like the Ministry of Economy there are other bureaus such as those dealing with trade and export promotion or mining and industry which may also suggest new policy proposals or departures from existing policies. Thus, a former under secretary in charge of industry could take credit for having recommended three major policy proposals which were finally adopted as policy decisions during his tenure of office. These were the establishment of a Centre for Small Scale Industries, the Export Promotion Centre and the changes in licencing policy that he recommended. However, in some cases the rationale that a proposer suggests may be different from the rationale that influences the government in approving the proposal. When the Under Secretary recommended the establishment of the Export Promotion Centre, his idea was that some of the excess capacity which might emerge in a protected industry could be utilized for the export market. In other words, if the licencing authorities, through their issue of licences, created excess capacity, this could be siphoned off to the export market. The rationale that the government put forward in approving the creation of an Export Promotion Centre was formulated purely in view of promoting the country's exports and maximizing its foreign exchange earnings. As we suggested earlier, the under secretaries are interposed between the ministers and the career civil servants. In addition to the expertise they brought with them, they have acquired experience, because political stability in the country has enabled them to work in the same ministry and in some cases even under different ministers in the same ministry. What kind of creative or innovative role do they play in the policy making process? This may be of three kinds. First, when a proposal originates from the minister, the under secretary plays an important role in getting directors general and experts to do research and staff work so that the proposal concerned may be thoroughly examined in terms of costs and benefits that would accrue if it were to be adopted. Secondly, a proposal may originate from a director general in which case the under secretary has to determine whether it should be modified, taking into account the views or predispositions of his minister, the availability of resources in a given year and the technical or practical difficulties involved in implementing the proposal or the project. Thirdly, policy — 107 —

proposals may emanate from the under secretary himself. In all three cases, the under secretary has to consider carefully the alternative ways of implementing policy proposals or achieving a given policy objective. He may encourage the director general to carry out a thorough analysis of a given problem and present to him all the alternatives. It is the job of the under secretary to narrow the range of alternatives, not only on the basis of cost-benefit analysis, but also on the basis of the special knowledge and insight he possesses regarding the constraints under which his minister or the entire government is operating in a given period. In other words, an effective policy innovator or policy advisor is very often an adroit persuader. It may be said that the kingpin of the Iranian administrative system is the director general. He occupies the highest position in the hierarchy of permanent civil servants. He is not only the chief administrator and coordinator of his particular section, but also the policy advisor for the problems and activities of his section. It is this latter role of policy advisor that has not been appreciated in the government of Iran. We have studied a number of detailed descriptions of objectives, functions, organization, and organizational posts of a number of sections or departments of various ministries prepared and confirmed by the State Organization for Administration and Employment Affairs. In all these detailed descriptions, we find the important role of director general as policy advisor missing among the functions of that particular officer. It is true that not every director general of a department in a ministry plays the role of policy advisor. The director general in charge of position classification in the State Organization for Administration and Employment is obviously more a policy advisor than the director general of the Department of Public Relations of the same ministry. The director general in charge of preparing plans for the Industry and Mining Section in the Ministry of Economy is a policy advisor, whereas such a description hardly fits the activities of a director general in charge of routine administration in that ministry. We should distinguish the role of directors general as policy advisors not only in terms of departments they supervise, but also in terms of certain types of directors general. Anthony Downs speaks of five types of officials. Among the `purely self-interested officials,' that is, those whose principal concern is to pursue their career or other interests rather than the interests of their bureaus or society, he lists climbers and conservers. Among the `mixed-motive officials,' who combine in their careers both self-interest and loyalty to larger values, he lists the following: Zealots, are those who pursue relentlessly certain narrow policies or programs and seek power both for its own sake and for realizing the particular policies or programs in which they are interested. Advocates display broader interests than zealots. Their loyalty is probably to the organization as a whole. Finally, statesmen are those officials whose focus of loyalty includes the interests of the society as a whole and who seek power to influence national policies or promote general welfare.' 9 Most training institutes seem to be primarily concerned with the task of — 108 —

training managers. It may be said that all directors general have to function as managers. They have to manage their offices or sections efficiently. They have to coordinate the substructures which exist within their sections. They have to resolve conflicts between hierarchical levels. They have to coordinate external requirements with organizational resources and needs. Above all, they have to evoke loyal and enthusiastic cooperation from their colleagues and subordinates. Civil service does need and should prize such managers. But it also needs policy advisors. Training a civil servant in management is not quite the same thing as training him in policy analysis and policy planning. My specific suggestion here is that in the Management Training Centre not only should directors general be trained in the art and principles of management but those directors general who have a flair for or who have already displayed their talents and interest in such activities should also receive training in policy analysis and policy planning. Policy advisors or policy innovators obviously do not belong to the category of Downs' `conservers.' They are usually `zealots,' `advocates' and `statesmen.' Such public servants, when they function as policy advisors, have to understand, in all their complex interrelationships and ramifications, the range of existing activities or policies that pertain to their ministries in order to detect those activities which need change or improvement. They must have the experience, knowledge and `instrumental judgment' to suggest apt solutions. This is an art of judgment which involves the same `risk taking' skill that Frank H. Knight regards as the essence of management.2 ° Such public entrepreneurs should be spotted in their early careers and provided with special training so that they may develop their talents and skill. This is probably a more difficult and intricate task than training civil servants in the art and principles of management. To see how the position classification system recommended by a United Nations expert can be adapted and transplanted in a country like Iran, to anticipate the acceptance of or resistance to this sytem by other ministries, and to modify these proposals in accordance with the cultural and political climate of the country is an exercise in the art of judgment which is possessed by few directors general. All governments are in desperate need of such policy advisors.

Notes: 1. Daniel Katz and Robert L. Kahn, The Social Psychology of Organizations (New York 1966), p. 263. 2. Yehezkel Dror, `Prolegomena to Policy Sciences,' Policy Sciences 1, 1 (Spring 1970), 143. 3. Edward C. Banfield, Political Influence (New York 1961), p. 326. 4. Sir Geoffrey Vickers, The Art of Judgment: A Study of Policy Making (London 1965). See particularly pp. 73-74. 5. Ghulam-ria Nikpay (ed.), Records of the High Economic Council, Vol. 111 (From Shahrivar 1345 to Shahrivar 1347), p. 149. 6. Ibid., p. 145.

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7. Ghulåm-rig Nikpåy (ed.), Records of the High Economic Council, Vol. III (From Shahrivar 1347 to Murdåd 1348), p. 8. 8. Ibid., p. 9. 9. Nikpåy (ed.), Records, II, 151. 10. /bid., pp. 151-52. 11. Ibid., p. 24. 12. `A Survey of Iran,' The Economist, October 31, 1970, p. xliii. 13. The Imperial Government of Iran, Law of the Fourth National Development Plan, March 18, 1969, p. 4. 14. Ibid., p. 7. 15. Plan Organization, The Imperial Government of Iran, Fourth National Development Plan 1968-72, Teheran, 1968, p. 61. 16. Kayhän, International Edition, December 8, 1970. 17. Plan Organization, The Imperial Government of Iran, Fourth National Development Plan 1968-72, p. 51. 18. Ibid., p. 52. 19. Anthony Downs, Inside Bureaucracy (Boston 1967), p. 88. 20. See Frank H. Knight, Risk, Uncertainty and Profit (Boston 1921), Chap. XII.

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UNITY AND DISCORD: THE SYMBOL OF HUSAYN IN IRAN GUSTAV THAISS* While much attention in anthropology has focused on the networks of actual social relationships, relatively little attention has been paid to the cultural domain — the system of symbols and meaning by which `individuals define their world, express their feelings and make their judgements.' Islam, in this sense, is, of course, a cultural system, and many writers have noted that Islam is the religion of some ninety-five percent of the population of the Middle East and as such is `the single most consistent and pervasive socio-cultural factor in the area.'2 It is also clear, however, that Islam is not and has never been a single, monolithic, static tradition. It has never been one belief system but is rather made up of a great many variations on a common theme. In this paper I wish to focus on one of these variations — Shi`i Islam as practiced in the Middle East — particularly Iran — and even more specifically on a key symbol within that system, that of Husayn. The symbol of Husayn is a multivocal symbol. There are many meanings associated with this symbol, any one of which can be emphasized in a particular context by individuals or groups to suit a particular purpose. In Iran, which will be the major area of interest, the symbol of Husayn not only expresses the ethos of Shi`ism and thereby much of the transcendentalism of Islam, but it also represents the national interests and integrity of the Persian people. In one sense, it is a symbol which enshrines the hopes and aspirations of an entire society. I do not wish to imply by this statement that belief in the symbol is common to all Iranians. I am not positing a universal characteristic of Iranians or pointing to an aspect of their national character. Individuals in a nation-state are not coded to the same inputs — there is an element of shared meanings, no doubt, but there is also an element of choice, of flexibility which provides a degree of differentiation in the system. I assume, along with Eric Wolf, that `nations, like other complex societies must possess cultural forms or mechanisms which groups involved in the same overall web of relationships can use in their formal and informal dealings with each other.'3 There must be similar idiomatic forms in the society which structure how different groups communicate with each other. While different groups in Iranian society and throughout the Shii Muslim world make use of the same symbolic code, there are different versions of the same code or perhaps different stances in the performance of the same ritual. These differences may signify great disparities in the conflicting claims over resources and power in society. In other words, following Leach's cogent analysis in his Political Systems of Highland Burma, a common code may be used to communicate to differing social groups both a sense of unity as well as conflict — consensus as well as disagreement. *Department of Sociology and Anthropology, York University, Toronto, Ontario, Canada.

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The symbol of Husayn is a form that has an historical development and an intimate association with the processes of social life in Iran. As one Iranian member of the religious classes has phrased it: Much has been said and written about the martyrdom of Husayn and still more will be said in the future. The remembrance of Karbala' is like a live being which not only grows constantly, but also displays new appearances. It moves with the times. In Iran and among Shi'i countries, mourning for the Sayyid al-Shuhadd' (Lord of Martyrs) has always been in the process of expansion and transformation, depending on the conditions of the time, the process of thinking and the situation of the Shi`ah. Aspects of it (that is, the remembrance of Husayn) are lawful [mashrü'] and satisfactory to the original founder, and other aspects are deviating and superstitious.4

Before we proceed further it might be useful to recount something of the background to the drama of Husayn. Muhammad died without sons, and succession to the leadership of the Muslim community was left in doubt. Various men succeeded Muhammad, but a faction regarded `Ali, the cousin and son-in-law of the Prophet as the rightful Caliph. This group became known as the Shi`ah. Although `Ali finally acceded to the role of Caliph, conflicts still remained, the outcome of which was the assassination of `All. According to the Shi`i view the eldest son of `Ali — Hasan — succeeded his father as the rightful leader of the Muslim community and second Imam after his father. He was, however, murdered and the younger son, Husayn assumed the leadership of the community. What follows then, is my own, somewhat literal, translation of the tragedy at Karbala' as found in Persian elementary school readers for the fifth and sixth classes. Imam Husayn, who is also called Sayyid al-Shuhadå' — that means Lord of Martyrs — is the esteemed son of Amir al-Mu'minin and brother of Imam Hasan. Imam Husayn, when his brother was martyred, became Imam. Mu`awiyah had previously made an agreement with Imam Husayn that he [Mu`awiyah] would not choose anyone to become Caliph after himself. But, despite his promises he desired that his son Yazid succeed him as leader of the Muslims. To achieve this purpose he used to spend large sums of money and he destroyed anyone who was against this plan. Yazid, who introduced himself as the successor of the Prophet after Mu`awiyah was a profligate pleasure seeker and wine-drinker who was disrespectful to religious laws. Imäm Husayn felt that if he kept quiet and let Yazid do whatever he wanted to do, the laws of Islam might disappear and all the tribulations of the Prophet and past Imams would be ineffective. So he refused to accept Yazid as Caliph. Meanwhile the people of Küfah who were not satisfied with the Caliphate of Yazid wrote many letters to Husayn and asked him to come to Iraq. They promised him all kinds of help and cooperation. Imam Husayn found himself in a situation where he realized on the one hand that Yazid and his followers were planning to kill him and on the other that the people of Küfah had invited him to go there and with their help, to resist Yazid. So, during the period of the Hajj, when large numbers of people were coming from different cities to Mecca, he gave a speech and informed the people that he was not going to perform the Hai/ that year in order to fulfill his duty and was going to Küfah. Yazid, on his part, sent an army from Damascus to Küfah. Imam Husayn, with his brothers, children, wives and friends and a small number of people of Küfah fought, in the desert of Karbala', thousands of soldiers who were either ignorant or in the hope of acquiring wealth and position. On the tenth of Muharram, which we call äshürd', in the year 61 A.H./[680 A.D.] Imam Husayn

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suffered an honourable martyrdom. The enemy captured the women and smaller children and took them to Küfah and Damascus by the order of Yazid. Imam Husayn did not accept oppression (sitantgårån) and injustice (zulnt), and he didn't pay attention to those who wanted him to accept Yazid or keep quiet. The Lord of Martyrs, with this brave insurrection (giyånt-i mardånalt) gave a new spirit to Muslims. His martyrdom at Karbala' served as an example of resistance against tyranny (sitatngårän). Imåtn Husayn often said, "I sec life under a tyrannic government (hukfimat-i-sitantgårån) to be tiring (khastah kunandah) and unacceptable (nå-rat'ä) and I consider it happiness and pleasure to leave this world." At the battlefield also, when he had lost all his friends and he alone was facing all of the enemy, he often said, "we will never accept the shame of colluding with tyrants." All Muslims have a special attachment to this Imam. For this reason in the month of Muharram, which is the month of his martyrdom, many gatherings will be organized for the purpose of the remembrance of that Imfun's self-sacrifice (fide-kåri), and in those gatherings the story of the self-sacrifice of Imam llusayn and his friends will be told [in order] to protect the bases of Islam. The story will also be told of that great one's devotion and resistance to those who were ruling over people and who were not suitable for that position.s

This historical event - the martyrdom of Husayn - was transformed little by little in the imagination of the Shi'ah into an event of incalculable importance. It is believed that Husayn was in reality sacrificed for the safety of his people — for their temporal safety, of course, but more importantly for their eternal safety. Husayn had, in effect, been sacrificed for the salvation of his people. It is his intercession which will be accepted by God even when the intercession of the Prophet has failed. Go thou [says Muhammad to Husayn on the day of Resurrection], and deliver from the flames every one who has in his life-time shed but a single tear for thee, every one who has in any way helped thee, every one who has performed a pilgrimage to thy shrine, or mourned for thee and every one who has written tragic verse for thee. Bear each and all with thee to Paradise.6

Each year at the beginning of the first month of the Muslim calendar the Shi`ah commemorate the memory of Karbala'. If I may be permitted a slight digression here, some writers have seen a syncretism of ancient agricultural fertility rituals with Islamic conceptions in the commemoration of the death of Husayn on the tenth of Muharram. For example, Marcais reports for North Africa that It is generally agreed that the complex customs of 'flshüra in the Maghrib reflect the survival of very ancient agrarian rites, in fact the celebration of the death of the year coming to its end and the birth of their popular aspects [sic], which are both sad and joyful. The traditional Muslim Shi'ite mourning has, in all likelihood, become grafted on to this magico-religious substratum, whilst the lunar calendar has taken over a soar year cult, subjecting it to a temporal displacement. Through these super-impositions remains of this ancient disrupted ceremonial have, here and there, become haphazardly attached to Muslim feasts.' Similarly, von Grunebaum in discussing the drama of Husayn, has pointed out that this ritual, which is without parallel in Islam where a saint is never commemorated by a re-enactment of his funeral, incorporates rites of an earlier cult. A number of details regarding the arrangement and the symbolism of the procession corroborate the general parallelism of the ceremony with the festival of AdonisTammuz. The violent death of that god on the approach of summer, symbolizing the

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decline of nature's productive force under the searing rays of a merciless sun, was followed by a mourning of seven days after which the body was washed, anointed and shrouded to be carried abroad in a procession and finally interred.8

Despite the generally high esteem in which I hold the work of von Grunebaum and Marcais, I cannot help but comment on the views expressed. There seems to be an exaggerated tendency among many historians and other scholars to explain present social behaviour in terms of past institutions and practices. This seems to be an example of spurious continuity. That is, situations may arise, no doubt, in which there is an apparent congruence between a contemporary phenomenon and an ancient one, based upon an ancient situation. In such a case, there is a tendency for some scholars to refer the contemporary idea to the old situation — to see it as a `survival' or `remnant' of a previously existing pattern, even though the contemporary idea may be based upon an entirely new set of circumstances. Social scientists and historians will do well, rather, to seek the explanation of contemporary events first in the nature of the new form; and only when they have canvassed the immediate sociological terrain will they make an excursion into the past. The commemoration of the martyrdom of Husayn has not persisted merely because it is `traditional' to do so, nor has it been re-enacted yearly because one's ancestors performed it thus and so. The performance and ritual remembrance of the myth are the result of the desire to express certain sentiments associated with basic problems confronting man as Being and man as Iranian. In any event, during Muharram, especially the first ten days, there is nothing but edifying sermons, flagellations with chains (at an earlier period swords were used), narrations of the drama, and finally a folk theatrical presentation or ta'ziyah. The narrations, however, continue throughout the year in the form of weekly hayåts and n7zahs. Whatever means are used to commemorate the death of Husayn the intention is always the same — to incite the audience to a frenzy of weeping and moaning through flagellations and beatings, and if these tears are mingled with blood, the participants gain even greater savåb (religious merit). It is not enough that Husayn should die for his people; it is also necessary that each sinner in the course of his earthly life should shed at least one tear for Husayn. This is an absolutely necessary condition for salvation. Individuals invest religious activity with a great deal of emotion, and on the basis of many studies,9 it is clear that emotional performances, especially the manipulation of the narrative form, can propel audiences and performers toward a decision to act. Indeed, we occasionally hear reports that a dramatic performance has culminated in a strike, riot or revolt. The following quote gives some indication of a possible relationship between emotional involvement and behaviour. It is of course, both the ambition and despair of actors to have spectators who arc unable to distinguish between actor and role, play and reality. In Chicago, the despair was transformed into catastrophe, when the performer of lago was shot and killed by an officer who was outraged by lago's villainy. The officer must have had second thoughts, for he then killed himself. They were buried under the inscription: "Here lies the ideal actor — and the ideal spectator." to — 114—

The Comte de Gobineau and other travellers in Iran during the nineteenth century report similar incidents during the performance of the ta'ziyah. On one level of analysis we can see that the drama of l-lusayn as portrayed in myth and ritual is a form of dramatized dogmatics. In this context there are many transcendental meanings associated with the symbol. llusayn represents goodness and purity, he embodies the spirituality and sinlessness of the Prophet, while Yazid represents evil, sin and debauchery. The ritual enactment of the drama is a symbolic protest against the injustice inflicted upon Ilusayn, but it is also a celebration of victory, the victory of good over evil, of justice over injustice, of spiritualism over materialism, of the humane, kind and benevolent over the inhumane and selfish, of believer over non-believer. The idea that death is victory comes out very clearly in the drama — the concepts of redemption and salvation are implicit in the symbol of Ijusayn overcoming his adversaries, thereby giving hope to everyone who must one day face death." Thus the drama of klusayn incorporates an intense spiritual message. This message is concerned with ultimate questions of meaning — the fact that the highest earthly rewards do not always go to those who most closely follow the codes of society — that the just and the righteous may suffer and fail while the `ungodly' may prosper. But why do men suffer? Why is there evil in the world? Religion — or more specifically religious symbols as culturally constituted defense mechanisms — are developed and elaborated to deal with these problems. They are symbolic of certain transcendent truths and reflect basic unresolved conflicts of mankind. Thus, it can be said that certain meanings inherent in the symbol and drama of Husayn convey a common code to believers in villages, tribes and urban areas, thereby providing a framework of common understandings in the national context of Iran as well as in the international context of other Shhi`i communities in India, the Yemen, Bahrein or Lebanon. Such symbols are mediated through cultural brokers such as members of the religious classes, darvishån or itinerant narrators of the drama who travel from cities and towns to villages and tribes. It is at the transcendental, the universalistic level that we can speak of Islam (or in this particular case, Shi`i Islam) as being universal and providing a sense of socio-cultural integration to the Muslim world. But the very same symbol of I;Iusayn is also a focus for conflict and dissension between various groupings and levels of socio-cultural integration. This view can best be supported from data from my own fieldwork in the bazaar of Teheran and that of Emerys Peters from a Shii village in the Lebanon. The bazaar of Teheran is a socio-cultural world in itself. It is much more than a marketplace; it is a total social phenomenon and a corporate entity whose corporateness is seen in religious terms. The ideology of Islam is so comprehensive in the bazaar that it is explicit in almost all idioms of social action. It is for this reason — and others too detailed to discuss here — that the bazaar merchants use the religious idiom as an instrumental mechanism to cope with the process of socio-cultural change occurring in Iran today. Basically the problem centres around differing conceptions of the locus of power. Modernists and secularists increasingly use an anthropocentric model of the universe, while the bazaar merchants and 'ulamä' utilize a theocentric model. — 115—

Essentially the government of Iran is attacked for introducing and permitting Western values, ideas and artifacts which are interpreted as undermining an Islamic way of life. Employees of the governmental bureaucracy and other agents of modernization and secularization are attacked by the bazaar merchants for their implicit actions against Islam. In some cases the government is attacked with direct physical violence such as occurred in 1963 with a great loss of life. However, the forces of the government are much too powerful to confront in this way. Because of the feeling of the insufficiency of ordinary action, mythic and ritual enactments of the drama of Husayn are utilized to express and activate their feelings while selected meanings are singled out for emphasis. Emotional behaviour is a culturally conditioned trait, and as such it lends itself to manipulation by individuals who need political support in their quest for power or in their desire to retain their influence. The 'ulamå' in Iran are masters in the art of emotional manipulation, and when this is combined with a factional stance it often leads to violence. As we have seen, the historical conflict between Husayn and Yazd was a political event in that it was concerned with the question of who should make and carry out decisions regarding public policy and the common good. Throughout the history of Islamic Iran the symbol of Husayn has been used as a rallying point for national political unity especially in times of social change. The symbol was already used in the seventh century as a focal point in•Shi`► opposition to the Umayyad and later the `Abbasid dynasties. Under the Safavids the symbol of Husayn was elaborated in the mythologizing of the drama of Karbala' in the work Rawzat al-Shuhadd' or `Garden of Martyrs' which has since become the standard source for present day narrations. Opposition to the Ottoman Turks in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries created a need for a unifying symbol, one which represented purity and piety on the one hand and a warrior spirit on the other — it needed the symbol of someone who was willing to stand up for the faith and die for it if need be. The historical and mythical figure of Husayn was such a symbol. Under the Qajars in the nineteenth century the ritual dramatizations of Karbala' and the symbol of Husayn were emphasized in opposition to the increasing encroachment of the Western powers and the loss of national and spiritual integrity. `The ta'ziyas reached their greatest height during the reign of the Qåjårs ... when Iran was at the lowest point of its decline. It was as if the people felt a need for real heroes and moral greatness, on the stage at least, and by taking part in the performances tried to escape to some extent from the depravity and corruption and impotence of contemporary life.' 2 Clearly, as the foregoing quote indicates, the drama is used to reflect social conditions and attitudes. Sometimes the actors who play the roles of Yazid's supporters appear in Arab costumes while followers of the Imam wear versions of Sasanid attire thereby stressing, however subtly, the conflict between Arab and Persian. On other occasions Yazid's soldiers and particularly the hated and detested Shimr ibn Zi al-Jawshan, who finally slays Husayn, wear the costume of Roman legionnaires or Frankish knights of the Crusades. On still other occasions they appear dressed as Ottoman janissaries and even speaking Turkish. In

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the nineteenth century Napoleon Bonaparte sent an imperial coach to the Qajar ruler Fath `Ali Shah as a present since the two were in alliance against the Russians and the British. The coach, however, was immediately handed over to the Takkiyah-'i Dawlat in Teheran and was used during the performance of ta'ziyah by the 'bad guys.' After the annexation of several Iranian provinces by the Czars, the Russians also appeared in the ta'ziyah. The elaboration of the symbol perhaps reached its height during the Constitutional Revolution of 1905-1911 during which secret societies were formed to combat the abuses of the government and prevent foreign domination in economic and political matters. At this time it was claimed that Imam Husayn was the prototype of all founders of secret societies, and it was further declared that at the end of each clandestine meeting a rilzah (narration of the martyrdom of Husayn) would be presented.' 3 At the present time the symbol of Husayn is used to attack the government and its representatives — the newly emerging middle class, Westernized bureaucracy. Through subtleties of speech such as tone, pitch, melody, and the use of dramatic formulas and various poetic metres the passionate emotions of the audience are raised. The rhetorical style of a narrator is of utmost importance as is the social context of the presentation. The rhetorical style includes the use of particular analogies, metaphors and other devices; certain ways of accenting, elongating or abbreviating words also convey similar meanings. The outcome of this is that the units making up the structure and context of words are placed in a semantic and social field whereby numerous messages are being communicated with the sending of a given signal. Through the process of differential socialization individuals in particular status groups are `preconditioned' to interpret in certain ways. Through this implicit, but never direct, multivocability of the symbol of Husayn certain images are created or a distinct code is formulated whereby the spirituality of Husayn is equated with that of the religious leaders and bazaar merchants, whereas its opposite — the materialism, evil and disbelief of Yazid — is equated by those opposing change, to the modernizing materialism of the governmental bureaucracy. Good and evil in the contemporary Shi`i view are again opposed. The idea of justice associated with Husayn is assumed to be the just cause of the merchants in their defense of Islam and the national integrity of Iran. Both merchants and bureaucrats in the urban setting, including the Shah, are Shi`i; both believe in the symbol of Husayn and practice the associated rituals. But one status group — the merchants — have elaborated the code and present added meanings or a different stance in the performance of the same ritual to reflect their particularistic view of the world. Emerys Peters, on the other hand, has shown how the drama as enacted in a Lebanese village portrays social divisions within that community.14 Peters focusses on the ta'ziyah and notes how the representatives of the Great Tradition (who are also the wealthy landlords) — the shaykhs and sayyids — control the script, choose the costumes and rehearse the actors. `Above all,' Peters states, `they cast the parts in such a way as to symbolize and reinforce the distinctions between classes and groups in the village.' The parts of Husayn and his followers — `the good guys' — are — 117—

taken by the shaykhs and sayyids while `the bad guys' are portrayed by the peasants and petty traders. Again Peters notes that in real life, it is the former who `pray regularly, who tend the sick, say prayers over new graves, regularize marriages and in general are the bearers of Shi'a culture. In terms of the values accepted by the village, they are good. The peasants and petty traders, on the other hand, those who play the forces of evil in the drama, often in real life flout the religious rules, through ignorance if not through intentional culpability ... they blaspheme, they play cards openly for money, they are lax in their prayers, they drink and so on.' In developing nations, especially in societies with religious systems where law is understood as a divine command, the secularization of society becomes a prerequisite for significant social change. However, as Iran and other such nations become more secular, various religio-political movements arise. Religious interest groups, religiously-oriented political parties and various kinds of religious communal groups become more prominent in political activities. Individual religious and nationalist leaders and clerical groups utilize sacred symbols to mobilize the masses for various purposes. William Holland notes, for example, that religion played a considerable role in India where the nationalist movement was characterized by a strain of Hindu revivalism.` s In India, as in Iran, political agitation was often centered in religious festivals. Barnouw relates that in Bengal `festivals for the goddess Kali provided a focus for nationalist feelings' while in the region known as Maharastra `political forces promoted for nationalistic purposes an annual festival in honor of Ganapati, or Ganesa' ...I 6 This festival was organized in 1893 by Bal Gangadhar Tilak, a Poona Brahman who was the outstanding Indian nationalist leader before Gandhi. Tilak felt such a national festival would achieve two aims. The first would be to provide a good occasion for sermons and anti-British propaganda and secondly, it would bring the Hindu community together with a sense of solidarity particularly against the Muslims. Despite the anti-Muslim feeling at that time in India, Tilak modelled the Hindu festival of Ganapati on that of the Husayn drama since `in former times Hindus took part in the annual Muslim festival of Moharram.'" There are other reasons as well why Tilak chose the Muharram ceremonies as a model which we need not discuss here. Suffice it to say that there are various parallels in the legend of Ganapati with that of Husayn so that it was not difficult to adopt some of the practices of the Muslims. The public festival of Ganapati became an occasion for Indians to challenge British rule. The British sensed the dangers inherent in these ceremonies and although they had censorship rules against political speech-making, they hesitated to interfere with religious gatherings. Finally Tilak was imprisoned for his activities, and the British finally inaugurated censorship restrictions for the Ganapati festivals. Since the achievement of independence from Britain, the festivals have lost their raison d'être and have become entertainment for the masses. The situation is much the same for Iran. The Muharram ceremonies are used today by certain groups to oppose the processes of change that are occurring in Iran. Although these groups have achieved some success in the past in arousing certain groups to follow their views, there is increasing evidence that the trend — 118 —

seems to be away from physical resistance movements and more toward ideological resistance through involvement and participation in the decision-making apparatus of the government. Religiously oriented individuals who may oppose governmental policies of change nevertheless join its ranks in tjie hope that they will have the opportunity to implement policies that will be more in accord with their view that Islåm is an all-encompassing system of beliefs. In conclusion, it can be seen, I think, that the multivocality of the symbol of llusayn represents the world-view of the Sht'ah and at the same time the factional stance of particular status groups throughout the Shi`i world. The symbol has both a transcendental aspect and an instrumental one. In the case of the former, it provides a common code of communication for different levels of socio-cultural integration at the national and international levels in the Middle East. In the case of the latter, the same symbol - loaded with emotional, social, economic or political significata - provides an idiom for the communication of conflicting claims over resources and power particularly under conditions of social change. Notes 1. C. Geertz, 'Ritual and Social Change: A Javanese Example,' Reader in Comparative Religion, ed. W. A. Lessa and E. Z. Vogt (2nd ed.; New York 1965), p. 549. 2. Eric Wolf in B. Rivlin and J. Szyliowicz (eds.), The Contemporary Middle East: Tradition and Innovation (New York 1965), p. 19. 3. Ibid., p. 227. 4. Guftär-i :Ashürä' (Teheran 1963), p. 3. 5. Ta'!imät:i dint bath-yi sal-i panjum-i dabistan w sal-i shishum-i dabistän (Teheran 134641967-60. 6. G. E. von Grunebaum, Muhammadan Festivals (New York 1951), P. 94. 7. P. Margais, 'Ashüra',' Encyclopaedia of Islam, New Edition. 8. Von Grunebaum, Muhammadan Festivals, pp. 88-89. 9. See, for example, J. Peacock, Rites of Modernization (Chicago 1968); J. Nash, 'The Passion Play in Maya Indian Communities,' Comparative Studies in Society and History, X (1968), 318- 27; M. B. Concepcion, 'Ritual Mourning: Culturally Specified Crowd Behavior,' Anthropological Quarterly, XXXV, 1 (January 1962), 1-9; and C. Geertz, 'Religion as a Cultural System,' Anthropological Approaches to the Study of Religion, ed. M. Banton (New York 1966). 10. 0. Ramsoy, Social Groups as System and Subsystem (New York 1963), p. 53. 11. This is seen very clearly in the translation of some of the ta'ziyah dramas. Note the following: Gabriel delivers [to Muhammad] this message from the Lord: None has suffered the pain and afflictions which Husain has undergone. None has, like him, been obedient in my service. As he has taken no steps save in sincerity in all that he has done, thou must put the key of Paradise in his hand. The privilege of making intercession for sinners is exclusively his. Husain is, by My peculiar grace, the mediator for all. (From Sir Lewis Pelly's The Miracle Play of Hasan and Husain (London 1879), Vol. II, 347. See p. 113 above for a continuation of this theme. 12. J. Cejpek, 'Religious Folk Literature,' in J. Rypka (in collaboration with others), History of Iranian Literature, ed. Karl Jahn, [trans. P. van Popta], (Dordrecht 1956), p. 683. 13. Ann Lambton, 'Secret Societies and the Persian Revolution of 1905-1906,' St. Anthony's Papers, No. 4 (London 1958), p. 55. 14. E. Peters, 'A Muslim Passion Play,' The Atlantic Monthly, CXCVIII, 4 (1956), 176- 80. 15. William Holland, Asian Nationalism and the West (New York 1953), pp. 53-54. 16. V. Barnouw, 'The Changing Character of a Hindu Festival,'American Anthropologist, LVI (1954), 74-86.

17. Ibid., p. 77.

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Plate 16. General view of talar and Takht -i Marmar from courtyard.

THE TAKHT-I MARMAR (MARBLE THRONE) IN TEHERAN A. D. TUSHINGHAM*

A throne is a seat of royalty and can therefore connote any place where the king seats himself - on a rug on the floor, on a dais, an elevated platform-throne, a legged stool or chair - but the name is attached particularly to those pieces of furniture which, by their grandeur of size, their wealth of ornament, or their traditional form, are suited to the use of a monarch on formal occasions. The throne has a very long history in Iran. In the form of an elaborate chair with accompanying footstool it already appears on many of the Achaemenid monuments - particularly at Persepolis and Naqsh-i Rustam. It is described in many early sources; it is depicted in Safavid illuminated manuscripts and in Qajår paintings, enamels and lacquers. Three Safavid thrones, indeed, are still to be seen in the Treasury of the Kremlin Museum in Moscow. The Iranian throne is, therefore, a fit subject for consideration on the occasion of the celebration of the 2,500th anniversary of the Iranian monarchy. If we except the armchair of Muhammad Shah, of wood overlaid with gold and inset with gems, now residing in the Throne Room of the Gulistan Palace in Teheran, there are three important thrones still in existence in that great capital city. One is the Takht-i Nådiri, in the Crown Jewels collection in the vaults of the Bank-i Markant. This is a high box-like chair of wood, overlaid with gold and enamels and encrusted with large gems, which has been rather fully described in the recent book on the Crown Jewels' and is well-known to millions of people from its use during the coronation ceremonies of His Majesty, the Shåhanshåh, two years ago. A second is the so-called `Peacock Throne' located in the Throne Room of the Gulistan Palace. It, too, is of wood, overlaid with gold and enamels and inlaid with many fine gemstones, but in form it is a platform supported on cabriole legs, ascended by means of a stepped approach in front; on the elevated dais the shah would kneel to receive the accolades and addresses of loyalty on great court occasions. A study of this throne has been published in Persian by Mr. Yahya Zukå', Director of the Ethnological Museum in Teheran.' The third throne is the Marble Throne, and it is to this throne and its surroundings that the present discussion is devoted. Today, the Marble Throne is the central feature and focus of the tålår or open reception room situated on the south side of the Gulistan Palace and facing a beautiful garden with fountains and pools which was the scene of levees (salöms) and receptions during the Qäjär period (Plate XV I).The tal~rr itself measures about 13 metres wide, 8.5 metres high, and 12 metres deep to the back of the central recess, and is raised about 1 metre above the level of the courtyard. Across the full width of the talår and extending beyond it in both directions is *Chief Archaeologist, Royal Ontario Museum, Toronto, Ontario, Canada

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a dado consisting of slabs of greenish alabaster (or calcite) carved in formal foliate designs with rosettes. The central slab, directly in front of the throne, is carved with the motif of a lion attacking a dragon and is signed 'amal-i Muhammad lbråhim. A close examination of the panels of the dado, however, indicates that they are not in their original position; the manner in which those at the extreme ends (and so not shown in our plate) have been badly mutilated, misplaced and otherwise manipulated, puts this conclusion beyond all argument (Plate XV I I). At the front of the tdlär are two columns supporting the roof, positioned near the side walls so as to leave a completely unobstructed view of the throne to the nobles and foreign dignitaries attending the levee. They are white limestone monoliths and have shafts carved with spirals, bases with vase motifs and flowers, and simple `stalactite' capitals — similar to the columns supporting the Takht-i Marmar, as we shall see. The throne itself is constructed completely of green translucent alabaster with carved and gilded ornament (Plate XIX). It is essentially a large platform, raised above the floor of the tålår, on which the shah would kneel in an upright position supported by bolsters. The platform is on two levels: the lower stage in front is 3 metres broad, 2 metres deep and is raised about 1 metre above the floor. In the centre of this stage is a small fountain, the curb of which is an irregular foliate motif carved in relief, some 11 centimetres high. There is a central hole for a spout and pipe, but it has not been pierced through the platform beneath (Plate XVIII). The corner spaces between the fountain in the middle and the corners of the rectangular frame have relief motifs of hawks attacking ducks, the whole in one piece with the floor of the platform. The upper stage — roughly the rear half of the throne — is raised 15 centimetres above the lower, is narrower (i.e., about 2.15 metres wide) and is about 1.90 metres deep. The floor of this stage is completely flat without decoration; it was presumably always covered with rugs. On both sides of the platform is a low balustrade consisting of a series of panels bearing carved cartouches on both the inner and outer faces which contain a long poem in praise of Fath `Ali Shah. The cartouches are separated by lozenges bearing rosettes or scenes of a lion attacking a cow (repeated three times) and of a donkey suckling its foal, all carved in relief. The first cartouche on the left side of the throne, on the inside, bears the abjad3 date of 1246 A.H./1830 A.D. The balustrade terminates, on either side of the steps in front, in a triangular panel which bears, on the outside, a foliate pattern carved and gilded, and on the inner side, the motif of a hawk attacking a duck (the same motif as on the fountain plaque). With the exception of these two panels — which are related to the fountain carving — the balustrade panels appear to be lighter in colour and less weathered than the rest of the throne. In other words, the inscribed panels of the balustrade can be later than the throne proper. At the back of the throne a central panel is flanked on either side by a column consisting of a spiral fluted shaft rising from a square plinth and base (the latter with chamfered corners) to a square capital with carved stalactite ornament. On top — 122 —

of each column stands a young woman, carved in the round, about 40 centimetres high, carrying a cup in her hands. These are, however, not original here, for the flat tops of the capitals have slots which originally supported some other ornament or superstructure. The central panel, which rises to approximately 2.30 metres from the floor, bears on both sides formal floral and foliate patterns, carved and gilded, with blossoms painted in gold but not carved. A carved but flat section at the top of the panel suggests that some sort of cresting once rested here, a supposition which is supported by a vertical hole in the thickness of the slab. In addition to the two carved female figures on top of the columns at the rear of the throne, there are ten other small figures of women (of about the same height), carved and gilded, standing at intervals along the top of the balustrade. There are mortise holes for securing two others and it is quite probable that the two figures now flanking the rear panel were at one time on the balustrade. Many of the figures have inscriptions on their bases giving the names of the sculptors who made them: Muhammad Bågir, Muhammad Husayn, Murta a, Muhammad `Ali, Ghuläm `All. Muhammad Bågir is probably the same man who signed the paintings of battle scenes with the figures of Shah lsmå`il and Muhammad Shah now adorning the walls of the t71är. We know that he worked under Fath `Ali Shah, for three enamels in the Crown Jewels collections and a book cover in the British Museum bear representations of that ruler and are signed by Bågir 4 Below the balustrade, the outer edge of the throne platform is decorated with arcading and rests directly on the upright supports of the throne. These consist of a series of figures, carved in the round, around the periphery of the platform, and of columns beneath. On either side of the steps in front are demons fighting fire-breathing dragons, the one on the left holding an axe on which the sculptor's name appears: 'amal-i kamfarmn Chulåm Muhammad Ibrahim, the one on the right holding a halberd with the same inscription to which is added the word Isfahani. In the centre of the throne at the rear, another demon holds an axe bearing the inscription: 'amal-i Muhammad Ibrahim. At the front corners of the platform are sculptured young men or princes. Behind them on either side are two young women or fairies, the rear one in each case wearing a kind of tiara. On the wristlets of the first young woman on the right side of the throne there is carved a short poem: `Farhåd is the least of the servants of Ibrahim as he is the slave of the Prince of the Seven Climes' (Plate XX). Farhäd seems to have been an apprentice sculptor working under Ibrahim whose name is so prominent in all the stone carving on this throne and the dado. Behind these young women at the point where the platform narrows as it steps up to its higher stage, the supports are columns with spiral fluted shafts, the alternating bands gilded. The bases of these columns are pairs of lions and the capitals have carved volutes. Behind these are similar columns supported on bases of single lions. In the centre at the rear, crouches another demon (Plate XXI). Underneath the throne are five additional supporting columns, four of them alike and fully carved, the other with ornament in gilding only — probably an indication that it was never finished. — 123 —

The throne is ascended by means of two high steps in the centre front. The treads are uncarved, but the risers of both steps consist of panels in which coiled dragons are carved in ajoure and gilded. The borders of the panels bear foliate patterns in relief, gilded. To either side of the steps there are lions in high relief facing outward. The sides of the steps have not been carved, but the incised outline of what appear to have been intended as cartouches — perhaps for inscriptions — can be seen. The throne, as we have described it, betrays a history similar to that which we must assume for the panels of the dado which run along outside the tålär. We have the same material — a translucent greenish alabaster; we have the same sculptor Muhammad Ibrahim; we have the same evidence of modification on an original design and (at least in the case of the dado) repositioning. We are thus justified in accepting the documentary evidence that the Marble Throne was originally commissioned by Karim Khan Zand, the Vakil or Regent, who ruled Iran from Shiräz and whose family succeeded him there until Lutf `Ali Khan, the beloved Young Pretender of Iran, was defeated and killed in 1794 by Agha Muhammad, the founder of the Qajar dynasty. It has the support of the well-informed Harford Jones who was in Shiräz in 1787 and describes the public works carried out there by Karim Khan. He refers to the arrival in that city of the `ferocious eunuch' (Agha Muhammad), `who disfigured or destroyed almost every building in the city erected by the Vakeel, under the idea, that by carrying away the grand pillars and beautiful marbles with which some of them were adorned', he could eradicate the memory of the former ruler.' Further, Sir William Ouseley, who was in Teheran with his brother, Sir Gore Ouseley when the latter was British Ambassador in 1810-12, and who wrote a three-volume account of his experiences, not only ascribes the throne to Karim Khän but, like Jones, refers to pillars as well as to the dado and throne; we can, therefore, probably assume that the two lofty columns with twisted shafts which now flank the tåler were also brought from Shiraz .6 The throne as we have it is not in its original state. The panels of the balustrade have been changed; the small figures of women which surmount it have been added. We can conjecture that the holes which are still to be seen in the columns on either side of the back panel once secured posts for a canopy. Jaubert, who visited Teheran in 1806 as the representative of Napoleon, describes a throne which seems a strange combination of the Marble Throne and the Peacock Throne: Le trone ctait porte sur plusieurs colonnes de marbre do sept å huit pieds de hauteur. Quatre autres colonnes revetues do plaques d'or et d'email etaient placecs au-dessus des premieres et soutenaient un dais. Des milliers do diamants, do rubis, d'emeraudes et de saphirs etincelaient de toutes parts. Un soleil, figure par un tres-grand nombre de gros diamants, brillait derriere le schah, qui etait assis le dos appuye sur un coussin.. .7

While there is, as we have seen, a hole for the attachment of some object above the rear central panel, it is highly unlikely that it was originally a jewelled sun. Such an object would be completely out of keeping with the Marble Throne, which relies — 124 —

for its impressiveness on mass, material and the sculptor's art rather than on the skill of the jeweller. It is even difficult to believe that Fath `Ali Shah would have permitted such artistic gaucherie; his taste, on the whole, was very good. Whatever may be our judgment on the jewelled sun, however, it is possible that Jaubert does preserve some evidence for an original canopy (dais) supported and secured by the holes we have noted in the tops of the columns flanking the rear panel and perhaps in the holes later used to fasten the twelve small figures on the balustrade. It is also obvious that the throne was never completely finished. The clearest evidence is the incomplete state of the carving on the vertical panels on either side of the steps, but other indications may be the unpierced hole of the fountain, the uncarved column beneath the throne, and, perhaps, the lack of carving on the treads of the steps. We can only guess at the reason for this, but possibly the political turmoil of the brief thirty-five years, which was the extent of the Zand rule, is sufficient to explain it. The Marble Throne, then, is an important monument for scholars for two reasons — one artistic, the other political. From the fall of the Safavid monarchy to Afghan invaders in the early eighteenth century and the subsequent partition of the country between them, the Turks and the Russians, there was nearly a half century of confusion before the consolidation of Persian power once more by Karim Khan. To be sure, in this half century, we witness the meteoric rise of Nadir Shah, his repulse of foreign invaders and wide-spread conquests, but his continuous wars no more provided a suitable setting for artistic development than did the civil wars and confusion which preceded and followed his reign. The period of peace under Karim Khan, if only too ephemeral, provided opportunity and inspiration for the native arts and crafts to flourish once more. The establishment of Shiraz as the capital and the vigorous building program inaugurated by Karim Khan furnished both incentive and financial support. Of his structures, many were destroyed by the vengeful ,Agha Muhammad but there still survive the great mosque, the Masjid-i Vakil, the fine bazaars, and the little pavilion of the Kulah Farangi, now the Shiraz Museum. Of his palace, the Gulistan (in Shiraz), little survives.$ Certainly the most important remaining feature of that palace is the Marble Throne together with the sculptured dado and columns. The foliate forms, symmetrically carved in low relief on alabaster and often touched up with gilding, are to be seen not only on the dado panels and those of the throne itself but also in the slabs which perform the same functions in the mosque of Karim Khan in Shiraz. There can be no doubt that the style is characteristic of the Zand period. If we take advantage of the juxtaposition of the Zand dado at the Gulistan Palace in Teheran with carved slabs of the Qajar period immediately adjacent to it,9 we can easily see the contrast. The Qajar work is painted in several colours (in contrast with the uncoloured, or simply gilded, carving of the Zand work), it is more ornate (including birds) and far stiffer and more cluttered than the simple, flowing, but highly effective tendrils and florets of the Zand sculptors. Even more significant are the symbolic figures which support the throne. J. M. Upton and P. Ackermann, in their brief note on this throne,' ° have already drawn

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attention to these. The jinn or dies, fairies or demons, the lions which serve as bases for columns or as attendants by the steps, hawks attacking ducks, or a lion fighting a dragon — all constitute a revival of an ancient practice which graphically, but symbolically, depicted the power and authority of the ruler and his cosmic significance as the champion of justice and order against the powers of darkness and confusion. The size and material of the throne, overshadowed by the assumed canopy, would add weight to the symbolism. The artistic skill and the motifs used, however, have more than a purely ornamental purpose. If the symbolism of the throne was intentional — and as a revival of old customs and ideologies it appears to be intentional — we have here an insight into the concept which the Zand dynasty (and particularly its founder, Karim Khan) had of its own role and destiny. Obviously, it conceived of its power and prerogatives as being fully imperial even if it abjured the use of the term `shah'. One can only assume that Karim Khan avoided this term in deference to the ancient and legitimate line of the Safavids, even though that line must by now have been virtually extinct. Nevertheless a regency gave all the power to the Zand family while avoiding the issue of legitimacy. If events had turned out differently, there is little doubt that the Zands would have adopted the term `shah' and created a dynasty which would have had authority both de jure and de facto. Finally, it is hardly surprising that Ågha Muhammad, when he had defeated and killed the last surviving heir of the Zands, should carry off the Marble Throne to his new Gulistän Palace in his new capital of Teheran where, by its symbolism and beauty, it would accomplish for his dynasty, the Qajärs, the purposes it had failed to achieve for the Zands. The Marble Throne remains, even in its modified form, a good example of Persian art in the third quarter of the eighteenth century. Together with the buildings in Shiraz we have already mentioned, with one extremely fine enamel on gold in the Crown Jewels'' and other enamels on silver in Shiraz, with several lacquered boxes and galamdåns in various museums, a few paintings and some tile work which is a sad descent from the heights attained by that craft, this throne and accompanying dado provide part of the rather small group of objects which give us an insight into the artistic taste and accomplishment of the Zand period. The real renaissance was to come under the second Qäjar ruler, Fath `Ali Shah, whose brilliant court became the supporter and encourager of the traditional arts of Iran. Notes 1. V. B. Meen and A. D. Tushingham, The Crown Jewels of Iran (Toronto 1968), pp. 54 ff. 2. Unfortunately, the place and date of publication are unknown to the writer, although he has seen a very rough English translation. 3. Abjad, a word formed from the first four letters of the Arabic alphabet, designates a system based on the numerical value of the letters of the alphabet, the letters themselves being arranged to form words or even short poems. 4. A dagger, a gold tea-pot and a snuff-box (see Meen and Tushingham, Crown Jewels, p. 86 and footnote 36, p. 149); B. W. Robinson, 'A Pair of Royal Book-Covers,' Oriental Art, New Series, X, 1 (1964), 3 ff. An important essay by Mr. Robinson, entitled 'Qajår Painted Enamels,' which indicates the versatility of these (Ajar artists, remains unpublished.

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5. Sir Harford Jones Brydges, 'Preliminary Matter,' in [Abd al-Razzåq ibn Najaf Quill The Dynasty of the Kajars, trans. Sir Harford Jones Brydges (London 1833), p. cvii. 6. Sir William Ouseley, Travels in Various Countries of the East: More Particularly Persia (3 vols.; London 1819-23), I11, 118 (two columns), 128 f. (dado and throne). See also Clements R. Markham, A General Sketch of the History of Persia (London 1874), p. 473 (throne). The Ouseley references indicate that these three elements — throne, columns and dado — were set up in the Gulistan Palace, and presumably used, early in the reign of Fad? 'Ali Shah. 7. Pierre-Amedee Emilien-Probe Jaubert, Voyage en Armenie et en Perse (Paris 1821), p. 205 ff. 8. We may, perhaps, hazard a guess that the series of slabs, now built into the wall of a government building immediately north of the Shiraz Museum, and bearing representations of the ancient paladins of Iran, all sitting in straight chairs with legs crossed, were originally a part of the palace. 9. Glimpses of the (Mar panels can be seen surrounding the Marble Throne in our plates. 10. In the article 'Furniture,' Survey of Persian Art, ed. Arthur Upham Pope (6 vols.; London 1939), Ill, 2656 ff. 11. The decanter published in Meen and Tushingham, Crown Jewels, p. 106 f.

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Plate 17. Mangled panels in the dado.

Plate 18. The fountain on the throne platform.

Plate 19. The Takht -i Mannar.

Plate 20. The supporting fairy with inscribed wristlets.

Plate 21. The supporting demon at the rear of the throne.

THE IMPERIAL EPIC OF IRAN: A LITERARY APPROACH G. M. WICKENS* Many of the ideas presented here have undoubtedly been maturing in my mind since I was first compelled, some thirty-four years ago, to read a portion of the Sigh-nåmah not for its own splendid sake, but as a tool on which to practice my elementary grasp of the Persian language. They are thus very personal ideas, very much a part of my life; but they have been sharpened and brought to the point of public utterance as the result of several recent discussions on literary and related matters with my colleague and friend, Dr. Rivanne Sandler. It is, therefore, only fitting that I make at this point a grateful, if necessarily somewhat imprecise acknowledgement of Dr. Sandler's part in this enterprise. She may yet have other things to say on her own account, or we may say them in collaboration; but meanwhile, the following speculations are offered in their own right as a tribute to some of the imperfectly appreciated versatilities of Iran's great singer of the royal saga. Like most other works of Persian literature, the Shåh-nåmah has received very little analysis in purely literary terms, and even less in the context of really modern literary criticism. It is of course a commonplace among students of Persian literature that, in Iran itself, the traditional literary `appreciation' is confined to generalities or to technicalities of exegesis, prosody and figurative style, or tends to pass rapidly into biographical and anecdotal narrative. In the case of the Shåh-nåmah, moreover, the would-be modern critic's problems are compounded by a virtually unique element — namely the work's long-standing pious prestige as the classic literary affirmation of the Iranian sense of identity, particularly as that identity reveals itself in a consciousness of historic destiny embodied in both a royal personage and a masterly wielding of the Persian speech-form as such. Even a readable and valuable work like Firdawsi w shi'r-i ü, published in 1346 5./1967 by that eminent man-of-letters Mujtabå Minuvi, still very largely concerns itself with such aspects as these to the virtual exclusion of any validly literary analysis. Non-Iranian evaluation (which of course connotes primarily Western studies) is in even less satisfactory case. At least no one can doubt that the Iranian tradition itself is one of both reverence and delight; but it would be next to impossible to point to a single Western scholar who has either approached the work with real respect or laid it aside with keen pleasure. All have at times commented on what they felt to be its inordinate length, its wearisome repetitions, its stock situations, its stylized language, its dullness and lack of humour — and so on and so forth. Those who have at least taken the work at all seriously (like Windischmann, or Geiger or Noeldeke, or their few modern successors like Wolff) have looked upon it primarily as a text for critical source research or as a component in comparative studies in language or history or mythology. Perhaps the most favourable treatment *Department of Islamic Studies, University of Toronto, Toronto, Ontario, Canada.

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the work has received in the West has been at the hands of art historians, who have valued it — along with Nizami's Khamsah — for the superb illustrations that have often accompanied the best manuscripts. Virtually no one, however, up to and including Reuben Levy's 1967 precis in prose, has treated the work as a great piece of literature, much less as literature to be assessed in literary terms. In this paper it is hoped to make some small beginning towards a literary appraisal of what might be termed Iran's `royal work' par excellence. It might be appropriate for several reasons to base myself primarily, though not exclusively, on the early Sasanid period, specifically the reigns of Ardashir I and his son Shipür I. In the first place, this was the portion I was obliged to read all those years ago in 1937; and I have read it many times since, so it is perhaps the one on which my thoughts about literary matters in the Shåh-ncimah have been most concentrated over the years. Secondly, it is — as most people will surely agree — far from being one of the most obviously literary portions of the Shåh-nåmah; for it is only loosely woven of threads that ostensibly neither match nor contrast — among them, rather flat narrative, both factual and apocryphal, from the historical period, grotesque magic and fantasy from the realm of the timeless, and didactic material that is of classic social significance but, by any immediate standards, of only limited literary merit. If such a portion of the work can plausibly be shown to contain several features of genuine literary significance, the case will have been fairly adequately suggested for the rest. My final reason for this choice is that the early Sasanid period is perhaps peculiarly fitted for consideration on this occasion, being — like the present — one of the notable ages of Iranian national resurgence after a lengthy period of decline and stagnation. At this point it would be well to summarize the themes of the main subdivisions of this portion. At the opening of the narrative for this period, the five hundred years following Darius' death and Alexander's succession are dismissed in a few lines; and we are told how the true royal stock survived in hardship and obscurity until a descendant, working as a shepherd in south Persia, is recognized as kingly by his master in a dream and married to the latter's daughter. From this union is born Ardashir, who is sent by his grandfather to the Parthian court of Ardavin for his education and advancement. Before long, Ardashir offends Ardavän by surpassing the Parthian ruler's sons in his accomplishments; and he also attracts Ardavån's mistress, who, in her roles as royal confidant and treasurer, keeps him informed of Ardavån's anxieties and initiatives for his family's succession. When matters become dangerously critical, she aids Ardashir, materially and otherwise, to make his escape back to Fars. Ardavån pursues them without success, and in subsequent battles he is progressively reduced to the support of his immediate family and entourage, while more and more forces gather to Ardashir. Ardavän is finally killed and his line almost obliterated on the male side. As the first of his many struggles to maintain himself, Ardashir now engages in a long-drawn war with the Kurds, at length obtaining victory. There follows here the episode of the Worm of Kirmån. A Worm found in an — 134 —

apple is reared by a girl of poor family. Eventually it becomes an enormous dragon in whose service the girl and her family achieve great power. Ultimately, the Worm presents a serious threat to Ardashir, who is not only at first defeated but finds his homeland attacked and plundered in his rear by other enemies as well. At last he obtains access to the Worm, disguised as a grateful merchant come to pay tribute; he kills the creature by feeding it a diet of molten metal and goes on to defeat and kill its cohorts in battle. On the site of the Worm's stronghold, as one of his many measures to restore and strengthen the Zoroastrian faith, he erects a fire temple and makes provision for worship in the old religion. At this date begins officially Ardashir's reign of `forty years and two months,' and he establishes his court in Ctesiphon, near the modern Baghdad. He now seeks in marriage the daughter of his old enemy Ardavan, primarily so that she can be induced to reveal the whereabouts of her father's great treasure. Whatever her own feelings towards him, she is pressed to kill him by her elder brother, who has escaped to India and now sends her poison and reproachful admonitions to use it forthwith. King-favouring fate intervenes before the Shah drinks the poison; and when her treachery becomes apparent, Ardashir gives orders for her to be killed despite her claim to be now pregnant by him and his own keen desire for an heir. But his loyal first minister, conscious of the desperate need for established succession, shelters the girl in his own home. In a macabre side-incident, this faithful servant avoids scandal by castrating himself and depositing in the royal treasury a sealed and dated receptacle containing his manhood. Shipür I is born of Ardavån's daughter, and is eventually recognized (a very common occurrence in the epic) by his father from among several youths playing in a polo match. Ardavin's daughter, still alive, is forgiven and restored to a position of honour. At this point, Ardashir, anxious like Ardavån before him, sends to an Indian sage for advice on the future and for some encouragement to believe he will soon find rest from his constant struggles against enemies. The answer comes that peace and tranquillity may be expected only when Ardashir's line is joined with that of Mihrak, one of the several treacherous rivals the Shah has had to eliminate in the course of his rise to power. Ardashir is outraged and vows to seek out and kill the one child of Mihrak, a daughter, who has hitherto eluded him. Fate once again intervenes, and the heir-apparent Shipür accidentally meets and falls in love with Mihrak's daughter, who is living in obscurity with a village headman's family. From their union is born Ohrmazd, and he is reared secretly until (once again) his grandfather picks him out at a polo match by his kingly skill and daring. The Shah accepts the workings and wisdom of fate, recalling that since Ohrmazd's conception he has known peace and contentment as promised by the Indian seer. Here follows a long, and classic passage on Ardashir's political sagacity and administrative ability; then an encomium upon Ardashir by a certain Kharrad; next a discourse on the ultimate faithlessness of fate, at least in its dealings with human beings as individuals; Ardashir's last injunction to Shapt-tr before dying; and finally a short section in praise of God and in commendation of the poet's prospective patron, Mahmnd of Ghaznah. — 135 —

Shåpür's historically eventful reign of thirty-two-odd years is dealt with in about one-seventeenth of the space given to his father. There is a passage of conventional exhortation to the great administrators of the realm, and an account of Shåpür's wars with the Romans and the capture of their general. Peace comes at the last. So much for a bare synopsis of the material in this section of the Shåh-nåmah, some mere three percent of the whole work. In what ways may one interpret this section as a piece of work revealing a high degree of literary skill? The Shåh-nåmah is commonly referred to, at least in the West, as an epic: in Iran itself there is no genuine, indigenous word for the genre to which this work might loosely be said to belong. However, as there is no clear agreement, even in the West, on the essential nature of the epic, and since the Shåh-nåmah is in all sorts of ways in a class apart — in both Persian and world literature — the term epic is not altogether enlightening; but it is convenient and handy, and there seems little point in trying seriously to replace it. However, one feature the work displays quite unmistakably, in the first place, is the tension of great drama — a tension, moreover, not only of language and the confrontation of persons with persons or with events, but one of overall conception. At no point in this vast cavalcade are we in any serious doubt that the true line of kingship, as distinct from the individual kings, will survive — certainly until the coming of Islam, and perhaps even beyond that. At the lowest mechanical level, to demonstrate this theorem is the avowed purpose of the work as a whole. But on a higher literary plane also, throughout the course of the narrative, the bearer of kingship is constantly recognized, helped and protected by a whole series of figures — some of them gigantic and heroic and enduring like Rustam, others obscure and ephemeral (shepherds and boatmen are the commonest representatives from among the people), while still others — though ostensibly folk figures — carry a shadowy suggestion of the supernatural and the angelic. Of course, for any with what Firdawsi would call clarity of eye and heart, the true king carries around him a royal aura, the farr, that is both physically and psychologically palpable. Nevertheless, if all is due to come out right in the long run, there are many tragic failures along the way, and even more frequent examples of the royal figure's veritable human nature threatening to impede the ultimate success of his cause, to say nothing of instances where his weaknesses help it along. In many and varied ways, this long line of princes interacts (to use the modern terminology) with the end-purpose of fate and of their own loyal followers, but by no means do they always dovetail with it. These rulers are, in other words, realistically enough conceived to be often unwise, headstrong and hubristic — sometimes almost comically so. A few are almost constantly thus (e.g. Kay Kå us), some only in spells (like Ardashir), while others begin well and end irrevocably badly (like Jamshid). From one point of view, the whole massive sub-epic of Rustam is a prolonged instance of such dramatic tensions, though it has many subordinate tensions besides. Let us consider some examples of this sort of situation as they work themselves out in the cases of Ardashir I and Shaper I. Dramatic tension, often associated with — 136 —

irony and humour, will be my main concern, but I shall seize the opportunity to touch briefly on several other literary and related features which seem to me to have been largely ignored by others so far. It may be that I shall attempt too much, and so produce a measure of mental and emotional congestion; but I would plead that it is in a good, and even a desperate, cause; and I certainly propose to develop each of these ideas elsewhere, as suitable opportunities arise, in more disciplined and rigorous categories. The opening passage, where the defeated royal line endures centuries of poverty and obscurity in India and Iran, is a low-key masterpiece of Firdawsi s technique. Not only do we here have tension, but also — lightly but significantly introduced — the constantly present feature of dramatic irony: we ourselves know the true identity of these honest labourers, but virtually nobody else does, and even they themselves seem at times but dimly aware of their royal heritage and destiny. Even when the action starts to move again, the unknown prince is still busily playing his natural (if symbolic) part as a shepherd. When he takes service under the landowner who finally recognizes him in a vision, there are no heavy, mechanical portents, only the simple — practically colloquial — question: `Could you use a hired hand, passing this way, down on his luck? ' • i ~~ r I« •

And when, after consecutive dreams revealing the young man's, or his descendants', glorious future of temporal and spiritual power, the landowner summons him, there is still no forcing of the action: `He ordered the head-shepherd should come to him from the flocks, on a day of wind and snow; who came to him, panting, in his cloak — the woollen garment filled with snow, his heart with fear.' Anyone who has spent a winter's day among the nomads of Iran will appreciate this as a vignette of high artistry (even in my version); but it is more — it holds off the great movements of fate, forcing them to play themselves out in the business of daily living. Again, as Båbak tries to persuade the young man to speak of his background and family (for even inspired dreams must be tested in the Shåh-ndmah), the shepherd is silent and ultimately speaks, in very restrained language, only after obtaining a sworn guarantee for his security. No instant recognitions here, no ringing declarations, no bold decisions. And Båbak, despite his tearful joy at confirming the survival of the true royal line, is nevertheless abruptly practical in his dismissal of the smelly young shepherd to the bath

before proceeding further. Throughout the poem royalty is associated, in high symbolic drama, with a pastoral aristocracy, and there is no indignity in honest labour in such pursuits, but the earthy realities of the pastoral life are never ignored. Even later, when the royal figure has married Båbak's daughter and lives (somewhat improbably) in elegance and splendour, there is no rapid restoration of — 137 —

the right order of things. All must work itself out through human motivation, even where humanity is at its weakest. When Ardashir is born and grows to young manhood, he is sent by his wise old grandfather to the Parthian court of Ardavån in North Persia. (As an aside, we may here point out other subordinate tensions in the work, such as the fruitful ones between grandfathers and grandsons: those between fathers and sons — of which Rustam and Suhräb offer the best-known example — are often highly destructive.) Now Ardashir is sent at Ardavån's own request, for the latter has heard of his `accomplishments and wisdom.' Preceding lines also dwell on his appearance and his true descent, and in later passages other gifts are mentioned. The decisive action is sprung by none of these aids to greatness, but rather, by the natural often unbridled, urges of a young man in high health and prideful spirits. The ironies and tensions lie thick hereabouts, though never obtruded. Here are a few. The old grandfather, whatever his secret knowledge and his high hopes for his grandson, is on excellent and respectful terms with the Parthian usurper, who is in effect precipitating his own downfall by his desire to embellish his court with gallant youths like Ardashir. Again, Ardavån persuades Båbak to relinquish his beloved grandson with vows (which he inevitably, because of Ardashir's nature, will not be able to keep) to treat him exactly as one of his own sons. The grandfather, on his side, plays a part entirely in character by giving the young prudent advice about his conduct, which Ardashir at the time may well intend to follow, but which — if actually put into practice — would effectively rule out his future greatness as purposed by fate. For the moment, at any rate, all goes well; and the ironies are evident, as they should be, only in the reflection of what follows. Neither Ardavån's figure and character nor those of his family are at this time presented in anything but a dignified and generous light: their only real defect is that fate cannot be on their side, for they are not of the true royal line. (Only much later do two mysterious young men speak of Ardashir as having escaped `the palate and the breath of the dragon'; but this is less a designation of Ardavån's character than a clear casting of him for the malevolent role in a quasi-cosmic drama.) When the crucial quarrel erupts between Ardashir and Ardavån — over the fact that the former not only surpasses Ardavån's son on the hunting-field, but refuses graciously to back down and even calls the Parthian prince a liar who makes false claims — Ardashir is sent to be Ardavån's head groom and odd job man

This is not quite 'clogs to clogs in three generations' (as the old Lancashire saying has it), but it is a sufficiently ironical come-down to make what follows not merely plausible but inevitable. Ardashir chafes and plots (as the poet puts it, his head is `full of alchemy'), and he complains to his grandfather, who writes back, still very much in character: `0 youth, little-wise, part-ripe...you are his servitor, not his relative; he showed not you the enmity in malice that you have shown yourself by your unwisdom! ' But he sends him money and supplies and bids him lie low in hopes that time will heal the quarrel. Ardashir goes his own way, putting his mind — 138 —

now to nayrang w awrand, the `craft and deceit' without which even fate cannot bring the royal aspirant to his rightful end, and which are in no way seen as a detraction from his character or his felicitous auspices. Outwardly he lulls suspicions by adopting the life-style of a frivolous playboy. The events that follow, leading to the ultimate confrontation, are brought about and directed, however, not by any scheming on Ardashir's part but by the resourcefulness of Ardavän's girl-Friday, Gulnår — one of a line of remarkable female characters that form one of the poem's most striking features. This spirited girl's one weakness is a passionate obsession with Ardashir (which gives Firdawsi the opportunity to write some rarely tender and emotional lines. Ardashir, by contrast, is cool and detached, even peevish — a mood set by his first words when he awakes to find her at his pillow: `Where have you sprung from? '

(5'1 9 (IA So much for her weakness, but in all other respects she is calm, intelligent, practical and strong-minded. It is no accident that the great Ardavån not only needs her constantly by him, but is described as unable to begin his day unless — another supreme irony! — she shows her auspicious face at his bedside each morning. At any rate, she establishes a liaison with Ardashir at considerable risk to herself, she skilfully manages Ardavän's affairs while keeping Ardashir fully informed of them and of her master's troubles and anxieties, and she plots and plans and urges various courses of action. Eventually she brings the critical news that astrologers, employed by Ardavän, have forecast the affliction of a great man in consequence of the revolt of a subordinate destined for greatness. (No ominous judgments of this kind, astrological or otherwise, are ever couched in the Shah-nämah, in anything but vague — and sometimes ironically reassuring — terms.) This, she indicates, is Ardashir's moment, but he greets her — totally in character, but with what must be seen as an ironic resistance to destiny — with the following words: `Can't you do without Ardavån for a single day? ' . , II she has been absent for three days, busily following the full cycle of the astrological processes. Even when she convinces him that it is now or never, he is clearly `lost' rather than grateful, and promises her a share of his greatness if only she will accompany him on the flight to Fars. She, poor girl, needs no urging, staying only to say, `I will never leave you so long as I live! '

she hastens back to her quarters to organize all the material and other necessities for the escape. One of the most significant silences in the work touches her eventual fate, for she drops out of the narrative completely after playing her usual important role on the return journey. Like Homer, Firdawsi sometimes nods, but his shuttling back and forth of his personae is normally very skilful and thorough. Accordingly, I think we must regard this fade-out as deliberate, a further stroke in delineating the — 139 —

character of Ardashir himself. In this portion of the work there are four major feminine figures: this girl; Ardavån's daughter (who, after marriage to Ardashir, tries to poison him); Mihrak's daughter (who secretly marries Shåpür); and Haftvåd's daughter (the girl who finds the Worm in the apple). The characters and the actions of these women illuminate not only Firdawsi s skilful management of the fundamental tensions between the sexes, but also his ability to pass to and fro between delicate irony and outright comedy — I say this in the belief that the humorous side of the poet's work has hitherto been underestimated, if not virtually ignored. We have seen how Ardavån's daughter, in peril of her life, still manages to circumvent Ardashir's hot-tempered decree, and this for his own ultimate and inevitable good — one of the most fateful events in the whole work, for the true line is about to die out. In the cases of Gulnar and Mihrak's daughter, however, the events — though almost as portentous —are more lightly handled. On his flight from Ardavan's court, Ardashir (supported as he is by all sorts of earthly and supernatural phenomena, including a spectral ram — a sort of pastoral symbol of his farr) is, as usual, in danger of committing all manner of fateful imprudences, including that of delaying for rest and refreshment. Two mysterious young men exhort him to press on, and for the first time, even if in an ironically misguided context, he begins to feel his authority. Turning to Gulnar, as though the idea of halting had been hers, he says sharply: `Mark these words! '

and on several occasions throughout his subsequent career (notably after the two events he has done his utmost to thwart, i.e., the birth of his heir, and the marriage of that heir to Mihrak's daughter), he will seize the opportunity to read back at some length, to both fate and his loyal followers, the moral in all that has come to pass so wondrously. The fi st encounter of Shåpür with Mihrak's daughter strikes an even more absurd note. In her disguise as a village maiden, she is drawing water from a well. The enamoured Shåpür orders one of his retinue to relieve her, and when the man fails to raise the bucket, shouts: `0 half a woman! Did not a woman wield this pail and wheel and rope, raising no little water from the well, where you are full of toil and call for help? ' He then tries his own hand, barely succeeding; and this domesticated version of the drawing of Excalibur enables each young person to recognize the other as royal. Yet the girl, whose royal title is only partial, emerges — humanly speaking — as the victor in the exchange. While Shåpür blusters and puffs over the pail, she sits to one side and smiles. When he covers his embarrassment with an abrupt, brief outburst to the effect that she must be something more than ordinary to cope so easily with the bucket, she counters with an elegant reply, fully delineating his identity and qualities and suggesting that the water will now turn to milk by the grace of his intervention. All in all, she is shown as not only most beautiful, but stronger and wittier than the man she will marry. It is important to realize, however, that the royal figure remains great on an entirely different scale from the purely human; and the use of these gifted, but ultimately — 140 —

less than ideal, human instruments to bring out the essential greatness of royalty (or sometimes of sainthood) is a staple of Persian literature. Gulnår (the ex-mistress of a hated rival, and a girl whom some would regard as a forward, bossy hussy), Ardavån's daughter (of part-impure stock, and a would-be poisoner), and Mihrak's daughter (a show-off and descended from a traitor) — all these parallel, in one way or another, that classic female figure in Persian literature, Zulaykhå, Potiphar's wife, who (driven by unlawful passions) demonstrates Joseph's inner greatness by contrast and relief. Yet, at the human level, few poets have missed the formal beauty and the pathetic dignity of the Zulaykhå figure, rather than of Joseph, so that — while he may be virtuous it is she who, by an only seeming paradox, becomes the symbol of the helpless self-sacrificing mystic. Similarly in the Shirk-nåmah. In the case of Haftvåd's daughter, the Worm-girl, there is no direct confrontation with the royal line, and here Firdawsi builds his tensions, and displays his literary skills generally, in a somewhat different manner. Broadly speaking, the effects are achieved by emphasizing at the outset, and reminding us throughout, that the girl who rises to ultimately sinister fortune and power is, originally and essentially, a hardworking, natural, kindly person. Likewise, what eventually becomes a monstrous and baleful dragon is but a gradually developed projection, again with frequent flashbacks, from a rather cute, helpless, tiny creature. Even the girl's father, who soon becomes a boastful layabout and finally a tyrant, is depicted at first as a natural victim of life's handicaps and of other men's greed and callousness. To make these points somewhat clearer, it is worth quoting the low-key opening passages from this fantastic episode at some length: A town there was, cramped, the people numerous, each person's eating by effort only; many girls there were therein, seeking their bread without fulfillment. On one side the mountains came closer, and thither they would all go together, each carrying cotton weighed out by measure and a spindle-case of poplar-wood. At the gates they would gather, striding from the city towards the mountains. Their food they pooled in common, in eating there was neither more nor less. There was no talk there of sleeping or eating, for all their efforts and endeavours were towards their cotton. In the evening homeward they would return, their cotton to a long thread turned. In that city, having nothing but of serene disposition, was a man named Haftvåd .. . who had but one beloved daughter...

The action opens one day, at the lunch-break, again most unportentously, or at least with such portents as are realized later to be delicately ironical: ...It befell that this girl of good fortune had seen on the road, and swiftly picked up, an apple cast down from its tree by the wind. (Now hear this marvellous tale! ) That fair-cheeked one, into the fruit biting, saw a worm lodged inside; with her fingers she lifted it from the apple and gently placed it in her spindle-case. Then, taking up her cotton from the case, she said: "In the name of the Lord, with no mate or companion, I today by the Star of the Apple-Worm will show you a terrible prodigy of spinning! " All the girls took to merriment and laughter, open-cheeked and silvery of teeth. So she spun twice what she would spin in a day, and marked its quantity on the ground... — 141 —

So is laid the foundation of the family's enormous wealth and authority throughout the land, until even the up-and-coming Ardashir feels threatened. But events move with anything but unnatural swiftness. The girl constantly increases her intake of cotton and her output of thread, while feeding the Worm bigger pieces of apple and other delicacies and moving it to ever more spacious quarters as it grows bigger and more strikingly beautiful. Her parents are pleased, but at a loss. They wonder if she has, as they put it, `become sister to a fairy-being,' and Firdawsi begins a series of skilfully ambivalent references to her: `spellbinding' (pur fusiln) as against `industrious' (pur-hunar), and so on. There is as yet no clear suggestion of evil, not even of evil of which the agents themselves are unaware, merely the suspicion of some supernatural or magical intervention. When she tells her parents how matters stand, they are `augmented in brightness' (rawshanä'i), a term the poet always uses in auspicious and rational contexts. Yet, in the very next line we meet a bad omen ironically arising from what is taken to be a good one: `Haftvåd took this affair for a good sign, giving no further thought in his mind to work, and talking of nothing but the Star of the Worm.' Like Mr. Micawber in his Australian days, he becomes a man of substance and a local wiseacre. Eventually the regional governor falls foul of him, still through no fault of his own, thinking to put down and rob this newly-risen one `of evil stock.' (In using this latter term, Firdawsi again preserves a measure of ambiguity, for bad-niziuid could also be rendered merely as `baseborn': the whole series of shifting degrees of pejorative connotation is, of course, fully comprehensible only within the poet's own social and literary ambiance.) The outcome is victory for Haftvåd, who betakes himself with his mascot the Worm, and his great treasure and retinue, to one of those mountain-top fortresses which often figure as the great focal points of Persian literature and Iranian history. Even at this point the Worm continues to be described in terms that present him as a creature of impressive beauty. The daughter, now become the Worm's chief keeper and executive agent, is still spoken of as `serene' or `cheerful' (hereafter there is no specific mention of her, though we may presume her destruction together with that of her monstrous pet); and Haftvåd himself continues to be spoken of, in terms that are at least neutral and possibly even complimentary, as a `combative captain.' Or again, `And such was illustrious Haftvid's fortress that the wind dared not to move around it.' Only when hostilities are initiated by Ardashir, do we begin to hear a different note: for example, one of Haftvåd's seven sons is described, in a threefold denunciation, as `impudent, a doer of evil, ill-natured.' Even so, after sharp fighting, the upstart Haftvåd is still in a position to spare Ardashir's life when he has him at his mercy, albeit he does so insultingly, warning him that he is out of his depth, Shill though he be, in tangling with the domination of the Worm. In his dejection Ardashir is counselled, by two more of the mysterious young men we have referred to earlier, as to the true nature of the Worm and the conditions on which alone he can hope to subdue it: `A worm you call him, but within his skin there lives a warlike devil, shedding blood... You, in battle with the Worm and with Haftvåd, will not be adequate if you swerve from — 142 -

Justice.' Ardashir's undoubted success in this venture may be attributed, by reference to these words, to his subsequent record as a just and efficient ruler. But this is to miss a characteristic leitmotiv of the Shah-ndmah: we are no longer dealing at this point in normal human motivation, and that type of dramatic tension is suddenly snapped: what the Shah is being told is that he is face to face with the fatal and the supernatural, and the Justice he is to put himself in service to is not so much that of the ministry and the courtroom as the eternal archetype, the ultimate principle of all Being and Doing. To emphasize this point perhaps, Ardashir says: `So be it! My dealings with them, for good and evil, lie with you,' and the two young men are by his side throughout the operation of his stratagem to kill the Worm. As if to escape the relatively undramatic, or melodramatic, situation into which he has now come, Firdawsi makes much less of the foregone dénouement than of the wealth of incident leading up to it: Ardashir's disguising himself and a small band of followers as merchants, their accumulation of goods of all kinds, their departure for the fortress and the arrangements made to keep in communication with the main force of the royal army, the approach — with subservience and blandishments — to Haftvåd's retinue, the initiatives to make the Worm's staff drunk and to take over their duties — and so on. When the climax comes, it is brief and has elements of both the comic and the pathetic: `When from the wine-cup their minds were drunken, came the World-Lord with his sponsors, bringing lead and a brazen cauldron; and a fire he lit, all in the white of day. (When it came that Worm's feeding-time, its nourishment was of boiling lead.) Towards the pit, Ardashir the hot lead carried, and the Worm gently raised its head. They saw his tongue, coloured like a cymbal, thrust out as when he earlier rice would eat. Down, the hero poured the lead, and in the pit the Worm lost all its strength. From its gullet there arose a rattle, at which the pit and land around did tremble.' That's all there is: in the common phrase, `It's all over bar the shouting' — and, of course, the fighting. On the present occasion, time does not allow a lengthier development of our theme that Firdawsi — no matter where his variegated materials came from or how unreliable they may be as history — was a supreme literary and linguistic artist in the use he made of them. We have seen him developing a wide range of characters and throwing these characters into tensions of personality and of role, both with each other and vis-à-vis fate itself. We have seen also how he controls the rate and force of his action so as to ensure the maximum use of dramatic effect. And finally, we have seen how he shades off a melodramatic situation until it becomes firmly integrated in the commonplace; and how he relieves, for those who will accept such relief, solemnity and high drama with the ironical, and sometimes even with the comic. In all of these technical virtuosities, however, the most significant thing is perhaps that he operates, despite his virile and athletic style, not as a teller of tales or an epic poet, but as a dramatist. This may well seem a rash statement to make in reference to a culture which — at least until modern times and under Western influence — has never developed a genuine, full-blown drama as such. But I would — 143 —

suggest that we have in the Sh~rh-nåmah all the elements of the dramatic form except the formal structure itself, and that this can be supplied by little more than a typographical rearrangement and a little judicious editorial cutting. By this means some of the most important themes in the work could be set out in such a way as to alternate between dramatically significant speeches by the personae and commentary by the poet and/or others. If that should make you think of the Greek drama on the one hand and Bertolt Brecht on the other, that may only go to indicate the timelessness and the topical relevance of the first great figure in the literature of Islamic Persia.

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INDEX Ab Khiinah, 19 Abadan Refineries, 105 `Abbasid Caliph, 88 Caliphate, 84 pottery, 53 'Abd al-H idi, 48 Abjad, 122, 126 n.3 Abü Bakr, 84 Abß Mansur Bakhtiyår, 51 Abü Ilafs al-Haddad, 28, 36 n.27 Abü liafs'Umar al-Suhravardi, 25 AbL ljSmid al-Gltaz5lr, 27, 29, 35 n.19, 36 n.48, 84 Abü Muslim, 88 Abü Said b. AbT aI-Khayr, 26, 28,35n.14 Accident ('araz), 33 Achaemenid dynasty, 77 empire, 64, 77, 78, 79, 87 Iran, 15 kings, 64 monuments, 121 Pasargadae, 19 past, 18 records, 39 times, 87 Achaemenids, 43, 64, 77 Ackermann, P., 125 Ådåb, 36 n.27 Adab al-mulfik, 36 n.27 Adad Nirari III, 41 Adam, 31 'Adat-parasti, 26 Adhur, 16 Adhur-i Shdltpuhr, 16 Administrative policies, 100 system, 108 Adonis-Tammuz, 113 Advaita, 62 Afghffn invaders, 125 usurpers, 77 Afghanistan, 47 Afghåns, 81 Afräsiyiib, 53 Agh5 Muhammad, 124, 125, 126 Agrarian rites, 1 13 Agriculture, 72, 91, 101, 102, 103, 104, 105 Agricultural enterprise, 72 fertility rituals, 113 resources, 72 sector, 103 Ahmad-i Ghazåli, 27, 28, 31, 36 n.21, 36 n.25 Ahriman, 31, 59, 65, 66, 87 Ahura Mazda, 59, 64, 65 Åja'ib al-makhl&gåt, 50 Ajoure, 124 Akhi 88 Akv5n, 49 Ala' al-Dawlah-i Simnini, 33, 34, 37 n.65 Alexander the Great, 64, 77, 134 `AG, 6. 10, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88,

112 QSPO, 6, 9 Alien rule, 88 'Alikhani, Mr., 105 A116h, 33 Altar, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19 Amasa Spentas, 64 Amiral-N1u',nin7n, 112 Amir Manstir Bukhtigin, 51 Amour mystique, 27 Anältita, 18, 19, 20 shrine, 19 temple, 20 And'ivat, 34. 37 n.65 Anüniyat, 34, 37 n.65 Anaxogoras, 60 Ange Satan, 31 Angelologie zoroastrienne, 25 Anges, 29, 31 Anglo-Saxon, 79 Animal husbandry industry, 75 Aiwa Mainyu, 59 Ansari, HtTshang, IOS, 106 Anthropology, Ill Anthropomorphism, 62 Anti-Christ, al-Dajj51, 86 A pan khiinak, 19 Arab, 74, 80, 116 clans, 49 conquerors, 7 conquest, 77, 79 costumes, 116 historians, 15 type of mosque, 7 world, 7, 8 Arabia, 81 Arabic alphabet, 126 n.3 manuscripts, 48 script, 79 words, 79 Arabs, 74, 77, 79, 80, 81, 82, 84 Aramean tribes, 39 'Ara?,, 33 Arcades, 6, 7, 19, 20 Arcading, 123 Arch, 7, 8, 16 Archaeology, 9, 15 Architecture, 5, 7, 8, 9, 10 Ardabil carpet, 51 Ardashir I, 79, 134, 135, 136, 138, 139, 140, 142, 143 Ardavi n, 134, 135, 138, 140 Ardavän's daughter, 1 35, 140, 141 Ardavån's son, 138 Ardvi Stira Anfhita, 18, 19, 20 'Ariftin, 30 Aristote, 24 Armageddon, 87 Armenians, 80 Armour, 52 Arpad, 41 Arrapha, 43 Art, 8, 15, 47, 126

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of the book 49, 51 of hook illustration, 47, 50 Arts of Iran, 126 Art historians, 134 Aryan peoples, 81 stock, 77, 80, 81 type, 80 Arynnüm khshathram, 81 Aryans, 80, 81, 82 Asadåbäd valley, 42 Asfiyä, Mr., 93, 97, 98 Ashur, 41 'Ashüra', 112, 113 Ashurbanipal, 43 Ashurnasirpal II, 39 vuji7d, 33 Al-asmå' al-husnå, 80 Assyria, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43 Assyrian documents, 39 empire, 39 homeland, 39 kings, 39, 43 monarchs, 41 monument, 42 records, 39, 40, 43 rulers, 41 Assyrians, 40, 41, 43, 45 n.29 Åtish-kadah, 17, 19 `A(Sär, 26 Attributs, 31 de ('Essence, 31 divins, 31 -32 Averroes, 24 Avesta, 19, 64, 66 Avestan scripture, 59, 64 sources, 64 text, 20 Avicenne, 29, 33, 35 n.3 Avicennisme, 24 'Ayn al-ma'rifah, 30 'Ayn al-Qu;ät-i Hamadåni, 23, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35 n.15, 35 n.19, 36 n.37, 36 n.48, 36 n.49 Ayvån, 6, 7, 8, 9 `Ayytigi, 48 Azerbaijan, 40 Bähak, 137, 138 BSbak's daughter, 137 Biibis, 10 BSbs, 10 Babylonian Chronicle, 43 Baghdad, 27, 28, 36 n.27, 49, 81, 135 Baghdädi, Majd al-Din-i, 34 n.1 Bågh-i Naqsh-i Jahån, 9 Bahå7s, 10 Bahräm V, 18 Bahrein, 115 Bal Gangadhar Tilak, 118 Ballich, 72, 74 Balüchisttin, 71, 72 Banäni, Amin, 80

Bandar 'Abbas, 54 Bonfield, E.C., 91 Bank-i Markazi (Central Bank), 92, 93, 95, 97, 99, 100, 105, 121 Barnouw, V., 118 Barzakh, 35 n.9 Basirah, 29 Bas(ami, Bayazid-i, 25 Bawariq al-ihnå , 27 Bayazid-i Baståmi, 25 Bayhaqi, 83 Baysunqur, 49 Bazaar, 5, 6, 85, 115, 125 merchants, 115, 116, 117 Beaute, 32 divine, 32 royale, 23 secrete de la Verile, 26 Bengal, 118 Berlin, 52, 53 salver, 19 Bibf Khänum, 5, 8 Biltzad, 49 BihzSd's circle, 49 Bisitan, 40 Bistilmi, See: Bayazid -i Bastamt Bit Sagbal, 42 Blue Mosque, Tabriz. 54 Blue and white ware, 54 Bombay Parsees, 67 Bone, 52 Book covers, 52, 123 illustration, 47, 50 Book of Daniel, 82 Book of Jeremiah, 43 Book of Job, 63 Books, 49 Brass, 52 Brecht, Bertolt, 144 Brick architecture, 7 idiom, 7 masons, 7 Britain, 118 British, 117, 118 Museum, 48, 49, 50, 52, 123 rule, 118 Brocades, 51 Bronze, 52 Buddhist paintings, 47 Budget, 100 Bukhåra, 19, 53 Bullae, 16 Budahiin, 65, 66 Buråq, 10 Bureau on Projects, 98 Bureaucratic expertise, 82 structure, 82 tradition. 82, 83 Bureaucrats, 117 Buyid period, 5I rulers, 80, 83 Buyids, 80 Cabinet, 92, 93, 96, 97 ministers, 92 Calah, 43

Caliph al-Ma'mun, 49 Marwan II, 51 Caliphate. 77, 79, 84, 112 of'Ali, 84 of'Umar, 82 Caliph, 79, 80, 82, 84, 85, 86, 112 Calligraphy, 47, 50 Capitals, 122, 123 Carpet manufactory, 51 Carpets, 47. 51 Cartesian dualism, 60, 70 Carved wares, 53 Central Asia, 47, 81, 83 Bank, 92. 99, 100, 101, 105. See also: Bank-i Markazi. Budget Bureau, 99 Bureau of Budget and Planning, 94 cooperatives, 99 cooperatives organization, 99 Europe, 94 Centre for Small Scale Industries, 107 Ceramic work, 54 Ceramics, 53 Chahar taq, 16, 17, 19 Chester Beatty Library, 50 Chicago, 114 China, 54, 78 Chinese elements, 48 influence, 48 motifs, 53, 54 painters, 48 porcelain 53, 54 Christian Gnosticism, 61 Christianity, 18, 61, 62, 67 Christians, 59 Church of Saint fosse-sur-Mer, 51 Cimmerians, 43, 45 n.29 Circassians, 80 Civil servants, 91, 104, 107, 108, 109 service, 106, 109 Coins, 16 Colonnes, 124. See also: columns. Columns. 7, 19, 122, 123, 124, 125, 126, 126 n.6 Comedy, 140 Concert spirituel (soma'), 26 Conformisme ('adat-parasti), 26 Conjonction des opposes, 26, 29, 32 Connaissance mystique, 30 Connaissance presentielle hüiurT), 34 Connaissance spirituelle, 25 Copper, 52 Coran, 25, 33. See also: Qur'an. Corbin, Henry, 24, 32 Coronation ceremonies, 121 Corps materiel, 29 Constitutional Revolution (1905-1911), 117 Council of Ministers, 93, 95, 96, 97,98,104

Coup d'etat, 77 -146 -

Courtyard, 6, 7, 8, 121 Courtyard façade, 8 Craftsmen, 53 Creation, 28 Credit policy, 100 Critical philosophy, 68 n.14 Crown Jewels, 121, 123, 126 Crusades, 116 Ctesiphon, 81, 135 Cultural tradition, 59 Currency and credit policy, 99 Cyrus the Great, 42, 77, 78, 79 Czars, 117 Czechoslovakia, 94 Dado, 122, 123, 124, 125, 126, 126 n.6 panels, 125 Al-Dajjül, 86 Damascus, 112, 113 Darguzini, Qivam al-Din-i, 26 Darius, 15, 134 Dark Ages, 15

Darvishan, 115 Darwin, 61

Dawlat-i qizil-bash, 81 Day of Judgment, 86 Decision making, 93, 102 Defense policy, 92, 93 Demotte Shdh-nitmah, 48 Dinkart, 18, 64 Department of Public Relations, 108 Departmental decisions, 91 Departments, 95 Deputy Prime Minister, 93, 97, 98 Descartes, Rene, 60, 62 Developing countries, 91, 92, 101, 106 Development, 93 Developmental plans and projects, 102 program, 101 projects, 97, 98, 101 proposals, 96, 97, 99 Devil, 31, 59, 60, 61, 63, 65 Dhawq, 25, 30 Diable, 31. See also: Devil. Dieu, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 35 n.4, 35 n.14. See also: God. Directors general, 96, 104, 107, 108, 109 Disciple, 28, 36 n.27. Diviin, 82 Divine right, 78, 80, 86 of Kings, 59, 78, 79, 84 of Persian kings, 86 Divs, 126 Diyalå River, 39 Doctrine de l'unite de l'Etre, 33 dualiste, 31 emanatiste, 29 des Was. 31, 32 of the imamate, 86 orientale (ga'idat al-sharq), 25 Dome, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 16 chamber, 7, 8

Downs, Anthony, 108, 109 Drama, 136, 137, 138, 143, 144 of liusayn, 112, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118 of Karbalå , 116 Dramatic form, 144 irony, 137 tension, 136, 143 Dualism, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 65, 66, 67, 68 n.7, 69, 70 Dualisme, 24, 25, 29, 31, 32, 35 n.9, 68 n.8. See also: dualism. Dualisms, 61, 69 Dualists, 60 Dublin, 50 Duchesne-Guillemin, Jacques, 63 Dukhtar-i NTishirviin, 47 Dynastic principle, 79 succession, 77

mystique de lumiere, 25 poetique, 30 spirituelle, 25 visionnaire, 27, 28 Export Promotion Centre, 107 Extase mystique, 25

Georgians, 80 German Archaeological Institute, 16 GhadTr Khumm, 84 GhazülT, Abli Hiimid-i, 27, 29, 35 n.19, 36 n.48, 84 Ghazüli, Ahmad-i, 27, 28, 31, 36 Fabrics, 51 n.21, 36 n.25 Face eternelle (wail:), 36 n.48 Ghåzån Khan, 48 Far East, 48 Ghaznavid palace guard, 47 Farhid, 123 Ghulåm'AIT, 123 Farr, 79, 136, 140 Ghulåm Muhammad Ibrahim, 123 Farr-i7zadi 84 Gibb, Sir Hamilton, 83 Gnosticism, 61 Farrgshband plain, 16, 17 Gnostiques ('äriTn), 30 region of, 18 GObineau, Comte de, 115 Fårs, 16, 49, 134, 139 God, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 65, 66, Fatd, 87 79, 80, 84, 85, 86, 113, 135. Fate, 135, 136, 137, 138, 139, See also: Dieu. 140, 143 concept, 61 Fath 'All Shah, 117, 122, 123, Eastern European countries, 105 Godard, Andre, 16, 17 125, 126, 126 n.6 Ecole wujüdi, 36 n.48 Godin Tepe, 42 Fatima, 85 Economic affairs, 99 Goethe, 26 Fidel'-kåri, 113 Goldsmith's art, 52 development, 93, l01 Female characters, 139 Gombroon (Bandar'Abbås), 54 mega-policies, 97 Feminine figures, 140 wares, 54 policy, 97, 99, 100, 106 Fi'l at-ijdd, 34 Goat mystique (dhawq), 25, 30 Report, 100 Financial policies, 100 and social development, 100 FirdawsT, 48 136, 137, 139, 140, Government, 82, 91, 92, 95, 96, 99, 100, 101, 102, 103, 104, and social policies, 102 141, 142, 143 105, 106, 107, 108, 116, 117, Economy, 101, 106 Firdawsi w Shi'r-i ii, 133 119 Edinburgh, 48 Fire, 15, 16, 17, 19 investment, 95 Education mystique (tarbiyat), 28 altar, 15 Grabar, Oleg, 19 Egypt, 51, 78, 105 sanctuary, 17, 19 Grace, 32 Electoral law, 95 temple, 15, 16, 17, 18, 135 Great Khuråsån Road, 40 Ellipi, 41, 42 temple sanctuary, 17 'Great Occultation', 86 Email, 124. See also: enamels. temples, 16 Great Powers, 82 Emanatisme, 32, 33 worship, 15, 16 'Greater Iran', 81 neoplatonicien, 25 Five Year Plan, 95, 97, 100, Greece, 60, 77, 94 Enamelled pottery, 53 102 Greek drama, 144 Enamels, 121, 123, 126 Foi (Tmein), 31 philosophy, 62 Endowments, 99 Foreign Minister, 92 sources, 78 Organization, 99 policy, 92, 93 -speaking world, 60 England, 79 policy variables, 94 Greeks, 59, 60 English wares, 54 rulers, 77 Epic, 81, 83, 133, 135, 136 Fountain of Ardvi Süra Anahita, Guide, 28 Gulistån Library, 49 Erånsltahr, 81 18 Palace, 121, 125, 126 n.6 Esarhaddon, 43, 45 n.29 Fourth Plan, 101, 105 Gulnår, 139, 140, 141 Eschatology, 86, 87 Frankish knights, 116 Gulsurkhi, Nasir, Minister of Esprit galandari 30, 31 Frashkemba, 19 Natural Resources, 104 Essence, 31 Freer Gallery of Art, 50, 51 Gumbad, 17, 18 Ethical dualism, 60 French, the, 81, 94 Gitr-i Amir, 8 Ethics, 60 Premier, 94 Ethnic tradition, 80 Frescoes, 47 Håfiz, 26, 30 Ethnological Museum, Teheran, Futuvvat, 87. See also: futuwwah . Haftv8d, 141, 142, 143 121 Futuwwah, 87 Haftvåd's daughter, 140, 141 l'Etre, 33, 34 organizations, 87, 88 Hajj, 112 Absolu (vujfid mutlaq), 33, 34 ltallaj, 25, 26, 27, 31 divin (Hagq), 29, 31, 32, 33, 34 Ganapati, 118 Hamadan, 26, 30 necessaire, 29, 30 festivals, 118 Hamadani,'Ayn al-Quz5t-i, 23, Europe, 51, 54 Gandhi, 118 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, European Consortium, 94 Ganesa, 118 34, 35 n.15, 35 n.19, 36 n.37, firms, 51 Gardien (pardah-ddr), 31 36 n.48, 36 n.49 influence, 50 Gdthd of the Choice, 65 Hagigat, 26 Europeans, 51 Gåthds, 64, 65, 66, 67 Hagigat-i ddam7, 29 Exil Occidental, 24 Gafling gun, 74 Hain, 33, 34 Experience mystique, 24, 25, 29, Gawhar Shåd Mosque, Mashhad, Harhar, 40, 42, 44 n.6 36 n.27 54 Hasan, 112

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HayZits, 114 Health Corps, 95 Hebrew ideas, 62 monotheism, 67 n.5 prophets, 62 Hellenistic elements, 77 Hellenistic sources, 66 Henning, W.B., 63, 67 Henotheism, 67 n.5 Herat, 49, 52, 81 Heresie dualiste, 25, 31, 32 Heresy, 62, 66 Hermes, 25 Hermitage. 52 Herodotus, 39, 43

llkhanids, 49 Ilkhans, 54, 72, 80 Illuminated manuscripts, 47, 49, 121 Illustrated manuscripts, 50 Inmm, Imam, 79, 85, 86, 112, 116 Itnamat, 28 Imamate, 86 lmån, 31 Immortals at Susa and Persepolis, 47 Imperial Inspectorate, 99 Incroyance (kufr), 31 India, 9, 15, 64, 1 15, 1 18, 135, 137 Heterodoxie, 29 Hidden lm~m, 86 Indian philosophy, 62 sage, 135 Hierarchie existentielle (tartlb), 30 seer, 135 Indians, 118 High Economic Council, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100, 104 Indus River, 77 High Planning Council, 93, 96, Industrial development policy, 97, 99, 100, 104 105-106 Hikmat, 35 n.15 policy, 106 Hind, 85 projects, 102 Hindu community, 118 Industrialization, 94, 101 festival of Ganapati, 118 plans, 106 revivalism, 1 I8 Industry, 91, 95, 102, 105, 107 Hindus, 118 Infallibility, 86 Historical and cultural tradition, Initiation ceremonies, 87 Inlaid decoration, 52 77, 78, 80, 82-83, 84, 86, 87, 88 steel weapons and armour, 52 Inlay, 52 tradition, 82, 85 Inlow, E. Burke, 78 Holland, William, 118 Intarsia, 52 Homer, 139 Intercession, 86, 113 Hosea, 66 International Monetary Fund, Hu ka al-Furs, 25 105, 106 Hukümat-i sitamgrån, 113 AI-104.5d fr al-i 'tiged, 27 Humåy, 49 Iran, 5, 8, 15, 16, 24, 25, 26, 28, Hum3yÜn's castle, 49 30, 39, 40, 41, 43, 48, 49, 50, Humour, 133, 137 51, 52, 53, 54, 59, 61, 64, 66, Hunarfar, Lutf-Allah, 5 67, 69, 71, 72, 73, '77, 78, 79, `Hunting' carpets, 51 80, 81, 82, 84, 87, 88, 91, 92, Husayn, 85, 87, 111, 112, 113, 93, 94, 96, 99, 100, 101, 102, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118 104, 105, 106, 108, 109, 1 1 1 , Husayn drama, 118. See also: 112, 115, 116, 117, 118, 121, drama of Husayn. 124, 126, 126 n.8, 133, 134, Huviyat, 34 136, 137 HuwTyah, 30 exterieur, 81 Hvarnah, 79 musulman, 24, 29, 32 Hyde, Thomas, 60 Iran National Tourist Organization, 99 lago, 114 Iran-zatnfn, 81 Iblis, 31, 32 Iranian administrative Ibn 'Arabi, 30, 33, 34, 36 n.48, system, 108 36 n.49 archaeological studies, 16 Ibn Khald6n, 79 Ibn Sin3. See: Avicenne Baluchistan, 71 civilization, 5, 74 Ibn al-Tigtaga, 82 cultural protest, 88 Ibrahim, 123 cultural tradition, 59 Ideological resistance, 119 dualism, 59, 62, 69 Idolatrie, 26, 28 Idolatry, 9 dynasties, 74 Ilkhanid period, 48, 52 economists, 105 ruler, 48 elements, 77 state, 49 historical tradition, 85

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history, 74, 142 history and culture, 82 Kurdistan, 40 lands, SO migrations, 40, 44 n.5 monarchy, 121 national epic, 81, 83 national festival, 87 national resurgence, 134 nationalism, 84 pantheon, 67 peoples, 39 plateau, 39, 42, 81 polytheism, 64 proto-history, 44 n.8 provinces, 117 society, 104, Ill state, 81 throne, 121 tradition, 88, 133 Zagros, 39 Iranians, 39, 40, '75, 78, 80, 81, 87, 88, 111 Iraq, 26, 39, 112 Iron 1 grey wares, 44 n.5 Irony, 137, 139, 140 Isaiah, 62 Isfahan, 5, 8, 9, 11, 49, 50, 51, 54, 74, 92 !shag, 24, 32, 33, 34, 35 n.4, 36 n.46 Iskandar Sultan, 49 Islam, 7, 15, 24, 25, 26, 34, 59, 61, 67, 79, 83, 84, 86, 87, 1 11, 112, 113, 115, 116, 117, 119, 136 Islamic art, 15 building, 7 Iran, 5, 87, 116 jursiprudence, 84 law and tradition, 80 occupation, 18 orthodoxy, 80 paintings, 47 Persia, 83, 144 potters, 53 system, 15 times, 59 way of life, 116 Ismaeliens, 28 Istanbul, 11, 48 Istishräq, 33 Istituto Italiano per it Medio e l'Estremo Oriente (I.S.M.E.O.), 5 Itinerant narrators, 115 Ivory, 52 Jala'irid Court, 49 Jalal, 32 Jalal al-Din-i Rümi, 26, 34, 83 Jalousie divine, 31 Jamal, 32 Jåmi' al-Tav8rikh, 48 Jamshid, 136 Jannah, 10 Jaubert, Pierre Amedee

Emilien-Probe, 124, 125

Ja rän mard. 87 Jayatnasardi: 87 Jawhar, 33 Jerusalem, 10 Jesus, 67 Jewish exiles. 62 Gnosticism, 61 sources. 78 Jinn, 126 Jirrah, 16 Jones, Harford, 124 Joseph, 141 Judaism, 61, 67 'luge de Hamadiin'. See: 'Ayn al-Quxit -i Hamadåni. Jurisprudence, 84 Junayd, artist of Jala' irid Court, 49 Junayd, 28, 36 n.27 Ka'bah, 10 Kali, 118

i tarTgat, 37 n.55 Kulüh Farangi, 125 Kuner Siyeh, 17, 19 Kurdisten, 39, 40, 72 Kurds, 74, 134 Lacquer painting, 52 Lacquers, 121 Låjvardinalr ware, 53 Lake Van, 41 Land reforms, 95, 103 Langue arabe, 29 LagabT wares, 53 Lashkar-i Bezi r, 47 Last Judgment, 87 Latifalt, 29 Latin, 29 -speaking world, 60 Law, 79, 80, 86

of the Fourth National Development Plat, 100

of the Medes and Persians, 82 Layle-, 50 Layla wa Main iin, 50 Kang3var, 19, 42 Leach, E., 1 1 1 Karalla, 42 Lebanon, 115 Karbala', 85, 112, 113, 116 Karim Khiin Zand, 124, 125, 126 Leningrad, 52 Levy, Reuben, 134 Kar Sharruken, 42 Linguistic tradition, 83 Karter, 18 Literacy campaign, 95 K5shån, 51, 53 Corps, 95 Kashfiyan, Mr., Minister without programs, 94 Portfolio, 97 Literary criticism, 133 Kåshi, 53 tradition, 82, 83 Kay Kieus, 136 Literature, 53, 59, 73, 83, 133, K5zim-z5dah, Dr., 94 134, 136, 141, 142 Kha Pjalt, 79, 84 Litterature classique, 26 Rasul allah, 84 Livre divin, 23 Khalijat allfilt, 84 Logique, 30, 35 n.4 Klurn, 40 Loi, 26. See also: law. Khansah, 49, 50, 134 de 1'lslåm, 26 Kharråd, 135 de la Religion pratique Khokand, 52 (Shari'at), 26 Khorsabad, 41 Khshdyathiya khshdyathiytinnm, London, 48, 49, 51 Lord of Martyrs, 112, 113 80 Louvre, 51 Khuresan, 28, 40, 51, 52 Lui absolu (lruviyat), 34 Khusraw, 50 Lullume, 40 KhvidtT KirmlinT manuscript, 48 Lumiere, 24, 25, 31, 32, 33, 35 Khvarenah, 79 n.9 KIvarra1t, 79 divine, 27, 28 Kingly divinity, 78 de l'Etre, 33 Kingly glory, 79 de la Majeste divine, 32 Kingship, 52, 72, 78, 79, 80, 82, des Lumieres (ttüral-artwar), 2 5 84, 136 de Muhammad, 28 Kiosk, 17, 19 'Noire', 32 Kirghiz steppes. 83 du Prophete, 28 Kirmån, 54, 74 Luristån, 40 Kirmänshah, 42 Lurs, 72. 74 Kishesim, 42 Lustre ware, 53 Knight, Frank H., 109 Lot/, 32 Kremlin Museum, Moscow, 121 Lutf'Ali Khiin, 124 Kitbachi ware, 54 Lull Allah Mosque, 5, 6, 9 Küfah, 112, 113 Kufic inscriptions, 53 script, 48, 52 Mabda'-i riiz, 37 n.56 Kujr, 31

Kal-flab wa Dimwit, 48, 49

--149--

Madinah, 82 t?adrasahs, 7, 8 Mages, 31, 32 Maghrib, 113 Mohan, 49 Maharastra, 118 Mandt, 86, 87 Måhi-dasht, 40, 42, 43 Mahmüd-i Musavvir, 50 Mahmüd of Ghaznah, 135 Maitre, 27, 28 Maitres soufis, 28 Majd al-Din-i Bagltadådi, 34 11.1 Majeste, 32 Majeste divine, 31, 32 Majniin, 49, 50 Ma/ü,t 32 Malik. 79 Al-Ma'mitn, 49 Manåfi' al-lmyawan. 48 Management Training Centre, 109 Managers, 109 Mani, 61, 62 Manichaean books, 47 texts, 62 Manichaeism, 18, 61, 62, 67 Mannea, 42 Mannean affairs, 42 kingdom, 42 Manneans, 40, 42, 43 Manuscript, 47, 48, 49, 50, 54, 121, 134 illumination, 47, 50 illustration, 49, 54 Mar5ghah, 48 Marble Throne (Takht'i Mannar), 121, 122, 124, 125, 126, 126 n.9 Margais, P., 113, 114 Marivän, 42 Meriya, Plain of, 85 Marsiyah, 85 Martyr, 85 Martyrdom, 85, 86, 113 of Husayn, 112, 113, 1 14, 1 17 Marwån II, 51 Marzubån, 82 Mashhad, 54 Masjid al-`Ags5, 10 Masjid-i Shah, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11. See also: Royal Mosque. Masjid-i Vakil, 125 Massignon, L., 87 Master policy. 91, 93, 94, 95, 96, 100, 103 Al-Mewardi, 84 Mawsil, 52 Mayden, 5. 6, 9, 11 Means of production, 72 Mecca, 6, 7, 9, 112 'Medallion' carpets. SI Medes, 40, 42, 43, 44 n.9, 82 Media, 42, 43 Median confederacy, 43 territory, 42 Meditation soufie, 25 Mediterranean, 60

world, 7 Mega-policy, 91, 93, 94, 95, 97, 100 decisions, 9I Merchants, 117 Mesopotamia, 62, 81 Mesopotamian (`Mawsil') decorative motifs, 52 Messiah, 87 Messianic role, 86 Metal, 52 Metalwork, 49, 51, 52 Metal-workers, 51 Metaphysical dualism, 60, 68 n.7 Metaphysics, 60 Metaphysique, 35 n.4 Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, 50, 52 riüz, 37 n.56 Middle class, 117 Middle East, 81, 82, III, 119 Middle Eastern oil supplies, 92 Middle Persian, 79 Mihr-Narse, I8 Mihriib, 6, 7, 9 Mihrak, 135 Mihrak's daughter, 135, 140, 141 Mind T, 53 vessels, 53 Minarets, 6, 10

Min bar, 52 Ming porcelain, 54 Miniature, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51 painting, 49 Minister, 92, 93, 95, 96, 98, 100, 104, 106, 107, 108 Minister of Agricultural Products and Consumer Goods, 98 Minister of Economy, 93, 97, 99, 105,106 Finance, 93, 95, 97, 99 Housing and Development, 93, 98 Information, 97, 98 Interior, 97 Labour and Social Affairs, 93, 97, 98 Natural Resources, 104 State (Economic Affairs), 93, 97 State (State Organization for Administration and Employment), 97. 98 Water and Power, 93, 98 Post, Telephone and Telegraph, 98 Ministerial policy, 91, 93, 95, 96, 103 policy decisions, 91 policy proposal, 96 Ministries, 91, 92, 93, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 102, 103, 104, 107, 108, 109 Ministry of Agriculture, 103, 104 Agricultural Products, 103 Court, 92

Culture and Arts, 99 Culture and Education, 51 Economy, 95, 100, 102, 104, 105, 107, 108 Finance, 100, 101, 104, 107 Housing and Development, 100, 104, 107 Information, 99 Justice, 99 Land Reform, 103 Land Reforms and Rural Cooperatives; 99 Natural Resources, 103 Water and Power, 100, 103, 104 Minorsky, V., 80, 85 Minuvi, Mujtaba, 133 Mir Sayyid `Ali, 50 Miroir, 28 Mirrors for Princes, 82, 83 Mishkåt al-anwiir, 27, 36 n.48 Mithra, I8, 64 Modern philosophy, 62, 70 Modernists, 115 Modernization, 116 Moharram, 118. See also: Muharram. Moi (and'iyar), 34 Moi absolu (ananiyat). 34 Monarchial tradition, 80 Monarchy, 5, 11, 39, 77, 78, 79, 81, 83, 86, 121 Monde inferieur, 29 de lumieres, 25 materiel, 25 physique, 35 n.9 superieur, 29 des Tonebres, 32 Mongols, 74, 77, 80 Mongol conquest, 53 hordes, 52 Ilkhans, 52, 80 invasion, 52 period, 10 rulers, 48 Monism, 62, 68 n.7 Monisme. 31, 32 Monochrome wares, 53 Monolatry, 67 n.5 Monotheism, 61, 62, 63, 64. 66, 67, 67 n.5, 68 n.5, 70 Monotheisme, 30 Monotheistic culture, 63 Mortgage Bank. 95 Mosaic-faience, 11 Mosaics, 47, 54 Moscow, 121 Moslems, 82. See also: Muslims. Mosque, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, I I , 47, 54, 86, 125 architecture, 9 portal. 6 Mosquee, 30. See also mosque. Motifs zoroastriens, 25 Mu'5wiyah, 79, 112 Mughal emperors, 9 Muhammad. 10, 27, 28, 31,

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35 n.14, 79, 84, 87, 112, 1 1 3 Muhammad 'Ali, I23 Muhammad Bagir, 123 Muhammad Husayn, 123 Muhammad Ibrahim, 122, 123, 124 Muhammad Jüki, 49 Muhammad Shah, 12I, 123 Muhammad Ytisuf al-Husayni, 50 Muharram, 85, 112, 113, 114 ceremonies, 118 Mu'in, 50 Multahids, 86 Mulls Sadrii, 36 n.46, 37 n.62 Municipalities, 97 'Mugarnas' composition, 8 Murals, 47 Murtazå, 123 Musaddiq, Dr., 85 Musique, 27 Muslims, 9, 59, 112, 113, 118 Muslim calendar, 113 community, 79, 86, 112 culture, 8 feasts, 113 festival of Moharram, 118 house of prayer, 9 Sht'ite mourning, 113 social and cultural institutions, 87 world, 115 Musjafa, 85 Mustan'f.s 82 Mysteres divins, 27 Mystic, 141 la Mystique, 23, 26, 27, 33, 34 'dynamique', 33 iranienne, 23 'statique', 33 le Mystique, 23, 24, 26, 27, 28, 31 parfait, 36 n.14 les Mystiques, 33 Mystiques kubravrs, 37 n.59 Myth, 59, 66, 70, 85, 1 1 5 Mythic tradition, 62 Mythology, 66, 67 Nadir Shah, 77, 125 Najafabad, 42 Najm al-Din-i RazT, 34 n.l Namri, 40, 44 n.6 Napoleon Bonaparte, 117, 124 Naqsh-i Rustam, 15. 18, 19, 121 Nasr ibn Ahmad, 48 National epic, 83 National Iranian Oil Company, 102, 106 Nationalism, 84, I05 Natural gas, 94 Naw Rüz, 87 Nayshåpür, 28, 47, 53 Neant, 33 Near East, 43 Near Eastern oil supplies, 92 religion. 67 n.S

Neo-Assyrian Empire, 39 New York, 48, 52 Nicholson, R.A., 26 Nihåd, 29 Nimrud, 41 Nineveh, 41, 43 Nizåm al-Mulk, 83, 84 NizåmT, 48, 49, 50, 134 Noeldeke, T., 133 Nomad chiefs, 83 Nomadic pastoralism, 74, 75 people, 77, 81 tribes, 40 tribesmen, 72 Nomadism, 71, 72 Nomads, 51, 72, 137 Norman French, 79 North Africa, 9, 113 Nubuvvat, 35 n.14 Nteral-anwiir, 25 Nür-i siyiih, 32 Nuremburg race laws, 80

Pardah-dar, 31

Paridaeza, 19 arcades, 19, 20 motif, 19 Parliament, 97, 98 Parsees, 15, 67 Parsua, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44 n.7, 44 n.8 Pasargadae, 19 Parthian court, 134, 138 heritage, 87 history, 18 prince, 138 ruler, 134 temple of Anihita, 19 times, 64 Parthians, 77 Pastoral nomadism, 72 nomads, 72 Pastoralism, 71, 72, 74, 75 Peacock Throne, 121, 124 Peasant, 74 agriculture and markets, 72 Occident, 23, 24, 26, 28. See life, 73 also: West. Peasantry, 73 chretien, 29 Peasants, 73, 74, 103, 118 Oeuil spirituel, 35 n.19 Pedagogie spirituelle, 28 Ohrmazd, 18, 59, 65, 66, 135 Pensee emanatiste, 36 n.49 Oil Consortium, 101 mystique, 25, 29, 30, 31, 32 resources, 92 Perception mystique, 33 revenues, 91 Peripatetisme, 24, 35 n.4 Old Persian 79, 81 Persan, 29. See also: Persian inscriptions, 80 language. Ombre, 25 Perse, 24, 25, 29, 35 n.14. See Ordres de Lumieres, 32 also: Persia. Organe de perception mystique Persepolis, 47, 87, 121 (basirah), 29, 30 Persia, 7, 8, 77, 78, 79, 80, 83, Orient, 23, 24, 35 n.3 134,138,144 geographique, 24 Persian administrative and islamique, 29 financial expertise, 82 des Lumieres, 33 architecture, 8 mystique, 23, 24 art, 47, 126 Orientation (istishråq), 33 blue and white ware, 54 Orthodoxie, 27. See also: brocades, 51 orthodoxy. bureaucratic expertise, 82 mazdeene, 25 bureaucratic tradition, 83 Orthodoxy, 18, 66 carpet, 51. See also: carpets. Ottoman empire, 81 character, 85 janissaries, 116 Constitution of 1906, 78 Turkey, 88 craftsmen, 53 Turks, 81, 116 culture, 78, 83 Ouseley, Sir Gore, 124 culture and society, 71 Ouseley, Sir William, 124 decorative motifs, 52 Oxus River, 81 elements, 48 Özbek empire, 81 empire, 77, 78 S.S.R., 52 Gulf, 81 özbeks, 49 history, 78, 79, 81 Pahlavin, 87 kings, 78, 80, 82, 86 Pahlavienån, 87 language, 83, 133. See also: Pahlavi, 19, 59, 79 persan. books, 66 literature, 53, 133, 136, 141, dynasty, 77 142 Painted ware, 53 manuscript, 48 Painting, 47, 48, 49, 50, 52, 121, manuscript illumination, 47 123 markets, 54 Pantheism, 68 n.5 marzubån, 82 Paradise, 10, 113

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metal-workers, 51 mihråbs, 9 miniature, 48, 51 miniature painting, 47, 49 monarchial tradition, 80 monarchy, 77, 78, 81 mosque, 8, 10, 47 painting, 47, 48, 49, 50 people, 78, I 1 1 pottery, 48 power, 125 proverb, 74 royalty, 79 speech-form, 133 style, 48 textiles, 51 tradition of kingship, 80 wzirs, 80, 82 woodwork, 52 world, 7 Persians, 40, 42, 43, 60, 79, 80, 82, 84, 85, 86, 88 Peters, Emerys, 115, 117, 118 Petty traders, 118 Philadelphia, 50 Philosophie, 24, 25, 26. See also: philosophy. emanatiste, 33. illuminative, 24 ishrågi, 35 n.2 islamique, 24 orientale, 24, 25 orientale-illuminative, 24 Philosophes hellenisants, 24, 29 mystiques, 32 Philosophy, 60, 62, 66, 67, 68 n.14, 70 of religion, 63 Physical resistance movements, 119 Piandjikent, 47 Pierpont Morgan Library, New York, 48, 50 Pillars, 124 Plain of Miriya, 85 Plan Organization, 92, 93, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 102, 104, 105, 106 Plato, 60, 62. See also: Platon. Platon, 25, See also: Plato. Platonisme mystique, 24 Poesie, 26 lyrique, 31 Poland, 51 'Polish' silk rugs, 51 Policy advisor, 91, 92, 105, 108, 109 advisory body, 107 alternatives, 94 analysis, 109 choices, 101 coordinating institutions, 96 coordination, 96, 99 coordinator, 98 decision, 91, 92, 94, 96, 107 directive, 91, 96

execution, 96 implementation, 104 innovator, 107, 108, 109 maker, 91, 92, 94, 99 making, 91, 92, 93, 96, 99, 104 making power, 99 making process, 91, 96, 97, 104, 106, 107 planning, 104, 109 process, 91 proposal, 96, 97, 98, 106, 107, 108 proposing power, 99 strategies, 91, 93 Political agitation, 118 and social variables, 103 decision makers, 103 Polytheism, 64, 67 n.3. See also: polytheisme. Polythesime (shirk), 28. See also: polytheism. Portal, 6, 8, 9, 10, II screen, 10 Portico, 19, 20 Portraiture, 47, 50 Potiphar, 141 Pottery, 48, 53, 54 technique, 53, 54 Pre-Islamic basis of authority, 78 era, 51 institution, 87 Iran, 59 Iranian religious heritage, 67 Parthian heritage, 87 period, 15 socio-cultural tradition, 87 times, 8, 59, 81 tradition, 87 Premier Ciel, 29 Premier Emane, 30 Pre-Safavid times, 9 Pre-Socratic Greece, 60 Prime Minister, 92, 93, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100 Prime Minister's Office, 96, 97, 98, 99, 104 Private enterprise, 106 Profit sharing in industry, 95 Prophet, 6, 10, 84, 112, 113, 115. See also: Prophete. of God, 79, 84 Prophete, 28, 35 n.14 Prophetie (nubuvvat), 35 n.14. See also: Prophet. Psychanalyse, 28 Public health projects, 94 Public servants, 109 Purification, 17 Pythagoreans, 60

Qahr, 32 Q5'ida t absharq, 25 QSjiir artists, 126 n.4 dynasty, 124 enamels, 121 lacquers, 121 paintings, 121

panels, 126 n.9 period, 52, 121, 125 ruler, 117, 126 work, 125 Qiijürs, 50, 74, 77, 116, 126 Qalamdfins, 126 Qaniit-i Bffgh, 17 Qaysåriyah bazaar, 6 Qazvini, 50 Qiblah, 6, 7, 9 -ayvnn, 6 wall, 9

Qiydm-i mardånah, Qizil-båsh, 80, 81

113

state, 81 Quay of Sargon, 42 Quete mystique, 23, 27 Qur'8n, 10, 48, 59, 86. See also: Coran. Qur'anic texts, 53 Rashid al-Din, 48

Raw;at al-Shuhadte,

116

Rayy, 53 Rgzi, Najm al-Din-i, 34 n.1

Records of the High Economic Council, 94 Redemption, 115 Religious classes, 112, 115 festivals, 118 law, 79, 86 leaders, 117 philosophy, 66 symbols, 115 tradition, 84 tradition of Shi'ism, 86 Repousse work, 52 Revelation, 86 Ringbom, Lars-Ivar, 19

Risala7:-i Yazdån-shinåkht, Risdiat, 28

32

Ritual,l5, 17, Ill, 113, 115,117 aspects of mosque architecture, 9 purification, 17 'Abbåsi, 50 Roman antiquity, 59 buildings, 7 legionnaires, 116 ruins, 7 Romans, 136 Rome, 59 Royal carpet manufactory, 51 Royal mosque (Masjid-i Shill), 6, 11 Royal Ontario Museum, 52 Radaki, 48 Rugs, 51 Rümi, Jalål al-Din-i, 26, 34, 83 Rural development, 95 sector, 102 Rumanians, 105 Russia, 102 Russian-supported steel project, 92 Russians, 81, 94, 105, 117, 125 Rustam. 47, 49, 136, 138

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Sabq al-wu%tid, 30 Safavid artist, 52 dynasty, 54, 77 era, 51 illuminated manuscripts, 121 kings, 86 line, 49 maydin, 9 mihråb, 9 monarchy, 125 period, 50, 54, 80, 84 religious buildings, 9 royal house, 81 state, 80, 81 times, 81, 88 thrones, 121 wares, 54 Safavids, 80, 116, 126 Sage parfait, 25 Sages de Perse (hukumå' al-Furs) Sagesse de l'ancienne Perse, 24, 25 Sahl-i Tustari, 25 Salåh al-Din, 25 Saladin. See: Salåh al-Din. Saljüq dynasty, 83 era, 52 models, 8 period, 8, 53 pottery, 53 Turks, 80 Salji qs, 48, 52, 80 Salvation, 10, 86, 113, 114, 115 &må', 26 Samanid ruler, 48 tomb, 19 Samanids, 53 SSmarri', 47 Samarqand, 5, 8, 54 potters, 53 San Marco's, 5 Sanå'i, 26 Sanctuary, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 16,17,18,19 -ayvdn, 8 -kiosk, 17, 19 Sandler, Dr. Rivanne, 133 Saoshyant, 87 Sargon II, 41, 42, 43, 45 n.29 Sarhad, 71 Sasanid attire, 116 buildings, 18 capital cities, 81 dynasty, 77 empire, 15, 61, 77, 79, 81 era, 66 fire temple, 16, 17 influence, 47 lavinmard, 87 kings, 78, 83, 85 manuscripts, 47 monarchs, 77 monuments, 19 occupation, 18 past, 19 painting, 47 period, 15, 18, 19, 20, 134

silver carafes, 20 silver platters, 19 style, 51 theologians, 66 theory of kingship, 84 times, 15, 18, 51, 79, 81 Zoroastrianism, 15, 16, 18 Sasanids, 18, 64 Satan, 31, 87 Savåb, 114 Savah, 53 Savory, R.M., 59 Saweinih f► al-'ishq, 27 Sayyid, 117, 118 Sayyid al-Shuhada', 1 12 Schah, 124. See also: shah. Schacht, Dr., 80 School of Shiraz, 50 Sculptor, 123, 124, 125 Scythian presence, 43 Scythians, 43, 45 n.29 Seattle, 52 Sectoral policies, 91, 93 Secret societies, 117 Secularists, 115 Secularization, 116, 118 Seleucids, 77 Semitic-speaking world, 60 Sermon on the Mount, 59 Sgraffiato wares, 53 Shabdiz, 50 Shah, 77, 78, 79, 85, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 100, 101, 103, 117, 121, 122, 126, 135, 142, 143 Shah 'Abbls1, 5,6,7,8, 9, 10, 11, 50, 52 the Great, See: Shah 'Abbas I. Shah Isma`il, 49, 50, 88, 123 Shah-namah, 48, 49, 50, 53, 81, 83, 133, 134, I36, 137, 139, 141, 143. 144 -khans, 83 miniatures, 48 Shah Rukh, 49 Shah Tahmasp, 50 Shah-iLindah, Samargand, 54 Shl,ha,rsteäh, 77, 80, 121 Shalmaneser III, 39, 40, 41 Shalmaneser V, 41 Shamshi Adad V, 41 Shåpür 1, 16, 134, 135, 136, 140 S14136'1. 11, 18, 19, 81 Shari'ar, 26 -parasti, 26 Shaykh, 28, 117, 118 Shaykh de Baghdad, 25 Shaykir al-1shråq, 23, 24, 25, 32. See also: Suhravardi, Shihab al-Din Abü al-Futrih. Shi'a culture, 118 Shi'ah, 84, 86, 112, 113, 119 Shi`at `Ali, 84, 85 Shihab al-Din Abt al-Futüh al-Suhravardi, 23, 24, 25, 27, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35 n.3, 35 n.4 Shi`i communities, 115

countries, 112 form of Islam, 84 Imam, 86 Islam, 1 I I, 115 mosque, 7 Muslim world, 1 I 1 opposition, 116 religious ideas, 88 theologians, 86 world, 119 Shi'ism, 79, 84, 85, 86, I 1 1 Shimr ibn Li al-Jawshan, 85, 116 Shinto, 62 Shiraz, 48, 49, 50, 124, 125, 126 Shirin, 50 Shirk, 28 Shrine architecture, 10 Shrines, 5, 9, 10 Shurgadia, 42 Silk, 51 fabric, 51 Silver, 52 carafes, 20 platters, 19 vessels, 51 Silverware, 20 Simn8ni,'Ala' al-Dawlah-i, 33, 34, 37 n.65 Sinlessness, 86 Sitamgaran, 113 Siyasat-namah, 83 Nkand Gumånik Vicar, 67 Social affairs, 97 change, 116, 118, 119 policies, 100 welfare, 93 welfare projects, 95 Socio-cultural change, 115 system, 72 integration, 115 Sogdiana, 47 Soleil, 30 Soufi, 25, 26, 27, 28, 33. See also: Staff. Soufisme, 25, 26, 27, 28, 31, 35' n.14, 36 n.27, 27 n.52 iranien, 26, 28 Source de l'Etre, 33 `orientale', 24 Soviet Premier, 97 Union, 92, 94 Spiegel, Friedrich von, 63 Squinch arch, 8 Squinches, 8, 16 `Stalactite' capitals, 122 Ornament, 122 Sections, 8 Stalactites, 8 State Organization for Administration and Employment Affairs,99,104,108 State Security and Intelligence Agency, 99 Steel project, 105 Stele, 42 Stone, 8 Stucco. 47

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Substance (jawhar), 33 subtile (larifah), 29 Suez Canal. 105 SW cloisters, 5 organizations, 88 Suhråb, 138 Al-Suhravardi, Abo Hafs'Umar, 25 Al-Suhravardi, Shihiib al-Din Abü al-Futi,h, 23, 24, 25, 27, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35 n.3, 35 n.4 Suhravardiyah, 25 Sulaymåniyah Liwa', 39 Sultanabåd, 54 Sultanate, 84 Sultaniyah, 5 Sunni, 86 Caliph, 86 form of Islam, 84 Islam, 86 SunnTs, 85 Susa, 47 Symbol of Husayn, 111, 112, 115, 116,117, 119 Syrian alliance, 41 Tabari, 18

Tabarrii'Tyen, 85 Tabriz, 48, 49, 51, 54

Tajalli, 34 Tajik, 80 Takht-iMarmar, 121, 122. See also: Marble Throne.

TakJrt-i Nadir,, 121 Takht-i Sulayman, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20 Takkiyah- iDawlat, 117 73Gir, 121, 122, 123, 124 Tall-i Jangi, 19 Tamerlane, 49 Tamhidat, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 33. Tarbiyat, 28 Tartib, 30 Tatars, 77 Tavafsul, 86 Tavernier, 51 Tax resources, 101 Taxation, 101 policy, 101 Taxes, 95 Ta'ziyah, 114, 115, 116, 117 Technology, 74 Teheran, 49, 101, 102, 115, 117, 121, 124, 125, 126 Temps, 37 n.56 final de la Nuit, 31 primordial du Jour, 31 Tenebre de la `Lumiere Noire', 32 Tenebres, 24, 25, 31, 32 Terre de la Poesie, 26 Textiles, 49, 51 Thaiss, Gustav, 85 Theologie, 27, exoterique, 29 mystique, 27 Theomonisme, 30 mystique, 31

Theophanie, 34 'Theosophie des Lumieres', 24 orientate, 34 n.2 Throne, 77, 121, 122, 123, 124, 125, 126, 126 n.6, 126 n.9 platform, 123 Room of the Gulist8n Palace, 121 Tiglath Pileser III, 41, 42 Tilak, Bal Gangadhar, 118 Tile, 6, I I, 53, 54 -covered vaults, 7 mosaics, 47, 54 Tilework, 7, 53, 126 Timar, 5, 8, 49 Timurid miniatures, 50 period, 52 princes, 49 Tourist affairs, 99 Tradition d'Alamiit, 36 n.3'7 iranienne de pensee mystique, 35 n.15 'irfåni, 33, 34 'irfdni de l'Iran musulman, 32 spirituelle de ('Iran musulman, 29 Transoxiana, 53, 81 'Tree' and 'garden' rugs, 51 Trever, Camilla, 19, 20 Tribal areas, 72 leaders, 72 life, 71, 73 matters, 71 nomadism, 71 organization, 72 pastoralism, 71 peoples, 71 shayklt, '79 social organization, 71, 72 societies, 69 Tribe, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 79 Tribesmen, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 80 Trieste, 94 Trine, 124. See also: throne. divin, 32 Turän, 81 Turanians, 81 Turcoman dynasties, 49 tribesmen, 80 Turcomans, 72, 74 Turkey, 94 Turk, 80 Turkish, 74, 116 Turkish peoples, 81 Turks, 74, 77, 80, 81, 125 Tustari, Sahl-i, 25 Twelfth Imam, 86 Twelve imams, 86

'Ulamä', 115, 116 Uljaytit, mausoleum of, 5 'Umar, 82, 84 Umayyad Caliph, 79 Caliph Marwån 11, 51 Caliph Yazid, 85 dynasty, 116

palace, 20 l'Un, 29, 30 l'Un absolu, 25 Under secretaries, 96, 97, 104, 105,106,107 United Nations, 109 Upton, J.M., 125 Urartu, 41, 42, 43, 45 n.29 Urartian-inspired trouble, 42 presence, 41 Urartians, 41 Ustdn, 97, 102 'Uthmån, 84

Vakils, 86 Valåyat, 28, 35 n.14 Vanden Berghe, L., 16, 17, 19

Varga,: to Gulsltålt, 48 'Vase' rugs, 51 Vault, 6, 7 Vaulted bay, 6 halls, 7 oratories, 8 Vazir, 80, 82, 83

Worm, 134, 135, 140, 141, 142, 143 -girl, 141 of Kirmån, 134

Yaghis, 73 Yasna, 64, 65, 66 Yazd, 51, 74 Yazdagird III, 85

Yazdiin, 31, 32 Yazid, 79, 85, 87, 112, 113, 115, 116, 117 Yemen, 24, 115 Young, Jr., Dr. T. Cuyler, 42 Yugoslavia, 94 Zaehner, R,C., 18, 63 Zagros, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 45 n.29 peoples, 42 tribes, 72

ZBhir-biniin, 27 bitit; 28

Venice, 5 Verite, 26 absolue et cachce, 26 et divine, 26 Vickers, Sir Geoffrey, 92 Victoria and Albert Museum, 51 Vie mystique, 27 spirituelle, 25 Violence victorieuse, 32 Voie mystique, 28 Volutes, 123 Von Grunebaum, G., 113, 114

Zamua, 39, 40 Zand dado, 125 dynasty, 126 family, 126 period, 125, 126 rule, 125 sculptors, 125 work, 125 Zands, 126 Zarathushtra, 59. See also: Zoroaster. Zayn al `Abidin, 85 Zikirtian-inspired revolt, 42 Zikirtu, 42

Vujüd mutlaq, 33

?ill-elfish, 84

Vedas, 64

1Vajh, 30 Wall-tiles, 53, 54 Washington, D.C., 51 Wågi alt, 27 Water, 19 Weapons, 52 Weavers, 51 West, 10, 59, 134, 136 Western countries, 105 costume, 54 Europe, 94 influence, 143 philosophy, 60 powers, 116 studies, 133 values, 116 world, 59 Westerners, 67 Westernized bureaucracy, 117 White Revolution, 95 White wares, 53 Wilber, D.N., 85 Wolf, Eric, 1 l 1 Wolff, Christian, 60, 68 n.8 Woodwork, 52 Wool, 51 World Bank, 105, 106 literature, 136 -Lord. 143

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Zodiac, 52 Zoroaster, 25, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 6'7 Zoroastrian community, 16 dualism, 62 eschatology, 87 faith, 135 Iran, 15 monotheism, 64 religion, 60, 64 studies, 15 teaching, 60 theology, 64 tradition, 61, 64 traits, 15 Zoroastrianism, 15, 16, 18, 59, 61, 62, 63, 64, 66, 69, 79, 84,86 Zoroastrians, 15 Zubdalt. See: Zubdat al-ltagå'iq. Zubdat al-ttaga'iq, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31. 2uka', Yahyå, Director, Ethnological Museum in Teheran, 121. Zulaykh8, 141

Zulm, 113 Zprkhanah. 87 Zurv8n, 66 Zurvanism, 66

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