Oral Poetry and Narratives from Central Arabia, Volume 3 Bedouin Poets of the Dawasir Tribe: Between Nomadism and Settlement in Southern Najd 9004112766, 9004144218, 9789004112766

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ORAL POETRY AND NARRATIVES FROM CENTRAL ARABIA V VOICES FROM THE DESERT

STUDIES IN ARABIC LITERATURE SUPPLEMENTS TO THE JOURNAL OF ARABIC LITERATURE

VOLUME XVII/V

Oral Poetry and Narratives from Central Arabia Vol. V Voices from the Desert

P. MARCEL KURPERSHOEK

ORAL POETRY AND NARRATIVES FROM CENTRAL ARABIA V

VOICES FROM THE DESERT Glossary, Indices, and List of Recordings

BRILL LEIDEN • BOSTON 2005

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Bedouin poets of the Dawa-sir tribe : between nomadism and settlement in southern Najd / [edited by] P. Marcel Kurpershoek. p. cm. — (Oral poetry and narratives from Central Arabia ; 4) (Studies in Arabic literature, ISSN 0169-9903 ; v. 17/3) Includes Arabic text transcribed in roman script. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 9004112766 (cloth : alk. paper) 1. Dialect poetry, Arabic—Saudi Arabia—Najd—Translations into English. 2. Dialect poetry, Arabic—Saudi Arabia—Najd. 3. Arabic poetry—20th century—Translations into English. 4. Arabic poetry—20th century. 5. Dialect poetry, Arabic—Saudi Arabia– –Najd—History and criticism. 6. Oral tradition—Saudi Arabia– –Najd. 7. Dawa-sir (Arab tribe)—Poetry. 8. Dawa-sir (Arab tribe)– –Folklore. I. Kurpershoek, P. M. II. Series. III. Series: Studies in Arabic literature, v. 17/5. PJ8005.65.E54073 1998 vol 3 2005 vol. 5 892.7'1608—dc21 98-49995 CIP

ISSN 0169-9903 ISBN 90 04 14421 8 © Copyright 2005 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill Academic Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Brill provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910 Danvers MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. PRINTED IN THE NETHERLANDS

INTRODUCTION TO THE GLOSSARY

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CONTENTS

Preface ............................................................................................

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Introduction to the Glossary ........................................................

xvii

Glossary ..........................................................................................

1

Indices Note to the Indices .................................................................. Index of Subjects ..................................................................... Index of Tribal Names ........................................................... Index of Proper Names ..........................................................

363 365 387 393

List of Recordings .........................................................................

403

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INTRODUCTION TO THE GLOSSARY

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PREFACE

El Ultimo Suspiro del Moro PREFACE Sixteen years ago I set out from Riyadh towards the tribal areas of Tēbah and ad-Dawāsir in Central and Southern Najd with the purpose of collecting and studying their oral traditions. Since then, many of the poets, transmitters, and informants whom I recorded and with whom I discussed the poems and narratives presented in these volumes, have passed away. Saudi Arabia has not been unaffected by the turmoil in the wider Middle East. Yet the country has shown remarkable cohesion and so far its system has withstood the jolts from outside. The area’s cultural and social characteristics often seem to get obscured rather than illuminated by the sensationalist media attention for its wars, civil strife, and power struggles. For a more balanced view one might focus on the underlying cultural factors. I am certain that nowadays education and electronic media have an even greater impact on Saudi opinion than was the case when I started my involvement with the oral culture some twenty years ago. But regardless of the passions that have been stirred of late, one may reasonably assume that the continuity of Arabian oral culture, as evidenced by these volumes and other studies, will prove its tenacity even in this time of unprecedented civilisational pressures. A medium of expression and conventions that have evolved gradually and remained distinctly Arabian over a thousand years and more, will not transform into something completely different overnight. On the contrary, chances are that in the coming period the people of the area, the Arabs, will have opportunities to rediscover their commonalities within a framework of diversity and to breathe more freely, culturally speaking, than before. In other words, they may regain what they lost due to the imposition of borders and state apparatuses following World War I. Had they been among us today, Alois Musil, Von Oppenheim, T.E. Lawrence and other students of Middle Eastern tribal systems on whose work I have relied, would be fascinated onlookers. In his Seven Pillars of Wisdom Lawrence spoke of his intention to use a ‘ladder of tribes’ in the British campaign to scale the Ottoman citadel. The new borders drawn by the colonial powers cut across tribal systems and created new divisions which often did not correspond

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to social and cultural realities. Therefore, these borders have always seemed artificial and weak in terms of legitimacy to the new countries’ inhabitants. There is an alternative view to tribal systems as a ladder to be climbed by outsiders. One might see a colourful carpet of many strands and taking on many hues, spreading across borders and shading off into other cultures – a carpet that allows the area’s inhabitants to take pride in their diversity within a shared cultural framework. This is what they may rediscover once they have gained a measure of freedom from the physical and mental yokes imposed from the outside and inside. It would be a discovery of narrative, poetic and other cultural threads knitting them together from Bayhan in Yemen to the rim of the Anatolian highlands, across the Arabian peninsula into Syria and Iraq.1 The oral traditions collected in these volumes, and in many other works devoted to the exploration of Arabian oral culture, attest to the existence of a common identity. In spite of appearances to the contrary, this common identity is more entrenched and permanent than the political and ideological currents at the surface. Letting this fact speak for itself is the driving force behind the collection and edition of Voices from the Desert. If this seems like a romantic project, so be it. Without it, I would hardly have felt the fascination for a subject that always made me return to it with sweet expectation and delight. Humility inspired by God’s awesome presence, pride in the noble traits of kinsmen and friends, endurance in the face of adversity, joy at the advent of rains and other divine blessings, exultancy at the marvels of composed speech and God’s creation. These are some of the themes dear to the heart of ad-Dindān, Ibn Batla, and others, as they have been to Arab poets before them. One does not have to live in a tent in the desert to feel inspired by their work. Nor do we have to share their values and sentiments to recognise in their words some of our own intuitions. Opening myself to their experience and immersing myself in their voice was a tremendously rewarding adventure. This collection of oral traditions might be called muaram, a word that originally denotes ‘a person who lived both in the pre-Islamic days (the so-called Time of Ignorance) and in the Islamic period’, for the collection bridges a comparable period of transition. Its memory extends to a period preceding the imposition of strict Wahhābi rule on the Bedouin tribes and the transformation of the Saudi principality in Riyadh into present-day Saudi Arabia. It reaches back to the days when nomadic animal husbandry and cultivation of date palms were the mainstays of the economy, and camels were the only means of 1

Cf. Vol. III, 323; Vol. IV, 719.

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transportation and well traction. But it also includes many records of the modern Arabia of oil, cars, asphalted roads, large-scale subsidised wheat-growing, rigid Islamic doctrine, and even an acknowledgment of women’s voice in domestic life (in the poetry of the poet and transmitter Bētān, the collection’s pre-eminent muaram). However, the women themselves and their point of view, independently expressed, are conspicuously absent. At the time of my research in Najd, particularly in the extremely conservative rural and tribal milieu where I stayed, there was no way I could have mingled with women and recorded their voice without endangering the entire project and perhaps my life. Only a female researcher could have attempted this. Verses composed by Bedouin women, a number of which have been included in the collection, are mostly edited by men. Therefore it is hardly surprising that more often than not this poetry reflects the male perspective and is meant to reflect on their kinsmen’s glory. Yet one also comes across many pieces in which one senses the presence of a distinct, personal female voice. This interplay of the conventional and formulaic with the personal and individual gives research into Arabian oral culture its particular flavour and special fascination. As with the veil, conventionality can be used in infinite, ambiguous ways. It is used to give expression to a wide range of purposes, varying from rigid adherence to the social norm to playful allusions that turn convention on its head. Examples of the entire range can be found in these volumes. Similarly, the concept of honour occurs in a gamut that ranges from religious and social group values to a poet’s individual honour as an old-fashioned rebel against modern political correctness. In all cases, the majlis, the Arabian daily social gathering, is the arena in which these values gain, keep, or lose currency, whether within the limits of received opinion or in chuckling sympathy for the deviant view. Yet, predominantly, honour is presented as a group value. Mūhig al-Ġannāmi, ad-Dindān, Nābit, Bandar ibn Srūr, are not outsiders seeking modernity and “enlightenment”, but tribal poets who for one reason or another have difficulty in adapting to the new norm. They feel alienated by officially sanctioned change, whether it’s the government’s ban on raiding other tribes, the imposition of Wahhābi norms on music and other aspects of ijāzi culture, or the sudden increase in the presence of foreigners, no matter how circumscribed by Islamic restrictions. Their resistance casts them into the role of anti-hero. In consequence they become the subject of secret admiration and the kind of sympathy accorded to those fighting valiantly a battle obviously lost. Their honour is of a quixotic and exceptional kind. It arouses the curiosity of wider society, because of its poignant expression which appeals to traditional taste. To the society at large

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it is a bittersweet memory of what once was, but, alas, is no more. For those reasons it is preserved by oral memory. Generally speaking, oral culture as a conventional vehicle of social interaction is predominant in illiterate or only partially literate environments. Therefore it is not surprising that the texts in these volumes indicate a mental attitude that is socially very conservative and obsessively drawn towards the past. Finding creative responses to the challenges of the wider, modern world is not its concern. The fact that I have invested much effort and love into documenting this side of contemporary Arabian culture does not mean that I take it to be representative of this culture as a whole or somehow approve of its bias and limitations. Rather, I have felt attracted to it as a matter of personal predilection, because of its often neglected and historically interesting parallels with classical Arabian poetry and culture, and last but not least because at the time of recording it did represent the outlook of a sizeable body of Arabian tribal society: its attachment to a past that was distinctly its own, neither particularly wedded to ideology, with the exception of the brief period of the iwān, nor enamoured of the idea of doing away with tradition and adopting the Western ways. Most of the transmitters were rather advanced in years at the time of recording in 1989. This means that they were in their prime in the 1950s and 1960s, before the oil-boom transformed the face of the Arabian peninsula beyond recognition. Their taste was formed by parents whose prime may have been in the 1920s and 1930s, before oil began to flow. This is the modern muaram period reflected in these volumes. It is a measure of sudden change that many of the images and much of the vocabulary may now be more outlandish to a new generation of Saudi city-dwellers, born from parents with tribal and provincial roots, than it would have been to Bedouins and villagers of past ages. In earlier centuries living conditions were harsh and simple. The pace of change was very slow and incremental. A sense of timelessness and continuity prevailed. All these factors nurtured expression that creatively integrated culture, human emotions, and nature. Though to our taste it may be lacking in complex development, in suspense and intellectual daring, and indeed in immediately recognisable relevance to the modern condition in most parts of the world, it is this very ‘ecological’ quality that in my opinion makes for a considerable part of its charm.2 Honour played an important part in maintaining social equilibrium – a perpetual process of negotiation that allowed each free-born man to preserve his self-esteem in spite of vast differences in power and 2

A term I borrowed in this context from prof. Clive Holes.

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wealth. In these volumes the term ‘desert code’ has been used as a rather loose description for a wide variety of customs, beliefs, and practices centred on the value of honour. The desert code was primarily associated with the Bedouin way of life, whereas the life of the inhabitants of oasis towns and villages was supposed to be regulated by the injunctions of Islamic law. In fact, the boundaries between the customary codes of the desert and the Islamic laws of the settled areas in many cases were probably as blurred and fluent as those between individuals, groups, and (sub)-tribes fitted into the social categories of a‰ar, settled folk, and baduw, the Bedouins.3 Rather, the desert code does not contrast with Islamic law, but with the autocratic culture that prevailed in the Ottoman and other centres of power on which the desert areas bordered.4 Adherence to the desert code helped people to mediate inequalities in power, prestige, and wealth. It was meant to promote a sense of equality among tribesmen, regardless of the afore mentioned inequalities. The ideal was that each man should be allowed to keep his honour intact, notwithstanding the relentless struggle for economic survival in an environment of structural scarcity.5 A Bedouin’s options were limited: sufficient rainfall on one’s own territory or that of one’s tribal allies; drought and enduring its consequences while praying to God for relief; or raiding other tribes’ possessions and gaining access to their grazing land by force or humbly seeking their permission. Yet another option was to seek employment with those who had more dependable sources of income, such as the villagers who worked their camels, suwāni, to draw water from wells to irrigate their fields and palm groves or those who engaged in trade for their livelihood.6 However, the Bedouins’ dream was a cornucopia of milk and meat when plentiful rains allowed the herds to fatten on the spring pastures. Pious Bedouins, like ad-Dindān and Ibn Batla, may have entertained notions of Paradise and Hell closely resembling those of the Rwala as described by Alois Musil. Paradise is a place where it rains regularly, where is abundance and good pasture, where the moon shines all the time and the favourite pastime is raiding hostile tribes which live in hell: a place scorched by the sun, where rains are rare and people are subservient to the government.7 3

Vol. IV, 126. At courts ruled by dynasties that originated in or were in close contact with the tribes of the desert, such as Ibn Raīd in āil, Ibn Saud in Riyadh, and the arīfs of Mecca, who figure prominently in these traditions, Bedouins felt quite at ease. 5 A good example is the story about the battle between ad-Duwī and Ibn Gwēd over grazing rights, IV, 539, 550-559. 6 For example, the story of Ibn  awa of Ga ān, Vol. IV, 335. 7 The Manners and Customs of the Rwala Bedouins, 674-675. 4

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With the exception of the fate reserved for enemy tribes, this picture is similar to the one drawn by ad-Dindān in his poetry.8 Fat, preferably blubbery, is the blessed condition. Mirdim and mirtidim, meaning ‘covered with layer upon layer of fat’, as a result of plentiful grazing are words that express a Bedouin’s delight. 9 It is not only used for camels, but also as a description for heavy bunches of ripening dates. 10 In both cases these signs of a healthy condition and abundance depend on the availability of sufficient water. As the season of rain approaches, the Bedouin incessantly scans the horizon for the flicker of distant lightning that heralds the arrival of clouds. Again, the same description is applied: a mirdim cloud towering up like the layers of a fat camel’s huge hump and therefore a agūg, ‘a cloud that is clearly going to make good on its promise of rain’. 11 In the poet’s imagination these clouds are like pregnant camels. Shaken by the thunder’s rumble and torn open by lightning bolts, ‘they explode with water as if struck by a quake.’12 The arrival of the clouds and rains is not an event caused by blind natural forces, but is part of God’s design, ‘He Who allots sustenance to all creatures, whether in heaven or on earth.’ ‘At His command, pronouncing B and E, the rains start falling // On the dead ground, stirring it to life at His wish and will.’ Hence, the need for faith and prayers asking Him ‘to open the gates of munificence’. That is, ‘clouds at night, lit up by lightning’s flashes, // Clouds replete with moisture driven by His order from their place of origin.’ 13 As the clouds burst open they not only release their water, but also the seeds of the grasses and plants. ‘Along with the precipitation, God sent down the fresh annuals’ seeds, // Saying, “Bring your blessings to the rain-fed lands!” // Just three days later camels, some sprightly and some staid, graze at will, // Left to roam as they please by herdsmen each following his fancy, // The land, before a barren waste, attired itself in green sprouts // And burst into blossom after God had washed away its crust of dirt.’14 The poet revels in the spectacle of violent rains and torrents that 8 Especially his poem in Vol. I, 139-141. See also Vol. III, 39, on Ibn Batla’s similar view of Paradise. 9 Cf. Vol. IV, 461, “She [the camel] could hardly walk so heavy was she, she was covered with layers of fat (mirdim!). She could hardly move and if you wanted to put your hand on her shoulder you couldn’t find it, so big was her hump. She had become incredibly fat!” 10 E.g. Vol. IV, 134. 11 Vol. I, 99. 12 Vol. III, 223. 13 Ibid., 151-153. 14 Ibid., 179.

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are unleashed and soak the earth which had been thirsting and pining for rain (raġāb). ‘Its torrent rips open the thirsty ground parched by a relentless drought, // While its impact causes the flanks of the sanddunes to crumble and cave in.’15 ‘On the morrow of the floods everywhere the same spectacle: // Swept up by the racing water, the big iguana lizards lie helplessly atop the bushes.’ 16 In the desert fecundity is a brief season that must be seized upon and enjoyed to the full. As the camels frolick, the poet’s thoughts drift towards the good things of life: the company of kinsmen ‘whose favourite pastime is spinning a yarn’ in the case of Ibn Batla 17, while ad-Dindān prefers the company of his beloved. ‘Liquid honey cannot bear comparison to the words from her lips, // Even the milk of fattened camels is not as sweet as her speech.’ 18 Yet in the end, as people would say, ad-Dindān was fated to remain wedded to his camels alone. Defiantly, he offers all his tribe’s beauties as ransom for his favourite black-haired she-camel with its placid gaze. Their peachy cheeks would make perfect hides to stitch on his camel’s pads wounded by sharp stones. ‘Walk and step on the soft cheeks of the belle of Āl Barāz, // Tread them firmly, they are the patches for your bruised and bleeding soles! // They are my gift to you as a token of respect and tender love, // For I cannot bear seeing you suffer from pads wounded by sharp stones.’19 While the muaram poet Bētān takes his wife Mi il on a vacation trip to the Holy Mosque in Mecca, travelling in a ‘Ford pickup truck type 66’, and then quarrels with her,20 ad-Dindān takes his beloved she-camel to Mecca – ‘On your back I rode to Mecca, initiating you into the pilgrimage’ – and then quarrels with her: ‘How could you fail to remember and return these favours bestowed upon you?’21 In anger, Bētān steps on the accelerator of his car: ‘I climb into my GMC truck when my heart feels heavy // And relax when I hold its steering-wheel in my hands. // Then I do as I like, driving to Kuwait or the Iraqi border.’22 In similar conditions ad-Dindān takes his camel for a trot: ‘By God, there is only one way to dampen the flames of a thirsting heart: // To roam the desert on swift camels running their best […] //Until the end of my days this will be my

15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22

Vol. I, 109. Vol. III, 161. Vol. III, 179. Vol. I, 141. Vol. III, 235. Ibid., 303-305. Ibid., 233. Ibid., 315.

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heart’s deepest desire: // To feel the cool air stream over my face as I ride on their backs.’23 No matter what the subject, the voice of the desert stems from the heart and gives expression to the heart. The heart is poetry’s origin and thereto it returns. The poet’s heart may feel despondent because of adversity in love or life’s affairs, because of the ruinous effects of drought on his animals. But like the scorched earth it revives with amazing resilience at the slightest sign of hope: ‘Ah, wretched broken heart that has strayed and gone to ruin, // Yet breaks into a light trot when his darling deigns to speak to him.’ 24 Venting his spleen on top of a prominent mountain, the poet vows to stop speaking in verse. But it is a promise he cannot keep. ‘Though he had sworn never to sing anymore, he could not resist the inner urge. // In my breast my heart fluttered like a falcon chick flapping its wings, // Once it feels strong enough to fly from its nest.’ 25 Beset by troubles, the poet feels that his ‘heaviness of heart spoils his appetite for life: Woe unto a heart swarmed over by creeping young locusts, // Wave after wave alighting on the heart’s branches at dusk.’ 26 Composition does not start as a voluntary process. ‘From every nook and cranny the verses advanced on me.’27 As the raw material presents itself, the poet picks and chooses whatever suits his taste and moulds it with a craftsman’s precision and art. The origin of inspiration as such, however, remains shrouded in mystery. In one verse adDindān goes as far as stating that divine inspiration is the source of his compositions. ‘The verses dictated to me by the Merciful I understood, // As they responded to one another’s melody and marched on me in battle array.’28 Ad-Dindān was considered a harmless oddball, someone of not entirely sound mind who could hardly be held responsible for his actions. One day, in the camp of a desert police station in the Hab ad-Dawāsir, I witnessed one of the desert rangers ‘read the Qurān’ over ad-Dindān’s friend, the vagabond poet Nābit. The proceedings seemed half in jest, but the message was clear: Nābit was seen as ‘possessed’ and someone who could not be judged in the same way as responsible, reasonable men. To some extent the same held true for ad-Dindān. This explains 23

Vol. I, 173. Vol. III, 225. 25 Vol. I, 173. 26 Ibid., 127. 27 Ibid., 133. 28 Ibid., 129. ‘Deciphering the writing on his mind’s tablet without having been taught to read’, in the phrase of ad-Dindān, Vol. III, 68; ‘With my tongue performing as pencil and my heart as its scroll’, in Ibn Batla’s verse, Ibid., 35. Thus the two poets summarise the process of inspiration and oral composition. 24

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why ad-Dindān got away with some of the things he said and which by Wahhābi standards should be condemned as very unorthodox or even sacrilegious. Indeed, ad-Dindān himself believed that he communicated with spirits and jinns. 29 No matter what the source, a poet in the throes of inspiration cannot be held accountable for forces beyond his control that make him suffer his mental agony. ‘Ah, poor heart, as if slit on a skewer and slowly roasted, // Its twigs as if cauterized by a red-hot brandingiron. // His breast feels like a mortar close to fire’s blaze, // Beaten cruelly for no other reason than to make him scream.’30 Inspiration and the ability to mould it into exquisite verse are a poet’s gift. His art gives expression to emotions that hold sway over each man’s heart: love, fear and despair, hope. Nothing can stop the poet from doing so: ‘He who finds fault with me for loving, may he lose his sight, // And be forced to walk as a blind man with those who love him least.’ 31 These poets are deeply pious men, who would not think of skipping even one obligatory prayer as long as they are physically capable of performing it. Yet, unlike the brand of Islam propagated by some of their more “politically aware” fellow-tribesmen, their religiosity did not have even the slightest ideological or crusading edge to it. Their faith, though vigorous and deeply held, had been naturally integrated into their life, along with other cultural influences, such as the poetic traditions with which they have grown up. It is probably true for all parts of the world that when religion becomes strident, culture is in danger. Logically, this points to the importance of fostering culture, for its own sake but also as a social barrier against the excesses of religious puritanism when it is given full scope and unleashed at people’s lives. Unchecked it will respect history nor culture and, like a fire, start feeding on itself. This is what happened in the period of unprecedented religious effervescence caused by the movement of the iwān, deliberately created by King Abd al-Azīz as a unifying force, when many “converts” set fire to manuscripts in their families’ possession. Hence the unique value of oral tradition as a source, no matter how imperfect, of historical knowledge and the vehicle of popular culture. In the olden days, the ‘Days of the Arabs’ as they are often called after the supposedly anarchic pre-Islamic period of Arab history, raiding other tribes was seen as a chivalrous sport and a legitimate way of supplementing one’s income and making a livelihood. Booty was considered as God’s sustenance. Tribesmen would tell their adversaries, 29 30 31

Vol. III, 65. Ibid., 217. Ibid., 225.

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‘Sometimes we are robbed, the next time it is your turn.’ 32 When I wished to record these stories, transmitters would often preface their narratives and poems about this period with some praise for the new Saudi order that put an end to these practices.33 This may be seen in the context of the traditional opposition in Islam between taqwā and amīyah, ‘godliness’ and ‘tribal pride’. The older generation had seen tremendous improvements in their condition thanks to the discovery of oil in conjunction with an unprecedented long period of political stability. They were sufficiently aware of the contrast with the earlier situation to be grateful. Having signalled for the record that from a religious and political perspective what they were about to start narrating should be seen as a cautionary tale, they felt free to indulge in their tribal enthusiasm in what followed. Again, it seems unlikely that such a distinctive and ancient feature of Arabian culture will disappear in the foreseeable future. As a poet of the Dawāsir put it, ‘Tales come and go like camels moving to and from the well, // Or buckets being hoisted up and dropped down its shaft.’34 Some of these bucketfuls have been collected in this series. Without the help and encouragement of my colleagues and friends in the field of Arabian oral culture, dialectology, and classical Arab literature, foremost among them dr. S.A. Sowayan whose brilliant scholarship and unrivalled knowledge have set the standard in the field, this work would not have come to fruition. These scholars follow in the steps of the classical rāwiyah by drawing up the water, emptying the buckets into the reservoir and examining the contents in detail, before releasing it to irrigate and fertilise the fields of Arab imagination. Ya-māl as-sēl, ‘May they be inundated by a torrent!’

32 33 34

Vol. II, 159, 207. Vol. IV, 155. Ibid., 119.

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INTRODUCTION TO THE GLOSSARY As announced in Volume 4, the series Oral Poetry & Narratives from Central Arabia is hereby supplemented with a consolidated Glossary, comprising the accumulated and integrated data of the 4 volumes’ separate glossaries; indices for subjects, tribal names, and proper names; and a list of recordings, containing the original recordings of the poets and transmitters, in the order of the published texts in the previous 4 volumes, to be downloaded as MP3 files at www.brill.nl/kurpershoek. This Volume 5, therefore, provides a research tool for students who wish to track themes and subjects through the various volumes and to gain a better understanding and more vivid impression of the field work experience underlying this work. Moreover, the Glossary not only refers the reader to those parts of the Text where the explained lexical items occur; it has been extended with numerous samples and examples from works and studies by Saudi and other Arab collectors and scholars as well as Western sources. In compiling this glossary, and in other respects, I have followed the methodology applied by dr. S.A. Sowayan who for many years has been setting the standard in the study of Saudi oral literature and to whose unrivalled knowledge and generous advice I remain deeply indebted. Borrowings from dr. S.A. Sowayan’s glossary to his The Arabian Oral Historical Narrative have been marked with Glos. Thus, this consolidated Glossary might be a step further towards the compilation of a dictionary dedicated to the vocabulary used in Najdi poetry and narratives (acknowledging the fact that Najdi popular poetry, also called Nabai poetry, has its own artistic idiom which has kept pace with the dynamics of historical and social change, but is nevertheless in many respects distinct from ordinary speech). The Glossary presents abundant evidence of close parallels between the idiom of Najdi poetry and a very broad range of lexical material found in the great dictionaries of the classical Arabic heritage. Clearly, in these fields there is great scope for further research. For the system of transcription, the characteristics of the Najdi dialect and the linguistic and prosodic features of the Text, the reader is referred to the previous volumes and other relevant works cited in their chapters on these aspects.

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As far as the Glossary is concerned, a few points may be repeated here. The references to the text are illustrative and not inclusive of all instances where the word occurs. In the borrowings from some of the sources editorial discretion has been exercised in adapting them to the transcription system used in this work. Because of uncertainties or ambiguities in the original rendering of some words in the works by Musil and Hess, the form in which these data have been included in this work does not represent more than a good guess. English quotations and translations have been abridged, corrected or modified where this seemed appropriate. Explanations of items are not always identical to those given in the sources: meanings, synonyms, related forms and explanations have been added, others omitted. If sources broadly concur in their explanation of an item, references have been grouped together. The abbreviations used for references to these sources are listed at the end of this note. The lexical items in the glossary are placed under the radicals of the root, so that each root constitutes a separate entry. The order of the entries, and to some extent the arrangement of the items within each entry, are those of the Arabic alphabet and dictionaries. CA  and  having merged into _d. in the dialect of Najd, _d. has been allotted the place of  in the alphabetical order. Within each entry I have generally adhered to the practice of CA dictionaries, i.e. the verb and the derived stems come first, followed by the nouns. This arrangement has been applied with sufficient flexibility to allow for other considerations. For instance, in many cases verbal forms are followed by participles and other nouns if this seemed desirable from a semantic perspective, e.g. to highlight their related meaning as distinct from other verbal forms and nouns that would have separated them in a more rigorous adherence to the principles of sequence. If a verbal form has a semantic range which is unrelated and additional to the one given under the initial item, the same form is repeated and followed by an explanation of its meaning and that of its derived forms. Thus, under the root jzy the verb ajza ‘not to drink’ comes after the nouns derived from jiza ‘to reward’; under the root jnb the verb ajnab ‘to travel south’ comes at the end of the entry together with other items related to the meaning ‘south’; under the root jwr the verb jār ‘to wrong, oppress’ comes after the verb jār ‘to protect s.o. as a neighbour’ and other verbal forms and nouns within its semantic range; under the root my the forms with the broad meaning of ‘to protect’ (CA amā) are followed by those with the meaning of ‘to be hot’ (CA amiya), etc.

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The following symbols are used for the transcription of the oral text and other examples from the Najdi dialect and its poetic idiom (see also the notes on the notation symbols in vols. I-IV). Consonants:

b . t  t ġ j f  g x k d l d m r n z h s w š y  Vowels: Short: a, e, i, u Long: ā, ē, ī, ū, ō Diphthongs: aw (mostly monophthongized as ō or ā), ay (mostly monophthongized as ē ). Final vowels are always long and therefore are transcribed without macron, except in transcriptions of classical Arabic (CA) in the Glossary and elsewhere. The transliteration of literary Arabic uses the same symbols for the consonants with the following exceptions:       q While an introduction into the linguistic characteristics of the Najdi dialect is helpful, students who have experience with Hans Wehr’s Arabic-

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INTRODUCTION TO THE GLOSSARY

English Dictionary or other dictionaries of written Arabic will have no difficulty in accessing this Glossary through the notation symbols used for the transcription. One difference that should be noted here concerns the hamzah and its disappearance as a functional phoneme in the dialect. In this and other cases I have generally followed the example of the practical solutions adopted by S.A. Sowayan to cope with the methodological problems that present themselves when one attempts to systematize the Najdi dialectal lexicon (on these subjects the reader is referred to Sowayan’s Naba i Poetry, the Oral Poetry of Arabia, 1985, and The Arabian Oral Historical Narrative, an Ethnographic and Linguistic Analysis, 1992). In some cases the vocalic onset connected with the original hamzah is still found in initial position, as in axa and akal. However, even as the initial radical of the root, the hamzah often changes to w, as in wimar (CA amara); and it also happens that the initial hamzah is dropped and a final vowel is added to form the root of a defective verb: xaa, kala. When the initial glottal stop of a verbal form is preceded by a prefix, the hamzah disappears and the vowel of the prefix is lengthened (tākil