The Samaritans in Historical, Cultural and Linguistic Perspectives 3110616106, 9783110616101

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The Samaritans in Historical, Cultural and Linguistic Perspectives

Studia Judaica Forschungen zur Wissenschaft des Judentums Begründet von Ernst Ludwig Ehrlich Herausgegeben von Günter Stemberger, Charlotte Fonrobert, Elisabeth Hollender, Alexander Samely und Irene Zwiep

Band 110

Studia Samaritana Edited by Magnar Kartveit, Gary N. Knoppers, Stefan Schorch

Volume 11

The Samaritans in Historical, Cultural and Linguistic Perspectives Edited by Jan Dušek

Proceedings of the 9th international congress of the Société d’études samaritaines, held in Prague, July 31 – August 5, 2016 This volume has been edited as part of the research project of the Czech Science Foundation (Grantová agentura České republiky) GAČR P401/12/G168 “History and Interpretation of the Bible”.

ISBN 978-3-11-061610-1 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-061730-6 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-061627-9 ISSN 0585-5306 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Société d'études samaritaines. International Congress (9th : 2016 : Prague, Czech Republic) Title: The Samaritans in historical, cultural, and linguistic perspectives / edited by / herausgegeben von Jan Dušek. Description: Berlin ; Boston : Walter de Gruyter GmbH, [2018] | Series: Studia samaritana ; Band / volume 11 | Includes bibliographical references, abstracts, keywords and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2018029285 (print) | LCCN 2018029602 (ebook) | ISBN 9783110617306 (electronic Portable Document Format (pdf) | ISBN 9783110616101 (print : alk. paper) | ISBN 9783110617306 (e‐book pdf) | ISBN 9783110616279 (e‐book epub) Subjects: LCSH: Samaritans‐‐History‐‐Congresses. | Samaritans‐‐Congresses. | Samaritan literature‐‐History and criticism‐‐Congresses. Classification: LCC DS129 (ebook) | LCC DS129 .S63 2016 (print) | DDC 296.8/1709‐‐dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018029285 Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available in the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2018 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Typesetting: Integra Software Services Pvt. Ltd. Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck www.degruyter.com

Preface The Samaritan community is ancient, persevering and respectable, with roots in Biblical times. The Samaritans and their culture witnessed history over more than two millennia and we can be spectators of the development of their community in modern times. The Samaritans, their Pentateuch and Mount Gerizim represent a kind of historical constant in the southern Levant during numerous historic events and overthrows, perhaps even despite many of them. Because of such a long and rich history, Samaritan studies require a multidisciplinary approach, including Biblical studies, epigraphy, archaeology and history, Jewish and Arabic studies, sociology, folklore studies and other disciplines. The international congresses of the Société d’études samaritaines are held every four years and represent a unique occasion for specialists of various disciplines to meet in discussion and to share their knowledge. This volume collects papers presented during the 9th congress of the Société d’études samaritaines. It was hosted by the Center for Biblical Studies at the Protestant Theological Faculty, Charles University (Prague, Czech Republic) from July 31st through August 5th of 2016. I would like to thank Jan Roskovec, Th.D., director of the Center for Biblical Studies, and Doc. Jiří Mrázek, Th.D., dean of the faculty, for their kind and supportive approach toward our congress. I also wish to thank Jarmila Bergstra for her practical and administrative organization of the congress. I am very grateful to Iva Trefná, who did most of the technical redaction of the volume, to Daniel Boušek who revised the Arabic texts and helped me with revision of the Hebrew passages and to Dávid Cielontko who prepared the index. The volume has been edited as part of the research project of the Czech Science Foundation (Grantová agentura České republiky) “History and interpretation of the Bible” (GAČR P401/12/G168). In Prague, May 2018 Jan Dušek

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110617306-201

Contents Preface 

 V

Abbreviations 

 X

1 Hebrew Bible and Samaritan Pentateuch Magnar Kartveit Anti-Samaritan Polemics in the Hebrew Bible? The Case of 2 Kings 17:24–41   3 Ingrid Hjelm So-called Deuteronomic Addenda in the Samaritan Pentateuch Numbers 10–14 and 20–27: Where Do They Belong?   19 Benedikt Hensel The Chronicler’s Polemics towards the Samarian YHWH-Worshippers: A Fresh Approach   35

2 Roman-Byzantine and Rabbinic Studies Reinhard Pummer Synagogues – Samaritan and Jewish: A New Look at their Differentiating Characteristics   51 Andreas Lehnardt “If a Cuthean Comes and Forces You into Military Service” (Pesiqta de-Rav Kahana, Ha-Hodesh, pisqa 5): Anti-Samaritan Polemics in a Homiletic Midrash   75 Abraham Tal Nimrod, “A Man of Might” – How Many of Them? 

 91

VIII 

 Contents

3 Arabic Studies Daniel Boušek The Story of the Prophet Muḥammad’s Encounter with a Samaritan, a Jew, and a Christian: The Version from Abū l-Fatḥ’s Kitāb al-Tārīkh and Its Context   105 Stefan Schorch An Unknown and Unique Samaritan Arabic Introductory Prayer by Abū l-Ḥasan al-Ṣūrī (11th Century)   131 Gerhard Wedel Polemics in Abū l-Ḥasan aṣ-Ṣūrī’s Kitāb al-Ṭabbāḫ (11th Century CE)   163 Haseeb Shehadeh One Fifth of the Tiny Samaritan Community in Nablus Died in the Epidemic of 1786   200

4 Samaritans in Modern and Contemporary Time Ruth Bardenstein Historical Bindings of the Chamberlain-Warren Samaritan Collection 

 217

Golda Akhiezer Between Samaritans and Karaites: Abraham Firkovich and His Perception of Samaritanism   235 Julia Droeber Does Religious Diversity Work? Samaritans and Their Religious “Others” in Contemporary Nablus   245 Monika Schreiber The Arab, the Jewish, and the Ukrainian Marriage: Picking Spouses in the Samaritan Community   267

Contents 

 IX

5 Linguistic Studies Moshe Florentin “On the Head Joseph, and on the Leader, the Consecrated among His Brothers” (Genesis 49:26; Deuteronomy 33:16): A Study of the Grammar, Interpretation, and Version of Two Words with Geminated Consonants in the Samaritan Pentateuch   301 Alina Tarshin Hyperheavy Syllables Created in Samaritan Aramaic with no Affinity to the Contraction of Two Syllables into One   314 Abstracts and Keywords  Index of Authors 

 333

Index of Sources 

 338

 323

Abbreviations Eras AH BCE CE

anno Hegirae (in the year of /Muhammad’s/ Hegira /622 CE/) before the Common Era Common Era

Technical Abbreviations apr. ca. cf. ch(s.) cstr. d. ed(s). e.g. esp. etc. f(f). fol(s). hrsg. ibid. idem i.a. i.e. m. n. n.d. no. n.p. NS par(r). Pl. pl(s). p(p). r. rev. sec. sg. s.s. tract. trans.

approximately circa confer, compare chapter(s) constructus died editor(s), edited by, edition exempli gratia, for example especially et cetera, and so forth, and the rest and the following one(s) folio(s) herausgegeben von, edited by ibidem, in the same place the same inter alia, among others id est, that is masculine note no date number no place; no publisher; no page new series and the parallel text(s) plate plural page(s) reigned revised (by) section singular sub verbo, under the word tractate translator, translated by

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110617306-202

Abbreviations 

viz. vol(s). v(v).

 XI

videlicet, namely volume(s) verse(s)

Bibliographical and Other Abbreviations AB ABRep AIsI AJBA AJSL AKM ANET

Ant. AOH ArsOr AS ATD BA BA BAIAS BAR BASOR BCH BHQ BHS BJRL BJS Brill’s New Pauly

BSOAS BVB BWA(N)T BZ BZAW CHANE ChrH CIS Companion

Anchor Bible American biblical repository Annales Islamologiques Australian Journal of Biblical Archaeology American Journal of Semitic Languages and Literatures Abhandlungen für die Kunde des Morgenlandes. James B. Pritchard, Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1969 (3rd ed.). Jewish Antiquites Acta orientalia Academicae Scientiarum Hungaricae. Acta orientalia Hungarica Ars Orientalis Aramaic Studies Das Alte Testament Deutsch Biblical Aramaic Biblical Archaeologist Bulletin of the Anglo-Israel Archaeological Society Biblical Archaeology Review Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research Bulletin de correspondance hellénique Biblia Hebraica quinta Biblia Hebraica Stuttartensia Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library of Manchester Brown Judaic Studies Hubert Cancik und Helmuth Schneider (Antike), and Manfred Landfester (Rezeptions– und Wissenschaftsgeschichte) (eds.). Der Neue Pauly – Brill’s New Pauly. English translation. Christine F. Salazar (Antiquity) and Francis G. Gentry (Classical Tradition) (eds.). 16 vols. Leiden: Brill, 2015. Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies Brem- und Verdische Bibliothek Beiträge zur Wissenschaft vom Alten (und Neuen) Testament Biblische Zeitschrift Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft Culture and History of the Ancient Near East Chronistic History Copenhagen International Seminar Alan D. Crown, Reinhard Pummer and Abraham Tal. (eds.). A Companion to Samaritan Studies. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1993.

XII  CPA DJD DSS DTT EI 2

EI 3 EJ 2 EJM EQ ErIsr FAT FJB FRLANT FThSt HB HBAI HdO HSS HThKAT HTR HUCA HUT ICC IEJ IoR.J IPTS Islamica JA JAJ JAJSup JAOS JBL JBS JPA JPS JQR JRA JSAI JSJ JSOTSup

 Abbreviations

Christian Palestinian Aramaic Discoveries in the Judean Desert Dead Sea Scrolls Dansk Teologisk Tidskrift Th. Bianquis, C. E. Bosworth, E. van Donzel and W. P. Heinrichs (eds.). The Encyclopaedia of Islam. New Edition. 11 vols. Leiden: Brill, 1960– 2002/2011. Kate Fleet et al. (eds.). Encyclopaedia of Islam, THREE. Leiden: Brill, 2006–. Michael Berenbaum and Fred Skolnik (eds.). Encyclopaedia Judaica. 2nd ed. Detroit: Macmillan Reference, 2007. Études sur le Judaïsme Médiéval Jane Dammen McAuliffe (ed.). Encyclopaedia of the Qur'an. 6 vols. Leiden: Brill, 2001–2006. Eretz- Israel Forschungen zum Alten Testament Frankfurter Judaistische Beiträge Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments Freiburger theologische Studien Hebrew Bible Hebrew Bible and Ancient Israel Handbook of Oriental Studies Harvard Semitic Studies Herders Theologischer Kommentar zum Alten Testament Harvard Theological Review Hebrew Union College Annual Hermeneutische Untersuchungen zur Theologie International critical commentary (on the Holy Scriptures) Israel Exploration Journal Iconography of religions. Section 23, Judaism Islamic Philosophy, Theology and Science. Texts and Studies Zeitschrift für dieErforschung der Sprachen, der Geschichte und der Kulturen der islamischen Völker Journal Asiatique Journal of Ancient Judaism Journal of ancient Judaism – Supplements Journal of the American Oriental Society Journal of Biblical Literature Jerusalem Biblical Studies Jewish Palestinian Aramaic Jewish Publication Society Old Testament Jewish Quarterly Review Journal of Roman Archaeology Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic, and Roman Periods Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series

Abbreviations 

JSP JSQ JSRC JSS JudChr JudUm KAT KJV LHB LXX ME MSU MT NEAEHL NCB NIB NLR NRSV NT NTOA OLZ OTL PEFQS PJ PNA RAfr REg REI REJ RevQ RSV SA SALL SBAB SBFCMa SBLMS SCS SFSHJ SH SIs SJ SJ(S) SJSSup SOAS SP SSN

 XIII

Judea & Samaria Publications Jewish Studies Quarterly Jerusalem Studies in Religion and Culture Journal of Semitic Studies Judaica et Christiana Judentum und Umwelt Kommentar zum Alten Testament King James Version Library of Hebrew Bible Septuagint Medieval Encounters: Jewish, Christian and Muslim Culture in Confluence and Dialogue Michigan State University Masoretic Text New Encyclopedia of Archaeological Excavations in the Holy Land New Century Bible The New Interpreter’s Bible National Library of Russia New Revised Standard Version New Testament Novum Testamentum et Orbis Antiquus Orientalische Literaturzeitung Old Testament Library Palestine Exploration Fund Quarterly Statement Palästina-Jahrbuch Palestinian National Authority Revue africaine Revue d’égyptologie Revue des études islamiques Revue des études juives Revue de Qumran Revised Standard Version Samaritan Aramaic Studies in Arabic Language and Literature Stuttgarter biblische Aufsatzbände Studium Biblicum Franciscanum, Collectio Maior Society of Biblical Literature Monograph Series Septuagint and Cognate Studies South Florida Studies in the History of Judaism Samaritan Hebrew Studia Islamica Studia Judaica Studies in Judaica Supplements to the Journal for the Study of Judaism School of Oriental and African Studies Samaritan Pentateuch Studia Semitica Neerlandica

XIV  SStLL STAR StIsl StJud StOr StPB StSam SubBi SWJA TANZ TGI ThZ TSAJ VT VTSup WiBiLex WMANT ZAW ZDMG ZDMGSup Zion ZPE

 Abbreviations

Studies in Semitic languages and linguistics Studies in Theology and Religion Studia Islamica Studies in Judaism Studia Orientalia. Societas Orientalis Fennica. Helsingfors Studia Post-biblica Studia Samaritana Subsidia Biblica Southwestern Journal of Anthropology Texte und Arbeiten zum neutestamentlichen Zeitalter Kurt Galling (ed.), Textbuch zur Geschichte Israels. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1968. Theologische Zeitschrift Texte und Studien zum antiken Judentum Vetus Testamentum Supplements to Vetus Testamentum Das wissenschaftliche Bibellexikon im Internet https://www.bibelwissenschaft.de/de/wibilex/ (accessed March 8, 2018) Wissenschaftliche Monographien zum Alten und Neuen Testament Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft Zeitschrift der deutschen morgenländischen Gesellschaft der deutschen morgenländischen Gesellschaft Supplementbände Zion Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik

1 Hebrew Bible and Samaritan Pentateuch

Magnar Kartveit

Anti-Samaritan Polemics in the Hebrew Bible? The Case of 2 Kings 17:24–41 Does 2 Kings 17:24–41 contain anti-Samaritan polemics? Julius Wellhausen argued that vv. 24–34a spoke of the Samaritan population. Against this analysis, Bernhard Stade suggested that the reference of vv. 24–33 were not the Samaritans, but descendants of the foreign colonists.1 Since then, the discussion has gone on. Seow states that “the heterodoxy of ‘Samaria’ and the ‘Samaritans’ is an indirect result of what both Jeroboam and the people of Israel had done.”2 W. Dietrich: “This is the beginning of the Jewish-Samaritan split.”3 S. Talmon argues that the whole chapter is anti-Ephraimite.4 Discoveries on Mount Gerizim and the Aegean island Delos make the questions relevant again. As the dates of Hebrew Bible texts today often is sought in Persian and Hellenistic times, and the recent finds with Samaritan provenance are dated to the same periods, the research situation is such that we now have material where we earlier lacked data, and it comes from the periods when scholars today think the formation of the Hebrew Bible took place. It is time to posit the question again: with our new knowledge, what is the date and the purpose of 2 Kings 17:24–41? We start with the investigation of the date.5

Conspicuous Usage of Verbs in 2 Kings 17:24–41 Throughout the chapter, wayyiqtol (consecutive imperfect) is used to describe the events. When the action is negated or when a part of speech precedes the verb, qatal (perfect) is used. Further, there are imperatives in vv. 13, 21 and 39, and negated yiqtol (apodictic imperfect) is found in vv. 12, 35, 37 and 38, yiqtol in a command is used in vv. 36, and 37, and for the future in v. 39. The overall usage of verbal forms is standard Classical Biblical Hebrew.6

1 Stade 1886, 156–189, 167–169. 2 Seow 1999, 258. 3 Dietrich 2001, 260. 4 Talmon 1993, 134–159. 5 Kartveit 2014 (ZAW), 31–33. 6 Joosten 2012, 43. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110617306-001

4 

 Magnar Kartveit

Inside this system, an interesting feature about the Hebrew of this chapter is the relative frequency of participles used with finite verbs or as predicates with pronouns or with a negation particle. The verbal construction hyh plus a participle we encounter in these instances: 1. The construction wayhi qotel, six instances (with the corresponding NRSV translations): ‫וַ יִ ְהיּו ה ְֹרגִ ים‬, “([lions] which) killed (some of them),” v. 25. ‫מֹורה‬ ֶ ‫וַ יְ ִהי‬, “(he [= the priest]) taught (them how they should worship the Lord),” v. 28. ‫וַ יִ ְהיּו ע ִֹשים‬, “(but every nation) still made (gods of its own),” v. 29; “([priests] who) sacrificed (for them in the shrines of the high places),” v. 32.7 ‫וַ יִ ְהיּו יְ ֵר ִאים‬, “(they also) worshiped (the Lord),” v. 32; “(so these nations) worshiped (the Lord),” v. 41. The translation of NRSV uses the past tense in these instances, without attempting to convey, for example, a durative aspect. In v. 29, the translation “still made” is perhaps an attempt to express a durative aspect, but it is also possible that “still” is inserted to mellow the transition from the preceding verse or to express contemporality with the action referred to in the preceding verse: the priest taught them how to worship the Lord (v. 28), but they still made gods of their own (v. 29). In the other five cases, the translation functions as an indicative past, like the wayyiqtol- and qatal-forms in this chapter, and the specific character of the wayhi qotel-constructions is not visible in the translations. The wayyiqtol-element of the phrases (wayhi) may have steered the understanding of NRSV, and the added qotel-element seems not to have influenced the translation. 2. The construction hayah qotel, three instances: ‫היּו יְ ֵר ִאים‬, ָ “(so they) worshiped (the Lord),” v. 33. ‫היּו ע ְֹב ִדים‬, ָ “(but also) served (their own gods),” v. 33; “(but also) served (their carved images),” v. 41. It seems that, in these cases, when a part of speech precedes, the hayah qotelconstruction is used instead of the wayhi qotel, corresponding to the standard usage of wayyiqtol and qatal. The translation of NRSV is also here indicative past. 7 NRSV in this verse does not correspond word by word to the Hebrew text: “They also worshiped the LORD and appointed from among themselves all sorts of people as priests of the high places, who sacrificed [‫ ]וַ יִ ְהיּו ע ִֹשים‬for them in the shrines of the high places.”

Anti-Samaritan Polemics in the Hebrew Bible? The Case of 2 Kings 17:24–41 

 5

We therefore have nine instances with the two verbal constructions, constructions of the MT that have not occasioned a rendering with a durative aspect in the NRSV. They both are verbal constructions typical of Late Biblical Hebrew (see below). 3. We may also consider certain nominal constructions as part of the picture. Here, we encounter the construction hinneh/hem qotelim in five instances: ‫יתים‬ ִ ‫הנָ ם ְמ ִמ‬, ִ “(they) are killing (them),” v. 26. ‫הם י ְֹש ִבים‬, ֵ “(in the cities in which they) lived,” v. 29. ‫הם ע ִֹשים‬, ֵ “(to this day they) continue to practice (their former customs),” v. 34; “(but they) continued to practice (their formed custom),” v. 40; “(to this day their children and their children’s children) continue to do (as their ancestors did),” v. 41. In vv. 26, 34, 40, and 41 the translation of NRSV indicates a durative aspect at the moment of utterance, comparable to habitual present, and also in v. 29 this durative aspect may be intended in the translation, contemporaneous with the actions in the past referred to in the verse. One might also include the nominal construction found in v. 31: ‫ה ְס ַפ ְרוִ ים ש ְֹר ִפים‬, ַ “the Sepharvites burned (their children in the fire)”. The translation of v. 31 may be understood as referring to actions going on over a period. For all these nominal constructions the translation tends to convey a durative aspect. 4. Negated nominal constructions of the type enam qotelim are used in three instances: ‫אינָ ם י ְֹד ִעים‬, ֵ “they do not know,” v. 26. ‫אינָ ם יְ ֵר ִאים‬, ֵ “they do not worship (the Lord),” v. 34. ‫אינָ ם ע ִֹשים‬, ֵ “they do not follow (the statutes of the ordinances or the law or the commandment),” v. 34. The translation here is present indicative, and the sense of the verbs (“know,” “worship,” and “follow”) in the context would refer to continuous phenomena. The NRSV can in these instances be understood as conveying a duration of the acts referred to, without using verbal forms that are explicit in this regard; the verbal constructions are not translated with durative aspects. Positive and negated nominal constructions are found in nine instances altogether. This construction is encountered in Classical Biblical Hebrew, but it receives a more markedly verbal status and can express durative or iterative aspects in

6 

 Magnar Kartveit

Late Biblical Hebrew.8 The instances of ‫יתים‬ ִ ‫ ִהנָ ם ְמ ִמ‬and ‫אינָ ם י ְֹד ִעים‬, ֵ v. 26, repeat the meaning of the finite constructions ‫וַ יִ ְהיּו ה ְֹרגִ ים‬, v. 25, and ‫לֹא יָ ְדעּו‬, v. 26, and continue the series of two perfect and two consecutive imperfect forms in the message to the Assyrian king, v. 26aβb. The two instances might have been perfects or consecutive imperfects as well, but in the former case, there is an emphasis: “behold, they are killing”, and in both instances a durative aspect seems to be intended. The aspect of ‫הם י ְֹש ִבים‬, ֵ v. 29, is evidently durative, “(the cities in which) they were living”. The instance of ‫ה ְס ַפ ְרוִ ים ש ְֹר ִפים‬, ַ v. 31, continues the series of qatal-forms in vv. 30–31 and equals a finite form with durative aspect, a habitual present in English. The three instances of ‫הם ע ִֹשים‬, ֵ ‫אינָ ם יְ ֵר ִאים‬, ֵ and ‫אינָ ם ע ִֹשים‬, ֵ v. 34, all are dependent upon the introducing formula ‫עד ַהיֹום ַהזֶ ה‬, ַ and therefore have a durative aspect referring to an extended period including the moment of utterance. These nine instances of nominal constructions with a participle therefore all share in the development towards Late Biblical Hebrew, or are already examples of this stage of the language. The nine verbal instances with hyh plus a participle and these nine nominal instances together constitute a series of 18 instances of linguistic phenomena associated with Late Biblical Hebrew. The instances are found in vv. 25, 26, 28, 29, 31, 32, 33, 34 ,40, and 41, which makes it difficult to isolate a particular strand or layer in this text, and also to explain them as additions—they are too many and distributed over the entire section vv. 25–34bα, 40–41. The phenomenon seems to be integral to vv. 25–41, minus vv. 34bβ–39. Cogan and Tadmor remark, when they comment on v. 25, “The periphrastic construction, employing a form of the verb ‘to be’ (Heb. hāyâ) plus a participle, is a feature of Late Hebrew and is widely used throughout the unit vv. 24–33.”9 The grammar of P. Joüon describes the sense of the type hayah qotel as a pure perfect with no durative or frequentative sense in the cases of Neh 2:13,15; 2 Chr 24:12; 30:10; 36:16, and it adds a reference to 2 Kgs 17:24–41 in a footnote, with its wide use of the construction. The usage is due to influence from Aramaic, which employs this construction for instantaneous or unique acts, but also with a durative or frequentative sense.10 The grammar by Joüon and Muraoka suggests that “the real force of the construction is akin to that of the inchoative imperfect of Greek or the graphic historic present”, with reference i.a. to 2 Kgs 17:25, 28, 29, 32, 33 and 41.11 J. Joosten treats the verbal constructions in the section on Classical Biblical Hebrew, but he does not discuss these constructions in the section on Late Biblical

8 Joosten 2012, 390–396. 9 Cogan and Tadmor 1988, 210. 10 Joüon 1923, § 121 g, 340–341. 11 Joüon and Muraoka 2000, § 121 g, 412.

Anti-Samaritan Polemics in the Hebrew Bible? The Case of 2 Kings 17:24–41 

 7

Hebrew.12 16 of his 29 references for wayhi qotel, however, are taken from the books of Esther, Nehemiah, and Chronicles, all of which are considered Late Biblical Hebrew.13 Of the rest, six are from 2 Kings 17, leaving only seven instances as possible examples of Classical Biblical Hebrew. His examples of the type hayah qotel include 28 instances in narrative texts, of which 10 are found in Job, Daniel, Nehemiah and 2 Chronicles. One gets the impression from the distribution of the instances that the pertinent verbal constructions seem to be used increasingly in Late Biblical Hebrew. When it comes to the nominal constructions, the participle with reference to the past can be negated with eyn in Late Biblical Hebrew, as in Esth 2:20; a phenomenon only found elsewhere in Deut 4:12, which is supposed to be a late insertion into Deuteronomy. Such negated participle clauses are not expected in Classical Biblical Hebrew.14 The positive constructions from 2 Kgs 17:26 discussed here may have a past reference in relation to the moment of utterance, as a follow-up of the preceding consecutive imperfect: “behold, they have been killing them, because they did not know the law of the God of the land,” but a reference to the moment of utterance is perhaps more likely. Thus, there is a possible, but not unequivocal Late Biblical Hebrew usage in v. 26. The forms in v. 34 have a reference to the present. In 2 Kings 17 hyh plus a participle and hinneh/hem/enam or a noun plus a participle are found only in vv. 25–34bα, 40–41, whereas the section vv. 34bβ–39 lacks this feature, and the latter unit is often considered to be thoroughly deuteronomistic. It seems that the 2 Kgs 17:24–41 is late, contemporaneous with such books as Esther, Nehemiah, and Chronicles. As vv. 35–39 is a homily constructed with deuteronomistic phrases, it is conceivable that this part was created together with the surrounding verses, or later, with stock vocabulary from the Deuteronomistic school. The list of places-names in vv. 24 and 30–31 overlaps with this linguistic phenomenon in v. 31, so these phenomena should be treated together.

The deportees’ elusive places of origin The places of origin for the deportees have parallels in 2 Kings 18; 19 and Isaiah 36; 37. The lists in 2 Kings 18; 19; Isaiah 36; 37 follow the same order, an order which is different from 2 Kgs 17:24, 30–31:

12 Joosten 2012, 258, 377–409. 13 Joosten 2012, 258. 14 Joosten 2012, 396.

8 

 Magnar Kartveit

2 Kgs 17:24

2 Kgs 17:30–31

1. Babylon 2. Cuthah 4. Hamath

1. Babylon 2. Cuthah 3. Hamath

5. Sepharvaim

5. Sepharvaim

3. Avva

4. Avva

2 Kgs 18:34 Isa 36:19

2 Kgs 19:13 Isa 37:13

Hamath Arpad Sepharvaim Hena (– Isa 36:19) Ivvah (– Isa 36:19)

Hamath Arpad Sepharvaim Hena Ivvah

A look at these place names gives the following picture. In the Hebrew Bible, Cuthah only occurs in 2 Kgs 17:24,30; Avva/Ivva is only found in 2 Kgs 17:24,31; 18:34; 19:13 par. Isa 37:13; Sepharvaim is found only in 2 Kgs 17:24, 31; 18:34 par. Isa 36:19; 19:13 par. Isa 37:13. In other words, these three place names are exclusive to the material presented in these lists. Let us try to identify these places. Babylon is widely attested in the Hebrew Bible and elsewhere, and constitutes no problem in this respect. Avva/Ivvah (omitted in Isa 36:19) might be associated with Hamath on the Orontes, as well as with Elam east of Mesopotamia. Sepharvaim is often associated with Sippar, Babylonia, and Sibraim, Ezek 47:16; Šabaraʾin in the Babylonian Chronicle has also been suggested. Of these three place names only Babylon is easily identified. Of the other names, Cuthah is commonly identified with Tell Ibrahim to the north-east of Babylon, a city existing from Sumerian to Seleucid times. Hamath is often supposed to be the well-known city on the middle Orontes in Syria, or Amate on the river Uqnu in Elam; the former identification is the most probable, as it occurs with Arpad in four of the lists. Arpad is found in northern Syria. These three places probably can be identified in Syria and Mesopotamia. The situation is more difficult for Hena, omitted in Isa 36:19. Thus, Avva/ Ivvah, Hena and Sepharvaim are enigmatic place names. The lists in 2 Kings 18; 19; Isaiah 36; 37 contain two identifiable city names located in Syria; the lists in 2 Kings 17 name two recognizable cities in Mesopotamia and one in Syria; the other places are almost impossible to identify.

Known and Unknown Gods Turning now to the gods mentioned in 2 Kgs 17:30–31, the lists in 2 Kings 18; 19; Isaiah 36; 37 name no gods. The boasting Assyrian king or his envoy says, “Has any of the gods of the nations ever delivered its land out of the hand of the king of

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Assyria? Where are the gods of Hamath and Arpad? Where are the gods of Sepharvaim, Hena, and Ivvah? Have they delivered Samaria out of my hand?” 2 Kgs 18:33– 34. Except for the names “Hena,” and “Ivvah,” Isa 36:18b–19 has the same contents. In the following encounter, the Assyrian king or his envoy asks, “Have the gods of the nations delivered them, the nations that my predecessors destroyed, Gozan, Haran, Rezeph, and the people of Eden who were in Telassar? Where is the king of Hamath, the king of Arpad, the king of the city of Sepharvaim, the king of Hena, or the king of Ivvah?” 2 Kgs 19:12–13 (same text in Isa 37:12–13). In both these contexts, the argument is to prove from history that the Assyrian king has defeated these kings and their gods, so the questions correspond: “Has any of the gods of the nations ever delivered its land out of the hand of the king of Assyria?” 2 Kgs 18:33; “see, you have heard what the kings of Assyria have done to all lands, destroying them utterly. Shall you be delivered?” 2 Kgs 19:11. These texts are not concerned with deportations, but with the question of Yahweh’s saving power, 2 Kgs 18:35. No other gods are mentioned by name in these texts; there is only the general reference to “the gods of [the places mentioned]”. In contrast, 2 Kgs 17:30–31 names the gods. The Succoth-benoth of Babylon is spurious: “the boots of the daughters”. But the god of plague and the underworld, Nergal, connected to Kuthah, is well known. The Ashima of Hamath sounds like the Ashimat Shomron of Amos 8:14, and they could well be connected: the base ‫ אשם‬has to do with “sin” and “guilt” – an appropriate name for a heathenish goddess. Avva is associated to Nibhaz (Ibnahaza) and Tartak (Dirtaq), Elamite gods who would fit if the city Avva is Ema in Elam. This, however, is doubtful, since Avva/Ivvah seems to have a Syrian context in the lists in 2 Kings 18; 19. The divine names Adrammelech and Anammelech, provided for Sepharvaim, are not known from Aramean or Assyro-Babylonian pantheons; the former is the name of one of the two sons who killed their father Sennacherib, 2 Kgs 19:37. If constructed with the element “king” plus an adjective, both are conceivable as divine names. On the whole, the list of divine names seems constructed from one real name, Nergal, with negative connotations, plus two Elamite gods, displaced into a Syrian context, then one name formed on the same basis as Amos 8:14 used, and the other names are more or less created for the purpose of this context. The net result is a series of real, dubious and spurious divinities – in other words a polemical list.

Possible Sources for 2 Kings 17:24–41 The stories in 2 Kings 18–19 about the Assyrian threats against Judah and Jerusalem are supposed to contain two variants of the same story, 2 Kgs 18:17 – 19:9a,36

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and 19:9b–35.15 It is further supposed that the story/stories in 2 Kings is/are primary, and this material was reused in the book of Isaiah, where the material was redacted to serve first as a conclusion to a Josianic edition and later as a transitional element in the successive editions of that book.16 Deportations into the northern part of the land are also mentioned in Ezra 4. In Ezra 4:2 the “adversaries of Judah and Benjamin” present themselves as imported by “King Esar-haddon [680–669] of Assyria,” and according to vv. 9–10 the people who wrote a letter to king Artaxerxes were “the Persians, the people of Erech, the Babylonians, the people of Susa, that is, the Elamites,  and the rest of the nations whom the great and noble Osnappar [= Assurbanipal, 668–629] deported and settled in the cities of Samaria and in the rest of the province Beyond the River”. At the time of the redaction of the book of Ezra or at the time of the disputes reported in Ezra 4, the notion was that the people were deported into the region in the 7th century BCE (not in the 8th, as a continuous reading of the present text of 2 Kings 17 would suggest). It is interesting that the places mentioned in Ezra 4 do not conform to the information in 2 Kgs 17:24. The former are found exclusively in Mesopotamia and further east. No deportation from Syrian localities is mentioned. It has been tried to relate the Biblical information on these deportations to Assyrian inscriptions, e.g., one from 715 by Sargon II (721–705): “the tribes of Tamud, Ibadidi, Marsimanu, and Haiapa, the Arabs who live, far away, in the desert (and) who know neither overseer nor official(s) and who had not (yet) brought their tribute to any king. I deported their survivors and settled (them) in Samaria.”17 No names in this inscription match the HB material. The prism inscription of Sargon corresponds to the general information in the Biblical material: “I restored the city of Samaria and settled it more densely than before (and) brought there people from the lands of my conquest.”18 H. Winckler, in his interesting reconstruction of deportations, makes the statement that the Assyrian policy was to deport peoples from one remote part of the empire to another, and the corollary to this policy is that they would not bring people from Hamath into Samaria; the Hamathians would have run home at the first possibility.19 This reasoning makes good sense. It is a fair assumption that the Syrian locality (perhaps localities) in 2 Kgs 17:24, 30–31 are not historical, but a construct. 2 Kgs 18:34 asks, “where are the gods of Hamath and Arpad? Where are the gods of Sepharvaim, Hena, and Ivvah that they might have delivered Samaria 15 Cogan and Tadmor 1988, 242. 16 Sweeney 2007, 397. 17 Cogan and Tadmor 1988, 337; ANET, 286; TGI, 65. 18 Cogan and Tadmor 1988, 336. 19 Winckler 1891, 97–107, 101.

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out of my hand?” (my translation), possibly hinting at coalitions formed by the Northern Kingdom with Syrian states. This question caused problems to later readers: “certainly the foreign gods could not be thought of as having failed to defend Samaria”, and therefore another question is required, like the one found in Lucian and the Vulgate: “Where are the gods of Samaria?”20 The ancient witnesses inserted this question, and the apparatus in BHS suggests to follow them. This ancient and modern objection to the MT is understandable if based on the assumption that the Assyrian envoy states that Samaria adopted the gods of Hamath, Arpad etc., but his statement may originally have referred, not to these foreign gods being resident in Samaria, but to anti-Assyrian coalitions in the area. The idea in 2 Kgs 18:34 is that the Assyrian envoy rhetorically asked about the Syrian campaign, including Samaria. The gods of these cities are mentioned, and it would be impossible for an author in Jerusalem to include Yahweh in the list, as a god of Samaria, since the whole point of 2 Kgs 18–19 in its individual parts and present overall structure is that Yahweh is able to save Jerusalem. 2 Kgs 18:34 connects Yahweh with Jerusalem only. If he had previously failed to save Samaria, however, this would have been bad news for king Hezekiah and his people, and Isaiah would have no basis for his comforting message to the king and the people. A logical argument for the author would be to put in the mouth of the Assyrian envoy a series of gods associated with places attacked during the Assyrian campaigns in the west in the 8th and 7th centuries. Yahweh’s saving power for Jerusalem is the issue of the stories. Later, the question of 2 Kgs 18:34 could have been the impetus for 2 Kgs 17:24, 30–31. The author saw a possibility to provide Samaria with a number of foreign peoples and gods, and accordingly he brought in three of the place names from 2 Kgs 18:34; 19:13, and added Babylon and Kuthah.21 This may have happened at a time when Babylon was considered a place of origin for the deportees, witnessed to in Ezra 4:9. Thereby a series of places was created, the three allegedly Syrian place names were taken over from the lists in 2 Kings 18 and 19, and two new were added, one from contemporary thinking, witnessed to in Ezra 4 (Babylon), and one completely new (Kuthah), and both were names for cities in Mesopotamia. In this way, the author was inspired by the question in 2 Kgs 18:34, used three of the place names in that context, and provided Samaria with a dubious populace. As 2 Kings 18 and 19 mentioned gods, without giving their names, the opportunity to provide names was taken by the author of 2 Kgs 17:30–31. Succoth-benoth was created for Babylon; Nergal fitted the Mesopotamian city Kuthah; Ashima was provided for 20 Cogan and Tadmor 1988, 233, 224. 21 H. Winckler supposes a deportation by Assurbanipal after he defeated Sippar (= Sepharvaim), Kuthah and Babylon in 647; this is the historical kernel behind 2 Kgs 17:24, and Avva and Hamath in Syria would have been inserted here from 18:34; 19:13; Winckler 1891, 98–99.

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Hamath; the two Elamite gods Nibhaz (Ibnahaza) and Tartak (Dirtaq) linked to Ivvah are not appropriate in a Syrian context; Sepharvaim received Adrammelek and Anamelek. This is a series of real, dubious and spurious divinities. No name of the Assyrian king who brought the new peoples into Samaria is given in 2 Kgs 17:24, but in the present context, these gods are associated with the people imported into Samaria after the fall of Hoshea. 2 Kings does not report any resurrection of the Northern Kingdom after this time; Samaria stayed a vassal to the Assyrians. When 2 Kgs 17:24–41 was added to the context, a new understanding of 2 Kgs 17–19 arose: when Sennacherib attacks, according to 2 Kgs 18–19, he can boast that these Syrian and Mesopotamian gods did not profit Samaria in the whole period when the Assyrians attacked Samaria. The acts of the peoples portrayed in 2 Kgs 17:24ff. are described with vocabulary from vv. 7–23: they make high places (‫)במות‬, vv. 9, 11, reoccurring in vv. 29, 32; they have their children pass through fire, v. 17 and v. 31. The imported population behaves like the expelled people of Samaria, a name tying the former and later inhabitants together, vv. 1, 5, 6, 24, 26, and 28. An indirect criticism of the population of the north lies in the fact that they worshiped at several high places, vv. 29, 32, instead of following the Deuteronomic command for one cult place only. All three features of 2 Kgs 17:24–41 discussed here, the use of verbal and nominal constructions with a participle, the lists of place names for the origin of the imported people, and the list of names of their gods, point towards a late origin for vv. 24–41. The occurrence in Ezra 4 of Babylon as one of the places of origin for the deportees may indicate that in the Persian period this place was of interest and relevance, and Ezra 4 can point to the time of the composition.

A Growing Anti-Samaritan Tendency There seems to be an inconsistency between vv. 33 and 34b. The section vv. 24–41 is dominated by syncretism, with Yahweh included, but v. 34b denies that there was worship of Yahweh in Samaria. V. 40 repeats parts of v. 34a. The tension between v. 33 and v. 34b and the partial repetition of v. 34a in v. 40 indicate that vv. 34b–40 are inserted into an existing context, and it is not an earlier text surrounded by new text (as Sweeney suggests). V. 34b introduces the summary of the divine covenant and human sins described in vv. 35–40. These verses read as a repetition vv. 7–23: v. 35 speaks of the covenant, cf. v. 15, of the fear of other gods, cf. v. 7, of serving them, cf. vv. 12, 16, of worshiping them, cf. v. 16. V. 36 mentions God who brought them up out of Egypt, also mentioned in v. 7. V. 37 speaks of statutes, as does v. 13, of law, cf.

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v. 13, of commandments, as in vv. 13, 16, and 19. The statement “he will deliver you out of the hand of all your enemies,” v. 39b, is an echo from the stereotype expressions in 2 Kgs 18:29, 32, 33, 34, 35; 19:11, 12. V. 40 repeats v. 14: they would not listen. The section vv. 34b–40 therefore reads as a new spate of the former events of vv. 7–23, with parlance added from chapters 18 and 19, and rounded off by v. 40, that refers back to v. 14 and repeats v. 34a. This section comes inside vv. 24–34a, 41, where syncretism is the rule. Vv. 24–34a, 41 refer to the people deported into Samaria, who took possession of the land, repeating the invasion of Israel into the land, as described in v. 7. Like them, they emulated the customs of the people whom God expelled before Israel, building high places and worshiping other gods. The section vv. 34b–40, was later introduced to create yet another criticism of the northerners: God made a covenant with them, but they broke it. Who are “their fathers” who practiced syncretism, including Yahweh, v. 41? The accusation of syncretism including Yahweh cannot be applied to the ancestors of the peoples deported from Babylon, Kuthah, Ivvah, Hamath and Sepharvaim. The only reference of “these nations” in v. 41 is the preceding section starting with v. 24. Another explanation therefore offers itself: these nations, deported into Samaria, took over the role of the expelled Israelites, whose ancestors practiced syncretism with Yahweh included, according to 2 Kgs 17:7–23. Montgomery commented: “VV. 34b–40. This passage is a condemnation of the Samaritan sect, so placed that it combines that body with the new heathenish colonists. It is of wholly Deuteronomistic strain.”22 The same understanding in Burney, Šanda, Gray and Noth.23 Cogan and Tadmor opposed this understanding, as it is “highly unlikely that any postexilic writer would speak of the foreigners as ‘sons of Jacob,’ bound by the covenant obligations of the torah (vv. 34, 35, 37)”.24 For the same reason, Sweeney suggests that this unit is earlier than vv. 24–39, 41, and belongs to the Hezekiah redaction. But if this passage comes from Persian times, a reference to Israel, the sons of Jacob, cannot be ruled out. The background is the following.

The Early Samaritans Become Visible On the summit of Mount Gerizim 395 inscriptions and fragments of inscriptions in Hebrew and Aramaic were found during the excavations from 1982 on, and 22 Montgomery 1951, 477. 23 According to Cogan and Tadmor 1988, 214. 24 Cogan and Tadmor 1988, 214.

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published in 2004.25 The publishers, Yitzhak Magen, Haggai Misgav and Levana Tsfania, date the inscriptions to the Persian and Hellenistic periods, and Jan Dušek narrows the time frame down to the first part of the 2nd century BCE.26 In 1979 two inscriptions were found on the island of Delos in the Aegean Sea; they were commissioned by “Israelites” who send their temple tax to “Argarizein” (Mount Gerizim). The publisher Philippe Bruneau dates inscription no.  1  to 150–50 BCE and no. 2 to 250–175 BCE.27 Charles V. Crowther, however, suggests that both of them can be dated to the first half of the 2nd century BCE, and this dating is presupposed here.28 These two corpora of inscriptions both relate to Mount Gerizim, and they come from the same period. Magen, Misgav and Tsfania describe the history of the place in this period in this way: a temple was constructed in the Persian period (5th century BCE), and in the Ptolemaic and Seleucid periods the temple was rebuilt and a city began to rise around it, reaching its maximal size in the 2nd century BCE. Mount Gerizim became the capital of the Samaritan people. Temple and city were burnt to the ground by John Hyrcanus in 112–111 BCE.29 This general outline of the history of the place seems to reflect the available data, with the proviso that an altar or a temple have not been found, and the precise history of the place is therefore not known. But it seems a fair assumption that the inscriptions from Mount Gerizim and from Delos belong to the period when Mount Gerizim flourished. As an example the longest of the Gerizim inscriptions may serve, no. 147: “This is [the stone] that Delayah, son of Shim‛on, dedicated for himself and his children/sons, [this] ston[e for] good remembrance before God in this place.”30 It is typical in that the names and the parlance are standard Jewish names from the same period, and that it reveals that there was a sanctuary in the place. No names constructed with other deities than Yahweh were found, and no traces of foreign worship. We find the following elements in the longest inscriptions: 1. a statement of dedication, 2. a purpose statement concerning humans, 3. a purpose statement concerning God. The shorter inscriptions contain element 1, or elements 1 and 2. Under element 1 a patronymic is often found, and information on the home

25 Magen, Misgav and Tsfania 2004; Magen 2008. 26 Magen, Misgav and Tsfania 2004, 14; Magen 2008, 167; Dušek, 2012. 27 Bruneau 1982, 485. 28 Kartveit 2009, 218, n. 43. 29 Magen, Misgav and Tsfania 2004, 1, 10–13. 30 Magen, Misgav and Tsfania 2004, 137–8 ; Kartveit 2014 (JSJ), 454–455.

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village may occur. The three elements are also found in other inscriptions from the same period in the region (Sinai, Palmyra, Dura-Europos).31 Element 3 uses three phrases: “for good remembrance,” “before God,” and “in this place”. These three phrases seem to have a considerable dissemination in the inscriptions: 33, 16, and 13 (or 14) instances for each of the different phrases. In comparable inscriptions, a statement of purpose concerning the divinity is often found. The phrase “for good remembrance” or similar expressions is widespread. The phrase “before God,” has many parallels in inscriptions from the same period. However, the last phrase, “in this place,” is unique in the Gerizim corpus. Together with the information on the home of the dedicators, this last phrase becomes interesting. 11 inscriptions contain the phrase “from GN”. The places named in full or reconstructed are Shamrayin, Shechem, the village of Ḥaggai, Awarta, Yokmeam, The Good Mountain, and Mabartha. Most of these places are found on or around Mount Gerizim. This type of information is unusual in inscriptions, and together with the phrase “in this place” it can be interpreted as an expression of the self-consciousness of the dedicators: they form a community from places around Mount Gerizim, and they emphasize their religious attachment to this place. Mount Gerizim had a “house of sacrifice” (‫)בית דבחא‬, inscription no. 199, and a “sanctuary,” (‫)מקדש‬, no. 150, and the animal bones found at the site provide ample evidence of sacrifices. The same self-consciousness is found in two inscriptions from a location far from Samaria, on the island of Delos in the Aegean Sea. Both inscriptions are dedications to local benefactors, and are different in that respect, but the beginnings are much the same, “The Israelites in Delos who send their temple tax32 to sacred Argarizein,” inscription no. 1, and “Israelites who send their temple tax to sacred, holy Argarizein,” inscription no. 2. The people behind the inscriptions call themselves “Israelites” and this is the oldest attestation of the later well-known self-designation of the Samaritans. The name of the mountain, Argarizein, is a transliteration of the Hebrew name ‫הר גריזים‬, “Mount Gerizim”. This is an old Samaritan designation of the mountain, developed into a name, by some ancient authors used in a derogatory sense.33

31 Kartveit 2014 (JSJ), 458–466. 32 The verb ΑΠΑΡΧΟΜΕΝΟΙ, from ἀπάρχομαι, “to make (a first) offering,” could refer to the temple tax, Exod 30:11–16, paid by Jews to the temple in Jerusalem, and, accordingly, by Samaritans to the temple at Gerizim. They sent their temple tax to Mount Gerizim, in distinction from their neighbours, who held the other place to be holy. 33 Kartveit 2009, 228–236.

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The Delos community used a Samaritan name for the mountain, and “Israelites” as the self-designation. Together, these inscriptions provide enough material to state that the Gerizim community in the 2nd century BCE, at home and abroad, constitutes a community with a self-understanding and an identity that cannot have been a novelty of that age. As the inscriptions are formulated, they build on a traditional set of phrases, and add elements of their own. These two corpora of inscriptions provide the oldest evidence for the name of the mountain or city, of the community and of the attachment to this place, as opposed to Jerusalem. For the question of the history of the Samaritans, this means that such an identity was not developed after the destruction of the temple on Mount Gerizim, but existed before that. It must have been created earlier than 200 BCE and depended more on the existence, if not even on the construction, of the temple, than on its destruction.

Reading 2 Kings 17:24–41 in a New Light On this background, 2 Kgs 17:24–34a, 41 seems to criticize the northern population in Persian times for making the same mistakes as the Israelites who were deported: they took over the religious practices of the population that was expelled before them. They constitute a new Israel, in a negative sense. At the same time, their foreign cult was imported from the east, so they got the worst of two worlds: old Israelite practices and new foreign practices. Vv. 34b–40 then adds a criticism of the same population from the point of view that they professed themselves Israelites – if so, then their practices are against the covenant that would bind them to the Torah. But in fact, they did not worship Yahweh, v. 34b, because they violated the covenant. The translation of ‫השמרנים‬, 2 Kgs 17:29, in the LXX as οἱ Σαμαρῖται laid the foundation for reading the chapter about the origin of the Samaritans; the Greek expression is used in the NT and in Josephus as a designation for the Samaritans. What is a possible anti-Samaritan interpretation in the LXX, is evident in Josephus’ reading of 2 Kings 17.34 The word is rendered by KJV as “the Samaritans”. The corollary to this translation is that the whole chapter describes the origin of the Samaritan community. More recently, doubt has been cast on this understanding, and NRSV translates “the people of Samaria”.

34 Ant. 9.288–291.

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The present article argues in the same direction, not by supposing a real continuity from the pre-720 population to the Samaritans, but in the way that 2 Kgs 17:24–41 brands the contemporary population in the north. The first stage of this criticism is constituted by vv. 24–34a, 41, and the second stage is found in vv. 34b–40. The first stage depicts the population as deportees from Syria and Mesopotamia, with their earlier gods and Yahweh, practicing syncretism like the former inhabitants, the Israelites who lived in Samaria. The second stage criticizes them for not adhering to the law and the covenant, which they were supposed to do if they were the sons of Jacob, whose name became Israel, v. 34b. From a Deuteronomistic viewpoint, the northern population, if they thought of themselves as Israel, they had failed fundamentally. We now know that the worshipers attached to Mount Gerizim in fact called themselves Israelites, they focused on one place of worship only, and had one god only, Yahweh. 2 Kgs 17:24–41 attacks them with two arguments, first their alleged foreign origin and syncretism, and then for breaching the covenant laid upon Israel. This attitude to the Gerizim community was carried further by Josephus, and by many of his followers.

Bibliography Bruneau, Philippe. 1982. “‘Les Israélites de Délos’ et la juiverie délienne,” BCH 106: 465–504. Cogan, Mordechai, and Hayim Tadmor. 1988. II Kings. A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. AB 11. Garden City, NY: Doubleday. Dietrich, Walter. 2001. “1 and 2 Kings,” in John Barton and John Muddiman (eds.), The Oxford Bible Commentary. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 232–266. Dušek, Jan. 2012. Aramaic and Hebrew Inscriptions from Mt. Gerizim and Samaria between Antiochus III and Antiochus IV Epiphanes. CHANE 54. Leiden: Brill. Joosten, Jan. 2012. The Verbal System of Biblical Hebrew. A New Synthesis Elaborated on the Basis of Classical Prose. JBS 10. Jerusalem: Simor. Joüon, Paul. 1923. Grammaire de l’hébreu biblique. Rome: Institut Biblique Pontificial. Joüon, Paul, and Takamitsu Muraoka. 2000. A Grammar of Biblical Hebrew. Rome: Pontificial Biblical Institute. Kartveit, Magnar. 2009. The Origin of the Samaritans. VTSup 128. Leiden: Brill. –. 2014. “The Date of II Reg 17,24–41,” ZAW 126: 31–44. – . 2014. “Samaritan Self-Consciousness in the First Half of the Second Century B.C.E. in Light of the Inscriptions from Mount Gerizim and Delos,” JSJ 45: 449–470. Magen, Yitzhak, Haggai Misgav, and Levana Tsfania. 2004. Mount Gerizim Excavations. Volume 1: The Aramaic, Hebrew and Samaritan Inscriptions. JSP 2. Jerusalem: Staff Officer of Archaeology – Civil Administration of Judea and Samaria, Israel Antiquities Authority. – . 2008. Mount Gerizim Excavations. Volume 2: A Temple City. JSP 8. Jerusalem: Staff Officer of Archaeology – Civil Administration of Judea and Samaria, Israel Antiquities Authority. Montgomery, James Alan. 1951. A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Books of Kings. ICC. Edinburgh: T&T Clark.

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Seow, Choon-Leong. 1999. “2 Kings 17:24–41: Reflections,” in NIB, volume III. Nashville: Abingdon. Stade, Bernhard. 1886. “Miscellen: 16. Anmerkungen zu 2 Kö. 15–21, ” ZAW 6: 122–189. Sweeney, Marvin A. 2007. I & II Kings: A Commentary. OTL. London: Knox. Talmon, Shmaryahu. 1993. “Polemics and Apology in Biblical Historiography: 2 Kings 17:24–41,” in Shmaryahu Talmon (ed.), Literary Studies in the Hebrew Bible: Form and Content. Collected Studies., Jerusalem: Magnes / Leiden Brill, 134–159. Winckler, Hugo. 1891. “Die samaritanischen Ansiedler,” in Hugo Winckler (author), Alttestamentliche Untersuchungen. Helsingfors: Verlag von Eduard Pfeiffer, 97–107.

Ingrid Hjelm

So-called Deuteronomic Addenda in the Samaritan Pentateuch Numbers 10–14 and 20–27: Where Do They Belong? 1 Introduction Since Gesenius’ seminal analysis of the Samaritan Pentateuch (SP) in the early 19th century, it has been customary to consider the Masoretic Text (MT) of the Hebrew Bible as the primary text and describe deviations between the MT and SP as additions or interpolations into the SP. Gesenius termed such variants additamenta maiora e locis parallelis interpolata (major expansions interpolated from parallel passages), thereby indicating a priority not only of the Masoretic text, but also of Deuteronomy, which in most cases is considered the source text of the additions.1 Avoiding such a priori assumptions, I prefer to use the term “major variants” for so-called additional texts and “minor variants” for textual differences that are not, or only to a lesser degree, sizable. Most of the major variants can be found in SP Exodus and Numbers. The major variants in SP Exodus are basically found in the Exodus narrative (ch. 6–11), the Decalogue (ch. 20) and the designs for the tabernacle (ch. 26–29).2 In SP Numbers, 14 of the 16 major variants are found in the two narrative sections in chapters 10–14 (5 passages) and 20–27 (9 passages) framed by variants belonging to cultic regulations in 4:14 and 31:20.3 Two major variants are present in SP Deuteronomy (2:7 and 10:6).4 Of Exodus’ variants, five (18:25; 20:17, 19, 21; 32:10) parallel passages in Deuteronomy. All the 14 variants in Numbers 10–14 and 20–27 parallel passages in Deuteronomy, while those in Deuteronomy parallel passages in Numbers and Deuteronomy.

1 Gesenius 1815, 46–48; Kartveit 2009, 310–312, chart 1 and 2, has added passages to Gesenius’ list. 2 Exod 6:9; 7:18, 29; 8:1, 19; 9:5, 19; 10:2; 11:3; 18:25; 20:17, 9, 21; 26:35; 27:19; 28:29; 29:28; 32:10; 39:21. The variants in SP Exodus (minus SP’s mention of Gerizim as the cult place in the Decalogue in ch. 20) are all found or restored in 4QpaleoExodm = 4Q22 (DJD IX, 67); Sanderson 1986; Skehan, Ulrich and Sanderson (eds.) 1995; Kartveit 2009, 310–311. 3 Num 4:14; 10:10; 12:16; 13:33; 14:40, 45; 20:13 (x2); 21:11–12, 20–23; 27:23; 31:20. Of the 16 variants in SP Numbers, 10 are found or restored in 4Q27; in 6 cases no extant text was found; cf. Kartveit 2009, 311–312. See also Tov 1989 and 2001, 80–100. 4 These variants are also found in 4Q364; Kartveit 2009, 312. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110617306-002

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In previous articles examining the Samaritan Pentateuch’s major variants,5 I concluded that SP’s major variants create a consistency in SP Exodus and Numbers, which is missing in the Masoretic Text, but found also in some of the Dead Sea Scrolls. The variant Samaritan traditions are not based on a proto-Masoretic Vorlage as it is not a Masoretic Text as published in BHS, but a Samaritan text of Deuteronomy that is the “source text” for Numbers’ variants. This commonly used term “source text”6 is somewhat misleading as it implies that a shorter J text has been enlarged by insertions taken from a D text. Since scholars usually consider D to be younger than J, the assertion that the larger variants in SP Numbers have a D Vorlage implicitly accepts, to some extent, Van Seters’ hypothesis that “all of the parallel narratives in Deuteronomy are the sources of those in Exodus – Numbers”.7 This hypothesis is in line with Van Seters’ wider hypothesis of J being younger than D and the Deuteronomistic History. However this is not a widely accepted assertion and most scholars interpret Deuteronomy 1–3’s summaries as reflections of narratives in Exodus-Numbers’.8 In regard to SP’s major variants, however, most scholars bluntly redirect the relationship and assume that the “additions” stem from Deuteronomy’s summaries. Our concern should therefore not only be these passages’ function in SP Numbers, but in Deuteronomy of both the SP and the MT. How does the “extra” material in Deuteronomy, which is only testified in Numbers of the SP and 4QNumb = 4Q27 of the DSS,9 affect the literary and theological content of Deuteronomy 1–3’s summaries? We might also be interested in asking if Deuteronomy 1–3 contain other passages of “additional” material shared by SP and MT, but not found in the Tetrateuch of both.

2 The Major Variants in SP Numbers 14 major variants in SP Numbers are found in the two narrative sections in chapters 10–14 (5 passages) and 20–27 (9 passages), usually ascribed to J. Main themes of the two narrative sections regard the promise and inheritance of the land, the people’s fear and rebellion and Yahweh’s anger and punishment.10

5 Hjelm 2015a and 2015b. 6 Tov 2001, 88–89. 7 Van Seters 2013, 349; idem 1994, passim; Hjelm 2015b, 186–167. 8 Cf. my critique of Van Seters in Hjelm 2004, 177–184. See also Nelson 2002, 36 and 44. 9 Jastram 1994, 205–267. Some of SP’s variants are found also in a Greek translation of the Pentateuch in ‘Origen’s Hexapla. 10 Douglas 2001.

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The five major variants in SP Num 10:10; 12:16; 13:33; 14:40 and 45 expose a thematic coherence revolving around the promise and the inheritance of the land, the fear of taking the land, and the failure to overcome that fear. Their parallel texts in Deuteronomy are Deut 1:6–8, 20–23a, 27–33, 42 and 44–45a. For lack of extant text, only the 12:16 variant has been restored in 4Q27 on the basis of line calculation.11 The major variants in SP Numbers 20–27 are slightly more unevenly dispersed as Num 20:13, has two major variants paralleling Deut 3:24–28 (minus 26a) and 2:2–6. Num 21:11–12 has two variants paralleling Deut 2:9 and 17–18. In 21:20–23, we find four variants paralleling Deut 2:24–25, 26–27, 28–29 and 31. The variants continue the theme of conquest and inheritance of the land at the Israelites’ second arrival to the borders of the Promised Land. Closing a thematic circle of appointing Joshua as Moses’ successor, Num 27:23’s major variant parallels Deut 3:21–22. Within the narrative unit we also find in Num 20:14–17 a reciprocal major variant of SP Deut 2:7, found also in 4Q364 and MT Numbers, but missing in MT Deuteronomy. 4Q27 contains the major variants in Num 20:13; 21:12, 13 and 21, while 21:22, 23 and 27:23 have been reconstructed.12

2.1 Major Variants in SP Numbers 10–14 2.1.1 SP Num 10:10a–d13 In the first parallel text to Deut 1:6–8 in SP Num 10:10a–d Yahweh orders the Israelites to depart from the mountain, where they have stayed long enough and travel to “the land of the Amorites and to all who live there, in the Arabah, in the hill country and in the lowland, in the Negeb, and by the seacoast, the land of Canaan and Lebanon, as far as the great river, the Euphrates”. He continues by rehearsing the promise given to the Patriarchs: “See I have given the land before you. Come (‫ )באו‬and inherit (‫ )ורשו‬the land that I swore (‫ )נשבעתי‬to your forefathers to Abraham, to Isaac and to Jacob to give to their seed after them.” Apart from a rhetorical shift from “Yahweh said to Moses” in Num 10:10a to “Yahweh our God said to us in Horeb” in Deut 1:6, both SP texts have the same wording. MT Deut 11 Jastram 1994; Kartveit 2009, 271. 12 Jastram 1994; Kartveit 2009, 170–171. 13 My translations of Samaritan texts are based on Tsedaka and Tsedaka (eds.) 1961–1965. Tsedaka and Sullivan (eds.) 2013 is based on this edition. Their translation, however, is misleading because it does not give similar translations of identical Samaritan texts. My enumeration of major variants by minuscule follows Tsedaka and Sullivan.

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1:6–8 has two additions in verse 8: “which Yahweh swore,” rather than “I swore” and “give to them and their seed,” rather than “give to their seed”. These readings are found also in 4QDeuth and 2QDeuta. The initial imperative “see” is in singular in MT against the plural form in both SP texts, 2QDeuta, the LXX, Targum Jonathan and Syriaca. DSS Numbers unfortunately does not have an extant text here. SP Numbers’ variant has a dual function: it introduces the promise and inheritance theme and it reintroduces the itinerary theme from the preceding chapter. In the Masoretic version, the Israelites depart from Sinai without having received an explicit verbal order to do so (Num 10:11). This is remarkable since in Num 9:18–23 of both the MT and SP two conditions for departing are explicitly stated; namely that they can depart when the cloud over the tabernacle is lifted (cf. Exod 40:36–37) and when Yahweh has commanded them to do so. One may read Num 9:18–23 as one command, but it conflicts with Num 10:13’s statement that “they went out for the first time according to Yahweh’s command through Moses (‫על פי‬ ‫”)יהוה ביד משה‬. Since this is the first departure after the Israelites camped at Sinai (Exodus 19),14 it might be significant that they could not resume their travels until they had received Yahweh’s explicit order. SP Num 10:10’s major variant has made the divine presence less mysterious, given a reason for the departure and advised the direction and purpose of the journey. The variant fits the narrative plot.

2.1.2 Num 12:16a–d Following this composition, the next variant in SP Num 12:16a–d, paralleling Deut 1:20–23a, has Moses assuring the people, who camp in the desert of Paran (12:16), that they are on the right track: “You (pl.) have come to the mountain of the Amorites, which Yahweh our God has given to us.” He then reiterates his former admonition addressing his audience in singular: “See Yahweh your God has given the land before you. Go up (‫)עלה‬, inherit (‫ )רש‬the land as Yahweh, the God of your forefathers has said (‫ )דבר‬to you. Do not be afraid (‫ )אל תירא‬and do not fear (‫)ואל תחת‬.” Apart from a rhetorical shift from “And Moses said to the Israelites” in Num 12:16a, to “And I said to you (pl.)” in Deut 1:20, both SP texts have the same wording, agreeing also with MT Deut 1:20–21. The shift from plural to singular in Deut 1:21 is not found in the LXX, Syr and Targum Jonathan. Consequential to Moses’ admonition, the Israelites suggest that they gather some information about the country (SP Num 12:16d // Deut 1:22–23): “And they 14 The order to depart in both SP and MT Exod 33:1–3 is not carried out. A significant contrast between Exod 33:1–3 and SP Num 10:10a–d is that in the first instance, Yahweh refuse to travel with his people, lest he annihilates it on the way.

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drew near to Moses and they said: Let us send men ahead of us and they will spy (‫ )ויחפרו‬the land for us and bring us information (‫ )דבר‬about which way (‫)את הדרך‬ we shall go up (‫)נעלה‬, and the cities they have built for themselves (‫)עליהן‬.” The suggestion is met with Moses’ approval: “and the case (‫ )הדבר‬was good (‫ )וייטב‬in the eyes of Moses” in both SP Numbers and SP and MT Deuteronomy. Both SP texts have the same wording apart from rhetorical shifts from 3rd pl. in Numbers to 2nd pl. and an added “all of you” (‫ )כלכם‬in Deuteronomy. MT Deuteronomy 1:22– 23a aligns with the SP texts, apart from the spelling ‫ אליהן‬for ‫עליהן‬. DSS texts are missing here. The initiative of the people to send spies to the country is entirely missing in MT Numbers, which leaves the initiative to Yahweh. Here, the spy narrative follows Miriam’s and Aaron’s rebellion (12:1–15) and the journey from Hazeroth to Paran (v. 16). The initiative is presented abruptly: “And Yahweh said to Moses: Send for you men to gather information (‫ )ויתרו‬about Canaan’s land” (Num 13:2). The term ‫( חפר‬to spy / seek out) in Deut 1:22 and SP Num 12:16d is not found in Numbers 13 and 14. With a similar meaning, we find it in Joshua 2’s narrative about Rahab and the spies in Jericho (Josh 2:2–3), as well as in Job 3:21 and 39:29. The term’s related meaning “to dig” is a more widespread use of the word in SP and MT. The term ‫תור‬, get information / spy, is a favorite term in Numbers’ spy narrative; in qal it appears 6 times in ch. 13 (vv. 2, 16, 17, 21, 25 and 32) and 5 times in ch. 14 (vv. 6, 7, 34, 36 and 38). In Deuteronomy, it only appears in a parallel text to Num 10:33 speaking about Yahweh searching (‫)לתור‬, places for the Israelites to camp (Deut 1:33; cf. Ezek 20:6). A hiphil form of the verb is found in Judg 1:23: the house of Joseph spying on Bethel, which they conquer. So it seems that the variant in SP Num 12:16d has its origin in Deuteronomy rather than Numbers 13–14’s spy narrative. The major variant in SP Num 12:16 does not interrupt or conflict with the story line, which in both SP and MT continues in Num 13:1–2 by Yahweh’s order to Moses to send a man from “each of their father’s tribes”.

2.1.3 Num 13:33a–g Suspense is heightened, when report about the land in SP Num 13:32–33 is followed by the complaint found also in Deut 1:27–33, and the complaint in 14:1–4 is kept. This major variant to SP Num 13:33 opens with the people’s complaint: “And the sons of Yisrael complained (‫ ;וירגנו‬niphal) in their tents and said: Because of Yahweh’s hatred of us (‫ )בשנאת יהוה אתנו‬has he brought us out of Egypt to give us into the hand of the Amorites to destroy us (‫( ”)להשמידנו‬cf. Deut 1:27). The rare

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term ‫ רגן‬is only used in this SP text and the SP and MT parallels in Deuteronomy 1:27. In MT it is also used in Ps 106:25’s poetic rehearsal of the past. The parallel text in SP Deut 1:27–33 shares variant readings with SP Num 13:33a–g that are not found in MT Deut 1:27–33. In v. 28 we find ‫ ואחינו המיסו‬against MT ‫אחינו המסו‬. Also in the same verse, SP reads ‫ ורב‬against MT ‫ ורם‬, and ‫( ובצרות‬cf. Num 13:28) against MT ‫ובצורת‬. In v. 32, SP reads ‫ והבדבר‬against MT ‫ובדבר‬, and ‫ מאמנים‬against MT‫ מאמינם‬. The reading ‫ להחנותכם‬in SP Num 13:33g against MT Deut 1:33’s ‫לחנתכם‬ is found in Tal and Florentin’s edition also of SP Deut 1:33,15 but not in Tsedaka and Tsedaka. SP v. 33 reads ‫ להראתכם‬against MT ‫לראתכם‬. The variant readings confirm the general observation that SP Numbers’ major variants do not align with or stem from a Masoretic but a Samaritan Deuteronomy. Numbers’ text unit has no extant DSS parallel, but the partly restored text of 4Q364 shares some of SP Deut 1:27–33’s variant readings.16

2.1.4 Num 14:40a The people’s desperate utterance about Yahweh’s hatred is met with Moses’ comforting “he will fight for you” (SP Num 13:33d; Deut 1:29). Yahweh, however, is not ready to fight, and when the people decides to submit to Yahweh’s order to go up (‫ ;עלה‬Num 14:40, cf. SP Num 12:16c), the fifth major variant in SP Numbers closes the inheritance theme in the devastating warning: “And Yahweh said to Moses: Say to them, don’t go up (‫ )לא תעלו‬and don’t make war, for I am not in your midst (‫)אינני בקרבכם‬, lest you be slain (‫ )ולא תנגפו‬before your enemies” (14:40a // Deut 1:42). Moses’ warning in SP and MT Num 14:41–43 (cf. Deut 1:43–44) is an interesting example of how Yahweh’s words to Moses correspond with the narrative conclusion in Deut 1:43–46 that the Israelites were beaten by their enemies. SP Deut 1:44 here reads with SP and MT Num 14:45 “the Amalekites and the Canaanites” against MT and LXX Deut 1:44’s “Amorites”. The “Amorites” is a logical choice in Deuteronomy, because they have already been introduced as living in the hill-country ahead of them (Deut 1:7,19–20). The people’s decision to go up and fight in the hill-country (1:41) is contrary to Yahweh’s order to turn around and go back to the desert (1:40). In SP and MT Num 14:25’s parallel to Deut 1:40, however, a short note abruptly informs that “the Amalekites and the Canaanites live in the valley (‫( ”)בעמק‬cf. 13:29), in anticipation of the skewed conclusion in Num 14:43–45 that “the Amalekites

15 Tal and Florentin 2010. 16 Tov and White 1994, 228–229.

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and the Canaanites, who dwelt in that mountain, came down”. As the Israelites go up to the mountain ridge, saying “we will go up to the place Yahweh has said (‫( ”)אשר אמר‬Num 14:40), the implied mountain can be equated with “the hill country of the Hittites, Jebusites and Amorites” (13:29). SP and MT Deut 1:7 and 20’s term “the hill country of the Amorites” is thus used as an ideological collective for the peoples of the Promised Land and anticipates Deut 2–3’s and Num 20–21’s conquest and possession of the land of the Amorites.17 This interpretation finds support in Deuteronomy’s single reference to the Amalekites (Deut 25:17–19), which is based on Exod 17:8–16 and 1 Sam 15:2–3 without any allusion to Numbers’ narrative. The composition of SP Numbers10–14 forms a continuous narrative, which is concluded in the detailed conquest scenes in chapters 20–21 containing 8 major variants corresponding with Deuteronomy 2–3. A red thread through these chapters and Deuteronomy’s summary is woven of itinerary information that Yahweh ordered the Israelites to go and to do. In contrast, MT Numbers 10–14 consists of episodes focusing on the people’s rebellion in three narratives: the quails (ch.  11), Miriam and Aaron’s rebellion (ch. 12) and the spy narrative in 13–14, and mostly leaves the initiative of where to go and what to do to Moses in Numbers 20–21.

3 Major Variants in SP Numbers 20–27 The major variants in SP Numbers 20–27 are concentrated in chapters 20–21 narrating the second arrival at the border of the Promised Land in Kadesh and the initial conquests of the Amorites in the Transjordan. The variants begin and conclude with the appointment of Joshua as Moses’ successor in chapters 20 and 27 paralleling texts in Deut 3:24–28 and 21–22 respectively. Most of the variants are also found in 4Q27, but they are not in the LXX.

3.1 Major Variants in SP Numbers 20 Numbers 20 resumes the murmuring theme from the previous narrative unit (Numbers 10–14), when the people suffer from lack of water at Kadesh. Rather than rejoicing that they have arrived, they’d rather have died like their brothers

17 Nelson 2002, 18 n. 5.

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(20:3), and complain that they have been “brought up from Egypt to arrive at this evil place (‫)המקום הרע הזה‬, which is not a place of grain, fig, grapes and pomegranates, and neither is there water to drink” (20:5). The contrast to “this evil place” is “the good (‫ )טובה‬land” (Num 14:7; Deut 1:25 and 36). And this is exactly what Moses emphasizes when he in SP Num 20’s major variant 20:13a–e, following the Meribah scene (20:2–13), pleads Yahweh to let him cross over and “see the good land that is beyond the Jordan, this good mountain and the Lebanon” (20:13a–b; cf. Deut 3:24–25). Moses’ strong pleading: “And I appealed (‫ )אתחנן‬to Yahweh at this time, saying,” expressed by the hitpael of the verb ‫ חנן‬in Deut 3:23 is not part of SP Num 20:13a, which begins: “And Moses said,” similar to 4Q27’s variant. Since ‫ התחנן‬is found only here and in Gen 42:21 in the Pentateuch, it might be an indication of the origin of SP Numbers’ major variant in Numbers rather than Deuteronomy. Without mentioning Yahweh’s anger (Deut 3:26a; cf. 1:37 and 4:21),18 SP Num 20:13c–e continues with Yahweh’s rejection of Moses’ request, his order to Moses to view the land from the mountain top, and the order to appoint Joshua (Deut 3:26b, 27–28; cf. also 1:38 and 31:2–6). The variant closes with the order to pass through Seir without causing any offence to their brothers, the descendants of Esau (Num 20:13f–l; cf. Deut 2:2–6). 4Q27 contains the first part of the major variant in SP Num 20:13a–d, while e–l is assumed on the basis of line and column calculation.19 Textual variants between SP and MT Deuteronomy in these passages are also present in SP Numbers. These concern Deut 2:5’s reading ‫ מארצם ירשה‬against MT ‫מארצם‬. 3:24’s reading ‫ וכגבורתיך‬against MT ‫ וכגבורתך‬and 3:27 ‫ עלה אל‬against MT. ‫ עלה‬3:25’s reading ‫ אעבר‬against MT ‫אעברה‬ in Tsedaka and Tsedaka’s edition, however, reads ‫ אעברה‬in SP Num 20:13b. In Tal and Florentin’s edition, we find the opposite readings. The variant reading ‫ וצוי‬in Deut 3:28, is not found in Tsedaka and Tsedaka’s edition, but in other SP manuscripts of Deuteronomy, consistent with the reading in SP Num 20:13e and Deut 2:4. SP Num 20:13e has the addition ‫בן נון‬, which is not found in SP and MT Deut 3:28, but in 1:38. From the major variant in SP Num 20:13f–l’s instruction to pass through Edom, the narrative continues logically with Moses’ sending messengers from Kadesh to the king of Edom in 20:14. In the Masoretic version the scene moves abruptly from the closure of the Meribah scene in 20:13 without divine instruction on how to continue the journey.

18 Also missing in 4Q27. 19 Jastram 1994, 225–226; Kartveit 2009, 270–271 and 312.

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3.2 Major Variants in SP Numbers 21 The SP variant in chapter 20 forms part of a threefold narrative about the journey through Edom, Moab and Ammon, which contains two more major variants in Num 21:11a–b and 12a–b paralleling Deut 2:9 and 17–18. These three variants warn the Israelites not to harass or exploit these regions because they were given as inheritance to the sons of Esau and Lot. Compositionally they prepare for the next set of major variants in Numbers 21:20–23 paralleling Deut 2:24–25, 26–27, 28–29 and 31. In an ever intensified reversal of the Israelites’ move to their final goal, they conquer the Canaanites, destroying their cities “in a place called Hormah” (SP and MT Num 21:1–3; cf. 14:45). Thereafter they travel through Moab and Ammon to the brook of Arnon, which is the border of the land of the Amorites, whom Yahweh orders them to conquer (SP Num 21:20a–c; cf. Deut 2:24–25). Yahweh’s order to engage the Amorite king Sihon in battle and take possession of his land creates a link with the commandment in SP Num 10:10b to go to the land of the mountain of the Amorites (cf. Deut 1:7), and confirms that the deity is with his people (Num 21:23b paralleling Deut 2:31). In both the SP and MT, Moses, however, seeks a peaceful solution, sending messengers to Sihon (Num 21:21–22) as he had formerly done to the king of Edom in both versions (Num 20:17). SP Num 21:21–22 follows closely the reading of SP Deut 2:26–29a, while MT Num 21:21–22 combines Deut 2:26–27 with Num 20:17’s mention of field, vineyard and wells. The difficult reading, however, ‫ בדרך בדרך אלך‬is found in both versions of Deut 2:27, but SP Num 21:22a has a combined reading of Numbers and Deuteronomy here: ‫ בדרך המלך אלך‬concordant with ‫ דרך המלך נלך‬in Num 20:17 of both versions and with MT Num 21:22. In Num 21:21, both versions leave out ‫ ממדבר קדמות‬of Deut 2:26 and calls Sihon “King of the Amorites,” rather than “of Heshbon”. Only SP reads the phrase ‫ דברי שלום‬concomitant with the LXX. The last major variant in SP Num 21:23b paralleling Deut 2:31 repeats Yahweh’s promise to Moses that he has begun to give him Sihon and his land and he urges him to go and inherit it. The variant is a rare example of a SP passage, which aligns better with the MT than SP Deut 2:31, which shares with the LXX, the apposition to Sihon ‫( מלך חשבון האמרי‬cf. Deut 2:24 and SP Num 21:20a). The repetition serves to underline that the war with the Amorites is not engaged without Yahweh’s order and consent. This is in line with the war against the Canaanites (Num 21:1–3) and the war against Og, the king of Bashan (21:33–35). In the Masoretic version, the initiative to engage in war with Sihon is left to the Israelites, and Yahweh’s consent comes afterwards (MT Num 21:34). That Yahweh is with the Israelites is also brought to the fore in the closing of Numbers 20–27’s narrative section, which relates the consecration of Joshua

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in Num 27:18–23. In SP 27:23a’s major variant, paralleling SP Deut 3:21b–22, Moses alludes to Yahweh’s wars against Sihon and Og by saying: “Your eyes have seen what Yahweh has done to these two kings, the same will he do to all the kingdoms through which you must pass. Don’t have fear for them for Yahweh your God, he is fighting for you.” The text aligns with SP against MT Deut 3:21a–22. A variant of the text is found in Deut 3:2 paralleling Num 21:34 (see below).

4 Deuteronomy 1–3 in Light of SP’s Major Variants Within Deuteronomy 1–3’s retelling of the Israelites’ move from the Red Sea to Bashan and their encounter with the Edomites, Ammonites and Moabites, we find in SP Deut 2:7a–d a major variant paralleling Num 20:14aα + 17–18, leaving out the mention of brotherhood, the stay in Egypt and the exodus in verses 14aβ–16. The variant is found also in DSS Deuteronomy 4Q364, which “agrees in several details with SP Numbers 20 and Deuteronomy 2 as opposed to MT Numbers”.20 The variant continues the passing through Edom theme from Deut 2:2–6. SP Num 20:18–21 and Deut 2:7d conclude with Edom’s denial of passage and the Israelites’ journey away from Edom in 2:8. In MT Deut 2:8, the Israelites turn away without explicit cause to do so. A comparison of Numbers’ narrative with Deuteronomy’s retelling demonstrates that the SP major variant in Deuteronomy has the function of confirming that Moses had sent messengers to the king of Edom to obtain permission to trespass Edom’s border. Large passages of major variants in SP Numbers 20–21 (20:13a–l; 21:11ab–12ab), paralleled in Deuteronomy 1–3, and the major variant in Deut 2:7a–d univocally confirm that Edom, Moab and Ammon had been warned about the Israelites’ intention to go through their countries without attacking them. Despite the fact that the narrative is much more complex in SP Numbers than in SP Deuteronomy, both units follow the same plotline with the seeming exception of the above mentioned Deut 3:24–29a. In SP Numbers, this passage is placed at the opening of the narrative unit (20–27) that begins (20:13a–d) and ends with Yahweh’s prohibition of Moses’ entrance into the Promised Land (27:13–14) and the appointment of Joshua as his successor (20:13e and 27:18–23 + 23a par. Deut 3:21–22). However, Yahweh’s prohibition of Moses’ entrance is not

20 Tov and White 1994, 231.

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caused by any Meribah water episode in Deuteronomy, but is linked to the people’s murmuring protest in the spy narrative, which caused the deity’s anger also against Moses (‫ ;גם בי התאנף יהוה בגללכם לאמר גם אתה לא תבוא שמה‬Deut 1:37; cf. 3:26 and 4:21). The more complex narrative in Numbers 20–21 includes not only the Meribah episode (20:1–13), but also the death of Aaron (23–29), the conquest of the Canaanites at Hormah (21:1–3), the people’s complaint and snake episode (4–9), the Book of Wars section (14–20), and the proverbs on Heshbon (27–30), all of which are not related in Deuteronomy 1–3. In contrast to the rather short narrative of 22 verses in MT Numbers 20–21 about the Israelites’ encounter and wars with Edom, Moab, Ammon, Heshbon and Bashan, SP Numbers’ narrative contains an additional 18 verses as discussed above. MT Deuteronomy 2–3, however, presents an elaborate narrative in 66 verses, with an additional 4 verses in SP Deut 2:7a–d. Only few isolated verses of MT Numbers 20–21 parallel (partly) the 66 verses of Deuteronomy 2–3; for example Deut 2:1 par. Num 21:4; Deut 2:30 par. Num 21:23; Deut 2:32 par. Num 21:23; Deut 2:33b par. 21:24a; Deut 3:3b par. Num 21:35. Only in Deut 3:1–2 do we find a complete similarity with the parallel text in Num 21:33–34. The passage concerns the journey to Bashan, Yahweh’s reassurance and the people’s victory. Apart from a rhetorical shift from 1st person in Deuteronomy to 3rd person in Numbers, Deut 3:1–2 and Num 21:33–34 read exactly the same in both MT and SP. Deut 3:3 corresponds partly with Num 21:35 in “and all his people, we smote until there was none left,” which also adds “and they inherited his land” that we find in Deut 3:12a. The exact verbal correspondence between Deut 3:1–2 and Num 21:33–34 is interesting, because it is similar in character to the major variants in SP Numbers. The general lack of exact correspondence between MT Deuteronomy 2–3 and Numbers is also characteristic in regard to Deuteronomy 1. Only few of the 46 verses corresponds (partly) with the wording in Numbers, for example Deut 1:9 par. Num 11:14; Deut 1:24 par. Num 13:23; Deut 1:25 par. Num 14:7; Deut 1:35–36 par. Num 14:23–24; Deut 1:39 par. Num 14:31; Deut 1:40 par. Num 14:25; Deut 1:41–45 par. Num 14:40–45. The rest reads as conflating paraphrases of Exodus – Numbers; for example the appointment of leaders in Deut 1:9–18 with parallels in Num 11:16–17, 24–25 and Exod 18:18–26; and the spy narrative in Deut 1:23–40 with its parallel in Numbers 13–14, but alluding also to Exodus 14 and 19.21 The small narrative section (Deut 1:41–45 par. Num 14:40–45) about

21 For detailed discussion of Deuteronomy’s correspondence with Exodus – Numbers, see Nelson 2002, passim.

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the failed attack on the Amorites // Amalekites and Canaanites exposes the highest degree of verbal correspondence, without being, however, a verbatim reproduction. It can thus be concluded that the exact verbal correspondence between SP Numbers and Deuteronomy 1–3, which we find in the major variants is unusual from a Masoretic viewpoint. In the Torah traditions of the Samaritans and in some Dead Sea Scrolls, the phenomenon must be said to be quite usual. It remains, however, to decide whether, the high degree of correspondence between SP Numbers’ major variants and Deuteronomy is unusual, when looking at the Pentateuch as a whole. To what extent did the author of a scroll copy in verbatim material from another scroll?

4.1 Introduced Direct Speech Passages in Deuteronomy with Parallels in the Tetrateuch 7 of the 14 major variants in SP Numbers 10–14 and 20–27 are formally introduced by “and Yahweh said to Moses,” ‫ וידבר‬or ‫ויאמר יהוה אל משה‬,22 reflective of SP Deuteronomy’s “and Yahweh said to me,” ‫ ויאמר יהוה אלי‬, in the Deuteronomic parallels. In Deuteronomy 1–3, we find 9 instances of “Yahweh said” passages, two of which, namely Deut 1:34–36 and 3:2, are found in both SP and MT Numbers 14:23–24 and 21:34 respectively. The remaining seven instances in Deut 1:6, 42; 2:2, 9, 17, 31; 3:26, are found in SP Numbers only. Yahweh thus appears to be more in control of events in Deuteronomy and SP Numbers than he is in MT Numbers. The command to go and act is given explicit, as shown in the analysis above, and it is telling that SP Num 21:20a–c par. Deut 2:24–25 opens with the phrase: “And Yahweh said to Moses,” which we find at the beginning of the pericope in Deut 2:17.23 Looking at the shared SP and MT instances of “Yahweh said” passages in Deut 1:34–36 and 3:2, we find that the first passage rewrites the parallel (Num 14:23–24), while the second reads exactly the same in both SP and MT Num 21:34. The many occurrences of “Yahweh said” phrases in Deuteronomy 1–3 is not a widespread phenomenon in the remaining chapters of the book. Seven instances, which are found in both SP and MT Deuteronomy are:

22 SP Num 10:10a; 14:40a; 20:13c and f; 21:11a, 12a, 20a, 23b. 23 Cf. also 4Q27.

So-called Deuteronomic Addenda 

 31

Deut 4:10 par. Exod 19 (far parallel) Deut 5:25–28 par. SP Exod 20:18a–c and k–m (close parallel; no MT parallel) Deut 9:12–14 par. Exod 32:7–10 (close parallel regarding verses 12–13 with minor deviations, while verse 14 only parallels in the closure: “and I will make you a mightier and greater people than they (24‫)לגוי עצום ורב ממנו‬.” SP Exod 32:10 has the verbatim addition with grammatical deviations from Deut 9:20: Yahweh’s anger against Aaron and Moses’ intersession. Deut 10:1–2 par. Exod 34:1 (close parallel with minor deviations) Deut 10:11 par. 1:21 // SP Num 12:16c (a non-verbatim parallel) Deut 18:18–22 par. SP Exod 20:18c–k (verbatim parallel) Deut 31:2 par. SP Num 20:13d (verbatim parallel) The list exhibits also here a higher degree of correspondence between SP Deuteronomy and Exodus – Numbers than we find in the Masoretic versions. Also close and verbatim parallels are more usual in regard to the major variants that we find in the Samaritan Pentateuch and some Dead Sea Scrolls. These create a substantial basis for the validity of Moses’ testimony in Deuteronomy, underscored also by the “Moses said” passages in four of SP Numbers 10–14 and 20–27’s major variants.25 In Gesenius’ analysis, he concluded that it was of special importance for the authors of the SP that Yahweh’s and Moses’ utterances agreed in every detail.26 In addition to the examined major variants in SP Numbers with parallels in Deuteronomy, we find two examples of extensive major variants in SP Exodus 18 and 20. In Exod 18:24a–f’s major variant paralleling Deut 1:9–18, Moses conversation with Jethro is continued in his address to the people as stated in Deut 1:9: “And I spoke to you at that time…” The almost verbatim variant is found also in 4QpaleoExodm. The second major variant with verbatim parallels in Deuteronomy is found in SP Exodus 20 and 4QpaleoExodm paralleling SP Deut 5:21–24 (the people’s fear of coming near to Yahweh); 5:25b–26 (Yahweh’s answer); 18:18–22 (a prophet like Moses), and 5:27–28 (sending the people away while Moses remains with 24 Exod 32:10: ‫ ;לגוי גדול‬Num 14:12: ‫לגוי גדול ועצום ממנו‬. 25 SP Num 12:16a; 13:33c; 20:13a and 27:23a. 26 Gesenius 1815, 46: “…ut, ubicunque aliquid tanquam antea a Mose dictum factum ve commemoratur, id quoque semper totidem verbis in antecedentibus expressum inveniatur, vicissimque, ut, fi quid a Deo mandatum dicitur, id totidem verbis repeater, ubi illud a Mose perfici narrator.”

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Yahweh). In addition, both SP Exod 20 and Deut 5 also share a major variant to the Decalogue about the proper cult place with parallels in Deuteronomy (Deut 11:29a + 27:2b–6 + 11:30), which is not found or restored in 4QpaleoExodm.27

5 Conclusion Two basic features appear from my examination of SP’s major variants in Exodus and Numbers: (1) most of these regard Yahweh’s or Moses’ direct speech in Deuteronomy; and (2) SP’s major variants have a higher degree of verbatim correspondence between Deuteronomy and their Tetrateuch parallels than we see in parallel passages, which we find in both SP and MT. The latter speaks for a conscious redaction, with insertions of texts from one scroll to another. It is, however, not clear which scroll is the source text as the variants are fully integrated in the narrative composition of both SP Deuteronomy and Numbers. Linguistic analysis may give some indication in regard to each parallel, some of which reflect distinct Deuteronomic language and others that do not. Leaving out the “Yahweh said” passages in Deuteronomy 1–3 would place the deity even more in the background and portray Moses as completely speaking and acting on his behalf. The “Yahweh said” and “Moses said” passages gives the deity the role of controlling the history and places Moses in the role of prophet and interpreter. While the narrator of Exodus – Numbers reports what Yahweh and Moses did and said in the past, Deuteronomy’s author presents Moses as speaking and giving testimony of Yahweh’s words and deeds (e.g., 1:5; 4:1; 5:1; 31:1), yet writing it down (31:9, 24) to be read and taught by the Levites (31:11–12).28 In such composition, Deuteronomy’s author, who remains mostly in the background of his narrative,29 establishes Moses as the true prophet of Deut 5:23–31 and 18:15–22, whose teaching successive interpreters must imitate.30 In regard to SP’s major variants, it is not Moses’ but Yahweh’s role, which is emphasized, and especially Numbers 20–21 underscore the deity’s presence in the midst of his people, securing a successful outcome of their conquests. The “Moses layer” may serve to make “it even more evident

27 Skehan, Ulrich and Sanderson (eds.) 1995, 66–68. Sanderson 1986 and 1988. 28 Hjelm 2004, 179. 29 Polzin 1980, 205–208. 30 Hjelm, 2018.

So-called Deuteronomic Addenda 

 33

that Moses had prophetic authority” and “primacy,”31 but taken together, SP’s major variants serve a larger purpose, which also emphasizes Joshua’s role as Moses’ successor.

Bibliography Douglas, Mary. 2001. In the Wilderness. The Doctrine of Defilement in the Book of Numbers. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gesenius, Wilhelm. 1815. De Pentateuchi Samaritani. Origine, indole et auctoritate: Commentatio philologico-critica. Halle: Librariae Rengerianae. Hjelm, Ingrid. 2004. Jerusalem’s Rise to Sovereignty: Zion and Gerizim in Competition. CIS 14; JSOTSup 404. London – New York: T&T Clark International. –. 2015a. “‘The Pentateuch that the Samaritans Chose.’ Moderne fejlslutninger vedrørende den samaritanske Pentateuks oprindelse og karakteristika,” DTT 78: 225–242 (Jesper Høgenhaven and Anne Katrine De Hemmer Gudme [eds.], Festskrift Niels Peter Lemche. 70 år). –. 2015b. “Northern Perspectives in Deuteronomy and Its Relation to the Samaritan Pentateuch,” in Cynthia Edenburg and Reinhard Müller (eds.), Deuteronomy: a Judean or Samari(t)an Composition. Perspectives on Deuteronomy’s Origins, Transmission and Reception. HBAI 4: 184–204. –. 2018. “The Coming of ‘a Prophet Like You’ in Ancient Literature,” in Jesper Tang Nielsen, Jesper Høgenhaven and Heike Omerzu (eds.), Rewriting and Reception in and out of the Bible. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck: 33–48. Jastram, Nathan. 1994. “4QNumb (Pls. XXXVIII–XLIX),” in Eugene Ulrich and Frank Moore Cross (eds.), Qumran Cave 4, VII. Genesis – Numbers. DJD XII. Oxford: Clarendon, 205–267. Kartveit, Magnar. 2009. The Origin of the Samaritans. Leiden: Brill. Nelson, Richard D. 2002. Deuteronomy. A Commentary. Louisville, KY : Presbyterian Publishing Corporation. Polzin, Robert. 1980. Moses and the Deuteronomist. A Literary Study of the Deuteronomistic History. New York: Seabury. Sanderson, Judith E. 1986. An Exodus Scroll from Qumran. 4QpaleoExodm and the Samaritan Tradition. HSS 30. Atlanta: Scholars Press. –. 1988. “The Contributions of 4QpaleoExodm to Textual Criticism,” RevQ 13: 547–560 (Études Qumrâniennes: Mémorial Jean Carmignac). Skehan, Paul W., Eugene Ulrich and Judith E. Sanderson (eds.). 1995. Qumran Cave 4: PalaeoHebrew and Greek Biblical Manuscripts. DJD IX. Oxford: Clarendon. Tal, Abraham, and Moshe Florentin. 2010. The Pentateuch – The Samaritan Version and the Masoretic Version. Tel Aviv: The Haim Rubin Tel Aviv University Press. (Hebrew) Tov, Emanuel. 1989. “Protosamaritan Texts and the Samaritan Pentateuch,” in Alan D. Crown (ed.), The Samaritans. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 397–407. –. 2001. Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible. 2nd rev. ed. Minneapolis: Fortress Press.

31 Kartveit 2009, 281.

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Tov, Emanuel, and Sidnie White. 1994. “364. Reworked Pentateuchb (Plates XIII–XXI),” in Harold Attridge et al. Qumran Cave 4. VIII Parabiblical Texts. DJD XIII. Oxford: Clarendon, 197–254. Tsedaka, Avraham, and Ratzon Tsedaka (eds.). 1961–1965. Jewish and Samaritan Versions of the Pentateuch with Particular Stress on the Difference Between Both Texts. Tel Aviv: Samaritan Press. Tsedaka, Benyamim and Sharon Sullivan (trans. and eds.). 2013. The Israelite Samaritan Version of the Torah: First English Translation Compared with the Masoretic Version. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Van Seters, John. 1994. The Life of Moses: The Yahwist as Historian in Exodus – Numbers. Kampen: Kok Pharos. –. 2013. The Yahwist. A Historian of Israelite Origins. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns.

Benedikt Hensel

The Chronicler’s Polemics towards the Samarian YHWH-Worshippers: A Fresh Approach 1 Introduction It was “out of a love for Judah and a hatred for Israel” that the Chronicler composed his entire post-exilic relecture of Israelite history in the time after exile. This viewpoint is to be found as early as 1806 in de Wette’s “A Critical and Historical Introduction to the Canonical Scriptures of the Old Testament”.1 Here, the view is expressed that the Chronicles had indeed addressed, in the time after exile, the problematic dispute between Judah and Samaria, and had referred to the “Samaritans” in a polemical and derogatory way.2 Whilst this view did not prevail in the strict sense formulated by de Wette, it did substantially dominate the vast majority of research conducted in the 20th century. This polemic was interpreted as being a historical reflection on the hostility which reigned between Judah and Samaria during the Chronicler’s life. In this vein, Pfeiffer noted: “In the days of the Chronicler the Samaritan Community was to Judaism a more serious adversary than heathenism.”3 This reading of the anti-Samaritan polemic in the Chronicles was underscored by the widespread majority belief in a literary context which also included the book of Ezra-Nehemiah, namely the so-called Chronistic History (ChrH).4 This was presumed to have been written at some point during the 1 De Wette 1806, 126 (on this subject: pp. 126–132). 2 A note on the disambiguation of terminology here and in the following: reference should strictly speaking only be made to “Samaritans” and “Samaritan” from the point at which, in the 2nd  century BCE, the processes of separation and formation of Judaism and Samaritanism began. For the time prior to this, I suggest using the more neutral terms “Gerizim community,” Samaritan “YHWH cult” or similar terms. However, since the term “Samaritans” has become established among researchers, this term will be used here to include the group of YHWH worshippers in the entire region of the former Northern Kingdom for the entire exilic/post exilic period. 3 Pfeiffer 1961, 202. Especially Torrey 1909, 157–173, 188–217; Galling 1954, XVIII–XIX; Plöger 1959, 51f., 135; Rowley 1955–1956, 166–198; and Mosis 1973, esp. 169–171, 200f.; all stressed the Chronicler’s polemic which marked out the northern tribes as a pagan and/or morally derelict people, something which not only reflects the view of the Chronicler, but which simply emphasises the historical realities of the time. 4 The thesis regarding the cohesion between Chr and Ezr/Neh was first advanced by Zunz in 1832 and remained dominant in research for a considerable time (Zunz 1832). Noth’s classic explanation of the thesis (1943 = 1967) is based on the Chr and Ezr/Neh – which together https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110617306-003

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Persian epoch (539–332 BCE). The obvious polemic in Ezra-Nehemiah which was directed at the North5 was then accordingly adopted into the Chronicles.6 It was Noth (1943) in particular who formulated the now classic version of this thesis. Against the background of the time, in which the dating of a “Samaritan schism” was placed towards the end of the 4th century BCE, Noth understood the ChrH to be the founding legend of the cultic community in Jerusalem, which was to be seen “as the true successor to that of the old, legitimate ‘Israel’”.7 The portrayal of a theocratically organised monarchy in Jerusalem was therefore entirely aimed at delegitimising the former Northern Kingdom. In any case, it had very little in common with Israel after its fall in 722 BCE, since the foremost practice in the North had primarily been syncretism, and the “true Israel” in the south had taken active steps to distance itself from practices of that kind. Over time, research on this question has seen the emergence of a new consensus in which Samaritan research has included more recent insights on the origins of the Samaritans8 in formulating its theses. In particular, identifying the accusations of syncretism as Judean polemic marked a significant step forwards. In doing so, it became clear that the Chronicles had developed a completely different view of the North to the book of Ezra-Nehemiah, showing that it could not have been written by the same author. The central aspect of this argument was the Chronicles’ conception of “Israel”. It was particularly in the work of Willi (1972), Williamson (1977), Braun (1977),9 Japhet (1968 = 2013),10 1989, 1993, 2002–2003), Hausmann (1987) and Diebner (1995),11 that the following view was held: the Chronicles advocated the concept of an “all-Israel” (Williamson)12 or “pan-Israel” (Japhet).13 There is also mention of the “Conception of an Integral Israel” (Willi),14 a “concept of inclusive Israel” (Weingart)15 or a “Greater Israel option” (Bae).16 constitute the so-called Chronicler’s History – being written by one historian who, by incorporating a wide range of (biblical and non-biblical) source materials into his work, produced a revised version of the Deuteronomic History (DH) and in doing so, created the founding legend of the cultic community in Jerusalem after exile (cf. Noth 1967, 174f.). 5 Cf. Hensel 2016, 332–343 for details. 6 Cf. e.g., Gunneweg 1985, 25. 7 Noth 1967, 174f. 8 For the research history of this question see Kartveit 2009. 9 Braun 1977, 59–62. 10 Japhet 1968, 36–76. 11 Diebner 1995, 33–66, esp. 53–55. 12 Williamson 1977, 98f., 108–110, 120, 125–131. 13 Japhet 2006, 118. 14 Willi 2012, 21–34. 15 Weingart 2014, 99. 16 Bae 2005, 182.

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These various terms use different foci to stress that in the narrative of the Chronicles, the North – and therefore also Samaria at the time of the Persians – was widely held to be part of a broader “Israel,” even as the centre of “Israelite identity” remained – in accordance with its Judean authorship – in Judah, with Jerusalem as its cultic centre. Accordingly, whilst the Chronicles do occasionally take a critical stance, they never engage in polemic against the YHWH worshippers in the North. Research has tended first and foremost to stress the virtually “missionary” interest of the Chronicler in the North, together with his fundamental openness towards the YHWH worshippers in the North.17 Weingart in particular, in her study on the various conceptions of Israel in the biblical literatures, which was published in 2014, subjected these theses to a thorough process of review and verification.18 For Weingart, it is primarily the literary context of 1 Chr 1–9 which sets out the essential definition of the twelve-tribe concept of “Israel” for all of the Chronicles: according to this definition, the “10 tribes” of Samaria as well as the two southern tribes, meaning Judah, were all essential parts of “Israel”. Regardless of the criticisms levelled against the North, at no time are the former tribes of the Northern Kingdom denied their place in the greater “Israel”.19 This observation is now beyond dispute: Samaria is an integral part of the “Israel” concept of the Chronicles. However, it appears to me that two aspects of the Chronicles have been insufficiently clarified, namely the conception of a greater “Israel” put forward in the Chronicles with the express inclusion of the “Samaritans,” and their critical view of the North. Archaeological excavations in the region of Samaria have now shown that the “Samaritans” were indeed not a peripheral phenomenon in religious history in the time after exile, who might have been included without further thought into the conception of “Israel” which was dominated by Judah. In the case of the “Samaritans,” or better – to avoid this term which has its roots in the polemic tradition – in the case of the YHWH worshippers, the issue here is one of post-exilic Yahwism, which was at least the equal of its Judean counterpart and, in its cultural and theological impact, was probably even superior to it, or at least highly influential. I have recently undertaken an extensive study of this matter elsewhere.20 Indeed, it seems virtually inconceivable that the Samaritan YHWH worshippers felt tempted to recognise Jerusalem as the one 17 Esp. Williamson stresses this openness towards the North 1977, 87–140; see also Braun 1977, 59–62. 18 Cf. Weingart 2014, 99; for how the content of this thesis evolved, see pp. 99–159. 19 Cf. Weingart 2014, 298; who speaks of a “genealogically-sound Israel conception in the Chr” which consequently cannot be nullified by historical events. 20 Cf. Hensel 2016, esp. 411–417.

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legitimate shrine when, from the 5th century BCE onwards, they had their own YHWH shrine21 on Mt. Gerizim which was frequented on a transregional and even “international” (at least for the time of antiquity) scale.22 It is probable that the conception of “Israel” put forward in the Chronicles, with its associated acknowledgement of Zion, is actually a strategy implemented in the text which is indeed highly polemic towards the Samaritan YHWH worshippers. This will now be examined in detail in the following.

2 The Relation between Genealogical Disposition and Cultic Qualification: Some Distinctions The question presents itself as to whether the genealogical disposition to be “Israel” is not actually overestimated in current research. This being true, the Chronicles are also – no less significantly – neglected or overlooked: the Chronicles do indeed describe the genealogical affiliation to “Israel” as being part of the twelve tribes, as being an innate predisposition which cannot therefore in principle be rescinded or nullified. However, the other side of the coin is qualifying for the acquisition of this honorific title through one’s actions. The concurrence of these two aspects, namely quasi-ontological disposition and cultic-ethical qualification is, for Judah, a consistent precondition throughout. Only a few individual Israelites in the North were able to turn away from their “perverted YHWH cult” and turn to the orthopraxy of the late monarchy, which was of course only practiced in Judah. The dichotomy of disposition and qualification was revised for the North, which was given its own narrative and theology respectively. This becomes clearer when examining 2 Chr 30, the Pesach celebration of the southern King Hezekiah in the whole “land of Israel” (v. 6). During the description of Hezekiah’s reign, it is written that messengers were sent to Ephraim and 21 On the archaeological findings, see the two most important publications on the excavations Magen, Misgav, and Tsfania 2004; and Magen 2008; on the Hebraic, Aramaic and Greek inscriptions discovered near the shrine, see Magen, Misgav, and Tsfania 2004; Dušek 2012. For a critical evaluation of the findings on the Gerizim which also partially corrects Magen’s evaluations, see esp. Zangenberg 2012, 399–420. 22 The Gerizim inscriptions verify, in making mention of pilgrims’ places of origin, the transregional significance of the Gerizim for the Samarian region. A number of sources from the Mediterranean region (Delos) as well as from Egypt (a votive offering found on the Gerizim “from Egypt”/ἀπ’ Α[ἰγ]ύπτου, as the inscription attached to it attests: on this inscription see Hensel 2016, 61–65); on the “Samaritan diaspora” and its focus on the Gerizim, see the extensive discussion of the source texts in Hensel 2016, 76–90.

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Manasseh – the area of the former Northern Kingdom – in order to invite the people living there “from Beer-sheba to Dan” (‫ד־ּדן‬ ָ ‫ר־ש ַבע וְ ַע‬ ֶ ‫;מ ְּב ֵא‬ ִ 2 Chr 30:4f.) to the Pesach celebration (in Jerusalem, of course; 2 Chr 30:10), calling on them to repent (‫ ;שּובּו ֶאל־יְ הוָ ה‬2 Chr 30:6). Hezekiah’s letter of invitation (2 Chr 30:6–9) is addressed to “all of Israel” and includes the Southern Kingdom,23 even whilst the northern tribes remain the primary addressees24 of this letter (‫יהּודה‬ ָ ִ‫;ּב ָכל־יִ ְש ָר ֵאל ו‬ ְ 2 Chr 30:6). Hezekiah’s invitation to the Pesach celebration is accepted by the entire people of Judah/“Israel” without exception (‫;לב ֶא ָחד‬ ֵ 2 Chr 30:12). However, the northern tribes are an exception: the reaction of the northern tribes to Hezekiah’s invitation to attend the Pesach celebration in “Israel,” that is Judah, is generally negative: some react with derision, some with outrage, and some accept the invitation (2 Chr 30:10f.). Of these latter it is said that they are “converting” to Jerusalem (in chr terminology: “humbling themselves” [‫ ;נִ ְכנְ עּו‬2 Chr 30:11]) and celebrating with Israel, meaning Judah and Jerusalem. In the Chronicles, the Hebraic root ‫ כנע‬describes an act of inner conversion.25 The North can therefore only fulfil its destiny as “Israel” if it actively turns towards Jerusalem, something that is already axiomatic for the “Israelites” in Judah. Because the depiction of history in the Chronicles shows a particular interest in the activities of the cult, these individual decision-making processes in the North come across as key scenes in the narration. Through them, the actual theologically relevant aspect comes to light, which supplements the genealogical definition of “Israel” as a necessary criterion. Whilst the North is indeed considered part of “Israel,” it nevertheless retains its cultic apostasy and is only tolerated politically as an “interim solution” at best. In essence, the Northern Kingdom – which is not Davidic-Solomonic and therefore ultimately illegitimate – still remains reliant on “Israel” in the south. The interrelation between genealogical disposition and subsequent qualification accords with the conception of election as described in Genesis. Whilst the term “election” (‫ )בהר‬is not used in Genesis, the specific attributes ‫( ְּבכ ָֹרה‬the state of being a firstling) and ‫( ְּב ָר ָכה‬blessing) serve to replace this term.26 In Genesis, the innate disposition of being the firstborn is not only a guarantee of blessing and therefore of election, but a confirmation of worthiness for the title.27

23 The latter can be inferred from the reference to the Judeans accepting the invitation (v. 12). 24 Cf. Japhet 2002–2003, 388. 25 Cf. Japhet 2002–2003, 393. 26 On the relation between “election” and “the state of being a firstling” see esp. Hensel 2011, 316–318 (Literature). 27 See Hensel 2011, 331ff.

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 Benedikt Hensel

This being the case, approaches to this issue tend to fall short when they stress the essential belonging of the North to “Israel” on the one hand, and point to Judah-centrism on the other, without further sounding out the content of this relation. The frequently referenced missionary openness towards the North28 is therefore in fact simply another facet in the polemic which is directed at the North. Two further aspects can be added to this polemic: firstly, in the view of the Chronicles, the North is characterised by its cultic transgressions. Even the “genealogical vestibule” which is fundamental to the overall comprehension of the Chronicles shows a clearly critical viewpoint towards the North. Here, the genealogical presentation does not fulfil any historiographical purposes; its function is pragmatically theological, because, in the apposite words of Oeming, it is “in the form of genealogy, geography and history” that the Chronicler expresses “his fundamental theological conviction of the indivisible connection between deeds/ faith and consequences”.29 Hence it is the sinful disloyalty of the northern tribes (‫ ;וַ יִ ְמ ֲעלּו‬1 Chr 5:25) towards YHWH, and their engagement with the peoples of the land (‫י־ה ָא ֶרץ‬ ָ ‫;ע ֵּמ‬ ַ 1 Chr 5:25), that lead to the downfall of the tribes of the Northern Kingdom in East Jordanland (1 Chr 5:1–26). The established topos from 1 – 2 Kings (and the entire DH) serves as a counterpoint: he who turns to God (‫;זָ ֲעקּו‬ 1 Chr 5:20) and trusts in Him (‫י־ב ְטחּו‬ ָ ‫;ּכ‬ ִ 1 Chr 5:20) will meet with success. Secondly, the brief, almost fragmentary30 depiction of the Northern Kingdom’s extended genealogies (1 Chr 7:1–40) is part of this discreditation of the North. Its disloyalty to YHWH is repeatedly remarked upon in narrative passages or short summaries. The fragmentary presentation represents a literary counterpart to the occasionally insinuated contacts between the South and this very same northern Israel. This aspect of 1 Chr 1–9 fits perfectly into the rest of the corpus. The former Northern Kingdom is not part of the historiographical31 narrative. With the exception of 2 Chr 13:1, the author omits all synchronisms with the Northern Kingdom and simply skips any details about its history. Reference is only made to the North 28 See e.g., Weingart, who mentions in a side note that “the Israelites remained reliant on the Jerusalem cult for their relation with YHWH” (Weingart 2014, 154); and further on: “The perspective that was opened up to the northern tribes also required them to turn to the YHWH-cult in Jerusalem; their alignment with the shrine in Jerusalem was, for the Chronicler, decisive for the future of all Israel (cf. 2 Chr 30:8f.). The Chronicler’s conception of Israel leaves open a place for the northern tribes in Israel and invites them to acknowledge their heritage.” (Weingart 2014, 297). 29 Oeming 1990, 141. 30 Oeming 1990, 166. 31 For information regarding the historiographical work of the Chronicler and the biblical and non-biblical sources used in the Chr, see Kalimi 2005.

The Chronicler’s Polemics towards the Samarian YHWH-Worshippers 

 41

when relations between the two kingdoms are concerned, and these are generally documented as confrontations. This being the case, the narrative is no different when it comes to the “peoples” whenever they make an appearance in this Judah-centric history. The north of “Israel” is ignored, because its cultic character means it ultimately counts for nothing. The text passage 2 Chr 10–13 leaves little doubt regarding the inferiority of the YHWH cult in the North. It is here, with reference to the Divided Kingdom, that the Chronicler systematically reveals his view of the Samaritan Yahwists. This reaches something of a climax in a speech by Abijah which was directed at the North (2 Chr 13:4–12), in which he engages in a comprehensive theological evaluation of the cults in each of the divided kingdoms: Judah’s orthopraxy serves as a positive counterpart to the North, something which is presented in a clear contrast between “you” (v.8b) and “we, however” (v.10). This antithesis is taken up once again in v.11b (ֹ‫ֹלהינּו וְ ַא ֶּתם ֲעזַ ְב ֶּתם אֹתו‬ ֵ ‫ת־מ ְש ֶמ ֶרת יְ הוָ ה ֱא‬ ִ ‫)ּכי־ש ְֹמ ִרים ֲאנַ ְחנּו ֶא‬ ִ and its content examined further from v.12 onwards. Verse 9 brings the transgressions of the North – in this case, that they have turned from YHWH and become apostate – to a single point: in the North, the priesthood is made up of laypeople – meaning non-Levites – who have not been ordained in accordance with the Torah, and who worship idols which Jeroboam himself has introduced.32 To these cultish reservations are added political illegitimacy, an accusation which is also levelled at Samaria: in the Chronicler’s commentary on the Divided Kingdom, the fundamental political illegitimacy of the North becomes tangible. In 2 Chr 10; 13, the Chronicler voices his expectation that the North should return to the Davidic dynasty (namely to the South).33 The Northern Kingdom is nonDavidic and therefore an illegitimate political entity: the above-mentioned speech by Abijah puts this beyond doubt. YHWH is associated with the Southern Kingdom and its orthopraxy, but not with the apostate northern tribes. Indeed, the use of the word ‫“( ֶע ֶבד‬slave” or “servant”) for Jeroboam implies that his resistance to his “lord” Solomon is improper and an act of insurrection (2 Chr 13:6). It is hard to overstate that, in the view of the Chronicles, the only legitimate kingdom of “Israel” is the Southern Kingdom34 and that the Chronicler’s presentation of the theological and ideological profile of the Southern Kingdom is largely effected in setting it apart from the North. In the eyes of the Chronicler, the Northern Kingdom is ultimately an amalgamation of temporarily apostate elements.35 32 This distinction was made as early as 2 Chr 11:14f. because the people qualified to work in the cult, the Levites, had left the north after the division of the kingdom. 33 For more detail, see Knoppers 1990, 439. 34 See also Japhet 2002–2003, 41–44. 35 Cf. Knoppers 2013, 74; Knoppers 1990, 423–440; Knoppers 1993, 411–431.

42 

 Benedikt Hensel

The YHWH worshippers in the North can only ever participate in the “Israelite” cult, and therefore fulfil their destiny as “Israel,” if they turn to the only legitimate centre of power and culture – at least from the Judean viewpoint – namely the YHWH temple in Jerusalem (2 Chr 30; 34; 35ff.). This is particularly true for the Levites, who as “converts” were apparently particularly welcome in the priesthood (2 Chr 11:14f.). The Southern Kingdom sees itself as a cultic overseer which is responsible for implementing the YHWH faith and its associated orthopraxy not only within its own physical territory, but also in the territory of the Northern Kingdom. Here, the decisive criterion of “Israelite” identity is an alignment with Jerusalem. Approaches to this issue fall short here if they only identify the “Judean perspective” or simply “a clear [...] inner [...] hierarchy” within the “inclusive conception of Israel”.36 This is about much more than the “Chr conception of Israel [keeping] open a place in Israel for the northern tribes and [inviting] them to fulfil their destiny as Israel”.37 The genealogical reasoning behind the twelve-tribe concept is fundamental to this thinking, but it is not sufficient to become a fully valid member of “Israel”. At this point, it is important to stress this particular view of the North, which is ambivalent at the very least and most certainly polemic. The depiction of a neutral or even positive relation between Judah and Samaria is, based on this reading of the text, not accurate.

3 Tracing the Contours of a Polemic Directed at the Samarian YHWH Worshippers in the Time after Exile In my view, the polemic perception of the North during the late monarchy is an indication of the context in which the authors of the Chronicles were writing. As Koppers states: “The northern-southern interaction depicted during the late monarchy may have clear resonances of the writer’s own context in the late Achaemenid or early Hellenistic period. His allusions of religious life in the former northern kingdom shed light on his own thinking about the conditions of

36 Weingart 2014, 297. Whilst certainly acknowledging the different reactions of the North to the invitational gestures of the South, they are not adjudged to be anti-Samaritan polemic, or indeed directed against the North in general; cf. for instance Eskenazi 1988, 32–34; Williamson 1977, 140. 37 Weingart 2014, 297.

The Chronicler’s Polemics towards the Samarian YHWH-Worshippers 

 43

the provinces of Yehud and Samaria in his own time.”38 He goes into greater detail in reference to 2 Chr 30: “The literary setting of Hezekian Passover is the end of the 8th century, but the historical setting of the Chronistic writing is almost four centuries later”.39 After all, the authors’ main purpose in writing was not archival or historiographical, but one of theological determination, using a “reflexion of the present” in their presentation of history. The target of their polemic is the Gerizim community in the time after exile, which finds expression in the critical depiction of the northern cult. The parallel representation of the northern cult and the practices of the contemporary Gerizim community is conspicuous in itself due to the ubiquitous contrasting of “restrictive orthopraxy” in Judah and “cultic deviation” in Samaria. This intended distinction is made clear in a play on words which is to be found in the speech by Abijah in 2 Chr 13. The depiction of Judean orthopraxy is, significantly, carried by the root ‫שמר‬: “For we keep (‫ )ש ְֹמ ִרים‬the charge of the Lord (‫)מ ְש ֶמ ֶרת יְ הוָ ה‬, ִ our God; but you have forsaken Him” (2 Chr 13:11).This is not an allusion to the “honorific title” ‫“( שמרים‬guardian”, namely “guardian of the Torah”) – as claimed recently by Knoppers with reference to Montgomery 40 – this being the self-designation used by the Samaritans to the present day. After all, this title is not recorded before its use in patristic literature.41 Nevertheless, it is possible to say with some certainty that a play on words was intended which takes the name of the province ‫ – ש ְֹמרֹון‬or ‫ ָש ְמ ָריִ ן‬in Aramaic – which is an altogether polemic name for the Gerizim community, and seeks to label them as ‫ ש ְֹמר ֹנִ ים‬or “Samaritans”.42 The criticism voiced in the Chronicles is therefore directed at the contemporary YHWH worshippers in the North who, from the perspective of the South, are practicing an illegitimate YHWH cult on Mt. Gerizim which is characterised by syncretism. Not even the priesthood in their YHWH shrine is legitimate, but is

38 Knoppers 2013, 98. 39 Knoppers 2013, 89. On the contemporary relevance of 2 Chr 30 cf. the observations in Japhet 2002–2003, 382–384; and Williamson 1982, 360–370. 40 Montgomery 1907, 318. Knoppers recently returned to this argumentation and generally agreed with it: “It would seem that Chronicles is punning on a traditional self-designation of the Samarians, insisting that the southern Israelites, and not the northern Israelites, are properly keeping the responsibilities Yhwh entrusted to his people.” (Knoppers 2013, 16, Anm. 21). 41 The first known use of this self-designation for the Gerizim community is in Origines (ca. 185–254 AD) (for more detail see Pummer 2002, 7–8, 123, 188f.; and Pummer 1982, 4–7, with diverse text citations). 42 It is possible that the geographical term ‫ ַהּׁש ְֹמר ֹנִ ים‬used in 2 Kgs 17:29 already relates to the “Samaritans” due to the fundamentally anti-“Samaritan” bias in the narrative 2 Kgs 17:24ff., and not to the local population of Samaria as is usually presumed.

44 

 Benedikt Hensel

composed of laypeople chosen from among the population, something that did not accord with the rules set out in the Torah (cf. 2 Chr 11:14f.). The argumentative force of its polemic lies in it not denying the North its “Israelite” identity, as is the case in the radical polemics of differentiation in Ezra-Nehemiah.43 The book of Ezra-Nehemiah understands Israel to consist of the gola community alone, with everybody else being goyim.44 In the Chronicles, however, Samaria is most certainly considered part of “Israel”. This being the case, it is possible to positively integrate recent findings into existing research on the Chronicles. In doing so, the Chronicles are adapting both the self-perception and external perception of the Samaritan YHWH worshippers’ identity of the current time. They refer to themselves as “Israelites” (Delos inscriptions),45 and this perception is confirmed by the literary sources which are dated in the pre-Hasmonean period and are of non-Samaritan origin: in 2 Macc 5:22f.; 6:1f.46 and Sir 50,25f./Hebrew version,47 the Samaritan YHWH worshippers are seen as part of the same γένος as the Jews. From the Persian time onwards, the YHWH worshippers had their central shrine on Mt. Gerizim.48 The material culture in the neighbouring provinces of Judah and Samaria clearly shows that the two population groups (still) shared the same cultural area even in the time after exile.49 Consequently, Samarian as well as Judean Yahwism in the heartland of Palestine can certainly be understood historically as being two denominations of “Israel”.50 Nevertheless, the Chronicles polemically turn this conception of Israel against the North. Orthopraxy is stressed as being a necessary condition of being “Israel,” something which the North/Samaria – according to the “historical evidence” – does not fulfil. The ultimate criterion of the orthopraxy is the unconditional recognition of Jerusalem’s cultic monopoly. It was quite simply impossible for the Samarian YHWH worshippers – who had their own YHWH shrine on Mt. Gerizim – to meet this condition, because the Gerizim was the central sanctuary of Samarian

43 On the “anti-Samaritan” text strategy in the book of Ezra-Nehemiah, see Hensel 2015, 72–77 and Heckl 2016, 381ff. 44 On the use of the term “Israel” in Ezra-Nehemiah, see Weingart 2014, 78–81. 45 On the two Greek inscriptions found on Delos (2nd–3rd centuries BCE) which mention “Israelites” who “bring/offer their sacrifices on the Gerizim” cf. Kartveit 2009, 216–235. 46 On this passage, see Pummer 1982, 238–240; and Kartveit 2009, 236–240. 47 On the interpretation of this text from Sir, see Schorch 2013, 136f. 48 On the excavation findings on the Gerizim, see Magen 2008. For a more current critical view of the findings, see Zangenberg 2007, 289–309; Zangenberg 2012, 399–420; and Hensel 2016, 35–77. 49 On this topic, see esp. Knoppers 2010, 159–174; Levin 2012, 4–53; and Hensel 2015, 67–115. 50 For more detail on the contours of Samarian Yahwism in comparison to its Judean counterpart, see Hensel 2016, 152–161.

The Chronicler’s Polemics towards the Samarian YHWH-Worshippers 

 45

Yahwism and therefore part of Samarian identity. The expectation is that the North not only support the Gerizim with its taxes, but also make a financial contribution to maintaining the temple in Jerusalem (cf. 2 Chr 31:2–8). The authors of the Chronicles must have been aware of these links and therefore included them intentionally in their conception of Israel for polemical reasons. The Chronicles are therefore basically saying that the North – meaning the YHWH worshippers – will never belong to the true “Israel” even though they call themselves Israelites. The polemic in the Chronicles, which is directed at the Gerizim community, suggests that the two groups of YHWH worshippers were experiencing turbulent relations at the time the Chronicles were being written. Whilst the struggle for cultic legitimacy as well as their mutual accusations of deficient worship are constitutive factors in each group’s specific narrative,51 there is no historical evidence before the Hasmonean period,52 and they are unlikely to have existed in religious and cultural history before the Ptolemaic period.53 The depiction of the North in the Chronicles is now therefore hard to imagine under Persian rule (but not inconceivable) and is more likely to have been a product of the Hellenistic period.

Bibliography Bae, Hee-Sook. 2005. Vereinte Suche nach JHWH. Die Hiskianische und Joschianische Reform in der Chronik. BZAW 355. Berlin – New York: de Gruyter. Braun, Roddy L. 1977. “A Reconsideration of the Chronicler’s Attitude toward the North,” JBL 96: 59–62. Diebner, Bernd Jørg. 1995. “Juda und Israel. Zur hermeneutischen Bedeutung der Spannung zwischen Judäa und Samarien für das Verständnis des TNK als Literatur,” in Martin Prudký (ed.), Landgabe. Festschrift für Jan Heller zum 70. Geburtstag. Kampen – Prag: ISE, 86–132. –. 2011. “Im Spannungsfeld zwischen Judäa und Samarien: Juda und Israel. Zur hermeneutischen Bedeutung der Spannung zwischen Judäa und Samarien für das Verständnis der TNK als Literatur,” in Benedikt Hensel, Veit Dinkelaker and Frank Zeidler (eds.), Seit wann gibt es „jenes Israel“? Gesammelte Studien zum TNK und zum antiken Judentum. Bernd J. Diebner zum 70. Geburtstag. BVB 17. Berlin: LIT, 33–66. Dušek, Jan. 2012. Aramaic and Hebrew Inscriptions from Mt. Gerizim and Samaria between Antiochus III and Antiochus IV Epiphanes. CHANE 54. Leiden: Brill. Eskenazi, Tamara Cohn. 1988. In an Age of Prose. A Literary Approach to Ezra-Nehemiah. SBLMS 36. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Galling, Kurt. 1954. Die Bücher der Chronik, Esra, Nehemia. ATD 12. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.

51 On the reciprocal use of religious polemic, see Hensel 2016, 241–247. 52 See Hensel 2016, 244f. (with literature). 53 For an explanation of the reasons, see Hensel 2016, 208–217.

46 

 Benedikt Hensel

Gunneweg, Antonius H. J. 1985. Esra. Mit einer Zeittafel von Alfred Jepsen. KAT XIX/1. Gütersloh: Mohn. Hausmann, Jutta. 1987. Israels Rest. Studien zum Selbstverständnis der nachexilischen Gemeinde. BWA(N)T 124. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Heckl, Raik. 2016. Neuanfang und Kontinuität in Jerusalem. Studien zu den hermeneutischen Strategien im Esra-Nehemia-Buch. FAT I/104. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Hensel, Benedikt. 2011. Die Vertauschung des Erstgeburtssegens in der Genesis. Eine Analyse der narrativ-theologischen Grundstruktur des ersten Buches der Tora. BZAW 423. Berlin – New York: de Gruyter. Hensel, Benedikt. 2015. “Samaritanische Identität in persisch-hellenistischer Zeit im Spiegel der biblischen Überlieferung und der epigraphischen Befunde,” in Wolfgang Zwickel and Miklos Kõszeghy (eds.), Nationale Identität im Alten Testament. Kleine Arbeiten zum Alten und Neuen Testament 12. Waltrop: Hartmut Spenner, 67–115. –. 2016. Juda und Samaria. Zum Verhältnis zweier nach-exilischer Jahwismen. FAT I/110. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Japhet, Sara, 1993. I & II Chronicles. A Commentary. OTL. Louisville: Westminster John Knox. –. 1997. The Ideology of the Book of Chronicles and its Place in Biblical Thought. BEAT 9. 2nd ed. Frankfurt: Lang. –. 2002–2003. 1/2 Chronik. HThKAT. Freiburg: Herder. –. 2006. “People and the Land in the Restoration Peiod,” in Sara Japhet (ed.), From the Rivers of Babylon to the Highlands of Judah. Collected Studies on the Restoration Period. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 96–116. –. 2013. “The Supposed Common Authorship of Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemia Investigated Anew,” VT 63/10: 36–76 (= 1968. VT 18: 330–371). Kalimi, Izaak. 2005. An Ancient Israelite Historian. Studies in the Chronicler, His Time, Place and Writing. SSN 46. Assen: Van Gorcum. Kartveit, Magnar. 2009. The Origin of the Samaritans. VTSup 128. Leiden – Boston: Brill. Knoppers, Gary N. 1990. “Rehoboam in Chronicles. Villain or Victim?,” JBL 109: 423–440. –. 1993. “‘Battling against Yahweh’: Israel’s War against Judah in 2 Chr 13:2–20,” ABRep 54: 411–431. –. 2010. “Aspects of Samaria’s Religious Culture During the Early Hellenistic Period,” in Philip R. Davies and Diana Edelman (eds.), The Historian and the Bible. Essays in Honour of Lester L. Grabbe. LHB 530. London – New York: T & T Clark, 159–174. –. 2013. Jews and Samaritans. The Origins and History of Their Early Relations. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Levin, Yigal. 2012. “Judea, Samaria and Idumea. Three Models of Ethnicity and Administration in the Persian Period,” in Johannes U. Ro (ed.), From Judah to Judaea. Socio-Economic Structures and Processes in the Persian Period. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 4–53. Magen, Yitzhak. 2008. Mount Gerizim Excavations. Vol. 2: A Temple City. JSP 8. Jerusalem: Israel Antiquities Authority. Magen, Yitzhak, Haggai Misgav, and Levana Tsfania (eds.). 2004. Mount Gerizim Excavations. Vol. 1: The Aramaic, Hebrew and Samaritan Inscriptions. JSP 2. Jerusalem: Israel Antiquities Authority. Montgomery, James A. 1907. The Samaritans. The Earliest Jewish Sect. Their History, Theology and Literature. The Bohlen Lectures for 1906. Philadelphia: The J. C. Winston Co. (reprint New York 1986).

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Mosis, Rudolf. 1973. Untersuchungen zur Theologie des chronistischen Geschichtswerks. FThSt 92. Freiburg: Herder. Noth, Martin. 1967. Überlieferungsgeschichtliche Studien. 3rd ed. Darmstadt: WBG (first published 1943). Oeming, Manfred. 1990. Das wahre Israel. Die “genealogische Vorhalle” 1 Chronik 1–9. BWANT 128. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Pfeiffer, Robert H. 1961. Religion in the Old Testament: The History of a Spiritual Triumph. 2nd ed. New York: Harper & Brothers. Plöger, Otto. 1959. Theokratie und Eschatologie. WMANT 2. Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag. Pummer, Reinhard. 1982. “Antisamaritanische Polemik in jüdischen Schriften aus der intertestamentarischen Zeit,” BZ 26: 224–242. –. 2002. Early Christian Authors on Samaritans and Samaritanism. Texts, Translation and Commentary. TSAJ 92. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. –. 2009. The Samaritans in Flavius Josephus. TSAJ 129. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Rowley, Harold W. 1955–1956. “Sanballat and the Samaritan Temple,” BJRL 38: 166–198. Schorch, Stefan. 2013. “The Construction of Samari(t)an Identity from the Inside and from the Outside,” in Rainer Albertz and Jakob Wöhrle (eds.), Between Cooperation and Hostility. Multiple Identities in Ancient Judaism and the Interaction with Foreign Powers. JAJSup 11. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 135–149. Torrey, Charles C. 1909. “The Chronicler as Editor and Independent Narrator,” AJSL 25: 157–173, 188–217. Weingart, Kristin. 2014. Stämmevolk – Staatsvolk – Gottesvolk? Studien zur Verwendung des Israel-Namens im Alten Testament. FAT.2, 68. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Wette, Wilhelm M. L. de. 1806. Beiträge zur Einleitung in das Alte Testament. Erstes Bändchen: Kritischer Versuch über die Glaubwürdigkeit der Bücher der Chronik mit Hinsicht auf die Geschichte der Mosaischen Bücher und Gesetzgebung. Halle: Schimmelpfennig. Willi, Thomas. 1972. Die Chronik als Auslegung. Untersuchungen zur literarischen Gestaltung der historischen Überlieferung Israels. FRLANT 106. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. –. 2012. “Late Persian Judaism and its Conception of an Integral Israel according to the Chronicles. Some Observations on Form and Function of the Genealogy of Judah in 1 Chronicles,” in Thomas Willi (ed.), Israel und die Völker. Studien zur Literatur und Geschichte Israels in der Perserzeit. Herausgegeben von Michael Pietsch. SBAB 55. Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 21–34. Williamson, Hugh G. M. 1977. Israel in the Books of Chronicles. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. –. 1982. 1 and 2 Chronicles. NCB. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Zangenberg, Jürgen K. 2007. “Berg des Segens – Berg des Streits. Heiden, Juden, Christen und Samaritaner auf dem Garizim,” ThZ 63: 289–309. –. 2012. “The Sanctuary on Mount Gerizim. Observations on the Results of 20 Years of Excavation,” in Jens Kamlah (ed.), Temple Building and Temple Cult. Architecture and Cultic Paraphernalia of Temples in the Levant (2.–1. Mill. B.C.E.). Proceedings of a Conference on the Occasion of the 50th Anniversary of the Institute of Biblical Archaeology at the University of Tübingen, 28–30 May, 2010. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 399–420. Zunz, Leopold. 1832. Die gottesdienstlichen Vorträge der Juden, historisch entwickelt. Ein Beitrag zur Altertumskunde und biblischen Kritik, zur Literatur- und Religionsgeschichte. Berlin: Kauffmann.

2 Roman-Byzantine and Rabbinic Studies

Reinhard Pummer

Synagogues – Samaritan and Jewish: A New Look at their Differentiating Characteristics Samaritan and Jewish synagogues of the Roman-Byzantine times exhibit many similarities that make it at times difficult to determine to which religion newly excavated building remains belong. Architecture, furnishings and decoration are very similar in both instances. Scholars use therefore a number of criteria to distinguish one from the other. However, as new evidence comes to light and existing data are re-evaluated, these criteria have to be re-examined. The most frequently enumerated characteristics differentiating Samaritan from Jewish synagogues are the following: the orientation of a building towards Mount Gerizim; the omission of the depiction of lulav and etrog from floor mosaics; the absence of human and animal representations from synagogue art;1 the location of a synagogue in an area that is known to have been inhabited by Samaritans; the position of a settlement’s synagogue vis-à-vis its residential quarters; and the presence of inscriptions in the Samaritan script.2

Orientation Orientation towards Mount Gerizim is generally considered to be an important pointer that a synagogue belonged to the Samaritans. The concept of “orientation,” however, has been problematized in several recent publications on Jewish synagogues.3 Above all, it was realized that first of all it must be clarified what we mean by this “loosely-defined encompassing term for the direction of prayer”.4 In the case of Samaritanism, scholars most often mean by it the direction of prayer as indicated by the location of synagogue entrances and walls – if they are facing 1 See, for example, Jacoby 2000, 230, and, for a recent example, Talgam 2014, 333, 338, 339. 2 For a comprehensive discussion of the criteria see Pummer 1999, and the shorter article Pummer 1998. See also Pummer 2016, 91–112. Yitzhak Magen, who has excavated the greatest number of Samaritan synagogues, has given detailed summaries of his excavations above all in Magen 1993b, Magen 2002, and Magen 2008. 3 Among the most sustained recent discussions are those in Milson 2007, 86–105, and Levine 2000, 179–184, 302–306. 4 Milson 2007, 99. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110617306-004

52 

 Reinhard Pummer

Mt. Gerizim, there is a strong presumption that a given synagogue belonged to the Samaritans. It is realized, however, that in some cases the terrain or existing buildings may have made it necessary to deviate from this principle. This suggests that other considerations must have been more important than the external features of the building, particularly the interior layout of the synagogue. As in the case of Jewish synagogues, from the arrangement of the benches and the placement of the Torah scroll it can be concluded that the direction of prayer and Torah reading were of prime importance. They were often determinative in defining the external orientation. Praying while sitting on the benches directed attention to the center of the synagogue, and the wall or the apse with the Torah shrine was another possible focal point.5 In other words, the manifestation of the orientation could differ from one building to the other.6 Moreover, with time and changes to the synagogue, the expression of the orientation could change.7 An example of such a change in a Samaritan synagogue that had implications for the orientation of prayer and the Torah reading, is Khirbet Samara.8 In the first phase of the synagogue, the prayer leader or a moveable wooden ark seem to have stood in a niche between the southern benches where the floor of the niche was decorated with a colorful mosaic depicting the facade of a shrine. In the second phase, this niche was covered with stone benches, and the mosaic disappeared from view; the ark of the Torah was probably set up in the apse that was added in the second phase. In the following, I will focus on the kind of orientation that is most often seen as identifying a synagogue as Samaritan, i.e., the alignment of various architectural features towards Mt. Gerizim, examining those buildings for which the longitudinal axis is known or inferred from the extant remains (Fig. 1).9 At the present state of our knowledge, they are the following: (1) Shaʿalvim (Fig.  2)  – north-east, i.e., towards Mt. Gerizim; the main entrance was probably in the

5 See Levine 2000, 303 on Jewish synagogue orientation; Levine concludes that “the focus in all [Jewish] synagogues was both the center of the hall and the Jerusalem wall, where a Torah shrine, an apse, or a bima might be found. Only on occasion, as was the case with Galilean buildings, did the exterior of a building reflect this internal orientation as well. Finally, it can be assumed that the direction of prayer followed (or perhaps determined) the building’s internal design.” 6 This was underlined by Spigel 2012, 64–65. 7 See Levine 2000, 179–180 with regard to Jewish synagogues. 8 See Magen 1993c, 207–208, and Magen 2008, 150 and Fig. 48 on p. 145. 9 The map in Fig. 1 (Magen 2008, 117, reprinted in Pummer 2016, 97) gives an overview of the location of Samaritan synagogues in Palestine. For concise summaries of the data and plans of some of these synagogue buildings see Milson 2007, 323–325 (Beth Shean North), 348–351 (El-Khirbe), 418–421 (Khirbet Samara) and 454–455 (Tell Qasile – Ramat Aviv).

Synagogues – Samaritan and Jewish 

 53

south;10 thus, the wall across from the entrance faces Mt. Gerizim; in parallelism to the “Jerusalem wall” in Judaism, it could be called the “Gerizim wall”. (2) Tell Qasile (Ramat Aviv) (Fig. 3) – east-west, thus neither towards Jerusalem nor towards Mt. Gerizim; the main entrance was in the east.11 (3) Beth Shean, Synagogue A (North)12 (Fig. 4) – west-north-west, i.e., neither towards Jerusalem nor towards Mt. Gerizim; the entrance(s) was (were) in the south-east; the apse in the west.13 (4) Khirbat Majdal (Ẓur Natan) (Fig. 5) – east-west with a slight deviation southward, i.e., in the direction of Mt. Gerizim; the main entrance was in the west, the apse in the east.14 (5) Khirbet Samara (Deir Sarur) (Fig. 6) – north-west, i.e., towards Mt. Gerizim;15 the main entrance was in the west so that the wall across from the entrance faces the mountain; in the second phase (5th – early 7th century) an apse was added in the east. (6) El-Khirbe (Fig. 7) – north-west, toward Mt. Gerizim;16 the main entrance was in the east, facing the mountain. (7) If the building in Ḥorvat Raqit on Mt. Carmel (Fig. 8) was a Samaritan synagogue,17 as the excavator and other scholars believe, the Greek inscription in the center of the floor would have had to be read with the reader facing south-east, i.e., in the direction of Mt. Gerizim;18 (8) Another synagogue assumed to be Samaritan was unearthed in Apollonia/Arsuf (Fig. 9), located approximately 15 km north of Tel Aviv. It contains a bilingual Greek and Samaritan inscription, although the

10 Reich 1994, 228; the axis deviates approximately 13o eastward from the north. 11 Tal and Taxel 2015, 211, Fig. I.3.1. 12 Despite the Samaritan inscription found in the synagogue, it is not certain whether it was Samaritan, as Magen pointed out: “the absence of the Four Species, figures and the uncharacteristic orientation do not necessarily label the structure as a Samaritan synagogue” (Magen 2008, 175). See also the discussion in Levine 2000, 199, n. 19. 13 In 2010, the Press Office of the Israel Antiquities Authority announced the discovery of a synagogue south of Beth Shean that was ascribed to the Samaritans on the basis of its orientation (the front faces southwest towards Mt. Gerizim) and the content of the Greek inscription of which part of the last line was read as “This is the temple (ναός)” (see Pummer 2016, 99–100); the decoration of the floor mosaic displays geometric patterns. 14 Neidinger, Matthews, and Ayalon (eds.) 1994, Plan A: Zur Natan (unpaginated insert). See also the photo album at http://www.tfahr.org/zn.html (accessed 19 February 2017). 15 Magen writes: “It has an east-west orientation, towards Mt. Gerizim, facing slightly north to Mt. Ebal.... The remains of earlier construction, which had to be taken into consideration by the designers of the synagogue, may be the reason for this minor deviation” (Magen 2008, 14–16). 16 According to Magen it has an east-west orientation (Magen 2008, 127). 17 Built in the second half of the 3rd century CE or the beginning of the 4th century and in continuous use until the middle of the 5th century; abandoned in approximately 455, re-established in approximately 537 CE, and used until the middle of the 7th century when it was abandoned (Dar 2004, 121 and 123). 18 See Dar 2004, 133 with Fig. 149.

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Samaritan letters are different from any other such letters known.19 In any case, the direction of the building’s axis is north-south with a slight inclination to the west, and the inscription’s orientation is east-west so that the person reading the inscription would face east, i.e., toward Mt. Gerizim.20 (9) A Samaritan synagogue is believed to have stood in Qedumim, a large Samaritan settlement located northwest of Mt. Gerizim,21 which was established in the 3rd century CE and existed until the 8th century CE. A wall of fine ashlars, unconnected to any other building, leads the excavator to the assumption that it was part of a synagogue that was razed in the Samaritan revolts. From the fact that this longitudinal wall faces Mt. Gerizim, he concludes that the building was a Samaritan synagogue.22 (10) In Kafr Faḥma (Fig. 10), a town in northern Samaria (15 km southwest of Jenin), a stone relief depicting the facade of a shrine and other architectural elements (columns and pedestals) were found that make it likely that a Samaritan synagogue existed on this site in antiquity. Later, a church was built over its ruins. The orientation of this synagogue is inferred entirely from that of the later church.23 To sum up, in the instances of the synagogues itemized above, “orientation” is used in the sense of the Mt. Gerizim-alignment of one of the following architectural elements: the “Gerizim wall,” the apse, the entrance, the longitudinal walls, or the direction in which the worshiper stands while reading an inscription in the floor mosaic.24 The two synagogues which do not conform to this criterion, i.e., Tell Qasile (Ramat Aviv) and Beth Shean, Synagogue A (North), are identified as Samaritan on the basis of inscriptions in Samaritan script, although in the case of the latter, some scholars question the identification despite the presence of a Samaritan inscription.25

19 This may imply either an unskilled craftsman or an early date, such as the second half of the 4th century (Tal 2015, 173). 20 Tal 2015, 169 and 175. In Apollonia/Arsuf was also found a ring with a Samaritan inscription; see Reich 1989, and Reich 2002, 301–302. 21 Magen 1993a. 22 Magen 2008, 170. 23 See Magen 2008, 168–169, with a plan reconstructed from the remains of the later church. Magen describes three more buildings that in his opinion may have been antique Samaritan synagogues. One may have stood in the sacred precinct of Mt. Gerizim (Magen 2008, 118–122); the second, on the northern slopes of the mountain (Magen 2008, 122–124); and the third, in Nablus at the site called by the Samaritans Ḥuzn Yaʿqūb (Magen 2008, 124–127). In each case the remains are unfortunately very sparse. 24 In what is believed to be another Samaritan synagogue in south Beth Shean, the orientation of the front towards Mt. Gerizim is seen as one of the criteria that suggest the attribution to this community (see above, footnote 13). 25 See above, footnote 12.

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Lulav and Etrog and Samaritan Sukkot Another criterion that must be examined anew in light of the art in a mosaic floor in one particular Samaritan synagogue is the absence of the depiction of lulav and etrog. As is well known, the Samaritans of today celebrate Sukkot differently from the Jews, although both religions base their observance of the feast on the Bible (Exod 23:16; Lev 23:33–36, 39–43; and Deut 16:13–15). They differ, however, in their understanding of Lev 23:39-43. In particular, Lev 23:40a commands: “On the first day [of the feast, i.e., on the fifteenth day of the seventh month] you shall take the fruit of majestic26 trees (‫)פרי עץ הדר‬, branches of palm trees (‫)כפת תמירים‬, boughs of leafy trees (‫)ענף עץ־עבת‬, and willows of the brook (‫)ערבי־נחל‬.” There is no directive in this passage what to do with the plants which the Israelites were to “take” (‫)ולקחתם לכם‬. The following verses, Lev 23:42–43, decree: “You shall live in booths for seven days; all that are citizens in Israel shall live in booths, so that your generations may know that I made the people of Israel live in booths when I brought them out of the land of Egypt: I am the Lord your God.” The text does not state that these booths are to be made from the previously enumerated plants. Only in the Ketuvim (Writings), the third part of the Jewish Bible, viz. in Neh 8:14–18, instructions are given about the use of the plants collected by the people for the feast, whereby the plants in Nehemiah are different from those in Leviticus. According to Nehemiah, the people were to gather “branches of olive (‫)עלי־זית‬, wild olive (‫)עלי־עץ שמן‬, myrtle (‫)עלי הדס‬, palm (‫ )עלי תמרים‬and other leafy trees (‫ )עלי עץ עבת‬to make booths,” and they made the booths “on the roofs of their houses, and in their courts, and in the court of the house of God, and in the square at the Water Gate and in the square at the Gate of Ephraim. And all the assembly of those who had returned from the captivity made booths and lived in them” (Neh 8:15–16). In the Mishnah (mSukkah 3), the plant species were defined as a palm-branch (‫)לולב‬, myrtle-branch (‫)הדס‬, willow-branch (‫)ערבה‬, and citron (‫)אתרוג‬.27 According to Jewish tradition, the first three constitute the lulav in the sense of a bouquet made with these plants and named after the largest branch in it; the bundle was to be held in the hand and waved at certain moments in the prayer. Together with the etrog they are called in the Rabbinic tradition the Four Species (‫)ארבעה מינים‬.28 They are mentioned in an Aramaic letter from Bar-Kokhba (P. Yadin 57 [= 5/6 Ḥev 57]) and in a Greek letter from the Nabatean Soumaios

26 The exact meaning of ‫ הדר‬is uncertain. 27 Translation of the plant names by Danby 1933, 175–176. 28 Note that 2 Macc 10:6–7 compares the celebration of Hanukkah with that of Sukkot. See below.

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(P. Yadin 52 [= 5/6 Ḥev 52]), both written probably in the autumn of 135 CE.29 In the Aramaic letter, Bar-Kokhba asks that palm branches (‫)ללבין‬, citrons (‫)אתרגין‬, myrtle branches (‫ )הדסין‬and willows (‫ )ערבין‬be sent to the camp. The Greek letter asks that wands (θύρσους) and citrons (κίτρια) – as many as possible and as soon as possible – be sent to the camp of the Jews because the festival was close. Although these texts do not state how the fruits were to be used, it stands to reason that they were to be made into a bouquet, as already Josephus declared. According to his version of Lev 23:40 in Ant. 3.245, during the eight-day festival of Tabernacles the Jews were to bear “in their hands a bouquet composed of myrtle and willow with a branch of palm, along with fruit of the persea” (ϕέροντας ἐν ταῖς χερσὶν εἰρεσιώνην μυρσίνης ϰαὶ ἰτέας σὺν ϰράδῃ ϕοίνικος πεποιημέμην τοῦ μήλου τοῦ τῆς περσέας προσόντος).30 In Ant. 13.372 Josephus narrates that the people pelted Alexander Jannaeus with citrons (ϰιτρίοις αὐτὸν ἔβαλλον) during the Feast of Tabernacles,31 “it being the custom among the Jews that at the festival of Tabernacles everyone holds wands made of palm branches and citron.” Clearly, the use of the Four Species in the time of Josephus was to make bouquets. He uses two different terms for it; once, in Ant. 3.245, he calls it εἰρεσιώνη, and in Ant. 13.372 he names it θύρσος, both terms belonging to Greek cultic traditions.32 Earlier, 2 Macc 10:6–7 described the celebration of the dedication of the Temple in analogy to the Feast of Booths; the plants carried during the festivities recall those of Lev 23:40: “carrying ivy-wreathed wands (θύρσους) and beautiful branches and also fronds of palm, they offered hymns of thanksgiving.” Another work, authored probably around the turn of the era, that quotes Lev 23:40 is Pseudo-Philo 13.7: “And celebrate for me the festival of the booth, and you will take for me the beautiful branch of the tree and the palm branch and the willow and the cedar and branches of myrtle.”33 In addition to the evidence in these sources, there are depictions of lulav and etrog on coins from the first and second Jewish revolts as well as in Jewish art after the destruction of the Jerusalem temple.34

29 For text, translation and commentary see Yadin, Greenfield, Yardeni, and Levine 2002, 322–328 and 362 respectively; for the date see p. 361. 30 On the term περσέας see Rubenstein 1995, 75, n. 113, who concludes that Josephus “clearly intends the citron”. 31 Cf. mSukkah 4.9: “a certain one poured the libation over his feet, and all the people threw their citrons at him” (trans. Danby 1933, 179). 32 See Rubenstein 1995, 63, 78, 82. 33 Trans. by Daniel J. Harrington in Charlesworth, ed., 1985, 321. 34 See Rubenstein 1995, 97–99, and the discussion in Jacoby 2000, 226–227.

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In Samaritanism, the Four Species35 are now used to make the ceiling of the sukkah (Samaritan sukkot have no walls), but not to hold and wave them during prayers, although a bouquet of the Four Species is sometimes hung inside the synagogue.36 As in Neh 8:14–15, the Samaritans use the Four Species to construct the booths. There is, however, reason to believe that at one time the Samaritans, too, used lulav and etrog in the way the Jews do.37 The central carpet of the mosaic floor of the El-Khirbe Samaritan synagogue, built in the 4th/5th century and renovated in the 6th century CE,38 has preserved faint vestiges of what may have been depictions of these two items (Fig. 11). The synagogue was first excavated in 1991 and a brief description of the excavations was provided by Yitzhak Magen in 1992.39 Although Magen’s article included a color plate of the mosaic, it was only in 2001 that it was realized that the mosaic may include vestiges of lulav and etrog.40 Of the lulav, only a trace of what was probably the grip of the palm leaf is visible, and of the etrog a part of the upper section with the stem can be seen.41 If this interpretation is correct, the Samaritans at that time did use lulav and etrog. We can, therefore, not exclude the possibility that they first did with the Four Species as the Jews did and later changed to the present custom. Moreover, referring to Neh 8:14–17, the Karaites also use the plants to build their sukkot.42 If, 35 ‫ פרי עץ הדר‬is understood by the Samaritans as any nice fruit, as it was already in the 18th century commentary on Lev 23 by Ibrāhīm ibn Yaʿqūb’s (see Hanover 1904, 50). 36 See Pummer 1987, 23 and Pl. XXIVa. See also the description of Sukkah as it is understood and celebrated by today’s Samaritans in https://www.israelite-samaritans.com/religion/sukkah/, and https://www.israelite-samaritans.com/ festivals/#sukkot/ (both accessed on 19 February 2017). 37 For depictions of lulav and etrog in Jewish synagogues of antiquity see the plates in Talgam 2014, such as 291 (Fig. 358), 303 (Fig. 369), and 318 (Figs. 392 and 393). 38 Magen 2008, 127. 39 Magen 1992, 16. 40 Hachlili 2001, 265–266. See also Hachlili 2013, 210 and 336 (a color photograph and a drawing with reconstructions). What may have been the grip of the lulav and the upper part of the etrog are also clearly visible in the black-and-white photo in Magen 1993b, 1426. 41 In the drawings of the mosaic in some publications these traces are omitted. See the various renditions of lulav and etrog in Jewish synagogue mosaics in Hachlili 2013, 326–328. 42 See Revel 1913, 79, with references to primary literature. The ascription to Sadducees in some publications (see, e.g., Jacobs 2007, 300) seems to be due to Hanover 1904, 31, n. 2, who misinterpreted a passage in Ibn Ezra’s commentary on Lev 23:40; Ibn Ezra (1089–1167) refers by ‫הצדוקים‬ to the Karaites, not to the Sadducees, as Hanover thought. Geiger 1866, 544, understood Ibn Ezra correctly. Maimonides (1138–1204) states in his Commentary on Mishnah Avot 1:3: “In Egypt they are called Karaites, while in the Talmud they are styled Sadducees” (quoted in Birnbaum [ed.] 1971, VII-VIII). See also Erder 2003, 123. We have no knowledge of the Sadducean attitude towards the Sukkot rituals, and in particular towards the carrying of lulav and etrog (see Le Moyne 1972, 369, n. 4). Ibn Ezra in his commentary on Lev 23:40 explicitly rejects the Karaites’ opinion

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therefore, the possible traces of the lulav and etrog in the mosaic of the El-Khirbe synagogue are in fact depictions of these two implements, the absence of lulav and etrog as a criterion for identifying a synagogue as Samaritan would have to be eliminated from the list mentioned at the beginning of this paper.43 In this context, two other customs distinctive of the Samaritan celebration of Tabernacles are of interest. One, the Samaritans build their sukkot inside their houses, something which renders the sukkah invalid according to Jewish law.44 The contemporary Samaritans explain the practice as a consequence of the oppression by the Byzantines or the Muslims.45 Lately, a second, subsidiary reason is given – the beautiful and expensive fruits would tempt non-Samaritan neighbors to steal some of them, “effectively ruining the look of the sukkah and spoiling the mitzvah”.46 For want of early sources, we must rely on modern accounts of travelers and scholars who visited the Samaritans in the 19th and early 20th centuries. Several reports from the mid-eighteen hundreds mention the celebration of Sukkot among the Samaritans. Edward Robinson, in his 1841 book, Biblical Researches in Palestine, Mount Sinai, and Arabia Petraea, writes about the celebration of the Feast of Tabernacles by the Samaritans that “they sojourn at that time here [on Mt. Gerizim] in booths built of branches of the arbutus”.47 Another traveler, the Indian missionary, John Wilson, visited Nablus and the Samaritans in 1843. In his book, The Lands of the Bible: Visited and Described, he notes that the Samaritans celebrated Sukkot “in the fields when they expect to escape interference, but most commonly in their own houses, with palm branches so disposed of as to represent tabernacles.”48 His information was gleaned from a discussion with about forty-five members of the congregation. Ten years after Wilson, in 1853, Heinrich Petermann visited Nablus and the Samaritans, and, although he hastened to go that the Four Species are to be used to build the sukkah and not to hold them in the hand, dismissing their interpretation of “the Book of Ezra” (viz. Neh 8:15) which they use as proof (Simon 1991, 205–206). 43 Should the mosaic in El-Khirbe have been made by a Jewish mosaicist, he would in all likelihood have refrained from including lulav and etrog if the Samaritans did not use them, as the case of the two Jewish mosaicists Marianos and Anina shows. The father and son team made the floor in the Jewish synagogue of Beth Alpha where they depicted animate beings, but avoided doing so in the possibly Samaritan synagogue of Beth Sheʾan A. 44 See mSukkah 1:2. 45 Benyamim Tsedaka ascribes the origin of the custom to the fact that “one of the High Priests made the halachic decision over 1500 years ago,” because the Samaritan community had been persecuted by the local authorities for “millennia” (http://www.israelite-samaritans.com/ religion/sukkah/; accessed 19 February 2017). 46 See http://www.israelite-samaritans.com/religion/sukkah/ (accessed 19 February 2017). 47 Robinson 1841, 106. 48 Wilson 1847, vol. 2, 67.

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there because the Feast of Weeks was approaching and he wanted to witness it,49 it would seem that he did not observe it because he was in Nablus from June 9, 1853 to August 8 of the same year, too early for Sukkot. In his brief description of the feast, probably on the basis of information received from the Samaritans, he mentions that the Samaritans build for themselves “Hütten von Lorbeer” over which they lay “wohlriechende Blätter”.50 John Mills, who visited the Samaritans in 1855 and 1860, notes in his book, Three Months’ Residence at Nablus, that the booths had to be “erected in the open air, for which purpose their courts are selected”. Unfortunately, he could not ascertain “in what manner they constructed them, nor in what manner they use the four kinds of branches”.51 Another description from that time was given by Mary Eliza Rogers in her book, Domestic Life in Palestine. According to her, “The people ‘take the branches of goodly trees,’ such as the evergreen oak, and the arbutus, and they ‘make booths,’ roofing them with interlacing willows,  pliant palm fronds, and boughs of the glossy-leaved citron and lemon trees, with the green fruit hanging from them in clusters. For seven days the people dwell there, rejoicing and giving thanks to God.”52 Thus, the majority of these 19th-century sources describe booths erected outdoors. However, Claude Reignier Conder, who visited the Samaritans in the 1870s, reports in one place that the booths are put up on Mt. Gerizim,53 but in a later publication he claims that the sukkot were located in the houses. This later publication is a note which he received from the missionary Christian Fallscheer, who, so Conder, was “on very friendly terms with the present Samaritan High Priest, Jacob”.54 It would seem that neither Conder nor Fallscheer have witnessed the celebration of the Feast of Tabernacles among the Samaritans. From the early 20th century we have the book The Samaritans: Their Testimony to the Religion of Israel by the Reverend John Ebenezer Honeyman Thomson, published in 1919, but based on lectures presented in Glasgow in 1916. According to his own testimony, he spent a “somewhat lengthened residence in Palestine,” made “repeated visits to Nablus,” and was

49 Petermann 1860, vol. 1, 260. 50 Petermann 1860, vol. 1, 290. 51 Mills 1864, 266. 52 Rogers 1989 [originally 1862], 250–251. 53 Conder 1878, vol. 1, 58. 54 Conder, on Fallscheer’s authority, states that every Samaritan father “ornaments his room ... with boughs of palm, pomegranate, lemon, orange, and some kinds of grass, all the branches being hung from the ceiling. They dwell in this room seven days, and remove the adornment on the eighth day.” He adds his own note that he believes that “Among the Jews, I believe, the booths are never made inside a room but in the open court ... or on the roof” (Conder 1887, 234).

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present “at the celebration of the Samaritan Passover”.55 Concerning the Feast of Tabernacles he writes: On the day following the Great Day of Atonement, the Samaritan community commences to prepare for the Feast of Tabernacles, which is held on the 15th of the same month. They begin to construct booths in their courtyards of branches from the palm, the citron, the terebinth, and the willow. As the Law requires, the whole community dwell [sic] for seven days in these booths.56

Thomson does not mention whether he actually witnessed the celebration. But even if he relied on a description received from the Samaritans, there is no reason to believe they misled him about where the booths were being built. Basing ourselves on the above testimonies, it would seem that the custom of building sukkot inside the homes is relatively recent. There is certainly no mention of Samaritan sukkot in Byzantine laws. Even if one considers it unlikely that these laws would have concerned themselves with the minutiae of Samaritan religious practices, it may still be argued that the oppressive atmosphere alone could have led the Samaritans to avoid unnecessarily drawing the attention of the authorities to themselves. Nevertheless, we cannot exclude the hypothesis that the custom is of a much more recent origin and was provided with an ancient raison d’être. As with other Samaritan customs, changes may have occurred in the course of time, just as they occurred in Judaism. It should also be underlined that none of the sources quoted above has anything to say about a bouquet made from the Four Species. A second Sukkot-custom distinctive of the Samaritans is the burning of the dry leaves of the sukkah in a bonfire at the end of the Festival. According to Abū l-Fatḥ and the modern Samaritan Chronicle II – probably elaborating on and modifying Abū l-Fatḥ’s account – this custom commemorates the Samaritan victories over the Byzantine forces under Baba Rabba. However, Abū l-Fatḥ speaks of the burning of wood without any reference to the branches used to make the ceiling of the sukkah later in the first month. He writes: “The memory of this [viz. the victory of the Samaritans over the Byzantines] has lasted up to our day: on the first day of the seventh month the Samaritan children gather wood and burn it in the evening at the end of the first day of the seventh month.”57 A variation of this account is given in Chronicle II: 55 Thomson 1919, VIII. 56 Thomson 1919, 136. 57 Stenhouse 1985, 199. According to an earlier passage in Abū l-Fatḥ’s chronicle, the Samaritan leaders in Baba Rabba’s time killed and burnt their “overseers,” who had put restrictions on them, “on the evening of the first of the seventh month” (Stenhouse 1985, 186).

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The Israelite community arose that night and overthrew all the Roman meeting-houses and all their posts, blotting out their name from the Mountain of the Divine Presence, Mount Gerizim Beth-El. From the day the Samaritan-Israelite community did this to the Romans, Samaritan children have set fire to the wood of their Succah-booths on the night of the termination of the festival of the Eighth Day of Solemn Assembly, which concludes the festivals of the Lord. This episode has thus remained a memorial among them unto this day.58

Note that in Abū l-Fatḥ the burning of the wood takes place “at the end of the first day of the seventh month,” whereas according to Chronicle II, it occurs “on the night of the termination of the festival of the Eighth Day of Solemn Assembly”. The latter chronicle, composed in the early 20th century, describes the custom as it is practiced in the present. Thus, we have here another instance of change in the customs of Sukkot from the 14th to the 20th century.

Art Apart from depictions of sacra in the floor mosaics, various ornamental features are present in Samaritan as well as in Jewish synagogue mosaics. But whereas Jewish synagogue mosaics from the 3rd century CE on depict living beings,59 a distinct characteristic of the Samaritan synagogues of the period is the absence of images of animate beings, probably in strict adherence to the Second Commandment of the Decalogue (Exod 20:4; Deut 5:8).60 The Jews too had no figurative art up to the late 2nd century CE. Only in the 3rd and 4th centuries CE did they begin to decorate their synagogues with figurative motifs because they no longer feared idolatry.61 The Samaritans, in contrast, never introduced imagery art in their synagogue decorations, as far as is presently known. In any event, until now not one Samaritan synagogue has been discovered that displays such motifs in its art. Striking examples of the difference between Samaritan and Jewish synagogue art are the empty bird cages in the Samaritan synagogue of Khirbet Samara (Fig. 12)62 versus the inhabited cages in a number of Jewish synagogues.63 It must be kept in mind, though, that, so far, only a small number of Samaritan synagogues with

58 Cohen 1981, 19:64–65 (p. 44 – text; p. 97 – translation; pp. 188, 206–207 – discussion). 59 Hachlili 2013, 41, 223–224. 60 See, for example, Jacoby 2000, 230, and, for a recent example Talgam 2014, 333, 338, 339. 61 Hachlili 2013, 223. 62 See Magen 2008, 156–157, 161. 63 See the illustrations in Fine 2005, Pl. 7; see also Hachlili 2009, Pl. VI.2.

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mosaics in various states of preservation have been found.64 We cannot be sure, therefore, that future finds will not change this picture, particularly since Samaritan synagogues did not develop in a vacuum but show great similarities with Jewish synagogues from the early stage (3rd/4th century CE) to the end of the Byzantine period.65

Location The region of Palestine, in which a synagogue is discovered, is important in the attribution of a building to Jews or Samaritans. If a synagogue building – or rather remains thereof – is excavated in an area that is known from literary sources to have been settled in antiquity by Samaritans, it is one of the strongest indications that we have before us a Samaritan synagogue.66 Of course, as is well known, Samaritan synagogues have been located also outside Samaria, and some existed in the Mediterranean lands outside Palestine.67 The location in relation to the residential buildings of a village or town can also be of help in the identification of a Samaritan synagogue. Samaritans apparently tended to build their synagogues outside or on the fringes of their settlements. The Jews, in contrast, “preferred a central location and, whenever possible, chose the highest point of a town”.68 The Samaritan custom was possibly derived from Exod 33:7: “Now Moses used to take the tent and pitch it outside the camp, far off from the camp.”69 However, practical reasons may have determined this location, either because a synagogue was built after the dwelling places were already in existence, or to avoid building on the site of a ruin after an earthquake in the mid-4th century CE had destroyed the old synagogues.70 Others 64 El-Khirbe, Khirbet Samara (Deir Sarur), Ẓur Natan (Khirbat Majdal), Ḥorvat Raqit; Shaʿalbim, Beth Shean North (A), and Tell Qasile (Ramat Aviv). As mentioned, Magen believes that there may have been a synagogue on the northern slope of Mt. Gerizim; it features a mosaic with geometrical designs (Magen 2008, 122–124). 65 In the words of Talgam 2014, 341: “It seems from its inception until the end of the Byzantine period, Samaritan art trod a thin line between similarity to and distinction from the prevailing tradition.” 66 For Samaritan settlements in Palestine in the Roman and Byzantine periods see Magen 2008, 79–104. 67 See Pummer 1999. 68 Di Segni 2004, 197. 69 So, for instance, Magen 2008, 172. 70 See Magen 2008, 172. For the earthquake on May 19, 363, see Amiran, Arieh, and Turcotte 1994, 265.

Synagogues – Samaritan and Jewish 

 63

surmise that considerations of purity lay behind this choice of location.71 Among the antique Samaritan synagogues whose location in relation to their affiliated settlements is known, those in Beth Shean, El-Khirbe, Khirbet Samara, Kafr Faḥma, and Raqit were situated outside the respective settlements, or the estate in the case of Raqit.72 Today’s Samaritans build also outside the residential area, although when the population grows and the residential area increases in size, a synagogue can lose its position outside or on the border of the settlement, as has happened in both present-day Samaritan quarters, Ḥolon and Kiryat Luza on Mt. Gerizim.73

Inscriptions The presence of inscriptions in Samaritan script is seen as a decisive proof for the identification of a synagogue as Samaritan. Some authors thought that the Samaritan script was used only in synagogues of the late Byzantine period when the Samaritans clashed with their rulers and avoided the Greek script with all its associations. Before this time, it is argued, the Samaritan language and script were not used in synagogue inscriptions because they were dead, only to be revived after the Samaritan revolts in the 5th and 6th centuries CE.74 However, the data from Samaritan synagogues in Palestine outside Samaria suggest a different picture. Thus, in the mosaic of the Tell Qasile synagogue, which once was dated in the 7th century CE but now is dated in the late 4th or early 5th century,75 two Greek inscriptions and one Aramaic inscription in Samaritan script were found. Furthermore, the synagogue unearthed in Shaʿalvim, dating from the 4th or 5th century, contains on the original floor mosaic two Greek and one Samaritan inscription, quoting Exod 15:18 in the Samaritan version. If the dating of these two synagogues is correct, they show that in the 4th/5th century the Samaritan language and script were not dead, but the script was in fact used in early synagogue inscriptions.

71 Di Segni 2004, 197: “a building located outside the living and working areas was less likely to be polluted.” 72 Di Segni 2004, 197. For an overall plan of the estate see Dar 2004, 42, Fig. 38 (the synagogue complex area is designated as A16). 73 See http://www.israelite-samaritans.com/religion/synagogues/ (accessed 19 February 2017). 74 So Magen 2008, 174. 75 Tal and Taxel 2015, 177, 209–210 and 211 for a plan of the synagogue.

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Conclusion In conclusion, the ambivalence – or rather multivalence – of the concept of “orientation”; the various possible influences on the location; the probable depiction of lulav and etrog in one Samaritan synagogue mosaic; and, in general, the relatively small number of Samaritan synagogues unearthed so far, point up the need to apply with caution the traditional criteria for the identification of a synagogue as Samaritan. Future findings may well further modify our assumptions of what characterizes antique Samaritan synagogues.

Bibliography Amiran, David H. K., E. Arieh, and T. Turcotte. 1994. “Earthquakes in Israel and Adjacent Areas: Macroseismic Observations Since 100 BCE,” IEJ 44: 260–305. Birnbaum, Philip (ed.). 1971. Karaite Studies. New York: Hermon Press. Charlesworth, James H. (ed.). 1985. The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, Vol. 2. London: Darton, Longman & Todd. Cohen, Jeffrey M. 1981. A Samaritan Chronicle. A Source-Critical Analysis of the Life and Times of the Great Samaritan Reformer, Baba Rabbah. StPB 30. Leiden: Brill. Conder, Claude R. 1878. Tent Work in Palestine. A Record of Discovery and Adventure. 2 vols. London: R. Bentley & Son. –. 1887. “Samaritan Customs,” PEFQS Oct. – Dec.: 233–236. Danby, Herbert. 1933. The Mishnah. Translated from the Hebrew with Introduction and Brief Explanatory Notes. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Dar, Shimon. 2004. Raqit. Marinus’ estate on the Carmel, Israel. BAR International Series 1300. Oxford: Archaeopress. Di Segni, Leah. 2004. “Two Greek Inscriptions at Horvat Raqit,” in Shimon Dar, Raqit. Marinus’ Estate on the Carmel, Israel. BAR International Series 1300. Oxford: Archaeopress, 196–198. Erder, Yoram. 2003. “The Karaites and the Second Temple Sects,” in Meira Polliack (ed.), Karaite Judaism. A Guide to its History and Literary Sources. Leiden – Boston: Brill, 119–143. Fine, Steven. 2005. Art and Judaism in the Greco-Roman World. Toward a New Jewish Archaeology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Geiger, Abraham. 1866. “Die gesetzlichen Differenzen zwischen Samaritanern und Juden,” ZDMG 20: 527–575. Hachlili, Rachel. 2001. The Menorah, the Ancient Seven-Armed Candelabrum. Origin, Form and Significance. JSJSup 68. Leiden – Boston: Brill. –. 2009. Ancient Mosaic Pavements. Themes, Issues, and Trends: Selected Studies. Leiden – Boston: Brill. –. 2013. Ancient Synagogues – Archaeology and Art. New Discoveries and Current Research. HdO 1/105. Leiden – Boston: Brill.

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Hanover, Siegmund. 1904. Das Festgesetz der Samaritaner nach Ibrâhîm ibn Jaʿḳûb. Edition und Uebersetzung seines Kommentars zu Lev. 23 nebst Einleitung und Anmerkungen. Berlin: H. Itzkowski. Jacobs, Louis. 2007. “Sukkot in Rabbinic Literature,” in Michael Berenbaum and Fred Skolnik (eds.), Encyclopaedia Judaica, 2nd ed. Detroit: Macmillan Reference USA, 300–301. Jacoby, Ruth. 2000. “The Four Species in Jewish and Samaritan Tradition,” in Lee I. Levine and Zeev Weiss (eds.), From Dura to Sepphoris. Studies in Jewish Art and Society in Late Antiquity. JRA Supplementary Series 40. Portsmouth, 225–230. Le Moyne, Jean. 1972. Les Sadducéens. Paris: J. Gabalda. Levine, Lee I. 2000. The Ancient Synagogue: The First Thousand Years. New Haven – London: Yale University Press. Magen, Yitzhak. 1992. “El-Khirbe, Samaritan Synagogue,” Excavations and Surveys in Israel 10: 16. –. 1993a. “Qedumim: A Samaritan Site of the Roman-Byzantine Period,” in Frédéric Manns and Eugenio Alliata (eds.), Early Christianity in Context: Monuments and Documents. SBFCMa 38. Jerusalem: Franciscan Printing Press, 167–180. –. 1993b. “Samaritan Synagogues,” NEAEHL 4, 1424–1427. –. 1993c. “Samaritan Synagogues,” in Frédéric Manns and Eugenio Alliata (eds.), Early Christianity in Context. Monuments and Documents. SBFCMa 38. Jerusalem: Franciscan Printing Press, 193–239. –. 2002. “Samaritan Synagogues,” in Ephraim Stern and Hanan Eshel (eds.), The Samaritans. Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi Press, 382–443 (Hebrew). –. 2008. The Samaritans and the Good Samaritan. JSP 7. Jerusalem: Staff Officer of Archaeology – Civil Administration of Judea and Samaria; Israel Antiquities Authority. Mills, John. 1864. Three Months’ Residence at Nablus and an Account of the Modern Samaritans. London: John Murray. Milson, David. 2007. Art and Architecture of the Synagogue in Late Antique Palestine. In the Shadow of the Church. Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity 65. Leiden: Brill. Neidinger, William, Eulah Matthews and Etan Ayalon. 1994. “Excavations at Zur Natan. Stratigraphic, Architectural and Historical Report,” in Reports on TFAHR Excavations at: Zur Natan, Israel; Silistra, Bulgaria; and Ulanci, Macedonia, Houston, TX [n. p.], 5–14 (http://www.tfahr.org/files/TFAHR.pdf; does not contain the insert; accessed 19 February 2017). Petermann, Julius Heinrich. 1860–1861. Reisen im Orient. 2 vols. Leipzig: Veit & Comp. Pummer, Reinhard. 1987. The Samaritans. Iconography of Religions 23, 5. Leiden: Brill. –. 1998. “How to tell a Samaritan Synagogue from a Jewish Synagogue,” BAR 24/3: 24–35. –. 1999. “Samaritan Synagogues and Jewish Synagogues. Similarities and Differences,” in Steven Fine (ed.), Jews, Christians, and Polytheists in the Ancient Synagogue. Cultural Interaction During the Greco-Roman Period. Baltimore Studies in the History of Judaism. London. New York: Routledge, 118–160. –. 2016. The Samaritans. A Profile. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Reich, Rony. 1989. “A Samaritan Ring from Apollonia,” in Israel Roll and Etan Ayalon (eds.), Apollonia and Southern Sharon. Model of a Coastal City and its Hinterland. Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad; Israel Exploration Society, 269–271 (Hebrew). –. 1994. “The Plan of the Samaritan Synagogue at Shaʿalvim,” IEJ 44: 228–233.

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2002. “Samaritan Amulets from the Late Roman and Byzantine Periods,” in Ephraim Stern and Hanan Eshel (eds.), The Samaritans. Jerusalem: Yad Ben Zvi, Israel Antiquities Authority, Staff Officer for Archaeology, Civil Administration for Judea and Samaria, 289–309 (Hebrew). Revel, Bernard. 1913. The Karaite Halakah and its Relation to Sadducean, Samaritan and Philonian Halakah. Philadelphia: Press of Cahan Printing Co. Robinson, Edward. 1841. Biblical Researches in Palestine, Mount Sinai, and Arabia Petraea. A Journal of Travels in the Year 1838, by Edward Robinson, and E. Smith; Undertaken in Reference to Biblical Geography; Drawn up from the Original Diaries, with Historical Illustrations by Edward Robinson. 3 vols. London: J. Murray. Rogers, Mary Eliza. 1989 [originally 1862]. Domestic Life in Palestine. London: Bell and Daldy. Rubenstein, Jeffrey L. 1995. The History of Sukkot in the Second Temple and Rabbinic Periods. BJS 302. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press. Simon, Uriel. 1991. Four Approaches to the Book of Psalms. From Saadiah Gaon to Abraham ibn Ezra. SUNY Series in Judaica. Albany: State University of New York Press. Spigel, Chad S. 2012. Ancient Synagogue Seating Capacities. Methodology, Analysis and Limits. TSAJ 149. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Stenhouse, Paul. 1985. The Kitāb al-Tarīkh of Abū ʾl-Fatḥ. Translated into English with Notes. Studies in Judaica 1. Sydney: Mandelbaum Trust, University of Sydney. Tal, Oren. 2015. “A Bilingual Greek-Samaritan Inscription from Apollonia-Arsuf / Sozousa: Yet More Evidence of the Use of the ΕΙΣ ΘΕΟΣ ΜΟΝΟΣ Inscriptions of Palestine,” ZPE 194:169–175. Tal, Oren, and Itamar Taxel. 2015. Samaritan Cemeteries and Tombs in the Southern Coastal Plain. The Archaeology and History of the Samaritan Settlement Outside Samaria (ca. 300–700 CE). Ägypten und Altes Testament 82. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Talgam, Rina. 2014. Mosaics of Faith: Floors of Pagans, Jews, Samaritans, Christians, and Muslims in the Holy Land. Treasures of the Past. Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi Press; University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University. Thomson, John E. H. 1919. The Samaritans. Their Testimony to the Religion of Israel. Being the Alexander Robertson Lectures, delivered before the University of Glasgow in 1916. Edinburgh – London: Oliver & Boyd. Wilson, John. 1847. The Lands of the Bible Visited and Described in an Extensive Journey Undertaken with Special Reference to the Promotion of Biblical Research and the Advancement of the Cause of Philanthropy. 2 vols. Edinburgh: William Whyte. Yadin, Yigael et al. (eds.). 2002. The Documents from the Bar Kokhba Period in the Cave of Letters. Hebrew, Aramaic and Nabatean-Aramaic Papyri. Judean Desert Studies 3/1. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, Hebrew University of Jerusalem.

Synagogues – Samaritan and Jewish 

Fig. 1: Distribution map of Samaritan synagogues in the land of Israel (Yitzhak Magen).

 67

68 

 Reinhard Pummer

Fig. 2: Plan of the Samaritan synagogue at Shaʿalvim (Rony Reich).

Fig. 3: Plan of the Samaritan synagogue in Tell Qasile (Oren Tal and Itamar Taxel).

Synagogues – Samaritan and Jewish 

 69

Fig. 4: Plan of the Samaritan synagogue Beth Sheʿan A (David Milson).

Fig. 5: Plan of the Samaritan synagogue in Zur Natan (The Texas Foundation for Archaeological and Historical Research [TFAHR]).

70 

 Reinhard Pummer

Fig. 6: Plan of Samaritan synagogue in Khirbet Samara (David Milson).

Fig. 7: Plan of Samaritan synagogue in El-Khirbe (David Milson).

Synagogues – Samaritan and Jewish 

Fig. 8: Plan of Samaritan synagogue in Raqit (Shimon Dar).

 71

72 

 Reinhard Pummer

Fig. 9: Plan of Samaritan synagogue in Apollonia-Arsuf (Oren Tal).

Synagogues – Samaritan and Jewish 

Fig. 10: Plan of the church and the Samaritan synagogue in Kafr Fahma (Yitzhak Magen).

Fig. 11: Floor mosaic in the Samaritan synagogue in El-Khirbe (Yitzhak Magen [mosaic] and Rachel Hachlili [drawing]).

 73

74 

 Reinhard Pummer

Fig. 12: Mosaic with empty bird cages in the Samaritan synagogue of Khirbet Samara (Yitzak Magen).

Andreas Lehnardt

“If a Cuthean Comes and Forces You into Military Service” (Pesiqta de-Rav Kahana, Ha-Hodesh, pisqa 5): Anti-Samaritan Polemics in a Homiletic Midrash While presenting a lecture in Prague, a city with a remarkable Jewish history, I could not restrain myself from beginning my presentation on Samaritans in Rabbinic Literature with a short reference to earlier Jewish literature on Jewish and Samaritan history, written and published in Prague. In one of the most interesting Jewish chronicles produced by a famous Jewish scholar in this European capital, we find notable evidence that Samaritan history was also known among Jews in this almost mythical Jewish city. I am referring mainly to David ben Shlomo Gans’s (1541–1613) famous chronicle Zemah David (printed in Prague 1592).1 This was a unique historiographical work in many ways, which repeatedly takes notice of Samaritan history and reflects upon earlier accounts on Samaritans. Gans may have been one of the first Jewish scholars who made use not only of rabbinic writings and medieval Hebrew sources, but also took notice of Christian writings and studies, including books written in German. Samaritans are described by him therefore not only through the lenses of the Rabbis, but also from a point of view which was more influenced by the Jewish historian Flavius Josephus, for example, or its later Hebrew paraphrase, Yosippon, a 10th century retelling of Josephus which was highly regarded, even by early modern Jewish scholars who believed that this was the original Hebrew version of the older Greek work.2 Gans’ Zemah David is certainly a new and more critical approach to the sources than many, such as Abraham ibn Daud’s Sefer ha-Qabbala (Book of Tradition)3 or his Dorot ʿOlam (Generation of the Ages) from 12th century Christian Spain,4 including the Sefer ha-Zikhronot (or Chronicles of Jerahmeʾel)5 compiled by Eliezer ben Asher ha-Lewi in Germany around 1300. By his critical approach

1  Cf. Sládek 2012, 29. 2  See Gans 1983, 60, 72, 93; Gans 2016, 103, 120–121, 152. 3  Cohen 1967, 17f. 4  Vehlow 2013, 176–177. 5  Yassif 2001, 342. This chronicle here prints a quotation from Midrash Ekha. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110617306-005

76 

 Andreas Lehnardt

to Midrashic and Talmudic sources, Gans paved the way for later Jewish scholars such as the famous Shlomo Yehuda Rappaport (Acronym Shir; 1786–1867), a pupil of the Galician Mendelssohn Nachman Krochmal, and later Rabbi in Prague. Shir may have been the first Jewish scholar to mention Samaritan writings in his works and notes, later citing also medieval testimonies to Samaritanism. His independent research and investigation of Jewish sources influenced the founders of “Wissenschaft des Judentums” like Leopold Zunz and Abraham Geiger, the latter himself becoming one of the most important Jewish researchers in Samaritan literature in the 19th century. Rappaport himself made references to Samaritans in his unfinished Talmudic encyclopedia, Erekh Millin (published 1852), a remarkable collection of articles on the development of Rabbinic Judaism, especially in its language and grammar. Even if Jews who were expressing themselves in Hebrew began as far back as the 10th century to produce historical writings such as the Sefer Josippon, Chronicles and Seder ha-dorot, the interest in historiography as such remained marginal. As a direct consequence of this development, the Jewish interpretation of Samaritan history resulted in a continuation of earlier prejudices and the confirmation of the wide-spread Rabbinic anti-Samaritan attitude, especially those transmitted in writings such as the Babylonian Talmud or the so-called minor tractate of the Talmud on Samaritans, Massekhet Kutim. Anti-Samaritan polemic, if recognized as such at all, was the common Jewish attitude in the middle Ages and, until the Wissenschaft des Judentums, no appreciative view toward the Samaritans, their culture and literature, seems to have emerged.6 This widespread anti-Samaritan attitude in Rabbinic Judaism has often been recognized7 and, in several articles, I have already tried to demonstrate, how these polemics grew, differentiated on various levels and developed into the absolute rejection of the “Kutim” as Non-Jews. In early Rabbinic literature though, we can still find a more lenient attitude concerning Samaritans, for example with regard to their wine and Halla (priestly share). In later writings from Amoraic times however, such as Midrash Bereshit Rabba, it seems that Rabbis stopped arguing with Samaritans on exegetical matters and shifted their basic contentions to a philosophical level.

6  With the exception of Abraham Firkovich and later Moses Gaster. On Firkovich and his attitude towards Samaritans see the contribution by G. Akhiezer in this volume. 7  See the contributions by Lavee 2010, 322–323; Magen 2008, 71–76; Schiffman 2012; Pummer 2016, 66–73.

“If a Cuthean Comes and Forces You into Military Service” 

 77

In later Rabbinic writings from Babylonia, Samaritans became a more and more fictitious chimera, perhaps due to a lack of direct contact with them in this distant Diaspora. This shortcoming in direct reference to Samaritans is also observable in most of the later Genonic writings, such as Responsa and Halakhic codices (Hilkhot Pesuqot, Halakhot Gedolot). Interestingly, the quite large number of homiletic Midrashim (Pesiqtaʾot and Tanhuma-Yelammdenu), compiled in late antique Palestine, focusing on anti-Samaritan polemics, have not yet been thoroughly analyzed. In the following I will study one occurrence of the term Kuti and/or Kutaʾe in one passage in Pesiqta de-Rav Kahana, a complex homiletic composition redacted at the end of the 5th century. The word Kutim (Cutheans), a designation for Samaritans already in use in the Greek writings of Flavius Josephus, is a term for Samaritans which, in Rabbinic texts, has a clear derogatory intention. From this, it becomes clear that most rabbinic texts do not mention Samaritans with the intention of praising or highlighting their specific knowledge of the Tora. But how then are Kutim referred to? How and in which contexts Samaritans are mentioned at all? To what extent did their literary setting influence the Rabbinic depiction of Samaritans? The text analyzed in the following might shed, besides serious critical text problems, additional light on the understanding of Anti-Samaritan polemics in Rabbinic literature as a literary corpus as a whole.

Samaritans (Kutim) in Amoraic Midrashim As already outlined in an earlier article,8 Samaritans (or Kutim) are quite often mentioned in Midrashic Literature from the Amoraic period. Compared with other groups or minorities mentioned such as ʽAme ha-aretz, Minim, Zedduqim or even Notzrim, Samaritans play a rather prominent role in Rabbinic literature. They are often already referenced in Mishna and Tosefta, and an entire essay is devoted to them in the Seven Minor Tractates, the post-Talmudic Shevaʽ Massekhtot Yerushalmiyot.9 However, in both Talmudim Samaritans are referred to many times more than in all other Aggadic and Homiletic Rabbinic compositions, i.e., in Midrashic literature. Just as in the Talmudim, Samaritans are also described in the Midrashim

8  Lehnardt 2018. 9  Lehnardt 1999.

78 

 Andreas Lehnardt

as “Kutim,” a disdainful expression, or with its Aramaic equivalent, “Kutae” (Plural). Only in a very few instances the more neutral term “Shomronim” or Aramaic “Shamrai” is used. In Midrashic literature, with the exception of some medieval Ashkenazic Midrashim and the Yemenite Midrash ha-Gadol, references to Samaritans are only expressed by the terms Kutaʾe or Shomronim. These references are mostly found in the large Rabba Midrashim, the Rabbot, namely Midrash Bereshit Rabba (Genesis Rabba), Shir ha-Shirim Rabba (Canticles Rabba) and Ekha Rabba (Lamentations Rabba). In Midrash Wayiqra Rabba on Leviticus, only one sentence mentions a Samaritan and this deficiency is also detectible in later Midrashic anthologies.10 In the Homiletic Midrash called Pesiqta Rabbati, Samaritans are also mentioned in but a single sentence and this has a parallel in Pesiqta de-Rav Kahana. In contrast, Pesiqta de-Rav Kahana, a homiletic Midrash based on the yearly reading cycle, redacted (parallel to Midrash Wayiqra Rabba) in the second half of the 5th century,11 mentions Kutim in three separate contexts. While two of these texts have parallels in earlier Aggadic Midrashim, namely in Midrash Genesis Rabba, only one text from this collection can be regarded as genuine or independent of older Midrashic material. Therefore this text seems to be worth a separate investigation within the frame of the broader analysis of those Midrashic texts referring to Samaritans (Kutim).

A Pesiqta-Midrash Mentioning Samaritans The text I am referring to is found within the context of a topical homily (derasha) on the additional Tora-reading from the Book of Exodus on the special Sabbath Ha-Hodesh, named after the first words in Exodus 12:2. This verse is read along with a longer portion on the last Sabbath before the start of the month of Nissan, when Passover is celebrated.12 The text of this Midrash survived in only a few manuscripts,13 yet it is missing in the older edition of

10  See Visotzky 2011, 19–31. Cf. also Stemberger 2011, 270, who maintains the older terminology. 11  Cf. Stemberger 2011, 327–328; Reizel 2011, 225. On the structure and incorporation of older traditions into Pesiqta de-Rav Kahana, see also the studies of Atzmon 2015a, 2015b. 12  On various Tora readings before Pesah cf. Talmud Bavli Megilla 29b, and see Tabory 1995, 129; Raizel 2011, 227–228. 13  Cf. Mandelbaum 1987, 89.

“If a Cuthean Comes and Forces You into Military Service” 

 79

Pesiqta de-Rav Kahana, published by Salomon Buber14 and based on a manuscript from Safed copied in 1565. Yet in Mandelbaum’s edition, based on the foremost manuscript of this work, Ms Oxford Marshall Or. 24 (Neubauer 151), written in 1291, it is included. Perhaps this lack of textual transmission explains why our text has never been mentioned or discussed in older investigations on Samaritans in Rabbinic literature, such as the German anthology on Samaritans, edited by Jürgen Zangenberg.15 Already though, Buber mentioned our text in a footnote to his edition. He assumed that this longer version of the homily in Ms Oxford is the correct one and stresses that otherwise “the introduction of the whole passage would be nonsense”.16 This analysis is confirmed by a parallel passage in Shir ha-Shirim Rabba (2,8 [16d]), in the great anthology Midrash on Song of Songs, usually dated later than Pesiqta de-Rav Kahana, as well as in Pesiqta Rabbati (Pisqa 15), a similar Homiletic Midrash.17 Most scholars assume that Shir ha-Shirim Rabba was redacted in the 6th century, incorporating much older material from the Pesiqta de-Rav Kahana.18 And this may also be true for Pesiqta Rabbati. However, the literary relationship, as well as the exact date of the compilation of Pesiqta Rabbati, remains uncertain. Each literary entity, though, must be analyzed on its own and in comparison with parallels in other Rabbinic writings. Pesiqta de-Rav Kahana is a collection of Midrashim that was redacted not only for the purposes of preaching. In recent studies on this Midrash, it has been emphasized that our Midrash is, first of all, an anthology which includes varied materials. The compilator or redactor not only made use of recorded or pre-recorded sermons, but also referred to the study of biblical texts on different hermeneutical levels.19 Though the passage which mentions a Samaritan may also have been absorbed from another source. A synoptic overview of the parallel versions of this Midrash demonstrates that the differences between Midrash Shir ha-Shirim Rabba and one of the recensions of Pesiqta Rabbati are comparatively insignificant. The main variations between these two versions and the Pesiqta de-Rav Kahana will be mentioned in the translation and my explanation below.

14  Cf. Buber (ed.) 1868, 48a. 15  Zangenberg 1994. 16  Buber (ed.) 1868, 48b. 17  Friedman (ed.) 1880, 71b; Ulmer (ed.) 1999, 286–287. 18  Cf. Stemberger 2011, 349–350; Reizel 2011, 155–156. 19  Cf. Anisfeld 2009, 18f.

‫‪ Andreas Lehnardt‬‬

‫‪Shir ha-Shirim Rabba‬‬ ‫)]‪(2,8 [16d‬‬ ‫ר' יודן בשם ר' אליעזר בנו של‬ ‫רבי יוסי הגלילי‬ ‫ור' חוניא בשם ר' אליעזר‬ ‫בן יעקב‬ ‫אומר קול דודי הנה זה בא זה‬ ‫מלך המשיח‪,‬‬ ‫בשעה שהוא אומר לישראל‬ ‫בחדש הזה‬ ‫אתם נגאלין אומרים לו‬ ‫היאך אנו נגאלין ולא כבר נשבע‬ ‫הקדוש‬ ‫ברוך הוא שהוא משעבדנו בע'‬ ‫אומות‪,‬‬ ‫והוא משיבן שתי תשובות ואומר‬ ‫להם אחד‬ ‫מכם גולה לברבריה ואחד מכם‬ ‫גולה‬ ‫לסמטריה דומה כמו שגליתם‬ ‫כולכם‪ ,‬ולא‬ ‫עוד אלא שהמלכות הזאת‬ ‫מכתבת טירוניא‬ ‫מכל העולם מכל אומה ואומה‬ ‫כותי אחד או‬ ‫ברברי אחד בא ומשעבד בכם‬ ‫כגון‬ ‫ששעבדתם בהם כל אומתם‬ ‫וכאילו‬ ‫נשתעבדתם בשבעים אומות‬ ‫ובחדש הזה‬ ‫אתם נגאלין הה"ד החדש הזה‬ ‫לכם ראש חדשים (שמות יב‪ :‬ב)‪.‬‬

‫‪Pesiqta Rabbati 15, ed.‬‬ ‫‪Ulmer 1999, 286–287‬‬ ‫)‪(Ms Parma 147a‬‬ ‫ר' יודן בשם ר' ליעזר בנו של ר'‬ ‫יוסי הגל'‬ ‫ר' חונה בשם ר' ליעזר בן יעקב‬ ‫קול דודי‬ ‫הנה זה בא (שה"ש ב ח)‪ ,‬זה‬ ‫מלך המשיח‪,‬‬ ‫בשעה שהוא בא ואומ' לישר'‬ ‫בחדש הזה‬ ‫אתם נגאלין אתם אומ' לו‪,‬‬ ‫רבינו מלך המשיח‪ ,‬היאך אנו‬ ‫נגאלי'‬ ‫לא כך אמ' הק' שהוא משעב'‬ ‫בשבעים‬ ‫אומות‪ .‬והוא משיב שתי תשובות‬ ‫ואו' להם‪,‬‬ ‫אחד מכם גלה לברברייה ואחד‬ ‫מכם‬ ‫לסרמטייה כגון שגליתם מלכם‪.‬‬ ‫ולא עוד‬ ‫אלא שהמלכות הרשעה הזאת‬ ‫מכתיב‬ ‫טירונים מכל אומ' ואומה‪ ,‬כותי‬ ‫אחד בא‬ ‫ומשתע' כגון ששעבדה כל‬ ‫אומתו‪ ,‬כושי‬ ‫אחד בא ומשעבד כגון‬ ‫ששיעבדה כל‬ ‫אומתו‪ ,‬וח' ובחדש הזה אתם‬ ‫נגאלין‪ ,‬החדש הזה לכם ראש‬ ‫חדשים (שמות יב‪ :‬ב)‪.‬‬

‫ ‪80‬‬

‫‪Pesiqta de-Rav Kahana,‬‬ ‫‪Ha-Hodesh, piska 5, ed.‬‬ ‫‪Mandelbaum, 89‬‬ ‫ר'יודן בשם ר' ליעזר בנו של ר'‬ ‫יוסי הגל'‬ ‫ר' חונה בשם ר' ליעזר בן יעקב‬ ‫קול דודי‬ ‫הנה זה בא (שה"ש ב ח)‪ ,‬זה‬ ‫מלך המשיח‪,‬‬ ‫בשעה שהוא בא ואו' ליש'‬ ‫בחדש הזה‬ ‫אתם נגאלין הם אומ' לו‪,‬‬ ‫רבינו מלך המשיח‪ ,‬היאך אנו‬ ‫נגאלין‪,‬‬ ‫לא כך א' הקב"ה שהוא‬ ‫משעבדינו בשבעים‬ ‫אומות‪ .‬והוא משיבן שתי‬ ‫תשובות ואו' להם‪,‬‬ ‫אחד מכם גלה לברבריה ואחד‬ ‫מכם‬ ‫לסרמטי' כגון שגליתם כולכם‪.‬‬ ‫ולא עוד‬ ‫אלא שהמלכות הרשעה הזאת‬ ‫מכתיבת‬ ‫טירונין מכל אומה ואומה‪ ,‬כותי‬ ‫אחד בא‬ ‫ומשעבד כגון ששיעבדה כל‬ ‫אומתו‪ ,‬כושי‬ ‫אחד בא ומשעבד כגון‬ ‫ששיעבדה כל‬ ‫אומתו‪ ,‬ובחדש הזה אתם נגאלין‪,‬‬ ‫החדש‬ ‫הזה לכם ראש חדשים (שמות‬ ‫יב‪ :‬ב)‪.‬‬

‫‪Translation‬‬ ‫‪Pesiqta de-Rav Kahana, Ha-Ḥodesh, piska 5 (ed. Mandelbaum, 89)20‬‬ ‫‪[A] Rabbi Yudan (taught) in the name of Rabbi Liʽezer (Eliʽezer) ben Rabbi Yose‬‬ ‫)‪ha-Gelili (the Galelian), Rav Ḥuna21 in the name of Rabbi Liʽezer (Eliʽezer‬‬ ‫‪ben Yaʽaqov: Hark! My beloved. There he comes! (Song 2:8).‬‬

‫‪20  For a translation see Braude and Kapstein 1975, 101. The translation presented here, is my own.‬‬ ‫‪21  In Shir ha-Shirim Rabba “Hunya”.‬‬

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 81

[B] That is, the king Messiah (Melekh ha-mashiaḥ) cometh.22 When he comes, and says to Israel: In this month you shall be redeemed, they23 will ask: Our master, oh king Messiah, how can we be redeemed? Has not the Holy One said that He will reduce us to servitude among seventy nations?” [C] Then the Messiah will answer by two illustrations [what God meant by his statement]: [D] (1) If only one of you is banished to BRBRYH24 and only another one of you is banished to SRMTYʾ (Sarmatia?), he will consider it as though all of you had been banished. [E] (2) Moreover, since this wicked kingdom (Malkhut ha-resha [Rome]) inscribes troops from every nation – if a Kuti25 comes and forces only one of you (into military service, lit. makes you servitude), he will consider it as though the entire people of Israel is oppressed. [F] If an Ethiopian (Kushi) comes and forces only one of you into military service, He will consider it as though the entire people of Israel were conscripted. [G] Hence, in whatever month circumstances such as these occur, you shall be redeemed. This month shall be unto you the beginning of months (Exod 12:2) – [the beginning of redemption]. Obviously, this passage from a larger homiletical unit that expounds Exodus 12:2 is transmitted in the names of the Palestinian Tannaim of the 4th and 5th generation; i.e. Rabbinic sages from the 4th century CE Rabbi Yudan and Rav Huna (or Hunya as in Shir ha-Shirim Rabba). In all the versions these Rabbis transmit an explanation of the hidden eschatological meaning of the first words of this verse of this portion of a special Sabbath before Passover, according to the Palestinian cycle of reading. Both sages rely on the elder Tannaitic authorities, Rabbi Elʽazar (Liʽezer) ben Rabbi Yose (ben Halafta) ha-Gelili and Rabbi Liʽezer (Eliʽezer) ben Yaʽaqov. Both were sages from the 3rd generation, the generation of Tannaitic scholars after the Bar Kokhva uprising. The clue of the Midrash seems to be in the interpretation of a dod, with a suffix in the first person singular form. This is understood as a reference to a messianic figure, most likely a Moses redivivus, a second Moses. As Moses had already brought redemption during the Exodus from Egypt, a second Moses would renew 22  The reference to the Messiah is missing in Shir ha-Shirim Rabba. 23  In Pesiqta Rabbati ‫אתם‬, “you”, instead of ‫הם‬, “they”. 24  See on this word below. The reading “Barbaria” is confirmed by Pesiqta Rabbati and Shir ha-Shirim Rabba. 25  See on this word and suggested emendations below.

82 

 Andreas Lehnardt

and bring redemption to Israel in this month, the month of Nisan with the feast of Passover and its commemoration of the Exodus. So far, so good. But the Midrash goes on to remind its reader that Israel will not forget that redemption will only be granted after all the children of Israel have been dispersed among the nations. The number 70, as mentioned in the book of Genesis, is clearly introduced as a symbolic number of people. The main concern of the Midrash seems to be, can Israel be redeemed before God has fulfilled this plan? Is a complete dispersion of the people of Israel required before the Messiah will come? The anonymous author of the Midrash attempts to answer to this question. God’s eschatological plan is based on the assumption that if only one Jew is deported to a country called “Barbaria,” redemption is near and the Messiah will come. The land called “Barbaria” is often identified with North Africa or the Barbary coasts. Krauss, however, tried to identify the place name with the Latin Germania barbaria or prima pars Europae.26 The Medieval anthology Yalqut Shimʽoni, which quotes the whole passage, transmits an odd version there that reads Britania.27 Yet, the other place name in this part of the Midrash is also of interest to us: “Sarmatia”. Sarma(r)tia according to Buber and Krauss, is a Greek name which designates a country or a people and, it should be emphasized, that the name is transmitted in all textual witnesses by the same spelling.28 Sarmatians were a large confederation of various, mostly Iranian people.29 They flourished from the 5th century BCE to the 4th century CE Sarmatia, in our Midrash might refer to a region in Eastern Europe, right in the middle of the Don River and the Urals. Tacitus mentions these tribes in his De origine et situ Germanorum.30 In the 4th century, at the time of the redaction of our Midrash, the Sarmatians were already declining – a historical fact that might explain why a Jew who has been dispersed among them might have been seen by the author of that Midrash as a sign of hope. In addition to that, Sarmatians were also later enlisted as soldiers in the Roman army. The Roman emperor Constantine distributed the defeated population of the Sarmatians in Thrace, Macedonia and Italy. Here some of them were inscribed. The Midrash’s goal might then have been to strengthen the apocalyptic scenario that, if only one Jew has been exiled as far as the region of today’s Ukraine, redemption is near.

26  Krauss 1899, Vol. 2, 163. The consonants can also be read as “Berberia”. 27  Yalqut Shimʽoni, Shir ha-Shirim 2 (535c), § 986. 28  A conjecture that would propose to read here as “Samaritans” is therefore not acceptable. 29  Cf. Brzezinski, Mielczarek and Embleton 2002; Eggers and Ioniță 2004. 30  Tacitus 1988, 70–71, 82–83, 102–103.

“If a Cuthean Comes and Forces You into Military Service” 

 83

Yet it is not necessary for the coming of the Messiah and redemption for all Jews to be banned to a far border like this. The most intriguing phrase in this Midrash is the word Kutim for the Cutheans [E]. First, the author mentions the fact that in Rome, the wicked kingdom is a standard phrase for the Roman enemy and Rome regularly enlists non-Roman troops from every nation. The Latin or Greek synonym used in this sentence is tironin,31 the expression for a young soldier.32 The word introduced in this context describes the inscription of young recruits for money. The phrase makhtivat tironin literally means “to put someone on the list of the Roman legion”.33 The problem with the interpretation of this phrase begins with the next part of the passage. In all versions, as well as in the best textual witnesses, the word Kuti or Cuthean for a Samaritan is used to say: “If a Kuti comes and forces only one of you (into military service and makes you servitude, He will consider it as though the entire people of Israel is oppressed.” Mandelbaum, the editor of the critical edition of Pesiqta de-Rav Kahana, already suggested a conjecture here. Instead of Kuti, he proposed the reading Nabati, Nabatheans, or Gothics, Goths. Obviously he is referring herewith to Krauss’ dictionary of Greek and Latin loan words,34 which already suggested in the 19th century to read instead of Kuti, the name Gothiya, a name for the country or the people of the Goths.35 If the proposed correction of this sentence would be valid, the Midrash did not refer to the Samaritans at all. The text would mention Goths, a people in the Northern regions of Europe. But is this conjecture necessary? Goths are mentioned quite often in Rabbinic literature. In the Talmud Yerushalmi, for instance, we learn about two Goths who served as bodyguards for Rabbi Abbahu, a prominent Amoraic Rabbi from Caesarea in the 3rd century. When he entered a public bath, we learn from the tractate Betza (1,7 [60c]), he used to lean on two Goths.36 However, other scholars who analyzed the sentence in Pesiqta de-Rav Kahana suggested the reading Nabatim, Nabatheans.37 And even the reading Kittim has been suggested, as a well-known

31  Pesiqta Rabbati has ‫טירונים‬. In Shir ha-Shirim Rabba ‫טירוניא‬. 32  Cf. Krauss 1899, Vol. 2, 272. 33  This is the translation offered by Braude and Kapstein 1975 who follow Jastrow 1886, 534, who points to the Greek word “tiron”. 34  Cf. Krauss 1899, Vol. 2, 170. 35  See also Braude and Kapstein 1975, 101. On Goths in Rabbinic literature, see, e.g., Krauss 1910, 42 Anm. 2. 36  See Krauss 1910, 42 Anm. 2. Lehnardt 2001, 42 with note 390. 37  Klein 1939–1944, 59.

84 

 Andreas Lehnardt

cipher for the Romans, although mainly used in texts from the Qumran and not in Rabbinic literature.38 However, before we accept any of these conjectures we should keep in mind that they bring other problems with them. Kutim are also mentioned more often in Pesiqta de-Rav Kahana and so the reading cannot be explained simply by a copyist error. The Midrash argument continues, with an additional allusion to a certain people: the Ethiopian [Kushi] people, a nation far to the south of Palestine. Kush is the name of an ancient ethnic group who came from the land centered on the Upper Nile and Nubia (modern-day South Egypt and Sudan). According to the Hebrew Bible (Gen 10:6) they were descendants of Noah’s grandson, Kush, the  son of Ham. Kushim are mentioned in the Pesiqta de-Rav Kahana only in this context. The word “Kushi” however, is found only in one manuscript of this Midrash; the manuscript Florence, Biblioteca Casanatense No. 66. The better Oxford manuscript has Kuti, Cuthean. However, Mandelbaum in his edition changed the main text according to his understanding and he therefore inserted the name Kushi. However, only one additional text witness has the reading Kushi, a second manuscript of the Pesiqta from Oxford (Neubauer 2334–11), copied in the 16th century. Even so, the text-critical decision over which people the Midrash might have had in mind, is not crucial for the overall interpretation of this sermon. The argument is clear: If only one Jew will be suppressed, dispersed and enlisted into the auxiliary forces of the Roman army, the Messiah will come. The circumstances of this oppression are not described in detail. But in any case, the Midrash wants to stress that if a Jew is oppressed by one of these foreign nations the Messiah will appear. According to this reading it might even be correct to assume that the people mentioned here were nations who forcibly inscribed Jews into their auxiliary legions.39 And this understanding finds its reason in the context of the passage that emphasizes the motive of an inscription into army service, ketivat tironin, as explained above. The interpretation of this passage becomes even clearer by a closer look into the parallel version in Midrash Shir ha-Shirim Rabba. This version might have been written off a collection such as Pesiqta de-Rav Kahana. The short passage under investigation has the following version here:40

38  I am grateful to N. Mizrahi for this suggestion. Cf., e.g., Flusser 2007, 140–141; Lim 2000, 469–471; Bohak 2001, 301–303. 39  This is Braude and Kapstein’s interpretation of the passage. 40  My translation follows, with small corrections, Simon 1983, 117.

“If a Cuthean Comes and Forces You into Military Service” 

 85

Moreover, since this kingdom (ha-Malkhut ha-zot [Rome]) inscribes troops (makhtiva tironya) from the whole world, from every nation, so if a Kuti or a Berber (or Barbarian?) comes and rules over you, like you have been ruled by all the nations, as if you have served the seventy nations – in this month you will be redeemed.

According to this version, which might be a later interpretation of our Midrash, the name Kuti is used as the word Berber, only in a different order than in the Pesiqta. In this version, however, it seems that both people are among the nations suppressed by the Romans. Like the Jews, they are forced by the wicked kingdom to serve in their auxiliary troops. But only Jews can expect to be redeemed in “this” month, on Passover. The variance between these versions is remarkable. However, it seems that Shir ha-Shirim Rabba preserved a later version.

Historical Allusions? At this point it may be helpful to draw attention to certain observations on a possible historical background of this Midrash. The Israeli historian, Michael Avi-Yona (1904–1975), already speculated that this Midrash contains a reaction to Messianic expectations among Jews in the 5th century.41 In the middle of the century, at least after the Council of Chalcedon (451 CE), a revolt by Samaritans seems to have been oppressed by Byzantine legions. When the Christian monophysists revolted against the emperor in Byzantium, Samaritan soldiers joined the Roman legions and took part in the counterinsurgency. In 484 CE a revolt once more broke out. This time Samaritans revolted (according to John Malalas) against Caesar Zeno, who subdued this rebellion. Yaron Dan assumed that this was the first real revolt against the Romans.42 With Pummer, though, it must be said that these sources can only be interpreted by internal criteria and must remain doubtful.43 Do these revolts have something to do with our Pesiqta Midrashim? Did the author have these historical circumstances in mind when he compared the Samaritans with those who were forced to live in exile? Both – Samaritans and Jews – were oppressed by Byzantine authorities at this time.44 The Samaritan revolt of 484 CE, however, after some initial success, soon collapsed. As a result, emperor Zeno appears to have forbidden Samaritan

41  Cf. Avi-Yonah 1962, 243. 42  Dan 1986, 283–284. 43  Pummer 2002, 256. 44  Pummer 2002, 256.

86 

 Andreas Lehnardt

worship on Mount Gerizim, and the Synagogue thereon was converted into a church. He stationed troops on top of the mountain and punished all Samaritans who took part in the revolt. According to Malalas, even Samaritan children were sold into slavery.45 Several years after the harsh punishment, Procopius takes notice of a second revolt.46 According to him, at least an attempt to enter Mount Gerizim took place in the days of Emperor Anastasius (491–518 CE), but with even less success. This insurrection was merely a short episode. Interestingly, Procopius claims in this context that, under emperor Justinian’s rule, all Samaritans were converted to Christianity.47 For the author of our Midrash, historical events such as these might have merged into a literary motif. It seems that he wanted to emphasize that those Samaritans fighting alongside with (or against) the Romans or, in case we want to follow the more nuanced version in Pesiqta de-Rav Kahana, as auxiliary troops in the Roman army, that is a sign of the end of days, the world to come or the messianic time. Whether Samaritans could have been part of the Roman Byzantine army at that time (in the 5th century) has been questioned by Pummer. According to Theodosian Law (Codex Theodosianus 16:8.16), Jews and Samaritans were not allowed to serve in the regular army. But in practice, the law was often ignored.48 Maybe some Samaritans had been trained by Roman soldiers, because in the Talmud Yerushalmi we can read about the garrison in Caesarea in the 3rd century, and most of its soldiers must have been Samaritans.49 However, from other sources we only learn of Samaritan bandits and their participation in revolts. For the author of the Pesiqta-version of our Midrash, thus the idea that Jews have been inscribed by Samaritan soldiers must have been possible, but not likely. If we can reconstruct his thoughts correctly, he aimed to stress that if Samaritans (or Kutim) come and try to inscribe a Jew, the Messiah ben David (or ben Efraim) will (soon) come. In the event that this reconstruction of the Midrash’s intentions were correct, one might guess that this idea must have developed under circumstances when Rabbinic Jews had no political power whatsoever and Samaritans, like other people, were supported by the Romans or were at least in a position to suppress Jews within their territories.

45  Cf. Pummer 2016, 139. 46  Pummer 2002, 289–290. 47  Cf. Pummer 2016, 141. 48  Cf. Pummer 2002, 262. 49  See Avi-Yonah 1956, 129 mentioned by Pummer 2002, 262.

“If a Cuthean Comes and Forces You into Military Service” 

 87

Concluding Remarks As outlined at the beginning of this article, classical Rabbinic literature had no interest in historiography or in an objective account of events. Even a biased and tendentious historian like Flavius Josephus would not have been convinced by Rabbinic descriptions of Samaritans or Samaritan Halakha. The rabbis, in contrast to early modern Jewish historians like David Gans, did not write chronicles, but sermons. In fact, they were literary sermons (not ad hoc compositions) that were written first and foremost with the purpose of the “rabbinization” of Judaism. These Midrashim might have written for a readership or audience that might not yet have been fully convinced by rabbinic ethics and thought.50 Sermons, like the one analyzed in this article, grew out of a certain context of “political disempowerment,” both with respect to Byzantine Christians and the Samaritan community. Rabbis tried to reach out with their homilies to a community at the synagogues and study-houses. These places in the 5th–6th century may have been, first of all, institutions, not only influenced by the Rabbis we know by Rabbinic literature. A fact that can best be learned from the figural and pagan mosaics and the impressive use of Greek language in the dedicatory inscriptions.51 The eschatological Midrash from the Pesiqta-Midrashim therefore should be interpreted in the broader context of the rabbinic struggle for influence on the wider Jewish masses. Their use of a non-exegetical polemical strategy against Samaritans must be contextualized within the frame of this longing for predominance. The texts analyzed do not refer to an aggadic motive or a certain legendary tradition on Samaritans, as for instance, the texts analyzed by me on the dove cult on Mount Gerizim.52 Here Kutim are mentioned only by comparison and in relation to other non-Jews, such as Romans, the proponents of the “wicked kingdom” (Malkhut ha-resha). Barbarians (or Berberies) and Kushim (Ethiopians) were all regarded per se as enemies of the rabbinized Jewish people. The rhetorical effect achieved by introducing this detail received greater attention among the fictitious audience, be it an actual audience in a rabbinic community or a literary audience, the readers of this this sermon. The main intent of the Midrash certainly was not polemics. The goal was to spread eschatological hope, a hope built on the apocalyptical image depicting an absurd scenery: the recruitment of Jews by the Romans, Samaritans or black people (Ethiopians). Should this happen, the Davidic Messiah would come. By inferring this momentum, the Midrash intended to console and comfort his politically powerless 50  See for this purpose of Pesiqta de-Rav Kahana, e.g., Anisfeld 2009, 178. 51  Cf., e.g., Talgam 2014, 257–332. 52  Cf. Lehnardt 2018.

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addressees. The Samaritans are brought up here only in passing. Their appearance on the rhetorical scene has no direct meaning for the preacher’s eschatological statement. Nevertheless, as a religious and political competitor, they appear to have been purposely mentioned. In the view of the author of this Midrash, they must have been identified as a serious antagonist to rabbinic theology.

Bibliography Anisfeld, Rachel A. 2009. Sustain Me with Raisin-Cakes. Pesiqta deRav Kahana and the Popularization of Rabbinic Judaism. SJSSup 133. Leiden – Boston: Brill. Atzmon, Arnon. 2015a. “‘In the Third Month’. Shavuot and the Redaction of Pesikta de-Rav Kahana 12,”JAJ 6: 143–156. –. 2015b. “From Census to Atonement. Parashat Shekalim in Pesikta de Rav Kahana and Pesikta Rabbati,” JSQ 22: 352–376. Avi-Yonah, Michael. 1956. „The Samaritan Revolts Against the Byzantine Emprire,“ ErIsr 4: 127–132 (Hebrew). –. 1962. Geschichte der Juden im Zeitalter des Talmud. In den Tagen von Rom und Byzanz. SJ 2. Berlin: De Gruyter. Bohak, Gideon. 2001. “Kittim and Dodanim and Rodanim and Samaritans,” Tarbiz 70: 301–303 (Hebrew). Braude, William G. (Gershon Zev), and Israel J. Kapstein. 1975. Pesiqta de-Rab Kahana. R. Kahana’s Compilation of Discourses for Sabbaths and Festival Days. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society. Brzezinski, Richard, Mariusz Mielczarek and Gerry Embleton. 2002. The Sarmatians, 600 BC– AD 450. Oxford: Osprey Publishing. Buber, Salomon (ed.). 1868. Die älteste Hagada, redigiert in Palästina von Rab Kahana, herausgegeben nach einer in Zefath vorgefundenen und in Ägypten copierten Handschriften durch den Verein Mekize Nirdamim. Mit kritischen Bemerkungen, Verbesserungen und Vergleichungen der Lesarten anderer drei Handschriften in Oxford, Parma und Fez, nebst einer ausführlichen Einleitung. Lyck: Mekize Nirdamim, Reprint Jerusalem 1868 (Hebrew). Cohen, Gerson D. (ed.). 1967. The Book of Tradition. Sefer ha-Qabbalah, by Abraham ibn Daud. A Critical Edition with Translation and Notes. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Dan, Yaron. 1972. “Erets Yisraʾel be-meʾot ha-ḥamishit we-ha-shishit,” in Zvi Baras et al. (eds.), Eretz Israel from the Destruction of the Second Temple to the Muslim Conquest, Vol. 1. Jerusalem: Yad Yitzhak Ben Zvi, 53–62 (Hebrew). Eggers, Martin, and Ion Ioniță. 2004. Sarmaten, in Herbert Jankuhn and Heunrich Beck (eds.), Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde. Vol. 26. 2nd ed. Berlin – New York, 503–512. Flusser, David. 2007. Judaism of the Second Temple Period. Vol. 1: Qumran and Apocalypticism. Trans. by Azzan Yadin. Jerusalem: Magnes/Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Friedmann, Meir (ed.). 1880. Pesikta Rabbati für den Fest-Cyclus und die ausgezeichneten Sabbathe, kritisch bearbeitet, commentiert, durch neue handschriftliche Haggadas vermehrt, mit Bibel- und Personen-Indices versehen … nebst einem Lexikon der vorkommenden griechischen und lateinischen Fremdwörter von M. Güdemann, Wien. Reprint Tel Aviv 1963 (Hebrew).

“If a Cuthean Comes and Forces You into Military Service” 

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Gans, David. 1983. Zemah David. A Chronicle of Jewish and World History (Prague 1592). Ed. M. Breuer. Jerusalem: Magnes (Hebrew). –. 2016. Ratolest Davidova. Z Hebrejského originalu podle prvního vydání, vytištěného roku 1592 v Praze, přeložila a předmluvu napsala Jiřina Šedinová, poznámkami opatřili Daniel Boušek a Pavel Sládek. Praha: Academia. Hahn, Hartmut. 1979. Wallfahrt und Auferstehung zur messianischen Zeit. Eine rabbinische Homilie zum Neumond-Shabbat (PesR 1). Frankfurter Judaistische Studien 5. Frankfurt am Main: Selbstverlag. Jastrow, Marcus. 1886–1903. A Dictionary of the Targumim, the Talmudim Babli and Yerushalmi, and the Midrashic Literature. Vol. 1–2. London: Luzac & Co., Reprint New York: Judaica Press 1985. Klein, Samuel. 1939–1944. Sefer ha-Yishuv, Vol. 1–2. Jerusalem: Ben Zvi. Krauss, Samuel. 1899. Griechische und lateinische Lehnwörter im Talmud, Midrasch und Targum, mit Bemerkungen von Immanuel Löw, Vol. 1–2. Berlin: S. Calvary, Reprint Hildesheim: Georg Olms 1987. –. 1910. Antoninus und Rabbi. Wien: Verlag der israelitisch-theologischen Lehranstalt. Lavee, Moshe. 2010. “Rabbinic Literature and the History of Judaism in Late Antiquity: Challenges, Methodologies and New Approaches,” in Martin Goodman and Philip Alexander (eds.), Rabbinic Texts and the History of Late-Roman Palestine. Proceedings of the British Academy 165. Oxford: University Press. Lehnardt, Andreas. 1999. “Das außerkanonische Talmud-Traktat Kutim (Samaritaner) in der innerrabbinischen Überlieferung,” Frankfurter Judaistische Beiträge 26: 111–138. –. 2001. Besa. Ei. Übersetzung des Talmud Yerushalmi II/8. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. –. 2002. “The Samaritans (Kutim) in the Talmud Yerushalmi: Constructs of ‘Rabbinic Mind’ or Reflections of Social Reality?” in Peter Schäfer (ed.), The Talmud Yerushalmi and Graeco-Roman Culture III. TSAJ 93. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 139–160. –. 2010. “Massekhet Kutim and the Resurrection of the Dead,” in Menahem Mor and Friedrich V. Reiterer (eds.), Samartians: Past and Present. Current Studies. SJ 53, StSam 5. Berlin – New York: de Gruyter, 175–192. –. 2012. “Die Taube auf dem Garizim. Zur antisamaritanischen Polemik in der rabbinischen Literatur,” in Jörg Frey, Ursula Schattner-Rieser, and Konrad Schmid (eds.), Die Samaritaner und die Bibel/The Samaritans and the Bible. Historische und literarische Wechselwirkungen zwischen biblischen und samaritanischen Traditionen/Historical and Literary Interactions between Biblical and Samaritan Traditions. SJ 70, StSam 7. Berlin – Boston: de Gruyter, 285–302. –. 2018. “‘Rabbi Me᾽ir sah einen Samaritaner und fragte ihn …’ Dialoge mit Samaritanern in Midrasch Bereshit Rabba,” in Stefan Schorch (ed.), Samaritan Languages, Texts, and Traditions. SJ 75, StSam 8. Berlin – Boston: de Gruyter (in print). Lim, Timothy H. 2000. “Kittim”, in Lawrence H. Schiffman and James C. VanderKam (eds.), Encyclopedia of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Vol. 1. Oxford: Oxford University Press 2000, 469–471. Magen, Yitzhak. 2008. The Samaritans and the Good Samaritan. Jerusalem: Israel Antiquities Authority. Mandelbaum, Bernard (ed.). 1987. Pesiqta de Rav Kahana. According to an Oxford Manuscript with Variants from all Known Manuscripts and Genizoth Fragments and Parallel Passages with Commentary and Introduction, Second Augmented Edition, Vol. 1–2. New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America (Hebrew).

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 Andreas Lehnardt

Pummer, Reinhard. 2002. Early Christian Authors on Samaritans and Samaritanism: Texts, Translations and Commentary. TSAJ 92. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. –. 2016. The Samaritans. A Profile. Grand Rapids – Michigan – Cambridge: Eerdmans. Reeg, Gottfried. 1989. Die Ortsnamen Israels nach der rabbinischen Literatur. Tübinger Atlas zum Vorderen Orient B 51. Wiesbaden: Ludwig Reichert. Reizel, Anat. 2011. Introduction to the Midrashic Literature. Alon Shevut: Mikhlelet Herzog (Hebrew). Schiffman, Lawrence. 2012. “The Samaritans in Amoraic Halakha,” in Shai Secunda and Steven Fine (eds.), Shoshanat Yaakov. Jewish and Iranian Studies in Honor of Yaakov Elman. The Brill Reference Library of Judaism 35. Leiden – Boston: Brill, 371–389. Simon, Maurice. 1983. Midrash Rabbah Song of Songs. London – New York: Soncino. Sládek, Pavel. 2012. “The Printed Book in 15th- and 16th-Century Jewish Culture,” in Olga Sixtová (ed.), Hebrew Printing in Bohemia and Moravia. Prague: Academia – The Jewish Museum in Prague, 9–30. Stemberger, Günter. 2011. Einleitung in Talmud und Midrasch. 9th ed. Munich: Beck. Tabory, Yosef . 1995. Jewish Festivals in the Time of the Mishnah and Talmud. Jerusalem: Magnes (Hebrew). Tacitus, P. Cornelius. 1988. Germania. Interpretiert, herausgegeben, übertragen, kommentiert und mit einer Bibliographie versehen von Allan A. Lund. Heidelberg: Winter. Talgam, Rina. 2014. Mosaics of Faith. Floors of Pagans, Jews, Samaritans, Christians, and Muslims in the Holy Land. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press. Ulmer, Rivka (ed.). 1999. Pesiqta Rabbati. A Synoptic Edition of Pesiqta Rabbati Based on All Extant Manuscripts. SFSHJ 200. Vol. 1–3. Atlanta: Scholar Press. Vehlow, Katja. 2013. Abraham ibn Daud’s Dorot Olam (Generations of Ages). A Critical Edition and Translation of Zikhron Divrey Romi, Divrey Malkhey Yisraʾel, and the Midrash on Zechariah. The Medieval and Early Modern Iberian World 50. Leiden – Boston: Brill. Visotzky, Burton L. 2011. “The Misnomers ‘Petihah’ and ‘Homiletic Midrash’ as Descriptions for Leviticus Rabbah and Pesiqta de-Rav Kahana,” JSQ 18: 19–31. Yassif, Eli (ed.). 2001. The Book of Memory that is The Chronicles of Jerahmeʾel. A Critical Edition. Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University Press (Hebrew). Zangenberg, Jürgen. 1994. Samareia. Antike Quellen zur Geschichte und Kultur der Samaritaner in deutscher Übersetzung. TANZ 15. Tübingen: Francke.

Abraham Tal

Nimrod, “A Man of Might” – How Many of Them? For Richard C. Steiner

The figure of a super-hero “on earth,” mighty hunter “before the Lord,” described in a rather awkward, repetitive wording, has stirred much debate among scholars and commentators. The biblical enthusiastic description of the imposing personage led many scholars to attempt to identify him with one of the heroes that abound in the literature of ancient Mesopotamia. An impressive amount of literature has been dedicated to the identification of the personage, a detailed account of which is given in the first part of an excellent article penned by Karel van der Toorn and Peter van der Horst.1 The second part of the study provides a thorough survey of Jewish negative attitude towards Nimrod as expressed in Philo’s writings, and in the Aramaic/Hebrew literature exhibited by the Targum, Talmud and Midrash. However important, this is not the goal of the present talk. My interest is limited to the figure of Nimrod in the Samaritan tradition, having, in fact, quite a few points of contact with the Jewish one, which I intend to point out. To start, let us examine the relevant text in Genesis 10. ‫ּוכ ָנ ַֽען׃‬ ְ ‫ּופּוט‬ ֥ ‫ּומ ְצ ַ ֖ריִ ם‬ ִ ‫ּוב ֵנ֖י ָ ֑חם ּ֥כּוש‬ ְ

6

‫ּוב ֵנ֥י ַר ְע ָ ֖מה ְש ָ ֥בא ְּוד ָ ֽדן׃‬ ְ ‫ּוב ֵנ֣י ֔כּוש ְס ָב ֙א ַ ֽו ֲחוִ ֔ ָילה וְ ַס ְב ָ ּ֥תה וְ ַר ְע ָ ֖מה וְ ַס ְב ְּת ָ ֑כא‬ ְ

7

‫וְ ֖כּוש יָ ַל֣ד ֶאת־נִ ְמ ֑ר ֹד ֣הּוא ֵה ֵ֔חל ִ ֽל ְהי֥ ֹות גִּ ּ֖בֹר ָּבאָ ֶֽרץ׃‬

8

‫הוה׃‬ ֽ ָ ְ‫ֽאָמר ְּכנִ ְמ ֛ר ֹד גִּ ּ֥בֹור ַ ֖ציִ ד ִל ְפ ֵנ֥י י‬ ַ֔ ‫ל־ּכן ֵי‬ ֙ ֵ ‫הו֑ה ַע‬ ָ ְ‫ר־ציִ ד ִל ְפ ֵנ֣י י‬ ֖ ַ ֹ‫ּוא־ה ָי֥ה גִ ּֽב‬ ָ ‫ֽה‬

9

‫אַּכ֣ד וְ ַכ ְל ֵנ֑ה ְּב ֶ ֖א ֶרץ ִשנְ ָ ֽער׃‬ ַ ְ‫ּתֹו ָּב ֶ֔בל וְ ֶ ֖א ֶרְך ו‬ ֙ ‫אשית ַמ ְמ ַל ְכ‬ ֤ ִ ‫וַ ְּת ִ֨הי ֵר‬

10

‫ת־ּכ ַלח׃‬ ֽ ָ ‫ת־רחֹ ֥בֹת ִ ֖עיר וְ ֶא‬ ְ ‫ת־נ֣ינְ ֵ ֔וה וְ ֶא‬ ִ ‫אַּׁשּור וַ יִ֙ ֶ ֙בן ֶא‬ ֑ ‫ן־האָ ֶ֥רץ ַה ִ ֖הוא יָ ָצ֣א‬ ָ ‫ִמ‬

11

‫ֵ ּ֥בין ִנֽינְ ֵו֖ה ֵּוב֣ין ָּכ ַ֑לח ִ ֖הוא ָה ִ ֥עיר ַהגְּ ד ָ ֹֽלה׃‬

12

‫ת־ר ֶסן‬ ֔ ֶ ‫ְ ֽו ֶא‬11

Which NRSV translates as (with slight modifications): 6 The descendants of Ham: Cush, Egypt, Put, and Canaan. 7 The descendants of Cush: Seba, Havilah, Sabtah, Raamah, and Sabteca. The descendants of Raamah: Sheba and Dedan. 8 Cush became the father of Nimrod; he was the first man of might on earth.

1  Toorn and Horst 1990, 1–29. See also Kooij 2012, 1–27. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110617306-006

92  9 10 11 12

 Abraham Tal

He was a mighty hunter before the LORD; therefore it is said, “Like Nimrod a mighty hunter before the LORD.” The beginning of his kingdom was Babel, Erech, and Accad, and Callaneh, in the land of Shinar. From that land he went into Assyria, and built Nineveh, Rehoboth-ir, Calah, and Resen between Nineveh and Calah; that is the great city.

The list of the sons of Kush is apparently completed with his two grandsons ‫שבא‬ and ‫דדן‬, the two sons of his son ‫( רעמה‬Gen 10:7 = 1 Chr 1:10). Curiously enough, the next verse returns to Kush, as a kind of afterthought, with the purpose of introducing another son of his: Nimrod. In contrast with the laconic mentions of the five preceding sons, this additional son is richly presented as a mighty person, mighty hunter “before the Lord,” enjoying great fame, ruling over a significant territory, who even built many great cities. Leaning on this description, the prophet Micah parallels ‫ ארץ נמרד‬with ‫( ארץ אשור‬Mic 5:5).2 So far, no implication of disapproval regarding the “mighty hunter,” who also was a king in the “Land of Shinʿar”. The fact that Genesis 10 describes Nimrod in terms of ‫ גבור ציד לפני יהוה‬may allude to a certain sympathy for the great king of so many cities. Unless one interprets ‫ לפני‬not as “before” but as “against”. The former is the standard one, and in some places expresses “in accordance with” as e.g., ‫התהלך לפני והיה תמים‬, “walk before Me and be blameless” (God’s words to Abraham in Gen 17:1). The latter is perhaps the rendering of the Septuagint ad loco: ἐναντίον, which has both senses. In any case, this is Philo’s understanding of ἐναντίον in the Septuagint to Gen 10:9 (Quaestiones in Genesim 2.81–82.) However, Jewish later tradition uses the immediate vicinity of the story of the Tower of Babylon in Genesis 11 to associate Nimrod, the builder of many cities, with the initiative to build the tower, as an affront to God, homiletically attributing his name to the root ‫מרד‬, “rebellion”. This is a very old tradition already mentioned by Philo in his De Gigantibus § 66: “... and the name Nimrod, being interpreted, means, desertion ... Moses calls the seat of Nimrod’s kingdom Babylon, and the interpretation of the word Babylon is change; a thing nearly akin to desertion.” Attention should be given to Josephus, who connects Nimrod with the initiative to erect the Tower of Babel: “the multitude were very ready to follow Nimrod’s determination… and they built the tower” (Ant. 1.115). The Babylonian Talmud, explicitly connects ‫ נמרוד‬with the Tower of Babylon in tractate Hullin folio 89a: ‫ אמר הבה נבנה לנו עיר ומגדל‬,‫נתתי גדולה לנמרוד‬, “I have 2  ‫יה‬ ָ ‫ת־א ֶרץ נִ ְמ ֖ר ֹד ִּב ְפ ָת ֶ ֑ח‬ ֥ ֶ ‫אַּׁשּור ַּב ֶ֔ח ֶרב וְ ֶא‬ ֙ ‫ת־א ֶרץ‬ ֤ ֶ ‫וְ ָר ֞עּו ֶא‬, “They shall rule the land of Assyria with the sword, and the land of Nimrod with the drawn sword.”

Nimrod, “A Man of Might” – How Many of Them? 

 93

given greatness to Nimrod, (in response) he said ‘come, let us build a city and a tower’.” From the first part of the homily, ‫נתתי גדולה לנמרוד‬, one may infer that God’s relationship with Nimrod was rather positive, as may be deduced from verses 9–10. It is therefore the vicinity of the story of the Tower in chapter 11 that reversed the direction and ascribed to the hero the act of arrogance.3 The tract. Pesahim 94b says about the king of Babylon, derided by Isaiah 14: ‫רשע בן רשע בן בנו של נמרוד הרשע שהמריד את כל העולם כולו עלי במלכותו‬ “wicked one, the son of a wicked one, the son of the son of the wicked Nimrod who instigated the whole world against me in his kingdom” (the same statement is repeated in tract. Hagigah 13a).

Targum Pseudo-Jonathan is more explicit, saying in Gen 10:9: ‫הוא הוה גיבר מרודא קדם ייי בגין כן יתאמר מן יומא דאיתברי עלמא לא הוה כנמרוד גיבר בצידא ומרודא קדם ייי‬ “He was a mighty rebel before the Lord; therefore it is said, ‘From the day that the world was created, there was none like Nimrod, a mighty man of hunting and a rebel before the Lord’.”

Obviously, this late medieval Targum adopted the negative position towards Nimrod from Talmudic sources.4 On the other hand, the same Targum PseudoJonathan preserves a different tradition, more sympathetic to Nimrod in v. 11: ‫מן ארעא ההיא נפק נמרוד ומלך באתור דלא בעא למיהוי בעיטת דרא דפלוגתא ושבק ארבע קוריין אילין ויהב‬ ‫ליה ייי בגין כן אתרא ובנא ארבע קוריין אוחרנין‬ “From that land Nimrod went out and reigned over Assyria, because he did not want to be in the counsel of the generation of the division (i.e., the people of the Tower). So he left these four cities, and on account of this the Lord gave him a place, and he built four other cities.”

Already the 4th century Ephrem the Syrian relates in his “Cave of Treasures” about favors “heavens” conferred upon Nimrod: ‫וביומי ארעו בשנת מאא ותלתין דילה אמלך מלכא קדמיא בארעא נמרוד גנברא ואמלך שתין ותשע שנין והות‬ .‫ הנא חזא דמותא דכלילא בשמיא וקרא לסיסן זקורא וזקר לה אכותה וסמה ברשה‬.‫[ בבל‬128 ‫רש מלכותה ]עמ׳‬ .‫ומטל הנא אמרין הוו דמן שמיא נחת לה תגא‬ “And in the days of Reʿu, in the year one hundred and thirty of him reigned the first king on earth, Nimrod the giant; he reigned sixty nine years; and the head of his reign was Babel.

3  The same tradition is reflected in Masʿudi’s 10th century work Meadows of Gold and Mines of Gems (Sprenger 1841, 77). 4  See Hayward 2010, 223–233.

94 

 Abraham Tal

He saw a form of a crown in heaven. And he summoned Sisan the weaver, and he weaved for him a similar one, and he put it on his head. And because of this people say that from heaven the crown descended for him.”5

Onqelos seems to be neutral: ‫“ גיבר תקיף‬a strong mighty one”. But the Neofiti Targum is negatively oriented, saying in an ironical note: ‫“ גיבר בחטאה‬mighty in iniquity”. And so is the detailed Fragmentary Targum: ‫הוא הוה גיבר תקיף בצידא וגיבר בחטאה קדם יי הוה צייד בני אינשא בלישנהון ואמר להון רחוקו מן דינוי דשם‬ ‫ואדביקו בדינוי דנמרוד בגין כדין יתאמר כנמרוד גיברא גיבר בצידא גיבר בחיטאה קדם יי׃‬ “he was a very mighty one in hunting and mighty in iniquity before the Lord. He would trap people by their tongues (i.e., words) saying to them: ‘Depart from the laws of Shem and stick to the laws of Nimrod’. Therefore it was said ‘as Nimrod the mighty: mighty in hunting – mighty in iniquity’.”6

A similar connection with the Tower is related in the Midrash ‫פרקי דר׳ אליעזר‬, ch. 24: ‫אמר נמרוד לעמו באו נבנה לנו עיר גדולה ונשב שם בתוכה פן נפוץ על פני כל הארץ כראשונים ונבנה מגדל‬ ‫גדול בתוכה ונעלה לשמים‬ “Nimrod said to his people ‘let us build for us a great city and dwell in it, lest we are scattered over the whole earth like the ancestors, and let us build a great tower in it, so that we may go up to heaven.”

Obviously, Nimrod is regarded with an hostile eye from the late antiquity on. And so he is in Samaritanism. The most obvious is the Samaritan Targum. The majority of manuscripts, including the old MS J (BL Or 7562),7 render ‫ גבור ציד‬as ‫גיבר עצאי‬, “mighty rebel,” leaning on the same midrashic interpretation of the name. The same meaning was attributed to ‫ ַציִ ד‬by Pseudo-Jonathan: ‫גיבר מרוד‬, playing on Nimrod’s name. Indeed, one finds in the Jewish Midrash the same use of the root ‫עצה‬, e.g., ‫דעצינן לגיברה דארעה‬, “that we rebelled against the worlds Mighty one (Deut. Rabbah, 25, plays on ‫גבור ציד‬ as well). The Jewish Aramaic Targum according to MS Neofiti renders the root ‫עשק‬, “to oppress”, “exploit” as ‫ עצי‬everywhere, e.g., Lev 5:1,23; 19:13; Deut 24:14. Apparently, in biblical times hunting was not regarded as a disgraceful occupation. After all, Isaac had a predilection for game, which led him to prefer Esau, his elder son: ‫ויאהב יצחק את עשו כי ציד בפיו‬, “Isaac favored Esau because he had a taste for game.” Suffice to mention Deut 12:22: ‫אכ ֶל֑נּו‬ ְ ֹ ‫אַיל ֵּכ֖ן ּת‬ ָ֔ ‫ת־ה‬ ֣ ָ ‫ת־ה ְצּ ִ ֙בי וְ ֶא‬ ַ ‫אָכ֤ל ֶ ֽא‬ ֵ ֵ‫אְַ֗ך ַּכ ֲא ֶ֨שר י‬, 5  After Bezold 1888, vol. I, 126–128; vol. II, 30. A late Samaritan Targum manuscript displays a more tolerant attitude toward Nimrod (see below, p. 96). 6  After MS Paris Hébr 110. Klein 1980. Text: vol. I, 49; translation: vol II, 11. 7  Tal 1980–1983, vol. III, 17.

Nimrod, “A Man of Might” – How Many of Them? 

 95

“Indeed, just as gazelle or deer is eaten, so you may eat it.” Obviously, in order to eat a gazelle or a deer, one has to hunt it first, since these are very rapid animals. Such tolerance was no longer practiced in later days, as an annotation found in the interlinear space of the MS M of the Samaritan Targum attests, rendering ‫ציד‬, as ‫אנוס‬, “snatching by force” (Gen 25:27).8 This attitude towards hunting is manifested again by the meaningless vocables used by the young MS A of the Samaritan Targum for ‫ ציד‬in Gen 27: ‫( שרבלותי‬v. 19); ‫( פצפצותי‬v. 25); ‫( צפצפות‬v. 30); ‫( ציוף‬v. 33). All these lexical monstrosities are intended to blur Isaac’s greediness for the presently detested hunt: ‫ויאהב יצחק את עשו כי ציד בפיו‬, in contrast with his wife: ‫ורבקה אהבת את יעקב‬, “but Rebeccah favored Jacob.” (Gen 25:28 – JPS).9 This preference of Rebeccah toward Jacob as against Isaac’s affection for Esau in Gen 25:28 is paralleled in the Samaritan medieval quasi-chronicle named The Book of Asatir 10 by Eve’s love for Qain vs. Adam’s inclination towards Abel: ‫ ואדם רחם להבל‬.‫והות חוה רחמה לקין‬, “And Eve was loving Qain, but Adam was loving Abel” (ch.1). If in this inverted equation Qain is aligned with Esau, the “skillful hunter” (Gen 25:27), then we may discern here implicit reservations about hunting. After all Esau is identified with the abominated Edom: ‫עשו הוא אדום‬ (Gen 36:1, 8), inhabitant of the land called Edom, where Jacob sends his conciliation emissaries to Esau: ‫( וישלח יעקב מלאכים אל עשו אחיו ארצה שעיר הוא אדום‬Gen 32:4). Esau is ancestor of the Edomites (‫אבי אדום‬, Gen 36:9, 43). These are the same Edomites who refused to give Israel passage through their territory ‫לא תעבר פן בחרב אצא לקראתך‬, “you shall not pass through, lest we will come out with the sword against you” (Num 20:14–21). This hostile position justifies MS A of the Samaritan Targum in its rendering ‫ אדום‬as ‫ רומה‬in Numbers 20:18, 23; 24:18, etc., the hated dominant empire. Genesis Rabbah, ch. 37, explicitly aligns Esau with Nimrod: ‫כנגד בניו שלעשיו‬ ‫ אלא שעשה כמעשה נמרוד‬.‫הרשע אמרו וכי כושי היה עשיו‬, “it concerns the sons of Esau the wicked. Was Esau a Cushite? (certainly not) but he acted in the same way Nimrod did.” In view of this relatively novel attitude, a hunter (whose name, ‫נמרוד‬, suggests ‫מרד‬, “rebellion”) cannot be connected with the following wording: ‫לפני יהוה‬, since “walking before God” is reserved for righteous persons, such as Abraham

8 A trace of a lost manuscript, preserved in Hamelis, has the same word. Ben-Hayyim 1957, vol. II, 572. A targumic manuscript (B) has an Arabic loanword: ‫קנוץ‬. See Lane 1863–93, 2568: ‫قنص‬, “tear”, “abduct”. This loanword has been misunderstood by the scribe of MS A (as reflected in MS E, See Tal 1980–83, vol. III, 24), who took the ‫ נ‬as a ‫( פ‬they are quite resemblant in the Samaritan script) and generated the word ‫קיפץ‬. 9  The technique of distorting words producing meaningless vocables destined to avoid irreverence towards the patriarchs is discussed in Tal 2004, 107–17. 10  Edited, translated into Hebrew and annotated by Z. Ben-Hayyim: Ben-Hayyim 1953–1954.

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 Abraham Tal

(Gen 17:1). It was therefore only natural that the Samaritan Targum would render ‫ גבור ציד‬by ‫גיבר עצאי‬, “a mighty rebel,” discernibly, taking the following ‫ לפני‬as meaning “against,” just like the Jewish Targumim mentioned above. Thus, the abhorrence for Nimrod was established for eternity. Nonetheless, MS A of the Samaritan Targum renders ‫כנמרוד גיבור ציד לפני יהוה‬ as: ‫כנמקס קיפץ ציד לקודם יהוה‬. Apparently, ‫ נמקס‬is a Greek loan, namely νομίκος, “lawgiver”, used here as a nickname of Nimrod, which may be taken as an expression of a certain measure of admiration, if not respect, for the great personality who ruled such an immense kingdom. It should be noted that another form of this Greek word, namely ‫ נומיק‬is frequently employed in Tibåt Mårqe with regard to Moses, the lawgiver, e.g., ‫שלם עליך נומיקה דאנה עתיד למוקרך‬, “peace to you, O lawgiver, I am about to honor you” (Book 6, §15).11 On the other hand, the following vocable ‫ קיפץ‬attests at the presence of a negative attitude towards the “hunter”.12 The Book of Asatir (ch. 4) is intensely preoccupied with Nimrod. In the first place, he is described as the powerful king who ruled over “all the sons of Ham”: ‫ ובנו בבל רבתה ואכנשו כלה ונפקו למבני יתה ושרי נמרוד למהך גבר בארעה‬.‫ושוי מלך נמרוד על כל בניו דחם‬ “and right away Nimrod ruled over all the sons of Ham. And he built Babel the Great and they all assembled and went out to build it, and Nimrod begun to walk as a mighty one on earth”.

Thus, combining verses 9–10 with verse 11, Asatir attributes to Nimrod the initiative to build the Tower of Babel, which is in itself enough to make him a condemnable figure, apart from being a detested hunter. Just like the Jewish tradition. On the other hand, the latter is divided in parsing verse 11, ‫ן־ה ָ ֥א ֶרץ ַה ִ ֖הוא יָ ָצ֣א ַא ּׁ֑שּור ֙ ַו ֶ֙יִבן‬ ָ ‫מ‬. ִ :‫ת־ּכ ַלח‬ ֽ ָ ‫ת־רח ֹ֥בֹת ִ ֖עיר וְ ֶא‬ ְ ‫ת־נ֣ינְ ֵ ֔וה וְ ֶא‬ ִ ‫ ֶא‬For Onqelos and Neofiti, the Fragment Targum render ‫ אשור‬as a proper name: ‫אתוריא‬, in line with the medieval Jewish commentators (Rashi, Qimhi and Ibn Ezra), and so do Peshitta and the Vulgate.13 For Pseudo Jonathan ‫ אשור‬is a locative complement, with Nimrod as subject of the verb ‫יצא‬, “he went out”: ‫מן ארעא ההיא נפק נמרוד ומלך באתור‬, “From that land Nimrod went out and reigned on Assyria”.14 This is also the understanding of Asatir: ‫ועזר נמרוד לאשור ומלך‬, “and Nimrod returned to Assur and reigned.” 11  Ben-Hayyim 1988, Book 6, §15. See also Asatir in Ben-Hayyim 1953–1954, ch. 2, and notes ad. loc. ‫ נומיקא‬is also frequent in Syriac (Sokoloff 2009, 900). 12  I.e., “abductor”, see note 5 above. 13  LXX is inconclusive, see Wevers 1993, 134, who is inclined to regard Assour as the accusative, referring to the land. See, however, Septuaginta Deutsch 2009, 177: Assur: In der LXX eindeutig Subj., wohingehen im MT auch Nimrod… Subj. sein kann. See BHQ, Genesis, 103*. 14  ‫ אשור‬is a place name, not a person, according to R. Joseph of the Babylonian Talmud: ‫ותנא‬ ‫ר׳ יוסף אשור זה סילק‬, “and R. Joseph learnt: Assur, that is Silleq” (Σελευκία – tract. Ketuboth, fol 10b; Yoma 10a).

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 97

The next chapter of Asatir narrates about another despicable deed of Nimrod: the encounter with Abram: ‫ דעמו בספר האותות דעתיד קעם מן ארפכשד גבר מחי כל‬.‫ועבד נמרוד לארפכשד הך דעבד פרעה לעבראי‬ ‫ יום‬:‫ ואמרו לה למ‬.‫ וצמת כל חכימיה דהוו לגו יפת וחם בעי מנון מחכם אמת דו מתילד‬.‫סגדיה ומבתר כל צלמיה‬ ‫ ושוי אתעבשו גבריה באתר‬.‫ יום‬:‫ ופקד נמרוד דלא ישתבקון בני ארפכשד גבריה עם נשיה מ‬.‫אמה בטנה בה‬ ‫ ועבדו בעואן‬.‫ ודחלו כל אנשה דחלה רבה‬.‫ יום אתעמ[י] סימן בארע שנער עמוד אש‬:‫ ובתר ל‬.‫ונשיה באתר‬ ‫ ואמרו דמולדה‬.‫ ואזל תרח וקרב לאתתה וכד קרב לה אסתלק סימנה‬.‫ יומין ולילין‬:‫בבתי דחלתה וכתרו בברה ג‬ .‫ ובתר כן אתילד אברהם בחזו חיולה ונסבה נמרוד ורמתה לנורה‬.‫ ופקד נמרוד דיעזר כל אנש לאתרה‬.‫צעיר‬ ‫ובדיל דאמר דלעלמה אלה‬ “And he did unto Arpachshad just as Pharaoh did to the Hebrews, for he saw in the Book of Signs that there would come from Arpachshad a mighty man who would smite all the idols and destroy all the images. And he gathered all the wise men that were among Japhet and Ham, inquiring them to know when this one would be born. They told him: ‘within forty days the mother will be pregnant with him’. And Nimrod commanded that the sons of Arpachshad should not be allowed to approach their wives for forty days. And soon were confined the men in one place and the women in another place. And after thirty days a sign was seen in the land of Shinʿar, a pillar of fire. And all the men were frightened with a great fear and they prayed in the houses of worship and they dwelt outside in the open field for three days and three nights. And Terah went and approached his wife. And when he had approached her, the sign was removed, and they said : “The child will be born”… And after that Abram was born with mighty glory. And Nimrod took him and threw him into the fire because he has said: ‘The world has one God’.”

The reference to Pharaoh’s stratagem to avoid the birth of Moses, predicted by an astrologer, is found in ch. 8 of Asatir: ‫ יום‬:‫ופקד פרעה דיתפרשו נשיה מן גבריה מ‬, “and Pharaoh commanded that women would be isolated from men forty days.” Exodus Rabbah 1:12 has a similar story about Pharaoh’s attempt to reduce the Hebrew’s prolificacy by separation men from their wives: ‫ והוא חשב‬.‫ ולא יהיו ישנין בבתיהם‬,‫בתחלה גזר וצוה לנוגשין שיהיו דוחקין בהן כדי שיהיו עושין הסכום שלהן‬ ‫ אם אתם הולכין לישן‬,‫ אמרו להן הנוגשים‬.‫ אמר מתוך שאינן ישנין בבתיהם אינן מולידין‬,‫למעטן מפריה ורביה‬ ‫ היום עולה לשעה ולשתים ואין אתם משלימין את הסכום שלכם‬,‫בבתיכם עד שאנו משלחין אחריכם בבקר‬ “At first (Pharaoh) made a decree commanding the taskmasters to insist upon their (i.e., the Hebrews’) making their (prescribed) amount of bricks. (For that), they should not sleep in their houses. By this he intended to limit their natural increase, saying: ‘If they do not sleep in their houses, they will not procreate.’ Thereupon the taskmasters said to them: ‘If you go to sleep in your houses, until we send to bring you back in the morning, the day is rising by an hour or two, and thus you will never complete the amount (of bricks) allotted to you (and be punished)’.”

Such separation, although initiated by Amram, is related by the Babylonian Talmud, tract. Sotah, 12a:

98 

 Abraham Tal

.‫עמרם גדול הדור היה כיון שראה שאמר פרעה הרשע כל הבן הילוד היאורה תשליכוהו אמר לשוא אנו עמילים‬ ‫ עמדו כולן וגירשו את נשותיהן‬.‫עמד וגירש את אשתו‬ “Amram was the greatest man of his generation; when he saw that the wicked Pharaoh had decreed: ‘Every son that is born you shall cast into the river’, he said: In vain do we labour. He arose and divorced his wife. All [the Israelites] thereupon arose and divorced their wives”.

This is rooted in a tradition reported by Josephus about an astrologer who predicted the birth of Moses, who will terminate Egypt’s domination (Ant. 2:205). A late medieval collection of midrashim named ‫ תנחומא ילמדנו‬relates: ‫ אמר‬.‫ היו קוסמין יושבין לפני נמרוד‬.‫בשעה שנולד אבינו אברהם יצא כוכב אחד ובלע ד‘ כוכבים שהן ד‘ מלכיות‬ ‫ הביאוהו‬.‫ אמרו לו‬.‫ ומה לעשות לו‬.‫ אמר להם‬.‫ בן שנולד היום ינחל את העולם כולו‬.‫ אמרו לו‬.‫ מה הו זה‬.‫להם‬ ‫והרגוהו‬ “When our father Abraham was born, a star went out and swallowed four stars, corresponding to four kingdoms (cf. Dan 8:22). Magicians were sitting before Nimrod. He said to them ‘what is this?’ They said to him ‘a son who was born today will inherit the whole world.’ He said to them ‘what should we do with him?’ They said to him ‘bring him and kill him’.” (Pericope ‫לך לך‬, fol. 155).15

The account of Nimrod’s casting Abraham into the fire is related in the Jewish Midrash too. For example Genesis Rabbah, sect. 38:13, tells about a quarrel between Nimrod and Abraham on idolatry,16 which ended up by the king’s casting Abraham in the fiery furnace.17 Tractate Pesahim folio 118a narrates: ‫ ריבונו‬.‫בשעה שהפיל נמרוד הרשע את אברהם אבינו לתוך כבשן האש אמר גבריאל לפני הקב״ה‬ ‫ נאה ליחיד להציל יחיד‬.‫ אני יחיד ואברהם יחיד‬.‫ אמר לו‬.‫ רצונך ארד ואציל צדיק זה‬.‫שלעולם‬ “When Nimrod the wicked threw our father Abraham in the fiery furnace, Gabriel said before God: ‘Master of the world, do you want me to descend and save this righteous?’ (God) said to him: ‘I am unique and Abraham is unique. It is reasonable that the unique should save a unique’.”

And so says Devarim Rabbah (chapter 2, § 27) ‫ שנאמר ויאמר אליו אני ה’ אשר הוצאתיך מאור כשדים‬,‫ מנין‬,‫השלך לכבשן האש ירד הקדוש ברוך הוא והצילו‬

15  Maʾagarim ad loc. 16  The Qurʾan relates about a dispute between Abram and “the king”, whose name is not mentioned (Sura 2, 258, 10). 17  It seems that the first to tell in detail the story of Abram being cast in the fiery furnace and rescued by God is Pseudo-Philo in Liber Antiquitatum Biblicarum, Chap. VI, §§ 15–18.

Nimrod, “A Man of Might” – How Many of Them? 

 99

“When he (Abraham) was cast into the fiery furnace, God came down and delivered him. Whence this? For it is said: ‘I am the Lord that brought you out of Ur of the Chaldees’.”

Asatir’s story has an appendix relating about Haran’s death on the same occasion: ‫ ומית הרן על פני תרח אביו באור כשדים‬.‫ נפקת אשתה ואכלתה‬.‫וכד עצף הרן על אברהם במימר דו חרש‬ “And when Haran acted insolently toward Abraham and said he was a wizard, the fire came out and consumed him ‘and Haran died in the lifetime of his father Terah in Ur Kasdim.”

Asatir charges Haran with insolence, in order to give reasons for the untimely, unjustified, death of Haran, as quoted from Gen 11:28. Using the word ‫עצף‬, spelling of ‫חצף‬, Asatir puts in Haran’s mouth a calumny of sorcery against Abraham, for which he deserves death by the same furnace, obviously, inspired by Dan 3:20–23.18 The Jewish Midrash was also in quest for an explanation of this unreasoned death. Genesis Rabbah, ch. 38, attributes to Haran a disloyal behavior, which caused him to be burned by the same furnace: ‫ ואין נצח נמרוד‬.‫ אין נצח אברהם אנא בהדיה‬.‫ אנא בהדי מן דנצח‬.‫ מה נפשך‬.‫ קאים פליג אמר‬.‫הוה תמן הרן‬ .‫ מן דאברהם‬.‫ אמר לון‬.‫ מן דמן את‬.‫ אמרון ליה‬.‫ כיון שירד אבינו אברהם לתוך כבשן האש וניצול‬.‫אנא בהדיה‬ .‫ ויצא ומת על פני אביו‬.‫ ונחמרו בני מעיו‬.‫נטלוהו והשליכוהו לאש‬ “Haran was there, irresolute in his faith he said: ‘I am on the side of the winner. If Abraham wins I am on his side, and if Nimrod wins, I am on his side’. As Abraham descended into the fiery furnace and was rescued, they said to him: ‘on whose side are you?’ He said to them: ‘on Abraham’s side’. They grabbed him and cast him into the fire, and his bowels were burnt, and he went out and died in the presence of his father.”

Chapter 6 of Asatir 6 starts with Nimrod’s death: ‫ אלף‬:‫ אל נמרוד ב‬:‫ ומן נמרוד א‬.‫ מן נמרוד שיארת ועל נמרוד חסלת‬.‫ ובעו עקב מלכות חם‬.‫ שנין מת‬:‫ובתר ז‬ ‫ מן כפתרים‬:‫ נמרוד קמאה מן כוש ונמרודה ב‬.‫ שנה‬:‫וכ‬ “And after seven years he (Nimrod) died, and with him came to an end the Kingdom of Ham: with Nimrod it began and with Nimrod it came to an end. From Nimrod I up to Nimrod II one thousand and twenty years. The first Nimrod came from Kush, and the second Nimrod from Kaphtorim”.

This candid statement about two persons named Nimrod attempts to solve a textual difficulty on one hand, and a chronological problem on the other hand. 18  Jubilees 12:14 justifies Haran’s death by his rush to save the idols from the fire which Abraham kindled.

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 Abraham Tal

The textual case, let me restate, concerns verse 8, which announces the birth of Nimrod to Kush, his father, after verse 7, which is apparently complete with the grandsons of Kush ‫ שבא‬and ‫דדן‬, the two sons of his son ‫רעמה‬. Then another member of the family suddenly appears in v. 8. Asatir, solves the problem by the invention of a second Nimrod. Moreover, Nimrod being the son of Kush, the third generation after Noah (v. 8), could hardly enjoy such an exaggerated longevity, given that Abraham, whom he threw in the furnace of fire, belongs to the tenth generation after Noah (Gen 11:10–26). The masterminding of a second Nimrod, who lived much later, solves this problem too, albeit it creates another one: Nimrod’s filiation. For if Kush fathered both, then it is he who enjoyed a remarkable longevity as well. Therefore Asatir expels Kush from verse 8 and replaces him with ‫כפתרים‬, who dwell in verse 14, whatever their origin may be. The last quotation from Asatir, ‫ מן כפתרים‬:‫נמרוד קמאה מן כוש ונמרודה ב‬, exhibits the second Nimrod with the Aramaic definite article ‫ונמרודה‬. This is surprising, given that ‫ נמרוד‬is a proper name, and proper names are determined by definition.19 Apparently, this determination is supported by the pronunciation of the word in the SP (Gen 10:8) as kannimrod, with the gemination of the first consonant following the prefixed preposition ‫כ‬, orally transmitted from father to son. Whether this is a real case of determination or the result of secondary gemination, or a completely different phenomenon, does bear very little on our subject. The Aramaic final position of the article does reveal the perception of the word as a determined common noun, which expresses its homiletic meaning: “rebel”.20 As such, it occurs in Tibåt Mårqe with the article, in lists of punished villains, e.g., in his speech to Pharaoh Moses says (Book 2, §9): ‫ צפי סרועיה דגעזו קמיך קין וגזותיו וברה ומה עביד לה וכן דרי‬... ‫אמר לה משה אה פרעה ארף רשעותך ואנשם‬ ‫מבולה ומגדלאי ומה שרא בון ונמרודה דרבה צדותה וגברי סדם ויקידתון‬ “O, Pharaoh, abandon your wickedness and be relieved … look at the sinners who passed away before you: Qain and his punishments, and his son and what has been done to him (this is Enoch, whom God “took” – Gen 5:24), and also the generation of the Flood, and the people of the Tower and what befell them, and The Nimrod whose affliction increased, and the people of Sodom and their burning”.21

19  With the exception of some place names, such as ‫ןדריה‬, Gen 32:18. No proper noun of a person takes the article in Biblical Hebrew. See Joüon and Muraoka 2006, §137b. 20  Cf. the Arabic translations of both Ab Isda ‫ כאלנמרוד‬and Abu Saʿid ‫كالنمرود‬. Ab Isda says even in v. 8: ‫ואלאסוד אולד אלנמרוד‬. 21  Proper nouns with the article are treated amply in Schorch 2003, 287–320.

Nimrod, “A Man of Might” – How Many of Them? 

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All of them are determinate, whether by article (‫)סרועיה‬, or by a determinate nomen rectum (‫ דרי מבולה‬,‫)גברי סדם‬, or by possessive pronoun (‫)ברה‬, or being a proper name (‫)קין‬. Accordingly, one may ask whether the word should be perceived as a common noun and translated as “the rebel”. Furthermore, in Book 5, §59, Tibåt Mårqe says: ‫אצערת לקין וכל זרעה בתרה וככן כל אנשי סדם הוקדת יתון בגפרית ואש וכוש וברה הנמרוד ואף מצראי וכל‬ ‫בניון ועמלק ועמו המחו כהלו לא הוו ובלעם ריש דבבי עבראי הקטל בחרבה והתחרבת קרתה‬ “I afflicted Qain and all his descendants after him, and similarly, all the people of Sodoma, I burnt them with brimson and fire, and Kush and his son, the rebel, and the Egyptians and all their sons, and Amalek and his people were wiped out as if they never were, and Bileam, the head of the enemies of the Hebrews, was killed by the sword, and his town destroyed.”

Obviously, ‫ הנמרוד‬plays the role of an apposition to the previous ‫ברה‬, “his son, both determined; ‫ ברה‬by its possessive pronoun, ‫ הנמרוד‬by the article. In a poem composed by the 17th century poet ‫עבד אלה אבן סלמה‬, Nimrod appears not only with the definite article, but also in the plural, like an ordinary common noun ‫ אהלין בשמח וברגש וזהים וחדים ואהלין באבל כבד מאד ולבביון‬: ‫הצדיקים והנמרודים‬ ‫משתמדים‬, “the righteous and (= as against) the Nimrods; these are in joy and pleasure, joyful and cheerful, and these in very heavy mourning with broken hearts.”22 And so says the poet ‫ אלעזר בן פינחס‬in the 14th century: ‫אמר עמלק ליהושע מי אתה עד תוכל תלחם עם ראש הנמרודים ויען יהושע אם תהיה ראש הנמרודים אנכי‬ ‫יהושע ראש התלמודים‬ “Amalek said to Joshua: ‘who are you, that you can fight against the chieftain of the Nimrods? Joshua answered: ‘If you are the chieftain of the Nimrods, I am the head of the pupils [of Moses].”23

The segment refers to Exodus 17:9–14, where Joshua is characterized as ‫משרת משה‬, “Moses’ attendant” in his battle with Amalek. The title ‫ תלמיד‬is attributed to Joshua in Tibåt Mårqe (Book 5, §6): ‫וצפה אל יהושע בן נון ואמר לה אה משרתי אה תלמידי חזק ואמץ‬, “and he (Moses) looked at Joshua the son of Nun and said to him: ‘O, my attendant, O, my pupil, be strong and resolute” (after Deut 31:24). And some lines further in the same poem: ‫ויחלש יהושע את עמלק ואת עמו הנמרודים‬, “and Joshua weakened Amalek and his people of Nimrods.”

22  Cowley 1909, 234. 23  Cowley 1909, 328.

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In conclusion: in the Samaritan perception of the mighty king Nimrod, one may discern a progressive homiletic approach to the hero, which led to a morphological effect in later sources: it transformed a proper name into a common noun, denoting wicked rebels. In absence of ancient evidence, I cannot say whether the pronunciation kannimrod as a determined noun is original or not. All I can say is that it was understood as such in late medieval times.

Bibliography Ben-Hayyim, Zeev 1953–1954. ‫אסטיר ספר‬, Tarbiz 14–15. Jerusalem (Hebrew). –.  1957. The Literary and Oral Tradition of Hebrew and Aramaic amongst the Samaritans. Jerusalem: The Bialik Institute and The Academy of the Hebrew Language. –.  1988. Tibåt Mårqe, a Collection of Samaritan Midrashim, Edited, Translated and Annotated. Jerusalem: The Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities (Hebrew). Bezold, Carl. 1888. Die Schatzhöhle, Syrisch und Deutsch Herausgegeben. Leipzig: Hinrichs. Biblia Hebraica Quinta. Genesis., 2015. Prepared by Abraham Tal. Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft Cowley, Arthur E. 1909 (ed.). The Samaritan Liturgy, vols. I–II. Oxford: Clarendon. Hayward, Robert. 2010. Targum and the Transmission of Scripture Into Judaism and Christianity. Leiden: Brill. Joüon, Paul, and Takamitsu Muraoka. 2006. A Grammar of Biblical Hebrew. SubBi 27. Roma: Pontificio Istituto Biblico. Klein, Michael L. 1980. The Fragment-Targums of the Pentateuch According to their Extant Sources. Rome: Biblical Institute Press. Kooij, Arie van der. 2012. “‘Nimrod, a mighty Hunter before the Lord!’ Assyrian Royal Ideology as perceived in the Hebrew Bible,” JSS 21: 1–27. Kraus, Wolfgang, and Martin Karrer (eds.). 2009. Septuaginta Deutsch. Das griechische Alte Testament in deutscher Übersetzung. Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft. Lane, Edward W. 1863–1893. An Arabic-English Lexicon, etc. London: Williams and Norgate. Maʾagarim. 2016. maagarim.hebrew-academy.org.il (accessed March 7, 2018). Schorch, Stefan. 2003. “Determination and the Use of the Definite Article in the Samaritan and the Masoretic Text of the Torah,” JSS, 48/2, 287–320. Sokoloff, Michael. 2009. A Syriac Lexicon. A Translation from the Latin, Correction, Expansion, and Update of C. Brockelman’s Lexicon Syriacum. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns/ Piscataway NJ: Gorgias Press. Sprenger, Aloys. 1841 (trans.). Meadows of Gold and Mines of Gems. London: Murray. Tal, Abraham. 1980–1983. The Samaritan Targum of the Pentateuch, a Critical Edition, Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University Press. –.  2004. “The So-called Cuthean Words in the Samaritan Aramaic Vocabulary,” AS 2.1, 107–117. Toorn, Karel van der, and Peter van der Horst. 1990. “Nimrod before and after the Bible,” HTR 83:1, 1–29. Wevers, John W. 1993. Notes on the Greek Text of Genesis. SCS 35. Atlanta: Scholars Press.

3 Arabic Studies

Daniel Boušek

The Story of the Prophet Muḥammad’s Encounter with a Samaritan, a Jew, and a Christian: The Version from Abū l-Fatḥ’s Kitāb al-Tārīkh and Its Context In the year 756/1355 Abū l-Fatḥ ibn Abī l-Ḥasan al-Sāmirī al-Danafī wrote the Samaritan chronicle Kitāb al-Tārīkh, “one of the principal fruits of the 14th century Samaritan renaissance,”1 which concludes with a cycle of legends narrating the rise of Islam. Their narrative focuses on the story of the prophet Muḥammad’s encounter with three astrologers, representatives of three monotheistic religions: a Samaritan called Ṣarmāṣa, Kaʿb al-Aḥbār, a Jew, and ʿAbd al-Salām, a Christian monk. They saw in the stars the end of the rule of Byzantium and the rise of the rule of Ishmael, i.e., Islam, and therefore came to Muḥammad in Medina to find out whether he was the man from the stock of Ishmael with whom the rule of Islam in the world had begun. When assured that Muḥammad was the king promised in the Scriptures, so the story goes, the Jew and the Christian converted to Islam, whilst the Samaritan Ṣarmāṣa stayed steadfast in his religion. What is more, he negotiated with Muḥammad full protection for the Samaritans under Islam. The treaty was dictated by Muḥammad and endorsed by ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib. To the departing Ṣarmāṣa Muḥammad said: “O Samaritan, depart! But your [punishment] in this life will be that you will say, ‘Touch me not’ (lā misāsa); and there is a promise of punishment for thee which shall not fail to be fulfilled about you.” (Sūra 20:97) The text subsequently states that “this was the work of Kaʿb al-Aḥbār since [Ṣarmāṣa] had not converted as he did – every affliction that comes upon the Samaritans is due to the Jews”. In addition, Kaʿb al-Aḥbār became Muḥammad’s mentor and scribe and taught him about everything. Abū l-Fatḥ’s narrative presents a unique Samaritan version of a polemical story that was widespread among the Christians and Jews in the Middle Ages. The tale shows how easily themes and texts could travel from one community to 1 Stenhouse 1989, 221. Note: This article was researched and written as a part of the Czech Science Foundation grant “The Reflection of Interreligious Relations in Medieval Aragon in the Works of Solomon ibn Adret and Profiat Duran” (15-09766S). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110617306-007

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another. First, my paper will briefly compare the Samaritan version of the story with the Christian and Jewish ones. Second, it will set the story of Muḥammad’s pact with the Samaritans into the context of the mid-14th century Mamlūk society and the Samaritans’ position in it. The thesis of the paper is that the Samaritan version responds to the increasing social and religious pressure of Islamic society directed towards the conversion of non-Muslims to Islam and the expropriation of their houses of worship. Abū l-Fatḥ’s story of Muḥammad’s encounter with the three astrologers, a Jew, a Christian, and a Samaritan, is available in two editions of Kitāb al-Tārīkh, which were prepared by Eduard Vilmar2 and Paul Stenhouse,3 and in Milka LevyRubin’s Continuation.4 The stories in these editions differ slightly. In our discussion we will take all of them into account, but since Vilmar’s edition presents the longest version, we will quote it here in full.5 At this time [of Muḥammad’s coming] there were three men, astrologers very skilled in their professions. The first was a Samaritan called Ṣarmāṣa from ʿAskar. The second was a Jew whose name was Kaʿb al-Aḥbār. And the third was a Christian, a monk called ʿAbd al-Salām. They knew from their craft and from their astrology that the Byzantine Kingdom was gone and that the Kingdom of Islam (Ismāʿīlīya) had begun in the person of a man from the sons of Ishmael, from the Beni Hāshim with a characteristic mark on his back, between his shoulder blades – a white birthmark the shape of the palm of one’s hand. Some say that it was yellow. When they heard that he had been seen, the three of them came together and said: “Let us set off and see if the man is he about whose appearance we foretold; and [let us confide] our secret to him concerning the Masters of the Books and sects so that we will not suffer at his hands what we suffered from those who went before him.” So the three set out and came to the city in which he was. They asked one another, “Who will go in first?” Kaʿb al-Aḥbār said, “I [will] go,” and he went into him [first] and greeted him. He returned the greetings and asked him, “Who are you – a Jew?” He said, “I am one of the leaders of the Jews and I found in my Torah that a king would arise from the stock of Ishmael to rule the world; and that no one could prevent him.” ʿAbd al-Salām [then] went in after him, and said, “That is what I found in the Gospel” – although they did not know anything except from matters of their craft. Then Ṣarmāṣa went in and said to him, “You will be the one to profess [the Muslim] faith and law,6 and rule over the necks of the world. There is a sign for us on you – it is between your shoul-

2 Vilmar (ed.) 1865, 173–175. 3 Paul Stenhouse (ed.), The Kitāb ʾl-Taʾrīkh of Abū ʾl-Fatḥ – A New Edition with Notes, Ph.D. thesis (Sydney, 1980), to be referred to subsequently as “Stenhouse, Kitāb.” Stenhouse also presented an English translation – 1985. The Kitāb al-Tarīkh of Abu ʾl-Fatḥ. Translated into English with Notes by Paul Stenhouse. University of Sydney: Mandelbaum Trust, 1985, to be referred to subsequently as “Stenhouse, trans.”. 4 Levy-Rubin (ed.) 2002. 5 The present translation follows Stenhouse’s translation (243–246) with slight changes. 6 Here I follow Levy-Rubin’s reading.

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der-blades.” Muḥammad was delighted at their words. He undressed, and behold! There was a big white birthmark between his shoulder-blades. Then Kaʿb al-Aḥbār and ʿAbd al-Salām became Muslims and he rejoiced exceedingly at the two and sat them both by him and said to Ṣarmāṣa, “Why do you not do as they have done?” He permitted him [to approach closer] but Ṣarmāṣa was not able to approach closer to him.7 He said to him, “I have what I regard as necessary for me – namely the Law and [my] Faith. I am happy in my Faith and cannot come over to you. I cannot forsake my Faith. Muḥammad was ill-pleased at him and asked him, “What do you want, O Samaritan?” Ṣarmāṣa said to him: “O my master, I have come to you to get a covenant and a treaty that we can rely upon, I and the people of my faith and my religion: a covenant of peace and security as a protection for persons and families and property and religious endowments, and for freedom to erect houses of worship.” So Muḥammad instructed a scribe to draw up a covenant of peace and security for them according to what he had requested. The scribe entered his presence [and wrote]: “I Muḥammad bin ʿAbd Allāh bin ʿAbd al-Muṭṭalib, have commanded that a treaty of peace and security be written down for the Samaritans concerning themselves and their families and their property and houses of worship and religious endowments throughout all my realm and in all their territories. And that this be effective for them and as a covenant of peace among the people of Palestine; and as a safe conduct.” Then Ṣarmāṣa took it and left his presence. But ʿĀmir ibn al-Rabīʿa and ʿAbd Allāh bin Jaḥsh advised him to get the covenant endorsed by ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib. So he went back to Muḥammad and stood before him and said: “O my master, I have come to you from an extensive, vast and distant land and from a religious group which is weak and which the polytheists have persecuted and which the idol-worshippers have overcome. We look for deliverance to God, by means of you. I have been advised to obtain the endorsement of ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib for this covenant.” So he instructed ʿAlī to sign the document, and he wrote for them from him [as follows]: “I append to this covenant of peace for the Samaritans, a guarantee for themselves, their families, their belongings, their houses of worship and their religious endowments throughout all my lands in every place and throughout all my possessions that it be for them a safe conduct.” This was written on a piece of leather, and he [ʿAlī] gave it to him. Ṣarmāṣa kissed the ground at a respectful distance and said farewell. Muḥammad said, “O Samaritan, depart! It shall be thine all this life to cry ‘Untouchable!’ (lā misāsa) And thereafter a tryst awaits thee thou canst not fail to keep. Behold thy god, to whom all the day thou wast cleaving! We will surely burn it and scatter its ashes into the sea.”8 This was the work of Kaʿb al-Aḥbār since [Ṣarmāṣa] had not done [i.e., converted] as he did – every affliction that comes upon us is due to the Jews.9 Ṣarmāṣa then returned to Palestine and announced the good news to the Samaritans about what God had done to make his path successful and how He protected him. May God have mercy and compassion on this man! Kaʿb al-Aḥbār and ʿAbd al-Salām stayed with him [Muḥammad] and Kaʿb al-Aḥbār became his secretary, organized [affairs for him] and advised him on all issues.

In the story several characters figure that are known from similar accounts of the beginning of Islam and the prophet Muḥammad’s encounter with the Jews and 7 That is, to accept Islam. 8 The Qurʾān 20:97 in Arberry’s translation. 9 Stenhouse’s edition does not include this sentence, Arabic text, 187. See note 1191, lxxi.

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Christians, as they are told in the Muslim, Christian, and Jewish literature, namely Kaʿb al-Aḥbār, ʿAbdallah ibn Salām, ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib, and others. Therefore, in order to understand the Samaritan version, it is necessary first to take a brief look at the sources it is based on. There can be little doubt that the Samaritan legend is a rewriting of the Islamic, Christian, and Jewish narratives concerning the coming of Islam. Its author knew these narratives and he presupposes the same of his readers, in other words, that in order to understand the content of the story and its polemical barbs, it is necessary to be acquainted with the different versions of the story as they appear in the literatures of the three monotheistic traditions. These are based on motifs adopted from the Qurʾān and especially the Prophet’s biographies, which relate Muḥammad’s contacts with the Jewish leaders, some of whom converted to Islam, and with the Christian monk Baḥīrā, who confirmed Muḥammad’s prophethood. These early Islamic traditions laid the foundation for similar legends that were widely disseminated in the Middle Ages among both the Jews and Christians, especially in the Near East, and that aimed to explain the coming of Islam and the role particular communities played in it. The first comprehensive work on the history and deeds of Muḥammad, al-Sīrah al-nabawiyyah, which is also named after its author the Sīrah of IbnIsḥāq (mid-8th century), reports in detail about individual Jews who lived in alḤijāz and hypocritically converted to Islam.10 However, the conversion of some was sincere. Among them also belonged a former rabbi, ʿAbd Allāh ibn Salām, who became Muḥammad’s adviser. He is employed in Islamic tradition as a symbol of the Islamization of the Jews, as an example of the prototypical Jewish convert who, as a result of his religious knowledge, recognized in Muḥammad the prophet promised in the Scriptures and who also wholeheartedly and publicly confessed his belief in his prophethood. He is portrayed as a counterpart of those hypocritical Jewish sages (aḥbār al-Yahūd) who went to Muḥammad to try to get a sense of who he was and whether he was a true prophet, and although Muḥammad answered all their questions and/or riddles and proved himself to be a real prophet, they stuck stubbornly to their faith and continued to consider him to be “our enemy”.11 Similarly, the al-Sīrah literature mentions Christians who recognized Muḥammad’s prophetic vocation on the basis of a series of miracles and informed reading of their own religious tradition, in this case a book containing signs of the Prophet’s future coming, as well as a detailed list of the bodily signs by which

10 Guillame 1955, 246. 11 Idem, 255. Cf. Hirschfeld 1898, 100–116.

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the long-awaited Prophet could be identified. The most famous among these Christians, next to Waraqa b. Nawfal, is the monk Baḥīrā, with whom Muḥammad met as a young boy in Buṣrā in Syria while accompanying the caravan of his uncle Abū Ṭālib.12 Here Baḥīrā, when looking closely at Muḥammad, found out that he fitted the description in the Christian books, especially when he “looked at his back and saw the seal of prophethood between his shoulders in the very place described in his book”. The recluse admonished Abū Ṭālib to preserve the child from the malice of the Jews: “Take your nephew back to his country and guard him carefully against the Jews, for by Allah! If they see him and know about him what I know, they will do him evil.”13 These and similar stories must be seen as a part of the larger cycles of tales in which non-Muslims prophesy Muḥammad, such as the section in the al-Sīrah titled “Arab Soothsayers (Kuhhān), Jewish Rabbis (Aḥbār), and Christian Monks (Ruhbān) foretell his Coming”.14 These traditions elicited a response from both Jews and Christians. ʿAbd Allāh ibn Salām was reappropriated and re-Judaized in Jewish legends concerning Muḥammad. Likewise, a parallel re-Christianization of legends about the monk Baḥīrā took place in Christian circles. Both responses primarily polemicize against the concept of the Qurʾān as divinely revealed text and against the Muslim claim that their Prophet was sent by God to all peoples (read in this case Christians and Jews). In the Christian Baḥīrā legends, written in Syriac and Arabic, the monk is portrayed as Muḥammad’s mentor whose basically Christian message to the Arabs was corrupted by the Jews after Baḥīrā’s death and made into today’s Qurʾān.15 The “Ur-Qurʾān” that Baḥīrā gave to Muḥammad was a kind of simplified, man-made version of the Gospel for the Arabs, who needed to be guided to the faith in ways that did not conflict with their traditional worldview and customs. The role of the Qurʾān’s falsifier in the Baḥīrā legend usually belongs to Kaʿb al-Aḥbār, a Yemenite Jewish renegade and important authority on Isrāʾīlīyāt. After the death of Sergius, Kaʿb the Scribe rose up and he changed the writing of Sergius Baḥīrā and he handed down another teaching to them [i.e., the Arabs]. And he put it in confusion, corruption, superstitions, ridiculous things, circumcision, ablution […] Sergius gave them the New and Kaʿb the Old [Testament].16

12 In other versions it is Abū Bakr. See EI, new edition, “Baḥīrā” (A. Abel). 13 Guillame 1955, 79–81. 14 Ibid., 90–95. See also Wasserstrom 1995, 175–180. 15 Both the Syriac and Arabic versions of the story are translated into English and commented upon by Barbara Roggema 2009. 16 Idem, 303–305.

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However, unlike in the Islamic tradition, where he is said to have converted only during the rule of the second caliph ʿUmar ibn al-Khaṭṭāb, in the Christian polemical tradition – just as in Abū al-Fatḥ’s Kitāb al-Tārīkh – Kaʿb al-Aḥbār is considered to be a companion of the Prophet. From the above it follows that the Jews are responsible for all the misguided teachings of the Qurʾān, as well as its anti-Christian utterances. On the other side, the most outright condemnations of “the cursed Jews” preserved in the Qurʾān, which are the work of Baḥīrā’s pen, escaped Kaʿb’s falsifying efforts. Once Muḥammad has received his elementary training in Christianity, he promises the monk to grant anything he might wish from him. Baḥīrā asks for protection for his fellow-Christians and particularly monks, who will soon be subjected to the foreordained rule of Islam. Muḥammad therefore pledges to order the Muslims “not to take jizya or kharāj from monks” and “not to act unjustly towards them [i.e., all the Christians], and that their ceremonies will not be changed, and their churches will be built […] And whoever oppresses one of them – I will be his adversary on the day of the resurrection.”17 The anti-Jewish barbs in the Islamic and Christian versions of the story did not escape the notice of the Jewish apologists, who wanted to write their own version of the encounter with Muḥammad and the beginnings of Islam.18 The first signs of the developing tale already appear in an apocalyptic Hebrew text, The Secret of Rabbi Simeon bar Yoḥai (mid-8th century), which speaks about “great men of Israel” who joined Muḥammad and gave him a Jewish wife in order to appease his enmity.19 From at least the 10th century, the Jewish versions of the tale were widely current in Jewish circles. Most of them made mention of or developed the basic elements that appear in the Muslim and Christian versions of the story and added new characters. The oldest version of the story, a short Judeo-Arabic text, was known from at least the 10th century

17 Idem, 457. This legend, reworked in an anti-Islamic polemic named Apology of al-Kindī or in Petrus Alphonsi’s Dialogi contra Iudaeos (Chapter 5) that related the roles played by Baḥīrā (Sergius) and Kaʿb al-Aḥbār (Chabalahabar) and ʿAbd Allāh ibn Salām (Abdias) at the beginning of Islam, was later made much of in Europe. See Kritzeck 1964, 33, 89–96 and 129–32; Alfonsi 2006, 152. See also Tolan 2002, 139–47, 167. It may be of interest that a sixteenth-century German translation of the Qurʾān by Dionysius Carthusianus was printed with an illustration of this joint enterprise. It shows on the title page a group of Jews, “Sergius the Heretic,” and Muḥammad. See Bobzin 1995, 73. 18 For the different versions of the legend in medieval Jewish literature see Shtober 1986, 319–55; idem 2011, 64–88. 19 Even-Shmuʾel 1943, 189. For the history of the text see Lewis 1950, 308–38. The motif of Muḥammad’s Jewish wife is based on the story of Muḥammad’s marriage with a Jewish Ṣafīyah which was concluded after Muḥammad’s conquest of the oasis of Khaibar in 628.

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as the so-called “Story of Muḥammad’s Jewish Companions,” Qiṣṣat aṣḥāb Muḥammad;20 its Hebrew reworking is contained in a polemical treatise against the Qaraites and other “sects,” including the Samaritans.21 The story relates that the Qurʾān was actually co-written by a group of ten Jewish sages22 who converted to Islam with the intention of preventing Muḥammad or the monk Baḥīrā from harming Israel. They began to write the Qurʾān (ʿasu lo ot ha-qalon) and to interpolate their names at the beginning of the suras and insert secret Hebrew sentences asserting their authorship within the Qurʾān itself, such as: “Thus did the sages of Israel advise the wicked ALLaM [Muḥammad].”23 Among the ten Jewish sages who volunteered to pretend to be Muslims later versions of the story also include, in addition to Kaʿb al-Aḥbār and ʿAbdallah ibn Salām, the “rightly guided” caliphs Abū Bakr (who was the son of an exilarch, resh galuta, sic!), ʿUmar ibn al-Khaṭṭāb, and ʿAlī. The main aim of the Jewish version is to respond to the Muslim accusation of the Torah’s corruption, taḥrīf: it was not the Torah but the Qurʾān that was tampered with. Kaʿb al-Aḥbār passes through most of these tales, including the Samaritan one, as one of the central heroes. Muslim legends concerning his conversion deal primarily with taḥrīf, falsification of the Bible. In one version Kaʿb defends his belated conversion to Islam before ʿUmar ibn al-Khaṭṭāb by describing how he came over ten passages “erased, lifted from their places, and changed” in the Torah manuscript and wanted to inquire about them. His rabbi promised to reveal the content of the missing verses only after having made Kaʿb promise that he would not convert to Muḥammad’s religion after reading them. After much hesitation, the rabbi unwillingly revealed that the ten obliterated verses actually contained citations from the Qurʾān pronouncing the exclusivity of

20 Leveen 1926, 399–406; Gil 1993, 193–210. 21 Mann 1937–1938, 411–459; idem 1921–1922, 123–150. 22 The number ten appears for the first time in the Chronographia of the Byzantine historian Theophanes Confessor (d. 817), whose life of the Prophet was widely used by later writers. Theophanes says: “At the beginning of his [i.e., Muḥammad’s] appearance the misguided Hebrews thought that he was the Messias, whose coming they expected. So some of their chief men joined him, accepted his religion and forsook that of Moses. […] Those who did thus were ten in number. […] [They] brought charges of unlawful conduct against us Christians, and continued to side with him.” Grunebaum 1953, 43–44. 23 Thus starts surah 19: KaKH YaʿAṢū ḤaKHMEI YISRAEL, ‫كهيعص‬, and surah 13 starts with the words ALMR ALaM ha-Rashaʿ, ‫المر‬. (In the Christian legend the author of these letters is Baḥīrā.) Moshe Gil, the editor of the Judeo-Arabic version, described as “an appendix to the book of history” (ilḥāq ilā kitāb al-taʾrīkh), dates the text to the second half of the 10th century and assigns its authorship to Seʿadyah Gaon, who authored the book with the same title. Gil 1993, 199; Marx 1909, 299–301; Malter 1921, 172–173, 353–354.

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Islam as the ultimate revelation. After that, breaking his promise, Kaʿb finally became a Muslim, whereas the rabbi died in pain.24 After this very brief presentation of different versions of the Baḥīrā legend and the story of Muḥammad’s Jewish companions, in what does the Samaritan version in Kitāb al-Tārīkh differ from or resemble them? As mentioned above, the author of Kitāb al-Tārīkh – or more precisely the so-called “Chronicle of the Fathers,” which was his source25 – knew not only both the Christian and Jewish versions of Muḥammad’s encounter with the People of the Book, but also, at least partially, the Qurʾān and the Muslim traditions. From these sources, however, he retains only a few elements and reworks them. First, though, he describes a Christian monk, whose name is not Baḥīrā, as in the Muslim, Christian, and Jewish traditions (maybe because according to the Sīra Baḥīrā did not convert to Islam), but, rather surprisingly, ʿAbd al-Salām or ʿAbd Allāh,26 which appears somehow to be a confusion with the Jewish convert to Islam ʿAbd Allāh ibn Salām. Further, unlike most of the polemical accounts of the life of the Prophet, in which the genesis of Islam is presented as a haphazard affair, in Kitāb al-Tārīkh the appearance of Islam is foreordained. Its rise was recognized by three astrologers, a Jew, a Christian, and a Samaritan, who foretold the appearance of Muḥammad. Gerhard Wedel rightly wondered why Abū l-Fatḥ had placed an astrologer into the role of a man who negotiated for the Samaritans a treaty of protection with the upcoming world power when in other places in the book the practice of astrology (tajsīm) is assigned to adversaries of the Samaritans, that is, it has a negative meaning. Thus, false Jewish prophets allegedly deceived and tricked people with the help of astrology and witchcraft (siḥr).27 Barbara Roggema observed as well that in some Latin and Greek polemical writings an ‘astrologer’ is “just another label for a man whose activities were purposefully unorthodox and subversive”.28 Despite this, in the long Arabic recension of Baḥīrā’s story Baḥīrā states that he studied “the things described by the learned regarding astrology on the basis of the conjugations and rules of the stars and what it indicated about the reign of the Sons of Ishmael, who are the worst of all people, and what God Almighty imposed on his servants”.29 Similarly, the Jewish tradition refers to Baḥīrā as a “great

24 Perlmann 1954, 48–58. In another version it is the monk Bulukhyā (perhaps a reference to Baḥīrā) who divulges the verses to Kaʿb. Idem 1953, 85–99. 25 Vilmar’s edition, 178; Stenhouse’s edition, 190 (transl. 249). 26 ʿAbd al-Salām appears in Vilmar’s and Stenhouse’s editions; the manuscript published by Levy-Rubin contains both names, ʿAbd al-Salām and ʿAbd Allāh. 27 Wedel 2012, 400, n. 136. 28 Roggema 2009, 201. 29 Idem, 508–509.

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astrologer” (ha-tokhen ha-gadol), which is a way of diminishing the veracity of his statements because forecasting the future by reading the stars was expressly forbidden by biblical law. He is further described as a man of “uncircumcised of heart and flesh,” that is, an obdurate Christian.30 This may perhaps explain Abū l-Fatḥ’s sources and why he denotes the Jew and the Christian as astrologers, but the question remains in the case of the Samaritan Ṣarmāṣa. It is more plausible to think here together with Wedel and MacDonald of a Samaritan adaptation of the popular Christian legend about the “(three) kings or wise men from the East,” also referred to as “magicians,” who were led by a star to Judea to bow down before the new-born king of the Jews, which is based on Matthew 2:1.31 The sign by which the three astrologers are to identify the founder of the new Kingdom is a birthmark on his back the shape of the palm of one’s hand. Here Abū l-Fatḥ evinced his knowledge of Muslim tradition handed down in the Sīra and hadith literature, which speaks about “the seal of prophethood” (khātam alnubbūwa) on the Prophet’s shoulder or back. Though these sources do not mention the sign’s color, its white or yellow color in Abū l-Fatḥ’s version may refer to its depiction as a “dove’s egg” the size of a clenched fist.32 When standing in front of Muḥammad, the Jewish and Christian astrologers claim that they found in their Scriptures, that is, in the Torah and the Gospel, “that a king would arise from the stock of Ishmael to rule the world”. Abū l-Fatḥ, however, counteracts their claim by noting that “they did not know anything except from matters of their craft,” alluding to the fact that they did not find it in their Scriptures, but through astrological observations, as stated at the beginning of the story when the author speaks about the source of the knowledge of the three astrologers concerning the coming of the Kingdom of Islam, its founder, and his origin and physical traits. Unlike the Jew and the Christian, Ṣarmāṣa does not refer to his Scripture as the source of his knowledge, but outright and without resort to any authority proclaims Muḥammad to be the founder of a new religion that will rule the world. Somewhat enigmatically, he says “There is a sign for us on you (lanā fīka ʿalāma) – it is between your shoulder-blades.” As if to counter the Muslim tradition that Muḥammad’s coming is foretold in the Scriptures, it is not the Torah that presages Muḥammad’s coming and his physical traits, but the craft of astrology. That is maybe also the reason why the author used the characters of astrologers: if the Scriptures do not announce the change of the world powers and Muḥammad’s coming, from where might they have known about it? The traditional answer is from the stars. 30 Shtober 1986, 332. 31 See MacDonald 1969, 10–12; Wedel 2012, 413. 32 Muḥammad b. Saʿad 1917, 131–133. To the best of my knowledge, I am not aware of a Jewish author who refers to Muḥammad’s “seal of prophethood”.

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Further, whilst upon seeing “the seal of prophethood” the Jew and the Christian become Muslims, the Samaritan, despite Muḥammad’s insistence, refuses to convert: “I am happy in my Faith and cannot come over to you. I cannot forsake my Faith.” Though offended by Ṣarmāṣa’s staunch reply, Muḥammad asks him: “What do you want?” or “What is your purpose, O Samaritan?” (mā khaṭbuka yā sāmirī). Abū l-Fatḥ sets the dialog between Ṣarmāṣa and Muḥammad into the frame of the dialog in the Qurʾān (20:96) where Moses asks Sāmirī the same question: mā khaṭbuka yā sāmirī? After Ṣarmāṣa discloses the end of his coming, Muḥammad vouchsafes him immediately and without comment a covenant of security for the Samaritans. However, he addresses the following words to the departing Ṣarmāṣa: “O Samaritan, depart! It shall be thine all this life to cry ‘Untouchable!’ (lā misāsa) And thereafter a tryst awaits thee thou canst not fail to keep. Behold thy god, to whom all the day thou wast cleaving! We will surely burn it and scatter its ashes into the sea.” (20:97)33 As mentioned above, these words of condemnation that Abū l-Fatḥ puts in the mouth of Muḥammad reproduce the dialog taken from the Qurʾān where Moses condemns al-Sāmirī to saying, “Do not touch me” for the rest of his life, as a punishment for inducing the Israelites in the desert to throw their ornaments into a fire and producing a lowing calf. But could Moses, the only prophet of the Samaritans, as the second principle of their faith claims, really be the author of the condemnation which is the only unequivocal reference to the Samaritans in the Qurʾān? Paul Stenhouse does not read Moses’ words in their Qurʾānic meaning, that is, as a condemnation, but in relation to the covenant made with the Samaritans, i.e., as a kind of exhortation addressed to the Samaritans to keep the covenant and stay faithful to their religion, and at the same time as a pledge of security from the Muslims, and translates the verse, which in his edition appears in Samaritan script, accordingly: “In your lifetime you can indeed say ‘Let no one touch me.’ You have a pledge. Do not violate it. Look to your God whom you are still loyally following.” “Let us burn it, and then let us tear it up and throw (the pieces) into the sea.” Stenhouse understands the last sentence as Kaʿb al-Aḥbār’s “suggestion about tearing up the (leather) document” of the covenant.34 I suggest a different reading. The following sentence in Vilmar’s (and Levy-Rubin’s) edition, which Stenhouse’s edition omits, may serve as a clue: “This was the work of Kaʿb al-Aḥbār since [Ṣarmaṣa] had not done [i.e., had not converted] as he did – every 33 Arberry’s translation. The Study Quran: A New Translation and Commentary (HarperOne, 2015) translates: “Be gone! In this life it shall be yours to say, ‘Touch [me] not!’ And truly for you there is a tryst that you cannot fail to keep. Now observe your god, to whom you remained devoted: we shall surely burn it and scatter its ashes in the sea.” 34 Stenhouse 1980, clxxxi, n. 187,4.

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affliction that comes upon us is due to the Jews.”35 How are we to understand these words? As mentioned above, Kaʿb al-Aḥbār plays the role of the falsifier of the Qurʾān in both the Jewish and the Christian tradition. The latter even portrays him as the author of the anti-Christian pronouncements in the Qurʾān. A very similar meaning is conveyed by the sentence: “Every affliction that comes upon us [i.e., the Samaritans] is due to the Jews,” albeit in this case not with regard to the Christians, but the Samaritans. It seems that Abū l-Fatḥ could not accept that the only unequivocal reference to the Samaritans in the Qurʾān contains a condemnation addressed to them by Moses. Therefore, he put it into the mouth of Muḥammad, the “author” of the Qurʾān, but at the same time he impugned the authenticity of the statement – “this was the work of Kaʿb al-Aḥbār,” i.e., the author of the condemnation is not Muḥammad, but Kaʿb al-Aḥbār, who inserted it into the Qurʾān just as he had done before in other places concerning the Christians. And the reason is jealousy. He was jealous of Ṣarmāṣa, who had not converted as he did in order to protect his community. In the Jewish story about Muḥammad’s Jewish companions, Kaʿb al-Aḥbār is one of those Jewish leaders who hypocritically converted to Islam in order to protect their community against the danger from Muḥammad that threatened them. In Kitāb al-Tārīkh, however, Ṣarmāṣa succeeded in obtaining the treaty of security without having to convert. As stated at the beginning of this essay, Abū l-Fatḥ works creatively with the Muslim, Jewish, and Christian versions of Muḥammad’s encounter with the People of the Book. Especially the last-mentioned tradition is the most noticeable in his story, which ends by stating that “Kaʿb al-Aḥbār and ʿAbd al-Salām stayed with Muḥammad and Kaʿb al-Aḥbār became his secretary, organized [affairs for him] and advised him on all issues”. Indeed, in the Muslim tradition ʿAbd al-Salām “stayed” with the Prophet and became his counselor. In the later cycle of tales, which eventually developed into the Masāʾil literature, he even stars as an interrogator of Muḥammad asking questions concerning cosmological mysteries. Only the Jewish and the Christian traditions mention Kaʿb al-Aḥbār’s conversion during Muḥammad’s lifetime, as mentioned above, and only the last one, i.e., the West Syrian recension of Baḥīrā’s legend, denotes him as the one who taught “the Sons of Ishmael” “many things from the Torah and the Prophets and also some of the stories of theirs”. Therefore, he is frequently referred to as “Kaʿb the Scribe,”36 which imparts the same meaning as Abū l-Fatḥ’s “secretary” in Stenhouse’s translation of the Arabic yaktubu lahu, literally, “he [Kaʿb al-Aḥbār] wrote for him [Muḥammad]”.

35 According to Stenhouse the Paris MS mentions both Kaʿb al-Aḥbār and ʿAbd al-Salām. 36 Roggema 2009, 391; for the “scribe” see 269, 299, 303, 333.

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Unlike the Christian version, the aim of which is to explain the appearance of Islam and its difference from Christianity and its anti-Christian bias, which is the result of the Jewish tampering with the Qurʾān, and unlike the Jewish version, the aim of which is to show that it is not the Hebrew Bible but the Qurʾān which is corrupted, the Samaritan version uses the story only as scaffolding for the story of the obtaining of a treaty of peace and security (ʿahd wa mīthāq)37 for the Samaritans. In the Islamic tradition this treaty or pact, usually titled ʿAhd ʿUmar (the Pact of ʿUmar, or Shurūṭ ʿUmar), is construed as a treaty between the Muslims and Christians and contains a list of rights and restrictions applied by the Muslims to the non-Muslims (dhimmīs) under their rule.38 But while in the Islamic narrative this treaty was agreed between the caliph ʿUmar ibn al-Khaṭṭāb and the Christians of Syria or Jerusalem, here the treaty is given by the prophet Muḥammad himself and is endorsed by Muḥammad’s cousin and son-in-law ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib. In this regard, the Samaritan version rather resembles the so-called “Muḥammad’s Writ of Protection” (Dhimmat an-Nabī Muḥammad).39 Different versions of this document circulated both among Jews and Christians, who used to present it to Muslims as a basis for admonishing them for ill-treatment and exposing them as ungrateful violators of a sacred covenant vouchsafed to them by the Prophet himself. The aim of this literary forgery was to protect personal safety and the safety of possessions and freedom of worship. Similarly to the Samaritan version, Muḥammad’s Writ of Protection purported to have been dictated by Muḥammad to ʿAlī or even addressed by Muḥammad to ʿAlī as his (according to Shīʿa) rightful hereditary (waṣī). In the Jewish versions of the document (several versions from the Jews of Yemen are extant)40 Muḥammad extends his protection to the Jews and their progeny and grants them extensive privileges, which include physical security for their person and property, safe conduct, immunity from any injurious treatment, the free exercise of their religion, and exemption from the payment of taxes. The Arabic literature mentions the use of Muḥammad’s Writ of Protection by the Jews several times. In Futūḥ al-Buldān al-Balādhurī (d. 892) mentions it twice and the geographical lexicon Muʿjam al-Buldān by Yāqūt (d. 1228) states

37 The same wording appears in the Short Arabic Recension of the Baḥīrā legend, Roggema 2009, 428. Abū l-Fatḥ later uses the words ʿahd wa amān wa dhimām, which are more or less synonyms. 38 English translation of the Pact in Stillman 1979, 159–160. For the history of the text see LevyRubin 2011. 39 English translation in Stillman 1979, 255–258. Phillip I. Ackerman-Lieberman calls such documents “Muḥammadan stipulations.” Phillip I. Ackerman-Lieberman 2014. 40 A list of the versions published thus far is given by Ahroni 1998, 49–50. The oldest version of the document published Hartwig Hirschfeld 1903.

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that the Jews of Eilat keep a treaty given them by Muḥammad.41 In most versions the Jews claimed to be descendants of the Jews of Khaibar, to whom Muḥammad purportedly gave such a treaty. For example, Hilāl al-Sābī (d. 1056) mentions in his book of Wezirs a Jew of Khaibar who presented to a vezir a “forged” letter from Muḥammad that absolved the Jews of Khaibar from paying the poll tax.42 Similarly, in his anti-Jewish tract Aḥmad ibn Sāʿātī (d. 1294) attacks the Jews for having forged such documents that some Muslim scholars accepted as genuine.43 Most interestingly, Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīya, the famous Hanbalī jurist (Syria, d. 1350), claims that in the year 1301 some Jews of Damascus produced a book of treatises dictated by Muḥammad and written by ʿAlī which exempted them from the payment of jizya.44 There is a note by an anonymous scribe on the margin of al-Balādhurī’s Futūḥ al-Buldān concerning Muḥammad’s letter of protection given to the Jews of Maqnā and Banū Ḥabība, which was written by ʿAlī, that testifies to the profusion of such documents among the Jews: “And likewise it is written in all the documents possessed by the Jews that claim to be written by ʿAlī bnu Abū Ṭālib.”45 According to S. D. Goitein, all the known Jewish versions of Muḥammad’s Writ of Protection name ʿAlī as its writer.46 Therefore, it is evident that Abū l-Fatḥ’s story of a treaty given to the Samaritans by Muḥammad and written by ʿAlī was not unique; on the contrary, the Samaritans followed in the footsteps of both the Jews and the Christians. In this context we may ask what the attitude of Kitāb al-Tārīkh is to the prophet of Islam and the Qurʾān. If we take into account the Jewish and the Christian legends, their main aim is to refute the concept of the Qurʾān as a revelation. The Qurʾān is not God’s word, but the work of a Christian monk and/or Jewish sages headed by Kaʿb al-Aḥbār. When Kitāb al-Tārīkh states that the Qurʾānic verses 20:97 (though he does not name the Qurʾān) were “the work of Kaʿb al-Aḥbār,” it actually sends the reader the same message: the Qurʾān is a man-made book.

41 Yāqūt 1977, 292. 42 Hilāl al-Sābī 1904, 67. 43 Steinschneider 1877, 397–399. 44 Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīya 2002, 57–58. According to Ibn Kathīr’s al-Bidāya waʾl-Nihāya 1939 (year 700 AH) these Jews claimed to be the descendants of the Jews of Khaibar (al-Khayābira). During a session where it was demanded that they pay the jizya like the rest of the Jews, they presented a book which had supposedly been given to them by Muḥammad and in which he exempted them from payment of the jizya. Muslim scholars headed by Ibn Taymīya exposed the book as a forgery and explained to the Jews the points that convicted them of its fabrication. The Jews then paid the jizya. Vol. 14, 21. Qalqashandī writes about the same case in Ṣubḥ al-Aʿshā, vol. 13, 376–377. 45 Al-Balādhurī 1866, 59–60. 46 Goitein 1983, 296, n. 28. Cf. Rivlin 1935.

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Of course, it does so impliedly since disrespectful or offensive statements about the Prophet and the Qurʾān are punishable by death according to Islamic law. Anyone who criticizes the Qurʾān or declares it to be falsified cannot be included under the legal protection (dhimma), and that is the opposite of what Ṣarmāṣa wants from Muḥammad.47 About Muḥammad himself the story says next to nothing. Only later, at the end of the book, does the author voice the flattering statement that “Muḥammad (himself) never mistreated any of the followers of the Law” and follows with the tradition of the ancestors that “Muḥammad was a good and mighty person because he made a treaty of friendship with the Hebrew People”.48 Other Samaritan sources do not contradict this. The Tulida says that Muḥammad did good to the Samaritans.49 Thus, through its positive picture of Muḥammad the Kitāb al-Tārīkh voices the official Samaritan stance on this point. Undoubtedly, these utterances had the aim of winning the favor of the Muslims among whom the Samaritans lived when these chronicles were written.50 The Continuatio, which was, according to the colophon, copied in 1524, that is, 170 years after the original Kitāb al-Tārīkh was compiled, follows the pattern but goes a little further by designating Muḥammad as a prophet: “The prophet of Islam (nabī al-islām) did not cause anyone distress throughout his life. He would present his belief before the people, accepting who came to him, [yet] not compelling one who did not.”51 In the Kitāb al-Tārīkh Muḥammad is not a prophet, but a ruler and founder of a new religion. Of course, after al-rasūl Moses no other “true” prophet would come, and Muslim authors knew about the Samaritans’ position. For the Samaritans Muḥammad is a prophet but, of course, sent only for the Arabs, or Muslims. Foretokens of this tongue-in-cheek acquiescence, which for precautionary reasons the Christians and the Jews in Islamic countries in the Middle Ages also adopted, is already hinted at in the Tulida, which states that “Muḥammad prophesied among the Arabs in the town of Mecca”.52 Thus, even when the Continuatio marks Muḥammad as a prophet, it does not mean by it that 47 Al-Māwardī 1990, 255. Cf. Friedmann 2003, 149–52. In his manual for muḥtasibs (supervisors of the markets, professions and trades), who were also responsible for the observance of the Pact of ʿUmar, Ibn al-Ukhūwah (d. 1329) instructs that anyone who disparaged Allāh, his prophet, or Islam, should be killed. Ibn al-Ukhūwah 1938, 40. 48 Stenhouse (trans.), 249; Vilmar (ed.) 1865, 180. 49 Florentin 1999, 10a150 (p. 93). 50 Kohn 1876, 192. 51 Levy-Rubin (ed.) 2002, 53/207. 52 Florentin 1999, 10a150 (p. 93). A fatwa from the beginning of the 18th century also states that the Samaritans admit that Muḥammad was a prophet but only for the Arabs. Mittwoch 1926, 848.

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he was also sent for the Samaritans. Of course, in none the sources is there any hint that Muḥammad’s mission is universal; that he has been sent by God as a messenger for all of humankind, as the Muslims claim. Though Ṣarmāṣa admits that Muḥammad will “profess faith and law,” the Samaritans have no need of it since they have their own law and faith: “I have what I regard as necessary for me – namely the Law and [my] Faith. I am happy in my Faith and cannot come over to you. I cannot forsake my Faith.” One cannot imagine from anything said by Ṣarmāṣa that he or his fellow-Samaritans had any religious need of Muḥammad or that the descendant of Ishmael would have anything to say to them that was directly relevant to their faith and religious practice. In any case, the author of the story – unlike the Jewish and especially the Christian versions – is not interested in Muḥammad or the teachings of Islam. He presents him as a ruler and a lawgiver of the preordained Kingdom, with its own faith and law, from whom it is necessary to obtain a treaty in order to assure the future well-being of the community. In what historical context did Abū l-Fatḥ write the story of a covenant with Muḥammad? In other words, why was it written in the mid-14th century and what was its function? Primary sources about the lives of the Samaritans under the Mamlūks are sparse53 and even the late Samaritan chronicles help to dispel the mist only a little. In general, we may assume that their fate did not differ much from that of the rest of the dhimmīs. The Mamlūk period in Egypt and Syria is characterized by a waning of tolerance and a worsening of the social, economic, demographic, and legal position of religious minorities, including the Samaritans. The laws enshrined in the so-called Pact of ʿUmar were now enforced by the Mamlūk authorities with ever-increasing vigor, with the aim being the conversion of non-Muslims to Islam or their ousting from the administration.54 As early as in 1290 Sultan al-Malik al-Manṣūr prohibited non-Muslims from being employed in the administration. However, the first major campaign to crack down upon transgressors against the Pact took place in 1301 in Egypt, during which a number of churches and synagogues were vandalized or closed.55 The riots of 1301 set a pattern: riots occurred again in 1321–1322, as well as later in the century. Sultan al-Malik al-Nāṣir (1299–1309) promulgated a traditional set of discriminatory regulations concerning the dhimmīs, to which a few new ones were added. One of them stipulated that the Samaritans were henceforth required to wear red turbans in order to differentiate them (ghiyār) from both Muslims and 53 The information contained in a travelog attributed to Rabbi Isaac ben Joseph b. Chelo (1334) cannot be used as a source (although Reinhard Pummer 2016, 152 does so) since it is a forgery. See Scholem 1934, 39–53. 54 See, for example, Strauss (Ashtor) 1950, 73–94. 55 See Strauss (Ashtor) 1944, 84–103, 303–308; Little 1976, 552–569.

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other dhimmīs; blue was for Christians and yellow for Jews.56 An Egyptian writer, Qalqashandī (1355–1418), writing in his handbook of secretaryship about the persecution of the dhimmīs in 1301, states that “as a consequence of this [persecution] many converted to Islam”.57 In 1354, that is, two years after the Samaritan high priest Phinḥas had encouraged Abū l-Fatḥ to take upon himself the task of compiling a chronicle and one year before he actually sat down to write it, Sultan al-Malik al-Ṣāliḥ issued a new decree re-imposing the Pact of ʿUmar and adding new restrictions. Unlike the decrees of previous sultans, the decree of 1354 also names the Samaritans explicitly along with the Christians and Jews.58 The representatives of non-Muslims were now frequently called to reaffirm their commitment to the Pact’s stipulations.59 Both the events of 1301 and 1354 and the ensuing persecutions of the dhimmīs were the fruit of the propaganda of the Muslim intelligentsia and particularly of clerks who sought to oust non-Muslims from the administration and the service of the emirs. Many converted in order to keep their jobs. Qalqashandī reiterates that “many [dhimmīs] converted”. Similarly, the historian Salo Baron concludes that the conversions of Jews to Islam during this period “greatly contributed to the decline of the Jewish population in the Mameluke Empire”.60 Though the sources do not state it explicitly, the social and religious pressure undoubtedly also took its toll among the Samaritans, as no doubt did the Black Death and the recurrent epidemics of plague that ravaged Egypt and Syria from the mid-14th century on. Their population had at that time shrunk considerably to several thousand, or rather fewer.61 Another prominent feature of the period was the ongoing debate of Muslim lawyers concerning the legality of the construction, repair, or continuance of the sacral buildings of non-Muslims in the realm of Islam. Its threat was painfully palpable for the Samaritans. During the high priesthood of Joseph b. ʿUzzi

56 The enforcement of these regulations is confirmed by the reports of contemporary European pilgrims. See Schur 1992, 108. 57 See Qalqashandī, Ṣubḥ al-Aʿshā fī Ṣināʿat al-Inshā, vol. 13, 377–378. 58 See Qalqashandī, Ṣubḥ al-Aʿshā, vol. 13, 378–87. English translation in Stillman 1979, 273–274. 59 In Mamlūk Egypt the Samaritans were represented on such occasions by raʾīs al-Yahūd elected from among the Rabbanites, but later they are expressly mentioned along with the Christians, the Qaraites, and the Rabbanites, for example, in a document in Egypt in 1442. See Gottheil 1908, 384, 409. Cf. Strauss (Ashtor) 1951, 244. 60 Baron 1980, 183. 61 The only documented victim of the 1354 persecution is the Qaraite Moses ben Samuel, a native of Safed, who some time before 1354 moved to Damascus, where he joined the emir’s staff as a secretary. At the time of the promulgation of the decree he was at Nablus on a tour of inspection of the emir’s estates. For his account of his forced conversion and his later fate, see Nemoy 1952, 147–169; Mann 1935, 201–255.

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(1290–1308/9), the Muslims expropriated their religious center in Nablus and turned their synagogue on the “Parcel of Land” into a mosque (the so-called Green Mosque, masjid al-Khaḍra, rebuilt by Sultan al-Malik al-Manṣūr in 1290), and demolished all their buildings. The event stimulated the composition of many elegies to mourn the loss.62 A fatwā issued in 1301 by the Shāfiʿite jurist Najm al-Dīn ibn al-Rifʿa became a standard for arguments against the retention of the places of worship of nonMuslims.63 Taqī al-Dīn ibn Taymīya (1263–1328), an influential Syrian Hanbali lawyer, penned several formal legal opinions ordering synagogues and churches to be shut down (Masʾala fīʾl-Kanāʾis).64 Further legal opinions were authored by scholars such as Aḥmad ibn ʿAbd al-Ḥaqq65 and Taqī al-Dīn al-Subkī (d. 1355),66 the highest representative of the Shāfiʿite law school in Damascus, who intended by his tract (al-Dasāʾis fi ʾl-Kanāʾis, 1353) to rebut a contemporary fatwā that permitted the dhimmīs to repair their houses of prayer. In this context we may better understand why the story emphasizes the protection of personal and communal property. When Kitāb al-Tārīkh has Muḥammad instruct the scribe to draw up a covenant for the Samaritans, it includes into it “their property and houses of worship and religious endowments throughout all my realm and in all their territories”. The same formulation is also repeated by ʿAlī, who is asked to endorse the covenant. Altogether, the formulation is repeated thrice in the text, by Ṣarmāṣa, Muḥammad, and ʿAlī. While the text of the Pact of ʿUmar, which was addressed to the Christians, mentions personal and communal possessions, including churches, monasteries, monks’ cells, or hermitages, Kitāb al-Tārīkh also mentions, together with personal and religious buildings, religious endowments (awqāf, sg. waqf), possibly in order to include into the covenant all the relevant property of the Samaritan community that was expropriated by the Muslims during the high priesthood of Joseph b. ʿUzzi. When Ṣarmāṣa asks Muḥammad to give the Samaritans by the treaty “freedom to erect houses of worship,” he actually goes against the wording of the Pact of ʿUmar, where the Christians (and together with them all other dhimmīs) pledge as their first obligation: “We shall not build … any new monasteries, churches….” After the expropriations of Samaritan property and especially their religious buildings, which took place at the end of the 13th and in the first part of the 14th century, the “freedom 62 Adler and Séligsohn 1903, 128–130; Reeg 1977, 644–656. 63 Ward 1999, 70–84. 64 Fritsch 1930, 25–33; Morabia 1979, 77–107; Schreiner 1898, 559–560. For his polemic against Christianity see Thomas 2010, 247–268. 65 Schreiner 1895, 212–221. 66 Ward 1989, 169–188. See also Ibn Kathīr 1939, vol. 14, 249.

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to erect houses of worship” should have persuaded the Muslim authorities that the Samaritans had been given a special right to erect new houses of worship by Muḥammad and ʿAlī. We do not know whether the Samaritans succeeded, but we do know that the Jews used to fabricate similar documents and present them to the Muslim authorities for their own defense in which Muḥammad and ʿAlī purportedly conferred upon them exceptional privileges in contradiction of the Pact of ʿUmar and that some Muslim scholars considered them to be authentic. The emphasis on obtaining ʿAlī’s endorsement of the treaty may show that the author wanted to enhance its binding force for both the Sunni and the Shīʿa populations of Syria, similarly to Muḥammad’s Writs of Protection of the Yemenite Jews living among the Zaydīs, an offshoot of the Shīʿa sect in Islam, which also stress the uniquely prominent position of ʿAlī among Muḥammad’s associates. The Mamlūk period is also marked by a steady flow of Muslim polemical literature against dhimmīs, including the Samaritans, though these are hardly mentioned. Al-Qarāfī (Egypt, d. 1285) wrote Kitāb al-Ajwiba al-Fākhira ʿan Asʾila al-Fājira (The Glorious Answers to Wicked Questions), Saʿīd ibn Ḥasan Kitāb Masālik al-Naẓar fī Nubuwwat Sayyid al-Bashar (The Path of Investigation about the Prophethood of the Lord of Mankind), written in 1320 in Damascus, and Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyya authored Hidāyat al-Ḥayārā fī Ajwibat al-Yahūd wa-l-Naṣārā (The Guide to the Perplexed in Reply to the Jews and the Christians) from the first half of the 14th century. A subgenre of this literature is tracts directed against the employment of dhimmīs in the administration. While Ghāzī ibn al-Wāsiṭī wrote his “An Answer to the Dhimmis” (al-Radd ʿalā Ahl al-Dhimma)67 around the turn of the 13th and 14th centuries, that is, during the reign of the Mamlūk sultans Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn Ṣāliḥ and Nāṣir al-Dīn al-Ḥasan (1347–1361), when the wave of antidhimmī propaganda peaked, the Egyptian Shāfiʿite lawyer al-Asnawī penned the brief tract Al-Kalima al-Muhimma fī Mubāsharat Ahl al-Dhimma (An earnest appeal regarding the employment of Dhimmīs), among whom he also names the Samaritans.68 Probably the fullest treatment of this issue by a Mamlūk jurist was Ibn al-Naqqāsh’s treatise of 1355 against the employment of non-Muslims.69 In addition, around 1340 Muḥammad ibn Saʿīd ibn ʿAbdallah from Aleppo wrote a polemical tract against non-Muslims titled Minhāj al-Abrār fī Mukhālafat Ahl al-Nār.70 Of course, it is possible to name other polemical tracts from the time when Abū l-Fatḥ wrote his chronicle.

67 Gottheil 1921, 383–457. 68 Perlmann 1958, 172–207; idem 1940–1942, 843–861. 69 Published and translated by Belin 1851, 417–516, and 1852, 97–140. 70 See Strauss (Ashtor) 1970, 150; Goldziher 1878, 362.

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Sermons, polemical and theological works, and juristic tracts and popular riots inveighed against the benevolent behavior of Muslim elites towards protected minorities and their employment in the administration and called for the destruction or closure of their houses of prayer.71 All these tendencies, functioning – among others – as a weapon in the social struggle of madrasas’ students competing with dhimmīs for government employment, were also of great concern for the Samaritans as one, though negligible, segment of the targeted social and religious group. In order to obtain a fuller context, it is necessary to turn to a few expressions concerning Samaritans in the contemporary polemical literature and Islamic lawbooks. It was not till now, the Mamlūk period, that Muslim lawyers had felt the need to delineate the social and religious boundaries between Muslims and non-Muslims. Thus, it is not a coincidence that in the first part of the 14th century Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīya authored the most comprehensive lawbook that deals exclusively with Islamic law for dhimmīs: Aḥkām Ahl al-Dhimma (The Laws Pertaining to the Protected People). Islam generally considers the Samaritans as a People of the Book and therefore entitled to the status of dhimmi, which is related to their duty to pay the poll tax. This is already the view of the jurists Abū Yūsuf Yaʿqūb (8th century)72 and al-Māwardī (11th century).73 The 14th-century Shāfiʿī jurist Badr al-Dīn Ibn Jamāʿah (d. 1333) maintains the same in his rules governing the political organization of the Muslim people. That having been said, the Samaritans, however, form a sort of subgroup among the dhimmīs since their right to the status of dhimma is conditioned by the conformity of their basic beliefs with those of the Jews and Christians.74 Apparently, the question of their legal status in Islam remained open to a certain extent.75 In his encyclopaedia Ṣubḥ al-Aʿshā the Egyptian alQalqashandī (d. 1418) also admits that there are different opinions concerning the question whether the Samaritans are to be counted among the Jews and therefore entitled to the status of dhimma.76 Unlike the Rabbanites and the Qaraites, he states, the Shāfiʿī law school considers them to count among the Jews under the 71 See Bosworth 1979–1980, 29–36. 72 See Shemesh 1969, 84. 73 Al-Māwardī 1990, 254. 74 See al-Māwardī 1990, 254, and Koefler 1935, 27. 75 The question whether the Samaritans are a People of the Book is raised again in a fatwā in approximately 1700; the muftī’s answer is positive. Mittwoch 1926, 845–849. 76 The awareness of the difference of the Samaritans from the Rabbanites and Qaraites also found expression in the different versions of the oaths. The Jews (Yahūd), i.e., the Rabanites and Qaraites, had their own version and for the Samaritans there existed a “particular version of the oath because of their difference from other Jewish groups”. For their texts see Shihāb al-Dīn

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condition that “the roots of their religion coincide with those of the Jews; [if this is the case], they should be considered to be Jews as long as they consent to [paying] jizya, or the poll tax. Otherwise they are not [entitled to the status of dhimma].”77 Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīya dedicated a whole chapter of his lawbook to the question: “The Different Opinions of the Jurists Concerning the Samaritans: Are They Entitled to Jizya, or Not?” After surveying the opinions of a number of Muslim scholars – most were for the inclusion of the Samaritans, but some were against it – he concludes that even though they are “the most foolish and most opposed to other communities,” it would be unjust to strip them of the duty to pay the poll tax.78 Ibn Qayyim further transmits a saying of the caliph al-Maʾmūn (813–833) about the Jews, who are “the most corrupt (akhbath) among the peoples, and the worst of them are the Samaritans, and the most corrupt among the Samaritans are certain families (banū fulān).79 May their names be erased from the military and tax offices!”80 The above-mentioned Ibn al-Naqqāsh presents almost the same wording.81 These pronouncements, together with the anti-Dhimmī campaign, undoubtedly helped to shape the Muslim attitude towards the Samaritans and vice versa. The Samaritans surely did not remain unaware of the biases of the majority society and took them into consideration when voicing their attitudes and standpoints. However, the everyday reality may have looked slightly different. Though the Samaritans belonged among the dhimmīs and shared the brunt of the social and religious restrictions, and therefore may have felt emotionally allied with other dhimmīs, they preferred to get along with the dominant power in the country, that is, the Muslims, as the Muslim geographer Shams al-Dīn al-Ansārī al-Dimashqī (1256–1327) seems to hint: “It is said that when a Muslim, a Jew, a Samaritan, and a Christian come together on the road the Samaritan will take company in

al-ʿUmarī (d. 1349) 1977, 190–192, 194–195. The texts were quoted by later writers, including alQalqashandī (vol. 13, 265–266 and 270). Cf. Gottheil 1907, 535–539. 77 Qalqashandī, Ṣubḥ al-Aʿshā, vol. 13, 268. In his Sefer Divrei Yosef (1793), however, the Jewish Egyptian historian Josef Sambari roundly counts the Samaritans along with the Rabbanites and Qaraites as the recipients of the Pact (berit) concluded “in the days of their prophet [Muḥammad] by ʿUmar ibn al-Khaṭṭāb in the year 20 of their era”. Shtober (ed.) 1994, 232. 78 Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīya 2002, vol. 1, 82–83. Tranlation Wasserstrom, 1999, 163–164. 79 The names of the families are not adduced. 80 Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīya 2002, vol. 1, 170–171. 81 Belin 1851, 444. According to Belin’s French translation, Ibn Naqqāsh writes about “Les juifs de Samâra”, a town north of Baghdad, which is obviously an error on the part of either the translator or a scribe. For al-Maʾmūn’s attitude towards the Samaritans see Grossman 1979, 99–101.

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preference with the Muslim.”82 Despite this, all the communities could unite for a common cause in a time of emergency. Thus in 1348, when a plague broke out in Damascus and other places in Syria, Muslims, Jews, Christians, and Samaritans fasted for three days and then marched together in a procession to the Masjid al-Qadam mosque, praying side by side.83 Let us return to Abū al-Fatḥ’s Kitāb al-Tārīkh. It was written in 1355, that is, a year after the wave of anti-dhimmī propaganda and legislation peaked in the sultan Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn Ṣāliḥ’s decree of 1354. The Muslim pressure created substantial opposition on the part of the Samaritans, which expressed itself in the figure of the high priest, Phinḥas b. Yūsuf (1308–1363), who established a religious movement among the Samaritans to reinforce their faith and stand up against the pressure to convert to Islam. We can therefore interpret Phinḥas’ instructions to Abū al-Fatḥ to write a Chronicle that concludes with the story about the treaty with Muḥammad as a part of his efforts to prop up the religious identity of the community and, to use Paul Stenhouse’s words, to “bring the Samaritans back to study of and love for their religion and their tradition; and last but not least, to bring some grounds for pride and hope to a people oppressed not only by recent events but by a long history of persecution and frustration of national and religious ideals”.84 To sum up or conclude: 1. The aim of the story is to strengthen the Samaritans in their faith and prevent conversions. Unlike the Christian and Jewish astrologers, who see in the birthmark between Muḥammad’s shoulders a seal of the prophecy and convert, the Samaritan is unwilling to convert to Islam because his “needs are satisfied by his law and faith”. 2. The author of Kitāb al-Tārīkh is not interested in explaining the coming of Islam and its teachings; he is distinctly Samaritano-centric and focuses only on the religious and legal condition of the Samaritans under Islam. 3. The story of a treaty with Muḥammad emphasizes the security of persons, property, and religious endowments and the freedom to erect houses of worship. In this regard it actually goes against the wording of the Pact of ʿUmar, which explicitly stipulates that dhimmīs cannot erect new houses of worship. This step is understandable if we take into account the closing, expropriation, and destruction of the Samaritan houses of worship and their personal property.

82 Al-Dimashqī, Muḥammad b. Abī 1866, 200–201. The translation is taken from Le Strange 1890, 513. 83 Ibn Kathīr 1939, vol. 14, 226. 84 Stenhouse 1989, 264.

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4. The story is a response to the attacks in contemporary Muslim polemical literature and lawbooks that questioned the legal status of the Samaritans. 5. In the Qurʾān Sāmirī incites the people of Israel to make the Golden Calf, for which he is punished by Moses by having to say all through his life: “Touch me not; and there is a promise of punishment for thee which shall not fail to be fulfilled about thee.” Abūʾl-Fatḥ puts these words not into the mouth of Moses, but Muḥammad after he gave the treaty to Ṣarmāṣa. The text continues that “this was done by Kaʿb al-Aḥbār since [Ṣarmāṣa] had not converted as he did, and every affliction that comes upon us is due to the Jews”. According to the Christian Baḥīrā legend, all the anti-Christian polemics of the Qurʾān are Jewish interpolations introduced by Kaʿb al-Ahbār, ʿAbd Allāh ibn Salām, and others. In the Samaritan version this anti-Samaritan pronouncement, the only one in the Qurʾān is also the work of a Jew, Kaʿb al-Ahbār. Thus, this condemnation of Sāmirī was not in fact uttered by Moses nor by Muḥammad, but smuggled into the Qurʾān by Kaʿb al-Ahbār as retaliation for the Samaritans’ unwillingness to convert to Islam. This is corroborated by the next sentence, that Kaʿb al-Ahbār and ʿAbd Allāh ibn Salām stayed with Muḥammad, and that Kaʿb al-Ahbār did Muḥammad’s writings and taught him about everything. This could be a reminiscence of the legend according to which Kaʿb “the Scribe,” one of the ten Jews who converted to Islam, was Muḥammad’s mentor, and tampered with the Qurʾān. Finally, Abū al-Fatḥ’s version of Muḥammad’s encounter with a Samaritan, a Jew, and a Christian may be perceived as a Samaritan attempt to rewrite the history of rival communities that the intellectual historian Amos Funkenstein calls a counterhistory. He defines it as “the systematic exploitation of the adversary’s most trusted sources against their grain – ‘die Geschichte gegen den Strich kämmen’. Their aim is the distortion of the adversary’s self-image, of his identity, through the deconstruction of his memory.”85 The Samaritan story of the encounter with Muḥammad and the charter of protection given by him and by ʿAlī confirms that counterhistory is often employed by marginal groups who try to challenge the view of history of the majority. The Christian and Jewish accounts of the encounter with Muḥammad also constitute counterhistories of the origins of Islam. But whilst they are apparently the reflection of a vague notion current in Christian and Jewish circles concerning the Christian and Jewish share in the evolution of the new religion and the personal contacts of some of their Arabian brethren with its founder, the Samaritan account is a mere fiction. In fact, the Muslim sources do not contain any information about Muḥammad’s encounter with the Samaritans. However, that does not

85 Funkenstein 1993, 36.

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prevent them from appropriating the historical accounts from Muslim, Christian, and Jewish traditions and from trying to reshape them according to their understanding of how Islam came into being. The difference is that unlike the Christian and Jewish accounts, the Samaritan version is not so unambiguously and scathingly polemical, definitely not in regard to Islam. Its appropriation of the historical accounts mainly aims at securing for the Samaritans, in their own eyes and the eyes of the Muslims, a presence at the dawn of Islam and their legal protection that were so challenged at the time when Abū al-Fatḥ wrote Kitāb al-Tārīkh.

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Stefan Schorch

An Unknown and Unique Samaritan Arabic Introductory Prayer by Abū l-Ḥasan al-Ṣūrī (11th Century) In 2013, the Library of the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia acquired a remarkable manuscript, now catalogued as MS Codex 1649. The codex, which was (re-) bound in the 19th century, consists of 307 leaves and presents a collection of several texts in Arabic and Hebrew, with notes in Latin. Tzvi Langerman, who recently studied it and provided the description for the library catalogue, identified within the codex in particular three medical handbooks. These were originally composed in the 10th and 11th centuries, then copied and compiled in the middle of the 15th century in Sicily by a Jewish physician within the cultural milieu of Jewish refugees from Spain.1 While these three compositions certainly form by far the biggest part of the manuscript in question, the codex contains some additional parts, namely “Notes in Arabic, Samaritan, and Hebrew,” in the words of the library catalogue. The following article focusses mainly on one of the Samaritan texts found in the codex, a so far unknown prayer in Arabic language, composed by the Samaritan author Abū l-Ḥasan al-Ṣūrī (11th century), providing an edition, translation, and a literary and historical analysis. Due to the absence of any description of the Samaritan parts of MS Codex 1649, however, a short overview in the latter regard seems required, which precedes the examination of Abū l-Ḥasan’s prayer.

1 See the description of the manuscript in the catalogue: http://dla.library.upenn.edu/dla/ medren/record.html?q=judeo%20arabic&id=MEDREN_6300100& (last access 27 September 2017), as well as Langermann 2017. Note: The edition and the translation of the Arabic prayer are the result of a close co-operation with Daniel Boušek (Charles University Prague), cf. below, 2.1. Gregor Schwarb (SOAS, University of London) and Hassan Ansari (Institute for Advanced Study, Princeton) have provided their most valuable advice. The research on the manuscript has been made possible by a fellowship at the Herbert D. Katz Center for Advanced Judaic Studies, University of Philadelphia, 2014–2015, spent in the extremely interesting und stimulating intellectual environment created by both scholars and the staff. Arthur Kiron, Schottenstein-Jesselson Curator of Judaica Collections at U Penn Library, first drew my attention to the manuscript, Amey A. Hutchins, and Lynn Ransom, Curators at the Schoenberg Institute for Manuscript Studies, made it available to Daniel Boušek and me for study. My thanks are due to all of them; the remaining mistakes are naturally under my own responsibility. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110617306-008

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At the same time, the perspective on the Samaritan parts of MS Codex 1649 as a whole provides some data which could possibly help with the understanding of the context, in which the rather unique text from Abū l-Ḥasan’s pen has been transmitted.

1 The Samaritan Parts of MS Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Library, Codex 1649 – Overview The Samaritan parts assembled in this codex are of quite diverse origins, as is demonstrated by the different types of paper, and the different degree of wear and tear. On account of these and more codicological details, especially two parts can be discerned: – Five bifolia of paper produced in the late 19th or early 20th century contain almost no signs of use from the hands of earlier readers. While three of these folia are bound with the volume, two more are loose or became loose. The date of these sheets can be inferred from both their watermark, as well as from comparative data stemming from other Samaritan manuscripts: While Samaritan scribes in the 19th century used mainly Italian paper, most of the Samaritan manuscripts that were copied in the early 20th century are written on paper from Great Britain,2 apparently in accordance with the kind of paper available at the time in Nablus. The watermark indicates the brand “Pirie’s old style” (Fig. 1), a paper produced by a mill in Aberdeen, which was used for at least one other Samaritan manuscript, dating to 1907 and kept today in the British library.3 – Twelve leaves of paper are visibly older, heavily used and stained. They apparently formed originally a quire of six folded sheets. Like the material, the respective texts found in the two different parts are of a quite diverse character. The more recent paper bifolia passages form a well-known Samaritan Hebrew chronicle, the Tūlīda, together with other passages of historic content. The language of the text is Neo Samaritan Hebrew, and the writing is Samaritan Hebrew cursive script. 2 See Crown 2001, 107. 3 MS London British Library 10715, see Crown 1998, 69–70 (entry no. 49).

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Fig. 1: Watermarked paper of the Neo Samaritan Hebrew parts of the manuscript.

The pages bear two different paginations; one was executed in Arabic script and in ink, and the other one in the numerals of the modern Latin script, and in pencil. The Arabic pagination seems to have been carried out by the same hand as the text of the manuscript, while it seems a non-Samaritan, most probably the antiquities dealer or an earlier collector, added the Latin pagination. Both paginations indicate that the manuscript in the present form lacks its first 39 pages, which means 10 bifolia. This correspondence seems to demonstrate that the manuscript left Samaritan hands in its full extent, and the beginning was lost only afterwards. The passage from the Tūlīda mentioned above comes from the youngest layer of that text, starting with the record of a traumatic event in Samaritan history, namely the death of the last Samaritan High priest from the line of the Biblical High priest Aaron’s oldest son Eleazar, and the subsequent transferal of the Samaritan High priesthood to a secondary priestly line in the year 1624 (Fig. 2).4 The wording of this passage follows exactly the version known from the Tūlīda.5 4 See Schur 1992, 125. 5 Tulida III: 1–2 (Florentin 1999, 123).

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Fig. 2: A passage from the Tūlīda, starting in the middle of the page.

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By contrast, neither the continuation of the text in the following part of the manuscript, nor the few lines that are visible on the page before are known from the manuscripts of the Tūlīda that have been edited so far. The second and older Samaritan manuscript found within this volume is preserved in full. However its first folio must have become loose before the volume was rebound, since it was misplaced a few pages apart from the remainder of the quire, and put into the volume in the wrong direction. This first folio is damaged on the upper part and was mended in a somewhat inattentive way. Repairs like this are quite commonly found in Samaritan manuscripts, and we can assume that it was done by the Samaritan owner before he sold the manuscript. The title page provides us with the author and the title of the composition, namely “The certainty of the Second kingdom, by the Elder Ġazāl ad-Duwaik” (Ṯubūt al-daula al-ṯāniya li-l-Šaiḫ Ġazāl al-Duwaik) (Fig. 3). Ġazāl (or in Hebrew ‫ )טביה‬al-Duwaik is a well know Samaritan theologian and prolific author, who most probably lived in the 13th century.6 His rather short text “The certainty of the Second kingdom” deals with eschatology, specifically with the exegetical proofs from the Torah for the coming of God’s future kingdom.7 The manuscript is executed in a very fine manner, at least in comparison with many other Samaritan manuscripts. The main text is written in Arabic language, and in Arabic script. This corresponds with the general usage among the Samaritans, except in the case of Arabic translations of the Tora, where the Samaritans often used their Hebrew script for the text of the Arabic translation, too. Quotations of the proof texts from the Torah, however, appear mostly in the Samaritan Hebrew script. Moreover, for the sake of graphical distinction between the two main components of the tractate, the main text and the proof texts, and in order to lend the appearance of the Biblical proof texts a special grandeur, the latter are generally written in red ink, as opposed to the blank ink used for the Arabic text (Fig. 4). However, in addition to the Hebrew quotations marked by Hebrew script and red ink, there are some quotations from the Hebrew text of the Torah, which appear in transcription into Arabic letters. In those parts, in order to discern the Hebrew quotations in Arabic letters from the surrounding Arabic text, the transcribed words are each marked by a horizontal line above them. The Arabic text of the composition is followed by a colophon in Neo Samaritan Hebrew, providing the name of the scribe, the date of the manuscript, and the client who commissioned the manuscript (Fig. 5):

6 Weigelt 2013, 363–364. 7 Weigelt 2013, 363.

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Fig. 3: Title page of Ġazāl al-Duwaik’s Ṯubūt al-daula al-ṯāniya.

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Fig. 4: Page from Ġazāl al-Duwaik’s Ṯubūt al-daula al-ṯāniya.

Finished on Thursday, 14 Sha’ban 1081 of the reign of the Ismaelites [= 27th December 1670 CE], by the poor servant Ab Sakuwwa b. Abraham b. Ismael of the Danfi family, may the Lord of mastership forgive him. And (the manuscript was written) in the name of the supporter and noble Isaac, son of the supporter of the congregation and noble of the congregation Abraham of the Marhiv family, who is in the possession of all knowledge and wisdom, may blessing be on him. Amen, amen, with the help of the true prophet. Amen. Copied in the City of the Philistines [= Gaza].

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Fig. 5: The colophon of Ġazāl al-Duwaik’s Ṯubūt al-daula al-ṯāniya.

On account of this date, the present manuscript is by far the oldest and the most important of the extant textual witnesses of Ġazāl al-Duwaik’s Ṯubūt al-daula al-ṯāniya, as far as I am aware. Ab Sakuwwa b. Abraham (1654–1770), the scribe of this manuscript, is one of the most productive scribes among the Samaritans of all generations, as far as we can judge from the evidence at hand. At least 15 among those manuscripts that are known and catalogued today can be attributed to him,8 covering a wide range of different texts. Moreover, there seems to be reliable proof that Ab Sakuwwa was considered a scribal expert of his time, since he was commissioned as a scribe not only in the case of the present manuscript, but has also written at least seven marriage contracts for different clients.9 Although he himself was from Nablus and used to live there, he copied manuscripts for Samaritan families living outside of Nablus too, like in the present case for a client in Gaza. 8 Crown 2001, 396–397 (entry no. 50). 9 Ibid.

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This latter city was one of the last places, where Samaritans lived outside Nablus. A Samaritan presence in Gaza is attested as late as 1726, but seems to have ceased shortly afterwards.10 Thus, although the manuscript was apparently kept first in Gaza, it finally must have made its way to Nablus, the only place where a Samaritan community survived since the second half of the 18th century. The colophon ends on the upper part of the last of the inner pages of the manuscript, leaving more than half of that page empty. At a later stage, as indicated by the later script, the empty space was filled by a Samaritan scribe, who seems to have taken notes for an amulet, since this passage does present a typical Samaritan way of writing an amulet. The lower part of the page, which was cut apart, even might have become a manifest amulet. The secondary use of the empty parts of this page might be one expression of the extremely poor state in which the Samaritan community had found itself in the 18th and 19th centuries. Paper was expensive and rare, and therefore empty parts of older manuscripts were often re-used. The inner eight folios of the quire seem to have formed originally a small booklet, with the text running from 1v through 8r, with the front page (= 1r) bearing just the title and the name of the author, and the back page being left empty. However, like the space after the colophon, the backside of the cover did not remain empty. A later Samaritan scribe copied on it yet a further text, the already mentioned prayer from the hand of Abū l-Ḥasan al-Ṣūrī (Fig. 6). It is this text, probably the most interesting and exciting of all the Samaritan texts contained in this codex, to which I would like to turn the attention in the following.

2 Abū l-Ḥasan al-Ṣūrī’s Arabic Introductory Prayer 2.1 Edition and Translation of the Text (Jointly with Daniel Boušek) [i] [ii] [iii] [iv] [v]

 (Prayer) to be said before (the prayer called) “Direction of intention,”  when one turns his face towards the Qibla.  This is a composition of the venerable Abū l-Ḥasan al-Ṣūrī,  may God have mercy with him, Amen.  He says:

10 Schur 1992, 136.

‫تقال قبل عقد النية‬ ‫لما يتوجه الى القبلة‬ ‫وذلك تاليف الشيح ابو الحسن الصورى‬ ‫يرحمه الله امين‬ ‫يقول‬

140  [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] [18] [19]

 Stefan Schorch

 God,  I have turned my face towards you,  facing the place chosen for your worship  and the seat of your residence,  and the site for your offerings.  I confess that you are the Lord,  I acknowledge your oneness,  I believe in your prophet,  I confirm your law,  and I venerate you in worship  that no one is entitled to but you,  because you are the One being from eternity,  the first without beginning, and the last without end,  the creator of the creations,  beginning with the choicest grace, which is life,  because it is the reason for every grace,  and through it is given the obligation of obedience to the law.  With your mighty name opens each utterance,  because you are the reason of all beginning.

[sub]  (The prayer) ends and generously encompasses everything.

‫اللهم‬ ‫انني وجهت وجهي اليك‬ ‫متجهه الي الموضع المختار لعبادتك‬ ‫ومقر لسكينتك‬ ‫ومحل لقرابينك‬ ‫مقرًا بربوبيتك‬ ‫ومعترف بوحدانيتك‬ ‫ومصدق لنبيك‬ ‫ومثبت لشريعتك‬ ‫ومتعبد اليك بعبادة‬ ‫ال يستحقها احدا سواك‬ ‫النك الواحد القديم‬ ‫االول بال بداية واالخر بال نهاية‬ ‫خالق المخلوقات‬ ‫ومبتد باول النعم وهي الحيوة‬ ‫النها االصل لكل نعمة‬ ‫وبها ينال التكليف‬ ‫ويستفتح باسمك العظيم كل ذي مقالة‬ ‫بانك االصل لكل ذي بداية‬ ‫تمت وبالخير عمت‬

2.2 Introduction The manuscript page with the prayer contains three separate literary units: the superscript indicates the function of the following prayer and identifies the latter’s author as Abū l-Ḥasan al-Ṣūrī (= lines i–v of the edition), the main part consists of the prayer itself (=  lines 1–19), followed by a concluding formulaic subscription (= sub). All parts are written in Arabic script and language, and by the same hand, but the superscript is set apart graphically from the main part, through broader margins on both sides, smaller letters, and an empty line between the superscript and the main part. The concluding formula, on the other hand, although obviously no less of peritextual character than the superscript, is not graphically distinguished from the main part.

An Unknown and Unique Samaritan Arabic Introductory Prayer 

Fig. 6: Abū l-Ḥasan’s prayer.

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Abū l-Ḥasan al-Ṣūrī, whom the title credits with authorship of the following text, most probably lived in Damascus, apparently in the 11th century.11 Also known by his Aramaic name Ab Isda (‫)אב חסדה‬, this important Samaritan author stands on the threshold between the period during which Aramaic was the common vernacular within the Samaritan community, and the following era when the Samaritans generally spoke Arabic. The transition from one vernacular to the other corresponded with changes in the use of written languages, but it was not identical with it: while Aramaic was used for literary compositions until the 11th century, Arabic became the predominant literary language of the following period, generally applied for all new literary compositions, except liturgical poetry and, to some extent, historical chronicles. At the same time, however, the loss of Aramaic also led into a revival of the Hebrew language within the Samaritan community and finally, in the late 13th and 14th centuries, to the emergence of Neo Samaritan Hebrew.12 After the demise of Aramaic, virtually every new piece of liturgical poetry was written exclusively in Samaritan Hebrew. Abū l-Ḥasan’s literary activity, as far as the respective attributions and traditions of authorship are reliable, seems to be a good illustration of this period of profound linguistic change: on the one hand, he was the author of an Aramaic prayer, which became a well-known part of the liturgy, namely ‫אלה רב ולית כותה‬ ēla rab wlit kābāte – “God is great, and there is no one like him,”13 according to the Samaritan tradition. On the other hand, he also composed at least two prayers in Samaritan Hebrew.14 And finally, and maybe most importantly, most of his oeuvre, as far as we know it, was written in Arabic, and he is beyond any doubt one of the most prolific and most influential Samaritan Arabic authors of all time, having written at least five substantial treatises in that language—namely, two commentaries on different passages from the Samaritan Torah, one book on the calculation of the calendar and the festivals (Kitāb al-maʿād), and, above all, Kitāb al-ṭabāḫ, the most important handbook of Samaritan Halakha.15 At least one further treatise, Kitāb fī bāb al-qibla “Treatise on the subject of the direction of prayer,” is known to have been authored by Abū l-Ḥasan, but it has survived only in a later summary and in quotes.16 Thus, Abū l-Ḥasan was a well-versed

11 The most comprehensive overview over life and oeuvre of this important scholar can be found in Shehadeh 1977, 13–48; some additional aspects are provided by Wedel 1987, 6–13. 12 Shehadeh 1983; Florentin 2005, 69–72. 13 Cowley 1909, 70–72, and Ben-Hayyim 1967, 274–280. 14 See Florentin 2003–2004; Florentin 2009. 15 An edition of the first part was published by Wedel 1987, see Weigelt 2017, 202–203. The word ‫ طباخ‬from the title is often rendered as ṭabbāḫ “cook,” but see Schwarb 2018, note 1 for the preferable reading ṭabāḫ, i.e., “Book of Insight”. 16 See Schwarb 2018, 1.

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author in all the three languages that were in use amongst the Samaritans during his lifetime, and he wrote in diverse literary genres. The claim for Abū l-Ḥasan’s authorship of the prayer only is found in the superscript, which is most probably a later addition (see below, 2.3.). We will therefore have to reconsider the credibility of this attribution. Naturally, the scarcity of available sources does not allow for proof in the strictest sense. However, the following detailed analysis of the prayer itself (see below, 2.4.) demonstrates that the claim for Abū l-Ḥasan as the author is at least plausible, and we therefore seem to have little reason to doubt the statement of the superscript (see below, 2.5.).

2.3 The Superscript The superscript explains the Sitz im Leben of the main text. Accordingly, the following text is defined as a prayer, even if the term ‫ صالة‬ṣalāh is not mentioned explicitly in the peritext, but only hinted at by the feminine form of the initial verb ‫ تقال‬tuqāl “it [i.e., the prayer] shall be said”. That the following text is indeed specifically conceived of as ṣalāh “ritual prayer” is obvious from the function defined by the superscript, but it also becomes clear from the text of the prayer itself (see below, commentary on line 10: “I venerate you in worship”). The specific purpose of the present prayer is to accompany and to interpret the first act of each Samaritan ritual prayer, namely the turning of the face in the direction of Mount Gerizim. This direction of prayer is called ‫ قبلة‬qibla in the superscript, in accordance with the common Islamic terminus technicus and most probably borrowed from it, since there is no distinct Hebrew or Aramaic equivalent of the term which could have been translated into Arabic by way of an inner-Samaritan development.17 Although the term qibla does not occur in the prayer itself, but only in the peritext, it certainly was known to Abū l-Ḥasan and was part of the terminology he applied, as can be seen in those parts of Kitāb al-ṭabāḫ that deal with the direction of prayer,18 as well as from his book Kitāb fī bāb al-qibla. Interestingly, however, in all the occurrences of qibla in his texts, Abū l-Ḥasan never uses the word in the sense of one specific orientation, but always as a general category for any “direction of prayer”. Thus, while turning towards Mount

17 The same borrowing is attested in Judeo-Arabic beginning with Saadia Gaon (10th century), and among the Karaites since Ali b. Sulaiman (11th century) see Wieder 1946, 96 note 300; Blau 2006, 526 s.v. 18 Wedel 1987, 216–226 and 309.

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Gerizim is for Abū l-Ḥasan the Samaritan qibla, it is certainly not the (only) Qibla. This can be well observed in the following chapter title from Kitāb al-ṭabāḫ:19 Chapter about the difference between our Samaritan companions […] and the two groups of Karaite and Rabbanite Jews with respect to the subject of the qibla [‫ الخلف في باب القبلة‬al-ḫulf fī bāb al-qibla].

The usage of qibla in this chapter title and elsewhere in Abū l-Ḥasan’s own writings does not seem to conform with the usage in the superscript of the prayer published here, where al-qibla, without any further qualification, means specifically the Samaritan Qibla towards Mount Gerizim (line ii). This difference in usage and meaning of qibla suggests that the superscript was added later, and not by Abū l-Ḥasan himself, who probably would have applied the term ‫ جهة معينة‬ğiha muʿayyana “particular direction,” as in the following chapter title from Kitāb al-ṭabāḫ:20 Chapter about the required orientation [‫ ]وجوب القصد‬for the worship of God, may he be exalted, towards a particular direction and a special place [‫]الى جهة معينة ومكان مخصوص‬.

The passages from Kitāb al-ṭabāḫ as well as the treatise Kitāb fī bāb al-qibla itself demonstrate that the direction of prayer was an important topic in Abū l-Ḥasan’s oeuvre, and the present prayer thus shows a further point of contact between the different fields of his intellectual and literary activity. According to all available evidence, the Arabic language never seems to have entered the Samaritan liturgy.21 Although there are numerous manuscripts, which contain the Arabic translation of parts of the Samaritan liturgy besides the Aramaic or Hebrew original, there is no indication that these Arabic versions were ever recited during the regular prayer. The present text, therefore, is remarkable in this regard, since not only does it seem to have been composed in Arabic from the outset (see below, 2.5.), but it has been identified as part of the regular prayer by the peritext ‫ تقال قبل عقد النية‬tuqāl qabla ʿAqd al-niyya “to be said before (the prayer called) ‘Direction of intention’” (line i). The prayer referred to by the name ʿAqd al-niyya is well known as the opening of each of the regular Samaritan

19 Wedel 1987, 218 and *144. 20 Wedel 1987, 216 and *141. 21 Above all, the Defter as the standard collection of the Samaritan liturgy, attested in manuscripts since the 14th century, does not contain a single prayer or hymn in Arabic. Outside the liturgy, especially for joyous occasions, Arabic poems have been in use, see Shehadeh 2000 (note, however, that the title of this important contribution, “The Arabic Liturgy,” is somewhat misleading, in light of the aforementioned limited and “unofficial” use of the Arabic language in for religious purposes).

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prayers, and its Arabic designation used here is the same as the one found in the peritextual notes of many manuscripts of the Samaritan liturgy.22 According to these manuscripts (and the liturgical praxis current in the Samaritan community until today), there are two different versions of this prayer, namely ‫עמדתי קמך‬ ʿāmadti kammək “I stood up in front of you,”23 designated in the Arabic peritexts of these manuscripts as ʿAqd al-niyya al-kabīra “The long prayer ‘Direction of intention’”, and ‫“ מרי לא נסגד לעלם אלא לך‬Lord, we will no one venerate but you,“24 called ʿAqd al-niyya al-ṣaġīra “The short prayer ‘Direction of intention’”. Like qibla, the term niyya most likely is borrowed from the Islamic concept.25

2.4 The Prayer – A Commentary on Single Passages In terms of its literary structure, Abū l-Ḥasan’s prayer consists of four parts: (A) Invocation of God (line 1) (B) Declaration I (lines 2–5): Performance of turning the face to the Qibla. (C) Profession of faith (lines 6–11): Samaritan creed. (D) Glorification I (lines 12–17): God’s attributes. (E) Declaration II (line 18): Performative utterance of God’s name as the incipit of prayer. (F) Glorification II (line 19): God as the beginning of everything. (Line 1–2) Aḷḷāhumma innanī […] – “God, surely I have […]” The opening of a prayer with the invocation Aḷḷāhumma, in the vocative, followed by the self-presentation of the praying individual innī “Behold I am…” is a typical feature of early Muslim prayer traditions, specifically of prayers attributed to Mohammad, provided as a model for praying, e.g.:26 ‫“ – اللهم إني أعوذ بك‬O Allah! I seek refuge with You” (no. 1324) ‫“ – اللهم إني أسألك من فضلك‬O Allah! I ask you of your bounty” (no. 1652)

22 See Cowley 1909 (I), 3. 23 Ibidem, and Ben-Hayyim 1967, 365. 24 Cowley 1909 (I), 3. 25 See Wensinck 1960–2007. 26 Quoted from Saḥīḥ Muslim, Kitāb al-masāğid wa-mawāḍiʿ al-ṣalāh.

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Within the corpus of Samaritan liturgical prayers, on the other hand, this literary feature has no analogy, although several prayers open with a direct invocation, e.g.: ‫ חילה רמה‬īla rāma – “Exalted God!” (Amram Dare 11)27 ‫ אלהים רחמנה‬Ēluwwəm rēmmāna – “Merciful God!” (Amram Dare 28)28 ‫ אלהים קעימה‬Ēluwwəm qayyāma – “Living God!” (Marqe 10)29 However, in none of the Aramaic or Hebrew prayers found in the manuscripts of the Samaritan liturgy is this invocation followed by the self-presentation of the praying individual. It seems thus that the opening of Abū l-Ḥasan’s prayer applies a stylistic feature that is typical for Arabic prayers, but has no parallels in the Samaritan Aramaic and Samaritan Hebrew literary traditions, which adds further evidence in favor of the conclusion already stated above that the present prayer was originally written in Arabic. We may add here that Abū l-Ḥasan seems to have been well-versed in the Arabic literary traditions of Islam. (Line 2) innanī waǧǧahtu waǧhiya ilayka – “I have turned my face towards you” The opening of part B of the prayer, covering lines 2–5, consists of a performative speech act, which corresponds to the probably simultaneously performed act of turning the face towards Mount Gerizim itself. As already mentioned above, the formula inn(an)ī waǧǧahtu waǧhiya (ʾilayka) seems to be taken directly from the Qurʾan, Sura 6:79. Within this text, it is Ibrahim who utters these words, when he abandons all wrong beliefs and turns towards the true God: “Indeed, I have turned my face toward Him who created the heavens and the earth.” In the Islamic tradition, this saying has been understood as a reference to and proof of the qibla.30 As is well known, Islamic sources speak of two qiblas, the earlier towards Jerusalem, and the later towards the Kaaba in Mecca.31 Among these two, the Meccan qibla is regarded as Abraham’s qibla, because Ibrahim, according to the Islamic tradition, was the builder of the Kaaba, a tradition drawing on the biblical story found in Gen 12:6–8 that Abraham erected an altar.32 According to the biblical text, this altar was situated near Shechem, 27 Ben-Hayyim 1967, 65. 28 Ben-Hayyim 1967, 117. 29 Ben-Hayyim 1967, 193. 30 Josua 2016, 436. 31 Rubin 2008, 348–351; Wensinck, and King 1960–2007. 32 Cf. Qurʾan Surah 2:127, see Busse 2008.

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providing immediate reason for Samaritan exegesis of the Torah to read this passage as a reference to the altar on Mount Gerizim.33 From that perspective, the qurʾanic view of both Ibrahim and his qibla present a counter-story to the Samaritan reception of the biblical tradition, and to Samaritan self-conception. Abū l-Ḥasan’s adoption of the qurʾanic passage in the opening line of his prayer seems therefore a quite purposeful means of polemics, aiming at strengthening the identity of the Samaritan minority living in the cultural environment of Islam through re-contextualizing the qurʾanic passage within the parameters of the Samaritan tradition. Accordingly, Ibrahim’s altar was not in Mecca, as in the qurʾanic tradition (cf. Surah 3:96–97; 2:125), but in the vicinity of Shechem, and Ibrahim’s words as preserved in the Qurʾan can therefore only relate to Mount Gerizim. This interpretation is consolidated in the immediate continuation: (Line 3) muttaǧihahu ilā l-mauḍiʿ al-muḫtār li-ʿibādatika – “facing the place chosen for your worship” While the opening formula seems to refer more to the right intention of the praying individual, the right intention is connected by Abū l-Ḥasan with the right direction, which is the chosen place. While these terms originate of course in the Book of Deuteronomy, the specific Arabic formula al-mauḍiʿ al-muḫtār li-ʿibādat Aḷḷāh is also part of Abū l-Ḥasan’s theological terminology, found especially in his Kitāb al-ṭabāḫ.34 The paronomastic repetition waǧǧahtu waǧhiya […] muttaǧihahu  – “I faced my face […] facing” is not only a stylistic device, but clarifies that the right intention and the right direction are intertwined: they may be two different aspects, but they cannot be separated one from the other. In the following, Abū l-Ḥasan evokes two further designations of Mount Gerizim, besides al-mauḍiʿ al-muḫtār li-ʿibāda, namely: (Lines 4–5) maqarr li-sakīnatika wa-maḥall li-qarābīnaka – “the seat of your presence and the site for your offerings” Like the preceding mention of the “chosen place,” this passage alludes to the functions of the Holy place of Israel mentioned in the Torah. Again, terms and formula are not exclusive to this prayer, but can be found in Abū l-Ḥasan’s Kitāb al-ṭabāḫ

33 Tebat Marqe II:44 (Ben-Hayyim 1988, 143). 34 Wedel 1987, 340–341.

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as well.35 What seems remarkable, however, is the fact that Abū l-Ḥasan refers to Mount Gerizim by no less than three different designations. While this is without any doubt further proof of his skillful handling of stylistic means, helping to emphasize the great importance of this place, it involves at the same time an exegetical tradition, which plays a quite prominent role in Samaritan exegesis, namely the tradition about the different names of Mount Gerizim. The most obvious expression of that tradition is found in Book II of the Samaritan midrashic collection Tebat Marqe and presents a list of 13 different names of Mount Gerizim, all from the Pentateuch, under the heading: ‫“ – ולו שלשה עשר שם בתורה כל שם מהם מגיד בכבודו‬And it has 13 names, each of which tells its glory.”36 Similar lists of names are well represented in the whole ancient Near East, from the Babylonian list of the names of Marduk37 to the lists of names for Jerusalem in Jewish midrashim38 and the Islamic lists of names for the prophet Muhammad.39 Therefore, the device is neither unique to the Samaritans, nor was it invented by the authors of Tebat Marqe or by Abū l-Ḥasan. Against this background, it seems highly significant that the list found in Tebat Marqe, containing names like ‫( הר הקדם‬Gen 10:30), ‫( בית אל‬Gen 28), ‫( בית אלהים‬Gen 28), ‫שער השמים‬ (Gen 28) etc., is very different from the list presented by Abū l-Ḥasan in his prayer. Since the midrash Tebat Marqe is a rather prominent text within the Samaritan tradition, this hardly can be incidental. Rather, it seems to suggest that Abū l-Ḥasan did not know the specific list attested to in Tebat Marqe, although he did draw on a literary tradition of compiling the different names of Mount Gerizim in a list. An explanation for these findings is supplied by the fact that the list found in Tebat Marqe is written in Neo Samaritan Hebrew. This language, however, emerged only in the late 13th century,40 proving that the list comes from the most recent parts of Tebat Marqe, which postdate Abū l-Ḥasan. The observation that the present prayer, although providing an itemization of several designations for Mount Gerizim, is not influenced by the list found in Tebat Marqe therefore provides further evidence that the attribution of the present prayer to Abū l-Ḥasan is plausible. (Line 6–10) muqirran bi-rubūbīyatika wa-muʿtarif bi-waḥdāniyatika wa-muṣaddiq li-nabīʾika wa-muṯabbit li-šarīʿatika – “I confess that you are the Lord, I acknowledge your oneness, I believe in your prophet, and I confirm your law” 35 Wedel 1987, 341. 36 Tebat Marqe II:50 (Ben-Hayyim 1988, 149). 37 Seri 2006. 38 E.g., Numbers Rabbah 14:12. 39 Déclais 2003. 40 Florentin 2005, 69–72.

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Part C of the prayer (= lines 6–11) is devoted to a typical Samaritan creed. In fact, the elements of the creed overlap with part B, since the commitment to Mount Gerizim announced in lines 2–5 is part of the Samaritan creed and features here in the first position of the list of tenets due to the specific focus and function of the prayer. The text of the prayer continues with the other four central pillars of Samaritan belief, namely strict monotheism, the elevated role of Moses as God’s prophet, the Torah, and God’s worship. However, while the range of tenets is typically Samaritan, the terms applied to identify the different tenets have no Samaritan characteristic, except that they acquire specific meaning due to their use in a Samaritan context. This is especially true for nabīʾ “prophet,” which in a Samaritan context inevitably refers to Moses, while šarīʿa “religious law” refers in that context to the Torah, as it does in Judeo-Arabic. Apart from the aforementioned veneration of Mount Gerizim, a specific Samaritan aspect appears here only in the rather prominent focus on Moses: in contradiction to both Judaism and Islam, Moses is the only prophet for Samaritans,41 and belief in him as part of the fundamental tenets of Samaritan beliefs is found already in the earliest preserved Samaritan creed-like texts, as in the following religious poem, attributed to Amram Dare (4th century), the first known author of religious poetry amongst the Samaritans, whose compositions became the classical core of the Samaritan liturgy:42 There is never a God but one, there is no prophet like Moses the prophet, and there is no writ like the holy Torah, and no worship but for Yhwh facing Mount Gerizim the house of God.

‫לעלם לית אלה אלא אחד‬ ‫לא נבי כמשה נביה‬ ‫ולא כתב הך ארהותה קדישתה‬ ‫ולא סגדה אלא ליהוה‬ ‫קדם הרגריזים בית אל‬

Most obviously, Abū l-Ḥasan’s prayer enumerates exactly the same five principles as this early liturgical poem (God’s unity, Moses the prophet, the Torah, worship to yhwh, Mount Gerizim), with the only difference being the placement of the tenet appearing last on this list, namely the veneration of Mount Gerizim as the holy center of worship, which is first mentioned in Abū l-Ḥasan’s prayer, due to the latter’s specific function, as already noted before. The parallelism between the different tenets listed in the creeds of Amram Dare and Abū l-Ḥasan, and

41 Dexinger 1993. The expression “your prophet” as designation for Moses is not extant in the Pentateuch, but it is found already in the earliest layer of Samaritan liturgical poetry, see Marqe 20:41 (Ben-Hayyim 1967, 250). 42 Amram Dare 4 (Ben-Hayyim 1967, 50).

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especially the absence of any eschatological tenet or even element in the creed from Abū l-Ḥasan’s prayer seem to demonstrate that the core list of Samaritan beliefs remained untouched from the creeds of Islam, even though Abū l-Ḥasan seems to have adopted whole phrases from this corpus. (Line 10–11) bi-ʿibāda lā yastaḥiqquhā ʾaḥadan siwāka – “in worship that no one is entitled to but you” Most obviously, ʿibāda “worship” here refers to the prayer itself, which is therefore clearly conceived by Abū l-Ḥasan as ṣalāh “ritual prayer” (as opposed to duʿāʾ, the personal prayer of invocation and request) since only the latter can be called ʿibāda.43 The following closer qualification of the type of worship reminds us again of the passage from Amram Dare’s prayer quoted above, “and no worship but for yhwh” (‫)ליהוה ולא סגדה אלא‬. The present formulation in Abū l-Ḥasan’s prayer corresponds to that tenet, and possibly even alludes to its wording, but at the same time it draws on Arabic phraseology, and possibly even alludes specifically to a well-known passage from the Qurʾan (Surah 26:98). (Line 12) li-annaka l-wāḥid al-qadīm – “Because you are the One being from eternity” Part D, covering the lines 12–17, is devoted to the praise and glorification of God through explicating his uniqueness. The causal li-anna establishes the link between part C and D, and the following glorification appears therefore as justification for the faith in God. As to the above first line of this passage, both al-wāḥid “the One” and al-qadīm “being from eternity”44 also are attested to in Abū l-Ḥasan’s Kitāb al-ṭabāḫ.45 Moreover, both terms are common predicates for God in the Islamic tradition, although on different semantic levels: While al-wāḥid derives from the Qurʾan itself (Surah 2:163), figures on the traditional list of the 99 “most beautiful names of God” (al-asmāʾ al-ḥusnā) and is thus understood as a noun,46 the classical Islamic creeds use qadīm as an attribute.47 43 Monnot 1960–2007. 44 For this translation, see Watt 1960–2007, 3. (c). 45 Wedel 2011, 276. 46 See Akkach 2015. ʾAl-Wāḥid “the One” is contained in the list provided by Akkach as no. 66. 47 See Watt 1960–2007, 3. (c); Arnaldez 1960–2007b.

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The present formula, which combines the two words, reflects this conceptual distinction of the Islamic terminology and, through using the language, introduces it into Samaritan theology. In addition, however, it qualifies God’s oneness in terms of time and eternity. This is different from what is generally found in Islamic creeds, which detail this point rather in terms of strict monotheism and divine unicity, i.e., that God has no equal,48 a concept also found in Samaritan sources since the pre-Islamic epoch, e.g., in Amram Dare’s 26st hymn (4th century):49 You are one without a companion, neither an equal nor an associate.

‫יחידאי דלית לך חבר‬ ‫לא תניאן ולא שותף‬

The fact that the present prayer does not mention this aspect therefore of course does not mean that God’s unicity has been less important in Samaritan thinking than in Islam. To the contrary, both the prayer itself and the Samaritan belief in general are very clear in that regard: The profession of faith ‫ לית אלה אלא אלה‬lit ēla illa ʿād – “There is no God except God” is one of the most central and most frequently recited parts of the Samaritan liturgy. It is certainly older than the Islamic creed ‫ ال إله إال الله‬lā ʾilāha ʾillā ḷḷāhu and even may have been one of its predecessors.50 This strict and unchallenged monotheistic focus of Samaritan theology is reflected in line 6 of the prayer, “I acknowledge your oneness” (muʿtarif bi-waḥdāniyyatika). Therefore, the connection between God’s oneness and the temporal aspect of his existence does not imply a reinterpretation or even weakening of the concept of God’s unity and unicity. Rather, it seems to serve as a literary means to create a link between the temporality and temporal limitation of the worshiper and his prayer as opposed to God’s eternity, strengthening the performative and declarative character of the text as an opening prayer. Most importantly, however, in order to fully understand the meaning and the function of the Arabic phrase under scrutiny here, we should realize that it finds its closest parallel in one of the liturgical hymns of the Samaritan liturgy, a prayer composed by the famous poet Marqe in the 4th century. Within this hymn, God is praised as ‫ יחידאי את קדם‬yiˈday at qedəm – “You are the One being from the eternal beginning,”51 which is a Samaritan Aramaic equivalent to the Arabic li-annaka

48 See Watt 1960–2007, 3. (a); Gimaret 1960–2007b. 49 Ben-Hayyim 1967, 107 (lines 37–38). 50 See Macuch 1978. 51 Marqe 3:37 (Ben-Hayyim 1967, 156).

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l-wāḥid al-qadīm from both the semantical and the etymological perspective.52 Thus, in spite of all its obvious cross references with the religious language of Islam, the phrase from Abū l-Ḥasan’s prayer seems to be informed primarily by one of the very core texts of the Samaritan liturgical tradition. As a result, it fits smoothly into both cultural contexts, in the Samaritan Aramaic as well as the Arabic of Islamic sources, and thus creates in fact a specifically Samaritan Arabic expression. (Line 13) al-awwal bi-lā bidāya wa-l-āḫir bi-lā nihāya – “the first without beginning, and the last without end.” Like other parts of this prayer, the specific designations of God have literal parallels in Abū l-Ḥasan’s Kitāb al-ṭabāḫ.53 However, Abū l-Ḥasan’s was not the first to use them, as similar expressions are by no means rare in earlier Islamic sources: First of all, al-awwal “the first” and al-āḫir “the last” are paired as predicates of God in the Qurʾan, Surah 57:3, and both appear on the traditional list of the “most beautiful names of God”.54 The expansion of each of the two, “the first without beginning” // “the last without end” is found in early Islamic creeds, e.g., in Al-Ṭaḥāwī’s dogmatic treatise Bayān al-Sunna wa l-ğamāʿa55 (early 10th century). Although the wording is slightly different from Abū l-Ḥasan’s prayer, the phraseology and meaning are the same: qadīm bi-lā ibtidāʾ dāʾim bi-lā intihāʾ.56 However, in spite of these and closer parallels in earlier Islamic texts, which indeed might have influenced the above passage through the channels of the Arabic language and culture shared by the Samaritan minority and the Muslim majority, it seems more likely that Abū l-Ḥasan adopted the idea expressed in the passage under discussion here from Samaritan sources, especially from a liturgical poem composed in the 4th century CE by the famous Samaritan poet Amram Dare:57

52 In fact, Arabic translations of this Samaritan prayer render the Samaritan Aramaic qedəm with Arabic qadīm, see Ben-Hayyim 1967, 156. 53 In Kitāb al-ṭabāḫ, God is designated as al-awwal bi-lā bidāya wa-l-āḫir ilā ġair nihāya (Wedel 1987, 135 and *38 [= 38a]). 54 Akkach 2015. 55 According to Hoover 2014, al-Ṭaḥāwī’s ʿAqīda “provides a full presentation of doctrine and has proved enduringly popular”. Aḥmad al-Ṭaḥāwī was a Ḥanafī jurist, who died in the year 933, see Calder 1960–2007. 56 For an English translation of the text, see Elder 1933. 57 Amram Dare 26 (Ben-Hayyim 1967, 107).

An Unknown and Unique Samaritan Arabic Introductory Prayer 

You are the beginning whose beginning nobody knows. You are the end that has no end.

 153

‫אתהו שריו‬ ‫דלית חכם לה שריו‬ ‫אתהו חסלה‬ ‫דלית לך סוף ולא עקב‬

Just as Amram Dare’s texts quoted above, this poem too is one of the most prominent of the Samaritan liturgy and regularly has been recited in the liturgy of the morning service on Sabbat. There is therefore little doubt that Abū l-Ḥasan knew this Samaritan Aramaic text and that the Arabic phrase under discussion here presents in fact a translation from the Aramaic, including slight adaptations, in accordance with common Arabic usage. (Line 15) awwal al-niʿam wa-hiya al-ḥayāh – “the choicest grace, which is life” The word niʿam (sg. niʿma “grace”) refers here to the singular acts of creation, as e.g., in a phrase used by al-Rāzī, taʿdīd al-niʿam, i.e., “enumeration of the acts of creation”.58 In light of the creation accounts of both the biblical Book of Genesis (Gen 1–2) as well as the Qurʾan and Islamic theology,59 awwal here carries certainly more a qualitative than a temporal meaning. Thus, ḥayāh is not the first, but the most important of all graces, and the prayer even provides a reason for that claim: (Line 16–17) li-annahā al-aṣl li-kull niʿma wa-bihā yunāl al-taklīf – “because it is the reason for every grace, and through it is given the obligation of obedience to the law” Life is the most important of all creations, since it is the ultimate goal of God’s creation. The connection between ḥayāh “life” and taklīf “obligation of obedience to the law” clarifies that ḥayāh is used here in an anthropocentric sense, because the obligation of obedience to the law is generally imposed only on men.60 The whole passage expresses thus a common concept of Islamic theology: “God’s purpose in the creation of the universe was focused on humanity.”61 This is found already in the Qur’an, according to which everything was created for men (e.g., Surah 2:29), who is the highest of all creatures (Surah 15:29). Therefore, the whole passage seems in full compliance with the Islamic concepts generally connected 58 Arnaldez 1960–2007a, IV. 59 See Arnaldez 1960–2007a. 60 For details, see Macdonald 1913–1936. 61 Peterson 2001.

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with the Arabic terms used, and the use of the terms niʿma and taklīf certainly demonstrates that the author of this prayer was familiar with the Islamic tradition. On the other hand, however, none of these concepts is foreign to the Samaritan tradition either. In the midrash Tebat Marqe II:44, the following passage is found:62 Man is the choicest creation and the good mountain is the choicest land.

‫אדם דמע בריאתה‬ ‫וטורה טבה דמע דיבשתה‬

In light of this passage, the Arabic expression awwal al-niʿam (line 15) can also be read as a translation of the Aramaic ‫(“ דמע בריאתה‬the) choicest creation” and a resumption of the concept found first in Tebat Marqe. (Line 18) wa-yastaftiḥ bi-smika al-ʿaẓīm kull ḏī maqāla – “With your mighty name opens each utterance” The last two lines of Abū l-Ḥasan’s prayer seem to form a separate unit within the literary structure of the prayer as a whole. Line 18, on the one hand, presents a back reference to the invocation Aḷḷāhumma, which opens the prayer. It thus creates a literary frame, marking the end of the present prayer. On the other hand, however, it declares God’s name as the opening of each text, performing the transition to the following prayer.

2.5 Abū l-Ḥasan as the Author of the Arabic Introductory Prayer In consideration of the question, whether the present introductory prayer possibly could have been translated from an Aramaic or Hebrew original into Arabic, similar to Arabic translations of other liturgical texts, the following observations seem relevant: First, the Arabic versions of prayers from the Samaritan liturgy generally accompany the original texts and never seem to have been handed down independently. Second, no Aramaic or Hebrew version of the present prayer is known, and given the monopoly of these languages in the Samaritan liturgy, it would be highly unusual that an Aramaic or Hebrew original got lost, while the Arabic translation was preserved. 62 Ben-Hayyim 1988, 143.

An Unknown and Unique Samaritan Arabic Introductory Prayer 

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Finally, both the language and the literary structure of the present prayer lead to the conclusion that it was originally composed in Arabic. Above all, the first line seems to provide irrefutable proof in that direction, since ‫اننى وجهت وجهي اليك‬ ʾinnanī waǧǧahtu waǧhiya ilayka (line 2) obviously, and purposefully, alludes to the qurʾanic passage ʾinnī waǧǧahtu waǧhiya “Surely I have turned my face” (Surah 6:79), which would have been difficult to obtain through translation. Similarly, the use of characteristic Arabic features relating to style and genre contradicts the assumption that the prayer was translated from Aramaic (see above in the commentary on lines 1–2). In light of this evidence, there is hardly a doubt that the present prayer is an original Arabic composition. As already noted (see above, 2.2.), however, the only explicit indication that Abū l-Ḥasan is the author of the prayer is found in the superscript, which is not part of the prayer itself, but presents a younger peritext (see above, 2.3.). Therefore, there is certainly room for questioning the reliability of that indication. The evidence emerging from our analysis of the text of the prayer, however, contains nothing which would contradict the claim of the superscript. Moreover, it shows a coherence with many aspects of Abū l-Ḥasan’s oeuvre that seems indeed at least to favor Abū l-Ḥasan’s authorship: – The text of the present prayer shows a familiarity with the classic Arabic literature of Islam, including the Qurʾan, and especially the philosophical tradition, that is also characteristic of Abū l-Ḥasan’s Arabic oeuvre.63 – At the same time, the author of the present prayer is well versed in the Samaritan Aramaic tradition, especially with the texts of the liturgy. Abū l-Ḥasan is one of only two Samaritan authors known to have authored texts both in Arabic and in Aramaic,64 and by far the broadest and most prolific. – Although the present prayer is the first known Arabic hymn attributed to Abū l-Ḥasan, the latter is acknowledged to have been a prolific and important author of liturgical poetry, besides his broad activity as an Arabic writer. – Besides the literary genre, several further literary aspects of the present prayer overlap with Abū l-Ḥasan’s literary activity as a theologian and a polemicist: he is well known to have made substantial contributions not only to corpus of Samaritan prayers, but also to topics like qibla (i.e., the direction of worship)65 and tawḥīd (i.e., the declaration and explanation of God’s unity),66 which are the main focus of the present prayer. 63 See Wedel 2011. 64 The second is Ġazāl b. Darta (10th century), who is known as the author of Aramaic poetry as well as an Arabic manual with rules for reading Hebrew, see Weigelt 2017, 202. 65 See above, 2.3. 66 See Wedel 2011, 274–276 and 282.

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– As demonstrated above, the theological and philosophical language found in the prayer is completely consistent with the terminology applied in Abū l-Ḥasan’s Arabic tractates, especially in Kitāb al-ṭabāḫ. Although these observations by their very nature cannot prove Abū l-Ḥasan’s authorship of the present prayer, they certainly demonstrate that the text of the prayer completely fits into Abū l-Ḥasan’s world and his literary oeuvre. Thus, there are very few reasons to put Abū l-Ḥasan’s authorship in doubt. That conclusion provided, the prayer adds a further rather important aspect to Abū l-Ḥasan’s literary oeuvre, insofar as it creates a plausible link between two realms of his writing, namely his activity as an author of liturgical poetry, and his activity as an Arabic writer. On the other hand, the prayer seems to provide a rather important insight into the history of the Samaritan liturgy, as well as into the adoption of Arabic as the language of the Samaritan minority within the Islamic world.

3 Abū l-Ḥasan’s Prayer and the Samaritan Liturgy As already mentioned above (2.3.), Arabic appears never to have been used as a language of Samaritan ritual prayer, which remained the sole domain of Samaritan Hebrew and Aramaic. The present prayer is therefore an extremely important piece of evidence, in that it provides evidence, for the first time, to the best of my knowledge, that with Abū l-Ḥasan al-Ṣūrī, one of the most important Samaritan theologians and authors made efforts to change this situation in the 11th century by composing an Arabic opening prayer and framing its introduction as part of the regular liturgy of Samaritan prayers. The fact that this prayer is known only from MS Philadelphia University Library Codex 1649, which is not even a liturgical manuscript, and that we possess no further known source telling the story of Abū l-Ḥasan’s presumed endeavor, seems to suggest that the latter was not granted major success. In opposition to that, however, we at least should bear in mind that the prayer was copied by a scribe more than 600 years after its composition by Abū l-Ḥasan. Moreover, the prayer is preserved in that manuscript together with a superscript that indeed attributes to it a function within the Samaritan liturgy. This opens up the possibility that Abū l-Ḥasan’s prayer, although apparently never having entered the standard prayer, might have been in limited use in some Samaritan circles. However, in spite of its restricted reception, Abū l-Ḥasan’s prayer nevertheless appears to have been formative in the history of Samaritan liturgy: according

An Unknown and Unique Samaritan Arabic Introductory Prayer 

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to the superscript, Abū l-Ḥasan’s Arabic prayer was to be recited before the ʿAqd al-niyya prayer, as already explained above in greater detail (2.3.). This function, however, hardly can be original and must have been connected with Abū l-Ḥasan’s prayer only at a secondary stage: both versions of the ʿAqd al-niyya prayer are written in a Late Samaritan Aramaic mixed with Hebrew, and this type of language only was used in the late 13th /early 14th century,67 more than two centuries after Abū l-Ḥasan’s death. In light of this observation, the commonalities shared by both versions of the ʿAqd al-niyya along with Abū l-Ḥasan’s prayer, which are generally unparalleled in other texts from the Samaritan liturgy, most likely are to be explained as caused by influence from the side of Abū l-Ḥasan’s prayer on their text. The following similarities seems especially striking in that regard: – Above all, all three texts are introductory prayers, to be recited at the opening of the Samaritan liturgy, according to their respective peritexts and the context of their transmission. This pertains to the designation ʿAqd al-niyya “Direction of intention” provided in the manuscripts of the Samaritan liturgy for the prayers ‫ עמדתי קמיך‬and ‫מרי לא נסגד‬, inevitably relating them to the opening of prayer, as well as to the superscript of Abū l-Ḥasan’s prayer, according to which the latter is “to be said before (the prayer called) ‘Direction of intention’” (line i). Moreover, manuscripts of the Defter, i.e., the Samaritan standard collection of ritual prayers, generally contain the ʿAqd al-niyya prayer(s) at the beginning,68 implying that these prayers open the liturgy. – Regarding the texts of the prayers, each of the three interweaves the invocation of God with a declarative statement that the praying individual is going to start worship: ʿAqd al-niyya al-kabīra: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5]

I stood up in front of you at the gate of your mercy, Yhwh my God and God of my forefathers, in order to pronounce your praise.

‫עמדתי קמיך‬ ‫על פתח רחמיך‬ ‫יהוה אלהי‬ ‫ואלהי אבותי‬ ‫למימר תשבחתך‬

Lines 1–2 and 5, in a declarative statement, open the worship, lines 3–4 contain the invocation of God.

67 See above, 2.2., as well as Ben-Hayyim 1967, 23. 68 E.g., Cowley 1909 (I), 3.

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ʿAqd al-niyya al-ṣaġīra: [1] [2] [3] [*4] [*5]

My Lord, we never worship but you, and we rely only on you. […] I stood up between your hands and I will seek your mercy and grace.

‫מרי‬ ‫לא נסגד לעלם אלא לך‬ ‫ולא נאמן אלא בך‬ ]…[ ‫עמדתי בין ידיך‬ ‫אדרש רחמיך וחסדיך‬

Lines 1–3 contain the invocation, lines *4–*5 declare the beginning of worship. Abū l-Ḥasan’s prayer: [1] [2]

 God,  surely I have turned my face towards you, […] [10]  and I venerate you in worship

‫اللهم‬ ‫انني وجهت وجهي اليك‬ […] ‫ومتعبد اليك بعبادة‬

Line 1 contains the invocation, line 2 and 10 declare the beginning of worship. – Both versions of ʿAqd al-niyya contain literary and theological motifs, which have equivalents in Abū l-Ḥasan’s prayer, but are unparalleled elsewhere in the early Samaritan liturgy. One of them is the declaration of turning towards the qibla, expressed by the praying individual: ʿAqd al-niyya al-kabīra Abū l-Ḥasan’s prayer ‫انني وجهت وجهي اليك‬ ‫עמדתי ואתפניתי בפני‬ ‫لعبادتك‬ ‫متجهه الي الموضع المختار‬ ‫אל המקום המבחר‬ I stood up and turned with my face I have turned my face towards you, towards the chosen place. facing the place chosen for your worship. No other attestation of that motif outside these two prayers is known in the Samaritan liturgical tradition. The other specific parallel linking between ʿAqd al-niyya and Abū l-Ḥasan’s prayer is the motif that the worship to Yhwh is unlike other forms of worship: ʿAqd al-niyya al-ṣaġīra ‫לא נסגד לעלם אלא לך‬ we never worship but you

Abū l-Ḥasan’s prayer ‫ومتعبد اليك بعبادة ال يستحقها احدا سواك‬ I venerate you in worship that no one is entitled to but you

Although slightly different in wording, both passages acknowledge the existence of different forms of worship, among which the worship to Yhwh is the highest.

An Unknown and Unique Samaritan Arabic Introductory Prayer 

 159

This idea is found in two other prayers of the Samaritan liturgy, but both are later than and secondary to ʿAqd al-niyya al-ṣaġīra.69 In light of this list of specific and significant literary links between ʿAqd al-niyya and Abū l-Ḥasan’s prayer, and due to the historical priority of the latter, the influence of Abū l-Ḥasan’s Arabic prayer on ʿAqd al-niyya seems very likely. This influence has shaped both the general concept of ʿAqd al-niyya, i.e., the declarative opening of the Samaritan liturgy by a prayer that expresses the invocation of God together with the preparedness for worship on part of the praying individual, as well as the specific wording of the two Samaritan Aramaic/Hebrew versions of ʿAqd al-niyya generally known. In fact, the almost complete disappearance of Abū l-Ḥasan’s Arabic prayer, combined with the emergence of the two Samaritan Aramaic/Hebrew versions of ʿAqd al-niyya and the mentioned links seem to find their best explanation in the hypothesis that ‫ עמדתי קמיך‬and ‫ לא נסגד מרי‬are in fact re-written versions of the oldest known Samaritan prayer that aimed at ʿAqd al-niyya, which is Abū l-Ḥasan’s Arabic prayer presented and analyzed here. Thus, although the text of Abū l-Ḥasan’s Arabic prayer was disregarded as part of the official liturgy, most probably in the context of a general turn against Arabic as a language of the Samaritan liturgy, it seems to have initiated the genre of the ʿAqd al-niyya prayer amongst the Samaritans.

Bibliography Akkach, Samer. 2015. “Beautiful names of God,” in Kate Fleet et al. (eds.), Encyclopaedia of Islam, THREE. Online (Last access 03 October 2017). Arnaldez, Roger. 1960–2007a. “K̲h̲alḳ,” in Peri Bearman et al. (eds.), Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition. Leiden: Brill. Online (Last access 06 October 2017). Arnaldez, Roger, 1960–2007b. “Ḳidam,” in Peri Bearman et al. (eds.), Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition. Leiden: Brill. Online (Last access 03 October 2017). Ben-Hayyim, Zeev. 1967. The Literary and Oral Tradition of Hebrew and Aramaic Amongst the Samaritans. Vol. III/2: The recitation of Prayers and Hymns. Jerusalem: The Academy of the Hebrew Language.

69 Joshua b. Nun’s prayer (Ben-Hayyim 1967, 368) quotes the opening line of the ʿAqd al-niyya alṣaġīra, and the prayer ‫ אל הקדם‬uses the expression ‫“ דמע המסגדים‬the choicest worship” (Cowley 1909 [I], 107). While the first instance, being a quote, is naturally of secondary nature, the second instance seems younger than the prayer ‫ מרי לא נסגד‬due to its Hebraizing language.

160 

 Stefan Schorch

1988. ‫[ תיבת מרקה‬Tībåt Mårqe]. A Collection of Samaritan Midrashim, Edited, Translated and Annotated. Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences. Blau, Yehoshua. 2006. A Dictionary of Mediaeval Judaeo-Arabic Texts. Jerusalem: The Academy of the Hebrew Language. Busse, Heribert. 2008. “Abraham,” in Kate Fleet et al. (eds.), Encyclopaedia of Islam, THREE. Online (Last access 02 October 2017). Calder, Norman. 1960–2007. “al-Ṭaḥāwī,” in Peri Bearman et al. (eds.), Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition. Leiden: Brill. Online (Last access 02 October 2017). Cowley, Arthur Ernest. 1909. The Samaritan Liturgy. 2 vols. Oxford: Clarendon. Crown, Alan D. 1998. A Catalogue of the Samaritan Manuscripts in the British Library. London: The British Library. –. 2001. Samaritan scribes and manuscripts. TSAJ 80. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Crown, Alan D., Reinhard Pummer, and Abraham Tal (eds.). 1993. A Companion to Samaritan Studies. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Déclais, Jean-Louis. 2003, “Names of the Prophet,” in Jane Dammen McAuliffe (ed.), Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān. Leiden: Brill. Online (Last access 09 October 2017). Dexinger, Ferdinand. 1993. “Moses”, in Alan D. Crown, Reinhard Pummer, and Abraham Tal (eds.), A Companion to Samaritan studies. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 160–162. Elder, Earl Edgar. 1933. “Al-Tahawi’s ‘Bayan al-Sunna wa-ʾl-Jamaʿa’,” in Macdonald presentation volume. A tribute to Duncan Black Macdonald, consisting of articles by former students, presented to him on his seventieth birthday, April 9, 1933. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 129–144. Florentin, Moshe. 1999. The Tulida: A Samaritan Chronicle. Text, Translation, Commentary. Jerusalem: Yad Yitzhak Ben Zvi. –. 2003–2004. “‫ תפילה שומרונית שלשונותיה יהודיים‬:‫”תפילת 'ברוך אתה' של אב חסדה‬, Language Studies 9: 157–216. –. 2005. Late Samaritan Hebrew. A linguistic analysis of its different types. SStLL 43. Leiden – Boston: Brill. –. 2009. “‫”עוד תפילה של השומרוני אב חסדה הצורי‬, in Moshe Bar-Asher, and Chaim Cohen (eds.), Masʾat Aharon: Linguistic Studies Presented to Aharon Dotan. Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 189–195. Gimaret, Daniel. 1960–2007. “Taklīf,” in Peri Bearman et al. (eds.), Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition. Leiden: Brill. Online (Last access 07 October 2017). –. 1960–2007. “Tawḥīd,” in Peri Bearman et al. (eds.), Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition. Leiden: Brill. Online (Last access 03 October 2017). Hoover, Jon. 2014. “Creed,” in Kate Fleet et al. (eds.), Encyclopaedia of Islam, THREE. Online  (Last access 02 October 2017). Josua, Hanna Nouri. 2016. Ibrahim, der Gottesfreund. Idee und Problem einer Abrahamischen Ökumene. HUT 69. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Langermann, Y. Tzvi. 2017. “Transcription, Translation, and Annotation: Observations on Three Medieval Islamicate Medical Texts in University of Pennsylvania Libraries MS Codex 1649,” –.

An Unknown and Unique Samaritan Arabic Introductory Prayer 

 161

Manuscript Studies 1: Art. 8. Online http://repository.upenn.edu/mss_sims/vol1/iss1/ (Last access 02 October 2017). Macdonald, Duncan Black. 1913–1936. “Taklīf,” in Martjin Th. Houtsma et al. (eds.), Encyclopaedia of Islam, First Edition. Online http://dx.doi.org/10.1163/2214-871X_ei1_ SIM_5634 (Last access 14 October 2017). Macuch, Rudolf. 1978. “ Zur Vorgeschichte der Bekenntnisformel lā ilāha illā llāhu,” ZDMG 128: 20–38. Monnot, Guy. 1960–2007. “Ṣalāt,” in Peri Bearman et al. (eds.), Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition. Leiden: Brill. Online (Last access 04 October 2017). Peterson, Daniel Carl. 2001. “Creation,” in Jane Dammen McAuliffe (ed.), Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān. Leiden: Brill. Online قان‬. 43 ‫ في‬appears between the lines in the manuscript. 44 Manābīʿ is not attested in literary Arabic dictionaries; the form used is manābiʿ. Nablus in general and Mount Gerizim in particular are known for their abundance of springs. Among the springs in the Mount Gerizim area are the following: raʾs al-ʿain, ʿain al-ṣibyān, ʿain bait al-māʾ, ʿain-al-ʿasal, ʿain al-qaryūn, ʿain al-dafnah.

208 

 Haseeb Shehadeh

springs drying up.45 In addition, the shortage of the olive tree harvest46 led to the following prices: a jar of olive oil47 cost 20 zlots;48 a jar of sesame oil49 cost 16 zlots; a jar of honey cost 25 zlots; a rotl50 [a pound] of butter was priced at four zlots; a rotl of the following items cost 24 miṣriyya:51 rice, raisins, dried figs, roasted chick-peas, pressed dates, chestnut,52 lentils, horse-beans and sorghum. Moreover, in this year [1786] the rest of fruits, the kinds of high summer [products] and legumes were scarce because of the lack of water, since the prosperity of earth depends upon the blessing of heaven.53 The price of a rotl of something that was one or two miṣriyyah rose to half a zlot, and a jar of water54 cost one and a half miṣriyyah. People’s misfortune increased, and they experienced hardship and could not tolerate each

45 Such word usages show an extensive knowledge of Arabic vocabulary on the part of ElʿAyyeh and other Samaritan scholars, even though their knowledge of grammar was poor. They had a good sense of Arabic style. Opposite phenomenon is found among orientalists and Arabic language professors at Western universities today. 46 In the manuscript, al-zayt “oil” is given instead of zaytūn “olive trees”. Nablus is famous for its distinctive soap made of pure olive oil. It has also been known for its baths: ḥammām al-šifāʾ “the healing bath,” ḥammām al-sumara “the Samaritans’ bath” in the Yasmīne quarter, ḥammām al-qāḍī “the judge’s bath,” also in the Yasmīne quarter, ḥammām al-darağa, “the bath of the stair,” ḥammām al-ḫalīlī “the Hebronite bath,” ḥammām al-baydarah “the bath of the threshing floor,” ḥammām al-tamīmī “the Tamīmī’s bath,” ḥammām al-rīše “the bath of the feather”. 47 It is difficult to know the capacity of a jar filled with various liquids in 18th-century Nablus. Nowadays large cans of aluminium or plastic gallons are common, each of which can hold eighteen litres. 48 Literally, “until its jar reached twenty zlots”. The particle ʾan in the manuscript has been added between the lines. This coin was in use in Palestine in the late twenties of the 20th century in Artas village near Bethlehem, see Qāsim and Qanānwah 2015, 667. 49 Al-šīrağ in the manuscript or the common form al-sīrağ in sīn, pronounced today al-sīreğ by the Samaritans “sesamum indica,” is a loanword from Persian and is common in the Iraqi dialect. Other synonyms are used šimšim and ğulğulān and, in southern Saudi Arabia, the literary word al-salīṭ. There is a saying that goes ‫“ السليط مسلّط على كل مرض‬sesame oil works for every sickness”. This oil has been used for health purposes since the days of the Pharaohs. It is very likely that al-šīrağ here means any oil for frying. 50 Its weight differed from one location to another, and its precise amount is unknown today. Al-Barghouthi says that it consisted of twelve ounces, each ounce weighing 240 grams, so one rotl would be 2,880 grams; see al-Barghouthi 1993, 50. In my village – Kufur Yasif in western Galilee – a raṭil (“rotl”) is 2.5 kilograms (a little over 5 pounds). 51 A copper coin with the Sultan’s monogram; its plural form, maṣārī, means “money” in colloquial Arabic. Its name in Damascus is darāhim. Damascus also has the bāra; whereas a proper groush equals 32 miṣriyya, an asadī groush has a lion image, and a bāra is one fortieth of a groush. 52 It seems that the required word is kastana. In the manuscript, the first four letters are clear ‫الكسـ‬. Surprisingly, El-ʿAyyeh did not mention basic items such as sugar, salt, coffee, tea, or olives. 53 This expression or phrase was unknown to me before I encountered it in this manuscript; it seems to be very rare. Compare sūrat al-ʾAʿrāf āya 96. An Internet search yielded only the following link: https://www.shasha.ps/news/95930.html (September 8, 2017). MS Or. 2691 may well be the oldest evidence of this expression. 54 Qullah, pl. qulal, qilāl, is a pottery jar that usually holds about 100 liters (about 105.5 quarts).

One Fifth of the Tiny Samaritan Community 

 209

other. A man began to hate his child because of the straitened circumstances, starvation, corruption [?]. Add to this the cessation of means, the lack of products and the traders’s shops that closed. The owners of tuhmat [?] of some of the world were full [?] /in the nest [?] And when anyone ate an orange,55 several beggars would hover around to snatch its peelings. The villagers liquidated the cats. They began taking them and eating them, while most of the outsiders were seen committing robberies on the highway.

Linguistic remarks It is clear that El-ʿAyyeh’s Arabic, like the Arabic of almost all Samaritan writers from the Middle Ages until today, was far from standard, being flavored with many colloquialisms. El-ʿAyyeh himself acknowledged his deficiencies in this respect.56 Below is a brief description of the non-standard phenomena in El-ʿAyyeh’s text, given in order to complete the remarks in the marginal notes. (A) Spelling and phonology Yāʾ is used instead of alif maqṣūra (short alif); e.g., ‫علي‬. Long alif is used instead of short alif; e.g. ‫ واتا‬،‫ الموتا‬،‫وتوفا‬. Long tāʾ is used instead of tāʾ marbūṭa in verbs; e.g., ,‫ فازادة‬,‫ واشتدة‬,‫ وصارة‬,‫ وكانة‬,‫تظاهرة‬ ‫ تسكرة‬,‫وصلة‬. Final hāʾ occurs without the two dots except in the state of construct; e.g., ‫مدينة‬, ،‫ الحنطه‬،‫ زولطه‬،‫ جالطه‬،‫ مالطه‬،‫ جمعه‬،‫ عديده‬،‫ موسقه‬،‫ المجاعه‬،‫ الفجاعه‬،‫ كرسنه‬,‫سيدنا خليل الرحمن‬ ،‫ عجوه‬،‫ قضامه‬،‫ البلده‬،‫ قبله‬،‫يسيره دره‬. ،‫محرره‬ Dāl appears instead of ḏāl, as in towns’ dialects; e.g., ،‫ الدي‬،‫ دهب‬،‫ دره‬،‫ شحاد‬،‫ هده‬،‫كدلك‬ ‫ياخدوهم‬. Ḍād instead of ẓāʾ as in towns’ dialects; e.g., ‫عضامهم‬. Hamza becomes a vowel; e.g., ‫فطايس‬, ‫مايه‬, and it is omitted at the ends of words; e .g., ،‫ البال‬،‫ الغال‬،‫ مجي‬,‫ يجي‬،‫ وبا‬and the word ‫ ونساء‬is the only exception; in one case no trace of hamza is seen as in ‫ امتلت‬instead of ‫ ;امتألت‬in some dialects in Galilee we find ‫انتلت‬. Omission of the separating alif (‫ ;)األلف الفاصلة‬e.g., ،‫ ويطحنو‬،‫ وصارو‬،‫ يضايقو‬،‫قطعو ويسرقو‬. Long alif instead of tāʾ marbūṭa; e.g., ‫االزقا‬.

55 In the original, laimūnah “an orange” in written Arabic and some dialects, but laimūn ḥāmiḍ is “lemon”. In my dialect lamūne and the common word ḥāmḍa mean “a lemon,” whereas burdʾāne is “an orange.” 56 See Robertson 1938, 255.

210 

 Haseeb Shehadeh

(B) Morphology The VI verbal form of ‫ زود‬is used instead of the ‫ زيد‬VII; e. g., ‫ وتزاود ضيق الخلق‬or instead of the VIII ‫ازداد‬. Al-qarāyā instead of al-qura = the villages. (C) Syntax ‫ تعجبفي‬instead of ‫ ;تعجب من‬colloquial structure. ‫ صار يجيفي كل جمعة مراكب‬instead of ‫وأضحت المراكب تجيء أسبوعيا‬. ‫ وصارة تموت كمد‬instead of ً‫ الخلق) تموت كمدا‬,‫وصارت (الناس‬. Wrong usages of moods and cases: ‫ ولم يدري أحدًا‬and the normal structure is: ‫يدر أح ٌد‬ ِ ‫ولم‬. (‫ وياكلوهم (العظام‬and the normal form is ‫ويأكلونها‬. ‫ وذوي االحتشام‬instead of ‫وذوو االحتشام‬. ‫ وصارو يضايقو‬instead of ‫وصاروا يضايقون‬. ‫ ومنهم من يستغفلو‬instead of ‫ومنهم من يستغفلون‬. ‫ ولده ذكر أو انثى‬instead of ‫ولده ذكرًا أو أنثى‬. ‫ للدالل يبيعه‬instead of ‫للدالل ليبيعه‬. ‫ وصارو يموتو‬instead of ‫ وصاروا يموتون‬. ‫ صارو ياخدوهم وياكلوهم‬instead of ‫ ويأكلونها(القطط) وصاروا يأخذونها‬. (D) Lexicon and style Since the text of the manuscript is not vocalized, the words are presented below according to their literary form. Usage of foreign words through Hebrew, such as ğamṭarah meaning “gematria,” “numerology,” “use of the letters of the alphabet according to their numerical value”. Idda = number. Although used in literary Arabic, it is not frequent in comparison with ʿadad. Ğamāʿatuna = Our community, the Samaritans. Rūḥ is used instead of nasma, meaning “soul”. ʾAwwal bayādir al-ġilāl = The first yield on the threshing floor. Baḥr bilād Ğālṭa and Mālṭa = The Sea of Galite and Malta. Ğumʿa = A week. Muwassaq = Muḥammal = loaded. Askila = A port. Qibla = South. Laimūna = An orange. Wafawq hāḏa = In addition to this. Ğumla waʾāḥād = Groups and individuals; the usual expression in Arabic is ‫ جماعات وفُرادى‬.

One Fifth of the Tiny Samaritan Community 

 211

Finally, a mention should be made of the following infrequent expressions: ‫ = مدينة سيدنا خليل الرحمن‬The city of our master the friend of the Merciful = Hebron. ‫ = شحادين كالجراد‬Beggars like locusts = Numerous beggars. ‫ = وعويلهم يداخل الكرب على كل من يخشى الرب‬Their wailing caused distress to everyone who feared God. ‫ = فإن بركة األرض من بركة السماء‬Since the prosperity of earth depends on the blessing of heaven.

Bibliography Adler, Marcus Nathan. 1907. The Itinerary of Benjamin of Tudela. Critical Text, Translation and Commentary. London: Henry Frowde, Oxford University Press, Amen Corner, E.C. Al-Barghouthi, Abdullatif M. 1993. . ‫ ج‬،‫ اللهجة الفلسطينية الدارجة‬،‫القاموس العربي الشعبي الفلسطيني‬.١۹۹۳.‫ عبد اللطيف م‬،‫البرغوثي‬. .‫ جمعية إنعاش األسرة‬:‫البيرة‬.٢ [Dictionary of the Arabic Palestinian Dialect] Baillet, Maurice. 1988. “Commandments et lois (Farā˒id et Tūrot) dans quatre manuscrits samaritains,” in Jean-Pierre Rothschild and Guy Dominique Sixdenier (eds.), Études samaritaines. Pentateuque et Targum, exégèse et philologie, chroniques. Actes de la table ronde internationale “Les manuscrits samaritains. Problèmes et méthodes” (Paris, Institut de Recherche et d’Histoire des Textes, 7–9 octobre 1985). Louvain – Paris: Peeters, 259–270. Ben-Ḥayyim, Ze’ev. 1957. ,‫כרך ראשון‬. ‫ עברית וארמית נוסח שומרון על פי תעודות שבכתב ועדות שבעל פה‬. 1957.‫זאב‬, ‫בן חיים‬ .‫מוסד ביאליק בהשתתפות האקדמיה ללשון העברית‬: ‫ירושלים‬. ‫כתבי הדקדוק‬, ‫מבוא‬ [The Literary and Oral Tradition of Hebrew and Aramaic amongs the Samaritans] Ben-Zvi, Yitzhak. 1934. ‫ קטע מכרוניקה שמרונית חדשה מהמאה הי‘‘ח לספירה‬.‫ט’אהר אל–עמר ובעלי שכם‬. 1934. ‫ יצחק‬,‫בן צבי‬ ’ 220–233 ‫מהד‘ ’שניה ב’’ ספר השומרונים ‘‘עמ‬, ‫עמ ’קל’’ט–קמ’’ח‬, ‫תרצ’’ד‬, ‫ציון וי‬. ‫האירופית‬ [Ẓāhir al-ʿOmar and the People of Nablus …] –. 1935, 1970. ,‫תש”ל‬, ‫ירושלים‬, ‫תל אביב) מהדורה שניה‬. ‫דתם וספרותם‬, ‫מושבותיהם‬, ‫תולדותיהם‬, ‫ספר השומרונים‬ .‫בעריכת ש‘ טלמון‬ [The Book of the Samaritans …] –. 1955. ‫מכון‬: ‫ירושלים‬. ‫ארבע מאות של היסטוריה‬. ‫ארץ ישראל תחת השלטון העותומני‬, 1955. ‫יצחק‬, ‫בן צבי‬ .‫ביאליק‬ [The Land of Israel under the Ottoman Rule …] Bull, George (ed.). 1989. The Journeys of Pietro della Valle. The Pilgrim. London: The Folio Society. Cohen, Amnon. 1973. Palestine in the 18th Century. Patterns of Government and Administration. Jerusalem: Magnes. Crown, Alan D. (ed.). 1989. The Samaritans. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck.

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 Haseeb Shehadeh

Al-Dabbāġ, M. 2003.

‫دار‬: ‫(كفر قرع‬. ‫ الطبعة الثانية‬،‫ الديار النابلسية) المجلد الثاني‬- ‫بالدنا فلسطين‬. ٢٠٠۳. ‫ م‬،‫الدباغ‬ .‫الهدى للطباعة والنشر‬

[Our Country Palestine …] Dahmān, Muḥammad Aḥmad. 1990. ‫دار‬: ‫دمشق‬-‫ بيروت‬،١. ‫ط‬. ‫معجم األلفاظ التاريخية في العصر المملوكي‬. ١۹۹٠ ‫ محمد أحمد‬،‫دهمان‬ . ‫الفكر المعاصر للطباعة والنشر والتوزيع‬ [Dictionary of the Historical Vocables in the Mamlouki Period] Doumani, Beshara. 1995. Rediscovering Palestine. Merchants and Peasants in Jabal Nablus, 1700–1900. Berkeley: University of California Press. Doumani, Beshara. 2002. : ‫ رام الله‬- ‫بيروت‬. ١۹٠٠-١٧٠٠ ‫أهالي جبل نابلس‬: ‫إعادة اكتشاف فلسطين‬. ٢٠٠٢. ‫ بشارة‬،‫دوماني‬ .‫مؤسسة الدراسات الفلسطينية‬ [The Rediscovery of Palestine: The People of Nablus] Frayha, Anis. 1973. . ‫مكتبة لبنان‬: ‫بيروت‬. ‫جمعها وفسّرها وردّها إلى أصولها‬. ‫معجم األلفاظ العامية‬. ١۹٧۳. ‫ أنيس‬،‫فريحة‬ [A Dictionary of Non-Classical Vocables in the Spoken Arabic Lebanon] Granqvist, Hilma. 1931. Marriage Conditions in a Palestinian Village. Helsingfors: Centraltryckeri och Bokbinderi Aktiebolag. Hanover, S. 1904. Das Festgesetz der Samaritaner nach Ibrahīm B. Yaʿqūb. Berlin: Nathausen & Lamm. Hassafarey, Tsedaqa. 1970. ‫התשבחות והתחנונים‬, ‫מיטב האיחולים‬. ‫ספר התשבחות‬, ‫כיתאב אל–תסאביח‬. 1970. ‫רצון צדקה‬, ‫הצפרי‬ ‫ עתק בעברית עתיק‬93 ?‫ה‬. ‫ אח“הס‬20–‫ וה‬10–‫לאל נכתבו על ידי סופרים שומרונים בין המאות ה‬ .‫חולון – ישראל‬. ‫שועתק לאותיות עבריות עתיקות‬, ‫ובערבית‬ [The Book of Doxologies …] Mannāʿ ʿĀdil. 2003. ‫ مؤسسة‬:‫بيروت‬.) ‫تاريخ فلسطين في أواخر العهد العثماني (قراءة جديدة‬. ٢٠٠۳. ‫ عادل‬،‫مناع‬ .٢. ‫ ط‬،‫الدراسات الفلسطينية‬ [The History of Palestine at the End of the Ottoman Rule …] Myller, A. M. n. d. The Itinerary of Benjamin of Tudela. New York. Niebuhr, Carsten. 1837. Reisebeschreibung nach Arabien, III. Hamburg: Gedruckt in der Hofbuchdruckerey bey Nicolaus Möller. Al-Nimr, Iḥsān. 1938. .‫ مطبعة ابن زيدون‬:‫نابلس‬. ‫تاريخ جبل نابلس والبلقاء‬. ١۹۳٨. .‫ إحسان‬،‫النمر‬ [The History of Nablus Mountain and the Bal-Qāʿç] Qāsim Kh. and Qanānwah Ikhlāṣ. 2015. ‫ أحوال الزواج في قرية فلسطينية‬،‫هيلما غرانكفست‬.٢٠١٥ ، )‫ مراجعة عمر الغول‬،‫ خديجة والقنانوة إخالص (مترجمتان‬،‫قاسم‬ .‫المركز العربي لألبحاث ودراسة السياسات‬: ‫بيروت‬. [Marriage Conditions in a Palestinian Village] Rafiq, Abdul Karim. 1990. ‫السادس عشر الميالدي إلى مطلع القرن الثالث‬/‫من مطلع القرن العاشر الهجري‬: ‫ فلسطين في عهد العثمانيين‬.١۹۹٠ ‫ عبد الكريم‬،‫رافق‬ ‫ المجلد‬،‫ الدراسات الخاصة‬،‫ القسم الثاني‬،‫ في الموسوعة الفلسطينية‬،١٨٠٠-١٥١٦ ،‫التاسع عشر الميالدي‬/‫عشر الهجري‬ .‫بيروت‬. ‫الثاني‬ [Palestine in the Ottoman Period 1516–1800] Robertson, Edward. 1938, 1962. Catalogue of the Samaritan Manuscripts in the John Rylands Library, Manchester. Vols. I and II. Manchester: Manchester University Press.

One Fifth of the Tiny Samaritan Community 

–.

 213

1943. “Ibrahim al-ʿAyya a Samaritan Scholar of the Eighteenth Century,” in Isidore Epstein, Ephraim Levine, and Cecil Roth (eds.), Essays in Honour of the very Rev. Dr. J. H. Hertz, Chief Rabbi of the United Hebrew Congregations of the British Empire, on the Occasion of his Seventieth Birthday, September 25, 1942. London: Edward Goldston. Sajdi, Dana. 2013. The Barber of Damascus. Nouveau Literacy in the Eighteenth-Century Ottoman Levant. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Schur, Nathan. 1989, 1992. History of the Samaritans. Beiträge zur Erforschung des Alten Testamentes und des antiken Judentums 18. Frankfurt am Main: Lang. –. 1993. “Ibrāhīm al-ʿAyya,” in Alan D. Crown, Reinhard Pummer and Abraham Tal (ed.), A Companion to Samaritan Studies. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. –. 1998. ‫לתולדות התקופות הממלוכית והעות‘מאנית בארץ–ישראל‬: ‫ מסע על העבר‬,‫ מסע אל העבר‬.1998. ‫נתן‬, ‫שור‬ .‫הוצאת ספרים אריאל‬: ‫ירושלים‬. [Journey to the Past …] –. 2002. ‫אפרים‬, ‫שטרן‬: ‫”בתוך‬. ‫העות‘מאנית ובמאה העשרים‬, ‫ “השומרונים בתקופה הממלוכית‬.2002 .‫נתן‬, ‫שור‬ ‫המנהל האזרחי ליהודה‬, ‫רשות העתיקות‬, ‫יד יצחק בן–צבי‬: ‫ירושלים‬. ‫(ספר השומרונים‬, ‫ואשל חנן) עורכים‬ .602–647 '‫עמ‬. ‫קצין מטה לארכיאולוגיה‬, ‫ושומרון‬ [The Samaritans in the Mamlouki and Ottoman Periods and the Twentieth Century] Shehadeh, Haseeb. 2016. ‘.‫المخطوطات السامرية في مكتبة يد يتسحاك بن تسڤي في القدس الغربية‬. ’’٢٠١٦. ‫ حسيب‬،‫شحادة‬ [Manuscrips at Yad Ben-Zvi Library in Westen Jerusalem, 62 pp.] http://shomron0.tripod. com/2016/marchapril.pdf (accessed on April 15, 2018); A. B. - Samaritan News 1217–1218, 10/6/2016, 56–119. Tsedaka, Benyamim. 2001. ‫ מפתחות‬2000 [+‫מיציאת מצרים ועד שנת‬, ‫קיצור תולדות הישראלים השומרונים‬. 2001, ‫בנימים‬, ‫צדקה‬ .‫ללימודי שומרונית‬. ‫ב‬. ‫הוצאת מכון א‬: ‫[חולון‬. ‫ נספחים‬+ [Summary of the History of the Israelite Samaritans] –. 2016. ‫מימי יהושע בן–נון עד‬, ‫תולדות הישראלים השמרים על פי מקורותיהם העצמיים‬, 2016. ‫בנימים‬, ‫צדקה‬ .‫ללימודי שומרונית–הרגרזים‬. ‫ב‬. ‫הוצאת מכון א‬: ‫חולון‬. ‫ לספירה‬2015– ‫היום הזה‬ [Summary of the History of the Israelite Samaritans Based on Their Own Sources]

4 Samaritans in Modern and Contemporary Time

Ruth Bardenstein

Historical Bindings of the ChamberlainWarren Samaritan Collection 1 The Chamberlain-Warren Samaritan Manuscript Collection 1.1 Contents of the Chamberlain-Warren Samaritan Manuscript Collection The Chamberlain-Warren (C-W) Collection includes a Samaritan marble inscription dating from the 3rd to 6th centuries CE; a brass scroll case with a Samaritan inscription which was made in Damascus in 1523; 5 manuscripts in scroll form from the 20th century CE; Pentateuch text fragments on vellum and paper; and 19 manuscripts in book form. A full catalog description of the complete collection was done by Professor Robert Anderson: Studies in Samaritan Manuscripts and Artifacts: The Chamberlain-Warren Collection.1 For the manuscripts in book form, Anderson does provide some very basic descriptive information on the bindings, but his focus and most thorough documentation is on the manuscript contents and history. The collection is currently housed in the Michigan State University Library Special Collections in East Lansing, Michigan.

1.2 History of the Collection Edward K. Warren, a wealthy Michigan industrialist, first met Jakob, the High Priest of the Samaritan community, at the World Sunday School Association convention in Jerusalem in 1901. Warren became very involved with the Samaritan

1  Anderson 1978. Note: The following research represents a partial condensed version of a chapter published in Suave Mechanicals: Essays on historical bookbinding Volume 3 (Miller [ed.] 2016). Comprehensive detail on the history of the Chamberlain-Warren Collection and full documentation, including images, of each of the bindings in the Collection are contained in that chapter and the accompanying DVD. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110617306-011

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community over the next 15 years and attempted to help with their financial struggles through various projects. In 1913 he established the American Samaritan Committee and purchased Samaritan manuscripts under its auspices to assure that the manuscripts would not leave Palestine. The goal was for the Samaritans to eventually have the funds to buy back the manuscripts and build a local museum in Palestine to house their religious artifacts and manuscripts. It was thought that a museum would encourage tourism which would help the community financially, but unfortunately this never came to fruition. Warren died in 1919 and most of the manuscripts he had purchased were sent to his home in Three Oaks, Michigan as part of his estate. They remained there for 25 years as part of the Three Oaks Museum, which also contained Native American and other cultural artifacts. In 1950, the Museum was closed and the contents were delivered to Michigan State University (MSU), where MSU Archives and Historical Collections eventually placed the items in storage under the football stadium. The items remained in storage until 1968 when the football stadium was renovated. Professor Robert Anderson was called in to evaluate the contents of the found boxes and this became the focus of his scholarly research and writing at MSU for the rest of his career. The items were catalogued and transferred to MSU Library Special Collections in 1994, where they are today.2

1.3 Focus of My Research Historical book bindings are the focus of my research, which includes documenting binding materials, methods, construction techniques and tools in detail as well as analyzing commonalities and connections to other historical binding traditions. Bookbinding is a part of the cultural tradition of the Samaritan community and provides information on the interaction with surrounding communities as well as and imposed political and cultural powers. My research on the C-W Collection includes the 19 manuscript bindings in book form, listed here in chronological order with their catalog number and very brief description: 1. 2. 3.

CW2473. Samaritan Pentateuch, 1470 CE, no longer sewn and lacking cover. CW2484. Samaritan Pentateuch, 1474 CE, with red cloth cover. CW2478a. Samaritan Pentateuch, 1484 CE, sewn and lacking cover.

2  Anderson 1978, 1–4.

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4. CW10262. Samaritan Pentateuch, 1685 CE, decorated Samaritan flap binding. 5. CW26343. Parts of the Defter Prayer Book, 1724 CE, cloth and leather Samaritan flap binding. 6. CW2483. Samaritan Book of Exodus, 1749 CE, leather and cloth Samaritan flap binding. 7. CW26349. Memar Marqah, 1752 CE, leather and cloth Samaritan flap binding. 8. CW10311. Samaritan Book of Leviticus, 1753 CE, leather and cloth Samaritan flap binding. 9. CW26344. Festival of Booths Prayer Book, ca. 1860 CE, leather and paper Samaritan flap binding 10. CW10312. Day of Atonement Prayer Book, 1863 CE, leather Samaritan flap binding. 11. CW2486. Passover Prayer Book, 1888 CE, leather Samaritan flap binding. 12. CW2480. Passover prayer book, 1890 CE, leather Samaritan flap binding. 13. CW2481. Samaritan Pentateuch, 1894 CE, leather Samaritan flap binding. 14. CW2482. Samaritan Pentateuch, 1912 CE, leather Samaritan flap binding. 15. CW 10313. Passover Prayer Book, 1914 CE, leather and paper Samaritan flap binding. 16. CW10309. Part of the book of Deuteronomy of the Samaritan Pentateuch, 1915 CE, cloth-covered case binding. 17. CW10314. Part of the book of Numbers of the Samaritan Pentateuch, 1915 CE, cloth-covered non-case binding. 18. CW10320. Set of 20 books, a portion of the Samaritan Pentateuch in each, 1915 CE, cloth-covered case bindings. 19. CW26369. Part of the book of Genesis of the Samaritan Pentateuch, 1915 CE, cloth-covered case binding.

2 Existing Research on the Samaritan Binding Tradition There is no direct evidence of Samaritan manuscript coverings before the 12th century available at present and existing research on Samaritan binding traditions is very limited.3 Our current knowledge of Samaritan bookbinding traditions comes from three sources: Mary Eliza Rogers’ account of her travels to

3  Crown 1987, 427.

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 Ruth Bardenstein

Fig. 1: Drawing of a Samaritan binding by Mary Eliza Rogers from 1866.

Palestine in 1868; a footnote in J. A. Szirmai’s The Archaeology of Medieval Bookbinding; and studies of Samaritan binding for codicological dating by Alan D. Crown.

2.1 Mary Eliza Rogers Research on Samaritan Bindings Mary Eliza Rogers travelled to Syria and Palestine in 1868 and published “Books and Book-binding in Syria and Palestine. Part I and II” in The Art Journal. Rogers encountered the Samaritan community in Nablus and was shown the Abisha scroll as well as bound Pentateuch manuscripts.4 Her detailed drawings of a Samaritan binding (Fig. 1) showcase the link sewing of the manuscript signatures and the use of wooden supports at the head and tail of the spine. In this case the link sewing of the text block goes through the wooden supports. It is also notable that there are no cover boards or other covering of the text block in this binding and Rogers’ drawing shows the deterioration of the outer folios. I have not seen this particular type of binding in my research of Samaritan bindings, but I have seen the unique wooden supports which will be discussed later in this paper.

4  Rogers 1868, 41–43, 113–115.

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 221

2.2 Samaritan Binding Addressed by J. A. Szirmai The only reference to Samaritan bindings made by J. A. Szirmai is comprised of a few sentences and a footnote in the Introduction to The Archaeology of Medieval Bookbinding.5 His claim that their bindings generally conform to the Mediterranean binding tradition is generally true because of the link sewing and envelope flap binding structure.

2.3 Samaritan Binding Research of Alan D. Crown More extensive research and documentation of Samaritan bindings has been done by Alan D. Crown, who focused on the study of bindings for codicological dating.6 Although many Samaritan manuscripts have been rebound in western libraries, Crown relies on non-restored bindings from a number of collections, including the Gaster Collection at the University of Manchester in England and two bindings from the Chamberlain-Warren Collection. It appears that he has relied on the accounts and visuals given by other researchers rather than his own eyewitness account for some of the manuscripts. One of Crown’s major conclusions is that Samaritan bindings have a close affinity with the Nag Hammadi bindings, the thirteen bound codices written in Coptic from the 4th century CE which were found in 1945 near the city of Nag Hammadi in Egypt.7 Crown is clearly incorrect in stating that the sewing and forwarding practices involved in Samaritan bindings are similar to those used in Nag Hammadi bindings as the latter are not sewn at all but tacketed and the former are always sewn using link sewing. His conclusion that the cover-to-text attachment methods are also similar is erroneous as the Nag Hammadi quires are always tacketed to their covers and the Samaritan bindings are never tacketed, but attached using different methods (this is discussed in detail in my chapter

5  Szirmai 1999/2011, 5. 6  Crown 1987, 425. 7  Ibid., 427. In a footnote to this conclusion, Crown does state that further direct examination is required to draw more positive conclusions. But he later asserts on page 460 that the Islamic envelope flap style may be a development of the Nag Hammadi bindings as both have flaps, and then claims that this relationship is clearly seen in illustrations of the Nag Hammadi in Doresse (Doresse 1961, 27–49). This seems quite non-specific as many coverings, bindings, and wrappings have flaps and this does not necessarily denote a direct relationship. Also, it is important to note that the Nag Hammadi flaps are extensions of the upper cover with wrapping bands attached to them while Islamic binding flaps are extensions of the lower cover and have no wrapping bands.

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in Suave Mechanicals Volume 3). Although there are other useful findings from the Crown study with respect to Samaritan binding methods and features, the conclusions with respect to the Nag Hammadi codices are misleading and incorrect. As Crown is not a binder or conservator, some of his terms and assumptions are problematic and I have attempted clarify and correct some these in Suave Mechanicals Volume 3.

3 Key Characteristics of Samaritan Binding Methods and Techniques as Seen in the Chamberlain-Warren Collection The bindings in the Chamberlain-Warren Collection have not been rebound or restored since they were purchased from the Samaritan community. This renders the collection valuable in providing direct examples of Samaritan binding methods and techniques. Key characteristics that I will discuss below include text block sewing, endbands and cover structure. More comprehensive detail on each of these areas, as well as documentation on cover decoration, paper watermarks and the binding process can be found in the essay in Suave Mechanicals Volume 3.

3.1 Text Blocks All of the text blocks in the Chamberlain-Warren Collection are multi-quire, as are all of the text blocks discussed by both Crown and Rogers. A few of the older Pentateuch manuscripts are made of vellum, or parchment, while the rest are paper (Fig. 2).

Fig. 2 CW2478a showing a multiquire vellum text block with threestation link sewing (separate endband primary sewing at head and tail).

Historical Bindings of the Chamberlain-Warren Samaritan Collection 

 223

3.2 Link Sewing Most of the manuscripts are sewn together using a link sewing method, although there are a few 20th century manuscripts in the collection which are sewn on tape supports. Link sewing was used in the first millennium CE for Coptic codices and this sewing style influenced later binding traditions, including Ethiopian and Islamic binding methods.8 This sewing method involves linking each quire to the next by dropping down at each sewing station to the quire below, looping underneath the stitch at that station, and then re-entering the original quire. By doing this at each sewing station, the quires of the text block are bound together. See Figure 3 below for a diagram of this sewing method. Note that the Samaritan binding example drawn by Rogers (Fig. 1) clearly shows link sewing of the quires, including link sewing through the wooden supports at the head and tail of the spine. The Chamberlain-Warren Collection includes two-, three-, four- and five-station link sewing which is consistent with Crown’s findings in his research on Samaritan bindings.

Fig. 3: Three station link sewing diagram.

3.3 Endbands Endbands are the woven or cloth guards that appear at immediately above the head and tail of the spine of the text block. Endband types represented in the C-W Collection include Islamic-style, Samaritan-style and machine-made cloth. There are also some bindings which have no endbands.

8  Szirmai 1999/2011, 15, 33.

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 Ruth Bardenstein

Many Samaritan bindings employ traditional Islamic-style endbands.9 The primary, or warp, sewing of this type of endband is parallel with the spine and goes over the head (or tail) of each section and through the center of the section approximately 4 cm. from the edge. This sewing also goes through the cloth spine support. The secondary, or weft, sewing consists of two threads which are woven through the warp threads to form a chevron pattern. The chevron pattern may be done in one or two colors and there may be multiple passes which form layers of the chevron pattern, see Figure 4.

Fig. 4: CW2484 showing Islamic-style endband with three passes of the chevron weave.

Samaritan-style endbands appear to be unique to Samaritan bindings and incorporate two identical wooden core supports. These supports are usually two to five mm thick, approximately the width of the text block and extend from the edge of the text block up to or just short of the first (or last) sewing station. The outer edge of each support has a wide central notch which holds the primary endband sewing in place (Fig. 5). The primary sewing, or warp, is parallel to the spine and goes through the center of each quire, over the top of the quire and the wooden support and into the next quire. The secondary endband thread is simply wrapped multiple times around the wooden core support where it abuts the text block, over the top of the primary endband sewing, down the side of the 9  Islamic-style endbands are described and methods of construction detailed in Bosch 1981, 53; Szirmai 1999/2011 57–59; Fischer 1986, 181–201.

Historical Bindings of the Chamberlain-Warren Samaritan Collection 

 225

Fig. 5: Wooden core endband supports at head and tail of the spine.

support, underneath the core where it meets the text block, and back up the other side of the support (Fig. 6). This secondary wrapping may be a crude substitute for endband weaving (as in the Islamic-style chevron weave), a quick method for producing horizontal threads to fill the endband space, or it may be a means of securing the wooden core support in place. The weft threads can be considered both decorative and protective. Figure 7 shows one of the Samaritan-style endbands from the Collection.

Fig. 6: Samaritan-style endband with primary and secondary sewing around wooden core support.

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 Ruth Bardenstein

Fig. 7: CW26349 showing Samaritan-style endband with wooden core support.

3.4 Cover Structure There are two manuscripts in the Chamberlain-Warren Collection that are unbound Pentateuchs which have no covers. Both have evidence of being sewn in terms of having sewing station holes on the fold of each quire and some thread fragments within quires. Both also have significant deterioration of their outer folios (both are vellum, or animal skin parchment, text blocks) which imply that they did not have covers even when they were sewn, see Figure 8. Roger’s drawing (Fig. 1) also shows a sewn vellum text block with deterioration of the outer folios. Crown has noted that unbound manuscripts are invariably Pentateuchs.10 It is not known whether these were protected with a cloth wrapping or box of some type. The oldest extant Samaritan bindings are generally what are classified as Islamic-style envelope flap bindings, where the lower cover extends around the fore-edge of the text block and culminates in a pentagonal flap which goes over the top of the text block (Fig. 9). This form of cover construction, which appeared between the 8th and 10th centuries CE, evolved from previous binding practices, notably Coptic bookbinding, and by the 12th and 13th centuries, became a common element of Islamic bindings. There is extensive research and documentation of the methods and techniques employed for this type of binding. But Samaritan flap bindings have specific characteristics that differ from the typical Islamic-style, including a flat spine, no spine reinforcement, uneven turn-ins and cover material glued directly to the spine (Fig. 10). All bindings in the C-W Collection with this type of structure have the flap finish by tucking it beneath the upper cover (and on top of the text block). In terms of the uneven turn-ins, the cover leather extends far enough out that it also covers the inner fore-edge 10  Crown 1987, 456.

Historical Bindings of the Chamberlain-Warren Samaritan Collection 

Fig. 8: CW2473 with deterioration on the outer folios.

Fig. 9: Diagram of Islamic-style envelope flap binding.

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 Ruth Bardenstein

Fig. 10: CW2482 Samaritan-style flap binding with blind tooling cover decoration.

Fig. 11: Interior of CW2482 showing leather covering over envelope flap.

gap and at least a portion of the flap board. Any areas which are not covered are pieced in using the same leather (Fig. 11). Another feature of some of the Samaritan flap covers is the presence of a tab at the head and tail of the spine which is an extension of the leather covering slit at the joints so that it extends along the spine (Fig. 7). This feature also frequently occurs in Islamic-style flap bindings. In the late 19th century CE, some Samaritan manuscripts began to be bound using western-style case covers with simple rectangular boards for upper and lower covers, and leather or cloth covering with no reinforcement in the spine area of the cover. There are four examples of this type of binding in the C-W Collection and all of them date from the 20th century, are covered with book cloth, have spines which are generally flat and have narrow squares extending beyond the text block.

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 229

3.5 Cover Decoration There are eight bindings in the Chamberlain-Warren Collection which have decorated leather covers and use similar blind tooling and embossed designs. Decorations can be found on both upper and lower covers as well as on the fore-edge and envelope flap (see Fig. 12). Some of the small stamp designs that occur on many of the decorated covers are shown in Fig. 13.

Fig. 12: CW2486 showing panel stamps on upper and lower covers and envelope flap along with blind tooled borders with small repeated embossed stamps.

Fig. 13: Drawing of small embossed stamps used in Samaritan cover decoration in the Chamberlain-Warren Samaritan Collection.

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 Ruth Bardenstein

4 Comprehensive Binding Documentation Using a Customized Historical Binding Survey Template The complete Chamberlain-Warren Collection has been documented by Prof. Robert Anderson.11 His documentation provides basic physical information but focuses more on the textual contents, with detail provided on the background and dating of the manuscript, the purchase history and buyer information, page format and markings, scribal information, lettering, calligraphy, text decoration, as well as full translations of acrostics, colophons and bills of sale which contain scribal information and dates. Some limited information on the bindings and watermarks are included, but these vary in level of detail and are often quite minimal. The documentation in Suave Mechanicals Volume 3 is intended to comprehensively describe the manuscript bindings and their individual materials, structure and decoration. To this end, I have customized the Historical Binding Survey Template developed by Julia Miller,12 as shown below, and have documented each of the manuscript bindings of the C-W Collection using this template in Suave Mechanicals Volume 3. Additional images of each binding, with detail images of sewing, endbands, watermarks, and covers can be found on the DVD that accompanies the volume. Historical Binding Survey Template outline which has been customized for survey of Samaritan bindings: Bibliographic Information – Date of Survey – Shelf Number – Title – Place and year written – Format – Measurements (Height x Width x Thickness in mm) – Provenance Binding Description – External structure – Contemporary / Non-contemporary binding – Cover materials – Repair 11  This documentation is contained in Anderson 1978. 12  Miller 2010, 257–297.

Historical Bindings of the Chamberlain-Warren Samaritan Collection 

– – – – – – – – – – –

 231

Board type Decoration of cover Spine type and decoration Bookbinding style Internal structure Visible structure through damage Supported / Unsupported Sewing structure Cover-to-text block attachment style Spine style Spine shape Endband style

Text Block Description – Endsheet material – Endsheet attachment style – Text block material – Text language / letterforms – Watermark, text block – Watermark, endpaper – Identifying Marks and Inclusions – Acrostic, or tashqil, identifying the scribe – Bills of Sale – Colophon Permissions All images of the Chamberlain-Warren Collection in this article are used with permission of the Michigan State University Library Special Collections. The list of manuscripts included in this article is given by box number and title as follows: CW2478a Pentateuch; CW2473 Pentateuch; CW2484 Pentateuch; CW2482 Pentateuch; CW26349 Memar Marqah; CW2486 Passover Prayer book. All of these have the following citation information: Chamberlain Warren Samaritan Collection, MSS 287, Special Collections, MSU Libraries, Michigan State University, East Lansing, Michigan.

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Bibliography “Ancient Scripts.” ; accessed 15–30 January 2015. Anderson, Robert T. 1978. Studies in Samaritan Manuscripts and Artifacts. The ChamberlainWarren Collection. Cambridge: American Schools of Oriental Research. – . 1984. “The Museum Trail. The Michigan State University Samaritan Collection,” BA 47: 41–44. Anderson, Robert T., and Terry Giles. 2002. The Keepers. An Introduction to the History and Culture of the Samaritans. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson. – . 2005. Tradition Kept. The Literature of the Samaritans. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson. Avrin, Leila. 1991. Scribes, Scripts and Books. The Book Arts from Antiquity to the Renaissance. Chicago: American Library Association. Bella, Marco di. 2008. “Some Further Considerations on Early Islamic Book Binding,” papers from The Islamic Manuscript Association, 4th Conference. Cambridge 6–9 July 2008. – . 2012 .“Islamic Bookbinding,” in The Treasury of Oriental Manuscripts. Tashkent: UNESCO, 105–117. Ben Hayim, Zeev. 1989. “Samaritan Hebrew – An Evaluation,” in Alan D. Crown (ed.), The Samaritans. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 517–530. Beny, Ana, and Kristine Rose Beers. 2016. “An Inspiration for Conservation: An Historic Andalusi Binding Structure,” in Julia Miller (ed.), Suave Mechanicals. Essays on the History of Bookbinding. Vol. 3. Ann Arbor, MI: The Legacy Press, 160–195. Bosch, Gulnar, John Carswell, and Guy Petherbridge. 1981. Islamic Bindings and Bookmaking. A Catalogue of an Exhibition at the Oriental Institute, the University of Chicago, May 18– August 18, 1981. Chicago: Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. Brindle, Wayne A. 1984. “The Origin and History of the Samaritans,” Grace Theological Journal 5: 47–75. Christin, Anne-Marie ( ed.). 2001. A History of Writing from Hieroglyph to Multimedia. Paris: Flammarion. Crown, Alan D. 1987. “Studies in Samaritan Scribal Practices and Manuscript History V. Samaritan Bindings: A Chronological Survey with Special Reference to Nag Hammadi Techniques,” BJRL 69: 425–491. – . 1988. “A Chronological Survey of Style and Format in Samaritan Binding,” in Jean-Pierre Rothschild and Guy Dominique Sixdenier (eds.), Études Samaritaines. Leuven: Peeters, 67–81. Crown, Alan D. (ed.). 1989. The Samaritans. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Crown, Alan D. 1996. “The Samaritans, Their Literature and the Codicology of Their Manuscripts.” BAIAS 15: 87–104. – . 1998. “Codicography and Codicology in Samaritan Manuscripts,” in Christian-Bernard Amphoux, Albert Frey and Ursula Schattner-Rieser (eds.), Études Sémitiques et Samaritaines Offertes à Jean Margain. Lausanne: Ed. du Zèbre, 165–184. – . 2001. Samaritan Scribes and Manuscripts. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Crown, Alan D., and Reinhard Pummer. 2005. A Bibliography of the Samaritans. ATLA Bibliography, no. 51. Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press. Crown, Alan D., and Lucy Davey. 1995. Essays in Honour of G. D. Sixdenier. New Samaritan Studies of the Société d’Études Samaritaines III and IV, Proceedings of the Congresses of Oxford 1990 … and Paris 1992. Sydney: University of Sydney, Mandelbaum Publishing.

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Déroche, Francois, et al. 2006. Islamic Codicology. An Introduction to the Study of Manuscripts in Arabic Script. London: Al-Furqān Islamic Heritage Foundation, 253–310. Doresse, Jean. 1961. “Les Reliures des Manuscrits Gnostiques Coptes Découverts à Khenonboskion,” REg 13: 27–49. Fischer, Barbara. 1986. “Sewing and Endband in the Islamic Technique of Binding,” Restaurator. International Journal for the Preservation of Library and Archival Material 7/4: 181–201. ; accessed 2 June 2016. Gacek, Adam. 2009. Arabic Manuscripts. A Vademecum for Readers. Leiden: Brill. Gast, Monika. 1983. “A History of Endbands. Based on a Study by Karl Jäckel,” The New Bookbinder. Journal of Designer Bookbinders 3: 42–58. Gottheil, Richard. 1906. “The Dating of Their Manuscripts by the Samaritans,” JBL 25: 29–48. Greenfield, Jane, and Jenny Hille. 2001. Headbands. How to Work Them. New Castle, DE.: Oak Knoll Press. Heawood, Edward. 1950. Heawood’s Watermarks, Mainly of the 17th and 18th Centuries. Hilversum, Netherlands: Paper Publications Society. Krämer, Gudrun. 2008. A History of Palestine. From the Ottoman Conquest to the Founding of the State of Israel. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Kropf, Evyn. 2013. “Historical Repair, Recycling, and Recovering Phenomena in the Islamic Bindings of the University of Michigan Library: Exploring the Codicological Evidence,” in Julia Miller (ed.), Suave Mechanicals. Essays on the History of Bookbinding. Vol. 1. Ann Arbor, MI: The Legacy Press, 1–41. Kropf, Evyn. “Recalling Alikurna: ‘ ‫ ’ يكوريال‬Countermarked Paper among Scribes in the Late 19th Century Ottoman Levant.” Forthcoming. Lewis, Arthur W. 1957. Basic Bookbinding. New York: Dover Publications. Macuch, Rudolf. 1989. “Samaritan Languages. Samaritan Hebrew, Samaritan Aramaic,” in Alan D. Crown (ed.), The Samaritans. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 531–584. Miller, Julia. 2010. Books Will Speak Plain. A Handbook for Identifying and Describing Historical Bindings. Ann Arbor, MI: The Legacy Press. Miller, Julia (ed.). 2016. Suave Mechanicals. Essays on the history of bookbinding, Vol. 3. Ann Arbor, MI: The Legacy Press. Petersen, Theodore C. 1954. “Early Islamic Bookbindings and Their Coptic Relations,” ArsOr 1: 41–64. Posner, Raphael and Israel Ta-Shema (eds.). 1975. The Hebrew Book: An Historical Survey. Jerusalem: Keter Publishing House. Pummer, Reinhard. 1987. The Samaritans. Leiden: Brill. Purvis, James D. 1982. “Studies in Samaritan Manuscripts and Artifacts, the ChamberlainWarren Collection.” BASOR 248: 75–76. –. 1968. The Samaritan Pentateuch and the Origin of the Samaritan Sect. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Rogers, Mary Eliza. 1868. “Books and Book-Binding in Syria and Palestine. Part I and Part II,” The Art-Journal 30, NS 7: 41–43, 113–115. Robertson, Edward. 1938–1962. Catalogue of the Samaritan Manuscripts in the John Rylands Library, Manchester. Vols. 1 and 2. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Rothschild, Jean-Pierre. 1989. “Samaritan Manuscripts,” in Alan D. Crown (ed.), The Samaritans. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 771–794.

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“Samaria.” 1992. Anchor Bible Dictionary 5. New York: Doubleday, 914–921. “Samaritans.” 1992. Anchor Bible Dictionary 5. New York: Doubleday, 940–947. “Samaritan Pentateuch.” 1992. Anchor Bible Dictionary 5. New York: Doubleday, 932–940. Sanderson, Judith E. 1986. An Exodus Scroll from Qumran. 4QpaleoExod and the Samaritan Tradition. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Scheper, Karin. 2011. “Refining the Classification of Islamic Manuscript Structures,” in Patricia Engel et al. (eds.), New Approaches to Book and Paper Conservation-Restoration. Horn / Vienna: Verlag Berger, 357–383. –. 2013. “Three Very Specific Binding Features, Shedding New Light on Islamic Manuscript Structures,” Journal of Islamic Manuscripts 4/1: 82–109. –. 2015. The Technique of Islamic Bookbinding. Methods, Materials and Regional Varieties. Leiden: Brill. Schur, Nathan. 1989. “The Modern Period (from 1516 a.d.),” in Alan D. Crown (ed.), The Samaritans. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 113–134. –. 1992. History of the Samaritans. Frankfurt am Main: Lang. Scott, Florence. “Memories of Old Withnell Fold.” Travel Photography, Trekking, Local History and Other Things. Boyd Harris (ed.), ; accessed 27 March 2016. “Septuagint.” 1986. The New Encyclopedia Britannica. Micropaedia 10: 642–643. Smith, Keith. 1998. Sewn and Pasted Cloth or Leather Bookbinding for Book Artists Requiring No Special Tools or Equipment. Rochester, NY: Keith Smith Books. –. 1999. Non-Adhesive Binding. Volume 1: Books without Paste or Glue. Rochester, NY: Keith Smith Books. –. 2011. Non-Adhesive Binding. Volume 3: Exposed Spine Sewings. Rochester, NY: Keith Smith Books. Spitzmueller, Pamela. 2015. “A Visual Dictionary of Traditional Long- and Linkstitch Bookbinding Terminology,” in Julia Miller (ed.), Suave Mechanicals. Essays on the History of Bookbinding. Vol. 2. Ann Arbor, MI: The Legacy Press, 383–425. Stern, David. “A Tour of the Jewish Book,” ; accessed 1 December 2014. Swanson, Lynn, and Val Berryman. “Chamberlain Memorial Museum Collections Gifted to Michigan State College Museum.” Michigan State University: MSU Museum. ; accessed 19 April 2016. Szirmai, János A. 1999/2011. The Archaeology of Medieval Bookbinding. Aldershot, UK: Ashgate Publishing. Tsedaka, Benyamim. “The Samaritan Update,” ; accessed March 2015. Wolfe, Richard J. 1991. Marbled Paper. Its History, Techniques, and Patterns. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Young, Laura S. 1995. Bookbinding and Conservation by Hand. New Castle, DE: Oak Knoll Press.

Golda Akhiezer

Between Samaritans and Karaites: Abraham Firkovich and His Perception of Samaritanism In 1864 Abraham ben Shemuel Firkovich (known also by the acronym “Eben Reshef,” 1787–1874), the leader of the Eastern European Karaites and collector of ancient manuscripts, visited the Samaritan community in Shechem and acquired a large collection of Samaritan manuscripts. His visit still raises debates among scholars concerning its details and results, although it is indisputable that it had important implications for Samaritan studies, following the sale of his collection of manuscripts to the Russian Public Imperial Library in St. Petersburg (today the National Library of Russia). The aim of this article is to examine Firkovich’s attitude toward Samaritanism in the context of his view of Jewish-Biblical and post Biblical history, as well as his perception of sects and movements in Judaism. This article is based on two types of documents: the personal correspondence between Firkovich and other people (during the years 1863/1864), mainly with his son-in-law and his principal assistant, Gabriel Firkovich (who was married to Firkovich’s daughter Milca). From these letters we learn of his visit to Shechem and certain details concerning the purchase of Samaritan manuscripts, and the list of the most important texts that he bought there.1 One of his letters was addressed to an unknown member of the Samaritan community (26.06.1864).2 In this letter, Firkovich spoke of his promise to donate a certain sum of money for the repair of the Samaritan synagogue and to build a praying room in it for women. Some of these letters (or excerpts from them) were published in an English translation by Tapani Harvianen and Haseeb Shehadeh.3 They reconstructed the details of Firkovich’s visit to Shechem and the circumstances of his acquisition of the Samaritan manuscripts. The second type of documents are Firkovich’s historical writings about different sects and currents of Judaism. They reflect Firkovich’s historical views and may also shed light upon his attitude towards these different communities. All these documents are preserved in Firkovich’s Private Archive at the National Library of Russia in St. Petersburg, and became accessible for scholars only during these last twenty years. 1 St. Petersburg, National Library of Russia (further – NLR), Firkovich’s Private Archive, F 946, no. 343, 605, 607, 608, 609. 2 NLR, F 946, no. 589. 3 Harviainen and Shehadeh 1994, 167–192. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110617306-012

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Fig. 1: Abraham ben Shemuel Firkovich.

1 The background of Firkovich’s Activity Abraham Firkovich was a native of Lutsk, Volhynia (today Ukraine), who moved in 1822 to Eupatoria (the Crimean Peninsula), where he was appointed in 1834 as head of the Karaite publishing house, thereafter publishing dozens of Karaite books. In 1830 he visited Palestine for the first time bringing back with him manuscripts for his collection. Firkovich lived in the period of the spread of Haskalah (Jewish Enlightenment) and Jewish studies (Hokhmat Israel) in the Russian Empire, and to some extent was a product of its ideas and interests.4 He was well-versed in the Jewish studies literature and in the writings of modern Russian historians. He also

4 On his biography, activity and ideas see: Akhiezer 2014, 131–180.

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fought to obtain civil rights for the Karaite community from Russian authorities, and tried to substantiate his argumentation by historical facts, real or invented himself. He tried to demonstrate that the Karaites originated from the Biblical period and settled in the Crimea (which was annexed by the Russian Empire in 1783) before the crucifixion of Jesus. Therefore they had been uninvolved in this act. After 1839, and with the support of the Russian authorities, he initiated his research expeditions to the Crimea and Caucasus seeking manuscripts, tomb inscriptions and other antiquities. His travels further extended to Lithuania, the Palestine, Syria and Egypt, etc.5 His purpose was to provide the Russian officials with an exhaustive report on the origins of the Crimean Karaites, in order to convince them that the Karaites had historical, cultural, and anthropological distinctions from the Rabbanite Jews, who were discriminated by the official legislation of the Russian Empire. For this purpose Firkovich created a number of ahistorical theories. According to him, “proto-Karaites,” descendants of the tribe of Judah and of the ten lost tribes of Israel, had settled in the Crimea in the 6th century BCE (i.e., about 15 centuries before the actual emergence of Karaism). To substantiate his claims, he fabricated colophons on the manuscripts and falsified tombstone inscriptions.6 In order to convince his audience of the authenticity of his findings, he attempted to use methods of critical research and scientific language, which he learned from the works of emerging historical Jewish and Russian studies. The period of Jewish Enlightenment in Eastern Europe inspired Jews of different communities to take an interest in their history. Haskalah produced a specific type of researcher: the autodidact, who was committed to his scholarly objectives, sometimes to the point of asceticism. These researchers were marked by a boundless curiosity, along with adventurism, taking trips to distant lands on self-financed journeys in order to collect manuscripts and antiquities. Firkovich was a striking example of such a researcher, but had additional objectives: to improve the legal status of Karaites in the Russian Empire7 and to sell his manuscript collections.8

5 See about the creating of Firkovich’s collections of manuscripts from the Middle East: Elkin and Ben-Sasson 2002, 51–95. 6 See about this activity, for example, Akhiezer 2014, 50–55. 7 About the struggle of the Karaite leaders for the improvement of legal status in the Russian Empire see: Miller 1993. 8 His two main collections of Rabbanite and Karaite manuscripts were sold to the Russian Imperial Library in St. Petersburg in 1862 and 1876.

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2 The Visit of Abraham Firkovich to Shechem Before the discussion of Firkovich’s ideas and perception of Samaritianism, I will briefly provide the main details of his visit to Shechem.9 It took place at the time of his second and last travel to the Middle East (1863/5), during which he visited Jerusalem, Syria, Egypt and acquired a vast collection of Rabbanite, Karaite and Samaritan manuscripts.

Fig. 2: A group of Samaritans at the end of the 19th century (from the collection of the Russian Palestine Society).

In 1864, while staying in Jerusalem, and before his planned trip to Cairo, he sent a messenger, a local Karaite named David ha-Levi, to Shechem to check the possibility of obtaining manuscripts from the Samaritan community.10 During this period a member of the Samaritan community, a merchant named Jacob Shelabi, who later visited London and sold a number of Samaritan texts,11 secretly sold Firkovich a number of manuscripts: a Torah and prayer fragments, and a copy of a Samaritan Chronicle,12 supposedly coming from Shechem genizah 9 See the detailed description of his visit by Harviainen and Shehadeh 1994, 170–183. 10 NLR, F 946, no. 605, 12a. 11 The data concerning these manuscripts see in: Harviainen and Shehadeh 1994, 173, n. 28. 12 NLR, F 946, no. 605, 11b–12a.

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(dasht).13 According to Firkovich’s letter to his son-in-law Gabriel, he personally went from Jerusalem to Shechem, together with his grandchild Shemuel, following ha-Levi’s steps. After his two week stay in Shechem, Firkovich returned to Jerusalem with four big boxes of Samaritan manuscripts, which he loaded on two donkeys. The Samaritan community priests, who were usually reluctant to sell their manuscripts to strangers, agreed in this particular case. This possibly occurred because Firkovich promised to donate 20,000 or 40,000 gurush14 in order to repair their synagogue and to build a room there for women.15 There is also untested evidence, such as of the Russian maskil (a scholar and activist of the Jewish Enlightenment) Efraim Deinard, that the community leaders agreed to sell Firkovich their manuscripts after he promised to bring Karaite brides to Shechem for the young community members. In fact, Deinard claimed, Firkovich had no intention to keep his promise.16 This manuscript collection, which consisted of 1,341 items (ca. 18,250 pages), and a number of antiquities that were sold to the Russian Imperial Public Library (called today the National Library of Russia) in St. Petersburg in 1970 for 9,500 rubles. These became the world largest collection of Samaritan manuscripts.17

3 Firkovich’s Perception of Sects and Currents of Judaism Why Firkovich did become interested in Samaritans and what was his perception of Samaritanism? The answer can be given only in the general context of Firkovich’s view of Jewish biblical and post biblical history. As we learn from his writings, he claimed that proto-Karaites were descendants of the population that was expelled from Samaria by Assyrians in 721 BCE18: 13 Harat al-Yasmin. 14 The final sum of his payment is unclear, since he mentioned two different sums of money in his letters. Compare NLR, F 946, no. 589 and no. 697, 3b. 15 See note 2. 16 Deinard 1875, 17–18. Deinard also mentioned (without referring to any source) that there lived in this period 54 Samaritan families in Shechem, and a considerable part of young men were unmarried because of a lack of women in the community, while the Rabbanites and Karaites of Palestine were not ready to marry Samaritans. See ibid., 18. 17 See about this collection Lebedev 1992, 12–20. 18 Abraham Firkovich, Remarks on the Sadducees and the Origins of Eastern European Karaites (1850s), NLR, f. 946, op. 1, no. 387.

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In the days of him, who saw these things – the prophet Isaiah, around 700 BCE, when King Shalmaneser of Assyria was laying siege to Samaria, they departed the cities of Israel and Judah with the officer of their army, Gedaliah son of Ahaz, at their head to assist their brethren who were under siege in Samaria, and Shalmaneser captured them and sent them as captives to the cities of Media prior to his conquest of Samaria, and they were there until the days of King Cyrus of Persia. They did not return to their land and were not present at the construction of the Second Temple and did not see its destruction.

In this ahistorical passage Firkovich claims that the Karaites originated from Samaria (in addition to two tribes from Judea) and this narrative reflects his view of history. Firkovich, as well as the medieval Karaite authors, laid special emphasis on biblical history and those groups and currents that could be used as a prototype of the Karaites (although, Karaism was formed as a movement in the early 10th century). We can see in his passage the historicization of biblical text. One of the expressions of this tendency was his invention of the chronological system “minyan le-Galuteinu” (the counting from our exile), i.e., from the destruction of Samaria. Firkovich claimed that the ancient proto-Karaites used this system, and he wrote dates according to this system in his forged colophons. Dan Shapira, in his article about Firkovich’s visit to Shechem and his relations with the Samaritans, raises the questions of whether Firkovich himself believed in his claims of the origins of Karaites in the Samaria exile, and gives a negative answer.19 Although whatever Firkovich’s real beliefs were about this subject, the most important research point in his worldview for us is his attitude toward the various Jewish currents, and the place of Samaritans in this whole historical picture. As we can see from Firkovich’s correspondence and various historical writings, he was much interested in the history of diverse ancient Jewish communities. Along with Christian Hebraists, especially Protestant scholars,20 he saw Jewish history from a biblical perspective. However, unlike these scholars whose purpose was to restore every detail of the history of Christianity, Firkovich tried to trace the origins of Karaism, and did it according to the medieval Karaite paradigm whose historicization of the Bible attached Karaism to the first Temple period.21

19 Shapira 2002, 85–86. 20 About the interest of Protestant scholars in early Jewish sects and currents see: Berg 1988, 33–49. 21 The earliest Karaite scholar who claimed that the Karaism appeared in the First Temple period was Jacob Al-Qirqisani who lived in the 10th century Babylonia. According to him the root of all heresies in Judaism (among them the Samaritans, Rabbanites, Sadducees, and Boethusians) was in the changes made by Jeroboam ben Nebat to the commandments of the Torah after the

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In this context he attempted to find other Jewish non-Talmudic groups in order to demonstrate that the Karaites were among these ancient currents and completely distinct from Rabbinic Jews. This purpose gave him the impetus to investigate various Jewish and even non Jewish groups such as Ethiopian Christians.22 He looked for common traits and historical developments in the destiny of these groups and the Karaites. For example, during his travels in the Caucasus, Firkovich told the leaders of the mountain Jews of East Caucasus, a specific community that was not familiar with the Talmud until the 19th century: You are of the exile of Samaria and of the exile of the First Temple, having been exiled from Persia, whence you arrived in the provinces and cities of Media … When it becomes known to all that you are not of the exile of the Second Temple, but from previous exiles, the Christians will love you, because your forefathers were not part to the conflicts and strife of the Second Temple [= the crucifixion of Jesus] … and they will consider you among the ancient Israelites...23

We can see here not only an attempt of aligning certain Jewish communities with biblical history, but also to a large extent with the Christian historical conception about the Jews. It is notable that Firkovich expresses a tendency for identification with other communities by means of “reconstructing” of their own history from biblical period. One can also see it in the case of his encounters with Crimean Rabbanites (Krymchacks). Firkovich claimed that the Krymchaks were former Karaites who had been exiled following the destruction of Samaria, but were converted to Rabbanism by the rabbinic missionaries from Jerusalem to the Crimea in the 10th century.24 In Firkovich’s view the Samaritans were also descendants of ancient Israelites. He mentioned them in his writings in quite a neutral tone, in contradiction to his attitude toward the Pharisees, whom he perceived as proto-Rabbanites. According to his correspondence he was curious about Samaritan history, and of their ancient texts. He tried to acquire, classify and come to certain conclusions concerning their dating.

rift that sundered Solomon’s domain into the kingdom of Judah and that of Israel. The Karaites, according to Al-Qirqisani, were the only group which saved the original tradition. See: Chiesa and Lockwood 1884, 95–102. 22 Among the most important news in his letter from Jerusalem to Gabriel, Firkovich writes that he received a letter from Egypt from a Christian priest, who expressed the desire that his community wanted to come to Jerusalem, to leave Christianity and “to join your brethren, and make sacrifice in the Temple…” See: NLR, f. 946, op. 1, no. 605, 9a. 23 Firkovich 1872, 77. 24 Abraham Firkovich, Essay on Krymchak History, NLR, f. 946, op. 1, no. 174.

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The Samaritan source, “New Samaritan Chronicle” (1900), published by Elkan-Nathan Adler and Max Séligsohn, provides some details concerning Firkovich’s contacts with the Samaritan community, its perceptions, and the reaction of community members on Firkovich’s visit25: In these days came to the city of Shechem from the land of Russia a Jewish Karaite sage, named Abraham, who stayed in the house of Jacob ben Zedaka ha-Danfi. And he loved the Shomrim with a great love for their truthful [faith] of the Holy Torah, and every Shabbat he prayed in the synagogue with the Shomrim both in the evening and in the morning, and testified that there is no such other truthful community, and he suggested to Amram the Priest, our sage, that the Shomrim and the Karaites were one same people. And answered him Amram the Priest, our sage: “There is a great contradiction between us and you concerning observing the commandments of the Holy Torah. If you will become like us – accept the way of five books of the Holy Torah – we will be one people.” And answered him the sage Abraham: “I will remember your words, I will return back to my country and gather all the elders of the Karaite tribe so I may speak these words in their ears, and we shall be one people.”

We cannot be sure that this dialogue between Amram the Priest and Firkovich, as well as every detail of this chronicle, correspond to reality. For instance, the author claims further that Firkovich died on his way back to Russia, whereas he was still alive and active during the next ten years. Anyway, in the context of the integrative tendency of Firkovch, the talks about the unification of the two communities and the prayer together with Samaritans are all quite plausible. This probability may also be strengthened by the fact that the community leaders agreed to sell him such a vast collection of manuscripts (even if they originated from the genizah). This New Samaritan Chronicle passage demonstrates a certain degree of trust which could even enable some dialogue about unification. According to Efraim Deinard, Karaites were influenced by Samaritans, and therefore had a number of similar laws and customs, such as a strict observance of the laws concerning ritual impurity, refraining from using candles which where lit before Shabbat, and keeping the practice of observance of the new moon.26 This claim about the direct impact of Samaritans on the Karaites, however, is not based on documentary proof. This similarity is rather a result of some common views and perceptions, typical for a number of Judaic groups, which did not practice the Oral Tradition for various historical and ideological reasons, and tended to a literary interpretation of the Scriptures. At the same time, the rejection of the Oral Tradition by these groups gave rise to the emergence of multiple interpretations of biblical text, which resulted

25 Adler and Séligsohn 1903, 143. 26 Deinard 1878, 100–101.

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in discrepancies either between these groups or within them. The crucial point in this context is that these similarities between Karaites and Samaritans were apparently used by Firkovich in order to gain the sympathy of Samaritan community members.

Summary Firkovich attached great importance to the very existence of this non Talmudic community, its history and literary sources. Despite the differences in halakhah, calendar system and customs, and in spite of the divergences between his view of Samaritanism and Samaritan historic self-identification, he tried to outline some common denominator and to express it in historical terms. In addition to Firkovich’s intellectual curiosity, and strong desire to purchase Samaritan manuscripts, his interest should be examined in the context of Haskalah. As mentioned previously, this movement, which had a noticeable impact on Firkovich, stimulated an interest in the history of the various Jewish communities. At the same time, as with Christian Hebraists and traditional Karaite authors, he perceived Jewish history (including Karaite history), through the prism of the biblical text. Firkovich attempted to write a history that would be comprehensive and acceptable for Christians (disregarding its conflicts with the facts). Both the Samaritans and the Karaites, in his version of history, are presented as ancient Israelites, with nothing in common with the Pharisees. His approach aimed to promote the legal status of his community by creating a positive, even romantic image of the Karaites in the eyes of authorities. He attained this through presenting the Karaites as a group originating from the same period as the Samaritans, and linking the Biblical tradition on the destruction of Samaria with the narrative he invented concerning the settlement of proto-Karaites in the Crimea.

Bibliography Adler, Elkan-Nathan, and Max Séligsohn. 1903. “Une nouvelle chronique samaritaine,” REJ 46: 123–146. Akhiezer, Golda. 2014. “The Research Project of Abraham Firkovich as an Outcome of Haskalah and Hokhmat Israel,” in Golda Akhiezer, Reuven Enoch and Sergei Weinstein (eds.), Studies in Caucasian, Georgian, and Bukharan Jewry. Historical, Sociological, and Cultural Aspects. [Hebrew]. Ariel University: Institute for Research of Jewish Communities of the Caucasus and Central Asia, 38–71.

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Berg, Jan van den. 1988. “Proto-Protestants? The Image of the Karaites as a Mirror of the Catholic-Protestant Controversy in the Seventeenth Century,” in Johannes Van den Berg and Ernestine G. E. van der Wall (eds.), Jewish-Christian Relations in the Seventeenth Century. Dordrecht, Boston and London: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 33–49. Chiesa, Bruno, and Wilfrid Lockwood. 1984. Yaʿqub Al-Qirqisani on Sects and Christianity, A Translation of ‘Kitab al-anwar’. Book 1. Frankfurt a. M: Lang. Deinard, Efraim. 1875. Toldot Eben Reshef. [The history of Eben Reshef]. Warsaw. Elkin, Zeev, and Menachem Ben-Sasson. 2002. “Abraham Firkovich ve-genizot Kahir: be-ʿikvot ʿiyun be-ʾarkheono ha-ʾishi” [“Abraham Firkovich and the Cairo Genizas in the Light of his Personal Archive]. Pe ʿamin 90: 51–95. Firkovich, Abraham. 1872. Avnei Zikkaron [The Memorable Stones]. Vilna. Harviainen, Tapani, and Haseeb Shehadeh. 1994. “How did Abraham Firkovich Acquired the Great Collection of Samaritan Manuscripts in Nablus in 1864,” StOr 73:167–192. Lebedev, Victor V. 1992. Samaritianskie dokumenty Gosudarstvennoi Publichnoi biblioteki im. M. E. Saltykova-Shchedrina. Katalog, [Samaritan Documents of the State Public M. Saltykov-Shchedrin Library. Catalogue]. St. Petersburg: State Public M. Saltykov-Shchedrin Library. Miller, Phillip E. 1993. Karaite Separatism in Nineteen Century Russia. Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College Press. Shapira, Dan. 2002. “Min galutenu li-Shkhem: Abraham Firkowich etzel ha-shomronim” [“From our Exile to Shechem: Abraham Firkovich Visits the Samaritans”]. Katedrah 104: 85–94. Shapira, Dan. 2006. “Remarks on Avraham Firkowicz and the Hebrew Mejelis ‘Document’”. AOH 59, 2: 131–180.

Julia Droeber

Does Religious Diversity Work? Samaritans and Their Religious “Others” in Contemporary Nablus 1 Introduction In early 2011, I had been invited to attend an event organised by a Samaritan organisation called the “Samaritan Legend Association” (jamʾiya al-astura al-samiriya) founded in 2009. The event took place at the local university in Nablus, where I was working at the time, and was open to all. It took place in the university’s main lecture theatre, which filled very quickly. One of the first speakers during the event was the president of the association introducing their activities. In his introduction he mentioned that as there was a lot of misunderstanding and stereotyping about the Samaritans in existence the main purpose of the association was to educate and raise awareness about the nature and beliefs of the Samaritan community. A second speaker presented the history and traditions of the Samaritans, emphasising that with its 3,000-year old history the Samaritan community has the oldest religion in the region. He explained how the split between Jews and Samaritans took place in religious history and dwelt on other differences between Samaritans and Jews, such as the holiness of Mount Gerizim instead of Jerusalem, citing evidence from the Torah. Provocatively he asked why, if Solomon’s Temple in Jerusalem was built 400 years after exile, and if Jerusalem was not mentioned in the Torah as is Mount Gerizim, why the Jews decided to ignore this gap as well as the Holy Scripture and make Jerusalem their focus. He also mentioned the difference in Scriptures (the five books only in the Samaritan Scripture, whereas Jews added legal and prophetic texts to it). He went on to explain the laws of the Samaritans, the Ten Commandments, and presented Samaritan beliefs, using a picture of five pillars. Finally, he indicated that the Prophet Muhammad knew very well to differentiate between Jews and Samaritans during his time, as he wrote a letter to them, honouring them and granting them safety. Apparently a very different attitude from the one he had towards the Jews. I was fortunate enough to attend a number of similar events and after some time discovered a pattern in them. They were not so much about the past, even though religious history and theology played a key role in them, but about the present. History and theology were often used to make statements about coexistence between religious communities in Nablus and the region today. In this https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110617306-013

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paper, I am interested in the nature of religious diversity that can be found in Nablus (and the wider region for that matter) and how the different communities and the society at large cope with this diversity. I argue that, while a considerable amount of resentment can be observed between the communities, they have also developed strategies to make such coexistence work. These strategies are obviously vital for stability in society and have historical roots, but they are also crucially influenced by the political circumstances that have come to dominate the region over the past few decades. In this paper, I examine interreligious relations mainly from a Samaritan standpoint. How do they, as the eldest of the existing religious communities, shape their relations with those surrounding them? The data used to develop my argument is based on participant observation over a number of years while living and working in Nablus. As an anthropologist, I have taught in the department of sociology at An-Najah National University in Nablus between 2010 and 2015. Having married into a local Christian family and being surrounded by a Muslim majority, I have been, on an almost daily basis, been confronted with minority issues. Due to this personal experience, I have developed a keen interest in religious majority-minority relations, which is reflected in a monograph on these issues.1 Frequently, I was able to take notes on different aspects of interreligious relations. Events that took place around me were regularly marked by some facet of religious diversity. I did not have to search for occasions to make observations. I was able to witness elite and leadership views on interreligious relations, as well as day-to-day interactions between members of the different religious communities. The different levels of discourse that mark “elite” and “common” views of “Others” are at the heart of the argument presented here. While there are similarities between the minority situation of both Christians and Samaritans living in Nablus, there are also significant differences in their respective social, political, and economic situations, which in turn impact their views of religious “Others” around them. These similarities and differences will also, where appropriate, find mention in this paper. As there are no longer any Jews living in Nablus, they will feature mainly as Israelis in their role as occupiers (noting that for most Muslims and Christians in Nablus the word “Jew” – yahudi – is used as an equivalent for “Israeli” in everyday speech). In this matrix of interreligious relations, the Samaritans have often described their own situation as “walking between the raindrops”. This indicates a careful balancing act of “pleasing” all their surrounding “Others,” while at the same time trying to safeguard and maintain their own specific identity. I examine this “walking

1 Droeber 2014.

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between the raindrops” as a strategy of making religious diversity work and of ensuring a certain level of stability and security and argue that this strategy has over time proven to be up to the task. A final note regarding the research population is in order before moving on to the theoretical background employed here. When I say “the Samaritans” I mean those living in Nablus in the West Bank. I am fully aware that about half of the Samaritan community lives in Holon in Israel, yet I have never travelled there (in part due to visa restrictions) and have only occasionally met representatives from that part of the community. It may be the case, and anecdotal evidence appears to suggest precisely this, that the situation and viewpoints of members of the Holon community differs significantly from that of the Nablus community. The picture I draw here is, therefore, in a sense incomplete and provides merely a local snapshot. I am, however, relatively certain that the dynamics described here have parallels in other contexts, possibly even the Samaritan/Israeli one.

2 The Theoretical Background The theoretical framework, on which the discussion is based, builds on Scott’s2 concept of “hidden and public transcripts” as a tool for understanding the dynamics that underpin the relationship between Samaritans and their Muslim, Christian, and, to some extent, their Jewish neighbours. I have found these concepts very helpful in coming to grips with the coexistence of members of the different religious communities living in Nablus and will briefly sketch them here before referring to them in more detail as I go along in the discussion of my observations. In brief, the theory holds that while there is a “public transcript,” which basically refers to the discourse and interaction between the dominant and the dominated, or in the Nablus context rather the (religious) majority and the minorities, in public, there is also a “hidden transcript” referring to the discourse among members of the respective minorities themselves, which is frequently going against the grain of the “public discourse”. This is the space, where mocking, gossiping, stereotyping, and rumours are situated. This is the space, where the majority or the dominant can be poked fun at without fear of sanctions. I was continuously struck by the existence of the two transcripts in the context of Muslim-Christian relations, which I was part and parcel of on a daily basis, but found similar evidence for Muslim-Samaritan relations. It could also be applied to the relationship between the Israeli 2 Scott 1990.

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“dominant” and the Palestinian “dominated” across denominational borders, yet this shall not be the focus of this paper. One could argue that Scott’s3 ideas of hidden and public transcript in the relation between the dominant and the dominated are common sense. Yet, they clarify systematically how and why resistance of the dominated against the dominant is expressed or not, and the role these speeches, gestures, and practices (“transcripts”) play in maintaining or altering the relations between these groups. Similar to my experience in Jordan and Palestine, Scott4 observed in Malaysia that there were always diverging accounts of events and that sometimes the same person told two (or more) different stories, depending on the situation and the audience. He calls these two “stories” the “public transcript” – “describing the open interaction between subordinates and those who dominate”5 – and the “hidden transcript” – “discourse that takes place ‘offstage,’ beyond direct observation by powerholders”.6 He mentions that the powerful also have a hidden transcript, one that represents “the practices and claims of their rule that cannot be openly avowed,”7 yet he largely focuses on the hidden transcript of the powerless. He also explains that the shape of the hidden transcript depends on the extent of oppression: “the more menacing the power, the thicker the mask”.8 I will come to an evaluation of the domination in the Nablus context as reflected in the hidden transcripts later on. In terms of political discourse, Scott differentiates between four levels: firstly, that which is based on the self-image of elites, the public transcript; secondly, the hidden transcript itself; thirdly, the discourse that lies between to first two, where disguise and anonymity “shield the identity of the actors”;9 and finally, the times when the hidden transcript fully enters and disrupts the public transcript. In this paper, I concern myself mainly with the first and second kinds of political discourse, as they are the ones largely at play when it comes to maintaining social stability. A discussion of the other two levels would explode the limits of this paper, but could be the focus of another research project. The public transcript, in Scott’s understanding is a performance by both the dominant and the dominated, put on for both sides to maintain the status quo. This is of particular relevance for the first part of my argument. In the Nablus

3 Scott 1990. 4 Scott 1990, ix. 5 Scott 1990, 2. 6 Scott 1990, 4. 7 Scott 1990, xii 8 Scott 1990, 3. 9 Scott 1990, 19.

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case, it is the public transcript of good neighbourly relations that predominates and that helps to maintain the status quo of coexistence of religious communities. Since the hidden transcripts are only to be recovered in intimate situations “offstage,” it requires in-depth, long-term, ethnographic research that in much research is not feasible. The public transcript can be described as a “self-portrait of dominant elites as they would have themselves seen”.10 As Scott rightly points out, the public transcript “is designed to be impressive, to affirm and naturalize the power of dominant elites, and to conceal or euphemize the dirty linen of their rule”.11 The hidden transcript comes in a variety of guises. It can be described as offstage reactions to, or “negation” of aspects contained in the public transcript, such as taxes, aspects of subordination, and aspects of ideological justifications for inequalities.12 The hidden transcript, therefore, is “a self-disclosure that power relations normally exclude from the official transcript,” it “takes back the speech of behaviour that seemed unavoidable in power-laden encounters”.13 It is important to note, as Scott14 does, that the hidden transcript needs a public  –  it cannot exist without coordination and communication within the group that employs it. There must be social spaces where the hidden transcript can be safely expressed. The formation and articulation of hidden transcripts is subject to peer pressure and discipline, just like the public transcripts are.15 Scott16 speaks here of a process of socialisation into the hidden transcript. Samaritans and Christians, two religious minority communities in Nablus, seem to be well aware of the difference between hidden and public transcripts and the respective power they hold. Frank conversations in my presence were regularly followed by a warning not to make this public. Ireton17 reports a similar experience, when he explains that “although people, especially the youth, were happy to give me their unsolicited political opinions it was strictly off record”. One of his respondents put this circumspection in the following way: “You can’t give, especially with the Palestinians, the idea that you know best ... you have to give him (sic!) the feeling … that you are impressed with his methods.”18 This 10 Scott 1990, 18; emphasis in the original. 11 Ibid. 12 Scott 1990, 111. 13 Scott 1990, 115. 14 Scott 1990, 118. 15 Scott 1990, 119. 16 Ibid. 17 Ireton 2003. 18 Ibid.

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indicates that members of the two minority communities can distinguish quite well what can be said to whom, what is part of the public transcript and what must remain hidden.

3 Constructing a Common Story Now let me return to the episode mentioned at the beginning. What can it tell us about contemporary relations between members of the different religious communities who share Nablus as their hometown? On the one hand, it is part and parcel of the public transcript that exists among the religious communities in Nablus. In short (and I am aware of the fact that this is cutting a long story extremely short), this public transcript reads something like this: we are all Palestinians, regardless of religious affiliation; we all speak the same language and have the same customs; we all live under occupation; we respect each other; we believe in the same prophets. In other words, we’re in the same boat. And all’s hunky-dory. At least most of the time. I have heard these confirmations of “brotherhood” (mainly men doing the talking on such occasions, so there is no talk of “sisterhood”) dozens of times, usually during official occasions such as religious holidays, when leaders of the different communities congratulate each other. And while this is generally an elite discourse that is taking place on such occasions, meaning that only high-ranking community members are actively confirming this “harmony”, “ordinary people” take part in such events to prove their “loyalty” to the common cause that is social stability. Such “harmony” and “brotherhood” has become the main theme of the shared public story of most members of all religious communities in Nablus. Words are obviously not everything that makes this “story”. It is also what people do that is important. On this level, there is indeed a lot of sharing and good-neighbourly relations to be observed. Especially on religious holidays, food is being exchanged with neighbours with different religious affiliation. Be that after Sukkot that pieces of fruit are distributed to non-Samaritans or after Easter or Id al-fitr that maʾmul is given to neighbours. When I asked Muslim students about their minority fellow students in school and university they frequently told me that they didn’t even know they were from another (minority) religious community had it not been for RE classes, which they did not attend. For them, they were just other children or young people who to play or study with. This kind of coexistence usually works well when people know each other personally. When “the Samaritan / Christian / Muslim” has a name and a face. This does not mean, however, that “the” stereotypical Samaritan / Christian / Muslim has stopped

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existing and that people stopped talking about “them”. In fact, what I have heard very often from people, who know someone from another religious community personally and well and are even friends with them, is that these friends are exceptional, that they are quite unlike the stereotypical “Other”. In other words, the hidden and public transcripts are alive and well over and above everyday behaviour and relations. It should be clear that this public transcript has a political function to fulfil. It’s part and parcel of the Palestinian nation-building project and indispensable for all those involved for survival against what is perceived by most as a common enemy, that is the Israeli occupation. The public transcript serves the purpose of ideologically underpinning the political necessity of standing together against an external threat. It is also against this background that the partaking of minority and majority players in the public transcript can be understood. Another set of narratives that is used by the religious minorities in Nablus in an effort to establish a sense of “we’re all in the same boat” concerns the intifadas. Very often members of the religious minorities emphasise that they, too, have participated in and/or suffered during one or both of the intifadas. This public affirmation of being part of the national struggle serves to emphasise that the fight is not a Muslim but a Palestinian one. This has been relatively easy to claim for the first intifada, but a lot more difficult for the second one, which was framed in largely Muslim terms. For Samaritans, for instance, it has become important to point out to Muslim listeners that the curfews imposed by the Israeli army on Nablus during the second intifada negatively affected the Samaritans, even though, by then, they were not even living in the embattled city of Nablus. As Ireton19 reports, “they were not allowed to shop in the city and were forced to travel as far as Ariel and Holon to buy products at much higher prices”. In addition to that, the curfew and roadblocks set up by the army prevented Palestinian workers to enter the village. One consequence of this was that waste was not collected and soon piled up in the streets of Kiryat Luza.20 The Samaritan cemetery on the mountain top became overgrown, as Palestinian workers were unable to come and clean it. Israeli tanks destroyed the roads, like in Nablus city itself.21 Despite the explicit protection of the Samaritan community by the Israeli government, no services, support, or repairs were provided by the Israeli army, which even led to a spontaneous

19 Ireton 2003. 20 Ibid. 21 Ibid.

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demonstration by the majority of Kiryat Luza residents against the situation, after formal complaints had been consistently ignored.22 The effort to create this unison voice of the public transcript is vital to the survival of the idea of Palestinian statehood. Yet this common story has been undergoing changes. While it used to be told and fought for in nationalist terms, regardless of religious affiliation, it has, in recent years, become increasingly Islamised, i.e., framed in Islamic terms. Thus, Palestine is described as “Muslim” on official occasions (falastin al-muslima). Especially in the face of a common political enemy – Jewish Israel – it is crucial to maintain an image of cohesion and an absence of internal conflict. The new story of “Muslim” unity by definition excludes members of the religious minority communities. On the other hand, there have been consistent efforts by many sides to portray them as being part of and contributing to this shared project and story. Efforts to secure one’s place in the common, shared story become evident on yet another occasion, during which the “shared story” featured centrally. In summer 2009 I attended the opening ceremony of a photo exhibition about Samaritan rituals and customs at the main university in Nablus. The exhibition as such was a rather small affair in the foyer of the university library, yet for the opening the organisers had summoned some well-known political and religious figures, which turned both the opening ceremony as well as the exhibition into a major political affair. Significantly, it started with the Palestinian national anthem. In my fieldnotes I recorded the event: The ceremony began with the honorary guests walking into the lecture theatre and sitting on the podium – the mayor of Nablus, the president of the university, the Samaritan High Priest, and two ministers of the Palestinian Authority. In the first row in the audience three other high ranking Samaritans (in priestly dress) as well as the priests from all the local churches were seated […] The ceremony was opened by a young man in a shiny grey suit and 1950s hair style and startlingly blue eyes – a leader of the Samaritan youth organisation that had recently been established in an effort to promote understanding of Samaritan beliefs and culture [the Samaritan Legend Association]. The first speaker was the male minister […] who emphasised very strongly the role of Samaritans as citizens of the Palestinian homeland (watan), and how they are fellow Palestinians like their Christian and Muslim brothers (sic!). He explained how they have been an essential part of Palestine’s past and will help to shape its future. He also distinguished quite clearly between them and the occupying forces, “the Jews,” and took the opportunity to emphasise the need for a Palestinian state that houses the three faith communities, Christians, Samaritans, and Muslims.

22 Ibid.

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[…] There were two Samaritan speakers, leaders of the youth organisation […], and the Secretary of the Samaritans. They thanked the organisers, especially the university, and confirmed their commitment to the community, and emphasised the importance of living together (taʾayush) and cooperation (taʾamul). They painted a rather rosy picture of how this living together in the past and present has been very successful and would also be the way forward in the future. They also explained that they all had to learn from and about each other, and how this exhibition helps in this. Contrary to the minister, they also referred specifically to Nablus as their “beloved city” (madinatuna al-mahbuba). The minister referred to Jerusalem as the capital of the Palestinian state, whereas for the Samaritans Nablus (i.e., Mount Gerizim) is the more important, because holy, place. We then listened to a “choir” of 11 Samaritan boys, aged between around 8 and 14, and all dressed in white robe and red fez. They sang some ritual chants in ancient Hebrew […], alternating between a precentor and the whole group. […] The audience seemed rather impatient and ungrateful, because rather than listening in the expected awe, they soon started talking, even the dignitaries in the front row. The chants also showed who in the audience was Samaritan, as several people started singing along. […] The last speaker was the woman minister, a Christian from Bethlehem. […] Her speech was less about the ideal and the beautiful worlds of coexistence etc., but instead about practicalities of economic development, in which all have a part to play. After that we went across to the library to see the exhibition opened.

This event indicates several things. On the one hand, it quite clearly illustrates how the official, public, shared story about inter-community cooperation is at play. As I have mentioned earlier, it is repeated over and over again on a variety of official and semi-official occasions. This is done equally by members of all religious communities in question. The official story can reasonably be interpreted as a nation-building exercise, in Anderson’s23 understanding that nations are constantly in the process of being constructed, with nationalist projects seeking to inculcate in the people a sense of a national community. Glossing over diverse cultural or religious traditions within this thus imagined nation, one strategy is to refer to and remember a common past. The Samaritans, Christians, and Muslims of Nablus do indeed make frequent reference to such a relatively peaceful past on official occasions, a stability and harmonious coexistence that was only disturbed, so the story goes, by the arrival of an Other, with whom all of the three communities have religious, if not political issues – the “Jews”. For the “national project” of Palestine – whose status as both a state and a nation remains contested at the very least politically – it is crucial that differences between internal communities are downplayed. It is quite easily conceivable that internal dissent and tensions cause a fear of disintegration of this “nation,” making a future state

23 Anderson 1983.

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even more unfeasible than it at times seems under current circumstances. Hence the need to repeatedly emphasise the unity of all “Palestinians” as a prerequisite for the survival and success of the nation, and therefore the (future) state. When one reads between the lines of such official, public events such as the one described above, then we can, however, also find the occasional hint at existing misunderstandings and tensions and even get an inkling of the hidden transcript. If all was well, why emphasise it all the time? In the incident described above, not paying attention to the choir may be read as a cautious showing of the disrespect contained in the hidden transcript. This may, however, also be an ethnocentric reading of the situation, as coming, going, talking or speaking on the mobile phone are very common phenomena during public, even religious events in Palestinian culture. The minister’s emphasis on Samaritan contributions to Palestinian society past and present may also constitute a warning to the community that this is what they should be doing and that they should be careful not to come to close the Israelis. The Samaritan’s reference to a “Golden Age” of past cooperation as model for the future, rather than the current state of affairs, can be read as an expression of at least mild dissatisfaction with the present. In other words, even when the public transcript, on the surface, appears to be glorifying a harmonious common story, hidden transcripts raise their heads every now and then. This makes it sufficiently clear that most players are aware of the ideal, rather than real, nature of the oft-cited unity and harmony among the religious communities. Two patterns seem to emerge from this – one is how the discourse of harmony reflects majority-minority relations; and the second one concerns the constitution of the audience. On most occasions, formal and informal, the Muslims I have met seem to genuinely not be aware of any tensions or problems with regard to members of other religious communities. From the majority venture point, any dissatisfaction or discrimination perceived by members of the minorities, generally remains covert and does not rise to the surface where it could be noticed. Of course, there is a significant minority within the Muslim majority, who can be considered the cause of any perceived tension  –  those with serious prejudices against the minorities –, yet, for most Muslims I have met a quite genuine ignorance appears to apply. In fact, this ignorance often extends to the actual existence of those minority groups, let alone their customs and traditions. It seems that the majority position affords a quite comfortable location, from which to view the state of affairs as relatively unproblematic, at least in religious terms. This point is similarly made by Khare24 for the case of the Indian caste system,

24 Khare 1984, 97.

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in which the subordinate groups are generally closer observers of the powerful than vice versa, as close observation and knowledge translates into a vital survival skill. Much of the public transcript of a shared story on the minority side is marked by themes of participation in, contributions to, and shared suffering during the common interest that is the national project, thus establishing a claim to respect and dignity. The majority story, on the other hand, focuses more on their role as protectors of the minorities in this nation-building project.

4 The Story of the Protectors Scott25 maintains that generally “the public performance of the subordinate will, out of prudence, fear, and the desire to curry favor, be shaped to appeal to the expectations of the powerful”. The public transcripts I have outlined earlier seem to be good examples of their performative character. While the discourse “offstage,” or behind closed doors, may be seen as more genuine, the public transcript is “put on” by all those involved. Scott26 explains that “if subordination requires a credible performance of humility and deference, so domination seems to require a credible performance of haughtiness and mastery”. On official occasions that involve members of all religious communities in the Nablus area and beyond, there is indeed often a sense of Muslim “generosity” towards those in the minority – in all likelihood going back to the Islamic idea of dhimmitude, the protection of certain population groups under the umbrella of a Muslim state. This can be seen as the public performance of the powerful, as Scott27 outlines: “the necessary posing of the dominant derives not from weaknesses but from the ideas behind their rule, the kinds of claims they make to legitimacy. […] An elected head of a republic must appear to respect the citizenry and their opinions.” Hence the constant reference to unity, harmony, and respect by the mainly Muslim political leadership. This public transcript of inter-religious harmony is, according to Scott28, “the self-portrait of dominant elites as they would have themselves seen”. And while it may be stretching the evidence too far to talk about “humility and deference” in the Nablus context, there is a significant amount of acquiescence to the official story of protectionism and unity.

25 Scott 1990, 2. 26 Scott 1990, 11. 27  Ibid. 28 Scott 1990, 18; emphasis in the original.

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In the case of Nablus, this protectionism, on the one hand, and the harmony between religious communities, on the other, is well reflected in what one of Ireton’s29 Samaritan correspondents claim. One elderly man expressed severe skepticism about the proclaimed selfless respect and protection for his community. Instead, he believes that “the PNA want to show the world that they have ‘Jews’ among them who they treat well and so could be expected to extend magnanimity to Israelis who would fall under the sovereignty of a Palestinian state”. In this reading, this rhetoric is part of a public transcript, arguably for an international audience. This respondent further explains that the status of religious minorities in the Middle East is uncertain, which is difficult for outsiders to understand. He claims that in order to understand how difficult the situation of minorities is in the region, one “must be a member of a minority”.30 As an example for these difficulties, he refers to the Christians in the area, who were “hundreds of thousands” during the British Mandate, but left because of a sense that their freedoms and opportunities were severely restricted. Claiming that there had been 10,000 Christians living in Nablus during the British Mandate, and pointing to their current limited numbers – around 700 –, he uses this minority to exemplify the difficulties religious minorities face in the so-called Middle East.31 The only reason, why Samaritans have not met a similar fate (although they were nearly extinct at the beginning of the 20th century) is arguably their religious determination not to leave their “holy land”. The public transcript in Nablus, of which the rhetoric of protection of and harmony with the religious minorities are an essential part, contains, according to Scott32 several key elements: they contain “affirmation, concealment, euphemization and stigmatization, and finally, the appearance of unanimity”. He explains affirmation as a strategy to confirm existing patterns of domination, for instance through certain events, such national holiday parades. National events are indeed staged and performative in character in Nablus, and there is strong pressure to participate or at least pay lip service. Yet, the affirmation of power relations is also reflected in small gestures and rituals, such as greetings or the need to perform services for free for the dominant. Frequently, such rituals are designed to convey the impression of being powerful without having to resort to force.33 There is, however, also another side to such stage plays, as Scott34 29 Ireton 2003. 30 Ibid. 31 Ibid. 32 Scott 1990, 45. 33 Scott 1990, 49. 34 Ibid.

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explains: “The performance of mastery is ostensibly staged for the impression it makes on subordinates, but it stiffens the spines of the rulers as well.” The powerful know just as well as their subordinates, that in front of the latter they have an impression to maintain. It can be assumed that they are equally concerned about losing face, albeit without the fear of severe sanctions that characterises the performance of subordinates. In the Nablus context, this applies to class differences as well as those between members of religious communities. While there might be a strong sense of disagreement, moral corruption, or injustice among the religious minorities, they generally still lavish the powerful (in their majority Muslims) with the usual niceties and euphemisms. This strategy of the public transcript is supported by a feature of the dominant culture of extending niceties (mujamalat) to their conversation partners, often out of a sense of duty rather than genuine feelings of respect.35 I was frequently struck by observations of minority members speaking to their Muslim neighbours, friends, or colleagues in the most respectful and polite tones, only to, once they had turned their backs, start cursing them and their religion as well as describing them as debauched in one way or another. Another part of the public transcript performed by the powerful is concealment, which means that they put on a show that approximates the ideal they have created and that hides any imperfections or double standards. This does not mean, however, that violations of the public ideal are not known among the subordinates. What matters, as Scott36 maintains, is that “such behaviour not be openly declared or displayed where it would publicly threaten the official story”. In the Nablus context, this kind of strategy is particularly salient in the area of morality. While the majority (as well as the minorities) maintain a public image of being morally, especially sexually, pure and impeccable, there is a wide range of stories about the bigger and smaller sins of powerful, here Muslim, individuals. What develops from this is what Scott37 calls a “double culture” – there is the official, public culture, which is “filled with bright euphemisms, silences, and platitudes and an unofficial culture that has its own history, [...] its own biting slang, [...] its own humor, its own knowledge of shortages, corruption, and inequalities”. There is certainly an element of this “double culture” to be found in Nablus  –  the official story and standards, on the one hand, and what is often referred to as “the truth” about the Other. Again similar to what I have already described above is the strategy of using euphemisms to make certain aspects of power sound less ugly. A euphemism 35 Cf. Reichenbach 2001. 36 Scott 1990, 51. 37 Ibid.

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is used, as Scott38 explains, “to obscure something that is negatively valued or would prove to be an embarrassment if declared more forthrightly”. Here we enter perhaps the area of dhimmitude, the idea that the “People of the Book” are protected by the Muslim majority, which, in another reading, could be interpreted as dominance or even oppression, as it includes (in the historical precedent at least) a form of tax payments and limitations of behaviour. This is defended and referred to by Muslims as a mechanism of protection of and respect for religious minorities in their midst, while at the same time often derided by members of the minority communities. Another euphemism would possibly be the ubiquitous wasta, or “connections,” that are essential for achieving things in the region. Literally the term means “intermediaries,” i.e. people that can speak or act on behalf of others. This, in and of itself, does not necessarily have negative connotations, and indeed, I have heard many people use it in a positive sense. These are usually people, who do have connections and know how to use them to achieve what they want or need, be that a job, a place at university, coupons for free petrol or food, permits to travel, or anything else that matters. It is easily conceivable that wasta needs to be an influential person to act on someone’s behalf, “ordinary” people usually do not do the trick. Given that the majority population is Muslim, and that most people in influential positions are Muslims, it is clear that the religious minorities generally lack powerful wasta, at least from their own communities. Hence, it is not surprising that the most biting criticism of this practice comes from members of the religious minorities as well as other disenfranchised groups in society. The flip side of euphemisms are stigmas, i.e. the power to stigmatise those who criticise the public use of euphemisms or any other official practices. There are different categories of stigmas in the Nablus context, such as “collaborators” or “criminals” for political opposition. There is, however, also the religious level, on which members of minority religious communities, their religion, or their practices are labelled “heresies” or “unbelief” or similar.39 I will return to this aspect in a moment. Furthermore, there is the aspect of unanimity that marks the public transcript and that I have alluded to in an earlier section of this paper. This means, as Scott40 put it, the public transcript “create[s] the appearance of unanimity among the ruling groups and the appearance of consent among subordinates”. Bhaba41 similarly explained that nationalist ideologies are ideologies “of 38 Scott 1990, 53. 39 Scott 1990, 55. 40 Ibid. 41 Bhaba 2004, 134.

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unisonance as Benedict Anderson42 describes it, a contemporaneous cultural cohesion connecting its national subjects through the undifferentiated simultaneity of an ‘aural’ imaginary” (emphasis mine). A good example to illustrate the element of unanimity would be an incident that occurred in summer 2012 at a department meeting at the main university in Nablus. The meeting was attended by department staff and one female student, as is the tradition in the university. When discussion turned to a new changed curriculum that would possibly alter some of the courses required of all students by the university, such as English, IT, or Palestinian history, the student pointed out that the course “Islamic culture” should perhaps be changed: “My friend is Samaritan, and since there are Christians and Samaritans in this country, we should perhaps teach something about them as well.” Two members of the department pointed out to her that the identity of the university was “Islamic”. If, therefore, she wanted to change this course – a university requirement –, she would have to change the identity of the university. Her dissident voice was immediately muffled in what was a meeting of (except for my own presence) exclusively Muslims. In other words, even if there is an awareness of religious diversity among some members of the majority, it is frequently emphasised that Muslims are in the majority, and that, therefore, the identity of the country should be and will be Muslim. Suffice it at this point to note that speaking about diversity – be that of a religious, class, or geographic kind – was generally not encouraged in the Nablus context. This was particularly the case, as I have observed, if both speakers and audience were exclusively or largely Muslim. In front of foreigners, it often appeared more beneficial for the self-image of Palestinians to emphasise that the Muslims take good care of and live peacefully with the members of the religious minorities in their midst, as those who did criticize the public side of the story were often stigmatized and stereotyped in an effort to bring them back into line.

5 Venting Dissent From a slightly different perspective both the event mentioned at the beginning as well as the opening of the exhibition can be seen as a response to the stigmatising and stereotyping that has been taking place concerning Samaritans. All religious communities in Nablus have their fair share of stereotypes to deal with. Stereotypes of Muslims are part of the hidden transcript of the minority 42 Anderson 1983, 132–133.

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groups, whereas stigmata and stereotypes of the minority communities are a mechanism of trying to enforce allegiance to the public transcript of a shared story of the entire society. Many of them have some moral connotation, such as polygamy among Muslims, religious laxness among Christians, or soothsaying or endogamous marriages among Samaritans. The list is endless, but there is no time to explore the juicy details of the respective stereotypes except for two that appear to be quite dominant among the non-Samaritan inhabitants of Nablus. The most well-known “fact” about the Samaritans for most Nabulsis concerns the physical appearance of Samaritans. Due to the fact that their number had shrunk so dramatically up until the 20th century and to their strict endogamy the incidence of various forms of disability among the community is proportionately much higher than among the remainder of the population. This appears to be “common knowledge” among all the Nabulsis I have spoken to. During one of my first conversations with a young Muslim man from the city, he pointed to a family passing by our table in a café: “These are Samaritans,” he explained without much ado. Upon asking him how he knew, he held his hands behind his ears and pushed them forward to indicate a physical defect. “They look different, you just recognise them”. An older Christian woman equally quoted the Samaritans as the first example, when our conversation touched on birth defects as a result of marriage between close relatives. Even if the people I spoke to knew next to nothing about Samaritans and their religion and traditions, this was the one “fact” that was known to them all. What can be seen in this example, then, is the application of some features  –  here physical defects, undoubtedly true in some cases  –  to an entire population. In this case, the stereotypical feature makes a whole group not only stand out and seemingly identifiable, thus imagining a physically different “Other”; it also carries an element of moral superiority, as the cause of such defects is frequently identified as the “ignorant” and “backward” tradition of marrying close relatives. Therefore, referring to Samaritans as “disabled” is an exercise, frequently encountered, in drawing boundaries between a “healthy” and “modern” self and an “ill” and “backward” other. Given that marriages between (close) relatives are relatively common among the rest of the population as well, including the concurrent incidence of disabilities, it is also readily conceivable that the use of such stereotypes provides a sense of security and belonging, a glossing over similar imperfections among one’s own community. It creates an imagined map of physical appearance, which at least to an outsider is not easily discernible. In fact, the physical evidence of this imagined difference rarely shows, since the Samaritans have moved beyond the narrow boundaries of Nablus city itself. And as the political and social position of the

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Samaritans is frequently perceived as ambiguous  –  especially with regard to their link with the Israeli government – the stereotype of physical defects provides non-Samaritan Nabulsis with a sense of order by being able to put the Samaritans “in their place,” and thus guiding their behaviour towards them. This is one of the examples of how people quite literally embody stereotypical differences. The other omnipresent stereotype that Samaritans have to put up with is that their non-Samaritans fellow Nabulsis generally put them into the same religious category as Jews. Even though they all have been living in very close proximity for hundreds of years, non-Samaritan Nabulsis still possess very little theological or historical knowledge about their Samaritan neighbours. This stereotype that Samaritans are essentially Jews is obviously politically relevant as I have discussed earlier. Most of this stereotyping is aggravated by the fact that Samaritans have moved away and no longer have a continuous presence in the city of Nablus. Stereotypes have, of course, also a social function to fulfil, mainly in terms of drawing boundaries between the religious communities. It is about demarcating the lines between “us” and “them,” of creating an “Other,” from whom oneself is different (and morally superior). Here, we are beginning to step into the world of not so harmonious coexistence between the different groups. It lies in the nature of the hidden transcript, however, that the things uttered behind closed doors rarely make it into the public open. With this quality, the hidden transcript in general and stereotyping in particular are not usually rocking the boat of the relationships between the dominated and the dominant or the majority and the minority. In the case of the Samaritans, however, they might become threatening, because they, by drawing a line between “us” and “them,” have the potential of pushing them dangerously close to the Jews of Israel, who are perceived by the Palestinian public as the occupier and therefore as the ultimate “Other”. In other words, these stereotypes cannot be left alone, but have to be counteracted. This is where the events mentioned above come in again. They can be interpreted as a conscious effort to redress stereotypes about the Samaritan community. The assumption that the speaker was specifically addressing a Muslim audience is further corroborated by the fact that the speaker made frequent comparisons, and pointed out similarities between Samaritans and Muslims, such as in questions of purity, prayer practice, or language. It appears that in this case, everyday stereotyping had increased to such a level and taken on a threatening force, that members of the thus misportrayed community decided to take action against it. While such action can end in violence, this particular community or association chose an educational path.

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6 Establishing a Position The question may now arise whether the entire construct of inter-religious relations is merely for show. What is the “reality” of inter-community relationships? It should have become clear that to some extent what is expressed and acted out in the public transcript is indeed a performance put on for a specific audience and for specific, often self-centered purposes. One could even go one step further and argue that perhaps the performances of the hidden transcript are put on for show, namely for those who partake in the hidden transcript. Yet, it does not stop there. The hidden transcript is not “truer” than the public transcript or vice versa. There is a good chance that the public transcript may become self-perpetuating and lose the character of a performance put on for an audience. If the performance of public transcripts requires the wearing of masks, then there is, says Scott,43 a likelihood that the faces of those performing will grow to fit that mask, which may help us explain the similarities that exist between the religious communities in many cultural aspects. In a long-term perspective, this means that “the practice of subordination […] produces, in time, its own legitimacy”.44 At the same time, the hidden transcript underlies certain rules and social pressure to be performed in specific ways between like-minded people as I have mentioned earlier.45 It is also evident that a realization of mutual political and perhaps economic dependency between the Muslim majority community (or its leadership) and the Samaritan community (or its leaders) have contributed to the legitimacy of the public transcript in its particular Nabulsi character. All of the communities living together in this location benefit to a greater or lesser degree from the existence of the others. In other words, the harmonious story of the public transcript is underpinned by a real or perceived need to live and demonstrate this harmony to outsiders (the first addressee here is arguably the Israeli “Other”). Given the long history of inter-religious relations in the area – more or less peaceful at different times – one might assume that the effect of fossilising masks may have indeed set in, legitimising and embodying the power relations between Muslims majority and other minority communities. When one considers the assumption that, on the one hand, “a convincing performance may require both the suppression or control of feelings that would spoil the performance and the simulation of emotions that are necessary to the performance”46 and that, on the other hand, the expression of emotions and even emotions themselves are 43 Scott 1990, 10. 44 Ibid. 45 See Scott 1990, 119. 46 Scott 1990, 28f.

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learned47 then one may well conclude that at some point the emotions suppressed and expressed in the public transcript (as well as in the hidden transcript) stop being mere “masks” and begin to resemble the “face”. In other words, the performances of the public transcript establish, in time, a certain social order, in which every “performer” or participant has their own position. Another aspect of the public transcript indicates that the interaction between members of the Muslim majority community and members of the minority communities in Nablus may indeed be more than mere performance. Scott48 has found that “the greater the disparity in power between dominant and subordinate and the more arbitrarily it is exercised, the more the public transcript of subordinates will take on a stereotyped, ritualistic cast”. If we take the incidences mentioned above as evidence, then there seems to be a relatively clear case of disparity in power between Muslims, as the (powerful) majority, and minority communities. It does, however, also become clear that the conditions in Nablus, and perhaps in Palestine in general, do not come near the extreme circumstances described by Scott,49 such as antebellum United States and medieval feudal societies of Europe, or those found in societies such as the Egyptian, where religious minorities experience much greater oppression. The inter-religious relations in Nablus are often tense and carefully balanced, but they are a far cry from the “slave-master” relations described in those examples. In other words, members of the religious minorities in Nablus have carved out for themselves social niches that are expressed both in the public as well as in the hidden transcripts. In the case of the Samaritans in Nablus, the position they have established for themselves over the decades and centuries is reflected in the public discourse with and about them. It is a position that is captured so well in the phrase “walking between the raindrops”. This position is influenced by the fact that Samaritans, arguably more than any other group in the West Bank, are implicated in two sets of public transcripts, the “Palestinian” one and the “Israeli” one. They perform at least these two public transcripts in addition to the hidden transcripts they partake in. This affords them a special position within the Palestinian and the Israeli national narratives. One way to capture this position is to refer to them as a “middleman minority”. Even though the term is traditionally applied to “ethnic groups recruited to a country by those in power to fill a gap in the economic or labor structure,” it is also used to describe the “social position these groups occupy in society,” and whose characteristics describe the Samaritans in Nablus quite well.50 In contrast 47 Cf. Eisenberg et al. 1998. 48 Scott 1990, 3. 49 Scott 1990. 50 Barfield 1997, 321; emphasis mine.

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to the classical case studies of middleman minorities that consider immigration a major hallmark of their position, the Samaritans are arguable the “most original” part of the population in the area: they view themselves as older than the Jews, the Christians, and the Muslims. In the course of time, however, the roles of “natives” and “migrants” changed, so that today they are still not “absorbed into the indigenous population, they live as nations within nations, with their own distinct culture and social organisation”.51 And while such middleman minorities are usually regarded with ambiguity by both governments and the people, often leading to discrimination or worse, their position can also have its advantages. They often enjoy special privileges by the ruling elite and occupy certain economic, political, and social niches in the country. Yet, due to their social and political isolation, they find themselves in a very vulnerable position – once they fall out of favour, they are used as buffers and scapegoats with very little social backing. Like most of the classic middleman minorities, the only real contact Samaritans “have with the indigenous population is through business dealings”.52 Barfield53 points out that even though such minorities may be relatively prosperous financially, their money is considered “weak money,” as it does not help them to protect themselves in times of political trouble, and that they always have citizenship problems. The Samaritans find themselves in precisely such a position  –  they have established for themselves certain niches, are relatively well off and protected by two governments, the Israeli and the Palestinian, live in (physical and social) isolation, can claim two citizenships, and are more often than not viewed with suspicion by the people (both Israelis and Palestinians). What does give the Samaritans a slightly privileged position, is the fact that the Israeli government considers them Jewish (which they themselves do not do), granting them special rights and protection, while at the same time they have a protected status with the Palestinian Authority and elite (most notably under Yasser Arafat), that view them as Arabs and as a prominent example of the good neighbourly relations of the Palestinians with “Others,” even Jews (which is how they see the Samaritans), as long as there is mutual respect. Both sides of the Israel / Palestine divide are taking advantage of the existence of the Samaritans in the area, and yet their position remains vulnerable, as they are very readily used as scapegoats by the population. While the violent discrimination against other middleman minorities does not seem to be a realistic scenario in the foreseeable future, the Samaritans are very well aware of their precarious situation and of the fact that they have to “walk between the raindrops”. 51 Ibid. 52 Barfield 1997, 322. 53 Ibid.

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7 Conclusion How does religious diversity work then in the context of Nablus with its Muslim majority and the minority communities of Samaritans and Christians? In this paper, I have tried to show that the religious diversity in this location, quite contrary to many other locations where this issue is being discussed, is of very long standing and, therefore, those involved were able to develop strategies to live more or less comfortably with this diversity. One of the main mechanisms to maintain a social equilibrium is the development of a public and hidden transcript that are being engaged in at different times, by different actors, and in front of different audiences. In this paper, I was more interested in how the public transcript creates a space and discourse, in which all must or should participate at varying times and to varying degrees. While the hidden transcript can be seen as a major tool for the dominated to cope with oppression and to vent their frustration with the status quo in front of likeminded people, the public transcript creates a shared story for everyone, dominated and dominant, and is filled with expressions of harmony, good will, understanding, and respect. It is here that the ideal of an harmonious coexistence between Samaritans and their Muslim neighbours is being established. While this ideal is constantly being contested in instances, when the hidden transcript is being performed, the public transcript has seemingly taken on a life of its own, so that it can be argued that is not merely a performance, but to some extent an expression of the nature of inter-religious coexistence in Nablus. Within the complex set-up of relationships in the Palestine-Israel context, it is also evident that the Samaritan community has a particularly crucial role to play. Their position is too significant politically for them to be ignored by any community in the region. At least in the Nablus part of the Samaritan community it has become clearly manifest that communities depend on each other for political, social, and economic survival. This mutual dependency is one of the reasons why the public transcript of inter-religious harmony and coexistence must be seen as more than merely show (which to some extent it certainly is), but also as an expression of necessity and perhaps even mutual acceptance.

Bibliography Anderson, Benedict. 1983. Imagined Communities. Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London – New York: Verso. Barfield, Thomas. 1997. The Dictionary of Anthropology. Malden – Oxford: Blackwell. Bhabha, Homi. 2004. The Location of Culture. London: Routledge. Droeber, Julia. 2014. The Dynamics of Coextistence in the Middle East. Negotiating Boundaries between Christians, Muslims, Jews, and Samaritans in Palestine. London: IB Tauris.

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Eisenberg, Nancy, Amanda Cumberland, and Tracy L. Spinrad. 1998. “Parental Socialization of Emotion, Psychological Inquiry 9 (4), 242–73. Ireton, Sean. 2003. The Samaritans. A Jewish Sect in Israel. Unpublished MA dissertation, University of Kent, Canterbury. [available at: http://www.anthrobase.com/Txt/I/ Ireton_S_01.htm#021_Methods and materials; accessed on Octover 29 2012]. Joffe, Lawrence. 2001. “Levi Ben Abisha Hacohen,” The Guardian, 25/6/2001, available at: http://www.theguardian.com/news/2001/jun/25/guardianobituaries2, accessed on 12 March 2015. Khare, Ravindra S. 1984. The Untouchable as Himself. Ideology, Identity, and Pragmatism among the Lucknow Chamars. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Reichenbach, Anke. 2001. Mit süsser Zunge. Höflichkeit und Nachbarschaft im Damaszener Christenviertel Bab Tuma. Leipzig: Escher. Scott, James C. 1990. Domination and the Arts of Resistance. Hidden Transcripts. New Haven: Yale University Press.

Monika Schreiber

The Arab, the Jewish, and the Ukrainian Marriage: Picking Spouses in the Samaritan Community 1 Introduction The Samaritans represent the smallest ethno-religious minority in the Middle East that, at an internal count,1 numbered 757 individuals as recently as in 2013. They dwell almost exclusively in two separate residential centers, numerically quite equally divided. One group lives on their sanctuary, Mount Gerizim just above the Palestinian town of Nablus, which has been their traditional hometown until the outbreak of the First Intifada in 1987. The other half resides in Holon, a former “development town” on the southern edge of the Tel Aviv area in Israel, where a distinct Samaritan neighborhood was founded in the early 1950s (2–3; 53; 69–70). The Samaritans are by self-definition an integral part of the people of Israel and the guardians of the true Torah (Samaritan Pentateuch) as well as of the holy places on Mount Gerizim. They see both their divinely ordained duty and the basis of their collective identity in the passing-on of the adherent religious teachings and precepts from generation to generation. Accordingly, the majority of scholarly research on the Samaritans deals, broadly speaking, with the history of their religion, its writs and symbols. By contrast, this essay sets out to explore Samaritan society as the second anchor of this identity, with the aim of complementing rather than contradicting

1 A.B. – The Samaritan News, nos. 1126–1127, January 15, 2013, p. 4. For a comprehensive historical survey of Samaritan demographics over the course of two millennia, see Pummer 2016, 187–195. Editorial note: this entry is an updated digest of my Ph.D. dissertation (2009) at the University of Vienna, which was revised for publication as The Comfort of Kin: Samaritan Community, Kinship, and Marriage (2014. Leiden – Boston: Brill). In order to avoid an unnecessary bloating of the footnote apparatus, the references to parallel passages in the book will be given throughout the text as page numbers in brackets. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110617306-014

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the traditional philological approach.2 Drawing on empirical research conducted under the epistemic angle of social anthropology (2–6), I intend to explain the Samaritan community as a descent-based, immensely family-oriented society by exposing its structure, social values, and the ways in which it reproduces itself. But before we delve into deep-seated Samaritan social traditions, let us briefly consider some of the modern developments that have gradually changed the face of community over the past hundred years.

2 Warding Off Extinction: Samaritans Marrying Jews, and Others Biological and social reproduction are certainly among the most highly sensitive issues globally, for states as well as for tribal societies, and among vast populations as well as among minorities. However, they are bound to attain special significance and exigency under precarious demographic conditions, such as those that have been endured by the Samaritans ever since late antiquity. In the late Ottoman and the British Mandatory periods, authorities and foreign travelers encountered a waning sect at the verge of extinction, numbering a mere one hundred and fifty souls (at times even less), as a result of too many historical moments of attrition.3 Simultaneously, an endemic lag of female births, which puts males at a disadvantage, has traditionally aggravated the demographic situation (292–293).4 Moreover, the community’s small genetic pool has been 2 Time and again, and from various angles, Samaritan studies have dealt with the Samaritan social experience. The research of manuscripts sometimes led to a study of the relationships between the people mentioned in marriage documents, or of the descent of scribes whose signatures are to be found in the margins of their works (Crown et al. 1993; Crown 2001; Pummer 1993, especially 139–154, and 1997, especially 273–346). In the early 20th century, the occasional census sorted the population of the coeval Samaritan community along lines of descent and marriage (Kahle 1930; Robertson 1962). The autochthonous Samaritan census, published in A.B., nos. 828–829, February 14, 2003, 21–34, is structured in a similar fashion. Some modern chroniclers of the Samaritans, natives as well as scholars, have presented individual trajectories through the lens of descent and kinship (e.g., Shehadeh 2010; Tsedaka 1989; Tsedaka 2010). And usually, general representations of the community at least touch upon the social realm (Montgomery 1907, 24–45; Pummer 1987; 2016, 289–304). 3 Contemporary accounts of the community’s poor condition include Rogers 1855, Petermann 1865, Mills 1864, and Montgomery 1907, 24–45. 4 Despite a general population increase, the average sex ratio has between 1853 and 2013 continuously laid roughly in the range of 1 unmarried female to 1.5 males. See Fig. 1 and Table 1 below.

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naturally conducive to the spread of hereditary maladies (276–278; 281–282).5 In spite of those massive threats to their existence, the Samaritans used to cling to ethnic endogamy for many centuries. This restraint was, for one thing, enforced by the environment: Muslim women are of course strictly forbidden to marry non-Muslim men who may well put more than their own lives at risk by even approaching them. For another thing though, it mirrors the famed Samaritan reluctance to intimate mingling with different creeds and peoples out of concern for their purity and religious unity (120–122).6 Eventually though, once the social surroundings of the Samaritans had begun to change from exclusively Arabtraditional to Zionist-modernizing, and females from the secularized part of the Jewish population had become available, neither law nor custom were able to withstand the burning urgency with which Samaritan bachelors craved spouses, and the desire of their families to proliferate rather than atrophy, like so many Samaritan lineages of old (312–313). The first break with the ingrained endogamous traditions happened in the few pioneer households that had been set up by Samaritan migrants from Nablus in the newly bustling town of Yaffa/Tel Aviv in the early 20th century. It was triggered by an extremely strong male surplus in that local group, which was exacerbated by the refusal of Nablus families to marry their daughters off to the other place. Therefore, in 1923, defying staunch opposition coming in particular from the priests, Yefet (Ḥusnī), one of the five unmarried sons of Ibrahīm, the son of Faraj, from the Sabāḥī extended family who today call themselves Tsedāḳah, married the Russian Jewish immigrant Miriam Heinkin. With her, he sired eight daughters and a son. His example was soon followed by his brothers Gōʾēl (Badīʿ) and Gavrīʾēl (Jamāl), as well as by his cousin, Ṣabāḥ. Gavrīʾēl married a Sephardic woman hailing from Egypt, with whom he had three sons and one daughter, while Ṣabāḥ, the son of Ḥasan, with whom Yefet ran a vegetable stall at the Carmel market, married Deborah from Ḥaleb (Syria); their offspring consisted of three sons and two daughters.7 With those three unions (that of Gōʾēl was unsuccessful), the local pool of marriageable Samaritans was replenished for decades, so 5 Among the more widespread genetic conditions of the Samaritans are Usher syndrome type 1 (deafness combined with visual impairment), spastic paraplegia, and the blood disorder thalassemia. See Bonné 1963, 61–89; Bonné-Tamir et al. 1994, 36–42. 6 Picking up on a Qurʾanic quotation (Sura 20:97), medieval Islam knew the Samaritans as the “touch-me-not” sect. Indeed, throughout antiquity and the Middle Ages, Samaritans insisted on the all-out ritual impurity of strangers, avoiding even indirect physical contact with nonSamaritans whenever possible. In this state of mind, which was very slow to change, marriage to outsiders was bound to be a problem for Samaritans, and was explicitly discouraged in medieval halakhic treatises such as the Kitab al-Kāfī (Noja 1970, 155). 7 For more on the Ṣabāḥ family see Case 4 and Chart 3 below.

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the new trend ground to a preliminary halt. Apart from Miriam Tsedāḳah, the Romanian-born wife of Benyamim Tsedāḳah, the community’s “roving ambassador”8 (international friends of the Samaritan community are likely to have met her), Jewish wives were rarely chosen and when they were, divorce followed suit. It was not until 1994 that the practice picked up fresh momentum, owing to a renewed male youth-bulge that had backed up since the 1960s and fueled mate competition to an intolerable degree. In that year, two young fellows, in the aftermath of failed engagements to Samaritan cousins, married secular Israeli Jewish women, thereby setting off an avalanche of similar unions that soon spread outside the Tsedāḳah clan, but still remained locally restricted to Holon. There are various reasons, demographic, symbolic, political, and financial, for which the Samaritan settlement on Mount Gerizim represents the kingdom, so to speak, of the priestly family for whom the biblical stipulation (Lev 21:14b–15) insists: “Only a virgin of his own kin may he take to wife – that he may not profane his offspring among his kin, for I the Lord have sanctified him.”9 This ban has traditionally stood in the way of priestly intermarriage. It has enhanced the Priests’ intrinsic conservativism and also shaped the attitudes of the local lay families towards partnering with people not from the community. Add to that the difficulties of persuading an Israeli-Jewish girl to live in an isolated place located deeply in Palestinian territory, and it becomes easy to see why mixed marriages have never occurred in the Nablus Samaritan community. Meanwhile though, things have changed even in this local group, and visibly so. Fair-skinned women with Eastern European features and a growing cohort of blondish children have begun populating the Samaritan neighborhood on Mount Gerizim, gradually conferring a new outward appearance to what was once one of the most in-married communities in the world. Yāʾīr (Waḍāḥ) the son of the high priest Elʾāzār (2004–2010) initiated this development. Still single at the age of forty, and disappointed by his Samaritan options, he decided to escape his unfortunate situation by a visit to an international marriage agency in Israel, from which he emerged furnished with the profile of Alexandra, a Christian girl from Ukraine, whom he took to wife in 2003. During the first year of her marriage, the young woman seems to have struggled with a severe state of culture shock and, moreover, failed to deliver offspring for another couple of years, a circumstance that some Samaritans interpreted as divine retribution for the violation of the biblical clause (325–326). In spite of those initial difficulties, the unusual pair soon found eager followers. Quite like in Holon ten

8 For the expression see Ireton 2003. 9 Translation quoted from Tanakh, the Holy Scriptures: The New JPS Translation 1985.

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years earlier, the floodgates were thrust open, giving way for a genuine Samaritan rush on Israeli-Ukrainian marriage bureaus that has so far resulted in approximately ten cases of Nablus bachelors marrying Christian Ukrainian women. At present, the progress made by this practice is so quick as to make it hard to keep track of the figures. As I write in the summer of 2017, Eastern-European brides keep arriving at monthly intervals. And while they do, the trend of Holon bachelors to marry Jewish Israelis, and increasingly Ukrainians as well, continues unabated. Over the stretch of ninety years following Yefet’s marriage to Miriam, Samaritan ethnic exogamy in all its variants has resulted in thirty-eight “mixed” unions by 2013 (205–209; 314). By 2017, my estimate is that the figures are already approaching fifty.10 Thanks to the courage and dedication of those women, all of whom have in one way or the other swapped a secular existence for a life profoundly shaped by religion, and complicated further by demanding menstrual taboos (125–135), the community is now in a position in which its entire reproductive potential, male and female, can be exploited to the full. The result is a vibrant, rejuvenated, community, fast approaching eight hundred members. This demographic development is visualized by the graph (292):

800

Demographic development and gender gap in the Samaritan community 1853–2013

700 600 500 400 300 200 0

1853 1855 1860 1901 1909 1922 1931 1948 1960 1969 1986 1987 1988 1989 1990 1991 1992 1993 1994 1995 2000 2001 2004 2005 2006 2007 2008 2009 2010 2013

100

Total

Females

Males

Fig. 1: Demographic development and gender gap in the Samaritan community between 1853 and 2013.

10 The calculation is based on reports in A.B. – The Samaritan News, news shared by Samaritans on Facebook, and personal communication.

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Those radical changes have taken place, remarkably enough, in a religious group that has no concept of conversion. They may not have happened without the sometimes astonishing halakhic flexibility and pragmatism of the Samaritans, which I have observed elsewhere (150–152; 324).11 However, apart from the differing religious and ethnic backgrounds of husband and wife, there is one striking aspect under which those marriages appear to exist awkwardly within the accustomed Samaritan way of life. It is the very manner of recruitment of non-Samaritan brides, which involves social practices such as dating a stranger randomly encountered in a casual Israeli setting, or picking an attractive portrait from the database of a marriage agency. Those are representative of the individualist and emotional approach to marriage celebrated in modern democratic societies but are at the same time structurally and culturally alien to the Samaritans. For the Samaritan tradition consists of an ancient religion paired with a premodern type of society that is upheld by a set of deeply collective social values and, ultimately, entirely disparate criteria for choosing spouses. Let me expound:

3 A Middle Eastern Society As indicated in the introduction, the following discussion of traditional Samaritan society is strongly informed by certain strands of debate in 20th-century social anthropology, in which the late- and post-colonial Middle East has been one spotlight of research. Within this framework, descent, or segmentary, theory, an outgrowth of British structural-functionalism, stands for a particular analytical approach that has long set the stage for the scholarly treatment of the region’s

11 First of all, the specific Samaritan customs relating to the menstrual and post-partum taboos of the Bible (Lev 12; 15:19–28) – niddah in Hebrew and imsammad in Samaritan colloquial Arabic – have been reread as markers of Samaritan ethnicity. This shift in meaning has created the primal conduit for the integration of external females. Upon demonstrating her readiness to practice imsammad, a foreign woman is considered marriageable. After her wedding to a Samaritan man she is accepted as a coreligionist without further procedure. Second, the limits of innate religious affinity between the spouses have been lifted. Until 2003, the only tolerated combination was between a Samaritan male and a Jewish female. But this requirement was overtaken by the mentioned Nablus events involving Christian-born wives, upon which it was quite spontaneously replaced by novel interpretations of particular biblical narratives, which make no lesser figures than Moses (Num 12:1) and Joseph (Gen 41:45) look like pioneers of interethnic marriage. This sweeping revision sufficed to cover even the three marriages with Azeri Muslim women that took place around the same time (326).

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Muslim tribes and communities, with which the Samaritan minority clearly shares a panoply of intrinsic cultural similarities (158–179; 334–359).12 Under this perspective, the modern Samaritan community represents a segmentary society of the Arab cultural imprint in miniature. This means, first of all, that we are dealing here with a kinship-based society of the type that is rooted in the concept of patrilineal descent (often visualized in genealogies and pedigrees) as the primary connecting force between individuals. In this vein, the overall community is organized into units of descent that trace their origins back to a set of nodal ancestors imagined as heads of tribes. The groups beneath the tribal level may be variably referred to, in English, as clans, lineages, (extended) families, or houses.13 While firmly anchored in their mythical past, tribal societies are in continuous motion and flow as new, younger lineages continue to be spawned by perpetual fission along lines of fathers and sons. Thus, individuals belong to a series of vertically overlapping lineages that lead parallel existences in the local perception. In Ernest Gellner’s words, “the various nested levels are of roughly equal importance,”14 even though their day-to-day significance fluctuates according to context. The social order provided by those dynamics requires a strong performance of group solidarity and cohesion that would fail without people’s faithfulness to their social roles. These roles are hereditary and normally closely circumscribed by gender and age, which means that, at the level of action, the structure of Arab societies is favorable to the exertion of gerontocratic and patriarchal authority. Hence it is typically the senior male member of a given lineage who acts, in a 12 Descent/segmentary theory represents a complex ideal-typical model of the workings of premodern societies, which harks back in its essence to the sociology of the Arabs themselves, famously expressed in Ibn Khaldūn’s concept of ʿaṣabīyah (“blood ties”, “tribal society”; for more on it see, e.g., Amalia Levanoni’s entry in the Encyclopaedia of Islam, THREE). Those native scholarly ideas were empirically corroborated in the works of 19th-century travelers and orientalists (such as Smith 1885/2001) and eventually integrated into the grand social narrative of Émile Durkheim which, loosely speaking, equated society with an organism, or a mechanism, the structures and functions of which constituted its main analytical focus. In that sense, modern Western sociology of the Durkheim brand is the intellectual and academic foundation of descent theory, they heydays of which lay between the 1940s and 1960s. It is closely associated with the names of renowned ethnographers and social philosophers associated with the Cambridge School of Anthropology, such as Evans-Pritchard 1949; Gellner 1969, 1981, 1983, and Tapper (ed.) 1983; Tapper 1997. Although in academe, the segmentary perspective has long been dismissed in favor of actor-centered, transactionalist, and interpretative, approaches to kinship, its basic propositions have certainly remained a valid heuristic tool for the understanding of the social structure and stratification of the traditional societies of the Middle East (159–164). 13 The native vocabulary, which is not used in this article, includes the Hebrew terms mishpāḥah and bāyit (bet-av) and their Arabic equivalents āʾilah, ḥamūlah, and dār. 14 Gellner 1983, 191.

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manner of speaking, as the central clearing house for all social, political, and economic, decision-making processes affecting the lineage. Among other things, the family elder tends to be crucially involved in the mating game taking place in his family. It is, in fact, not uncommon for him to pull the strings himself. Arab communities of all creeds, some more, some less, adhere to a form of arranged marriage, which is based on a set of assumptions, values, and practices, that may be aptly subsumed under the heading of “the Arab marriage” (180–196).15 This system is expressed in a pervasive patrilineal idiom, according to which children derive their identity exclusively from the father and his male ancestors, whereas the identity of the mother may be to a large extent discounted. Here lies also the reason why it is acceptable for males to marry non-coreligionists, but not for females (152–155). Consequently, marital unions tend to be arranged according to an overlapping array of blood-related patterns, among which the bond between a man and the daughter of his father’s brother (bint-il-ʿamm) stands out as the epitome and supreme ideal. Marriages to other types of first cousins as well as to genealogically more remote kin within the patrilineal unit of descent occur frequently, too, and may assume a similar level of honorability.16 Badal, the premediated exchange of brides within or across lineage boundaries, a practice that engenders an interdependent pair (or even a cluster) of couples, is another highly valued way of spousal selection in those communities. In order to ensure reliable compliance with those patterns, parents and senior relatives are required to be in control of the actions of their marriageable youth, in particular of the females, who are expected to contribute to the growth 15 Cf. the expression le mariage Arabe used in French anthropology, e.g., Bonte (ed.) 1994, var. loc. 16 The scholarly concern with “Father’s Brother’s Daughter marriage” has emerged in the 1950s as a peculiar strand of critique of segmentary theory and was developed further within French anthropology, where it has notoriously rubbed up against the propositions of alliance theory set out by Claude Lévi-Strauss (1949/1969). Fredrik Barth (1953, 1954), Rafael Patai (1955, 1965), Abner Cohen 1965, as well as the French anthropologists Pierre Bourdieu 1977, Pierre Bonte, Edouard Conte (Bonte, ed., 1994, Bonte and Conte, eds., 2001), and Françoise Héritier 2002, stand preeminently among a large circle of contributors to an extensive and sophisticated debate. Within this frame of reference, a wide and disparate range of explanations have been offered for the phenomenon, some of which refer to questions of social structure (the creation and continuation of delineated patrilineal units) while others focus on the domain of cultural ideals (such as gender roles, honor, or purity). Similarly to descent theory itself, the field is historically anchored in the works of 19th-century forerunners such as the orientalists and biblical scholars Ignaz Goldziher 1880/1968, William H. Robertson Smith 1885/2001, and Julius Wellhausen 1893. One early ethnographer that must not be forgotten is the Finnish-Swedish traveler Hilma Granqvist 1931–1935, whose vivid description of daily life in a Palestinian village no doubt contains the most engrossing account of the Arab marriage ever written. For a comprehensive discussion see chapter 6 in my book.

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of their own community and family rather than to those of other people. Against this background both sexes, but especially girls, receive a strongly preventive education, hedged by a patriarchal code of shame (138–140).

4 Division and Unity: the Family as a Pillar of Samaritan Identity Owing to the unique Samaritan mix of biblical traditions, demography, geography, and history, this special religious minority is a peculiar mirror rather than a straightforward duplicate of the average Muslim tribe or village (to the extent that such a thing exists).17 Here is roughly how the community is structured. The Samaritans locate their origins and identity in the mythology of the Twelve Tribes of Israel, which is laid out in the Torah (Pentateuch), both in its Samaritan and Masoretic versions. According to their interpretation of those ancient narratives, all Samaritan families – with the exception of the Priests who are affiliated with certain lineages within the Tribe of Levi (31–34) – are considered descendants of Ephraim and Manasseh, the sons of Joseph. This ascription is made in line with biblical geography, which has Ephraim and Manasseh as the primal lords of the Samaritans’ sacred territory in the northern region of tribal Israel (29–31). Thus, looked at from a structural angle, the contemporary Samaritan groups of descent – from the level of encompassing clan down to the three-to-four-generations extended family – amount to a nested set of tribal divisions. There are presently five to six clans in the community, almost all marked by conspicuously stable family names that in some cases date back to the times when the Samaritans still spoke Aramaic (over a thousand years ago): the Priests (ha-Kohānīm / al-Kahānah, al-Kahānīyye); the Dinfī, divided into Allṭīf and Sirrāwī; the Marḥīv (in Arabic, Mufarrij), split into Marḥīv ha-Marḥīvī and Yehōshūʿa ha-Marḥīvī, and the Tsedāḳah (formerly the Sabāḥī or Ṣafrī family). Each of those lineages is multiply divided into smaller patrilineal units, with the local division of the Samaritans approximately reflecting those fissions. Chart 1 shows the genealogical relationships on the ground, while Table 1 breaks down current population numbers and gender ratios along the lines of clan affiliation (164–179). 17 Alternative templates for the representation of Samaritan society would of course be found in the Hebrew Bible with its plenty of narratives involving descent, tribalism, and patriarchal households. However, they are exclusively literary stuff that cannot be empirically scrutinized in the way present-day communities can, so that their comparative use is limited. Therefore, I have not included them in my present discussion.

HP Amram c. 1809–1859 Yehoshuʿa

Holon lineages

Nablus lineage

Predominantly Nablus

Predominantly Nablus

Faraj al-Sabahi 19th century

Holon lineages

Yefet Gavri‘el Sabah 1894–1981 1901–1978 1902–1977

CLAN LEVEL and lower levels of segmentation (extended families)

Tawfiq 1904–1971

Faraj *c.1900

Marhiv

MARHIV (Mufarrij)

Ibrahim *c. 1856

HP Abdallah *1935

HP Taqa 1897-1984

SIRRAWI (Sassoni)

Predominantly Holon

ALLTIF

DINFI

Habib 19th century

TSEDAKAH (Sabahi)

Manasseh

Hasan *c. 1866

HP Wasif 1894–1989

HP Tawfiq 1869–1943

Isaac Aaron c. 1812–1840 c. 1814–1836

PRIESTLY FAMILY

Ephraim

Joseph

Nablus lineage

Chart 1: Tribal pedigrees of the Samaritan families. Note: For reasons of graphic representation, this and the three other genealogical charts presented in this essay are selected extracts from the real-life context rather than its full display.

Tribal level (Bible)

HP Shalmah c.1784–1857

Levi

Jacob

Isaac

Abraham

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Table 1: Number of family members per Samaritan clan in 2013. Clan Priests Allṭīf

Male

Female

Total

113

107

220

90

70

160

Sirrāwī

37

41

78

Marḥīv (incl. Yehōshūʿa)

73

64

137

Tsedaḳah Total

87

75

162

400

357

757

As the community’s indispensable religious leadership, the priestly family occupies an elite status among the Samaritan clans (90–95). However, it was as good as extinct at the turn of the 19th century, when Shālmah (Salāmē, ca. 1784–1857) was high priest (kohēn gādōl) and simultaneously the last surviving male family member. Thanks only to the reproductive success of his three able-bodied sons Amram (ʿImrān, c. 1809–1875), Isaac (Iṣḥāq, c. 1812–1839) and Aaron (Harūn, c. 1814–1836), the Kohānīm have since made a strong rebound, totaling 220 individuals in 2013. The houses of Amram, Isaac, and Aaron, represent the basic roster of the priestly family until this day. At the same time, they have, of course, split into a set of subdivisions, on one of which (the house of Tawfīq) we will lay focus shortly below. At present, the majority of the lay Samaritans count themselves among the tribe of Ephraim, with most of them, in turn, belonging to the Dinfī clan. Associated with the renowned Samaritan diaspora in Damascus (10th–17th centuries) and having brought forward some of the wealthiest men and most prolific scribes of the community, the Dinfī have traditionally been considered the second-noblest Samaritan family after the Priests. The Allṭīf and Sirrāwī segments have developed out of a handful of historical Dinfī divisions, most of whom perished in the course of the 20th century.18 Joint Dinfī identity has receded into the background over the past decades, a development owing to the fact that almost all Sirrāwī lineages relocated to Holon in the wake of the establishment of the State of Israel. By contrast, the Allṭīf, with 160 souls in 2013 one of the larger Samaritan lineages, have, for the most part, remained in the old hometown. There they have pursued their agenda of close collaboration with the Priests in their shared political dominion of the Nablus local group, today the Gerizim settlement, ever since (334–339; 352–359). 18 For more on the demographic conditions in this and the other clans in the year 1909 see the census of Paul Kahle 1930. Cf. Tsedaka 1989.

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The Sirrāwī, who chose to change their Arabic name into the Hebrew Sassōnī in Israel, represent the smallest Samaritan clan, counting seventy-eight members in 2013. This is due, among other things, to a long-standing paucity of male births – an unusual situation compared to the lack of females typically plaguing the Samaritan families. Currently however, they are in the process of increasing nicely due to a new generation of splendid young sons. Also among the Marḥīv, the majority has moved to Holon in the early Israeli era, leaving only one lineage back in Nablus (which we will encounter soon, Case 3). In the discourse of the 20th-century community, the Marḥīv have long been considered a kind of lower-class family, but their seizing of educational and career opportunities offered in modern Israel are gradually changing this image. This clan maintains a quite independent spin-off segment, the house of Yehōshūʿa, whose members dwell exclusively in Holon. Being the fastest growing lineage among the Marḥīv (see Case 2 for their favorite marital strategies), its fifty-four members (count of 2013) meanwhile represent more than a third of the entire clan. The Yehōshūʿa much appreciate their distinction from the other Marḥīv, yet stick with them reliably in all matters of collective family representation, be it in the realm of community politics or at family celebrations (351–352; 356–357; Fig. 2). The only clan that presently identifies with the tribe of Manasseh is the Tsedāḳah family. While still competing with the Marḥīv for a place “not at the bottom of Samaritan society” (351) throughout the 19th century, they were the first clan releasing member households from Nablus into the Jewish settlement of Yaffa/Tel Aviv right after the turn of the 20th century. Integrating quickly into the modernizing Hebrew educational and labor system, those families rightly earned their reputation as the pioneers of the modern Israeli-Samaritan experience (339–352). However, the Tsedāḳah may have easily ended up a dying lineage were it not for the success of the Samaritan-Jewish marriages contracted in the 1920s and 1930s by some of their men. In our days, the ample offspring of the marriages of Yefet, Gavrīʾēl, and Ṣabāḥ, represent the overwhelming majority of the modern Tsedāḳah (who numbered 162 altogether in 2013). At the same time though, most cases of defection that have rattled the community since the 1930s originated in this group (141–8; 347–9).19 A small contingent of, at the moment, eighteen individuals, all descendants of Faraj al-Ṣabāḥī’s brother Ḥabīb, hold up the name of Tsedāḳah on Mount Gerizim (340). 19 The most famous example is the Israeli actress and singer Sofi Tsedaka (born 1975), a grandaughter of Gavrīʾēl’s, whose defection and subsequent national publicity dealt a devastating blow to her parents and has scandalized the Samaritans ever since (144–145).

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5 “My Daughter is for Her Cousin”: the Arab Marriage as a Samaritan Institution As indicated above, the marital practices of the Samaritans are to a large extent comparable with those of Muslims and other local religious groups of the Middle East. A glance at the statistics available in the anthropological literature reveals that the Samaritans are placed squarely within the broader regional average: Table 3, an adjusted sample of 289 marital unions contracted among the Samaritans between 1835 and 2004 (it includes the interfaith marriages), makes this immediately apparent when read against Table 2, a summary of data published on twenty-six Muslim, Christian, Jewish, and Druze communities between 1931 and 1989 (194–196; 203–213). Table 4, finally addresses the fairly equal division of the major patterns over the five main Samaritan clans (205–206). Table 2: Arab marriage across the Middle East. Pattern

Percentage of all sampled marriages

Bint-il-ʿamm (Father’s Brother’s Daughter) marriage

6% – 21.6%

First cousin marriage (all forms)

16.7% – 64%

Marriage within clan

30% – 62%

Table 3: Arab marriage in the Samaritan community. Pattern

Percentage of all sampled marriages, 1835–2004

Bint-il-ʿamm (Father’s Brother’s Daughter) marriage

19%

First cousin marriage (all forms)

37%

Marriage within clan

51.9%

Table 4: Arab marriage among the Samaritan clans. Pattern

Clan

Bint-il-ʿamm (Father’s Brother’s Daughter) marriage

Priestly family

21.2%

Allṭīf

22.2%

Sirrāwīa Marḥīv (incl. Yehōshūʿa) Tsedāḳah

Percentage of all sampled marriages, 1835–2004

5.3% 17.5% 23.2% (continued)

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Table 4: (continued) Pattern

Clan

First cousin marriage (all forms)

Priestly family

39.4%

Allṭīf

40.7%

Sirrāwī

Marriage within clan

Percentage of all sampled marriages, 1835–2004

21%

Marḥīv (incl. Yehōshūʿa)

29.8%

Tsedāḳah

46.4%

Priestly family

56.3%

Allṭīf

64.8%

Sirrāwī

31.6%

Marḥīv (incl. Yehōshūʿa)

56.1%

Tsedāḳah

44.9%

Note: a The somewhat lower percentage calculated for the Sirrāwī is a result of their comparatively small numbers and their long-standing dearth of men.

The ideological values that Samaritans attach to the Arab marriage similarly resemble the attitudes known from a wide variety of its practitioners throughout the Middle East, which typically cumulate in an emphasis on its honorability and its contribution to the individual and social good. Muslims may, in addition, loosely refer to their religious tradition for vindication (263–265). The latter does not happen among the Samaritans (108–109),20 but sure enough, also in this community, declarations such as “My daughter is (destined) for her (paternal) cousin (bintī li-ʿibn ʿammhā)” are taken as attests of a parent’s accountability and probity (199). In conversation, Samaritans may express the joy of receiving a trustworthy spouse who will treat them with innate affection and the deep satisfaction that is to be gained from proving one’s worth for the family by happy submission under its preferences (240–241). There exists, however, an opposite and resentful narrative that is clearly subordinate and voiced primarily in private discussions. Among its topics are the anguish created by duress and emotional blackmail, as well as the frequent lack of natural romanticism during courtship, and the counter-instinctive challenge of turning a 20 Samaritans generally present the practice as external to their religion. There are, however, a few such passages in the medieval halakhic literature where the bint-il-ʿamm-marriage seems to be given some sort of legal anchor (265–266): a discussion of Num 36 in the 11th-century Kitāb al-Ṭabbākh (see Wedel 1987, 147–148); the denial of a woman’s right to refuse the hand of a cousin in the coeval Kitāb al-Kāfī (see Noja 1970, 34); the dependence of a woman’s right of inheritance to her marrying a kinsman on the father’s side (see Pohl 1974, 176–178). But it is also a fact that the old halakhic treatises occupy a minor role in the Samaritan public consciousness (cf. Pummer 2016, 231–233).

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person with whom one has grown up like a sibling into an intimate partner (241–284; 280–281).21 Moreover, the health risks inherent to procreation within circles of genetically close relatives are recurrent talking points in the critical evaluation of the rule (276–278; 280–284).22 But whatever an individual’s view of it, cousin marriage as at least a serious option is a major issue in almost all marriage negotiations conducted in the community. Notwithstanding the revolutionary appearance delivered by the stranger wives on the Samaritan scene, the majority of youngsters (most of the boys, and all of the girls) continue to find their spouses on the community’s tense sectarian marriage market.

6 Boosting the House: Real-Life Strategies of Samaritan Families On the empirical basis of recent matchmaking processes observed in three Samaritan lineages, this section sets out to exemplify the ways in which the Samaritan family and its traditional authorities, influenced by other factors such as history, place, demography, and status, proceed to generate fine-tuned and extensive webs of matrimony.

6.1 Case 1: Marriage in the House of the High Priest Of all three sons of Shālmah, it was the short-lived Isaac – he had fallen victim to a Muslim mob in Nablus at the age of twenty-seven (50) – who generated the most copious progeny through his only, presumably posthumously born, son Khidr (Pinḥās, c. 1841–1898). His descendants constitute by some margin the largest and 21 The latter problem is known as the “Westermarck effect,” named after the Swedish-Finnish sociologist Edvard Alexander Westermarck, who proposed an “innate aversion to sexual intercourse between persons living closely together from early youth” (Westermarck 1903/2005, 320). At the same time, he conceded that this generic human revulsion was consciously overruled in certain cultures, or social strata, for demographic, dynastic, or other social purposes. However, seeing as this hypothesis poses a contradiction to the widespread Freudian assumption of the inborn incestuous desires of humans, it has been widely neglected in the social sciences (243–245; 266–269). 22 See note 5 above. The modern Samaritans meet the problem by state-of-the-art medical intervention generously offered by Israel’s health care system rather than by avoidance of the traditional preferences. Their approach does not differ from that of other regional populations who live in countries able to afford modern reproductive medicine and gene technology: for more on the general topic see Bittles 2012, Shaw 2009, and Shaw and Raz [eds.] 2015.

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most influential sector among the modern priestly lineages. It is split into four segments: Tawfīq (Matslīaḥ), Brahīm (Abraham), Nājī (Avīshaʿ), and Ghazzāl (Ṭābiā). Among them, in turn, the exclusively Nablus-based extended family of the late high priest Tawfīq (lived 1869–1943, in office 1933–1943), is arguably the wealthiest and most self-assured. Chart 2 gives a select survey of the family relations: The present high priest ʿAbdallah’s immediate family consists of four senior households, three of which belong to the sons of Wāṣif (Āsher), the son of Tawfīq: ʿAbdallah himself, the late Ḥasanayn, and Ḥusnī (Yefet). The fourth household is that of their late cousin Tawfīq, the son of Taqāʾ (Pinḥās). Together they have sixteen children (eight sons and eight daughters), all of whom are married today. The Samaritans have not had a dedicated high priestly lineage since the 17th century, so the post is always filled by the clan elder, in no fixed order of descent (91). Owing to its comparatively large supply of healthy and long-lived men, the supreme religious leadership has, over the past century, fallen repeatedly to the lineage of Isaac, the son of Shālmah, and here especially to the house of Tawfīq, the grandson of Isaac. Both he and his two sons rose to high priesthood: Wāṣif officiated between 1980 and 1982, Taqāʾ between 1982 and 1984. Since 2013, Tawfīq’s first-born grandson ʿAbdallah holds this position, securing a major social and symbolic asset for his family. But this is by no means its only one: the Tawfīq group has long performed strongly in politics and business as well. They play, for one thing, a highly visible role in SamaritanPalestinian public relations. The new Samaritan Museum on Mount Gerizim is largely their own domestic enterprise, while some lineage members, notably the high priest’s extraverted, eloquent, brother Ḥusnī, who appears in numerous TV broadcasts and videos that are accessible through Youtube, perform as speakers for Samaritan participation in the Palestinian nation-building project (76–77).23 For another thing, the family has been running a profitable and internationally active company for the production of Tahini (sesame paste) since 2002.24 Furthermore, more or less all of the family’s daughters and daughters-in-law have been given functions and jobs in the wider family business (notably in the public relations sector), so that the inward-oriented conjugal bonds established over the past decades represent, not least of all, a considerable input into the overall lineage’s economic success. Now let us have a look at the actual patterns of marriage. First, the descendants of Tawfīq continue to identify firmly with their lineage of origin, the house of Isaac, so they continuously reconnect with it in marriage. 23 Here is the point to note that the political allegiances of the Nablus Samaritans are notoriously ambiguous and that their friendly connections with moderate Palestinian politicians associated with the Fataḥ party stand facing a strong sense of dependence on and loyalty to Israel (69–83). Droeber 2013, 91–94; 171–178. 24 https://www.harbracha-tahini.com/. Last accessed July 25, 2018

Bride

Ghazzal 1883–1956

HP Naji 1881–1961

Brahim 1877–1940

PRIESTLY FAMILY Tawfiq

MARHIV Faraj

Raghib

Chart 2: Marriage in the house of the high priest.

Tawfiq 1938–1996 Groom

Ishaq

8 marriages to Brahim/Naji families

Hasanayn 1937–2007 Husni *1944

HP Tawfiq 1869–1943

Khidr c. 1841–1898

Isaac c. 1812–1840

HP Taqaʿ 1897–1984

HP ʿAbdallah *1935

HP Wasif 1894–1982

HP ʿAmram c. 1809–1859

HP Shalmah c.1784 –1857

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Aaron c. 1814–1836

Taqaʿ

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For ʿAbdallah’s, Ḥasanayn’s and Ḥusnī’s children, no less than eight alliances were forged with descendants of Brahīm and the high priest (1943–1961) Nājī (limits of space force me to indicate them on the chart rather than to show them in detail). Second, in the spirit of segmentary dynamics, in which younger patrilineal units of descent strive for independence from the larger social context, people in the house of Tawfīq have been looking for alliances within their own narrow ranks from as early on as possible. Ever since the initial marriage between Ḥusnī and Taqāʾs daughter in the 1970s, they have arranged six such unions, beginning in the late 1990s with two pairs of siblings from among the children of ʿAbdallah and Ḥasanayn, and ending in July 2012, when the youngest daughter of Ḥusnī married the youngest son of the late Taqāʾ. They are “Bride” and “Groom” on the chart. Fig. 2 gives a glimpse of the nuptials held in the communal hall of the Samaritan village on Mount Gerizim.25

Fig. 2: Wedding in the house of Tawfīq, Mount Gerizim, July 2012 Note: Grateful acknowledgement is made for permission to publish the wedding photos, copyright © Ori Orhof, courtesy of the high priest ʿAbdallah, through his son Jacob (Fig.2), and Galina Khimina Marḥīv (Fig. 3).

25 The photograph was taken during the most suspenseful moment of the ceremony: the reading of the marriage contract (ketubbah).

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The seating order in the front row, from left to right, places Ḥusnī and his wife (parents of the bride) alongside the bridal couple. The groom is flanked by his widowed mother, a lady from the priestly lineage of Aaron. In his capacities as both the family elder and the groom’s paternal uncle, high priest ʿAbdallah occupies the seat of the latterʼs deceased father. With that wedding, the house of Tawfīq has exploited almost all its demographic potential for reproductive selfreliance in this generation. “Almost,” that is. The groomʼs older brother (he is right there behind him, checking his phone) and his sister both got married in the context of an exchange arrangement with the house of Faraj, a section of the Marḥīv clan (see Case 3 and Chart 4 below). Marriage with non-Samaritans has so far not been deemed necessary for the continuation of the house of Tawfīq. This cannot be said about all families, as we shall see in the following:

6.2 Case 2: Marriage in the Houses of Ṣabāḥ and Tawfīq As the example of the Priests just showed, even the most confident of extended families depend on their links to superordinate descent units. They need them in order to achieve a maximum output of symbolic, economic, and political leverage, including the deep-seated interest in the perpetuation of the traditional patterns of marriage. But there are exceptions to the rule: at times, circumstances allow for a lineage to dissociate from the rest of its clan and yet succeed as a kind of standalone operation. No modern Samaritan family has achieved this feat as well as the house of Ṣabāḥ from the Tsedāḳah clan. As mentioned earlier in this article, Ṣabāḥ (1902–1977), a grandson of Faraj al-Ṣabāḥī, was one of the pioneers of Samaritan-Israeli life. He and his Jewish wife Deborah are the genitors of a sizeable extended family that is fundamentally driven by the solidarity prevailing between their three sons: Shālōm, the “alpha male,” a temperamentally and physically very strong person, Gershōn, and the brilliant, mild-mannered Menaḥēm. They have eleven children altogether, nine of whom are sons. In its entirety, the group stands out as an icon of pride and cohesion within the social fabric of the Holon neighborhood (349–351). The root reason for Ṣabāḥ separatism within the Tsedāḳah family is said to be a family strife dating back to the early 1900s and involving the apparently voluntary disappearance of Ṣabāḥ’s brother, the causes for which have never been cleared up (141; 350). This trauma has long been acted out in the context of the Tsedāḳah’s perennial in-fights for superiority on the Holon locale that turned

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them into the most deeply divided Samaritan clan of the 20th century. The ensuing animosities between Shālōm and his brothers on the one hand, and certain Tsedāḳah representatives on the other, have time and again erupted in public shouting matches and even the occasional outbreak of physical violence, making for a hostile atmosphere that was unfavorable to marriage. Everybody needs allies though, and one of the reasons why the Ṣabāḥ family could give up so readily on their Tsedāḳah cousins is that, from early on, they had more sympathetic cousins in the house of Tawfīq. Those are not to be confused with the priestly family of the same name, but represent the single large extended family within the Yehōshūʿa segment of the Marḥīv clan (there is a second one, which is very small). They, too, are headed by a respect-commanding leading man known as Abū Tawfīq, the oldest of five brothers. Chart 3 shows selected details of the kin relationships: Tawfīq (lived 1904–1971) was married to Ṣabāḥ’s sister with whom he begot no less than eight healthy children: a sound basis for the reinforcement of the initial cousinhood between his and Ṣabāḥ’s offspring in the early 1960s. Shālōm and his sister Carmela were married by badal to a daughter and a son of Tawfīq’s respectively. All the five sons of Tawfīq fathered sizeable offspring themselves (nine sons and eleven daughters altogether). Thus, they, too, provided vitally to this closely circumscribed, cross-clan, consanguineous unit, within which almost the entirety of the young generation have been allocated their husbands or wives. Whether the spouse originates in one’s own or in the allied lineage, depends mostly on availability, but in some cases also on individual preference within the given rules of the game. The genealogical layout of all those marriages, which took place between the late 1980s and the early noughties, is visualized, in large part, in Chart 3 (235–237). Unsurprisingly perhaps, senior authority looms large behind this apparently mechanical implementation of the traditional mating patterns. Shālōm, for one, has a long-standing reputation for being very rigid about the marriages of his children, nieces, and nephews, which I would like to illustrate by way of an anecdote: when his brother Menaḥēm’s only daughter was still a child, the father used to announce that he would grant her the free choice of husband, out of a desire to see her happy, yet also because he was strictly opposed on eugenic grounds to the idea of close consanguineous marriage. Sure enough, she ended up marrying the son of her paternal uncle Gershōn. The Samaritans’ reaction to this move was hardly amazed. Had it not been obvious, as the rhetorical question went, that whoever wanted that girl would have to request her hand from Shālōm, rather than from her own father (282)? In both the Ṣabāḥ and Tawfīq families, “mixed” marriages used to be much in disfavor (the lonely exception being Menaḥēm, whose three children are all

TSEDAKAH Sabah

Menahem *1945

Chart 3: Marriage in the house of Ṣabāḥ.

Shalom*1989 *1998 *2001

Ṣabāḥ *1961

Sabah 1902–1977

Gershon 1940–2007

Deborah

Shalom*1938

=

Carmela *1943

Hasan *c. 1866

Faraj al-Sabahi

=

YEHOSHUʿA Tawfiq

*1994

=

=

=

The Arab, the Jewish, and the Ukrainian Marriage   287

Tawfiq 1904–1971

Abu Tawfiq *1932

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 Monika Schreiber

wedded to Samaritans though). This attitude became untenable in 2010 and 2016, respectively, after all the thirteen girls in this generation had been distributed among their cousins and the Yehōshūʿa were left with three young men for whom no Samaritan wives could be secured. Two of them eventually married Israeli Jews, one a Ukrainian. At present, as a new and nubile generation is emerging from the preceding round of in-marriages, the matchmaking circus is beginning afresh. As recently as last year, two teenage girls from the house of Ṣabāḥ were betrothed to their cousins: Shālōm’s older granddaughter will marry her father’s brother’s son, the younger one the son of her maternal uncle from the Yehōshūʿa side of the family. To which extent the youngsters in both families, to be headed by a younger and perhaps more liberal echelon of patriarchal authority in the foreseeable future, will ultimately push the practice is still anyone’s guess. In any case, with a web of kinship and solidarity that dense, the power and stability of this special, bipartite, “total family” appears to be secured for a long time to come.

6.3 Case 3: Marriage in the House of Faraj The Marḥīv family of Nablus – descendants of Faraj (born around 1900), the only reproducing son of Ṣāliḥ al-Rāghib (born in approximately 1854) – has emerged from the tiny residual contingent left behind by the clan majority upon their exodus to Holon in the aftermath of the Israeli independence. Numbering no more than roughly twenty-five individuals today, they belong to the less powerful families in the Gerizim settlement, with hardly a chance to match the self-confident appearance and political leverage of the mighty priestly and Allṭīf clans. This disadvantage is partially offset by the shining reputation of their head of family, Rāghib the son of Faraj, a prolific scribe who is widely acknowledged as possessor of one of the finest handwritings in the entire community and a beacon of religious knowledge. Up until the 1990s, the lineage was too small for matrimonial self-sufficiency and the three brothers Rāghib, Iṣḥāq, and Fatḥī, had to look for wives further afield. Rāghib married a daughter of the late high priest Taqāʾ and sister of Tawfīq; the younger brothers obtained spouses from the two major Holonbased Marḥīv lineages Ḥalīl and Saʿad. However, due to the numerous offspring emerging from those unions over the past two decades (fourteen healthy children, eight boys and six girls), conditions for the local realization of cousin marriage among the Faraj people have much improved. So this would be their way to go (Chart 4).

HP Taqaʿ 1897–1984

Tawfiq 1938–1998

Holon lineages

Taqaʿ

Chart 4: Marriage in the house of Faraj.

MARHIV Faraj (Nablus)

Raghib *1937

=

=

Ishaq 1938–2017

Faraj *c. 1900

Salih al-Raghib *c. 1854

Fathi *1953

PRIESTLY FAMILY (Tawfiq)

Saʿad * c. 1899 Halil *c. 1834

Faraj

ALLTIF

The Arab, the Jewish, and the Ukrainian Marriage   289

*1994

*1992

Fiancée (Ukraine)

Bride (Ukraine) Groom

Hadi

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The mating game set off in the early 1990s, if to a somewhat rocky start. Rāghib’s first-born son Hādī and his younger sister had been promised in marriage to Iṣḥāq’s oldest daughter and son since early youth. At some point though, the young Hādī started to protest against his preplanned marriage to a person who felt to him “like a sister”, and set his heart on a woman from the Allṭīf clan. After a few years of fraught negotiations taking place in a delicate limbo, the envisioned matches were eventually replaced by a complex badal package that would meet Rāghib’s son’s preference and still accomplish the family’s reproductive needs in an honorable fashion. It consisted in Iṣḥāq’s children marrying the son and daughter, respectively, of the Priest Tawfīq (see also Case 1, Chart 2), while Rāghib’s children tied conjugal bonds with Hādī’s choice of heart and her brother from the Allṭīf family (238–239). The next round of marriages was facilitated by Fatḥī’s daughters coming of age in the early 2000s. Following their graduation from university,26 both settled into unions with their paternal cousins: the first-born daughter with Rāghib’s younger son, who is twenty years her senior, the younger one with Iṣḥāq’s lastborn son. With those two weddings (2012 and 2015), the lineage’s options for inmarriage were exhausted. This had left Iṣḥāq’s second son, as well as his younger brother, unattached well into their thirties, without realistic chances to marry a native Samaritan. As a small, isolated, family, the Marḥīvs’ position on the local marriage market is weak, while their relatives in Holon currently have very few marriageable daughters, all of whom they prefer to keep within their own orbit. To solve their predicament, the family eventually decided on the Ukrainian option. In the spring of 2014, the older brother married a young woman from that country. They are bride and groom on the photograph. Also present, in the front left to right, are Iṣḥāq and his wife, parents of the groom. The mother is flanked by her Holon-based widowed sister. In the rear, one can see, from left to right: Rāghib (facing left), head of the family and the groom’s paternal uncle. Then there is Abū Tawfīq (right behind the groom), the family elder of the Yehōshūʿa lineage (Case 2), whose presence illustrates nicely the famed Marḥīv spirit of cohesion as it repeatedly surmounts the genealogical division. To his left, we meet the groom’s older sister, who is of course married to a Priest. At this juncture, the attentive viewer will miss the relatives of the bride in the picture. In Samaritan-Ukrainian marriages the religious ceremony is predated by a civil wedding in the bride’s hometown that involves her family, who then as a rule do not fly over for the Samaritan nuptials. This void is liable to put the bride, who at this point in time is usually barely familiar with the community and speaks neither Arabic nor Hebrew, into a pretty much forlorn state. As I mentioned earlier,

26 It is very common for local Samaritans to obtain a degree from the local Al-Najaḥ University.

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 291

Fig. 3: Wedding in the house of Faraj, Mount Gerizim, March 2014.

Alexandra, the first Ukrainian-Samaritan wife, experienced the early stage of her marriage as painfully disruptive and irritating (325). Nowadays however, those girls are welcomed by an ever-growing number of more senior compatriots in the community. The bride of Marḥīv, for instance, was personally taken care of by the smiling blonde lady peeking out of the background, the wife of an Alltif man. She has since found her place in the community and given birth to a daughter. Finally, as recently as in the summer of 2017, the groom’s younger single brother became engaged to a Ukrainian girl as well. Summing up, on the basis of a pragmatic combination of traditional and modern marital strategies, the once tiny local residual of the Marḥīv clan is currently growing into a sizeable family that must be reckoned with as a solid social and political element on the Mount Gerizim scene.

7 Will the Samaritan Tradition Prevail? Brief Remarks on an Open Question By means of those vignettes, I have tried to show, on a general level, how the modern Samaritans pick spouses from the highly diverse pools available to

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them. In particular, they are meant to demonstrate the ways in which, within that variety, it is the traditional Samaritan regime of premediated cousin marriage that continues to create and fortify the community’s structure by fostering its most valued social capital: the multi-level patrilineal units of descent which bestow on Samaritans their collective and individual identities by connecting them, at a higher level, to the biblical grand narrative of the Ten Tribes of Israel. However, the practices the system involves – such as, most prominently, the mating of close relatives within the framework of controlled matchmaking – frequently go against the grain of individual needs and desires (we remember the “Westermarck effect” as explained in note 21). There is thus a sense in which it may be argued that the prized bint-il-ʿamm marriage works as a disciplinary measure of sorts, one that supports the spirit of individual subordination under collective interests as it is needed for keeping the community together in order to safeguard a jeopardized religious tradition (203; 333). Therefore, seen from the functionalist angle I have introduced in chapter 3 above, the Arab marriage looks like the perfect scheme for the social and ideological reproduction of the Samaritans as a pre-modern community – a system which did its job well enough until a demographic threshold was reached at which its biological and arithmetic shortcomings, exacerbated by a bizarre demography, made it unviable as a single reproductive policy. And this is where the foreign-born brides come in. Given their priceless input into the biological fitness and numerical growth of the community, matrimony with them would seem to represent a brilliant complementary strategy that enables the Samaritans to move on into a secure future. But in fact the community conducts an ambivalent discourse on the subject because, even though the Samaritans genuinely appreciate the option, and lavish the warmest affection on their imported daughters-in-law, there are limits to their enthusiasm. The regulated manner in which foreigners have been admitted to the Yehōshūʿa and Marḥīv families (Cases 2 and 3) is as good an empirical indication for this as any. Many Samaritans fear that a fight for survival of a hitherto unknown kind may lie ahead of them, which means that their community, barely saved from physical extinction, could end up dissipating, worn down by the forces of hybridization and individualism they have unleashed by opening the ethnic boundaries (362–363). Highly aware of living “in a world undergoing changes that seem more radical and threatening to ancient traditions than at any time before,”27 members of the community perceive of the Jewish and Ukrainian brides as an alien element, one that raises concern about their childrenʼs fidelity to the creed of their fathers and

27 Pummer 2016, 304.

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 293

their ultimate loyalties. Seeing through the social fiction inherent to the patrilineal idiom that denies significance to the mother’s identity, they tend to point out the ambiguous identities of the offspring of Jewish mothers, who may of course claim the halakhic status of Jews anytime, and thus defect easily to the dominant Israeli society (there have already been precedents [141–148]). Add to that the fact that over the last two decades some of the SamaritanJewish families have chosen to locate away from the Samaritan neighborhood and to live more private lives in other places in Israel, where they interact much more frequently with Jews than with co-religionists. As I have shown elsewhere (329–30), the majority of these explicit attempts at combining an emphatically individualist life as a modern nuclear family with the preservation of a Samaritan identity resulted in self-exclusion rather than sustainable compromise.28 On top of those long-standing problems, the community has recently taken up the challenge of integrating an ever-increasing group of “actual” foreigners, who link the biblically pedigreed Samaritan lineages with as distant a culture as Eastern European post-Christianity. Not least of all, the Samaritans have meanwhile realized the fascination of their sons with these “exotic” women, complete with the comparatively high level of individual freedom they enjoy in establishing relationships with them.29 Concerns have repeatedly been voiced about intermarriage becoming more popular than strictly necessary, thus creating, by the end of the day, a surplus of nubile Samaritan daughters and, as a consequence, a situation that would be liable to tear up the community’s most sensitive flank. In conclusion, it is early days yet to decide whether the distinct Samaritan way of life will endure in the long run. Yet the very longue durée that the Samaritans have already lived through seems to give us ample reason to believe that they will. For two millennia, after all, this ancient nation has survived, thanks to the steadfast determination with which it has always clung to its tenets of faith, but also to its tremendous social plasticity. Facing countless waves of cultural and political change throughout their history, the Samaritans have become extraordinarily skilled at readapting themselves to vastly dominant majorities without ever letting their religion atrophy (83–86). In this spirit, I should like to close the present essay by picking up on the optimistic tone first struck at the very end of the study which underlies it. “[The 28 For a recent case see also Pummer 2016, 303–304. 29 A more concise description of this inchoate state of diversity (which seems to involve frequent family vacations in Ukraine and the evolvement of a close-knit Samaritan-Ukrainian subgroup on the Gerizim locale), let alone a reasonable assessment of its long-term effects (presently, the young Samaritans born from such unions are still under ten years of age) would of course require fresh fieldwork.

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Samaritans’] awareness of being the only guardians of the true Torah and the sacred mountain will remain at the core of their identities. This is their mission in history, the ontological premise of their existence, the reason why they are, and need to stay, in the world. However their lives may look otherwise, as long as there are people who believe in the sanctity of Mount Gerizim, there will be Samaritans.” (367)30

Bibliography A.B. (Aleph-Bet) – The Samaritan News. Holon. 2003. “Census of the Samaritan Israelites on January 1, 2003.” Nos. 828 – 829, February 14, 2003, pp. 20–34 (Hebrew: Eleh pikde bene-Yisraʾel ha-Shamerim be-yom 1.1.2003). Barth, Fredrik. 1953. Principles of Social Organization in Southern Kurdistan. Oslo: Jorgensen. –. 1954. “Father’s Brother’s Daughter Marriage in Kurdistan,” SWJA 10: 164–171. Ben-Zvi, Itzhak, and Shemaryahu Talmon. 1970. The Book of the Samaritans (Hebrew: Sēfer ha-Shomrōnim). Revised ed. Jersualem: Yad Itzhak Ben-Zvi. 1st ed. 1935. Tel Aviv: Shtibel. Bittles, Alan H. 2012. Consanguinity in Context. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bonné, Batsheva. 1963. “The Samaritans: a demographic study,” Human Biology 35: 61–89. Bonné, Batsheva, et al. 1994. “Genetic Mapping of the Gene for Usher Syndrome Linkage Analysis in a Large Samaritan Kindred,” Genomics 20: 36–42. Bonte, Pierre (ed.). 1994. Épouser à Plus Proche. Inceste, prohibition et stratégies matrimoniales autour de la Méditerranée. Paris: Éditions de l’EHESS. Bonte, Pierre, Édouard Conte et al. (eds.). 1991. Al-Ansab: La Quête des Origines. Anthropologie historique de la société tribale arabe. Paris: Éditions de la Maison des Sciences de l’Homme. Cohen, Abner. 1965. Arab Border-Villages in Israel: A Study in Continuity and Change in Social Organization. Manchester (Manchester University Press). Bourdieu, Pierre. 1977. Outline of a Theory of Practice. Cambridge (Cambridge University Press). Crown, Alan D. 2001. Samaritan Scribes and Manuscripts. TSAJ 80. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Crown, Alan D., Reinhard Pummer, and Abraham Tal. 1993. A Companion to Samaritan Studies. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Droeber, Julia. 2013. The Dynamics of Coexistence in the Middle East. Negotiating Boundaries Between Christians, Muslims, Jews and Samaritans. Library of Modern Middle East Studies 135. London – New York: I. B. Tauris. Evans-Pritchard, Edward E. 1949. The Sanusi of Cyrenaica. London: Oxford University Press. Gellner, Ernest. 1969. Saints of the Atlas. London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson. –. 1981. Muslim Society. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. –. 1983. “The Tribal Society and its Enemies,” in Richard Tapper (ed.), The Conflict of Tribe and State in Iran and Afghanistan. London – Canberra: Croom Helm, 436–449.

30 See also the closing remark in Pummer 2016, 304: “[The Samaritans] have reinvented themselves in the past and may well do so again in our time.”

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Goldziher, Ignaz. 1880/1968. “Polyandry and Exogamy among the Arabs,” in Joseph Desomogy (ed.), Ignaz Goldziher. Gesammelte Schriften. Vol. 2. Hildesheim: Olms. First publ. in The Academy 23 (1880). London, 26. Granqvist, Hilma. 1931–1935. Marriage Conditions in a Palestinian Village. Societas Scientiarum Fennica. Commentationes humanarum litterarum III, 8 and VI, 8. Helsinki: n.p. Héritier, Françoise. 2002 [1999]. Two Sisters and Their Mother: The Anthropology of Incest. New York (Zone Books). Ireton, Sean. 2003. “The Samaritans – a Jewish sect in Israel: Strategies for Survival of an Ethno-Religious Minority in the Twenty-First Century. M.A. thesis, University of Kent. Published online: http://www.anthrobase.com/, 30.01.2017. Kahle, Paul. 1930. “Die Samaritaner im Jahre 1909 (AH 1327),” PJ 26: 89–103. Levanoni, Amalia. “ʿAṣabiyya”, in: Encyclopaedia of Islam, THREE, edited by: Kate Fleet, Gudrun Krämer, Denis Matringe, John Nawas, Everett Rowson. Consulted online on February 19, 2017. Lévi-Strauss, Claude. 1949/1969. The Elementary Structures of Kinship. Rev. ed. Boston: Beacon. Mills, John. 1864. Three Months’ Residence at Nablus and an Account of the Modern Samaritans. London: Murray. Montgomery, James A. 1907/1968. The Samaritans. The Earliest Jewish Sect. New York: Ktav. Reprint of the first ed. (Philadelphia). Noja, Sergio. 1970. Il kitāb al-Kāfī dei Samaritani. Napoli: Istituto Orientale. Patai, Rafael. 1955. “Cousin Right in Middle Eastern Marriage,” SWJA 11: 371–390. –. 1965. “The Structure of Endogamous Unilineal Descent Groups,” SWJA 21: 325–350. Petermann, Julius H. 1865. Reisen im Orient, 1852–1855. Bd. 1. Leipzig: Veit & Comp. Pohl, Heinz. 1974. Kitab al-Mirat. Das Buch der Erbschaft des Samaritaners Abu Ishaq Ibrahim. StSam 2. Berlin: de Gruyter. Pummer, Reinhard. 1987. The Samaritans. IoR.J, fascicle 5. Leiden: Brill. –. 1993. Samaritan Marriage Contracts and Deeds of Divorce. Vol. 1. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. –. 1997. Samaritan Marriage Contracts and Deeds of Divorce. Vol. 2. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. –. 2016. The Samaritans. A Profile. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Robertson, Edward. 1962. Catalogue of the Samaritan Manuscripts in the John Rylands Library of Manchester, vol. 2. Manchester: John Rylands Library. Rogers, Edward Thomas. 1855. Notices of the Modern Samaritans. Illustrated by Incidents in the Life of Jacob Esh Shelaby. London: S. Low. Shaw, Alison. 2009. Negotiating Risk. British Pakistani Experiences of Genetics. New York: Berghahn. Shaw, Alison, and Aviad Raz (eds.). 2015. Cousin Marriages: Between Tradition, Chagne, and Genetic Risk. New York: Berghahn. Shehadeh, Haseeb. 2010. “A Case of Palestinian Arab Justice between Minority and Majority,” in Menachem Mor and Friedrich Reiterer (eds.), Samaritans. Past and Present. Current Studies. SJ 53, StSam 5. Berlin – Boston: de Gruyter, 205–219. Smith, W. H. Robertson. 1885/2001. Kinship and Marriage in Early Arabia. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Reprinted from the 1885 edition. Honolulu: University Press of the Pacific. Tanakh, the Holy Scriptures: The New JPS Translation. 1985. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America.

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Tapper, Richard. 1983. The Conflict of Tribe and State in Iran and Afghanistan. London – Canberra: Croom Helm. –. 1997. “Writing Tribal History,” in Richard Tapper, Frontier Nomads of Iran. A political and social history of the Shahsevan. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1–34. Tsedaka, Binyamim. 2010. “Samaritan Israelite Families and Households that Disappeared,” in Menachem Mor and Friedrich Reiterer (eds.), Samaritans. Past and Present. Current Studies. SJ 53, StSam 5. Berlin – Boston: de Gruyter, 221–237. Tsedaka, Ratson. 1989. “The Samaritans in the Year 1909“ (Hebrew: Ha-Shōmrōnīm bis-shnat 1909). A.B. (Aleph-Bēt) –The Samaritan News. Nos. 496–497, October 13, 1989, 39–45. Wedel, Gerhard. 1987. “‘Kitab at-Tabbah’ des Samaritaners Abu l’Hasan as-Suri. Kritische Edition und kommentierte Übersetzung des ersten Teils.” Ph.D. dissertation. Freie Universität Berlin. Unpublished. Wellhausen, Julius. 1893. “Die Ehe bei den Arabern,” Nachrichten von der Königlichen Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften und der Georg-Augusts-Universität zu Göttingen 11: 431–481. Westermarck, Edvard A. 1903/2005. The History of Human Marriage. 3rd edition. London: Macmillan. Elibron Classics Reprint.

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Key to charts

The genealogical diagrams and family trees which support the narratives are composed of the following symbols:

male individual or patrilineal group of descent

female individual (Samaritan descent)

female individual (Jewish descent)

sibling relationship

Filiation

Intervening generations or = marriage

Betrothal

Clan boundaries

5 Linguistic Studies

Moshe Florentin

“On the Head Joseph, and on the Leader, the Consecrated among His Brothers” (Genesis 49:26; Deuteronomy 33:16): A Study of the Grammar, Interpretation, and Version of Two Words with Geminated Consonants in the Samaritan Pentateuch In this article I wish to discuss the gemination of the ‫ ר‬in the phrase ‫ לראש יוסף‬larrēʔoš yūsǝf in the reading of the Samaritan version of the Pentateuch (Gen 49:26; Deut 33:16), as well as the gemination of the ‫ ק‬in the phrase ‫– ולקדקד נזיר אחיו‬ wlaqqådqåd nēzǝr ʕāʔo. This discussion, which is at first mainly grammatical, will lead us to a discussion concerning the interpretation of the entire passage according to this version, and to the Samaritan beliefs expressed in it. The Masoretic version of Genesis 49:26, ‫ּול ָק ְדקֹד נְ זִ יר ֶא ָחיו‬ ְ ‫יֹוסף‬ ֵ ‫ּת ְהיֶ ין ְלרֹאש‬, ֽ ִ is clear, and its interpretation, of which there are no dissenters, is given, for example, in its RSV translation as “may they (the blessings) be on the head of Joseph, and on the brow of him who was separate from his brothers”. But what does the gemination in the Samaritan reading of the verse express? For those unfamiliar with the grammar of Samaritan Hebrew, the gemination may seem to be simply a marker of the definite article, as if what was written was ‫ולּקֹדקד נזיר אחיו‬ ַ ‫לראש יוסף‬. ָ But the matter is not as straightforward as it may seem. Zeʾev Ben-Ḥayyim listed larrēʔoš as an example of words with secondary gemination in his Grammar of Samaritan Hebrew.1 According to Ben-Ḥayyim, the phrase ‫ לראש יוסף‬is a construct-state phrase in the Samaritan oral tradition as well.

1 Ben-Ḥayyim 2000, section 6.3.1, which deals with the prepositions ‫ב‬, ‫כ‬, and ‫ל‬. Note: Much of what is presented here came to light during my work with Prof. Abraham Tal, at first during our preparation of an edition comparing the Samaritan version to the Masoretic version, which was published in 2010, see Tal and Florentin 2010, and afterward during our work on an English annotated translation of the Samaritan Pentateuch, which will soon be published. Though it would be proper to share the credit for this work equally between us both, the fault for any errors, mistakes, and other deficiencies lies on me alone. The unique nature of the Samaritan version concerning ‫ לראש יוסף‬has already been mentioned in our aforementioned work. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110617306-015

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In what follows, I will attempt to show that the gemination of the ‫ ר‬in this word,2 is indeed a marker of the definite article. In order to achieve this end, I will henceforth discuss gemination in cases in which we are not dealing with a characteristic dagesh (i.e., gemination which is an essential part of the word’s pattern) or a compensatory dagesh (i.e., gemination due to the merger of two identical consonants). Gemination for the purpose of prosody – that is the replacing of a long vowel and a simple consonant with a short vowel and a double consonant (V̄C > VCC) – is found, though not frequently – in Tiberian Hebrew, e.g., ‫“ גְּ ַמ ִּלים‬camels” in place of ‫( *גְּ ָמ ִלים‬sg. ‫)גָּ ָמל‬, in the waw-consecutive, e.g., ‫“ וַ יִ ֶפן‬turned” in place of the expected ‫*וָ יִ ֶפן‬. In these cases, a pretonic gemination occurred instead of the pretonic lengthening of the vowel a, which is normal in these phonetic conditions.3 In Samaritan Hebrew, this phenomenon is far more common. Moreover, the opposite phenomenon, the replacing of a geminated consonant with a simple consonant, which is common in Tiberian Hebrew only in certain phonetic conditions (e.g., gutturals, word endings, and consonants with a shewa), is well documented in Samaritan Hebrew. It is not restricted to specific phonetic conditions, and even led to the creation of new stems: the ungeminated Piʕel and Hitpaʕel (Ben-Ḥayyim called these Piʕel B and Hitpaʕel B),4 e.g., wka¯̊fǝr, and not *kaffǝr for Tiberian Hebrew ‫“ וְ ִכ ֵּפר‬shall make atonement,” titga¯̊dēdu and not *titgaddēdu for Tiberian Hebrew ‫“ ִת ְתג ְֹדדּו‬cut yourselves”. To these two categories must be added particular cases such as a¯̊non for Tiberian Hebrew ‫“ ַחנּון‬compassionate,” ʕa¯̊ṭa¯̊lǝf for Tiberian Hebrew ‫“ ֲע ַט ֵּלף‬bat,” and ʕātūdǝm for Tiberian Hebrew ‫ּתּודים‬ ִ ‫ַע‬ “male goats”. And as for our main concern, gemination in place of its absence, as stated above, this phenomenon is more common in Samaritan Hebrew than in Tiberian Hebrew, though here too it is unsystematic. Rather it appears in particular words such as ēbiddå for Tiberian Hebrew ‫“ ֲא ֵב ָדה‬lost thing,” kirrǝm for Tiberian Hebrew ‫“ ִּכ ַיריִ ם‬stove,” šēlammǝm for Tiberian Hebrew ‫“ ְש ָל ִמים‬peace offerings,” tēšabbǝṣ for Tiberian Hebrew ‫“ ַּת ְש ֵּבץ‬checker work,”5 ʕabbot for Tiberian Hebrew ‫“ ֲעבֹת‬cord,” though the plural form ʕābētot is ungeminated,6 afgiššat7 2 In Samaritan Hebrew r is geminated like any other consonant. See Ben-Ḥayyim 2000, beginning of section 1.5.3.3. 3 On pretonic gemination with waw-consecutive, see Blau 2010, 332. 4 Ben-Ḥayyim 2000, sections 2.1.3.5 and 2.1.5.3. 5 See Ben-Ḥayyim 2000, section 1.3.5. 6 For further cases of degemiation in words with the definite article, see Ben-Ḥayyim 2000, section 1.5.3.3, subsection 5. 7 See Ben-Ḥayyim 2000, section 2.14.14. Evidently one must not include among these variations words whose morphological substructure in Samaritan Hebrew is different from that found in

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 303

for Tiberian Hebrew ‫“ ְּבגֶ ֶשת‬for coming”. All these interchanges, which took place independently within each of the tradition and among them, are irregular and sporadic, and their cause is, indeed, the meter, which transforms geminated consonants into ungeminated consonants with a long vowel, and vice versa.8 Another matter, having nothing to do with prosody, is the gemination of consonants intended either to protect the geminated consonant or phoneme (consonant or vowel) preceding it. In Tiberian Hebrew these appear in words such as ‫ּבֹוכיָ ה‬ ִ “weep,” where the gemination did not occur to close the syllable but rather to preserve the ‫י‬, which would be lost together with the entire triphthong were it not geminated, as did in fact occur in the regular forms ‫ּבֹוכה‬ ָ (> *bōkiyat). As is well-known, this is the purpose of the dagesh in the internal passive forms of the Qal stem, such as ‫* יֻ ַּלד‬yulad “was born,” without which the vowel u of the first root consonant, one of the most salient markers of the passive form, would have reduced to shewa.9 I have termed the dagesh marking this form of gemination a protective dagesh.10 In Samaritan Hebrew this kind of gemination is found in the word ‫ ָהיָ ה‬ayya “was”. The gemination of the ‫ י‬preserved the triphthong and prevented the creation of the unclear form ā.11 The gemination of ‫ ל‬in the beginning of nouns after the preposition ‫ ל‬should be seen as a regular protective gemination: ‫ ָל ֶל ֶכת‬lallēkǝt “to go,” ‫ ְל ַל ֵּמד‬lillammǝd “to teach,” ‫ ְל ַל ֵּקט‬lillaqqǝṭ “to gather,” ‫ ְל ֵל ָאה‬lalliyyå “to Leah,” ‫ ְל ָל ָבן‬lalla¯̊bån “to Laban,” and ‫ ְללֹוט‬lalloṭ “to Lot”. Those wanting to understand what form of protection is taking place in these examples only has to listen to sentences such as ?‫“( מה אתה רוצה ללמד‬what do you want to teach?”) in contemporary spoken Tiberian Hebrew, such as ‫“ ַמ ְטוֶ ה‬that which is spun” / miṭṭuwwa “of her spun” (‫ מן‬+ ṭuwwa, see Ben-Ḥayyim 2000, footnote 119; Exod 35:25), ‫“ ֵח ֵרש‬deaf” (pattern qittel, which does not exist in Samaritan Hebrew) / ʕārǝš (pattern qātil). 8 I henceforth provide a more general overview of the phenomena of gemination and degemination for reasons of prosody sometimes called quantitative metathesis (e.g., in Bauer and Leander 1962, section 23c). In dialects of Neo-Aramaic, degemination is very common, while the gemination of a consonant in place of a long vowel is fairly rare. In the Aramaic dialect of Turoyo, for example, one may find šāto in place of *šatto “year” and ʕēzo in place of *ʕezzo “goat,” see Jastrow 1985, XXI. An extensive discussion of this phenomenon may be found in Fassberg forthcoming. According to him, gemination in place of a long vowel appear also in Samaritan forms that lost their guttural phonemes such as ša¯̊ma¯̊ttå (‫)ש ַמ ְח ָּת‬. ָ I thank him for providing me with his paper before its publication. I would also like to thank my friends Prof. Geoffrey Khan and Prof. Hezi Mutzafi for advising me on this matter. 9 Ben-Ḥayyim’s perspective that the initial vowel in hufʕal forms such as in ‫הּוקם‬ ַ “was erected,” was made long in order to prevent the loss of the original short vowel of the stem is interesting. See Ben-Ḥayyim 2000, n. 100. 10 See Florentin 2013. 11 Ben-Ḥayyim 2000, section 1.4.3.

304 

 Moshe Florentin

Hebrew – ma ata rotse llamed? – that is with the common subnormative pronunciation of the preposition (the normative pronunciation: lelamed). As is wellknown, the appearance of two consecutive identical, or even similar, consonants, is a recipe for problems, and something of this was said by the Talmudic rabbis ‫תני רב עובדיה קמיה דרבא ולמדתם שיהא למודך תם שיתן ריוח בין הדבקים עני רבא בתריה‬ ‫ עשב בשדך‬...‫ … כגון על לבבך על לבבכם בכל לבבך בכל לבבכם‬R. Obadiah recited in the presence of Raba: “And you shall teach them”: as much as to say your teaching must be faultless by making a pause “between the joints”. For instance, said Raba, supplementing his words, “Al lebabka [upon your heart], ‘al lebabkem [upon your heart], bekol lebabka [with all your heart], bekol lebabkem [with all your heart], ‘eseb be-sadka [grass in your field], (Babylonian Talmud, Berachot 15b). Thus, one way to prevent the merging of consonants is to insert a space between them and the other is to geminate the latter. That the gemination took place to protect the preposition ‫ ל‬is hinted at also from the usage rules of the preposition ‫“ ב‬in” in Samaritan Hebrew, which protect it as well: normally, a vowel is placed before the original shewa, such as in ‫ְּביֹום‬ abyom “in the day,” ‫ ְּב ָכל‬afkal “in all,” but before the consonants b, m, and p the vowel is placed after the ‫ב‬, such as is ‫( ְּב ִב ְטנֵ ְך‬Gen 25:23) ba¯̊båṭnǝk “in your womb” (in order to prevent the form *abbåṭnǝk), ‫( ִּב ְמקֹום‬Lev 4:24) ba¯̊ma¯̊qom “in a place” (in order to prevent the form *abma¯̊qom), ‫( ְּב ָפנָ יו‬Deut 4:37) ba¯̊fa¯̊no “with his presence” (in order to prevent the form *abfa¯̊no).12 There are no exceptions to the rule for the preposition ‫ ל‬in Samaritan Hebrew, that is, there are no instances in which the initial ‫ ל‬of a noun is not geminated after the preposition ‫ל‬. But there is at least one case in which we find gemination in an initial consonant rather than ‫ ל‬after the preposition ‫ ל‬not stemming from the definite article: ‫ לשלשת‬laššēla¯̊šåt in the construct state ‫ֹלשת ימים‬ ֶ ‫“ ִל ְש‬for the third day” (Exod 19:15). Clearly this is not a case of phonetic constraint, since the normal situation is reflected in forms such as ‫ ִל ְשאֹב‬alšāʔǝb “to draw (water)” (Gen 24:13), and ‫ ִל ְש ֵארֹו‬alša¯̊ru “for his kin” (Lev 21:2). What we have in ‫ֹלשת‬ ֶ ‫ִל ְש‬ laššēla¯̊šåt then is not a protective germination but rather a case of sporadic prosodic gemination, of which a number of examples were given above. Now we shall turn to the gemination of the ‫ ר‬in the phrase we are dealing with ‫ לראש יוסף‬larrēʔoš. Here too it is clear that we are not facing a case of gemination forced by a phonetic constraint, since we find not only ‫אּובן‬ ֵ ‫ ִל ְר‬alrēʔūbǝn “from Reuben” but also ‫ ְלרֹאש‬alrēʔoš “for the head of” in all its indefinite instances 12 This rule, which not only prevents a string of two identical consecutive consonants, but also a string of two similar consonants, parallels, in fact, the instructions of the Talmudic rabbis that a space not only be placed between ‫ על‬and ‫ לבבכם‬but also between the fricative phoneme at the end of ‫ עשב‬and the plosive consonant at the beginning of ‫בשדך‬. On this, see Kutscher 1965, 53.

“On the Head Joseph, and on the Leader, the Consecrated 

 305

of this nominal phrase (Num 17:18; Deut 28:13; 28:44). Furthermore, the reading ‫ לראש‬alrēʔoš proves that we are not facing a case of gemination due to prosody, that is *lǝrēʔoš > *la¯̊rēʔoš > larrēʔoš, as duplicate forms such as larrēʔoš / alrēʔoš which are rooted in the shewa – ‫ ְלרֹאש‬are not possible in Samaritan Hebrew. In other words, if the shewa in a particular form would be cancelled out by a preceding vowel (a prosthetic such as in alrēʔoš), there will not be found any instance of the same form in which the shewa is replaced by a full vowel (such as in*la¯̊rēʔoš).13 It is true that in Samaritan Aramaic, whose phonetic characteristics are nearly identical to those of Samaritan Hebrew,14 we do find cases in which one word exists with both forms of shewa cancellation, but never with a proposition. It does have for the imperative form ‫*ּפ ַתח‬ ְ “open” both fēta15 and ifta16; in place of the imperative ‫*ט ֵפי‬ ְ “extinguish” both ṭēfi17 and iṭfi18; in place of ‫“ נְ ַפק‬left” both na˗˚fåq19 and danbåq (‫)דנפק‬.20 But it only has ‫*לגַ ְד ֵלּה‬ ְ “to raise him” in the form ˗ ˚ algadle, the form *la gadle does not exist; it has ‫“ ְּד ָש ֵרי‬the inhabiter” in the form adša˗˚ri while the form *da˗˚ša¯̊ri is non-extant.21 That which was stated above concerning the gemination in larrēʔoš is also true for the gemination in ‫ ולקדקד‬wlaqqådqåd “on the brow,” even though we do not have an instance of the word without the definite article such as ‫ולקדקד‬ *walqådqåd, which would prove phonetically that the word is indeed the definite form. The discussion of the verses’ meaning and their version will serve to prove that wlaqqådqåd should indeed be interpreted as ‫וְ ַל ָּק ְדקֹד‬. The grammatical discussion above showed that the gemination of the ‫ ר‬in the word ‫ לראש‬larrēʔoš (and similarly the gemination in the word ‫ ולקדקד‬wlaqqådqåd) is not a case of secondary gemination, not for reasons of prosody nor for the protection of any phoneme. If so it must indicate the definite article. Still we must determine what this definite article means. What is the meaning of ‫ול ָּק ְדקֹד נזיר אחיו‬ ַ ‫ ? תהיינה הברכות ָלרֹאש יוסף‬Henceforth I will show that the Samaritan version adds additional praise to the praise of Joseph that is found in the Masoretic version, that is, it is saying “on the head Joseph, and on the leader, the consecrated among his brothers”. But before we discuss these words specifically 13 On multiple duplicate forms in other categories of Samaritan Hebrew and Samaritan Aramaic, see Florentin 1995, 107–116 and Florentin 1996, 217–241. 14 See Tal 2013, section 2.1. 15 Ben-Ḥayyim 1961, 246. 16 Ibid., 121. 17 Ibid., 292. 18 Ibid. The pronunciation of the same word by two different readers. 19 Ibid., 231. 20 Ibid., 80. 21 I thank Dr. Alina Tarshin for helping me locate these occurrences.

306 

 Moshe Florentin

(especially the meaning of ‫)קדקד‬, and before we discuss the version, it is appropriate that we mention how the praise of Joseph fits into Jacob’s blessings to his sons. As is well-known, the most acute dissension between the Jews and the Samaritans concerns the place of worship, with the former insisting on Jerusalem and the latter on Mount Gerizim. This dissension is the root of most of the differences between the Masoretic version and the Samaritan version, which are dubbed “sectarian”.22 The dispute over the place of worship is preceded by the dispute over the origin of the Samaritans: Jews believe that the Samaritans are one of the peoples that the Assyrian king exiled from Kutha and elsewhere beyond the Tigris as is told in 2 Kgs 17:24. For this reason their Jewish rivals called the Samaritans by the derogatory term Cutheans (Hebrew: ‫)כותים‬. The Samaritans on the other hand believe they are descended from the tribes of Joseph, Ephraim and Manasseh, and Levi.23 Thus, Joseph is to the Samaritans as Judah is to the Jews. And since Judah is the forefather of the Jews, it is no surprise that the Samaritan literature from the Pentateuch onwards is full not only with the praise of Joseph but also reflects the Samaritan’s disdain for Judah. We will limit ourselves to the examples that arise from their extensive liturgical compositions.24 Joseph is mentioned in the hymns and prayers of the Samaritans over 220 times, often with terms of adoration such as ‫“ הצדיק‬the righteous,”25 ‫“ מלכה‬the king,”26 ‫“ ראש הקדקדים‬head of the heads,”27 ‫“ הזכו‬the righteous”.28 Of course he is mentioned quite a bit with the nation’s greats, the patriarchs and Moses,29 and his praise is very great (‫)גלוג יוסף כבד‬.30 22 As seen in the differences: ‫( המקום אשר בחר‬Samaritan version) / ‫( המקום אשר יבחר‬Masoretic version); ‫( הרגריזים‬Samaritan version) / ‫( הר עיבל‬Masoretic version), and the insertion of ‫הרגריזים‬ into the 10th commandment in the Samaritan version. For details on the difference between the two versions and these differences in particular see Tov 2012, 70–90; Tal and Florentin 2010, 25–38, and Kartveit 2009, 259–312. 23 On the complicated issue of the origin of the Samaritans, a question which was at the core of very fruitful research, and which is not at issue in this article, see Kartveit 2009. 24 A great deal of it is included in the collection of hymns and prayers collected by Cowley in 1909 (see Cowley 1909). There are hymns that were written before the publication of this collection but were not included in it, because they were unknown to its editor or because they were not part of the liturgy of the synagogue. Hymns that were not included appeared in print in, among other places, Florentin 2012. 25 Cowley 1909, 277. 26 Ibid., 302. 27 Ibid., 329. 28 Ibid., 332. 29 Ibid., 289. 30 Ibid., 647.

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 307

In contrast to Joseph’s prominent role, Judah is only mentioned in this vast literature once, and of course negatively: ‫והשיביעת מן נסותו עובד יהודה בעמידות‬ ‫תמר כלתו לו בדרך ויחשבה לזונות‬ ‫ויבא אליה ותהר לו אוי ליתה באות‬ ‫זרע זרע רע קוץ ודרדר צמחות‬ ‫מנה היהודהים קמו ומלאה הארץ טמאות‬ Which translates to: “And the seventh of the trials (that Jacob faced) was the action of Judah, whose bride Tamar stood in his way (Gen 38:11), ‘and he thought she was a prostitute,’ and he came to her and she conceived. Lo to that intercourse, the seed (of Judah) is bad seed, thorns and thistles it brought forth (based on Gen 3:18). From it arouse the Jews and the land was defiled.”31 The ‫“( יהודהים‬Judahites”) are mentioned a few more times, and it goes without saying that they are always mentioned negatively. For example: ‫ויהודהים וערלים‬ ‫“ נציבים מרחק הך כלבים‬And the Judahites and the uncircumcised stand at a distance like dogs”32; ‫“ סנאי אימנותה הגון היהודאי‬The haters of belief, the Jewish kind”33; ‫מן‬ ‫“ יהודאי תירא‬The Jew you shall fear.”34 The disdain of Judah, which is absent in the Masoretic version, and the praise of Joseph in addition to that which appears in the Masoretic version, appear already in the Samaritan Pentateuch. The Samaritan version of Joseph’s blessing of Judah (Gen 49:8–12) differs in a number of ways from the Masoretic version, and presents Judah in a negative light.35 Where the Masoretic version has ‫ַרגְ ָליו‬ “his legs” (verse 10), the Samaritan version has ‫“ דגליו‬regiments,” in order to make it clear that the lawgiver will not come from between Judah’s legs, that is, he will not be his descendant, but rather from among his regiments. Judah then, is not the father of a noteworthy line. Verses 11 and 12 present a clear insult (Masoretic version presented in brackets when different): ‫ּׂשר ָקה( בני איתנו‬ ֵ ‫ )וְ ַל‬walšērīqa ‫)עיר ֹה( ולשריקה‬ ִ ‫)לגֶּ ֶפן( עירו‬ ַ algēfǝn ‫ )א ְֹס ִרי( לגפן‬a¯̊sūri ‫אסורי‬ .)‫(אתֹנו‬ ֲ īta¯̊nu

31 Ibid., 587. 32 Ibid., 188, a part of the description of the Passover sacrifice. 33 Ibid., 412. 34 Ibid., 860. 35 An extended treatment of this blessing was given in Tal 2010 and Tal and Florentin 2010, 655–656, notes for Gen 49:11.

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 Moshe Florentin

Thus, Judah is not likened to a grapevine to which a donkey and the sons of a she-ass can be tied, but he, Judah, is tied to Ga¯̊fǝn his city (the cursed Jerusalem), and his progeny (‫יתנֹו‬ ָ ‫)ּבנֵ י ֵא‬ ְ are tied to the void )‫“ לשריקה = לאשר ריק‬to that which is empty”). And in verse 12, Judah’s eyes are “murky” (‫ עכירן‬in the Samaritan Targum), and his teeth are not glistening with ‫“ ָח ָלב‬milk” but are rather dripping with ‫“ ֵח ֶלב‬animal fat”. As can be seen, both the written text of the Samaritan version and its reading by the Samaritans convey their disdain for Judah. The additional praise for Joseph is seen in verse 26, and has been discussed several times in the scientific literature:36 Where the Masoretic version has ‫ִּב ְרכֹת‬ ‫הֹורי‬ ַ “the blessing of my parents,” the Samaritan version reads ‫ברכת הרי‬, and the pronunciation a¯̊ri teaches us that the Samaritans meant ‫“ ָה ִרי‬my mountain,” thus tying the name of Joseph, the nation’s father, to Mount Gerizim.37 The Septuagint also reads here “mountain,” ὀρέων, which means that this is a relatively early interpretation of the text. On the other hand, the Samaritan translations are baffling. The ancient manuscripts of the Samaritan Targum translate ‫ הרי‬with ‫בטוני‬ “my parents” (it is so in MS J, presented in Tal’s edition, and similarly in MSS C and V), which more than hints to the sense of paternity found in the Masoretic version. Surprisingly, in the later Samaritan manuscripts, MS A (‫“ טברה‬the mountain”) and MSS E and B (‫“ טורי‬my mountain”) we find the sense presented in the Septuagint. These are joined by MS M, which is usually found to be close to MS J.38 Moreover, in all the manuscripts of the Samaritan Arabic translation, early and late, except for one (according to the Shehadeh Edition39) we find reference to the “parents” tradition, similar to the Masoretic version: ,‫ ואלדי‬,‫ חאצני‬,‫אלחמל‬ ‫ – אלסלאפי‬all concerning parenthood. Only one manuscript presents ‫אלגבאל‬ (plural [!] form of “mountain”). Thus, the findings in the translations do not allow us to uncover what the original Samaritan version was – whether “my parents” or “my mountain”. It is likely that both versions existed side by side, until at some point the Samaritans made the second version obligatory when reading the Torah.

36 Gesenius, who did not have access to the Samaritan reading of the Pentateuch, but was informed by their translations, had already noted this. Gesenius 1815, 20; Tal and Florentin 2010, 658–660, notes for verse 26; Tal 2010, 171, and Schorch 2014, 239. 37 The praise of holy Mount Gerizim is also found in the Samaritan version of Deut 33:19: ‫( עמים הרי יקראו‬Masoretic version ‫ )הר‬and in the Targum: ‫“ עמי לטורי יזדעקון‬peoples to my mountain will call”. 38 Tal 1980–1983, I, 94. 39 Shehadeh 1989–2002.

“On the Head Joseph, and on the Leader, the Consecrated 

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A clear hint to Mount Gerizim can be seen from two words later in the verse ‫עֹולם‬ ָ ‫גִּ ְבעֹת‬, which the Samaritans read ga¯̊'bāt ūlåm, meaning “eternal hill,” singular.40 With the background of this larger context and the context of the Samaritan beliefs, we can now understand what is behind the terms of praise ‫ ראש‬and ‫קדקד‬ attributed to Joseph, both in Jacob’s blessings to his sons (Gen 49:26) and Moses’ blessings to the tribes (Deut 33:16). Only brief comments on the metaphorical meanings of ‫ ראש‬and of ‫ קדקד‬are in order first. The metaphoric meaning of ‫“ ראש‬head” is well-documented in the Bible (as well as in Semitic languages), not only in construct states such as ‫רֹאש ִש ְב ֵטי יִ ְש ָר ֵאל‬ “head of the tribes of Israel” (1 Sam 15:17), ‫אשי ָעם‬ ֵ ‫“ ָר‬heads of the people” (Deut 33:5), ‫אשי ַה ַּמּטֹות‬ ֵ ‫“ ָר‬heads of the tribes” (Num 30:2), but also as a noun meaning “leader”. This meaning of ‫ ראש‬is prominent in the late Chronicles in phrases such as ‫יאל‬ ֵ ‫“ ָהרֹאש יְ ִע‬the chief Jeiel” (1 Chr 5:7), ‫יֹואל ָהרֹאש‬ ֵ “Joel the chief” (1 Chr 5:12), and is closest to the use of ‫ לראש יוסף‬found in the Samaritan version.‫קדקד‬ in the sense of “leader” in the Samaritan version is not particular to Hebrew. Akkadian qaqqadu(m) carries both the primary meaning of the word (“head”) as well as the metaphorical meaning. In Aramaic dialects it is only recorded in the Jewish Targumim and in Samaritan Aramaic. In the midrashic chronicle Asatir41 it appears several times in a single section with the meaning “leader,” “a term for every one of the 26 leaders that will bring the Ishmaelite rule to an end”42: ‫ קעם קדקד נזיר‬/ ‫ קדקד יקום; בחיל מעמי‬/ ‫“ קדקד יקום; באד תקיפה‬A leader will rise with a forceful hand / a leader will rise; with fear will he be seen / a leader will rise crowned.…”43 In that composition it is also mentioned as one of the names of the Taheb, the Samaritan prophet of the Latter Days: ‫וקדקד יקום בקשט יכתב ארהותה‬ ‫“ ואטר פליאתה באדה‬And a leader will rise. In truth will he write the Torah and the rod of magic in his hands.”44 In the Samaritan liturgical literature ‫ קדקד‬is very common: ‫“( משה קדקד מינה דאדם‬Moses the leader of humanity”),45 ‫משה‬ ‫“( ברה דעמרם השליח הקדקד‬Moses, the son of Amaram, the messenger, the leader”),46 and of course ‫“( יוסף קדקדה‬Joseph the leader”).47

40 ‫ גבעת עולם‬is one of the terms used for Mount Gerizim. See Ben-Ḥayyim 1988, 149. 41 See Ben-Ḥayyim 1942a; Ben-Ḥayyim 1942b, and Ben-Ḥayyim 1943. 42 The definition is based on Tal 2000, ‫קדקד‬, see further occurrences there. 43 Ben-Ḥayyim 1942a, 124. 44 Ibid., 125. 45 Cowley 1909, 228. 46 Ibid., 851. 47 Ibid., 413. It is worth mentioning that the meaning “leader” and especially “military commander” is common in the military slang of contemporary Hebrew.

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The metaphorical use of ‫ראש‬, which is documented in Biblical Hebrew, and the metaphorical use of ‫קדקד‬, which is documented with great frequency in the Asatir and the Samaritan liturgy (a sense borrowed from the Samaritan Pentateuch), strengthen, then, our assertion, based on the grammar of Samaritan Hebrew and on the general context (including the beliefs of the Samaritans) that the meaning of the Samaritan version of the verse is “(the blessings) shall be on the head, Joseph, and on the leader, the consecrated among his brothers”. Henceforth we shall examine the Samaritans interpretation of this verse’s meaning as expressed in their translations of it into Aramaic and Arabic according to chronological order. In the earliest stage of the Samaritan Targum represented by MS J according to Tal’s edition,48 we find in Gen 49:26: ‫יהן לריש יוסף ולרום כליל אחיו‬. So then, in place of the Hebrew ‫ ראש‬we find a form without the definite article, from which we must assume that the translator had before him a text and a reading tradition akin to the Masoretic version, ‫לרֹאש‬, ְ that is alrēʔoš. And the excellent J is not alone. Another five manuscripts – B, C, E, M, and V – maintain the same version. A similar picture arises from Deut 33:16: J maintains the version ‫ לריש‬and the same is found in Mss. E and D.49 The later stage of the Samaritan translations, exemplified by MS A, translate this verse: ‫תהי לרישה יוסף ולקדקד נזיר אחוה‬. Thus, this version corresponds to the reading “the head Joseph”. In agreement with this late version we find the superscript ‫ ה‬handwritten by an anonymous scribe over ‫ לריש‬in MS M. One might have suspected that this scribe was following Onkelos, a phenomenon indicative of the additions to M,50 but Onkelos follows the Masoretic version, translating ‫“ לרישא דיוסף‬to the head of Joseph”. The picture arising therefore from the Aramaic Targumim is very clear: only two overtly late examples, MS A and the addition to MS M, provide a definite article in line with the pronounciation larrēʔoš common today. The rest of the manuscripts provide the indefinite form ‫לריש‬, and thus indicate a version identical with the Masoretic version, ‫לראש יוסף‬. ְ The Samaritan Arabic translations, whose date is of course later than that of (most) Aramaic Targumim, is in line with the chronological order the Aramaic Targumim indicate: in all manuscripts we find ‫للراييس‬, i.e., “to the leader”. In addition, the word ‫ ולקדקד‬wlaqqådqåd, which appears with the definite article in the Samaritan reading is translated in all the manuscripts of the Samaritan Aramaic Targum by the word ‫לרום‬, which is indefinite. But the Arabic 48 Tal 1980–1983. 49 Manuscript A is missing this section, see Tal 1980–1983, III, 23. 50 Ibid., 30ff.

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translation has in its place the definite form ‫و(ا)لجمج(ا)م‬, i.e., “to the head”. And it should be mentioned that the same scribe who added the superscripted ‫ ה‬over ‫ לריש‬in MS M (see above), superscribed a ‫ ה‬over ‫לרום‬, indicating the definite form ‫לרומה‬. Thus, the Samaritan translations do not only expose the different ways the text was interpreted, but also the stages of the crystallization of the Samaritan version, including its pronunciation as used today. In the stage exemplified by MS J, the Samaritan version was not different from the Masoretic version: ‫ְלראש יוסף‬ and *alrēʔoš yūsǝf in the Samaritan version. At a later stage the Samaritan wisemen wanted to aggrandize Joseph, in accordance with their beliefs and context of the rest of the blessing, and thus enacted the reading larrēʔoš. The meaning is made clear from their Arabic translation, in all its manuscripts (save one) and by the version found in MS A of the Samaritan Tragum. Abraham Tal described the relationship between the Aramaic MS A and the Arabic manuscripts.51 We are not only dealing with the heavy Arabic influence on the Aramaic of the translator but also “We can surmise, that the scribe of A indeed adapted the ancient text, and had before him an Arabic translation at the time. But … was not consistent in his work. He required innovations that he found in the Arabic translation that was before him, but was not aware enough of them to provide these wherever they appeared, despite the fact that he was aware of their ideological value.”52 This basic understanding is very important for our present purpose, as accepting it when analyzing our verse will lead us to its final meaning. In the wording of MS A ‫ תהי לרישה יוסף ולקדקד נזיר אחוה‬the verb ‫ תהי‬could be understood to mean “you shall be,” and accordingly the entire verse would mean “You shall be the head, (Oh) Joseph, and the leader, (Oh) the consecrated among his brothers.”53 To the credit of this interpretation is the fact that it would be a continuation of the direct speech directed at Joseph in the beginning of the verse ‫…ברכת אביך ואמך‬, but on the other hand with respect to syntax it is very difficult, and is obviously ill-fitting in the case of Deut 33:16: ‫תבואתה לראש יוסף ולקדקד נזיר אחיו‬. Furthermore, a look at the Arabic translation shows that MS A is a translation of it, or at the very least heavily influenced by it. In place of ‫ תהיינה‬in the Hebrew original and ‫ תהי‬in the Aramaic of A, the Arabic translation provides ‫תכון‬, which is not a 2nd person form but rather a 3rd person feminine form as dictated by the rules of agreement in Arabic, just as ‫תעט'ם‬, which appears in the beginning of the verse for ‫ גברו‬in the original Hebrew is not (and could not be) the 2nd person 51 Ibid., 82ff. 52 Ibid., 85. 53 Schorch 2004, 240 reads it in this way.

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 Moshe Florentin

form but rather is the 3rd person feminine form. Thus ‫ תהי‬in MS A is the 3rd person feminine form equivalent to ‫תכון‬. And since MS A is not an exact translation of an Arabic manuscript and is not consistent, as quoted above, it is not surprising that ‫ גברו‬was not translated with a word grammatically equivalent to ‫ תעט'ם‬but rather the translator followed his own course using ‫יולו‬, which itself follows the example of Arabic, whose root ‫ ולי‬signifies “rule”.54 We find therefore that the interpretation of the second half of Gen 49:26 is “(The blessings) shall be on the head, Joseph, and on the leader, the consecrated among his brothers.” This difference, which arises only from the reading of the text, is another sectarian difference between the Samaritan version and the Masoretic version. And like the rest of the verse it means to aggrandize Joseph, the progenitor of the Samaritan Children of Israel. But the study of the Samaritan sources exposes that this interpretation is based on the reading of ‫ לראש‬as larrēʔoš, which was preceded by the reading alrēʔoš, which is identical with the Masoretic version. We have discussed the gemination of ‫( ר‬which is completely ordinary in Samaritan Hebrew) in ‫ לראש‬larrēʔoš, and from this discussion arouse the fact that it signified the definite article, and was not a case of gemination for reasons of prosody (replacing a long vowel with a geminated consonant as in the case of ‫ גְּ ַמ ִּלים‬in place of *‫ גְּ ָמ ִלים‬and ‫ שלמים‬šēlammǝm for ‫)ש ָל ִמים‬ ְ or for the preservation of a phoneme (such as in the gemination of the ‫ ל‬in lallēkǝt for ‫ ָל ֶל ֶכת‬or the gemination of the ‫ ל‬in the biblical internal passive form ‫)יֻ ַּלד‬. The evidence provided by MS A, which represents a late stage in the creation of the Samaritan Targum, ought to always be considered in light of the Arabic translations, on which it is often dependent. At any rate, it provides evidence that the Samaritan version, both its written backbone and its reading, were not always uniform and stable.

Bibliography Bauer, Hans, and Pontus Leander. 1962. Historische Grammatik der hebräischen Sprache des Altes Testament. Hildesheim: Olms. Ben-Ḥayyim, Zeʾev. 1942a. “The Book of Asatir (with Translation and Commentary),” in Tarbiz 14. Jerusalem: Mandel Institute for Jewish Studies, 104–125. –. 1942b. “The Book of Asatir (with Translation and Commentary) (continued),” in Tarbiz 14. Jerusalem: Mandel Institute for Jewish Studies, 174–190. –. 1943. “The Book of Asatir (with Translation and Commentary) (conclusion),” in Tarbiz 15. Jerusalem: Mandel Institute for Jewish Studies, 71–87.

54 Tal 2000, 2‫ולי‬

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1961. The Literary and Oral Tradition of Hebrew and Aramaic Amongst the Samaritans. Vol. 3/2. Jerusalem: The Academy of the Hebrew Language. –. 2000. A Grammar of Samaritan Hebrew. Based on the Recitation of the Law in Comparison with the Tiberian and Other Jewish Traditions. Jerusalem: Magnes; Winona Lake, Indiana: Eisenbrauns. Blau, Joshua. 2010. Biblical Hebrew Phonology and Morphology. Jerusalem: The Academy of the Hebrew Language. Cowley, Arthur Ernest. 1909. The Samaritan Liturgy. Oxford: Clarendon. Fassberg, Steven E. forthcoming. “Gutturals and Gemination in Samaritan Hebrew”. Florentin, Moshe. 1995. “Distinctions between Various Meanings and their Phonological Notation in Samaritan Hebrew,” in Aron Dotan and Abraham Tal (eds.), Te’uda 9, Studies in Hebrew Language in Memory of Eliezer Rubinstein, Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University Press, 107–116. –. 1996. “Studies in the Morphology of Samaritan Hebrew,” in Leshonenu 59: 217–241. –. 2012. Samaritan Elegies. A Collection of Unknown Liturgical Poems. Jerusalem: Mosad Byaliḳ. –. 2013. “Gemination”, in Geoffrey Khan (ed.), Encyclopedia of Hebrew Language and Linguistics. Leiden: Brill. Gesenius, Wilhelm. 1815. De Pentateuchi Samaritani Origine Indole Et Auctoritate. Commentatio Philologico Critica. Halle: Impensis Librariae Rengerianae. Jastrow, Otto. 1985. Laut- und Formenlehre des neuaramäischen Dialekts von Mīdin im Ṭūr ʕAbdīn. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Kartveit, Magnar. 2009. The Origin of the Samaritans, VTSup 128. Leiden: Brill. Kutscher, Edward Yechezkel. 1965. “The Study of North-Western Semitic in our Time,” Leshonenu 29: 47–58. Schorch, Stefan. 2004. Die Vokale des Gesetzes. Die samaritanische Lesetradition als Textzeugin der Tora. Band 1: Genesis. Berlin – New York: de Gruyter. Shehadeh, Haseeb.1989–2002. The Arabic Translation of the Samaritan Pentateuch. 2 vols. Jerusalem: The Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities. Tal, Abraham. 1980–1983. The Samaritan Targum of the Pentateuch. 3 vols. Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University Press. –. 2000. A Dictionary of Samaritan Aramaic. Leiden: Brill. –. 2010. “‫חכלילי‬, ou Les Yeux de Juda dans la tradition Samaritaine,” in Jean Riaud and Marie-Laure Chaieb (eds.), L’oeuvre d’un Orientaliste – André Caquot – 1923–2004. Paris: Honoré Champion, 163–171. –. 2013. Samaritan Aramaic. Lehrbücher orientalischer Sprachen. Section III: Aramaic. Vol. 2. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. –, and Moshe Florentin. 2010. The Pentateuch. The Samaritan Version and the Masoretic version, edited and annotated. Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University Press. Tov, Emanuel. 2012. Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible, 3rd ed. Minneapolis: Fortress. –.

Alina Tarshin

Hyperheavy Syllables Created in Samaritan Aramaic with no Affinity to the Contraction of Two Syllables into One The following article discusses a special type of syllables that characterizes Samaritan Aramaic (SA) as well as other Samaritan dialects. This type of syllables is called hyperheavy.1 Usually hyperheavy syllables arise due to the loss of a guttural and contraction of two syllables into one. However, in some cases hyperheavy syllables are created with no affinity to syllable contraction. Those cases will be presented here and an assumption regarding their formation will be made.

1 Syllable Types in SA Phonologically there are three types of syllables in SA2: a. First type is a heavy syllable that is made up of three segments. A heavy syllable can either be closed or open. When it is closed, it consists of a consonant, a short vowel and another consonant, e.g.,3 ‫ רב‬råb “big” (Amram 12.1), ‫ לית‬lit “nothing” (Amram 4.24), ‫ כל‬kal “everything” (Amram 4.25). When it is open, it consists of a consonant and a long vowel. E.g., ‫ בה‬bē “in him” (Marqe 5.11), ‫ לא‬lǡ “there is no” (Amram 4.30), ‫ כלילה‬kēlīlǡ “the crown” (Marqe 11.24), ‫ דילה‬dillē “his” (Maqra 11.29), ‫ עמי‬ʕāmī “seeing [m. sg.]” (Marqe 1.81). Therefore, vowel length is automatic in the case of a heavy syllable: if the syllable is open, the vowel is long; if the syllable is closed, the vowel is short. Most syllables are of this type. b. The second type is a superheavy syllable that is made up of four segments. A superheavy syllable is always open and consists of a consonant and an extra-long vowel, marked by an additional colon sign. E.g., ‫ זעקו‬zā:qū “cry [2. pl. m.]!” (Marqe 11.25), ‫ זעיקה‬zī:qǡ “is called [f. sg. abs.]” (Ildustan 3.29), ‫ יתעבד‬yētā:bǝd “will be made [3. m. sg.]” (Ninna 94). Phonetically, i.e., in fluent reading, it is sometimes difficult to distinguish between long and an

1  This term was invented especially for the present discussion. 2  Cf. Ben-Hayyim’s description regarding Samaritan Hebrew, see Ben-Hayyim 2000, 45. 3  The examples presented here are taken from the Samaritan Piyyuṭim published by Ben-Hayyim 1967. The transcription is according to one set by Ben-Hayyim. See Ben-Hayyim 1961, 13–26. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110617306-016

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c.

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extra-long vowel. The superheavy syllable almost always results due to the loss of a guttural and, subsequently, a contraction of two syllables to one superheavy syllable: ‫* זעקו‬zāʕāqū > zā:qū, ‫* זעיקה‬zēʕīqǡ > zī:qǡ. The third type is a hyperheavy syllable. A hyperheavy syllable is made up of five segments. This type of syllable is always closed and consists of a consonant, an extra-long vowel and another consonant.4 E.g., ‫ ונחת‬wnā:t “and descended [3. m. sg.]” (Marqe 16.76), ‫ דחיל‬dī:l “terrible [m. sg.]” (Amram 26.39), ‫ נתרחץ‬nitʹrē:ṣ “we will trust” (Marqe 11.55), ‫ צבען‬ṣēʹbā:n “cries” (Marqe 11.69). Generally, a hyperheavy syllable results due to the loss of a guttural, followed by a syllable contraction: ‫* ונחת‬wnāḥat > wnā:t, ‫* דחיל‬dīḥil > dī:l, ‫* צבען‬ṣēbāḥan > ṣēʹbā:n.

Nevertheless, in some words it is hard to assume that a hyperheavy syllable resulted due to the loss of a guttural and contraction of two syllables to one.5 Those words may be divided into five categories, three of which are morphological, and two are phonological.

2 Hyperheavy Syllables with No Affinity to a Syllable Contraction 2.1 Morphological Categories 2.1.1 The Feminine Plural Absolute Suffix –ʹCā:n The first category comprises the feminine plural absolute suffix –ʹCā:n or –ʹCǡ:n.6 The suffix –ʹCā:n consists of an extra-long vowel /a:/ and is always stressed 4  According to the economical transcription used by Ben-Hayyim a hyperheavy syllable is marked CV̅C, i.e., without a colon sign denoting an extra-length. Ben-Hayyim chose this kind of transcription “in favor of simplicity of presentation” (Ben-Hayyim 2000, 46), since a long vowel never occurs in a closed syllable and its designation can be used in a closed syllable to denote an extra-long vowel. As opposed to Ben-Hayyim’s transcription, in the present paper a hyperheavy syllable is marked CV̅:C, using a colon sign, in order to avoid any misunderstandings. 5  In his excellent grammar of the Samaritan Hebrew Ben-Hayyim stated that “the extra-long vowel is almost always connected with the disappearance of an ‫ אהח"ע‬consonant and the coalescence of two syllables into one, such as: *tūlāʕat > tūʹlā:t ‫ ]…[ תולעת‬Also involving a syllable reduction are tūledāt > tū:ldåt ‫ ]…[ תולדת‬but such a feature unrelated to ‫ אהח"ע‬is exceptional” (Ben-Hayyim 2000, 46). 6  The front vowel /a/ and the back vowel /å/ are phonetic variants and represent the same phoneme. The front vowel /a/ is used here as default one.

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(see §2.1.3.). E.g.: ‫ ברכאן‬bǡrǡʹkǡ:n “blessings” (Amram 19.12, Marqe 5.79), ‫נפשהן‬ nafʹšǡ:n “souls” (Marqe 6.43), ‫ בריאן‬birʹyǡ:n “covenants” (Ildustan 3.27), ‫כריאן‬ karʹyǡ:n “foundations” (Marqe 14.40). This suffix is unique to SA. Alongside the suffix –ʹCā:n there is also the feminine plural absolute suffix – Can. This suffix consists of a short vowel and is mostly used in adjectives. E.g.: ‫טבן‬ tǡbån “good” (Amram 16.9, Marqe 5.63, Marqe 8.33), ‫ רמן‬rǡmån “exalted” (Amram 23.64, Amram 24.37), ‫ ארתיתן‬artītån “trembled” (Amram 23.26). The preform of the feminine plural absolute suffix is *–Cān, which consists of a long vowel. The suffix –Cān still occurs in Syriac7 (according to the Eastern  Nestorian tradition). In other Aramaic dialects the suffix –Can is documented: a. Biblical Aramaic (BA), e.g.: ‫יאן‬ ָ ִ‫ּומ ְּתנָ ן ַר ְב ְר ָבן ַשגּ‬ ַ “many great gifts” (Dan 2.48). b. Jewish Palestinian Aramaic (JPA), e.g.8: ‫רמ ַלן‬ ְ ‫“ ַא‬widows,” ‫“ נִ ְק ַבן‬females”. 9 c. Christian Palestinian Aramaic (CPA), e.g. : ‫“ בתולן‬virgins”. d. Maalula, e.g.10: kilman “words,” ʕaptan “female slaves,” wazzan “clothes”.

2.1.2 Perfect and Participle Forms, Derived from Roots mediae infirmae, qā:l Type To the second category belong perfect and participle forms that are derived from roots mediae infirmae and belong to the qā:l type. E.g.: ‫ קעם‬qā:m “he stood” (Amram 1.9, Amram 6.3), ‫ דער‬dā:r “he lived” (Marqe 16.137), ‫ קעמנן‬qā:mnån “we stood” (Amram 13.1), ‫ קעם‬qā:m “[it] stands” (Amram 3.2). Alongside the qā:l type there is also the qal type that consists of a short vowel. This type is quite rare in SA, however it is widespread in Samaritan Hebrew (SH). E.g., ‫ שם‬šam “saw [3. m. sg.]” (Amram 15.11), ‫ מת‬mat “died [3. m. sg.]” (Amram 20.14), ‫ טב‬ṭåb “good [m. sg.]” (Ab Isda 48). Examples from SH11: ‫ גר‬går “lived [3. m. sg.]” (Gen 35:27), ‫ לן‬lån “he lodged” (Gen 32:22), ‫ קצתי‬qåṣti “I abhor” (Gen 27:46), ‫ מתנו‬matnu “we died” (Num 14:2), ‫ סרתם‬sartimma “you turned aside” (Deut 9:16). The preform in this case is *qāl, consisting of a long vowel. This kind of pronunciation occurs in Syriac12 (according to the Eastern Nestorian tradition) and

7  Cf. Muraoka 2005, 22. 8  The examples are according to Fassberg 1990, 134. 9  The examples are according to Müller-Kessler 1991, 113. 10  The examples are according to Spitaler 1938, 107. 11  These examples are according to Ben-Hayyim 1977. 12  Cf. Muraoka 2005, 109.

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may also be documented in CPA,13 e.g., ‫[“ חס‬he] had pity”, ‫[“ קם‬he] stood up,” ‫[“ תאב‬he] came back”. However, the writings in CPA may also reflect the qal type, consisting of a short vowel. The qal type is documented in BA, e.g., ‫“ וְ ָקם‬rose up [3. m. sg.]” (Dan 3:24), ‫מל ְָתא‬ ִ ‫“ ָס ַפת‬the thing was fulfilled [3. f. sg.]” (Dan 4:30); and in JPA, e.g.14: ‫“ וְ ַקם‬he stood,” ‫“ ַחסו‬they had pity”. Thus, the proto-SA feminine plural absolute suffix –*Cān is reflected in SA as –ʹCā:n and –Can, and the proto-SA *qāl type has changed into qā:l and qal. In both cases there was a long vowel in a closed syllable. Since long vowels do not exist in closed syllables according to Samaritan phonology rules, the long vowel was either lengthened or shortened in these cases. One might also suggest that in both cases the original vowel was shortened, whereas the extra-long vowel resulted due to analogy to other forms, in which a guttural was lost and two syllables contracted to one hyperheavy syllable. The suffix –ʹCā:n could have developed because of an analogy to nouns, derived from roots tertiae gutturalis and containing the feminine plural absolute suffix –Can. In these nouns the third radical was lost, which resulted in a contraction of two heavy syllables to one hyperheavy syllable. E.g., ‫* צבען‬ṣēʹbāḥan > ṣēʹbā:n “cries” (Marqe 11.69). Likewise the qā:l type in mediae infirmae verbs may have emerged due to an analogy to parallel forms derived from the roots mediae gutturalis. E.g., ‫ נחת‬nā:t “it/he descended” (Amram 6.5, Marqe 14.82), ‫ דזעק‬adʹzā:q “who cries/ appeals” (Marqe 11.19). However, this assumption seems less suitable in view of other evidence. This evidence shows that it would be more economical to assume a phonological process that also characterizes other cases rather than an analogy in two of the cases.

2.1.3 Ending –ʹCā:y To the third category belongs the ending –ʹCā:y that is used as a gentilic suffix in absolute and constructed forms and serves as part of a noun derived from the roots tertiae infirmae. E.g.: ‫ יחידאי‬yīʹdǡ:y “unique” (Amram 8.12, Amram 10.20), ‫ קראי‬qårʹrǡ:y “proclaimer” (Marqa 4.75), ‫ סגאי‬sēʹgā:y “abundance” (Amram 11.26), ‫ בוראי‬būʹrǡ:y “creature” (Marqe 16.18, Ninna 76), ‫ יאי‬yǡ:y “proper, befitting” (Marqe 8.47). The ending –Cā:y is always stressed.

13  Müller-Kessler 1991, 213–214. 14  The examples are according to Fassberg 1990, 185.

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The preform of the gentilic suffix is probably *–Cāy, consisting of a long vowel. This form of the gentilic suffix is documented in Syriac15 (according to the Eastern Nestorian tradition). The original suffix *–Cāy lost its length and emerged into – Cåy/–Cay, consisting of a short vowel, in the following Aramaic dialects: a. BA, e.g.: ‫“ וְ ַכ ְש ָּדי‬or Chaldean” (Dan 2:10). b. JPA, e.g.16: ‫“ ֶע ְב ַריְ י‬Hebrew”. c. Maalula, e.g.17: ʕarabay “arab”. In CPA18 the gentilic suffix *-Cāy not only lost its length, but probably also contracted to *-ē. The same process was expected to happen in SA. Since long vowels do not exist in closed syllables in SA, *-Cāy should have been shortened to a simple diphthong *ay, that had to contract into ē according to SA phonology rules.19 However, this process did not take place. I suppose that in order to preserve its original form, the contraction of the gentilic suffix *Cāy to ē was prevented in SA. Instead another phonological option was chosen: the suffix *Cāy was made heavier and the already long vowel ā was lengthened to an extra-long ā:. Presumably, at this stage forms such as ‫יחידאי‬ *ʹyīdā:y “unique,” ‫ʹ* קראי‬qårrǡ:y “proclaimer” had existed. Afterwards the stress was transferred from penultimate to ultimate because of analogy to similar determined forms,20 which always have an ultimate stress, e.g.: ‫ זכאה‬zakʹkǡ: “the just, the righteous” (Amram 9.23, Amram 22.23); ‫ רתאה‬råtʹtǡ: “the gracious” (Amram 9.19, Amram 11.13, Amram 11.31, Amram 12.22, Amram 22.17, Ab Gilluga 16). The same kind of analogy took place in SH21 in words such as ‫ תרועה‬tirruwʹwā: “alarm,” ‫ ישועה‬yēšuwʹwā: “salvation,” ‫ טמאה‬ṭēmiyʹyā: “unclean,” ‫ מלאה‬mǡliyʹyā: “is filled”. The ultimate stress in these forms is secondary and results due to an analogy to other words, in which two syllables contracted into one after a guttural had been lost, e.g.: ‫ תולעת‬tūʹlā:t “worm,” ‫ טבעת‬ṭåbʹbē:t “ring,” ‫ חטאת‬ēʹṭǡ:t “sin”.

15  Cf. Nöldeke 2001, 80; Muraoka 2005, 22. 16  Cf. Fassberg 1990, 159. 17  Cf. Spitaler 1938, 90–91. 18  Cf. Müller-Kessler 1991, 101. 19  Cf. Tal 2013, 32. 20  It is to be noted that the determined form, containing the gentilic suffix, takes in SA the syntactic place of the absolute one, e.g.: ‫ האתר‬råtʹtǡ: “gracious” (Amram 22.19, Amram 23.87, Marqe 1.49). Vice versa, the absolute form, containing the gentilic suffix, takes the syntactic place of the determined one, e.g.: ‫ יאדיחי‬yīʹdǡ:y “the unique, the only one” (Amram 26.37, Marqa 7.31). This situation may have arisen due to the phonetic resemblance between these two forms, especially after the stress had moved to the ultimate syllable. 21  See Ben-Hayyim 2000, 69.

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Another possible reason for the permanent stress on the ending –ʹCā:y is that presumed forms such as ‫ʹ* יחידאי‬yīdǡ:y “unique,” ‫ʹ* סגאי‬sēgā:y “abundance,” ‫ʹ* בוראי‬būrǡ:y “creature,” in which the last syllable is hyperheavy and unstressed, were extremely rare. Therefore they were analogized to the majority of the words in the language, in which – if the last syllable is hyperheavy – it is stressed, e.g., ‫ צבען‬ṣēʹbā:n “cries,” ‫ תשבחן‬tåšʹbā:n “praises” (Amram 26.16, Marqe 1.148, Marqe 2.44, Marqe 3.51), ‫ נדחל‬nēʹdā:l “we fear” (Amram 2.3, Marqe 1.125), ‫ דשחר‬adʹšǡ:r “rising early [m. sg.]” (Marqe 6.35), ‫ סבעת‬sēʹbā:t “[she] was satiated [3. sg. f.]” (Marqe 14.108), ‫ ידען‬yidʹdā:n “they know [3. pl. f.]” (Amram 6.15, Marqe 14.65). The permanent stress on the feminine plural absolute suffix –ʹCā:n is explained in the same way. Probably at the first stage forms such as ‫ברכאן‬ *bǡʹrǡkǡ:n “blessings,” ‫ʹ* נפשהן‬nafšǡ:n “souls,” ‫ʹ* בריאן‬biryǡ:n “covenants” have existed. Subsequently, the stress was transferred from penultimate to ultimate: ‫ ברכאן‬bǡrǡʹkǡ:n “blessings,” ‫ נפשהן‬nafʹšǡ:n “souls,” ‫ בריאן‬birʹyǡ:n “covenants”. According to Ben-Hayyim,22 the ending ʹCā:y results due to a contraction of two syllables: *Cayyi (*Сāyi) > ʹCā:y. If the pronunciation *Cayyi (*Сāyi) had indeed existed, it is still hard to assume a contraction of two syllables that are not only composed of different vowels, but also with no guttural between them.

2.1.4 Samaritan Aramaic Compared to Other Aramaic Dialects According to the examples shown above, in other Aramaic dialects such as CPA, JPA, Maalula and BA, a long vowel standing in a closed syllable is usually shortened. However, in SA, when a long vowel stands in a closed syllable, there is also another, more prevalent tendency towards the vowel’s lengthening and hyperheavy syllables. This feature has probably arisen due to the large amount of hyperheavy syllables, resulted in Samaritan tradition because of an almost total loss of guttural consonants.

2.2 Phonological Categories 2.2.1 Words, containing one of the liquids /l/, /m/, /n/, /r/ or the dentals /b/, /f/ To the fourth category belong words that contain one of the liquids /l/, /m/, /n/, /r/ or the dentals /b/, /f/. E.g., ‫ סלקה‬sǡ:lqå “rising [f. sg.]” (Marqe 8.15), ‫מורכה‬ 22  Ben-Hayyim 2000, 66.

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mū:rkå “the enduring one [m. sg. det]” (Marqe 11.49), ‫כארזין‬/‫ כרזין‬kǡ:rzən “proclaiming [pl. m.]” (Amram 5.19, Amram 20.21), ‫ נפקין‬nǡ:fqən “coming out [pl. m.]” (Amram 20.11), ‫ גבורתך‬gēbū:rtåk “your might” (Amram 4.28, Amram 13.10), ‫תתובתן‬ tētū:btån “our repentance” (Amram 25.85, Marqe 19.26). In these cases there had been a vowel reduction in the environment of /l/, /m/, /n/, /r/, /b/, /f/. Thus, the preceding syllable, containing a long vowel and being open, became closed. This led to a lengthening of its vowel to extra-long and a creation of a hyperheavy syllable. E.g., sǡlēqå > sǡlqå > sǡ:lqå ‫“ סלקה‬rising [f. sg.]” (Marqe 8.15), kǡrēzǝn > kǡrzǝn > kǡ:rzən ‫“ כרזין‬proclaiming [pl. m.]” (Amram 5.19, Amram 20.21), tētūbǡtån > tētūbtån > tētū:btån ‫“ תתובתן‬our repentance”. In other cases this kind of vowel reduction causes a shortening of the vowel. Thus, after the preceding syllable, containing a long vowel and being open, becomes closed, its vowel is shortened, so that the new syllable is simply heavy. E.g., sǡlǡqi > sǡlqi > salqi ‫[“ סלקי‬they] arose [3. f. pl.]” (Marqe 2.8), måttǡnǡtå > måttǡntå > måttåntå ‫“ מתנתה‬the gift” (Ninna 29). The above described vowel reduction also occurs in SH. Examples from SH to the lengthening of the vowel as a result of vowel reduction: tūlēdåt > tūldåt > tū:ldåt ‫“ תולדת‬generations [f. pl. cstr.]” (Gen 2:4; 5:1; 6:9; 10:1; 11:10), qā:rbǝm ‫“ קרבים‬approaching [m. pl. abs.]” (Dt 20:3), arrǡ:mšǝt ‫“ הרמשת‬the moving [f. sg. det.]” (Gen 1:21; 1:28), mī:nqåt ‫“ מינקת‬nurse [f. sg. cstr.]” (Gen 35:8), mī:nqot ‫“ מינקות‬nursing [f. pl. abs.]” (Gen 32:16). Examples from SH to the shortening of the vowel: qårbåt ‫“ קרבת‬drew near [3. f.sg .]” (Deut 2:37), malyot ‫“ מליות‬full [f. pl. abs.]” (Gen 41:22), wammalyot ‫“ והמליאת‬and the full [f. pl. abs.]” (Gen 41:7). 2.2.2 Words, Morphophonologically Containing the Sequence –īya The fifth category consists of words that morphophonologically contain the sequence –īya and are derived from the roots tertiae infirmae. E.g.: qā:nyå ‫קעניה‬ “holding [f. sg. abs.]” (Amram 4.9), mǡ:lʹyǡ:n23 ‫“ מליאן‬filling [f. pl. abs.]” (Ildustan 1.5), fǡ:lyǡtå ‫“ פליאתה‬the wonders” (Amram 8.24). The sequence -īya in Samaritan tradition turns into -ya, which causes a modification in the syllable structure. Thus, a syllable, containing a long vowel and being open, becomes closed, which leads to a lengthening of its vowel to an extra-long and a creation of a hyperheavy syllable. E.g.: qānīyå > qānyå > qā:nyå ‫“ קעניה‬holding, having” (Amram 4.9), mǡlīʹyǡ:n > mǡlʹyǡ:n > mǡ:lʹyǡ:n ‫“ מליאן‬filling [f. pl. abs.]” (Ildustan 1.5), fǡlīyǡtå > fǡlyǡtå > fǡ:lyǡtå ‫“ פליאתה‬the wonders” (Amram 8.24).

23  This word is a rare example to a case, in which both syllables are hyperheavy.

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In some other cases as result of -īya turning into -ya the vowel in the previous syllable is shortened, so this syllable becomes just heavy. E.g.: gǡlīyǡtå > gǡlyǡtå > galyǡtå ‫“ גליאתה‬the revealed things” (Marqe 2.11, Marqe 4.11).

3 Conclusions Alongside the majority of hyperheavy syllables, which result from a contraction of two heavy syllables, there is a small group of hyperheavy syllables that are actually created automatically and alternate with heavy syllables. This kind of hyperheavy syllables emerge in certain phonological circumstances: where a closed syllable containing a long vowel is expected. Since this kind of syllable phonologically cannot be borne, it either turns into hyperheavy and its vowel is lengthened, or it turns into heavy and its vowel is shortened. Presumably, the nonexistence of long vowels in closed syllables in SA (as well as in SH) was established in light of the many cases, in which a guttural was lost and two syllables contracted to one hyperheavy syllable. Above are pointed out the five categories in SA, in which hyperheavy syllables are created with no affinity to the loss of a guttural. In four of the aforementioned categories beside a hyperheavy syllable also exists a heavy syllable. First category: -ʹCā:n / -Can. E.g., ‫ ברכאן‬bǡrǡʹkǡ:n “blessings” (Amram 19.12, Marqe 5.79), ‫ נפשהן‬nafʹšǡ:n “souls” (Marqe 6.43) alongside ‫ טבן‬tǡbån “good” (Amram 16.9, Marqe 5.63, Marqe 8.33), ‫ רמן‬rǡmån “exalted” (Amram 23.64, Amram 24.37). In this category differentiation took place: the suffix -ʹCā:n is generally used on nouns, whereas the suffix -Can is used on adjectives. Second category: qā:l / qål. E.g., ‫ קעם‬qā:m “he stood” (Amram 1.9, Amram 6.3) alongside ‫ שם‬šam “saw [3. m. sg.] (Amram 15.11). The qål type is quite rare in SA, but is widespread in SH. Fourth category: ‫ סלקה‬sǡ:lqå “rising [f. sg.]” (Marqe 8.15), ‫ מורכה‬mū:rkå “the enduring one [m. sg. det.]” (Marqe 11.49), ‫ נפקין‬nǡ:fqən “coming out [pl. m.]” (Amram 20.11) alongside ‫ סלקי‬salqi “arose [3. f. p.]” (Marqe 2.8), måttåntå ‫“ מתנתה‬the gift” (Ninna 29). Fifth category: qā:nyå ‫“ קעניה‬holding [f. sg.]” (Amram 4.9), mǡ:lʹyǡ:n ‫מליאן‬ “filling [f. pl. abs.]” (Ildustan 1.5) alongside ‫ גליאתה‬galyǡtå “the revealed things” (Marqe 2.11, Marqe 4.11). The fact that in some forms the vowel is lengthened, while in other, parallel forms the vowel is shortened, proves that we cannot assume a contraction of

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two syllables into one in these forms. In cases, where a guttural is lost and two syllables undoubtedly contract into one, it never changes and stays constantly hyperheavy.24 It can also be concluded that not only are the short and long vowels automatic and dependent on phonological conditions, e.g., bit ‫“ בית‬house [cstr.]” (Amram 24.80, Marqe 10.35) in a closed syllable against bīte ‫“ ביתה‬his house” (Amram 24.79, Marqe 10) in an open syllable, but occasionally extra-long vowels also arise automatically in the Samaritan pronunciation.

Bibliography Ben-Hayyim, Zeʾev. 1961. The Literary and Oral Tradition of Hebrew and Aramaic amongst the Samaritans. Vol. 3, Part. I. Jerusalem: The Academy of the Hebrew Language. –. 1967. The Literary and Oral Tradition of Hebrew and Aramaic amongst the Samaritans. Vol. 3, Part. II. Jerusalem: The Academy of the Hebrew Language. –. 1977. The Literary and Oral Tradition of Hebrew and Aramaic amongst the Samaritans. Vol. 4. Jerusalem: The Academy of the Hebrew Language. –. 2000. A Grammar of Samaritan Hebrew. A Revised Edition in English. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Fassberg, Steven E. 1990. A Grammar of the Palestinian Targum Fragments from the Cairo Genizah. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Müller-Kessler, Christa. 1991. Grammatik des Christlich-Palästinisch-Aramäischen. Teil 1: Schriftlehre, Lautlehre, Formenlehre. Hildesheim – Zürich – New York: Olms. Muraoka, Takamitsu. 2005. Classical Syriac. A Basic Grammar with a Chrestomathy. 2nd, revised edition. Wiesbaden: Harrassovitz. Nöldeke, Theodor. 2001. Compendious Syriac Grammar. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Spitaler, Anton. 1938. Grammatik des Neuaramäischen Dialekts von Maʕlūla (Antilibanon). Leipzig: Deutsche Morgenländische Gesellschaft. Tal, Abraham. 2013. Samaritan Aramaic. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag.

24  There are three exceptions to this rule in SA: ‫ ארעה‬ǡrå “the land” (Amram 7.13, Elazar 1.7), ‫ ארבעת‬arbat “the four” (Marqe 2.17) and ‫מלוא‬/‫ מלו‬mēlu “authorized” (Amram 1.12, Marqe 16.51). Presumably (see Ben-Hayyim 1967, 265), the pronunciation ‫ ארעה‬ǡrå instead of the expected *ǡʹrǡ arose due to analogy to the undetermined form ǡrå ‫“ ארע‬land” (Marqe 6.5, Marqe 21.11, Ildustan 1.7, Anonymous 4.16). The forms ‫ ארבעת‬arbat and ‫ מלוא‬mēlu are probably secondary and were established after the original ultimate stress in arʹbā:t, mēʹlū, which is still documented in SH, changed to penultimate as part of analogy to the majority of the words in the language.

Abstracts and Keywords 1 Hebrew Bible and Samaritan Pentateuch Magnar Kartveit Anti-Samaritan Polemics in the Hebrew Bible? The Case of 2 Kings 17:24–41 Keywords: Samaritans, polemics, Nergal, Kuthah, periphrastic structure Abstract: The composition of 2 Kgs 17:24–41 has been a topic for scholarly discussion for a long time. In this paper I suggest that the pericope contains two units, both coming from the Persian period. The first, vv. 24–34a, is characterized by Late Biblical Hebrew in the use of the periphrastic structure of verbs and in the use of participles. The names of cities of origin for the new settlers are taken from 2 Kgs 18:34; 19:13; Ezra 4:9, and the names of their gods are identifiable in one case only, Nergal of Kuthah; the others are spurious. The second unit, vv. 34b–40, seems to have been created on the basis of vv. 7–23 and 2 Kings 18; 19, and constitutes another critical evaluation of the northern population of the Persian period. Both units are possibly anti-Samaritan polemics.

Ingrid Hjelm So-called Deuteronomic Addenda in the Samaritan Pentateuch Numbers 10–14 and 20–27: Where Do They Belong? Keywords: Samaritan Pentateuch, Masoretic Text, Numbers, Deuteronomy, Dead Sea Scrolls Abstract: Since Gesenius’ seminal analysis of the Samaritan Pentateuch in the early 19th century, it has been customary to consider the Masoretic text as the primary text and deviations between the Masoretic text and Samaritan Pentateuch as additions or interpolations into the Samaritan Pentateuch. Gesenius termed such variants additamenta maiora e locis parallelis interpolata (“major expansions interpolated from parallel passages”), thereby indicating a priority not only of the Masoretic text, but also of Deuteronomy, which in most cases is considered the source text of the additions. Avoiding such a priori assumptions, I prefer to use the term “major variants,” most of

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110617306-017

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 Abstracts and Keywords

which can be found in SP Exodus and Numbers. The article examines literary and linguistic relationships between Number’s Wilderness narratives and Deuteronomy 1–3’s retelling in the Samaritan Pentateuch and ask whether the variants in the Samaritan Pentateuch reflect a Samaritan or a (proto)-Masoretic Vorlage. Since most of the major variants are found in Numbers 10–4 and 20–7, both of which are “summarized” in Deuteronomy 1–3, it is also relevant to ask, how the SP variants differ from shared Deuteronomic passages in MT and SP Numbers.

Benedikt Hensel The Chronicler’s Polemics towards Samarian YHWH-Worshippers: A Fresh Approach Keywords: Chronicles, Judean-Samarian relationship, cult centralization Abstract: After some decennia of intensive debate, it is now broadly accepted that there is no anti-Samaritan polemics or polemical attitude towards the Northern Israelite Kingdom in the books of Chronicles. This is due to the wellknown studies especially by S. Japhet, H.G.M. Williamson and Th. Willi that convincingly point out that Chronicles provides a “Conception of an Integral Israel” (Willi), a concept of an “All-Israel” (Williamson) or a “pan-Israel” (Japhet) respectively. Chronicles therefore not only includes the Northern tribes in their (Judean) historical narration, but also openly invites the Northerners to join the Jerusalem YHWH-cult, and thus acknowledge their “Israelite” heritage. Hensel, however, shows that these assumptions are far from true. In fact, Chronicles provides a strong, well-molded polemic against the YHWH-worshippers in post-exilic times, which forms the overall retelling of Judean-“Israelite” history throughout the book. This study a) uses selected texts to demonstrate the anti-“Samaritan” text-strategies in Chronicles and b) explores the historical and religious-historical background of the polemics. As the Samarian YHWH-worshippers understand themselves as “Israelites” who had their own YHWH-shrine on Mt. Gerizim, the South’s “invitation” to come to Jerusalem must be seen as a “not-accomplishable condition” for the Gerizim-community.

Abstracts and Keywords 

 325

2 Roman-Byzantine and Rabbinic Studies Reinhard Pummer Synagogues – Samaritan and Jewish: A New Look at their Differentiating Characteristics Keywords: Samaritan synagogues, orientation, art, lulav and etrog Abstract: As is well known, the distinction between antique Jewish and Samaritan synagogues is sometimes difficult to make. Architecture, furnishings and decoration are very similar. Scholars use therefore various criteria to distinguish the one from the other – from the orientation and location of the building to the absence of the depiction of living beings and of lulav and etrog. The paper shows that a closer look reveals that these criteria are not as clearcut as they appear.

Andreas Lehnardt “If a Cuthean Comes and Forces You into Military Service” (Pesiqta de-Rav Kahana, Ha-Hodesh, pisqa 5): Anti-Samaritan Polemics in a Homiletic Midrash Keywords: Rabbinic Literature, Kutim, Pesiqata de-Rav Kahana, Midrash, anti-Samaritan polemics Abstract: The anti-Samaritan polemic in Rabbinic literature has often been recognized. The paper describes mainly the occurrences of the term Kuti and/ or Kutae in Pesiqta de-Rav Kahana, a homiletic composition from the end of the 5th century, and examines their relationship to other Rabbinic writings from the same period (and earlier) which have been examined by me and other scholars. In an additional part the paper asks why Kutim almost disappeared from later Midrashim such as Pesiqta Rabbati or the Tanhuma-Yelammedenu literature. Abraham Tal Nimrod, “A Man of Might” – How Many of Them? Keywords: Nimrod, Abraham, idolatry, morphologic status Abstract: The image of Nimrod has changed greatly in the Samaritan tradition. From the powerful king and legislator who ruled Assyria and built Babylon, to a

326 

 Abstracts and Keywords

wicked idolater who cast Abraham in a fiery furnace. In the end Nimrod became a common noun denoting wicked rebels.

3 Arabic Studies Daniel Boušek The Story of the Prophet Muhammad’s Encounter with a Samaritan, a Jew, and a Christian: The Version from Abū l-Fath’s Kitāb al-Tārīkh and Its Context Keywords: Abū l-Fatḥ ibn Abī l-Ḥasan al-Sāmirī al-Danafī, Kitāb al-Tārīkh, polemics, the prophet Muhammad Abstract: In the year 756/1355 Abū l-Fatḥ ibn Abī l-Ḥasan al-Sāmirī al-Danafī wrote the Samaritan chronicle Kitāb al-Tārīkh, which concludes with a cycle of legends narrating the rise of Islam. Their narrative focuses on the story of the prophet Muḥammad’s encounter with three astrologers, representatives of three Abrahamic religions: a Jew, a Christian, and a Samaritan, who negotiated with Muḥammad full protection for the Samaritans under Islam. Abū l-Fatḥ’s narrative presents a unique Samaritan version of a polemical story that was widespread among the Christians and Jews in the Middle Ages. The paper compares the Samaritan version of the story with the Christian and Jewish ones, and sets the story of Muḥammad’s pact with the Samaritans into the context of the mid-14th century Mamlūk society and the Samaritans’ position in it. The thesis of the paper is that the Samaritan version responds to the increasing social and religious pressure of Islamic society directed towards the conversion of non-Muslims to Islam and the expropriation of their houses of worship. Stefan Schorch An Unknown and Unique Samaritan Arabic Introductory Prayer by Abū l-Ḥasan al-Ṣūrī (11th Century) Keywords: Abū l-Ḥasan al-Ṣūrī, Qibla, Qurʾan, Samaritan Arabic, Samaritan liturgy, Samaritan prayer Abstract: The article presents the publication, translation and analysis of a unique Samaritan Arabic prayer. The otherwise unknown text was copied by a later hand on an originally empty page of a Samaritan manuscript from

Abstracts and Keywords 

 327

the 17th century, which is preserved as part of Ms Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Library, Codex 1649. The prayer is attributed to Abū l-Ḥasan al-Ṣūrī, a Samaritan scholar from 11th century Damascus, who was a prolific author of Samaritan Aramaic, Samaritan Hebrew, and Arabic texts covering especially exegesis, halakha, and liturgy. It appears to be a unique witness for Abū l-Ḥasan’s endeavor to establish Arabic texts as part of the daily Samaritan liturgy, in an environment of close cultural contact between Samaritanism and Islam, and of Samaritan anti-Islamic polemic. Its original function, as conceived by the author, was to focus and to express the attention of the worshipper in terms of direction and intention of their prayer. Applying references to the Qurʾan and the Islamic discourse on the direction of prayer, Abū l-Ḥasan’s text presents Mount Gerizim as the true Abrahamic qibla. Although Abū l-Ḥasan’s present prayer is not found in any of the manuscripts of the Samaritan liturgy, it still seems to have been very influential, insofar it served most probably as the model for a new genre of Samaritan prayer texts, the introductory prayer. Gerhard Wedel Polemics in Abū l-Hasan as-Sūrī’s Kitāb al-Tabbāḫ (11th century CE) Keywords: Samaritans, polemics, Abū l-Ḥasan al-Ṣūrī, 11th century CE, Muʿtazila Abstract: Anti-Samaritan polemics has a long history in Jewish literature since Antiquity. Samaritan polemics against other religious groups is less studied although it played a significant role in Samaritan theological literature. The main obstacle is that until now only few Samaritan theological texts are published and studied in detail. To understand Samaritan polemics as a general subject, regarding confessional organized religions, I firstly examined the historical frame of polemics and its origins. In a general religious environment, as long as gods were limited in their competences to special tribes, cities or areas of life, there was no need of polemics. Only when religious groups assumed general acknowledgement of their god and therefore claimed exclusiveness, polemics became a means of struggle concerning truth and dominance. For my study I chose the work of Abū l-Ḥasan al-Ṣūrī, the leading Samaritan scholar of the 11th century, because he fought against all major religions of his time: Jewish, Christian and Muslim. He used the methods of Muslim theology of kalām, because Samaritans had no particular theological writings transmitted from Antiquity. Only Jews and Christians had a long tradition of this kind. Meanwhile, Muslims also developed a comprehensive theological literature until

328 

 Abstracts and Keywords

the 11th century. The lack of a Samaritan written tradition was Abū l-Ḥasan’s problem but also his advantage. Because he had a relatively free choice of means: exegesis, responsa, kalām (treatise) and general theology chosen from every corner. His polemics is vice versa apologetics to save his Samaritan religion in competition with missionary religions like Christian and Muslim claims, less with religions that are bound to ethnic limits like Judaism. Haseeb Shehadeh One Fifth of the Tiny Samaritan Community in Nablus Died in the Epidemic of 1786 Keywords:  BL MS Or. 2691, Nablus epidemic, Samaritans in 1786, El-ʿAyyeh, Palestinian Arabic Abstract: This is a publication, an English translation and clarification of a three-page narrative of an epidemic that raged in Nablus in 1786 and its tragic consequences for the Samaritan community. This Middle Arabic manuscript is preserved today in the British Library, MS Or. 2691. This epidemic (possibly the plague or cholera) took the lives of approximately four thousand people. Of these, about twenty were Samaritan men, women and children – one fifth of the city’s Samaritan population. The writer and scribe of the narrative was the well-known Samaritan poet, Torah commentator, grammarian, philanthropist, and historian Ibrāhīm b. Yaʿqūb b. Murğān b. Ibrāhīm b. Ismāʿīl al-Danafī (1719–1786), famous by his nickname El-ʿAyyeh, meaning “the pleader” or “the stammerer”. This manuscript is the only written source concerning El-ʿAyyeh’s years of birth, 1719.

4 Samaritans in Modern and Contemporary Time Ruth Bardenstein Historical Bindings of the Chamberlain-Warren Samaritan Collection Keywords: Samaritan-style bindings, Samaritan-style endbands, Coptic (or link) stitch binding, Islamic-style envelope flap bindings Abstract: The Warren-Chamberlain Samaritan Collection, part of the rare book collection at Michigan State University, includes handwritten manuscripts and printed books dated from the 15th century through the 20th century. This essay

Abstracts and Keywords 

 329

documents each of the nineteen manuscript bindings included in the collection using the template for describing historical bindings presented in Books Will Speak Plain.  Photographs of each of the nineteen books are included as appropriate to illustrate important binding details and decoration. Drawings, rubbings and diagrams are also included to illustrate structural elements of the bindings which are difficult to photograph.  Golda Akhiezer Between Samaritans and Karaites: Abraham Firkovich and His Perception of Samaritanism Keywords: Samaritanism, Karaism, Abraham Firkovich, Shechem, Biblical history Abstract: Abraham ben Shemuel Firkovich, the leader of the Eastern European Karaites and collector of ancient manuscripts, visited the Samaritan community in Shechem during his travel to Jerusalem in 1864. This short visit had two important outcomes: the acquisition by Firkovich of Samaritan manuscripts from the Shechem community – the greatest such collection in the world, which was subsequently acquired by the Imperial Public Library in Saint Petersburg – and the following correspondence of Firkovich with some members of this community. Details concerning his visit are mainly known through Christian and Samaritan sources, completed by the letters exchanged between Firkovich and members of the Samaritan community and with his son-in-law and main assistant, Gabriel Firkovich. These letters are now preserved in the Firkovich’s private archive at the National Library of Russia in Saint Petersburg. In addition to details upon his visit in Sichem, these documents, as well as some of Firkovich’s writings on the origins of the Karaites, shed light on the perception Firkovich had of Samaritanism, of its place in Jewish-Biblical and post Biblical history, and of the possible connection between Karaites and Samaritans. Julia Droeber Does Religious Diversity Work? Samaritans and Their Religious “Others” in Contemporary Nablus Keywords: Interreligious relations, minorities, hidden transcripts, identity Abstract: In this paper I am examining the role of the Samaritans of Nablus in the West Bank as neighbours of the Muslims and Christians also living in the city. I am tracing the relationship between members of the three religious communities in an historical, social, and cultural, to some extent also economic and political

330 

 Abstracts and Keywords

perspective. Following the Samaritans’ own perception, I am trying to illustrate the ways in which they are “walking between the raindrops” in an effort to please all their neighbours (including their Israeli protectors), while at the same time trying to safeguard and maintain their own specific identity. I am arguing that, while born out of political necessity, the Samaritans are quite successful in their campaigns of awareness raising, “nation building,” and self-defence. After years of struggle, they have managed to carve out for themselves a socio-cultural niche in Palestinian and Israeli societies that affords them a relatively comfortable existence. The discussion in this paper is based on long-term anthropological fieldwork in Nablus, one of the two sites that are the home of the Samaritan community. The theoretical framework, on which the discussion is based, builds on Scott’s concept of “hidden transcripts” as a tool for understanding the dynamics that underpin the relationship between Samaritans and their Muslim, Christian, and Jewish neighbours. Monika Schreiber The Arab, the Jewish, and the Ukrainian Marriage: Picking Spouses in the Samaritan Community Keywords: Samaritans, anthropology, family, marriage, identity Abstract: In this article, I present a study of the social life of the Samaritans, a community that is usually studied for its Bible and its role in the history of the People of Israel. The discussion sets off with a view to the modern practice of marriage between Samaritan men and women from different religions, which has become necessary due to the community’s long-standing demographic predicament, and which predominantly involves spouses with Israeli-Jewish and Ukrainian-Christian backgrounds. From there, the focus shifts to the basic social fabric within which those developments unfold: using approaches from anthropological theory and method, I offer a treatment of the Samaritan family, a powerful institution rooted in notions of patrilineal descent and preferably perpetuated by consanguineous marriage. Subsequently, three selected case studies illustrate the ways in which Samaritan families may deal with the challenge of reproduction under the conditions of a notoriously restricted marriage market: the savvy matching of traditional patterns of consanguinity with modern transboundary alliances allows the lineages to exploit their entire reproductive potential in an unprecedented manner and thus contributes vitally to the general population growth the Samaritans have enjoyed over the past century. Finally, I address the fears of loss of identity and control caused by the outwardly successful “mixed marriages” and close with a brief outlook on the possible future of the Samaritan

Abstracts and Keywords 

 331

tradition in face of the repeated transgressions of ethnic boundaries represented by those unions.

5 Linguistic Studies Moshe Florentin “On the Head Joseph, and on the Leader, the Consecrated among His Brothers” (Genesis 49:26; Deuteronomy 33:16): A Study of the Grammar, Interpretation, and Version of Two Words with Geminated Consonants in the Samaritan Pentateuch Keywords: Samaritan Pentateuch, Biblical versions, Hebrew grammar, gemination, exegesis Abstract: Grammatical analysis of the gemination of the consonants r and q in the words ‫ לראש‬larrēʔoš and wlaqqådqåd which appear in the verse ‫תהיינה לראש יוסף ולקדקד נזיר אחיו‬, shows that it is not secondary but rather denotes that both nouns are definite, i.e. they should be translated “the head” and “the leader.” The meaning of the verse according to the Samaritan reading is thus “may they [the blessings] be on the head Joseph, and on the leader, the consecrated among his brothers.” Yet, the ancient Samaritan Targum renders them in the indefinite form ‫לריש‬, which is in line with the Masoretic version ‫לרֹאש‬, ְ the meaning of both: “may they (the blessings) be on the head of Joseph, and on the brow of him who was separate from his brothers.” However, the late layer of the Samaritan Targum renders the word to ‫ לרישה‬i.e. “the head.” The same is true for the (late) Arabic translation, which renders it ‫للراييس‬, explicitly “to the head.” This late evidence is in line with the contemporary Samaritan pronunciation larrēʔoš and wlaqqådqåd. The inevitable conclusion is thus that the traditional reading of this verse, which glorifies Joseph, represents a relatively late stage in the development of the Samaritan version and its interpretation amongst the Samaritans. Alina Tarshin Hyperheavy Syllables Created in Samaritan Aramaic with no Affinity to the Contraction of Two Syllables into One Keywords: Samaritan Aramaic, oral tradition, extra-long vowels, superheavy syllables, automatic vowel length

332 

 Abstracts and Keywords

Abstract: In Samaritan Aramaic, as well as in other Samaritan dialects, we find hyperheavy syllables that are made up of five segments. A hyperheavy syllable is always closed and consists of a consonant, an extra-long vowel and another consonant. Usually hyperheavy syllables result from a contraction of two syllables due to the loss of a guttural. E.g. ‫ ונחת‬wnā:t “and descended,” ‫ דחיל‬dī:l “terrible.” However, in some cases the formation of a hyperheavy syllable is not connected to a guttural loss. E.g. ‫ יחידאי‬yī’dǡ:y “the only one,” ‫ סלקה‬sǡ:lqå “rising (f. sg.),” ‫ ברכאן‬bǡrǡ’kǡ:n “blessings.” All these cases, divided into categories, are presented in this article. It is suggested that this kind of hyperheavy syllables emerge where a closed syllable containing a long vowel is expected. Since this kind of syllable phonologically cannot be borne, it either turns into hyperheavy and its vowel is lengthened, or it turns into heavy and its vowel is shortened.

Index of Authors Abel, A. 109 Ackerman-Lieberman, P. I. 116 Adler, E.-N. 121, 242 Adler, M. N. 200 Ahroni, R. 116 Akhiezer, G. 236, 237 Akkach, S. 150, 152 Alfonsi, P. 110 Amiran, D. H. K, 62 Anderson, B. 253, 259 Anderson, R. T. 163, 217, 218, 230 Anisfeld, R. A. 79, 87 Arberry, A. J. 107, 114, 191 Arieh, E. 62 Arnaldez, R. 150, 153 Atzmon, A. 78 Avi-Yonah, M. 85, 86 Ayalon, E. 53 Bae, H.-S. 36 Baillet, M. 185, 200 Balādhurī, A. I. Y. al- 117 Barfield, T. 263, 264 Barghouthi, A. M. al- 208 Baron, S. 120 Barth, F. 274 Bauer, H. 303 Bauer, T. 166, 167, 168, 169 Belin, F. A. 122, 124 Ben-Hayyim, Z. 95, 96, 142, 145, 146, 147, 148, 149, 151, 152, 154, 157, 159, 180, 200, 202, 301, 302, 303, 305, 309, 314, 315, 316, 318, 319, 322 Ben-Sasson, M. 237 Ben Shamesh, A. 123 Ben-Zvi, Y. 200, 201, 206 Berg, J. v. d. 240 Bezold, C. 94 Bhabha, H. 258 Birnbaum, P. 57 Bittles, A. H. 281 Blau, Y. 143, 302 Bobzin, H. 110 Bohak, G. 84 https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110617306-018

Bonné, B. 269 Bonte, P. 274 Bosch, G. 224 Bosworth, C. E. 123 Bourdieu, P. 274 Boušek, D. 139, 183 Braude, W. G. 80, 83, 84 Braun, R. L. 36, 37 Bruneau, P. 14 Brzezinski, R. 82 Buber, S. 79, 82 Bull, G. 201 Busse, H. 146 Calder, N. 152 Charlesworth J. H. 56 Chiesa, B. 174, 175, 241 Cogan, M. 6, 10, 11, 13 Cohen, A. 201, 274 Cohen, G. D. 75 Cohen, J. M. 61 Conder C. R. 59 Cowley, A. E. 101, 142, 145, 157, 159, 306, 307, 309 Crown, A. D. 132, 138, 175, 189, 200, 219, 220, 221, 222, 226, 268 Cumberland, A. 263 Cureton, W. 172, 173 Dabbāġ, M. al- 201 Dahmān, M. A. 206 Dan, Y. 85 Danby, H. 55, 56 Dar, S. 53, 63, 71 Dascal, M. 170 Déclais, J.-L. 148 Deinard, E. 239, 242 Dexinger, F. 149, 182 Diebner, B. J. 36 Dietrich, W. 3 Dimashqī, M. b. A. T. al- 125 Di Segni, L. 62, 63 Doresse, J. 221 Douglas, M. 20

334 

 Index of Authors

Doumani, B. 201 Droeber, J. 246, 282 Dušek, J. 14, 38 Egger, R. 163, 182 Eggers, M. 82 Eisenberg, N. 263 Elder, E. E. 152 Elkin, Z. 237 Embleton, G. 82 Erder, Y. 57 Eskenazi, T. C. 42 Ess, J. v. 166 Evans-Pitchard, E. E. 273 Even-Shmuʼel, Y. 110 Fallscheer, Ch. 59 Fassberg, S. E. 316, 317, 318 Fine, S. 61 Firkovich, A. 76, 235, 239, 241 Fischer, B. 224 Florentin, M. 24, 26, 118, 133, 142, 148, 189, 301, 303, 305, 306, 307, 308 Flusser, D. 84 Fossum, J. 173 Frank, R. M. 166, 169 Frayha, A. 206 Friedmann, M. 79 Friedmann, Y. 118 Fritsch, E. 121 Funkenstein, A. 126 Galling, K. 35 Gans, D. 75, 87 Geiger, A. 57, 182 Gellner, E. 273 Gesenius, W. 19, 31, 308 Gil, M. 111 Giles, T. 163 Gimaret, D.,151, 186 Goitein, S. D. 117 Goldziher, I. 122, 166, 274 Gottheil, R. J. H. 120, 122, 124 Granqvist, H. 274 Grossman, A.,124 Grunebaum, G. E. v. 111

Guillaume, A. 108, 109, 180 Gunneweg, A. H. J. 36 Haarbrücker, T. 172, 173 Hachlili, R. 57, 61, 73 Halkin, A. 182, 187 Hanover, S. 57, 200 Harrington, D. J. 56 Harviainen, T. 235, 238 Hassafarey, T. 203 Hausmann, J. 36 Heckl, R. 44 Hensel, B. 36, 37, 38, 39, 44, 45 Héritier, F. 274 Hettema, T. L. 170 Heyward, R. 93 Higger, M. 163 Hilāl al-Sābī, 117 Hirschfeld, H. 108, 116 Hjelm, I. 20, 32, 163 Hoover, J. 152 Horst, P. W. v. d. 91, 163 Ibn al-Ukhūwah, 118 Ibn Kathīr, I. 117, 121, 125 Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīya, 117, 124 Ioniță, I. 82 Ireton, S. 249, 251, 252, 256, 270 Jacobs, L. 57 Jacoby, R. 51, 56, 61 Japhet, S. 36, 39, 41, 43 Jastram, N. 20, 21, 26 Jastrow, M. 83 Jastrow, O. 303 Joosten, J. 3, 6, 7 Josua, H. N. 146 Joüon, P, 6, 100 Kahle, P. 268, 277 Kalimi, I. 40 Kapstein, I. J. 80, 83, 84 Kartveit, M. 3, 14, 15, 19, 21, 26, 32, 36, 44, 183, 306 Kenneday-Day, K. 190 Khare, R. S. 254 King, D. A. 146

Index of Authors 

Klein, M. L. 94 Klein, S. 83 Knoppers, G. N. 41, 42, 43, 44, 183 Koefler, H. 123 Kohn, S. 118 Kooij, A. v. d. 91, 170 Krauss, S. 82, 83 Kritzeck, J. 110 Kutscher, E. Y. 304 Lane, E. W. 95 Langermann, Y. T. 131 Lazarus-Yafeh, H. 170, 171 Le Moyne, J. 57 Le Strange, G. 125, 185 Leander, P. 303 Lebedev, V. V. 239 Lehnhardt, A. 77, 83, 87, 163 Levee, M. 76 Leveen, J. 111 Levin, Y. 44 Levine, L. I. 51, 52, 53, 56 Lévi-Strauss, C. 274 Levy-Rubin, M. 106, 112, 116, 118, 192 Lewis, B. 110, 170, 171 Lim, T. H. 84 Little, D. P. 119 Lookwood, W. 174, 175, 241 Macdonald, D. B. 153 MacDonald, J. 113 Macuch, R. 151, 181 Madelung W. 169 Magen, Y. 14, 38, 44, 51, 52, 53, 54, 57, 61, 62, 67, 73, 74, 76 Malter, H. 111 Mandelbaum, B. 78, 79, 83, 84 Mann, J. 111, 120 Mannāʿ,ʿĀ. 201 Marx, A. 111 Matthews, E. 53 Māwardī, al- 118, 123 Mielczarek M. 82 Miller, J. 217, 230 Miller, P. E. 237 Mills, J. 59, 268 Milson, D. 51, 52, 69, 70

 335

Misgav, H. 14, 38 Mittwoch, E. 118, 123 Monnot, G. 150 Montgomery, J. A. 13, 43, 185, 268 Morabia, A. 121 Mosis, R. 35 Müller-Kessler, Ch. 316, 317, 318 Muraoka, T. 6, 100, 316, 318 Myller, A. M. n. d. 200 Neidinger, W. 53, Nelson, R. D. 20, 25, 29 Nemoy, L. 120, 174, 175 Niebuhr, C. 201 Niewöhner, F. 170, 171, 177 Nimr, I. al- 201 Noja, S. 269, 280 Nöldeke, T. 318 Noth, M. 35, 36 Oeming, M. 40 Patai, R. 274 Perlmann, M. 112, 122, 178 Petermann, J. H. 58, 59, 268 Peterson, D. C. 153 Pfeiffer, R. H. 35 Plöger, O. 35 Pohl, H. 170, 280 Polliack, M. 169 Polzin, R. 32 Pourjavadi, R. 178 Poznański, S. 172 Pummer, R. 43, 44, 51, 52, 53, 57, 62, 76, 85, 86, 119, 163, 182, 185, 267, 268, 280, 292, 293, 294 Qanānwah, I. 208 Qāsim K. 208 Rafiq, A. K. 201 Raz, A. 281 Reeg, G. 121 Reich, R. 53, 54, 68 Reichenbach, A. 257 Reizel, A. 78, 79 Revel, B. 57

336 

 Index of Authors

Rivlin, J. I. 117 Robertson, E. 185, 200, 201, 205, 209, 268 Robinson, E. 58 Rogers, E. T. 268 Rogers, M. E. 59, 219, 220, 222, 223 Roggema, B. 109, 110, 112, 115, 116 Rosenkranz, S. 166 Rosenthal, F. 166 Rowley, H. W. 35 Rubenstein, J. L. 56 Rubin, U. 146

Stade, B. 3 Steinschneider, M. 117, 177, 182, 184 Stemberger, G. 78, 79 Stenhouse, P. 60, 105, 106, 107, 112, 114, 115, 118, 125, 189, 192 Stillman, N. A. 116, 120 Strauss (Ashtor), E. 119, 120, 122 Stroh, W. 165 Stroumsa, S. 178 Sullivan, S. 21 Sweeney, M. A. 10, 13 Szirmai, J. A. 220, 221, 223, 224

Saʿad, M. b. 113 Sajdi, D. 201 Sanderson, J. E. 19, 32 Schiffman, L. 76 Schmidtke, S. 169, 178 Schmitz, R. P. 180 Scholem, G. 119 Schorch, S. 44, 100, 183, 308, 311 Schreiner, M. 121 Schur, N. 120, 133, 139, 200, 201 Schwarb, G. 142, 183, 185 Scott, J. C. 247, 248, 249, 255, 256, 257, 258, 262, 263 Séligsohn, M. 121, 242 Seow, Ch.-L. 3 Seri, A. 148 Shapira, D. 240 Shaw, A. 281 Shehadeh, H. 142, 144, 185, 200, 235, 238, 268, 308 Shihāb al-Dīn al-ʿUmarī, 123 Shtober, S. 110, 113, 124 Simon, M. 84 Simon, U. 58 Skehan, P. W. 19, 32 Sklare, D. 170 Sládek, P. 75 Smith, W. H. R. 274 Sokoloff, M. 96 Speiser, E. A. 180 Spigel, Ch. S. 52 Spinard, T. L. 263 Spitaler, A. 316, 318 Sprenger, A. 93

Tabory, Y. 78 Tacitus, P. C. 82 Tadmor, H. 6, 10, 11, 13 Tal, A. 24, 26, 94, 95, 183, 301, 305, 306, 307, 308, 309, 310, 311, 312, 318 Tal, O. 53, 54, 63, 68, 72 Talgam, R. 51, 61, 62, 87 Talmon, S. 3 Tapper, R. 273 Taxel, I. 53, 63, 68 Thaler, N. 165 Thomas, D. 121 Thomson, J. E. H. 59, 60 Tolan, J. V.,110 Toorn, K. v. d. 91 Torrey, Ch. C. 35 Tov, E. 19, 20, 24, 28, 306 Tsedaka, A. 21, 24, 26 Tsedaka, B. 21, 58, 200, 268 Tsedaka, R. 21, 24, 26, 268, 277 Tsfania, L. 14, 38 Turcotte, T. 62 Ulmer, R. 79 Ulrich, E. 19, 32 Van Seters, J. 20 Vehlow, K. 75 Vilmar, E. 106, 112, 118, 189, 192 Visotzky, B. L. 78 Ward, S. 121 Wasserstorm, S. M. 109, 124 Watt, W. M. 150, 151

Index of Authors 

Wedel, G. 112, 113, 142, 143, 144, 147, 148, 150, 152, 155, 170, 171, 179, 181, 184, 186, 187, 190, 192, 280 Weigelt, F. 135, 155, 170, 174 Weingart, K. 36, 37, 40, 42, 44 Weisser, S. 165 Wellhausen, J. 274 Wensinck, A. J. 145, 146 Westermarck, E. A. 281 Wette, W. M. L. de, 35 White, S. 24, 28

Willi, T. 36 Williamson, H. G. M. 36, 37, 42, 43 Wilson, J. 58 Winckler, H. 10, 11 Yadin, Y. 56 Yāqūt, 117 Yassif, E. 75 Zangenberg, J. K. 38, 44, 79, 163 Zunz, L. 35

 337

Index of Sources Hebrew Bible Genesis 1–2 153 10:6 84 10:6–12 91–92 11 92 12:6–8 146 17:1 92 25:27 95 25:28 95 49:8–12 307 49:26 301, 309, 310, 312 Exodus 17:9–14 101 18:24 31 20 31 20:4 61 32 181 33:7 62 Leviticus 11:32b 175 23:39–43 55–56 23:42 176 Numbers 9:18–23 22 10–14 21–25 10:10a–d 21–22 10:13 22 12:16a–d 22–23 13:33a–g 23–24 14:40a 24–25 20 25–26 20–27 25–28 21 27–28 Deuteronomy 1–3 28–30 1:6–8 21–22

1:20–23a 22–23 1:27–33 23–24 1:42 24–25 2:5 26 2:9 27–28 2:24–29, 31 27–28 3:2 28 3:21–22 28 3:24 26 3:25 26 3:27 26 3:28 26 5:8 61 12:22 94–95 33:16 301, 309, 310, 311 1 Kings 12:32–33 175 12:33 177 2 Kings 17:24–41 3–17 17:29 43 17:34f. 163 18–19 7–12 1 Chronicles 1–9 40 5:1–26 40 7:1–40 40 2 Chronicles 10–13 41 11:14f. 42 13 43 13:1 40 13:4–12 41 30 38–39, 43 31:2–8 45 Ezra 4 10–12

Index of Sources 

Nehemiah 8:14–18 55, 57

9.288–291 16 13.372 56

Isaiah 36–37 7–9

Rabbinic Sources

Ezekiel 47:16 8 Micah 5:5 92 New Testament Matthew 2:1 113 John 15:26 180 Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha 2 Maccabees 5:22f. 44 6:1f. 44 10:6–7 56 Sirach 50:25f. 44 Jubilees 12:14 99 Liber Antiquitatum Biblicarum 13:7 56 Philo Quaestiones et Solutiones in Genesim 2.81–82 92 De Gigantibus 66 92 Josephus Flavius Jewish Antiquities 1.115 92 3.245 56

m. Sukkah 1:2 58 3 55 4.9 56 m. Avot 1:3 57 b. Berakhot 15b 304 b. Hagigah 13a 93 b. Hullin 89a 92–93 b. Pesahim 94b 93 118a 98 b. Sotah 12a 97–98 Targum Pseudo-Jonathan Gen 10:9 93 Gen 10:11 93 Targum Onqelos Gen 10:9 94 Genesis Rabbah 37 95 38:13 98 38 99 Exodus Rabbah 1:12 97 Deuteronomy Rabbah 2:27 98–99 25 94

 339

340 

 Index of Sources

Shir ha-Shirim Rabba 79, 80, 81, 84–85 Pesiqta de Rab Kahana 78–86 Pesiqta Rabbati 79, 80 Pirqe Rabbi Eliezer 94 Christian Authors Ephrem the Syrian Cave of Treasures 93 Samaritan Texts ʿAqd al-niyya 144–145, 157–159 Amram Dare 4 149, 150 26 151, 152–153 Kitāb al-Anwār wa-l-Marāqib I.5.1. 174 III.1.1–9 175 Kitāb al-Ṭabbāḫ 144, 152, 184–192 15 187, 188, 189 57 190–191 The Book of Asatir 1 95 4 96 5 97 6 99–100 8 97 Samaritan Chronicle (Kitāb al-Tārīkh) 106–107 Tebat Marqe 2:9 100 2:44 147, 154 2:50 148 5:6 101 5:59 101 Tūlīda III:1–2 133

Qurʾān 2:29 153 2:125 147 2:127 146 2:163 150 3:7 167, 191 3:96–97 147 6:79 146 7:148–152 181 15:29 153 20:87 181 20:90 181 20:96 114, 181 20:97 105, 114, 117, 181 26:98 150 57:3 152 Ancient Manuscripts Qumran 2Q10 (2QDeuta) 22 4Q22 (4QpaleoExodm) 19, 31–32 4Q27 (4QNumb) 19, 20, 21, 26 4Q364 19, 21, 24, 28 4Q35 (4QDeuth) 22 Naḥal Ḥever 5/6 Ḥev 52 (P.Yadin 52) 55–56 5/6 Ḥev 57 (P.Yadin 57) 55–56 Inscriptions Delos (no. 1 and no. 2) 14–15 Mt. Gerizim / no. 13 (14), 16, 33 15 / no. 147 14–15 / no. 150 15 / no. 199 15 Shaʿalvim 63 Tell Qasile 63 Manuscripts MS Berlin, State Library, Or 4˚ 1351 183 MS Florence, Biblioteca Casanatense, No. 66 84

Index of Sources 

MS FU Berlin, Campusbibliothek, Folio M 1030, 1106, 2552 183 MS London, British Library, 10715 132 MS London, British Library, Or 2691 200, 202–211 MS London, British Library, Or 7562 94 Ms Oxford Marshall Or. 24 79 MS Paris, National Library, Hebrew 110 94

 341

MS Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Library, Codex 1649 132–139, 156 MS St. Petersburg, National Library of Russia, Firkovich’s Private Archive, F 946 235–243 MSS Sassoon 35, 718, 733, 784 183